Disclaimer: I don't own.
I really don't know where this came from or even why I'm posting it. Like, seriously, this is just me rambling about my ladyboner for Neville and all the things I imagine him to be.
Heroes are not made by prophecy. They are not made by guidance or force. They simply are.
The Janus Thickey Ward is quiet and smells of a lingering sort of death.
The first memory he has of his parents is this: he is afraid of them. He's five years old, they stare at him awkwardly, blankly, seeing him but not really seeing him, if you know what he means. He stands between his grandmother and grandfather, holding each of their hands tightly in his smaller ones, staring up into the eyes of these two people, people, his mind insists, he should remember, but doesn't.
"This is your mother," Gran tells him, "This is your father."
He nods. He doesn't know what else to do.
"They were heroes," Grandpa says.
His mother is drooling. His father is pulling languidly at a loose string on one of his sleeves.
They don't look like heroes to Neville. They look like the little kids he always got stuck with in the neighborhood sandbox.
"Do you intentionally fail, Longbottom?" Severus Snape asks him once during a long and horrible detention. He's in second year and he's beside himself with terror.
It's not in a harsh voice, or with malice. If anything, he thinks, as his hands shake and he scrubs with panic at a particularly large clump of burnt, ruined potion on the bottom of a cauldron, it's honest curiosity.
"Answer me, Longbottom," Snape snaps when he doesn't reply immediately. Impatience.
"N-no, sir," he whispers.
Snape doesn't say anything. Neville can't bring himself to look up to see his reaction.
When he asks Ginny to the Yule Ball, he expects the same reaction he'd gotten from Hermione two days prior.
That is: Oh, Neville, I'm so sorry, I already have a date, but if you'd asked me sooner—you're so sweet, Neville, you really are, you'll find someone, I promise…
All said with big eyes and pity. The kind of stuff that makes his stomach turn with shame and his fingers clench.
He wants to run seconds after he says it, because she's going to reject him, it's already twisting her mouth and clouding her eyes. Because, it's obvious, she'd rather not go at all. It makes him so angry, suddenly, out of nowhere, that he's so repulsive to even the girls in his own house that they'll invent dates and pass on magnificent, once in a lifetime parties just to avoid dancing with him a few times.
Neville Longbottom knows he's a laughing stock, but really. That's a little far.
But instead, after a moment, Ginny blinks at him and blushes furiously, as if it'd taken a moment to process and now, she understands.
"I—," she says, "I suppose. Why not? It'll be fun, right? We can have fun together."
He's so relieved that he's found a date, he doesn't even care that she stares enviously at Parvati when Harry asks her to be his date the next day. He doesn't care she'd rather go with him, or anyone else that could have asked before Neville did. He's not alone, for the first time in his life, and it's a nice feeling.
In sixth year, everything is sort of awful, because Slughorn rejects him and there's no more Dumbledore's Army and he's lost all sense of community he'd gained and it feels like crap.
He wanders around in a fog, confused in his very pessimistic thoughts, and only rarely bumps into someone else. Once, it's Luna, who smiles lazily at him and tells him she misses him. Another time, Ron and Lavender are snogging on his bed and he wants to hex them, but walks away instead.
Harry corners him in the library on a Tuesday in December and asks him what the fuck is going on. Neville's not sure what he's talking about, he's not really sure of anything at all, but he thinks the Boy Who Lived might be furious.
"I dunno what you're talking about," he says flatly and tries to dodge around the other boy. He feels those green eyes on his back and then there's a hand on his shoulder, a firm grip, and for a moment all the strength leaves him and he simply can't shake it off.
"Don't be a prat, Neville, what's going on? I thought things were better."
Things were better. That's real bloody rich. As if Harry sodding Potter knows anything about him at all.
But then, it's so stupid, because they aren't really that close, he and Ron and Hermione and Harry, they only talk sometimes, but they do know more about him than, say, Luna, who at least walks with him on occasion, even if he doesn't really acknowledge her at all. He knows that Harry thinks they're friends, but Harry's got a lot of those and doesn't need convincing. Neville, on the other hand—
"Don't pretend to care," he spits and wrenches out of the grip. He sees the stunned look on his not-friend's face, because, oh, Neville's actually angry? and tries to dodge again, but then they're wrestling and falling into an empty row of shelves and hitting the floor in a tangle of limbs.
He comes out of it with a split lip. Harry's got a bruise rising in his cheek.
"Neville—"
"Leave me alone," he says and tries to stand, "You could never understand—the Boy Who Lived—you're never alone."
Years and years later, looking back on the moment, he'll realize it's a breaking point for both of them. He doesn't know exactly what he's said that very second, of course, and doesn't understand what it means until after it's all over, but he does witness Harry's expression break for a second and he sees something there, a terrible fear, a worse resentment, and his throat closes up.
Maybe Harry Potter does feel as lonely as Neville Longbottom does, but just a different sort of loneliness.
"Sometimes," Harry says quietly, and with a great deal of bitterness and even more resignation, "I wish it had been you."
Seamus, he knows immediately, doesn't think he can do it.
"It's okay," he hisses as Carrow, male, sneers at the rest of the class, telling them all that they'd better get ready, they're going to be next and there will be no exceptions, "Just do it. I can take it."
Neville's not really sure he can do it either, but that doesn't mean he's going to risk it, not on a classmate. His wand shakes in his hand and it keeps rising and falling, pointing first at Seamus' nose, then at his broad chest, then at his left hand, then back to his neck. He feels sick, but also as if he isn't there at all, like he's watching from a distance as his body is ordered to do something it doesn't want to do, never, ever, ever.
He's dimly aware of the man—Professor, not a Professor, not in his mind—coming up behind him. He feels stale breath on the back of his neck and a soft chuckle against his skin, disturbing the collar of his robes.
He still hasn't done it.
Suddenly, there's a wand pressing into the small of his back, a warning—you'd better do it fast, boy. Seamus widens his eyes slightly, a silent order to get on with it. He doesn't look remotely concerned for his well being.
Neville knows he can do it then. He's been told time and time again that these curses need meaning behind them—he's got it. He's so tired of being treated like a little shit who can't do anything right, like a bumbling, stumbling fool who's hopelessness with a wand is only overshadowed by his worthlessness in life. Seamus used to spend hours and hours teasing him for his stupid mistakes and his nerves in the face of almost everything. Seamus, the idiot who hadn't believed—You-Know-Who isn't back! Seamus, who doesn't care that an Unforgivable Curse is about to be thrown in his direction, not if little, stupid Neville's going to be the one doing it—
"Come on, Longbottom," Carrow says in his ear, "Let's see a little of that pureblood pride, eh?"
The Cruciatus Curse.
He is overcome with the scent of a lingering sort of death.
It's not a conscious decision. He's not like Harry—he doesn't act rashly because it's what's right or what's necessary—Neville thinks too much and panics and lets time get the better of him. But still, despite himself, his wand turns and slides under his arm and he snarls, "Crucio," in a voice that doesn't sound remotely like his own, but rather like someone older, someone stronger, someone wiser.
He thinks, randomly, of Severus Snape.
Amycus Carrow hits the floor screaming. He doesn't look behind him to survey his handiwork.
Everything's sort of cramped in the Room of Requirement after a few months. They're all in there now, hiding. Hiding, and following him.
He wanders and he feels them watching him. He wants to tell them that everything's all right. He's not Harry, but he can do the best he can. Neville's not afraid of the Carrows, hadn't he proved that? He's sure that, now, he can handle Snape.
He runs into Hannah Abbott, literally, two days after she arrives. She smiles widely at him when he blushes and stutters apologies.
"It's okay," she tells him and pats his arm, "I think you've earned the right to be a little clumsy this year."
When it's all over, finally, and he's still holding the sword of Gryffindor, he and Harry meet in the rubble.
"I'm sorry," he says before the Boy Who Lived Twice can get a word in, "I mean it. I'm so sorry."
And Harry smiles widely.
"Neville, mate," he murmurs, "I literally could not have done it without you."