Author's Note: For some reason, the last time I read Order of the Phoenix, I started crying at the part where they see Neville in St. Mungo's. It just hit me harder than ever before, and I felt so sad that I just had to write this rambling little one-shot. It takes place after the series, so I suppose it could be non-canon if Neville dies.
How would you feel if you had nearly been a Squib? My gran was always telling me not to let the family honor down, and my great-uncle Algie was always trying to force a bit of magic out of me. I was always sure when I was a kid that I was a Squib, a shame to my family's name. Until that time Great-uncle Algie dropped me out of the window and I bounced all the way down the street, I knew I was worse than dirt. But on that day, when we all discovered I had magic in me after all, my family seemed to renew their hope in me. Maybe I could still uphold the Longbottom honor. They were especially pleased when I was accepted into Hogwarts.
But I knew I wouldn't be any good. I just wasn't magic enough. I couldn't seem to do anything: Transfiguration, Charms, or Potions. Especially not Potions. I guess I just wasn't smart enough, and once I'd made a mistake I lost all confidence. Proffessors McGonagall and Snape always scared me out of my skin as well. Hermione Granger used to help me some, but she had her own problems to worry about, being one of Harry Potter's best friends. I was always shunted to the side, never being anyone's best friend. Who would want to be best friends with fat, stupid Neville Longbottom anyway? How would you feel if you were the one everyone laughed at, like a living byword?
How would you feel if you couldn't even talk with your parents; if your father couldn't give you advice, if you could never go to your mother for comfort? How would it be if the only thing your parents could give you was an old sweet wrapper, the only thing they could do to show you they loved you more than anything? Voldemort made them like this, and no, I'm not afraid to say his name. Voldemort was the one who took everything from me; if his servants hadn't tortured my parents, maybe I would have had a bit more confidence in school. Maybe I would have had friends. Maybe I wouldn't cry every other week like a blubbering baby, even though I'm now of age and working for the Ministry of Magic.
Sure, Harry and Hermione and the others are all good friends, but nobody has much time to spend with me outside of work. We're all Aurors together, of course, scouring the country of Dark wizards and creatures; but as soon as the day's over I wander back home all alone. I get invited over for Christmas and such, but it's not quite the same. I've always been alone, even when there were a bunch of people all around me. I'm the sort of friend that everyone's nice to when I'm around, but no one's ever tried very hard to be my best friend.
I suppose I'm feeling sorry for myself, but how would you feel if you knew you were an inch away from being Harry Potter? I don't think Harry should have told me that I was in his prophecy; it's made me all confused and bitter inside. One moment, I'm very grateful to have the friends I do; the next, I wish they'd all just leave me alone. To think that if Voldemort had chosen me, or waited to make his move, I might be the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived! But how can I think that? I know I could never do all those things Harry's done. I couldn't have saved the Philosopher's Stone, or slain a Basilisk, or banished a hundred Dementors, or won the Triwizard Tournament, or defeated Voldemort! Harry insists it was half luck, that most of the time he had no idea what he was doing. But I know better. He's a skilled, powerful wizard, and he has love. Do I have love? Did my mother give her life for mine? Not directly, I suppose, but she's as good as dead. Perhaps I could have been a hero every bit as wonderful as Harry after all.
But how can I think that? Harry's my friend, they're all my friends. Nobody told them they had to be my friends. What's the use in thinking I might have been the Boy Who Lived? I'm not, and that's that. Gran would be most displeased if she knew I was even thinking of such things. All the same, sometimes I want to ask them all: How would you feel if you were Neville Longbottom?