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Nobody had ever believed in Neville - nobody, that is, except Harry. During those months of training with the DA, Neville felt more supported by his fifteen-year-old classmate than he ever had by any of his teachers or even his family. He supposed he and Harry were alike in a lot of ways - they’d both lost their parents young, albeit in different ways, and they were both ready to avenge those they’d lost, whatever the cost.
But Neville wasn’t cool or funny or any of the other traits Harry seemed to champion. Still, he was definitely, without a doubt, better than Harry at Herbology. Nobody could best Neville in a plant care competition. It was just a shame there weren’t so may of those happening. Often, Neville felt like his talent was useless in this war. He wasn’t a particularly good dueller, often too slow to react or stumbling over his spells. He wasn’t a healer, he wasn’t a teacher. Oftentimes, Neville wondered if he was worth anything at all.
(Incidentally, it was Luna Lovegood who had eventually put him right when she’d mentioned that, without herbologists, healers wouldn’t have the ingredients they needed to make the potions to heal the duellers. But then, Luna had always been so incredibly smart.)
So, when Harry told their makeshift class that they were going to be learning the patronus charm today, Neville felt his stomach sink down to his toes. That was extremely advanced magic. If most full-grown wizards couldn’t do it, there was no way Neville Longbottom was going to manage to cast one. When Harry’s impressive silver stag burst out of the end of his wand and cantered majestically around the room, Neville felt even more hopeless. He’d never be able to produce a patronus like that.
Still, he tried. He was diligent, cycling through memory after memory, trying to find the right one. Harry was certain that Neville’s failure to produce even a wisp had nothing to do with his ability and everything to do with choosing the right memory. So Neville kept trying. He thought about the day he’d received his Hogwarts letter - but he couldn’t stop thinking about all the times his grandmother had suggested he might be a squib and it rather put a damper on things. He thought about his first herbology class, when he’d discovered that he finally, finally had a knack for something magical - but he couldn’t stop thinking about his grandmother’s reaction to the knowledge that her grandson’s talents lay in plants and not duelling. He even tried thinking about the time he’d forced boggart-Snape to wear his grandmother’s clothes - but he couldn’t stop thinking about his grandmother’s stupid hat and how much he hated it.
He shook his head, irritated. He needed to get his grandmother out of his head. If she could even wreck the happiness of remembering the time he had forced Snape to wear a big ugly hat and carry a handbag - then she really had, officially, ruined everything good in his life. The bitch.
But thinking of Snape brought back another memory, a memory that made him laugh every time he thought about it. Not only that, but it filled his entire being with glee just thinking about the absolute fury on Snape’s face when Harry had-
Yes. This was the memory.
Neville closed his eyes and concentrated as hard as he could on the memory and the joy it sparked inside his belly. He raised his wand, took a deep breath, and whispered, “Expecto patronum.”
When he dared to peek out of one eye, there was a wisp of silver smoke trailing out of the end of his wand, beginning to form a rather flimsy shield. But it was still a shield! And, on the other side of his feeble patronus, Neville could see Harry grinning at him.
“I knew you could do it!” He whooped, punching Neville a bit too enthusiastically on the arm. “What were you thinking of, in the end?”
Neville smiled.
There’s no need to call me ‘sir’, Professor.
“Oh. Nothing.”