Sometimes Neville looks in the mirror and sees nothing right with himself. It's not an emotional thing, but instead is triggered by a clinical detachment as he dissects the various details of his life.
It wasn't like anything was wrong with him, just...nothing right. His grades averaged at Acceptable, and he was friendly with the people in the Gryffindor dorm. Life was fine, but it wasn't right. Right was Hermione Granger acing every single test, right was the friendship of Harry, Ron and Hermione., seamlessly fitting together. Neville had never known how to make friends.
Sometimes Neville feels like he isn't a person, but a compilation of all the expectations he didn't measure up to. All the opinions of those around him swirl around him like a constant hurricane, destroying any individual thoughts he might have. Their voices echo in his head.
Longbottom, this is really a simple spell. If you don't master it, how can you expect to progress further in this subject?
I must congratulate you, Longbottom. You have managed to create the most abysmal Shrinking Solution I have seen in all my time teaching here.
And the most damning of all, why can't you be more like your parents?
Sometimes Neville can't keep the background current of disapproval running through his brain to a background. It's then that he goes down to the greenhouse.
Most of the time, plants don't have opinions. Plants won't tell you all the things that are wrong with you. Or, Neville smiled as he remembered an interesting encounter with a rare variant of Mandrake, if they do, it's because of the plant, and not because of you.
That night in the greenhouse was still and serene, an unbroken silence save for the rustling of leaves. Neville sat in the midst of a intricate hedge, branches as thin as spider's legs entwining around him, ornamented with emerald green leaves, and bell shaped flowers that ring when he touches their petals. Sometimes Neville likes to play the bell flowers and let the different notes ring out in the air, making a beautiful song, sometimes even a symphony of chiming tones.
Not tonight, however. Tonight he just sat on the ground of the greenhouse, looking up through the glass panes at the starry sky, and rubbing a stubby leaf back-and-forth between his fingers. Why can I never be good enough?, he thought, holding back tears. Why does no one have a good opinion of me?
He must have brushed against the plant for one of the bells rang out, the sudden noise startling him. Something about the quality of the sound, or just the surprise of the silence being broken got rid of all the memories of the disapproving people in the past, and he experienced a moment of pure clarity. For the first time in years, Neville felt free. Maybe the opinions of others were just that: opinions, not fact or truth. He could become more than they thought of him, maybe not right now, but one day.
Sometimes Neville looks in the mirror and sees the things he could become.
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