Author's Note: I wasn't sure when I came up with this one where it was timeline-wise, but I decided on the Christmas holidays in Neville's fifth year. Neville is one of my favorite characters. Just as a reminder, this story is all one-shots. I'm hoping to get another chapter of Mugglefied up on Monday and I'm trying to remember where the next chapter ofThe Professorwas going. Do you ever get a few sentences into something and not know where you were going when you come back to it?

The large old manor house had too many rooms for the pair of them and their one elderly house-elf. Some of the rooms neither of the human residents had been inside in years, but Dazzy still went in every week to dust them and check on her old master's treasure. She handled the Head Boy badge reverently before placing it back on the shelf, and changed the blankets once a month. She'd never let the rooms get stale. She had a duty to the Longbottom family, and she would care for all of them, even the ones who weren't there right now.

Neville was in the library, as Gran had decided long ago it was the best place to do his coursework when he was home for the holidays. He sat in the chair where his father had completed dozens of assignments, with O's in every subject to hear his Gran tell it. The bookshelves towered over him, and there weren't enough windows in the room. Even with snow on the ground, he would have rather done his work out in the garden, or even at the kitchen table. Merlin, even doing his work in his own room would have been preferable.

Gran believed there was a place for everything and that everything ought to be in it's place. Dinner was had in the dining room. They took tea in the sitting room, whether or not hey had guests to entertain.

Sometimes he hated rattling around in the big old house. It hadn't been nearly as bad when he was young, and there was Gramps as well. And before he went to Hogwarts, this had been the only normal he knew. Once he'd gotten used to all the noise and crowds of Hogwarts…now that felt normal, and being home with Gran was lonelier than ever.

He still had inches and inches of essay to write for Snape and had been staring blankly at his mostly empty parchment, thinking about the best way to crossbreed Shaking Violets and Workle Figs. If he could cross them…

Gran entered the library, straight-backed and stern. "Well, how is the essay going, my boy? Nearly done?" Her mouth formed into a thin line as she saw how much blank parchment was in front of him. "Your father would have been finished an hour ago and you've hardly started. I just don't know what to do with your anymore, Neville. Your father was so academically inclined. He never needed any help with his coursework. He did it, and did it well. Frankly, I'm baffled. Perhaps I should see about getting you a tutor, or private lessons with Professor Snape. Do you know how many O's your father got during his fifth year? I just don't think you're really trying, Neville, and if you had any idea how that tries my patience—"

"I try, Gran!" he said, standing up with an uncharacteristic vehemence and knocking over his chair. Augusta Longbottom pinched the bridge her nose at his clumsiness, but Neville plowed on. "Gran, I'm not good at everything. I'm not…I'm not Dad. But I am good at some things, if you ever took the time to notice. Professor Sprout is giving me my own section of one of the greenhouse's next term. I can make a full-bodied Patronus, no thanks to that useless witch the Ministry sent to be our Defense teacher. I'm not bad at Charms. I'm not useless. I'm exhausted from trying to live up to your expectations, Gran. I'm not good at everything, but I am damn good at some things." His cheeks were flushed red. It was almost a surprise to realize he was about the same height as his Gran now. If he kept growing at the rate he was—he'd finally hit a growth spurt—he'd tower over her by next year. He was so used to looking up at her as a small child. "I'm not a child anymore," he said, almost to himself.

"Are you quite finished?" she asked.

Neville nodded, not quite trusting himself to say anything else.

"Swearing at me was most out of line, young man. You were raised better than that. I have high expectations of you because I know you are capable of great things. I'll owl Professor Snape about finding you a potions tutor, or scheduling some extra lessons. Pick up that chair and get back to your studies."

Oh Godric. He couldn't handle more lessons with Snape. The man hated him. He scrounged for another solution. "You don't need to write to him. I'll ask Hermione to help me when we get back next term." He righted the chair and stood there, gripping the back of it, white-knuckled.

"I'll come check in on your essay again in half an hour. I'd like to see some progress. I'm expecting at least four O's on your exams this term. Your father and mother both had excellent marks. If you want to have the impact on the world that they did, you need to put forth a little extra effort." She gave a curt nod and swept out of the room.

It wasn't until he heard the door shut behind her that Neville let out a groan. He wasn't his father. He was never going to be Frank Longbottom. He set his wand on the table and looked at it for a moment. His father's wand. He was convinced even the wand didn't like him, didn't think he was as good as his father. Maybe if he'd had a new wand his potions wouldn't explode and he'd be able to turn a dinner plate into a mushroom for McGonagall. He was so exhausted. Everyone told stories about how amazing his parents had been—to hear some of the stories, they single-handedly stood up to You-Know-Who, and were perfect students and wonderful people. He sometimes wondered if it was all exaggerated. Maybe if the stories were really exaggerations, he wouldn't be so much of a disappointment. He was so tired of trying to live up to everyone's expectations. He was in Dumbledore's Army. Wasn't he brave enough to be a Gryffindor? He knew McGonagall tried not to compare him to his father, but sometimes, he swore he could see it in her eyes—he should be doing better than he was. And Gran….Gran said it outright.

Why couldn't he just be Neville Longbottom?

Wasn't Neville Longbottom a good enough person to be?

Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn't. He was exhausted. He turned his attention back to his essay. He couldn't help but think, potions and herbology ought to go hand in hand. Why was it he could grow any of the ingredients they used in class without a problem, but once they were in front of him, ready to be used in a potion, it all went to hell. Maybe Gran was right. Maybe he needed more lessons—from someone other than Snape. He sighed and read over what he'd written so far. It was going to be a long evening.