The Boggart by TheRogueLibrarian

Chapter 4

Griffindor was shunning him.

They actually had the nerve to shun him for being suicidal. Un-fucking-believable. They wouldn't talk to him. Wouldn't look at him. Would go quiet when he was near, as if the air had somehow frozen around him, as if a Dementor's touch hung there. Whispers followed him around corners and in dark alcoves. Stares and glares sat behind him, always just out of sight, like a second shadow. Eyes like footsteps, always close.

It was weird and made him feel more broken to know who his real friends were.

Even Hermione had forsaken him after seeing the house's reaction. The age old question of whether she liked Ron better was answered. She did. She didn't care for him any more. None of them did. They blamed him. Blamed him for something he didn't even know was wrong. And they thought he was sick. As if a darkness was hanging over him like rotten mistletoe. That he chose that escape. That he still wanted to (and he did) and that it was his fault.

Always his fault.

Here that bitch this is all your fault.

Neville.

Neville was the only one that had stuck by him. He hadn't cared about the scorn of the house. He hadn't cared about what his 'friends' would have thought. He hadn't cared about any of it.

Harry had been in the common room, brooding, sulking, contemplating if his parents would have been proud of him. If they would have loved him if they had lived. If they were watching over him. If they would have thought he was a freak.

Then Neville had sat by him, the silence had been deafening. The shocked looks and hateful glances. The nervous twitches and spiteful sneers.

Griffindor.

For the next seven years your house will be like your family.

Too right. Fucking bastards.

But Neville had stood (or sat) by him. Watching the flickering flames of the common room as Harry came back to himself. As Harry realised he had a friend. As Harry had a painful twinge of hope in his gut.

Neville had spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, still looking into the flames. Not daring to meet his eyes.

"My gran always said I was a squib when I was younger. That my parents wouldn't have been proud, that they were rolling in their graves. You know, I had an uncle that tried to kill me. Four times. The first was when I was four. I hadn't shown any signs of accidental magic. He accidentally toppled a bookshelf near me. My magic didn't kick in but my self preservation did. I crawled to safety."

The rest of the common room carried on, not hearing Neville's confession. The only one hearing it was Harry.

"The second time was when I was six. My family has always been into Herbology. We run a plant supply company. Those deadly plants that produce such important potion ingredients are heavily farmed by us. We have dozens of greenhouses. The one with the deadliest plants was Greenhouse 2. They were carnivorous. Only heavily trained Herbologists went anywhere near it. I was six. My uncle left me in there for two hours."

A gulp.

A breath.

New facts came to light.

"What can I say? It wasn't magic. The plants just liked me."

Had Harry known Neville at all?

"The next time was when I was eight. Me, my uncle and my gran had visited the beach near Saint Mungos. We had visited my parents. They got injured in the war and are residents there permanently. My gran decided it would be fun to take us out to the pier. I was hanging by dock, staring out to sea, thinking about them, when suddenly I felt myself be pushed in."