HMS_Yowling (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} hms_yowling) wrote,@ 2003-08-26 10:40:00 |
|
Short Neville sketch
aquila1nz wondered, in the coments section of my post below, how strong and competent Neville would be once he got a new wand. I was inspired to write the following:
Warning: sketch only, not beta'd. And doesn't actually answer the question aquila posed.
::
Neville had dutifully followed his grandmother to Madame Malkins; waited by her side in the Apothecary as her tisane was prepared; stopped by Flourish & Blott’s so that she could find a novel; and sipped tea at Fortescue’s, unable to eat the cucumber sandwiches his grandmother offered him, and afraid to ask for an ice cream instead.
Twice that day they’d passed the shabby storefront of Ollivander’s (Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C). As they’d approached the second time, Neville had tried to force himself to say casually, “Look, here’s Ollivander’s now. Shall we stop in before we head to the book store?” But he’d only barely managed a quick pleading glance upwards before he again was staring at his feet as they plodded along the cobblestoned street. His grandmother had purported not to notice, either the store’s existence, or Neville.
When his grandmother had insisted on tea at Fortescue’s, Neville had despaired. It was late afternoon. Would Ollivander’s be closed? Would she insist that they postpone a trip to the store until next week? It had been already been three weeks since term ended.
But when she had finished sipping her second cup, and her third cucumber sandwich, she’d straightened and said, as if the task that lay before them was an unpleasant, onerous one “We should perhaps visit Ollivander’s before we return home.”
Neville shot up from his seat before he remembered to resume his patient, penitent demeanor. He’d broken his wand -- his father’s wand -- and although the news had only been greeted with an “Oh, Neville, I’d hoped you would grow out of your clumsiness,” he’d known his grandmother was deeply upset.
But finally (finally, finally) they were stepping through the door and into the gloomy, faded shop. Dust motes spun in the light that shafted in through the few panes of the window not covered by heavy purple draperies. Neville glanced around the shop uncertainly, wondering where the famed Ollivander might be. He must be here, else the shop would have been locked, he thought.
“Well, Ollivander. I must say that your store looks just like it did when I brought my Frank in for his first wand.” Ermintrude Longbottom gaze swept over the precariously piled boxes, heavily coated with dust, then fixed itself imperiously on the pale stooping figure behind the counter.
Neville blinked, certain he hadn’t been there seconds ago.
“Ah yes. Times may change, dear lady, but I do not.” Ollivander bowed slightly, then turned to Neville. “A wand for you then, is it?”
Neville flushed slightly, trying not to betray his eagerness.
“His father’s was copper beech with manticore heartstring. Nine inches, I believe. Sadly, it was broken.”
Neville’s flush deepened.
“I remember, I remember,” Ollivander said. “Never forget a wand. But as for you -- ” Ollivander came out from behind the counter. “Wand arm up.”
Neville lifted his right arm, trying not to let it tremble. Ollivander measured, from index finger to shoulder blade, then stepped back. “I see. Well, let’s see what we have.” Briskly he disappeared toward the back of the store and came forward.”
“We’ll try the copper beech, dear lady,” he said with a nod toward his grandmother.
Neville took the wand from Ollivander and swept it through the air. Nothing. He looked hopelessly at Ollivander.
“No, no. That’s all wrong,” Ollivander said as if to himself. “Try this.” He took a box from the bottom of the pile. “Oak, griffin feather, ten inches.”
Neville gamely swung the wand and there was a faint sparkle.
“Not quite there. This.”
Neville took the wand and swept it, and this time a brilliant trail of gold sparkles emerged. He clutched the wand to his chest, wide-eyed with disbelief. The wand almost seemed to reverberate in his hand.
Ollivander’s voice broke through his stupor. “Oak, unicorn hair, ten inches. Excellent.” With a decisive nod, he packed up the other wands and returned them to the back of the shop.
Neville risked a glance upward at his grandmother, who stood looking after Ollivander. Please, he thought. Please. And, as if she heard his desperation, she sniffed disapprovingly.
“How much will that be?” Neville heard her ask. He stood, disbelieving, his grip tight around the wand.
“Seven galleons,” Ollivander returned to the front of the shop and stood there, wiping his hands on a cloth.
As the last of the galleons clinked on the countertop’s surface, Neville let the relief flow through him. Let his shoulders relax, let his fingers’ grip ease. Then he opened his hand to actually look at it -- a golden length of wood with thick grains of a darker umber running through it. Then, without looking at his grandmother, he carefully stowed it away inside his robes, daring her to try to take charge of it until they returned home.
With a long look and another sniff, she turned and sailed out of the shop. Neville followed in her wake, but feeling, for the first time, that he was moving under his own power.
::
Comments, crit welcomed.
aquila1nz wondered, in the coments section of my post below, how strong and competent Neville would be once he got a new wand. I was inspired to write the following:Warning: sketch only, not beta'd. And doesn't actually answer the question aquila posed.
::
Neville had dutifully followed his grandmother to Madame Malkins; waited by her side in the Apothecary as her tisane was prepared; stopped by Flourish & Blott’s so that she could find a novel; and sipped tea at Fortescue’s, unable to eat the cucumber sandwiches his grandmother offered him, and afraid to ask for an ice cream instead.
Twice that day they’d passed the shabby storefront of Ollivander’s (Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C). As they’d approached the second time, Neville had tried to force himself to say casually, “Look, here’s Ollivander’s now. Shall we stop in before we head to the book store?” But he’d only barely managed a quick pleading glance upwards before he again was staring at his feet as they plodded along the cobblestoned street. His grandmother had purported not to notice, either the store’s existence, or Neville.
When his grandmother had insisted on tea at Fortescue’s, Neville had despaired. It was late afternoon. Would Ollivander’s be closed? Would she insist that they postpone a trip to the store until next week? It had been already been three weeks since term ended.
But when she had finished sipping her second cup, and her third cucumber sandwich, she’d straightened and said, as if the task that lay before them was an unpleasant, onerous one “We should perhaps visit Ollivander’s before we return home.”
Neville shot up from his seat before he remembered to resume his patient, penitent demeanor. He’d broken his wand -- his father’s wand -- and although the news had only been greeted with an “Oh, Neville, I’d hoped you would grow out of your clumsiness,” he’d known his grandmother was deeply upset.
But finally (finally, finally) they were stepping through the door and into the gloomy, faded shop. Dust motes spun in the light that shafted in through the few panes of the window not covered by heavy purple draperies. Neville glanced around the shop uncertainly, wondering where the famed Ollivander might be. He must be here, else the shop would have been locked, he thought.
“Well, Ollivander. I must say that your store looks just like it did when I brought my Frank in for his first wand.” Ermintrude Longbottom gaze swept over the precariously piled boxes, heavily coated with dust, then fixed itself imperiously on the pale stooping figure behind the counter.
Neville blinked, certain he hadn’t been there seconds ago.
“Ah yes. Times may change, dear lady, but I do not.” Ollivander bowed slightly, then turned to Neville. “A wand for you then, is it?”
Neville flushed slightly, trying not to betray his eagerness.
“His father’s was copper beech with manticore heartstring. Nine inches, I believe. Sadly, it was broken.”
Neville’s flush deepened.
“I remember, I remember,” Ollivander said. “Never forget a wand. But as for you -- ” Ollivander came out from behind the counter. “Wand arm up.”
Neville lifted his right arm, trying not to let it tremble. Ollivander measured, from index finger to shoulder blade, then stepped back. “I see. Well, let’s see what we have.” Briskly he disappeared toward the back of the store and came forward.”
“We’ll try the copper beech, dear lady,” he said with a nod toward his grandmother.
Neville took the wand from Ollivander and swept it through the air. Nothing. He looked hopelessly at Ollivander.
“No, no. That’s all wrong,” Ollivander said as if to himself. “Try this.” He took a box from the bottom of the pile. “Oak, griffin feather, ten inches.”
Neville gamely swung the wand and there was a faint sparkle.
“Not quite there. This.”
Neville took the wand and swept it, and this time a brilliant trail of gold sparkles emerged. He clutched the wand to his chest, wide-eyed with disbelief. The wand almost seemed to reverberate in his hand.
Ollivander’s voice broke through his stupor. “Oak, unicorn hair, ten inches. Excellent.” With a decisive nod, he packed up the other wands and returned them to the back of the shop.
Neville risked a glance upward at his grandmother, who stood looking after Ollivander. Please, he thought. Please. And, as if she heard his desperation, she sniffed disapprovingly.
“How much will that be?” Neville heard her ask. He stood, disbelieving, his grip tight around the wand.
“Seven galleons,” Ollivander returned to the front of the shop and stood there, wiping his hands on a cloth.
As the last of the galleons clinked on the countertop’s surface, Neville let the relief flow through him. Let his shoulders relax, let his fingers’ grip ease. Then he opened his hand to actually look at it -- a golden length of wood with thick grains of a darker umber running through it. Then, without looking at his grandmother, he carefully stowed it away inside his robes, daring her to try to take charge of it until they returned home.
With a long look and another sniff, she turned and sailed out of the shop. Neville followed in her wake, but feeling, for the first time, that he was moving under his own power.
::
Comments, crit welcomed.
