A/N: I'm certain this has been done before-it's certainly not a novel idea-but it's one I could not let go of and I wanted to explore it on my own with my own take and twist on it. It's my first Harry Potter fanfiction in probably ten years but I hope you enjoy. Feedback is always, always appreciated. :) There will likely be canon divergence because it's told from a different perspective, but hopefully nothing that will distract the reader too much.
Title is from Paul Simon's song of the same name.
Neville Longbottom, eight years old, is completely unremarkable in every single way-which is perhaps the majority of the trouble.
While other children his age are zipping around on their toy brooms and making things float through the air, Neville is routinely losing his socks (and winter hats, and mittens, and, and, and...) and unable to do so much as colour in the lines, let alone do anything resembling magic. As far as anyone knows.
It's not his fault. His nan, stern as she can be, tells him this regularly. "Some people are just born this way, Neville, there's nothing to be done and nothing to be ashamed of." He knows she's ashamed of him, though. Knows it because of the looks she gives him that he can't name (later, when he's older, he learns the word "pitying" and it makes sense). Knows because she's always throwing her hands up and saying "oh Neville" in an exasperated tone. Knows because she's always putting him in situations where he almost definitely has to use magic to get out of them. Knows because she's always bringing up his father and what he was doing at the same age.
Neville's father is a staring lump in a bed next to Neville's mother in St. Mungo's. Neville has never heard them speak, although sometimes they cry or yell or moan, which frightens him. He brings them drawings he's made for them, but all they ever do is stare straight ahead, as if they have no idea Neville is even there. His nan tells him that he should be proud of their sacrifice, tells him that he owes them his life. Neville is very proud of their sacrifice, but he thinks perhaps he'd rather have parents who could talk to him and know he exists instead.
When he goes to Hogwarts, though, Neville knows what he wants. He is going to be sorted into Gryffindor, like his parents, and he is going to grow up and fight the Dark Lord, like his dad. "The Dark Lord is dead," his grandmother says, "and besides that, Neville, you're a Squib. Not a drop of magic in you." Neville knows he's not a Squib. Knows what he can do when no one's watching. It's the watching that's the trouble, he thinks, not the magic itself.
Alone in his room he can do all sorts of things. Not big things, like some of the other kids can do, but things nonetheless. He can think of a drawing and then will his pencil crayons to draw it. He can make his little animal figurines do all sorts of lovely things. He is especially adept at caring for magical plants-the little puffapod plant in his room has been producing more flowers than he can possibly keep up with (much to his nan's consternation). There is a lot of magic Neville can do, a lot of magic he knows is inside of him, he just can't figure out how to show other people yet. Maybe if they were to stop yelling at him about it, just for a few minutes, he might be able to. But they're always yelling. Or speaking to him in that disapproving voice. Or, worst of all, laughing. Neville hates to be laughed at. Uncle Algie loves to laugh at Neville.
His uncle Algie is a loud, boisterous man who frightens Neville with his booming voice and is always trying to force Neville to do magic, which thus far has accomplished very little other than exacerbating Neville's problem. On Neville's sixth birthday outing to the Blackpool Pier, Uncle Algie pushed him off and Neville nearly drowned. He spent four days in hospital silently thinking mean thoughts about Uncle Algie, who came down with a stomach bug right in time for his own birthday a few weeks later. (the two, of course, were unrelated-or so Uncle Algie said.)
Every Sunday, Neville's gran has loud old Uncle Algie and quiet old Aunt Enid over for tea-an event that Neville and his animal figurines try to avoid at all costs. "Oh, Neville," his gran says, "Uncle Algie means no harm. You ought to know better than to disrespect family." Which is why this particular family tea finds Neville sitting in the third floor lounge, bereft of his animal figurines, listening to his nan and aunt and uncle talk loudly about his dad, wishing he could disappear through the floor. This is the other reason Neville likes to avoid these things, and he finds himself coming up with a narrative in his brain of his dad suddenly waking up in his bed in St. Mungo's and realising what is happening, bursting through the door and bringing Neville home, where he can live happily with his mum and dad and a vegetable patch and maybe perhaps a puppy like his best friend Julius has.
"You doing magic yet?" Uncle Algie booms when Neville's gran and Aunt Enid leave the room to get more sweets. Neville pretends to be terribly interested in the pattern of the tabletop.
"Take that as a no," his uncle continues to boom. "Not a drop of magic in you, is there?"
Neville remains silent.
"Come here then," says Uncle Algie, and Neville scrambles to his feet-he can ignore him all he wants, he's going to do whatever he's going to do anyway, Neville just prays this time it won't seriously hurt him-the hospital was so boring-and feels his heart sink when Uncle Algie grabs him and tips him upside down, holding him out the window. "I won't drop you," he reassures Neville in a jolly voice, "but if I did, it might be good for you, eh?"
"Er..." says Neville, too petrified to even move one single muscle of his body, shutting his eyes tight. It is an awful, long trip down if he falls, and he can nearly hear the sound of all his bones crunching on the pavement of the courtyard.
"A wizard'd bounce," Uncle Algie says, more to himself than Neville. Neville closes his eyes even tighter. I am a wizard, he thinks, peeking one eye open when he hears Aunt Enid enter the room again, hopefully to save him.
Instead, she offers Uncle Algie a lemon meringue, and...oh no oh no oh no...there goes Neville.
He can hear his aunt and nan screaming, his uncle let out a surprised roar, and he prepares himself to answer a question he has pondered many times before: does it hurt if you die? He can see the pavement, the wind around him has stopped whooshing, here it comes...but the crunch never comes. Instead, much to his own surprise, he bounces. Boing boing boing, out of the garden and down the road, finally rolling to a stop at the intersection. It's quite fun, actually, he thinks-and, absurdly, starts to giggle. The fact of what it means doesn't quite come into focus until he sees his aunt and gran and uncle running to him, yelling, his uncle scooping him up and his gran crying. "You did it," they're saying, "the boy is magic after all!" He feels a surge of pride well up in his heart. Now everyone knows what Neville himself already did: he is, in fact, a wizard.
Neville's gran makes him an ice cream sundae that night and his uncle promises he'll never force magic on him again, his aunt is talking about owling everyone she knows, can you believe it, Neville's magic after all!
When he snuggles down into bed that night, he dreams about Hogwarts, about the people he'll meet, the friends he'll have, the adventures. He dreams of fighting the Dark Lord, too-of a giant sword-of everyone around him cheering. It should be frightening, he should wake up with a start, but he does not. Instead, Neville Longbottom wakes up with a smile on his face.