neville-long-bottom-blog1 - Tumblr blog

[neville-long-bottom-blog1]

001.

Neville actually isn’t horrible at Potions, which he discovered later in his Hogwarts career. His fear of Severus Snape was a main factor in his trouble in Potions Class, as well as the use of his father’s wand and the pressure of his classmates’ expectations of him to fail. His interest in Herbology actually helps him in Potions quite a bit and now that he has a professor that he’s not afraid of and he’s using his own wand, Neville has found that he’s okay at Potions, after all.

002.

Neville has a sneaking suspicion that his parents have no idea who he is at all anymore. His father doesn’t even show signs of recognition, and he’s pretty sure that his mother thinks, on some level, that he’s his father. He tries to push those thoughts away–after all, his mother gives him gifts (always bubble gum wrappers) and he likes to think that it’s because she knows who he is on some level, but he’s honestly afraid that neither of them remember him at all.

003.

Neville’s Patronus is non-corporeal–this means that it does not take a shape. That is because he is not good enough at it yet to have it take a form, but also because he’s never really had a happy enough memory to produce a strong Patronus. Now he thinks that he just might be able to do it if he practices more.

004.

Neville has kept every bubble gum wrapper that his mother has ever given him. He keeps them in a box on his dresser and never looks at them unless he’s adding to the collection. He associates the smell of bubble gum directly with his mother and appreciates that his room always kind of smells like it.

005.

Trevor is still around, and he’s become Neville’s constant companion. At first, he was really upset that his grandmother had gotten him a toad as a pet when the other children got owls and cats, and for years he resented Trevor, but he realized that his toad was unique and actually fit him quite well. Trevor enjoys hopping around the greenhouses while Neville tends to the plants.

006.

Neville’s two best friends are Luna Lovegood and Ginny Weasley. He appreciates them because they’ve both always felt like outcasts, too, and they all turned out to be more important than they thought they were. They’re two of the most down-to-earth people he knows and he can almost always be found in one or both of their company.

007.

Neville has always, always wanted to hang out in the Hufflepuff common room. It’s not that he doesn’t like the Gryffindor one, but for years he longed to be in Hufflepuff and he’d like to see what it’s like. Besides, he knows that Professor Sprout keeps all the coolest plants in there, and he’d like to see them, even if only just once. In fact, he’s been caught a few times over the years attempting to figure out how to get in, but he never quite accomplished it.

008.

Neville sometimes has nightmares about the night that his parents were tortured. He doesn’t have concrete memories of it, but he can hear his parents screaming in the nightmares and often wakes up in a cold sweat. Sometimes he has trouble sleeping because he doesn’t want to have the nightmare again. He also sometimes dreams about what it would be like if his parents were never tortured, which is equally painful to wake up from. Neville is somewhat reliant on sleeping potions because they stop him from having any dreams at all.

009.

There are residual self-esteem issues from Neville’s childhood resulting in a lot of insecurity. This is causing a little bit of a problem as people are calling him a hero, saying that he did great things in the Battle–but he just sees what he did as what had to be done. He’s trying to reconcile that within himself, because he wants to be the heroic Gryffindor that everyone tells him that he is. He just doesn’t know if he can continue to live up to that expectation.

010.

Neville was extremely intimidated by the entire Golden Trio until he got to know them. The three of them terrified him but it turned out that they were all pretty nice and he ended up befriending all three of them, although Ron still makes him a little wary.

011.

Neville has very few memories of his very first feast at Hogwarts. He’d almost blacked out when the hat placed him in Gryffindor and not Hufflepuff and he was so nervous the entire time that he actually doesn’t remember most of it at all.

012.

Augusta and Neville had been so sure that he would be sorted into Hufflepuff that she purchased scarves and ties for him ahead of time. When he was sorted into Gryffindor instead, he had to return them all to her so that she could exchange them for scarlet and gold.

013.

Neville used his father’s wand until his fifth year not because his grandmother couldn’t afford to buy him a new one, but because he hoped that it would make him as great a wizard as his father once was. Unfortunately, it had quite the opposite effect and Neville struggled with his father’s wand. Once it was destroyed and he got a new wand, he started to do much better with magic and with his schoolwork.

014.

Neville is allergic to cats. He found this out on a visit to one of his aunt’s houses who had a plethora of cats. His eyes swelled shut and his skin itched like crazy, but Augusta insisted that he was just fine. Still, she never took him back to that aunt’s house again.

015.

Neville still has his Remembrall, and he uses it quite frequently. He’s still a rather forgetful person and the smoke is almost constantly red, but it definitely helps him remember some things.

016.

Neville actually holds a record at Hogwarts for being in the Hospital Wing more times than any other student during his school career. He’s clumsy an is constantly getting hurt. Madam Pomfrey is never even surprised to see him anymore when he comes in with one injury or another or sometimes an illness.

017.

After the Battle and the death of Severus Snape, Neville was surprised to find that his Boggart had changed. It wasn’t often that he encountered one, but there happened to be one in a dusty chest in one of the greenhouses. He was even more surprised to find that his Boggart was now Voldemort, of all things. His biggest fear is seeing that kind of evil rise again.

018.

Neville still keeps his Dumbledore’s Army coin in his pocket at all times, just in case.

019.

For some reason, Neville has a particular talent for finding the Room of Requirement. He always seems to be the one to find it when it’s needed, although he doesn’t like to go seeking it out if it’s not absolutely necessary. He worries that it would give him something so amazing that he’d spend all of his free time there.

020.

Neville really, really loves to dance. He’s not good at it by any means, but he loves music and loves to dance to it. He gets made fun of for his dance moves, but it’s the one thing that he’s not self-conscious about. He knows he can’t dance but he doesn’t care.

[neville-long-bottom-blog1]

Miles Teller

[neville-long-bottom-blog1]

He took a deep breath as he entered the psychiatric wing of St. Mungo’s. It felt like ages since he’d been here, the soles of his trainers squeaking against the sterile tile floors and the scent of generic soap and antiseptic stinging at his nostrils. At the same time, it felt like he’d spent so much of his life here that he could walk these halls blindfolded and still end up sitting in front of his mother. Every visit, the Longbottoms recognized their son less and less, and it was even worse now that he’d taken to visiting on his own without his grandmother there to accompany him. Something about Augusta Longbottom seeing him cry had always been sort of a sticking point between the two of them—he could feel her disappointment hanging about the house for days after a visit, filling his lungs up until he almost choked on her disdain for him.

Part of him felt guilty for waiting so long after the battle to come here, but in his mind he argued that his parents seeing him bloodied and bruised would have upset them, regardless of whether they knew who he was or not. That was just who they were—kind, compassionate people who didn’t like to see others in pain. Now that the wounds had mostly healed and the bruises were just grey-yellow splotches beneath his skin, he’d decided that it was time to go and see them. Of course, it had taken a lot of courage and a lot of convincing to get himself to do this, but it was always that way. A balancing act, of sorts, between guilt and heartbreak, and the line was so fine that sometimes he couldn’t see it at all. This time, he promised himself, it would be worth the broken heart. He had to tell them about the battle, about the fact that Voldemort had been defeated once and for all, about how he himself had finally lived up to the legacy of the Longbottom name.

Neville knocked on the door, the words “Janus Thickey Ward” screaming out to him with their solid, bold, block lettering. They were the first words that he really remembered being able to actually read, and they stuck out so clearly in his mind. He ran his fingers over them as he waited for Madam Strout to open the door—over the years, she’d insisted that he call her Miriam, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Madam Pomfrey was the only other healer that he knew and he could only refer to her as ‘Madam’ and so he always called Miriam Madam Strout, too. Suddenly, the door swung open and there was her warm, sunny face, and Neville couldn’t help but smile. The woman was smart as a whip and she gave him a knowing look, eyeing the barely-healed wounds on his face and the dark circles under his eyes.

“How are they today?” he asked, desperate to change the subject, pink rising to his cheeks under her scrutiny—this woman had known him all his life and she worried about him, he knew. Still, he didn’t want to have to explain this to her. Neville was sure that she’d heard everything, sure that she’d read the Prophet (and maybe even the Quibbler, if his constant suggestions had begun to work).

Madam Strout raised her eyebrows but smiled all the same, thankfully not mentioning his face. There would probably be scars, he knew, and he hadn’t really gone to a proper healer for them. The healers were needed for so much more than his superficial wounds. There were people who were gravely injured, on the verge of death—how could he possibly take up time for himself just so he wouldn’t end up with scars? They all had scars, now, whether they were visible or not. It didn’t matter.

“They’re doing okay today,” she told him, patting him on the shoulder and guiding him inside, closing the door behind him. “Your mother has been in an exceptionally good mood since… well, you know. I don’t know how much she understands what happened, but somewhere, deep down… who knows? Your father is doing okay, although I don’t think he has much understanding of what’s happened at all. He has been sleeping better, though, so perhaps his mind is more at ease.” She spoke to him as they walked through the ward, and Neville peeked in on the other residents. Agnes was muttering to herself, Professor Lockhart was napping, and the bed where Broderick Bode had once resided was still empty. Frank and Alice Longbottom were at the very end of the ward, by the large windows, and Neville paused just before he got there.

Madam Strout patted him on the shoulder comfortingly. “They are always so happy to see you, Neville,” she assured him, and he nodded. He could do this.

Neville stepped past the curtains to see the same sight that he’d seen what felt like a million times before. Somehow, because he was so much different, he’d thought that maybe this would look different or feel different, too, but it didn’t. It was exactly the same as it had always been. Alice Longbottom was sitting in a chair by the window, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her face. Frank was in his bed, blanket covering his knees, a newspaper that he wasn’t reading in his hands. For a moment, Neville couldn’t breathe—this was too much like a portrait, a moment that he wanted to freeze in time forever, and maybe if he just stood still right here, he could do that.

Alice turned, then, to see her son standing there, and she smiled.

“Hello,” she said, her white hair shining in the sunlight. Neville’s throat was suddenly tight, but he managed a watery smile as he approached her, kissing the top of her head before he sat in the chair beside her.

“Hello, Mum,” he greeted, glad that he’d finally decided to come and visit. “It’s been a little while, I know. I’m sorry that I haven’t visited. There’s been a lot going on and I just couldn’t get here, but… I’m here now.”

Alice was still smiling, and he tried to ignore the vacant look in her eyes. Idly, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a handful of chewing gum wrappers—had it been that long since he’d visited?—and held them out in her hand. Neville took them, running his fingers over them appreciatively.

“Thanks, Mum,” he said, tucking them in his pocket. When he got home, he’d put them in the box with the rest. Neville didn’t care that the only thing that his mother had ever given him was chewing gum wrappers—she was giving him something, and that meant that somewhere, somehow, she was thinking of him. “Have you been reading the newspapers? I know that you all get the Daily Prophet, here, but I’ve been making sure that you get the Quibbler, too. It’s a much better read.”

“Yes, Neville, thank you so much,” she would have said. “Your father and I have really appreciated reading it, and we’re so proud of you!”

Instead, the smile and the blank eyes continued. Neville reached out and took his mother’s hand, squeezing it appreciatively. “He-Who… I mean, Voldemort is gone for good this time,” he told her, studying her face carefully for some kind of reaction. Not even a flicker, not even one tiny iota of recognition or understanding. “Harry Potter—you remember the Potters, right, Mum? Harry defeated him once and for all. “I think that his parents would have been really proud of him. They were your friends, remember them? Lily and James?”

“Of course I remember Lily and James! Incredible people, they were—absolutely two of our best friends. They would be so proud of little Harry if they could see him now, just like your father and I are so, so proud of you, Neville. What an amazing man you’ve grown up to be,” she would have told him.

Instead, Alice turned to look out the window again, her expression unchanging.

“It was incredible, Mum—you should have been there. The Order of the Phoenix was there and all the Hogwarts students that were left all came together to fight the Death Eaters. It was like Dumbledore’s Army all over again, but it was the entire school.” Neville smiled hopefully at her.

“I wish I could have been there,” she’d have said wistfully, sighing. “Fighting with the Order again after all these years would have been incredible. Your father and I would have loved to be there, even if only to watch you, Neville.”

Neville leaned to the side, trying to catch his mother’s eye again. “Mum?” he asked, his voice smaller now, and she didn’t react. “…Alice?” That got her attention, but it made Neville’s stomach twist so uncomfortably that he vowed never to call her that again. She turned her head back toward her son and smiled again like he’d only just arrived.

“Hello,” she said, and his chest tightened perceptibly. He would not cry, not here in front of her. It wasn’t fair to her to upset her over something that she didn’t understand.

“Hi, Mum,” he said, greeting her again gently, blinking against the prickling behind his eyes.

Neville squeezed her hand comfortingly (although it wasn’t clear who he was comforting anymore) and continued to tell her about everything.

“I killed his snake myself,” he told her, desperate for praise that he knew wouldn’t come. “It was a Horcrux—it held part of his soul, and we had to kill it to kill Voldemort. I killed it. The Sword of Gryffindor came to me and… and I used it to cut the snake’s head off.” Neville’s eyebrows scrunched toward the middle of his forehead as his mother continued to smile at him.

“You did what? Neville, that’s incredible! See, your father and I always knew that you were a true Gryffindor, and that only proves it. You helped save the world, Neville, and your father and I could not be prouder of you,” she would have told him.

He squeezed her hand again, willing himself to keep smiling at her. “I stood up to him,” he said, his voice cracking just a little bit as his throat tightened. “We thought that Harry was dead, that Voldemort had killed him. We thought it was over and I still stood up to him.” It was something that Neville had ever imagined he’d be able to do, and he’d never felt more connected to his parents than he had in that moment. “I was going to keep fighting until there was nothing left, Mum. Harry wasn’t dead and we won, but even if he had died I would have kept fighting.”

“You were so brave, Neville,” she’d have said to him, hugging him close. “You were so incredibly brave and you’ve made your father and I so proud.”

Neville sank down out of the chair, wrenching his hand from his mothers and covering his face. “I would have kept fighting, Mum, and I wanted to make you and Dad proud,” he said, his voice wavering. He rested his forehead on his mother’s knee as he knelt before her on the floor and imagined what it would feel like for her to run her fingers through his hair. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself and managed to look up at her.

Alice was looking out the window again, the same smile on her face and blank stare in her eyes.

Neville stood, brushing off his knees, and pressed a kiss to the top of his mother’s head. “Thanks, Mum,” he whispered, before turning to where his father lay.

He walked over and sat in the chair by his father’s bed. Frank was propped up by the hospital bed, his glasses on as he looked at the newspaper, his eyes never moving from the same spot on the page. It was the Daily Prophet, but the Quibbler was waiting on his bedside table. At least they were getting the subscription that he was paying for. Maybe Madam Strout was even perusing them, since his parents wouldn’t actually read them. Sometimes, he knew, she read the news out loud to them. Maybe she was reading the Quibbler to them, now.

“Hi, Dad,” he said, settling into the chair. Frank turned the page of the newspaper, but his eyes still didn’t move. Neville didn’t know if this was something that the healers on the ward had taught him or whether his father asked for the newspaper and just didn’t know he wasn’t reading it, but it always comforted Neville a little bit to see his father doing something that was even resembling normalcy. It made him feel like there was still a bit of his Dad left in there, somewhere.

“Did you read about the battle?” he asked, knowing full well that his father wouldn’t answer him. “It was in all the newspapers. I think the Quibbler did a better job of covering it, but I might be kind of biased because my friend Luna runs it with her dad. You remember me telling you about Luna, right, Dad?”

Frank would look up from the newspaper and look at his son over the tops of his glasses. “Oh, Luna, of course! Luna Lovegood. She sounds so lovely, Neville, you ought to bring her round to meet us. I know your mother would be so happy to meet some of your friends.”

Frank turned another page of the newspaper, instead.

“I was just telling Mum all about the battle and everything,” he said, his hands fidgeting. “It was amazing, Dad—I mean, it was horrible, but it was amazing. The Order was there and everything, and mostly the whole school came together to fight.” Neville smiled a little bit. “It made me glad that I joined Dumbledore’s Army, or else I never would have been able to do as much as I did. Plus, I got to use some of my plants to help. Herbology is still my best class. I really love it, Dad, and I’m really good with the plants. What was your best subject in school?”

“Your mother was better at Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures and things like that,” he might have said. “I was better at Transfiguration and I was okay at Charms, too. And Defense Against the Dark Arts. The real stuff, not whatever that loony over in bed three was teaching you lot. Still can’t believe Dumbledore hired that guy.”

Neville chuckled to himself. “Yeah, Dad, you’re right. That was an interesting year. We learned more from Harry than from most of our Defense teachers, honestly. I can even produce a patronus. I can’t do a corporeal one, yet, but I’m working on it. Harry taught us about Horcruxes, too, which is good because I destroyed one myself.” He looked up at his father. “I killed Voldemort’s snake with the Sword of Gryffindor, Dad.”

“The Sword presented itself to you?” he’d have asked his son, eyebrows raised. “That’s incredible, Neville! See? I always told you that you were a true Gryffindor, and that’s just even more proof. I’m so proud of you.”

Frank turned another page of his newspaper.

“Plus, I stood up to him in front of everyone,” he said, a flicker of hope in his voice that he wished wasn’t there. Neville knew very well that his parents didn’t know who he was, but it didn’t stop his heart from hoping that maybe one day they’d look at him and even just say his name. “We all thought Harry was dead and I just… I stood up and I told Voldemort that it didn’t’ matter, that we’d still be fighting. I wasn’t going to give up, Dad. I couldn’t. We’d come too far and fought too hard.” Neville’s hands were balled into fists, his nails digging into his palms just enough to sting. “Harry was alive, though, Dad, and he killed him. He really killed him this time. Voldemort’s gone and he’s not coming back.”

The silence of the ward was deafening compared to the raging inside Neville’s head, the desperation and the fear and the pride. The only sound that reached his ears was the sound of another page of the newspaper turning.

“I have to go now, Dad,” he said, his voice shaking again. “But I promise I’ll come back soon. It won’t be as long as last time—there was so much going on and I just couldn’t get here, but I’ll be back before school starts and then again at Christmas, okay?”

Neville stood and patted his father on the knee before turning and walking out of the ward, not bothering to look back at his mother or even say goodbye to Madam Strout. He couldn’t risk it, not with the hot tears that were already clouding his vision.

He apparated directly into his locked bedroom, not able to bear the thought of coming home to his grandmother. Neville couldn’t cry in front of her, and he couldn’t deal with her judgmental gaze right now. The tears were falling hot and fast, now, and he couldn’t wipe them away quick enough. Standing in front of his dresser, he looked at himself in the mirror. The scars on his face made him look less like his mother than ever, although as a child he’d resembled her greatly. It wasn’t fair—every piece of them that he had was slipping away little by little, and soon he’d have nothing left of them at all.

There was a little box sitting on top of his dresser and Neville opened it, pulling the chewing gum wrappers from his pocket and adding them to the collection before snapping the box shut again. He couldn’t bear to look at them or himself or anything anymore.

He walked backward from the mirror, turning to collapse on his bed just as his body began to shake with the suppressed sobs he’d been keeping in since he’d first seen the blank look in his mother’s eyes this morning. It wasn’t fair—sure, his parents weren’t dead, but they had no idea who he was and couldn’t even understand what he was saying to them. They’d once been two strong, incredible people, and they were reduced to basically nothing.

Neville cried himself to sleep and dreamed of his parents—the ones from his imagination, who knew who he was and who were proud of him. He liked to believe that maybe they were real, that somewhere deep inside the two shells of human beings who lived in the Janus Thickey Ward, there might still be an Alice and Frank Longbottom, and that they loved their son. Just maybe.