Neville Longbottom isn't Harry Potter.
There's isn't a scar on his head. He's gotten one on his arm instead. It wasn't from a Dark Lord trying to kill him, it was actually from scraping his arm on the pavement when he was little. The scar, even thou he doesn't see it most of the time, has stayed with him his whole life. It's his scar. It means nothing to anyone and not even him.
His parents aren't dead. They live in St. Mungo's and they will live there until they both die. They don't even know his name sometimes. Sometimes he thinks when he goes there for Christmas, there is something in his Mother's eye that makes him think she remembers. But then she hands him a candy wrapper and runs off and he doesn't see the twinkle there anymore. He likes to pretend they don't exist most of the time, maybe in his mind it makes it easier. Or maybe, sometimes he thinks at night, it makes it harder.
He doesn't have two best friends to talk to. He has his housemates of course. They sit with him during dinner and lunch and breakfast and in the Common Room studying. They talk to him about random things and sometimes if he's lucky they'll talk about important things. But he doesn't have someone to talk to everyday and all the time. No one that'll save him a seat or walk to class with him. Everyday it's an unsure event if he'll talk to someone or not.
He knows he has a good home to go after Holidays. He's Grandma always welcomes him. His Aunts and Uncles send him things for Christmas and his birthday. He's always sure they'll be there. No need to worry about it. No need to dread the summer and want to stay at Hogwarts.
He's not a hero. People don't look at him with an awe. They don't stop in the hallway to watch him. They don't comment on how great he is. They don't even notice him half the time. There are no newspaper articles, there are no parades, no days, no nothing. He's not anything but himself.
Neville Longbottom isn't Harry Potter.
Little does he know that somehow maybe he could have been.
