Disclaimer: The characters and ideas used in this story all belong to J.K Rowling, unfortunately for me. I'm just borrowing them for a few pages!

A/N: Just another one-shot idea that occurred to me while reading the Order of the Phoenix last night. It's probably been done before so not the most original but I hope you enjoy it! It's done from Neville's point of view. Review please! (This is a slightly revised because I made a tiny mistake in the first paragraph regarding Frank Longbottom.)

Alice the Beautiful

Ever since I was a young boy, my Gran told me stories about my parents. She told me heroic tales of how hard they fought against you-know-who and how brave they were. She told me simple things as well, like how my mother was always chewing some sort of gum. Of how my father was the head boy during his seventh year of Hogwarts. She told me of how my mother was always laughing and how much my father loved it. She often said of how beautiful a sound it was. Like a bell. Soft and genuine.

A few times I would ask her of what happened to them. She always told me that they had died, a look of distinct pride on her face. Despite my young age, I always wondered how the death of her son could make her proud. I didn't find out until my tenth birthday.

"Neville, it's time I told you of what really happened to your mum and dad." She had said that evening. She was sitting in her ancient rocking chair and I sat on the hearth of the rug beneath her. "Your parents are not dead, Neville." I distinctly remember in that moment I felt the beginnings of hope. However, the hopes of my childhood self were dashed when she continued. "Years ago, when you were only a baby, they were tortured for information by you-know-who's followers. The healers were unable to help them. They have no recollection of whom they are and right now they are in St.Mungos. A woman named Bellatrix Lestrange was responsible. She was put to trial and sent to Azkaban."

I remember not speaking throughout her story. The prospect of not remembering yourself was a horrible one to me. Many questions ran through my head that night. My parents? The hero's that Gran had always talked about?The only question that I could answer was that I knew I wanted to see them. I wanted to see what they had become.

So we did. The following day we traveled to St.Mungo's and climbed the steps that led to the Spell Damage ward. When I first looked at them, I could scarcely believe that they were the same people. My Gran had shown me numerous pictures of them. My mum, who had once been so full of life was now scrawny and old looking. Her hair had turned a delicate shade of premature grey and her face was sunken. My dad had turned out no better. I wondered what magic could possibly do this to a wizard?

After we left that day, Gran told me more stories. For the first time she told me how they met. She described how much they loved each other and how delighted they were when the news had reached them that I was on the way. She said they had gone absolutely mad, trying to make the house ready for the arrival of their first born.

My Gran always said that they still loved each other. I wondered how that could be true. How can you love someone when you don't even know your own name? I later realized that there is so much more to love. It was another one of our yearly visits to St.Mungos, during Christmas. We stayed for only an hour before Gran decided it was time to leave. We were just about to reach the exit when I decided that I wanted to go back. Making a quick excuse to Gran, I ran back up to the ward.

Just as I was about to step out from behind the privacy curtains that were still drawn, I drew back. I was content to just watch them for a few minutes. Then, a truly remarkable site came before my eyes.

My father was reaching out his hand. It was shaky yes, but I swear that for a moment he almost looked like the man I had seen pictures of. He almost looked as if he had a purpose. And then I realized that he did. He grabbed mum's hand. I was shocked. And then he opened his mouth. I stood there, stationary, fascinated by what I was seeing. I was told that neither of my parents had spoken since they had been tortured. I wondered if it was possible. And then I realized that it was.

"A.. Al . . . Al . . . Alice . . . " He uttered, his voice horse as it had not been used for years. His eyes were alight as he gazed at her gaunt face. "Be . . . Be . . . Beautiful . . . "

And then my mum turned her head ever so slightly and smiled at him. It was in that moment that I realized my Gran had been right. My father remembered her, even if just for a brief moment. It was a beautiful sight, watching them together, hands still clasped tightly around each other. It was truly the best Christmas I've ever had. I learned that all is never lost. No matter what kind of tribulation life puts you through.

The End