Neville
It was probably strange to have brought a toad to school — particularly when faced with the parliament of functionally-useful pets most of his peers had lugged up in cages — but it was probably more strange to have formed an emotional connection to a toad in the first place.
It had felt like fate when he’d spotted Trevor amongst the rocks and reeds of the pond at home. It had been a favorite place of his mother’s — probably for the same reason it had become one of Neville’s: Grandmother didn’t venture out that far on the estate grounds — and so it was somewhere Neville spent an inordinate amount of time. It was hard to escape her looming presence sometimes but not even Augusta Longbottom could find fault with him sitting quietly outside.
He liked the pond and surrounding garden because his mother had, and he’d had a childhood full of trying to find connection points with her that went beyond the depressing, almost performative visits to her bedside in the Janus Thickney ward. She wasn’t really there, in the ward, not in the same way he’d found her in the garden.
He’d considered bringing a plant with him to have a piece of his mum at Hogwarts but he didn’t know anything about caring for plants and the thought of slowly and helplessly killing something that should be out in the open air, thriving, made him awash with sweaty anxiety.
So when the toad had croaked and then stared and then not moved an inch even when Neville had slowly – so, so slowly – approached and carefully – immeasurably gently – closed his hands around it, it had felt like a sign.
His grandmother had given him his dad’s wand that morning in preparation for Hogwarts. His dad had been powerful and brave, two things little Neville felt miles away from, but he’d been honored to receive that wand.
But when he’d first tentatively wrapped his fingers around it, excited to feel that surge of magic, something he knew he shared with his dad, it had barely deigned to spark.
He’d gone to the pond then, leaving a worried-looking Grandmother in the sitting room, and had found Trevor. Having a little symbol of his mother had made the inflexible, disobedient ash wand feel like a worthy burden, something to aspire to, and not only another example of how disconnected he and his father were.
Three weeks into his first year at Hogwarts, however, had tarnished the shine of both. Classes were dreadfully hard when his magic wasn’t being well-channeled and he’d had to chase after Trevor more times than he could count already. It was hard to have let down even the symbols of his parents, and he wondered if trying to make them as proud of him as he was of them was just begging for perpetual heartache.
They’d never feel it for him, anyway, not really. But even so, he couldn’t help himself from trying and so the failure stung doubly. He felt useless and estranged and so, so alone.
He had just completed another successful chase-and-capture of Trevor when he was bumped into by Ron Weasley.
“Sorry,” Neville mumbled, automatically taking the blame. “Wasn’t looking.”
Ron staggered sideways, shoulder-checking the stone wall as his momentum brought him to it. He was clutching something wriggling and squeaking in both hands, a mirror to the way Neville was clutching Trevor.
“Bloody rat,” Ron swore and then yelped and dropped the squirming mass.
It was indeed a rat. Neville blinked.
“Why’re you catching a rat?” he asked without thinking, so perplexed by the sight he forgot he was supposed to be shy.
“He’s my pet,” Ron sighed. “But he’s been in a state ever since coming back here. Percy said he’d get feistier in the castle but Merlin. He’s been a nightmare.”
While Neville attempted to form an appropriate response, Ron inspected him. “What’ve you got there?”
“Oh.” Neville looked down at Trevor. “My toad.”
“Ah.” Ron nodded understandingly. “Looks like we both got the short end of the stick.”
“What do you mean?” Now ensconced in Neville’s gentle hold, Trevor was subdued, his thick body pulsing with each beat of his froggy heart. It always felt nice, to be trusted by Trevor.
“Useless pets,” said Ron glumly. “And unless I’m completely off the mark, second-hand wands, too.”
Neville looked over, surprised that Ron had noticed and that he was in a similar boat. “Your wand is second hand?”
“Yeah. It was my brother Charlie’s. He got a new one after he got a proper job; it was my uncle’s before it was his.”
Neville didn’t want to ask what had happened to the uncle; there were few reasons someone passed their wand down which weren’t death or incarceration.
“I can’t wait to get a new one of my own, though. Bloody thing misfires half the time and it feels like it’s fighting my magic. D’you know what I mean?”
Neville did — his wand was hardly what anyone would deem a successful conduit for his magic — but he’d never even considered the alternative.
He nodded gamely but hesitated before offering, “My wand is my father’s.”
Ron opened his mouth — probably to ask why Neville’s father had elected to go wandless rather than purchase one for his son — but then seemingly remembered who he was talking to. What had happened to Neville’s parents was famous enough in their circles, and even more so given that Ron’s mum and dad had known them. Before.
Ron’s mouth closed and then slanted in a grimace composed partly of chagrin and partly of guilt. Neville returned it.
“Sorry,” Neville said.
Ron frowned. “For what?”
“It’s not good manners to bring up my clinically insane parents with new friends. At least, that’s what my Grandmother said.”
Ron scoffed. “That’s bollocks. Who cares about good manners?”
A kernel of warmth bloomed in Neville’s chest. “Not you?” he guessed.
Ron’s smile was as lopsided as his grimace had been. The imperfection of it relaxed Neville. “Nah. You can be however you like with me. I’m sure I’ll put my foot in it a dozen more times so feel free to do the same.”
“Okay.” Neville tried not to let his happiness show too much, in case it weirded Ron out. “Cool.”
They stood awkwardly for a moment and Neville watched Ron slowly begin to look for a way to leave. It was such a familiar expression to Neville that he didn’t even consider getting his feelings hurt by it.
“Well,” he said, lifting Trevor. “I should go find him some flies.”
It was a weak excuse — there was no reality in which Neville would be a better fly-catcher than his toad — but it did the trick. Ron had the good manners enough to not look overly relieved but still nodded at once. “Yeah, cool. See you!”
He loped off, likely in search of his friends.
Neville retreated the other way, in search of nothing.