Disclaimer: No matter how much I might dream, they're still not mine.
A/N: Gah. Writer's block. Please don't shoot me.
Neville knew he wasn't loved. He knew he didn't really belong.
Oh, sure, Harry and Ron and Hermione were nice to him. Sure, they took him to the Department of Mysteries that day. But Harry had resisted. He didn't want Neville. And Ron and Hermione… they were so busy denying their love for each other that they didn't have time for him.
So sixth year, he changed.
He came back cooler, more sophisticated, more educated after a summer of books and late-night talks with the old witch in Great Uncle Algie's pub. She was grey-haired and cynical but she took him in. She took him in until that one night when she fainted by the fire and never opened her eyes again. But she still took him in.
So Neville was improved, or so he thought. He hung out with Dean and Seamus until he realized that they were no better than Ron and Hermione. Worse, really, because they didn't deny their love. And so he changed again.
Goth Neville. Dark Neville. He didn't care what he was called; he didn't care much at all anymore. Black hair, beady eyes, sallow skin, a mini-Snape in training, they said. The Hufflepuffs stopped talking to him; even the Slytherins wouldn't make fun of him. So he changed again.
They didn't know he'd changed until they found him cold and stiff and hanging above the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall. Then they knew, and they were forced to love him. Finally, they loved him.
But Neville wasn't there to care.