Hero.
Neville Longbottom had never been a hero. Sure, he knew how to keep the rarest of the rare plants alive, but that wasn't really an act of heroism, was it? No. He'd never been a hero, despite his parentage. He'd never be a hero.
In his first year, he'd been so in awe of the famous Harry Potter, the boy that had survived Voldemort when he had just been a baby. If a child had managed to survive Voldemort, how come his parents hadn't, two Aurors that were trained in the use of magic.
That summer, he had gone home, full of questions, unfortunately spilling them all out to his Grandmother on his first evening home, in front of the plate of roast. His Grandmother, however upset she was over the latest news of her son and daughter-in-law at Saint Mungo's, had snapped at him something along the lines of "It was luck" and sent him to bed, dinner plate in hand. That night, he learnt not to ask about Voldemort again.
Nothing much along the lines of heroism happened to him at Hogwarts until his fifth year. That year, he went to the Ministry of Magic, the place where his mother and father had worked, and had helped Harry Potter fight Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Sure, he hadn't been much help, having a bloody nose, but a certain feeling of bravery rose up in him every time he remembered that day.
That summer, he went home once again, telling his Grandmother of all the things he had done. That summer, his Grandmother told him that she was proud of him. Until a day in his seventh year, he had regarded that day as the happiest of his life.
Much happened in his sixth year though. He fought alongside Ginny once again, faced with Death Eaters, backed by the Order. His wand tight in his hand, once again he felt that oh-so-familiar feeling of bravery. Suddenly, in the castle, on that night, he knew what he was fighting for. His parents. He was fighting for his parents, in their bed at Saint Mungo's, completely insane. He was fighting for their memories, for the Aurors that they had once been.
When he had returned for his last year at Hogwarts, the castle he regarded as his home, everything had changed. Snape had taken over as Headmaster, Dumbledore lay in his tomb on the grounds, and the Carrows found themselves teaching, or rather, torturing the students. Voldemort had finally achieved his dream of taking over Hogwarts.
That year, he received so many beatings and bruises that there was not a night free from pain, from tears pouring down his cheeks as he looked at the last picture taken of his parents, dressed smartly in their Auror robes, holding their son – him- in their arms before they went away to work, where they had been attacked, by Bellatrix Lestrange and her husband.
He started up the D.A again, receiving support from Ginny and Luna. He leaded attacks against the Carrows, Luna missing as well as Ginny, until Michael Corner was tortured. It was then, sitting on his bed in the dark of night, wondering if Michael was alright, if he would be alright, that he realized that he had to stop. He couldn't risk their lives for his recognition of being a hero.
When he was identified as the ringleader of the group, and his grandmother was threatened, he made a choice. Run, or stay and fight, possibly leading to the death of his fugitive grandmother and himself. He remembered the Room of Requirement, the room in which he had finally managed to conquer the Expelliarmus spell, and hastily, before the Carrows came, went there, hiding from the rest of Hogwarts.
The rest of the year went by in a blur. Students – past and present- filled the room, traveling via the passage connecting the room to Hog's Head. Aberforth, the bar owner, gruffly let them it, murmuring under his breath. They swamped the room, recognizing Neville as their leader.
And that was what he was. A leader. To them, and to himself. To his parents, for their memory, not the people they were now.
And, quietly, a hero.