Neville Love
Sep. 19th, 2007 08:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
matrilOkay, I'm feeling rather antsy right now, so I'm going to ramble for a bit. (Short story - my husband just took our son to the emergency room, not for anything serious or life threatening, but to see if we can do anything at all for this cough that just won't stop so he can get to sleep and actually get the rest he needs to get over the cough and....okay, not so short. Anyway.)
I just love Neville. I always have, right from the first book and the whole "bravery of standing up to your friends" ordeal. Just so, so awesome. A totally different kind of Gryffindor, not dashing into danger just for the thrill of it, but when courage is really called for, he's got it by the gallon.
My love for him grew by leaps and bounds when we learned about his parents. Oh, the poor, sweet boy, carrying around a burden like that and no one ever even guessing. He certainly doesn't keep it secret from shame about his parents, no matter what dear old Gran thinks. I can see him wanting very much to avoid the sympathetic, patronizing, "Oh, well, Neville's got nutters for parents, so we've got to be extra careful around him." So he keeps quiet about it, but carries the secret of his parents' heroism around like a private talisman. He yearns to live up to them (with no small pressure from Gran) and in the end, succeeds tremendously.
But there's one final thing that solidified my lasting woobliness for Neville, and it wasn't his awesomeness in Book Seven - no, it came long before that. It was when my own son started developing autism, and drifting away from the social, engaged little toddler who had shown so much potential. It was like his personality was being steadily drained from him, until he hardly seemed to acknowledge the presence of his own parents. As I've dealt with this, I couldn't help but feel a deep kinship with Neville and his own lost family members, who are there in front of him, yet not there at all. Unlike Neville, I hope someday my son will return. He's already shown great progress, and we have great hopes for him. But when I think of Neville in that hospital wing, maybe trying to sustain a one-sided conversation, or just looking forlornly at his parents' blank faces, I have a pretty good idea of what he would feel. And it's strangely comforting to see him coming out of such pain with such strength and courage. I only hope I can do the same.
I just love Neville. I always have, right from the first book and the whole "bravery of standing up to your friends" ordeal. Just so, so awesome. A totally different kind of Gryffindor, not dashing into danger just for the thrill of it, but when courage is really called for, he's got it by the gallon.
My love for him grew by leaps and bounds when we learned about his parents. Oh, the poor, sweet boy, carrying around a burden like that and no one ever even guessing. He certainly doesn't keep it secret from shame about his parents, no matter what dear old Gran thinks. I can see him wanting very much to avoid the sympathetic, patronizing, "Oh, well, Neville's got nutters for parents, so we've got to be extra careful around him." So he keeps quiet about it, but carries the secret of his parents' heroism around like a private talisman. He yearns to live up to them (with no small pressure from Gran) and in the end, succeeds tremendously.
But there's one final thing that solidified my lasting woobliness for Neville, and it wasn't his awesomeness in Book Seven - no, it came long before that. It was when my own son started developing autism, and drifting away from the social, engaged little toddler who had shown so much potential. It was like his personality was being steadily drained from him, until he hardly seemed to acknowledge the presence of his own parents. As I've dealt with this, I couldn't help but feel a deep kinship with Neville and his own lost family members, who are there in front of him, yet not there at all. Unlike Neville, I hope someday my son will return. He's already shown great progress, and we have great hopes for him. But when I think of Neville in that hospital wing, maybe trying to sustain a one-sided conversation, or just looking forlornly at his parents' blank faces, I have a pretty good idea of what he would feel. And it's strangely comforting to see him coming out of such pain with such strength and courage. I only hope I can do the same.
