Alternate Universe
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I hate my life. Absolutely hate it. There is no beginning, there is no end, there is simply the agony that exists.

Sometimes, I wonder, why me? I never thought there'd be an actual answer. An answer as to why Lord Voldemort so easily slays, a reason as to why he killed my parents, a reason why I have to live with the one and only person who has my mother's blood.

Dumbledore told me the reason to all of my suffering yesterday.

I think I could kill Professor Trelawney.

Of course I'm not really mad at her. If she hadn't made the prophecy somebody else would have. Interesting the way so many people's fates seem tied even when they are so far apart, no?

So this--this prophecy is the reason Lord Voldemort brutally murdered my parents. The reason I am forced to live with this cursed scar. The reason I shall forever be known as "The Boy who Lived."

What I hate, is that I'm not that special. I don't do extraordinarily well in classes. Hermione is much better at that stuff than I am. And I don't have courage. Not real courage, at least, the stuff I consider courage.

Maybe it's just my self-loathing for life that seems to have been pounded into my head for the first eleven years of my life. I absolutely hate that I have to live with her, simply because she has my mother's blood. We both hate each other. I am a reminder of my mother, the person she somehow feels betrayed by. And she is somehow the person that keeps me from having a normal life with a loving mother and father. Many times, I feel it would be better if we could just admit we hate each other. But we always seem to stop just short of that. Both of us loathe the other, it's not a secret, yet we still feel like we're not allowed to. And all that does is allow the bitterness and resentment to build-up to self-loathing.

I hear my friends calling me. I pretend I don't exist. I'm drifting into an alternate universe where I do not exist, where it is not I who bears this burden, but my alter-universe counterpart. A universe where Voldemort chose not I as the boy who was born as the seventh month dies to those that have thrice defied him, but him. He's my friend, I know he is, but somehow I wish somebody could take away the grief and suffocating expectations. I'm not even that powerful of a wizard. The thought of me defeating Voldemort seems impossible. Heck, if it weren't for my "Boy Who Lived" status I'd be surprised if I had any friends at all.

My "friends" are calling more insistently now. I should go to them, and lock up this bitter, loathing side of me. The side which the world is not allowed to see, the frown behind the smile.

I leave the boy's dormitory. I leave to become "The Boy Who Lived," the boy who is the hope to defeat Voldemort.

I leave the real me behind. The real Neville Longbottom.

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Disclaimer: I do not own Neville Longbottom, Harry Potter, etc.

A/N: This is just a little piece I felt like writing, a one-shot. It didn't turn out quite the way I wanted it too, but I'm posting it anyway. And before anybody flames me, I'm not trying to make Neville look bad. Personally, I think he's a very interesting character.