I'm Neville.

This fic was written as Chaser 1, Falmouth for the QLFC, round 4. I do not own anything from the world of Harry Potter that you may recognise.

My prompts for this round are:

(song): 'Numb' by Linkin Park

(word): skip

(poem) 'A Poison Tree' by William Blake

(emotion/ forbidden word): anger

Thank you to Gitana del Sol for beta-ing the first part for me :) She always does amazing work! She has pointed out that Augusta may be a little OOC and mean, which is true especially after her pride with Neville over the Ministry fiasco, but I hope it comes across that she is scared that she will lose her son and Neville takes her smothering/ criticism to heart... you'll see. I hope. Haha.

Thanks for reading! One second to hand in, got to go!

~1997~

He was lucky that his body was numb, that he could not feel his aching leg muscles protesting as he took each step forward, that his eyes were already watering from the days and nights he had spent wondering if they would be his last. He was lucky because he had survived with only a few scars and scratches; however, he was sure he would still crumple to the ground as he took in the frail old woman before him who had not fared as well.

Neville's heart skipped a beat as his eyes took in the trembling form of his grandmother. Augusta sat sprawled beneath the apple tree his parents had once planted in their yard many years before, the place she believed only the worthy could sit. Her normally sharp eyes were red-rimmed, her usually neat hair sticking in wisps of tangled grey to her sticky wet cheeks. Beating her hands against the hard ground, she swore and cursed at the darkening sky, using such words as Neville had never heard her use before.

Augusta was too absorbed in her anguish to notice Neville's presence and for that, he was grateful. It was all his fault that she was broken; all his fault that she was feeling so faithless. With deep, laboured breaths, he ignored the sharp pain and thought back to how he had come to bring so much pain to a woman he loved.

~One and a half years earlier~

"I'm about to start my sixth year now, Dad. Got quite a few OWLS too, surprisingly." Neville's voice was soft, a mere whisper barely heard above the loud steps of medi-witches as they bustled around the room. It didn't matter though – he knew his father could hear him, the man's pale eyes blinking up at the ceiling as though he were answering in code.

Neville's mother had fallen asleep not too long ago, her eyes fluttering closed as the medications took their toll; however, she had managed to press her usual gift of a sweet wrapper into Neville's hand before she lulled into sleep, a small smile brightening her jaunt face. It was an action he knew was meant to be a promise of his swift return. Now, as he sat with his father, filling him in on his week before his return to Hogwarts, Neville felt the wrapper crackle in his pocket as he shifted in his seat.

"I'm thinking of taking Transfiguration again, just like you did, Dad. I think I can keep up if I get some extra tutoring, and of course I'm looking forward to Herbo-"

"There you are! I've been waiting at the reception for you. Hurry up and get up!" A sharp voice interrupted his tale, but Neville didn't need to turn around to know who was striding up the sanitary corridor to the pair of narrow cots where he sat. "Are you deaf, boy? Come on, let's go, I'm not getting any younger, you know."

Sighing loudly, Neville turned around to face his grandmother. As usual, she was wearing her fox-fur shawl and hideous mottled hat, her thin lips in their usual pursed position. Hands on her hips, she tapped her toe on the linoleum. Each sound her shoe made felt like a nail being hammered into his head, and Neville had to work hard to imagine the Boggart version of the woman so as not to snap at her to be patient.

"Coming Gran, just saying good bye."

With a strained smile, Neville slowly stood from the chair, taking time to ensure that his robes were not creased. Leaning over to his father, who was now staring blankly at the dull white ceiling, he placed a gentle kiss to his cheek, "see you soon Dad." Even though he had long since stopped spending nights tossing and turning in bed, reduced to tears at the prospect that his parents would never truly get better, Neville was not surprised to find that his eyes were moist.

"Come on, I've got to get dinner started!"

His Gran continued tapping her foot, tutting as Neville slowly backed away from the cot. He wanted to take care that he did not bump his father, that he did not cause him any more damage somehow. As he made his way down the aisle, he turned, hoping to catch one more glimpse of his parents, to see if either would wave to him this time. Although his mother continued sleeping peacefully, he was sure that his father's hand had moved ever so slightly. Unfortunately, he did not realise that a couple visiting their own relative were standing behind him and backed into them, causing the woman to stumble a little.

"Clumsy boy, do watch what you are doing!" his Gran marched down the aisle, eyes fierce and lips pursed. Holding onto the woman's arm as she reached them, she ignored the woman's protests and steadied her.

"P-pardon me – s-sorry," Neville mumbled, heat rising to his cheeks.

The man, most likely the woman's husband, gave a grunt and turned to his relative, whipping the white curtains closed with his wand.

"It's quite alright, dear, quite alright." The woman smiled gently at Neville, trying to pry off his Gran's tight grip with little success. When she realised it was futile, she gave in to his Gran's fussing and allowed the old woman to steer her into a chair.

"There you are, all better now, no need to fuss. I do apologise; Neville can be quite distracted sometimes."

Neville felt his cheeks burn brighter, sure they were now as red as his neck was. He hated when his Gran spoke about him that way. He figured that as he had endured it all his life, he should be used to it by now. Yet he was almost an adult now; he wasn't a child anymore. He was not completely hopeless and he had hoped that his grandmother would think better of him after his courage at the Ministry.

Since his return from Hogwarts, his grandmother had indeed limited the jabs she aimed at him. He knew that she was proud of him for going with his friends to face the perils at the Ministry; the smothering hug she had offered when he had stepped onto the platform evident enough of her love. It seemed, however, that as time passed, and the more they visited St Mungos, Augusta had reverted back to her old ways of trying to push Neville to do better, treating him as though he were an incapable child.

Afraid to meet the woman's gaze, he busied himself at looking to his father who was looking at the flickering lamp on his bedside table, eyes alight as if he had never clapped eyes on such a creation before.

The woman shifted uncomfortably in her seat as she attempted some polite conversation. "Please, do not worry, no harm done. Erm, is Neville your son?"

"Merlin no!" Augusta began to laugh, as though the very thought of his resemblance to her was a joke. "No, no, he is my son's boy."

The ghost of a smile remained on her face as she stopped laughing and looked to Neville's father, who was still looking at the lamp, some drool now covering his slack chin. Turning her gaze back upon Neville, the smile faltered and she pursed her lips.

Neville ducked his head, hands curled into fists by his side as they began to shake. He found it hard to breathe as his chest tightened and heart rate quickened. He was his father's son– he knew his father would be proud to call him his son, especially now that he had passed most of his exams. How dare his grandmother imply any differently?

Neville dared a peek at the woman, searching for her reaction. Most people his grandmother came across were often too intimidated to do much more than nod in agreement, and it appeared this stranger was in the same predicament. The woman's mouth opened and closed, looking about nervously for an appropriate response. The tight bun at the back of her head accentuated her high cheekbones and angular face, making her seem for all the world as stern and critical of a woman as his grandmother; but her eyes were warm and they flicked to him in sympathy. She stood from the chair, adjusting her skirt and looking to the closed curtains.

"Oh, erm, well, I do hope your son gets better – or well – do have a good night. I must be going-"

"No, my son is a real hero. Always brave, strong. A fine young man he was, both at school and work," Augusta interrupted, pretending not to even have heard the woman's attempts to excuse herself.

Neville's hands continued to shake as his heart hammered painfully. His father was not dead, yet his grandmother spoke as if he was long gone and not lying in the cot before them. Turning to him with a disdainful look, Neville was sure that she wished he was lying there instead; she probably still thought that he was as useless to her as an invalid anyway, and his father would definitely have done further wonders.

In a voice Augusta only pretended could be a whisper, she turned back to the woman who was crouching, not quite sure if she should stand or sit back down and spoke about Neville as though he were deaf. "I'm afraid Neville here hasn't quite managed to fill Frank's shoes. A mean feat as it were, I guess I should not expect miracles, should I?"

Augusta shook her head sadly, watching Neville to make sure he was listening.

Neville narrowed his eyes, fixing them now on a spot on the floor. He wanted to shout at her, to tell her that he was brave. He knew he was, even if just a little bit. If he wasn't, then why was he placed in Gryffindor, just like his parents? His head felt heavy, sore as hot tears pricked his eyes. Digging one of his hands into his pocket, knuckles now white, he gripped onto the candy wrapper, feeling the sharp creases brush his palm.

The woman wavered on the spot, still uncertain as to whether she should leave Neville. The sympathy she felt for him must have grown, however, for she cleared her throat and addressed him.

"So, Neville, you are still in school then? What subjects are you taking?" The woman's smile no longer met her eyes, but she looked at him as though hoping to make him feel comfortable and ease the tension in the wing.

Neville lifted his head, taking care to let out his breath. He wanted to smile a thank you at her, for being so kind, but he was afraid that if he unclenched his jaw, his fury would pour out at his grandmother's scornful words. Still gripping onto the paper in his pocket, he took a deep, ragged breath to answer.

"Neville wants to do Transfiguration for his sixth year but I doubt anyone in the right mind would take him. Still, I do hope that he will put in some more effort with it this year, rather than potting around with… less suitable subjects. Charms of course is rather useless for him, so he shan't be taking that. He has no chance in completing Potions mind you, seems the knowledge has skipped his generation," Augusta turned her nose up, grimacing at the thought that younger witches and wizards would soon take control of the world. "Now my Frank, on the other hand, he was a natural at Transfiguration and Potions, real bright mind. Showed great aptitude – could really handle the dangerous work, you know. Lead him to be an Auror, in fact," Augusta's face softened and she puffed out her chest proudly, as though it were she who had accomplished so much.

No longer able to control the words burning on his tongue, his eyes seeing only red, Neville finally broke. "I want to be an Auror, too. I will be – if you stop smothering me and treating me like a child. You know I can do it! I'm brave. I even joined Dumbledore's Army with Harry Potter," he seethed.

Augusta looked around at him, perhaps astonished that he could even speak. She clicked her tongue once in disapproval at him for interrupting before looking at the woman, who had backed further toward the white dividing curtain. The woman's delicate eyebrows had risen at the mention of Harry's name and Augusta leapt on the opportunity to abate the situation.

"Well yes, I suppose you did." Augusta's face looked thoughtful, her eyes shining with the barest hint of pride. Neville dared hope that perhaps his grandmother had not changed back as much as he had thought, yet it was diminished as soon as she turned back to the woman. "Neville has managed at least to make some suitable friends, no doubt you've heard of the incredible feats of Harry Potter?"

As Augusta bragged about Neville's peer's achievements, heat surged through his body. He could taste blood as his teeth bit into the side of his cheek, tearing the muscle as he tried to keep calm.

He had done so much, come so far. Yet it was not enough for her, and never would be. Not when there was always someone else to overshadow him.

Neville looked to his father for help, begging the man to back him up. Frank had a slight frown on his face, as though he disapproved of Augusta's words, but it was soon replaced with a curious smile as his eyes spotted an ant crawling along a flower by Alice's bed. Neville followed his gaze, tears now trickling down his cheek, to stare at his mother. Alice was still sleeping peacefully, completely oblivious to the world. They couldn't stick up for him, not now, not ever.

Closing his eyes, Neville began ripping the wrapper between his fingers, concentrating hard on tearing apart his frustration. His grandmother continued talking away; now back to bragging about his father.

Hand clutched tightly around the last shred of paper, Neville counted backwards from ten. He wanted to block out his gran, ignore her words. Unfortunately, the fury was still there, stronger than ever. Gulping back a lump in his throat, he levelled a glare at Augusta, surprising even himself.

"I am like my father. I am brave if you would just-" the words would not come easily to him, even as he shouted them and gained the curious looks of patients and medi-witches nearby, "just let me be who I am and stop-"

"Enough!" Augusta reduced her voice to a whisper, rounding on Neville, "Your father was a brave man, a hero who gave his life to the war. You are nothing like him, and never will be. Now, gather your things. You've already made me late."

Augusta's cheeks were as red as Neville's, her chest heaving up and down. Lifting a hand up, she fanned her face and tried to regain her composure. Their female companion had taken the opportunity to escape to her husband during Neville's outburst, her shadow outlined against the crisp white material.

Augusta turned on her heel, striding down the aisle. Pausing at the door, she barked to him, "Well? Do I have to wait any longer?"

His grandmother wanted him to die in battle then, did she? Is that what it would take for her to acknowledge him as more than a childish burden? Well, he would show her. Nodding and trying to fix a smile upon his face, though his chest was still tight, he vowed that he would be brave like his father, and if he could not do that, than he would go into battle as himself when the time came.

~1997~

Pale eyes looked up at him, blinking rapidly as though unsure if he was a ghost. A hand reached out, motioning for him to come forward, to sit under the tree he never was permitted to before.

Neville hesitated; even more shocked by how old his gran looked now that he could see her up close. The fine lines surrounding her eyes had deepened in the months he had been at Hogwarts, as had the lines on her brow and hollow cheeks. The guilt welled within him, yet he did not allow himself to sit even as Augusta's hand finally gripped around his wrist, clawing at him and trying to pull him down beside her.

Her voice was hoarse, no longer strong and proud as she spoke. "Neville, Neville, you're alive. Sit, sit, you must sit boy."

Neville's resolve was wavering, but he shook his head, ignoring the way it hurt from a bump he had sustained during the battle. "Only heroes can sit here, remember? Only those who have done the Longbottom name proud?"

Augusta, as feeble as she was, would not have any of it. Tugging on his arm again, she finally managed to pull him down. With her other arm, she wrapped it around his toned back, gripping on to the muscle as though he was the one who had wasted away. Neville allowed her to do so, shocked as he pulled back and found his shirt soaked with water.

"You are - you are just like Frank." Neville could feel her sobs wrack her body as she clung onto him, finding a lump in his own throat as she continued. "All these months I thought- I thought you had-"

Neville closed his eyes, surrendering the last of his will to her embrace. He felt ashamed that he had put her through so much, sure that she would not have cared as she did. Still, he needed to make sure she understood. Grabbing her hand, he pulled it to his lips to kiss.

"No, I am not like Dad. I am me, Neville, your grandson."