Chapter 4
The common room was quieter than usual, and for Neville, that quiet felt suffocating. It was late in the evening, and the golden light of the fire flickered across the room, casting soft shadows on the walls. His friends were scattered around the room, chatting softly, but Neville had retreated to one of the armchairs near the window, his knees pulled up to his chest. He stared out at the dark sky, feeling the weight of his grandmother's constant expectations pressing on him once again.
"You’re not my father, Neville," she always said, her voice sharp and unforgiving. "You’ll never be the man your father was."
The words echoed in his mind, louder than the crackling of the fire. His father had been a hero. His grandmother never let him forget it. She spoke of Augusta Longbottom's pride like it was some unachievable standard for Neville to live up to, but Neville had never quite measured up. He wasn't as brave as his father. He wasn't as strong as his father. He wasn’t anything like his father, and sometimes he wondered if that was why his grandmother never looked at him the way she did his father—like he could do no wrong, like he was destined for greatness.
Neville was a Gryffindor. But sometimes he felt like he didn’t belong in the house of bravery. He wasn’t a natural-born leader like Harry, or the loud, confident presence like Fred and George. He wasn’t like Ron, whose boisterous nature demanded attention, or even Hermione, whose intelligence and determination made her stand out. He was just... Neville.
The door to the common room opened quietly, and Neville didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. He could hear the soft thud of footsteps, the faint rustle of robes, the shifting of air. He knew it was Dean, even before he heard the familiar voice.
"Oi, Nev," Dean said gently, his voice like a warm breeze. "You alright?"
Neville didn’t answer at first. He just stared out the window, feeling the familiar knot tighten in his chest. He knew Dean had noticed him sitting here alone, and it wasn’t like him to withdraw so completely from the group. Dean always had a knack for seeing through Neville’s defenses, even when he didn’t want anyone to. And right now, Neville didn’t want to face anyone.
"Talk to me, mate," Dean said, his tone soft but insistent. He dropped into the armchair next to Neville, sitting so close that their legs brushed together. Dean’s presence was comforting, familiar. But it also made Neville feel vulnerable. Too vulnerable.
"I just... I don’t know, Dean," Neville mumbled, his voice low and shaky. "I feel like I’m not... I’m not enough. I’m always in the shadow of my dad, and it feels like I can never be what they want me to be. My grandmother... she never stops reminding me of what I’m not. She always wanted me to be like him—brave, strong. And I’m not."
Dean tilted his head, his brow furrowing slightly. "Nev, mate... that’s not you. Your dad was great, yeah, but you’re your own person. You don’t have to live up to anyone’s expectations, especially not your grandmother’s."
Neville shook his head, the knot in his chest tightening. "But I’m not like him. I’m not... I’m not brave. I’m not strong. I’m just... me."
Dean’s hand came to rest on Neville’s shoulder, a simple gesture, but one that felt weighty in its sincerity. "You’re stronger than you think, Neville. You’ve faced things that no one should have to, and you’re still standing. That takes more courage than you realize."
Neville glanced at him, but he still wasn’t convinced. "I just don’t feel like I belong here, sometimes. Like I don’t have anything to offer. I mean, look at you, Dean. You’re an artist. You’re talented. You’ve got this easy way of being... you know, you." Neville swallowed hard, fighting the lump in his throat. "But me? I’m just Neville."
Dean raised an eyebrow, a soft smile tugging at his lips. "You’re being a bit hard on yourself, mate. Just because you don’t feel like you’re some... bigger-than-life personality doesn’t mean you’re not important. Trust me, Neville. You bring something to the table that none of us do. You bring this... this calmness. This quiet strength that’s easy to overlook, but it’s there. It’s the kind of strength that makes a difference when it counts."
Neville looked away, feeling a sudden rush of emotion rise in his chest. The words were simple, but they felt like a balm to a wound he hadn’t even realized was there. He wasn’t sure he believed it fully, but he wanted to. He really did.
At that moment, Ron walked into the common room, his steps quick, as though he were in a hurry. He spotted Neville and Dean immediately and walked over, his usual gruff expression softening as he approached.
"Everything alright?" Ron asked, glancing between the two of them.
Dean gave Neville a reassuring smile, his hand still on Neville’s shoulder. "Just having a chat. You know, trying to talk some sense into our mate here."
Ron raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Sense about what?"
Neville hesitated, unsure of how much to say. But the words spilled out before he could stop them. "I just... I don’t think I’m cut out for this. I don’t know if I’m meant to be a Gryffindor. I feel like I’m always in the background, always overlooked. And sometimes... sometimes I just don’t feel like I’m strong enough to be one of us."
Ron’s face softened, and he dropped down onto the arm of Neville’s chair, giving his friend a meaningful look. "You don’t have to be the loudest, or the strongest, or the bravest in the way everyone expects. That’s not what being a Gryffindor is about. It’s about doing the right thing, even when you’re scared. It’s about standing up, even when it feels like the world’s against you. And mate," he added with a soft chuckle, "I’ve seen you do that more times than I can count. You’re a Gryffindor through and through."
Neville’s throat tightened, and he blinked rapidly, feeling his heart swell with a mixture of disbelief and gratitude. For the first time in a long while, he felt like he belonged. He wasn’t invisible. He wasn’t just Neville Longbottom, the forgettable one. He was part of something—part of this family. The same family that had accepted him for who he was, flaws and all.
"I don’t know," Neville whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "It just feels like... everyone else is so much more than me. And I’m always just... I don’t know. The quiet one."
Dean smiled, his eyes warm and understanding. "The quiet ones are often the strongest, mate. They just don’t shout about it."
Ron grinned, giving Neville a friendly nudge. "Besides, it’s not about being loud. You just have to be you. And that’s enough."
Neville looked at his friends, feeling a newfound sense of warmth wash over him. Maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to be like everyone else. Maybe he didn’t have to live up to some impossible standard. He could just be Neville—the quiet one, yes, but the one who had the courage to stand by his friends, to do what was right, even when it was hard.
He smiled softly, for the first time in a long while feeling at peace with who he was.
"Thanks, guys," he said quietly, his voice filled with gratitude.
Ron clapped him on the back, his grin widening. "Anytime, mate."
And as they sat there together—Dean, Ron, and Neville—Neville realized that he had found his place among them, in the quiet moments, in the shared understanding, in the bond they had all forged. He didn’t have to be loud. He didn’t have to be anything other than himself. And that, in itself, was enough.