Were I in possession of Harry Potter, a number of things would've been done differently despite my clear love of it.
I looked down at the little boy waiting in line, his round face, short stature, and the distinct lack of a scar on his forehead. Standing next to him was that boy, the one that looked so much like his father. They were the spitting image of each other, except for his eyes. Her eyes.
I turned my attention back to the round little boy as his name was called. Longbottom, Neville. He was trembling as the hat was placed on his head. GRYFFINDOR! Just like his mum. Her best friend. His crazy mum, the wife of the renowned Auror. Their lost minds are a regret of mine, should I have talked to the Dark Lord, perhaps I could've spared them. But I was in mourning.
This boy could've been the one with the scar on his forehead. His parents could be dead rather than deranged. She would've been alive and well, and he would've been with her. Them, together, a perfect little family. Perhaps they would've had more children. The thought is hard for me to bear.
It's my entire fault. I shouldn't have told him the prophecy. Maybe then this boy, Longbottom, Neville, would have a scar, and she would be alive. Maybe she could've been spared, and her best friend dead in her place.
Longbottom, Neville, the bane of my existence, next to their son.