Potter Spawn

Chapter 17

Neville didn't really feel like he fit in with the rest of the junior Marauders. It wasn't just that he had been assigned the spot of Wormtail, who had betrayed his brothers in the end and who had been a weak, lying coward, a tagalong. It was also that he didn't shine. He wasn't brilliant like the others were. He didn't get perfect marks like Hermione or was a Quidditch and transfiguration prodrigy like Harry and he wasn't even funny or brilliant at chess like Ron. In fact, his failures were so numerous he had given up on counting. 

Neville had always had very little magic, so much his grandparents had feared he would not be accepted into Hogwarts - a squib, a shameful revelation about the Longbottom line, a stain upon the spotless legacy of his parents. 

Sometimes he hated his parents for being the way they were. For leaving him. But he could never bring himself to throw even a single bonbon wrapper away. 

Let's get back to his failures. Neville couldn't remember what the teachers said in lessons and he wasn't quick enough with a quill to copy down enough notes. He couldn't get the words straight when he was writing an essay and most of the time he didn't even understand what he was supposed to be writing about. When he did, he didn't understand the rest of the topic. But the practical part of lessons was the worst. He just couldn't do any of the spells - it was almost as though his wand was intentionally blocking him from using it. There was something like a barricade somewhere in the wood. He could pour all the magic he wanted into the spell and do the correct wand movements and pronounce the incantation perfectly, but nothing ever happened. 

Even his own father's wand was rejecting him. That said a lot about his life, in Neville's opinion. And of course he wasn't allowed to exchange it for his own wand - his grandmother had refused and he didn't want to tell his friends. What sort of a pathetic little boy was he if he couldn't even stand up to his own grandmother? 

Of course, nothing needed to be said about potions. Professor Snape scared the crap out of Neville and made him even more nervous and impossibly clumsy the moment he entered the dungeon. His only saving grace was his constant partnering with Hermione, who was good at everything. It had kept him from getting seriously injured so far, but nothing could buffer Professor Snape's judgemental, disgusted stares. 

He couldn't even stand up for himself. Even worse, he couldn't ignore the comments and the sneers thrown his way. Yesterday Malfoy had made a comment about his parents in the corridor and he had had to scrunch his face up in the way that said 'I'm going to start crying in the next 0.05 seconds' just to make it around the corner so Malfoy and his goons wouldn't see him blubbing like a baby. Of course they still laughed at him and he could still hear them. 

Harry had hexed him for it, but somehow that had made it worse. Not only did his friend have to stand up for him, but he'd also had gotten detention with Snape for it. Of course, Harry hadn't minded - he didn't regret a thing, and he definietely didn't mind detention  - after all, getting detention was something Marauders did. He had proclaimed he was planning on getting a several kilogram folder of detention in his years at Hogwarts and beg a copy off McGonnagal to keep in a honour spot on his shelf, right next to his Quidditch trophies. 

Neville wouldn't have any trophies to put his detention records next to. 

The only thing he was good at was Herbology. Neville had been interested in plants as long as he could remember. He had always been an outdoorsy type of kid, but he had never wanted to play tag or hide and seek. He had just wanted to sit among the flowers, softly tugging at leaves and digging his fingers into the dirt. Finally, finally, and old house elf had taken mercy on him and had taught him the basics of gardening. They had continued their little lessons until Neville knew how to care for the flowers and few magical plants the elves grew in his grandmother's garden. By then, he had luckily been able to read, so he had taken to reading every herbology book he could get his hands on. 

Still, no one cared about Herbology one bit. It was one of the classes everyone dropped. Being good at Herbology was the same thing as writing LOSER on your forehead. 

And sure, he was good at Gobstones. But that didn't matter. It was just a silly game anyways. 

So yes, Neville didn't feel all that much like a marauder. It wasn't the others' fault or even Sirius', who would have any right to despise him when he was so much like Pettigrew was at his age. It was mostly the feeling, the realisation, that he never contributed anything to the group. He just tagged along and slowed them down - in lessons, running from Filch, planning pranks, even becoming animagi. He had taken so long to understand the theory that Sirius and Hermione had to walk him through it again and again. Neville didn't doubt he would never even manage the transformation, so what was the point? 

Still, he joined in because he didn't want to disappoint the others. He also kind of wanted to at least try. Oh, who was he kidding, he wanted to be an animagus. It sounded like the sort of thing he had never even dreamed he'd be doing one day. 

Suddenly, Neville noticed the common room was way too crowded. There were people everywhere, loud, brash, laughing and arguing Gryffindors, and he needed to get out. Mumbling an excuse about taking a walk to his friends, he grabbed his back and rushed out of the portrait hole. Outside, he drew in a deep breath - peace at last - and set off in the direction of the Marauders' room. 

"Latrones." 

Neville breathed yet enother sigh of sweet relief as the entrance to the comfortable room closed behind him. Today, it had sprouted a window that looked out onto the grounds and the lake. His plant pots stood on the windowsill, neatly arranged next to his mother's practical silver watering can he had brought from home. 

"Water, please", he requested from the can, and it filled immediately. Careful, absorbed in his work, Neville poured just enough water into each pot. He was growing different plants here than he did at home. These were serious potions ingredients, magical plants, useful stuff. Not just the roses and basic healing herbs his grandmother approved of, but mandrakes, devil's snare, moly and venomous tentacula. He was even growing a small pot of wolfsbane, safely locked away to avoid Remus accidentally coming in contact with it. 

As Neville's plants flourished, so did he. 

See, the good thing about plants was that they didn't judge. He didn't have to be smart or friendly or brave or confident for them. They didn't have eyes and they couldn't see how he still had his baby fat or how pathetic his face looked when stained with tears or that his hands shook whenever he was holding a quill. The plants just wanted water and the proper amount of sunshine. 

Okay, they needed more than that, but what they needed was simple. As long as Neville did everything he was supposed to do, nothing could go wrong. He understood plants. Sometimes it almost felt as if they were talking to him, telling him what they needed. Not that they had to - he just knew either way. 

The bubotuber had grown rather nice swellings, Neville noticed. Suddenly, enlightenment lit up his face before a venomous smile spread across his babyish features. He might not be able to stand up to Malfoy, but he could still get him back. 

He could do the levitation spell. 

Poor Neville. Don't worry, our boy will get to shine soon enough. Next is more pranks, some James Potter content because we love him, and Ron growing into his role as Padfoot 2.0! 

Moony 

PS: PJO fans, did you notice how much Neville sounded like Percy in the first book? I just realised when I proofread this. 

(Am I a troubled kid? Yeah. You could say that.)