"Neville," Seamus Finnigan said Tuesday evening, "how many Flutterby Bushes can I plant in one pot with a radius of three feet seven inches?"

"Two if they're small," Neville said wearily. "If the roots extend beyond one foot on either side of the plant you'll only be able to fit one in."

The fifth-years were huddled in a corner by the fireplace, doing homework and studying for an Herbology test the next day. Neville, whose Herbology mark was the highest of their year, was being consulted frequently. He seemed pleased by the attention, though he was surprised by how little the rest of his friends had absorbed from what he thought were fascinating lessons with Professor Sprout.

They were also studying for a Potions quiz they suspected would be thrown at them the next day. Harry and Hermione were the undisputed authorities in this field: Hermione of course because she had a spotless academic record in everything, and Harry because he had recently been proving his considerable intellect in class. Harry was regularly subjected to surprise interrogations by Professor Snape, who would not rest until Harry missed a question in Potions. Frustrated and annoyed, Snape had taken to announcing surprise quizzes in their class at least three times a week and also watched Harry like a hawk every minute, trying to catch him in some punishable offense so that he could assign him extra homework on archaic alchemy techniques. Harry only barely managed to get these extra assignments done on time, and would already have racked up several weeks of detentions for incomplete work had it not been for Hermione's assistance. Hermione was grateful to Harry because while Snape was thinking up questions to throw at Harry he was too busy to call her a know-it-all.

They studied and argued together till eleven o'clock, when Neville said he had revised enough and was going to bed. Pleading mortal fatigue, he waved down their protests and went upstairs to his dorm.

Soon afterwards, Harry felt his eyelids drooping. Despite the magic floating in the atmosphere, he doubted there was any magic that would allow him to soak up information by sleeping on his textbook, so he also packed up his books and climbed the stairs to bed.

The lights were on in the boys' dorm and all five beds were empty. Neville was not there. Harry thought Neville had gone to brush his teeth. He was moving towards the table by his bed when he stubbed his toe on something hard. He looked downwards and found himself staring down into a dark cemetery in the middle of the night. His Pensieve sat on the floor, displaying his memory of the duel with Voldemort.

Harry frowned because he knew that he had pushed the Pensieve all the way under the bed after the last time he'd used it a few days ago, and he knew that Pensieves didn't just start exhibiting memories without provocation. He dropped to his knees and peered inside, taking care not to touch the surface. Aha! From this vantage point he could clearly see Neville Longbottom crouched behind a tombstone, pale and shaking. Harry watched him as Neville, slack-jawed and with tears shining on his cheeks, witnessed the splintering of the golden ray of light that connected the two wands.

Harry changed into his pajamas and put his schoolbooks in his trunk. Then he he sat down on his bed and waited patiently while Neville watched him run through the graveyard and Summon the Triwizard Cup. He reread the Pensieve instructions as Neville travelled back to Hogwarts with Harry and the body of Cedric Diggory. When the false Mad-Eye Moody began to push his way through the crowds, Harry drew his wand, took a deep breath, and stepped into the Pensieve.

The moment the sole of his foot touched the surface he found himself standing in his memory. Neville lay on ground at his feet, looking dazed.

"Hello Neville," Harry said.

Neville stared up at the Harry who was standing over him. Then he turned his head and stared at the Harry sitting on the ground a few feet away, holding the Triwizard Cup.

"Neville, it's the real me," said Harry.

Neville seemed to suddenly understand. "Harry! I- I didn't mean to-"

"It's okay, Neville," Harry said. "Let's get out of here."

He took Neville's elbow and said, "Illucambium Leviosa."

They floated up into the air, did a forward somersault and landed on the floor of their dorm.

Neville immediately began blurting out panicked apologies. "Harry! Harry, I'm so sorry, there was a silvery light under your bed and I was just curious to see what it was-"

"It's okay, Neville," Harry interrupted, feeling oddly composed in the face of Neville's genuine angst. "It's all right."

Neville paused uncertainly. "Are you sure? I didn't mean to snoop, it was just there. I'm really truly sorry, Harry."

"Well, you can't very well take it back now, can you?" Harry said, making an attempt to sound cheerful. Having the whole scene replayed before his eyes wrenched his heart. He tried to block out the memory of Cedric Diggory's startled face, with the open, staring eyes that never saw anything again.

Neville opened his mouth, then closed it and looked down at his hands. They were still shaking. He clasped them together as if embarrassed. Harry waited.

Finally Neville spoke hesitantly. "He- he put Cruciatus on you."

"Yes," said Harry, who knew that Neville's parents had been driven to madness from the agony of the banned curse when Neville was a small child.

"It hurt?"

"Like- like a fire being lit inside me," Harry said, struggling to find words to describe the unimaginable pain. "Like a million knives stabbing at once." It was hard to talk about it, even now when Harry knew he was safe.

"But you didn't go insane," Neville said.

"No," said Harry, pretending to be puzzled. "But I suppose I didn't get the whole force of the curse, either. Maybe he wasn't putting all of himself into the Cruciatus. I guess if I had gotten the whole of the curse it would have had more lasting effects."

"My parents were tortured with the Cruciatus," Neville said softly.

Harry feigned shock. "What?"

"It happened when I was very small," Neville said. Harry knew how much it hurt Neville to bring it up and open his ancient wounds. "My dad was an Auror. It was a few years after the fall of You-Know-Who. One night a group of Death Eaters came to our house, wanting information from my dad about You-Know-Who. They tortured him, and when he wouldn't tell him anything, they tortured my mother too. They- they were driven mad."

"Oh, Neville," said Harry.

Now that a trickle of words had started, the whole story was pouring out. "My gran was in the house with us. She rushed me out of the house before they could get to us. I don't remember that night at all, I must have been too small. But I remember the next time I saw my parents. They were at St. Mungo's Hospital, in the Irreparable Damage wing. They didn't recognize me or my gran. They still don't." The tears spilled over onto Neville's pale cheeks.

Harry could think of nothing suitable to say. "Neville, I'm sorry." The words sounded lame and inadequate. Harry tried again. "I know how hard it is to lose someone."

Neville wiped his face on his sleeve. "It could be worse, I know. At least my parents are still alive." Harry suddenly felt like the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. Neville suddenly realized what he had said. "Oh, sorry, Harry, I didn't mean it like that, I really didn't."

"It's okay," Harry said, feeling very empty. He knew Neville hadn't meant to offend him, but he couldn't help feeling a twinge of sorrow over the parents he had never known. Neville was looking wretched and contrite again, and Harry wasn't feeling too cheery himself. He tried to steer the conversation back to the Longbottoms. "Maybe someday they'll invent a cure and you'll have your parents back, Neville."

Neville smiled, his cheeks wet and shiny from the tears. "Maybe. I hope so." He stood up. "Thanks, Harry. It was- it was really good to have someone listen."

"Anytime," Harry said, trying to sound bright.

"I'm going to go brush my teeth," Neville said.

Harry nodded and Neville left. When the door closed, Harry went to his trunk and unearthed a leather-bound book from the piles of clothes. He climbed into bed and pulled the curtain hangings shut around him. He lit the end of his wand with a dim yellow light.

Only then did he open the leather album and begin turning the pages full of photographs. His mother and father grinned out at him from every picture, and sometimes baby Harry was there as well, in the shelter of their loving arms. Harry stared at his parents, forever youthful and happy in these photographs, and did not even realize he was crying.