Hiding Behind My Name
My last name tells everyone that I am pure of blood. I'm from a long line of wizards, and it is only expected that I should be one as well. Expectations—they were heaped on me from the day I was born. I was supposed to be the embodiment of my lineage, I was supposed to be able to perform feats of magic early on. My family couldn't have borne it if I'd turned out to be a Squib, what with our history . . . but I satisfied expectations.
I was accepted for Hogwarts when I was eleven, and it was a proud time for me. Even when you know that your name is on the list, there's a certain vague fear until you actually get your letter. But it came by owl post, an invitation to greater things, written in green ink.
I was taken for school shopping, and though it was what I'd been looking forward to for a long time, the charm and exhilaration I had expected were missing. No one wanted to associate with me, the pale boy chaperoned by an imposing man and woman.
I met some other Hogwarts-bound students while being fitted for my robes, a pair of pretty Indian girls who giggled and left before I was measured, and later, another boy. I felt that he didn't like me much, though, and I was glad enough to get out of there and go shopping for potions ingredients—I had been told that Potions was a wonderful class. But it was slightly frightening when I was taken to a place called Knockturn Alley for those supplies. When I asked why we hadn't gone to one of the stores on Diagon Alley, I was told that the prices were better here. I decided to accept that. We followed this with a venture into Flourish and Blotts for coursebooks. Once procured, we headed home for the meal that our house-elves had prepared.
If you've never been a bit of a loner, you wouldn't understand what it's like to be alone on a train, headed away from everyone you knew. You wouldn't understand how it feels to see everyone around you making friends, chatting with old friends, or just generally enjoying themselves. I was lucky enough to meet two boys who became . . . well, I suppose you could call them my friends. I thought they were decent enough. But, really, I didn't meet anyone worthwhile. Even the brown-haired Muggle-born girl (who I would later know as Hermione Granger) was more of an annoyance than anything else.
The boat ride was gloom-ridden, uneventful. My pet had chosen to explore the compartments on the train, but I trusted that he would return. Such noble creatures generally do. And my faith in him was well-founded; by the end of the sojourn across the lake, he had returned and acknowledged me. And then he flitted away again, searching for prey. I sometimes wonder whether he is a vicious creature at heart.
I was sorted into the House my family had expected me to enter—it was only natural, with our long history in that House. Another table, though, shouted me down. I paid them no mind; they were jealous, probably.
After a delicious dinner that put any feast I had ever eaten to shame, we headed off to our common rooms. There were trick steps and shifting staircases on the way, but I surmounted these with few incidents.
Ah, but the common room was lush, exactly as we deserved. And the bedrooms were four-posters, spacious and covered in quilts in a deep, velvet shade. It wasn't long before I slept.
My first Potions class came with a fluttering heartbeat. I had been looking forward to this so long . . . but it didn't live up to my expectations. The teacher made a fool of Harry Potter—that celebrity boy I had encountered on the train—and was no kinder to many of the other students. The teacher favored Slytherin, but he wasn't even very fair to his own house.
Instead, I found other classes to enjoy. Charms was the most entertaining of the classes; students took advantage of Professor Flitwick if at all they could. And Transfiguration wasn't my best class, but it was sometimes very funny to watch what other people turned their objects into. And Herbology was intriguing, as well.
I grew to respect Professor Snape. He was a difficult teacher, yes, but only because he knew so much more than we did. Respect does not always equal lack of fear, though; at times, the cruelty he showed frightened me.
Nevertheless, my classes were something I tried hard at. I wanted to live up to expectations. I've always wanted to live up to expectations. It's just . . . I seldom do.
Perhaps I shouldn't have concerned myself so much with what my family wanted for me. I shouldn't have worried about whether I was behaving as a pureblood should. But it stings to see a girl like Hermione excelling where I falter. It's dispiriting to watch even Snape find nothing to criticize with her work—she, who was born into a world of arithmetic and grammar, rather than Arithmancy and Transfiguration.
Perhaps I shouldn't have hidden myself behind my last name, hoping it would make me respectable. I shouldn't have hoped, wished to be the best in the school, when I was clearly being shown up with every day that went by.
Now, at the end of my seventh year, I've made a decision that my family will probably disown me for. I've decided to go into the Muggle world, and get a job as a gardener. And, even if I'm disowned, I've stopped caring. I've learned, after so long, that living up to other people's expectations won't make me what I want to be; I can only become what I want to be by living up to my own expectations.
I've decided that I won't hide behind my name anymore, use it as a passage into places where my skills can't take me. I've decided to change my name.
Say goodbye to "Neville Longbottom." From the day I graduate on, I'll be "Frank Bloom"—named after my father, who never asked anything of me, and flowers, the things with which I have skills.