Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters: everything belongs to the magnificent JKR.

A/N: Here's another one-shot of an unheard Valentine's Day story. I hope you all enjoyed reading Snape's because I certainly enjoyed writing it. This next one made me really sad while I was writing it. Without further ado, I give you…Neville.

A Memory

Whenever February fourteenth rolls around, I do not find myself overcome by thoughts of love and hearts and cupids. I don't eat little heart-shaped chocolates or send cards to anyone. I don't buy flowers or wish that I had a special someone of my own. Honestly, I do not object to buying flowers or sending cards or any of that. I actually believe that the sentiment behind the day is right. I don't mind chocolates and I am not physically repulsed by the sight of hearts and cupids or by the talk of love. In fact, I wish that I had a special girl in my life. No, in truth, I am so unconcerned with these things because I spend my Valentine's Day consumed with thoughts of them. Who are 'they', you might ask? Well, 'they' are my two special someones—my parents.

It's simple to explain, really. See, Valentine's Day was their wedding anniversary. It was their day. This is the only day that I allow myself to think about them and only them. On this day, after making sure that I am quite alone and will remain undisturbed, I open my trunk and dig to the bottom where I keep my shoebox full of special things. Inside is a picture of my mum and dad on their wedding day. I like to look at it to remind myself that they were once happy. My mum is all rosy-cheeked and smiling. She looks beautiful in her long white dress, her hair all done up and her eyes bright and twinkling. My dad looks handsome, strong, and young. Even Gran looks happier than I ever see her now.

I remember a time very long ago that might not be so much a memory as it is a dream. My family was whole and unharmed. I sat on a cool tiled floor banging pots and pans together as mum and dad looked on and laughed with me. My mother says my name. "Neville", she says sweetly, her voice full of laughter. I wish that I could turn time back to that happier day. I wish that I could live in that day for the rest of my life.

As I look at their picture again, I become angry because their happiness was to be robbed from them, and they didn't even know it. Everything they had and everything they knew was stolen from them in one moment. They once loved each other unconditionally, and now I don't believe that they can even recognize each other anymore. It's cruel—crueler than them being dead and gone from me, and from each other, because at least if they hadn't survived, I wouldn't be forced to see what they have become. Each time Gran and I go to visit mum and dad, I become more and more certain that they have no recollections of me whatsoever, that they know neither my name nor my relationship to themselves. It's okay though. I still love them, and I tell them so whenever I see them. I tell them over and over, even though they never say anything in reply.

I have never told anyone about them before. The main reason is that I don't really like sharing my special memory of them with anyone. I don't even tell Gran. Though, it's also because I am too afraid that people will laugh at me- that they'll laugh because I'm the boy with crazy parents, or they'll laugh because I refuse to let them go. I know they would sneer, mock, deride my feelings and my parents. I couldn't bear to let them be talked about, as though their story was a mildly interesting article featured in The Quibbler.

At the same time, I don't want anyone's pity or false sympathy. You know, the kind you can see in people's eyes, the kind where you know that everyone is thinking that you're the sad, pathetic one. Still, I refuse to accept anyone's compassion. No one knows what it is like to have parents who cannot even recognize you. There are no words in any language apt enough to describe it. I would not wish it upon even the most hated person on the face of this earth.

I guess the real reason why I refuse to celebrate Valentine's Day is because I refuse to let February fourteenth be about anything but the two of them. No one else, maybe not even Gran, seems to remember or know or care that this day should have been about their love. My love. For them. For us.

I cannot send them cards or flowers or chocolates, but these things would be meaningless to them, anyway. What I can do is to crawl into my bed at night and to silently wish them "Happy Anniversary". I can silently and futilely pray that they get better. I can pray with all my heart and soul, as I did when I was a child. I believed that my prayers would come true back then. Still, I can't bring myself to not pray and hope and wish for them.

I ask that they get better, even just a little bit. Even if it's just so that they remember my name. Even if it's just so that they can say "I love you" back. Even if it's just once.