Crowning Moment of Awesome

A/N: This legal notice includes whatever wording is necessary to hold the author legally harmless for any and all criminal activity. Including that one time where I did that one thing. And this thing.

A/N: I am reposting this story. It was posted at one time, but I pulled it, as I believe that there is something a bit off with how it developed. That has now been fixed, so … here it is.

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Neville was a man – well, teen – with a secret. The shame burned daily within him, and as he woke up the last day of his fourth year at Hogwarts, he reviewed how he came to be such a sorry excuse for a wizard. Each and every morning, he reviewed the history in his mind. The memories gave him reason to push.

The evening back in his first year, when Hermione Granger got the drop on him and petrified him, leaving him in a closet for an entire night. The only redeeming action Neville had to his credit that evening was that he had held his bladder until the spell released him at 4:53 that next morning. (Yes, that exact time was burned in his memory. It always would be.)

At first, there was rage. Indignant posturing. But the body of a pre-pubescent boy couldn't sustain those emotions for very long, especially one that was so severely out of shape. Neville was forced to confront the truth about himself, in the privacy of his own head … and it shamed him.

Neville, even though he had magic, was a sorry excuse for a wizard. He couldn't cast spells without a great deal of effort. He couldn't brew potions – he really shouldn't be allowed near an open flame, really. He couldn't fly. He was just a waste of space.

So that summer, Neville began to make an effort. He never really had, before. He demanded that his Gran obtain a waiver so he could practice magic during the summer. She refused. Neville astonished the both of them (himself moreso than her): "Lady Regent Augusta Longbottom, I am the Heir. You will obtain that exemption in the next two days for the good of your House and to satisfy your duties as Regent." Perhaps he was still flying high from winning the House Cup for Gryffindor.

Gran had pursed her lips and nodded, saying nothing in return. She presented him with a small card stating his exemption that evening.

In return, Neville practiced. Casting a spell took a great deal of effort – prime evidence that he was a near squib. In response, Neville pushed. Harder to get through that wall, harder to make the feather float, harder to make the matchstick transform. Harder to make the light shine. Every damn hour of every damn day. Neville pushed.

And when his magic was nearly gone, Neville still pushed. He pushed the fertilizer to the greenhouses. He pushed the horse shit out of the stalls. He pushed his legs to run and his arms to dig and his back to carry. Every damn hour of every damn day. Neville pushed.

Second year, Neville knew who he was – what he was. He stayed out of the way and out of the spotlight and out of the common room and out of the dorms. He spent nearly the entire year in the greenhouses under the careful eye of Professor Sprout. While he learned the ways of magical plants like it was knowledge long forgotten that he already knew, he also learned speed. Muggle plants moved slowly, attacked lazily. Magical plants had attitudes like quidditch players; speed is life. Mandrake plants weren't the only threats he encountered in the hothouses. Fanged Daisys were wicked fast, and Neville had to push himself to meet them. Devil's Snare wasn't for the faint of heart or slow of reflex, either. Push again.

That year, that summer, and third year, and that summer – Neville pushed. Shamed by his weakness, he threw his strength into spellcasting. Into proving, against all evidence, that he was worth something.

That his parents could be proud of him.

He was vaguely heartened that his Gran never argued with him again, but only vaguely, as she was also obviously aware that Neville had a great need for practice. And at the end of his fourth year, Neville was still that kid, the one who couldn't do anything right, the one who needed a full summer vacation of hard work to catch up to where everyone else was normally.

Neville sighed. It was an expressive sigh, one that communicated his desire to be someone else. Anyone else.

Neville reconsidered, glancing over to the empty bed. Maybe not Potter. The poor bastard was still dealing with the effects of his duel with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. But, hell – Potter could actually duel, the magic flowing from his wand like water … it would be nice.

As he walked to breakfast, Neville lost himself in a daydream. Being someone who could get things done. Someone who was a power in the halls of Hogwarts. Someone who didn't get laughed at. Someone who wasn't an afterthought.

Draco Malfoy made the mistake of a lifetime when he interrupted Neville's haze. "Hey, Longbottom! Now that the Dark Lord's back, do you think he'll finally finish off your parents, and put them out of their misery?" Draco followed this up with a cruel, mocking laugh – the last sound he voluntarily made for several hours.

Neville, still in the throes of his reverie, slammed Crabbe into a stone wall, and yanked Goyle so that his face met the floor. Neville kneeled on Goyle's back, reached up to grasp Draco by the throat, and pulled the blonde down for a face-to-face talk.

"Draco, I'm not a Slytherin. I don't wait for a quiet moment and then stab you in the back. I'm a Gryffindor. I do death …" he spat the next word, "wholesale. I'm going to kill your friends. I'm going to kill their parents. I'm going to kill your father and take your home and feed your lawn with the blood of your pets and livestock and servants." Neville became aware that his daydream was somehow now real and that he was speaking in a guttural whisper and Draco was paler than normal.

"I am The Longbottom, you prick. The urge to conquer is in my blood. So I will destroy all that makes your life worth living, from your money to your family to your position to your friends, and I will leave you a confused, sad, worthless, mewling little prick in the ashes of all you enjoyed, and only then will I kill you, as I reveal to the world what a pathetic little worm you are."

A pause, where a small drip of liquid could be heard and a sudden acrid smell wafted between the two young men.

"So write to your father and your mother. Tell them that you made The Longbottom pay attention to you. And that I listen to the song of my blood, the song of my fathers, and that I am coming for them."

Neville abruptly stood, and threw Draco back into the wall. In a normal tone he added, "And clean yourself up. You're a mess."

Don't shake, don't run, don't scream. WhattindahelldidI DO?

With supreme self-control, Neville walked into the Great Hall, and calmly (to all outward appearances) ate breakfast.

Hyper-alert, Neville saw that almost twenty minutes later, Draco walked in, flanked by a bruised Crabbe and Goyle. They sat with their backs to the rest of the Hall.

Neville boarded the Express, desperately trying to stay in character. Trying to figure out what character he needed to play. He used a herbology book to avoid conversation with the students in his compartment … whoever they were, Neville didn't know.

At five in the afternoon, standing on the platform, waiting for a sign of his Gran, Neville became aware that Draco was at his father's side, both of them watching him. Time to play the part.

Summoning all of his Gryffindor courage, he smiled softly, made eye contact with Narcissa Malfoy, and winked.

… and she blushed.