(no subject)
Title: Dirt and Sunshine
Rating: G
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: None
Summary: Just my little ode to Nevelle Longbottom.
***
He wasn't a gardener. He remembers playing in the garden when he was little, surrounded by Aunts and Uncles and a well-meaning Grandmother who didn't know what to make of an unmagical little boy. The plants he played with held no expextations, no sideways glances or whispered fear that there was one of *those * in the family. Plants had never known his parents. They didn't care that he'd never live up to them, to what they were. He'd felt things growing then, and it hadn't seemed so bad. After all, it was a kind of magic, wasn't it? Life?
It isn't the same now, and he tries to remember what that magicless life felt like. Perhaps it was nothing more than dirt and sunshine. Now it's something else entirely that he feels as he digs his hands into the soil, something else that flows through him and into the vines in front of him. It was subtle, more so than charms or potions or any of the other subjects he was so hopelessly poor at. It was more than science. It was more than gardening. Magical plants need magical care. And he is good at what he does. Better than his parents, better than the Aunts and Uncles and the well-meaning Grandmother who wishes he were his parents.
There are some who still look at him like he's a little boy playing in the sand. He isn't a gardner, but there are few who know the difference.
(review?)
Rating: G
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: None
Summary: Just my little ode to Nevelle Longbottom.
***
He wasn't a gardener. He remembers playing in the garden when he was little, surrounded by Aunts and Uncles and a well-meaning Grandmother who didn't know what to make of an unmagical little boy. The plants he played with held no expextations, no sideways glances or whispered fear that there was one of *those * in the family. Plants had never known his parents. They didn't care that he'd never live up to them, to what they were. He'd felt things growing then, and it hadn't seemed so bad. After all, it was a kind of magic, wasn't it? Life?
It isn't the same now, and he tries to remember what that magicless life felt like. Perhaps it was nothing more than dirt and sunshine. Now it's something else entirely that he feels as he digs his hands into the soil, something else that flows through him and into the vines in front of him. It was subtle, more so than charms or potions or any of the other subjects he was so hopelessly poor at. It was more than science. It was more than gardening. Magical plants need magical care. And he is good at what he does. Better than his parents, better than the Aunts and Uncles and the well-meaning Grandmother who wishes he were his parents.
There are some who still look at him like he's a little boy playing in the sand. He isn't a gardner, but there are few who know the difference.
(review?)