Neville was a lonely kid.
His grandmother was a distant and aloof figure who loved him coldly and critically. He never sat on her lap or woke her in the middle of the night or shared frivolity with her - he stood up straight and tried not to be a bother.
Sure, he had a governess who taught him reading and pureblood traditions, and St. Mungo’s nurses who slipped him candy and commented on his drawings, and the gardener who let him make bouquets of any flowers he wanted, and countless unnamed housecats to cuddle up with when it rained, but he never got to see any other kids.
It was alright - he was warm and well-fed and spent countless hours reading stories about orphans just like himself embarking on adventures. He spent his childhood dreaming about the train to Hogwarts, where he might meet someone who could take that cold feeling from the top of his chest, that feeling that said he was small and stupid and one more bother on his gran’s ever-present to-do list.
His Hogwarts letter, on July 31, 1991, was a becon of hope that one day he would be loved unconditionally or even, in his wildest dreams, become a storybook hero.