Why Neville Is Neville

I sigh in disgust as I shove away my Potions assignment. What was the use? Snape will still yell at me, act superior in tearing me to bits. Doesn´t matter to him that I have a reason to be horrible, however irrational that reason is.

I grab a roll of parchment and get some ink in my quill and put `pen to paper´ as the Muggles would say.

I was only three when my parents were taken from me. You could say they died, as they have no memory of who they were before the incident. They were Aurors, two of the finest Aurors ever from what Gran has told me. Now they´re at St. Mungo´s, driven insane by the overzealous use of an Unforgivable curse on them.

Why am I writing about my parents when I should be doing my homework? Well I suppose it´s because Gran´s finally stopped forcing me to come with her when she goes to see my parents.

Anyway, on about my parents and why I´m almost a Squib. Some Death Eaters, deranged I supposed by the loss of their leader, came and tortured my parents for information.

It´d been such a lovely day. The sun was out and shining like it never had in April and we had just gotten home from a nearby park. Mum fixed lunch and we were eating happily. Then they came.

Mum tucked me into a closet and told me to keep quiet while she and Dad handled the situation. I was found four hours later when Gran came home from a trip to South Hampton.

I don´t know how long I was in a waiting room, really. All I really remember is when that doctor told me what had happened. It all happened because of magic.

Ever since, I´ve been useless whenever magic was concerned. There was the time when Great Uncle Algie dropped me out the second story window but that´s the only wandless magic I´ve done that I remember. I probably did more before my parents were tortured, but only my parents I supposed remember that.

I pause, reading over what I´ve written. I should hide this away, where no one will find it, but I wanted someone to know. Gran already knew but was only frustrated by it. I dip my quill in my inkbottle and continue writing.

When I realized why I was horrible at my classes, I thought I´d be great at anything the next day or soon thereafter. What a faerie tale!

I added the punctuation with a little more zealous than intended, scratching a hole in the parchment. I sigh, and wait for the last bit of ink to dry before starting again.

I´d think that when I was told what had happened to my parents, I became afraid of magic and placed a wall, a barrier if you will, between magic and myself.

I don´t know what I´m going to do. I want to do better at magic, but I can´t seem to get through this barrier that was slapped up seemingly with no reason.

I watch the ink dry, trying to think of who to send it to. I couldn´t think of anyone in Gryffindor. I was friends with a few Hufflepuffs because Herbology was one subject I didn´t flub at.

There was always Ginny. I don´t know why I thought of the Slytherin a year behind me. She had gone with me to the Yule Ball after asking Hermione and finding that she already had a date.

I quickly scribble an explanatory note to Ginny. Folding it, I write Ginny´s name on it and go downstairs to find the house owl. Rosa, the reddish-brown barn owl, was on her perch in the parlor near the window.

She looks up when I came in, almost inquisitive. I smile a greeting and grab some string. I tie the `letter´ to her leg and open the parlor window to let her out.

I watch her fly away, half wishing that I hadn´t sent such a huge chunk of my mind to someone who probably didn´t care past sympathy and pity, the other half glad that I´d finally told someone outside my family.