Notes: Written for an MNI challenge about Neville. Just a sad little ficlet that I hope you enjoy!
He closed his bedroom door behind him, quickly digging through his jacket pocket, past the pair of gloves and the few spare knuts he kept there, retrieving the crumpled cellophane wrapper from its depths. He slowly smoothed out the crinkled cerulean wrapper with his thumbs.
How could she tell him to throw it away? It was special; they were all special. Each one showed him that in some strange sort of way, his mother still recognised him. Maybe not as her son, but as someone...
He found himself constantly hoping, wishing, praying for the day when he'd visit the ward and an expression of comprehension would dawn across his mother's face, finally understanding who he was, who she was. Maybe the Healers would find a way to fix them, like some sort of miracle cure—like magic. But he wasn't going to wake up and find that everything was the way it should be.
His chest ached and he felt the familiar prickling sensation behind his eyes which always seemed to precede tears. Carefully he opened his desk drawer, placing the wrapper in with the dozens, hundreds, thousands of others he'd collected over the years.
It would never be right.