Characters: Augusta, Neville
Summary: He was nothing like her son.
Pairings: None
Author's Note: Obviously, this takes place before OoTP.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
There were many survivors of the First War who say that they had nearly everything taken from them in the blink of an eye, but Augusta Longbottom was reasonably certain that she was one of the few of them who could say that and actually be right. However, Augusta would always despise weakness, so she said nothing on this level, except to tell anyone who'd listen how proud she was of her son and daughter-in-law.
She'd had nearly everything ripped from her within the space of a day, and all she had been left with was Frank's year-old son.
Oh, here was someone to soothe her heart. Augusta knew that when he grew Neville would be his father's son. He would be strong like Frank, confident and smiling like Frank, able to fill a room like Frank. Neville would be skilled with wand work and brave enough to stare down an army. He'd be Frank in miniature and even if Neville would never replace Frank in Augusta's heart, at least he would be a worthy grandson.
That was what Augusta hoped for. It was what she prayed for above all else. A grandson to be proud of, that was all she wanted.
That was her dream.
But dreams did not match up reality, Augusta realized bitterly.
This was reality: Neville was a shy child, a clumsy one. He had little to no skill with any branch of magic except Herbology (and what sort of magic was that? It involved plants.) and he had no confidence. He let everyone walk over him, from his enemies to his friends. Utterly unimpressive, utterly uninspiring.
Augusta couldn't swallow her disappointment.
He was nothing like her son.
Augusta could barely recognize him as Frank's son.