Neville had never liked Potions.
But today had been especially brutal.
Snape’s sneer had been sharper than usual. His insults more pointed. And the way he’d paused—mockingly—after Neville stumbled over the instructions for the fourth time made something in his chest twist painfully.
“Typical Longbottom,” Snape had murmured to the class. “I suppose we should be grateful your incompetence didn’t poison the entire dungeon.”
The Slytherins had snickered. Even a few Ravenclaws had looked away awkwardly. And Neville had quietly stared at his ruined potion, wishing the floor would just swallow him whole.
Herbology—his one safe haven—hadn’t gone well either. Professor Sprout had paired him with a Hufflepuff who didn’t listen to his advice about how to handle Flutterleaf plants, and they’d spent half the class trying to coax the twitching leaves out of a sulk.
He knew he wasn’t brilliant. But he cared. And that should count for something.
Neville made it to the common room and sank into one of the squishy armchairs near the corner, trying to become invisible. His satchel dropped beside him with a defeated thump.
He didn’t cry.
But he did stare very hard at the fireplace, jaw clenched and stomach churning.
Hermione noticed first. She glanced over the top of her textbook, frowned, and set it down. “Neville?”
He startled. “Oh—hi. Sorry. Didn’t mean to—uh—bother anyone.”
“You’re not bothering anyone,” she said firmly, already standing. “Ron?”
Ron, who had been playing Exploding Snap with Seamus, turned with the quick alertness of someone who had grown up surrounded by younger siblings. His eyes locked onto Neville’s face.
“What happened?” he asked, instantly concerned.
Neville shifted under their attention, pulling his sleeves down nervously. “Just a bad day. It’s fine.”
Ron raised an eyebrow and came over, dropping into the chair across from him. “That doesn’t sound fine.”
“Snape was awful again,” Hermione said softly, sitting on the arm of Neville’s chair. “And I heard what happened in Herbology. That Hufflepuff should’ve listened to you, not panicked and yanked the roots.”
Neville blinked. “You… noticed?”
Hermione smiled gently. “Of course I did. You’re one of the best in the year with magical plants.”
Neville felt something flutter in his chest. He wasn’t used to compliments. Especially ones that sounded like they were true.
Ron leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Listen, Snape’s a greasy git who couldn’t teach his way out of a paper cauldron. You messed up a potion? So what? You know how many times Seamus has exploded something? He once charmed my toothbrush to sing the national anthem every morning.”
“That was on purpose!” Seamus called from the card table.
“My point is,” Ron continued, ignoring him, “you’re allowed to have bad days. That doesn’t mean you’re not smart. Or brave. Or good at magic.”
Neville gave a helpless shrug. “It just feels like I’m always the last one to get it. Everyone else is ahead. And Snape makes me feel like I’ll never be more than a walking disaster.”
“You’re not,” Hermione said quickly. “You’re thoughtful. And you ask good questions. And you’re getting better all the time.”
Neville ducked his head, heat rising in his face.
Dean came over and plopped onto the rug nearby. “Honestly, I wish I had your green thumb. My poor Fanged Geranium looks like it’s plotting revenge.”
“You’re great in Charms though,” Neville said, confused.
Dean grinned. “Exactly. We all have different strengths. You don’t see me trying to brew Polyjuice or tame a Snargaluff.”
“Yet,” Seamus added, clearly intrigued by the idea.
Fred and George, who had been hovering nearby (pretending not to eavesdrop), appeared on either side of Neville like twin shadows.
“Snape’s a menace,” Fred said brightly. “Want us to set off a Dungbomb in his office again? Strictly as a morale boost, of course.”
“Or we could charm his hair to look like a Flutterleaf,” George suggested. “Symbolic revenge. Very poetic.”
Neville laughed before he could stop himself, a startled sound that made the twins beam.
“Better,” Fred said with satisfaction.
“You deserve better days, Neville,” Hermione said, reaching into her bag and pulling out a parchment scroll. “And we’re going to help you get them.”
He blinked. “What’s that?”
“Study notes,” she said with a grin. “For tomorrow’s quiz. I color-coded them. Don’t fight me on this.”
Ron groaned dramatically. “Color-coding is her love language. Accept it.”
“She's not wrong,” Harry said from the couch nearby.
Neville turned in surprise—he hadn’t realized Harry was there. He’d been so quiet, curled in the corner of the sofa with a cup of tea and a thoughtful look.
But his voice was calm, warm. Steady.
“I’ve been on the receiving end of those color-coded scrolls,” Harry added. “They work. She even made Ron pass that Transfiguration quiz last week.”
“Oi,” Ron muttered, “no need to say it like it was some sort of miracle.”
Harry gave Neville a small smile. “I know it feels like Snape’s trying to crush you sometimes. But he doesn’t define you. You’ve got more heart than half the people in this castle. And we see it, even when he doesn’t.”
Neville swallowed hard. Harry Potter had just said he had heart. That he was seen. Something about it settled into the ache in his chest like a balm.
Hermione handed him another stack of notes. “You’ll study with me after dinner. I’ll quiz you, if you’d like.”
“And we’ll help with spell practice,” Ron added. “After all, I’ve got six brothers. Teaching baby siblings is practically my birthright.”
“I’ll bring chocolate,” Ginny said from the girls’ staircase. “Because I refuse to let a boy cry in this Tower without snacks.”
Neville gave a small, watery laugh.
“You really think I can… be good at this?” he asked quietly.
“Mate,” Seamus said, leaning back with a dramatic sigh. “You punched a Death Eater once. You’re already a legend.”
“That was by accident!”
“And yet, wildly effective,” Dean said.
“Exactly,” Harry said, his eyes kind but firm. “And we’re with you. Every step. That’s what family’s for.”
The fire crackled beside them, casting golden light across the room. Neville looked around at the faces surrounding him—kind, mischievous, sincere—and felt something in his chest start to heal.
He wasn’t alone.
He might still stumble sometimes. Still doubt himself. Still have days where Snape made him feel like a failure.
But he had people who believed in him. Who loved him, in their chaotic, loyal, Gryffindor way.
And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.