Neville had always been rather small for a Longbottom – Well, not small as much as short – While still retaining the rather chubby physique that the rest of his family was plagued with. His parents weren't particularly cruel, but neither were they very kind. They just kind of were, always working, leaving Neville alone with his thoughts. He was seven years old when the dementors stole them away, never to be seen again. As was the common practice with dementors, his parents were presumed dead, and the case was closed. From then on, Neville was raised in a community of extended family, but his primary guardian was his Gran.
Gran was a nasty old hag, dressed in the most flamboyant clothing allowed, and was a general drunk. Whenever she was sober enough, she would try to make Neville do magic, forcing him into situations where, if magic wasn't used, he would die. Since no magic ever emanated from the sniveling boy's pudgy little body, his grandmother would become angry with him. After each failed attempt (All of which Neville needed to be rescued from), she would drink until her mind fogged up, and then she would brandish her wand at him, screaming in a deranged voice about how he was a failure to the family, a wretched piece of dragon shit, not nearly amounting to the shining symbol of achievement that his father had been. She would then try to curse him, but with a leaden tongue, she would often slur the words, turning even nastier curses on herself. In the mornings following these one-woman brawls, he would be blamed for the welts and singed hair that his Gran had endured, which would mean more time weeding the garden.
Oh, the garden! For Neville, the garden was the only reprieve that he could find in the hellish, miserable life that he was forced to lead. The plants seemed to have an inner life, a voice, and they would only talk to him. After all, he fed them, didn't he? He was the one who kept them alive, kept the small tendrils of Devilsbane from traversing the plains of their realm. He was their leader; he was truly the King of all plants.
Neville knew that everyone thought him meaningless, a microscopic speck of dust in a world of importance, a world of big things. He knew he could never be a part of that world, knew that he would never wield any magic, and that he was doomed to a life of slavery to his grandmother and muggle society. After all, his Gran had been telling him the exact same thing for years; he was just a miserable smudge on the clean glass plate of her life.
Neville knew how pathetic everyone thought he was, knew how much of a burden he was to his Gran and everyone else he knew…
That's why one night, on his 10th birthday, he decided to run away.