"Right, but the question was who would you rather marry. A marriage to Henry Mitchell is a lifetime of conversations about dung beetles."

"Better to marry someone obsessed with dung beetles than someone with the last name Wartswallow."

"Who says you've got to take his last name?"

Neville Longbottom sighed and tried to concentrate on his Herbology reading, and not one of the dozens of conversations in the Gryffindor common room that he was not a part of.

"Loony said she heard that Durmstrang's got an actual torture chamber on that boat of theirs."

"And who told Loony that? The invisible fairies that live in her head?"

"Still, with that headmaster of theirs? I wouldn't doubt it. He's beyond creepy."

Neville placed his finger along the text, trying to keep his focus.

"Do you reckon Sprout would accept 'Peeves ate my essay' as an excuse?"

"But Peeves did eat your essay."

"Yeah, but Colin tried that with Snape once and he said it was all Colin's fault and he should've expected Peeves to do that."

"Yeah, but that's Snape. Professor Sprout isn't the human equivalent of nundu vomit."

Honestly, Neville thought, how was anyone supposed to get any work done at all with so much noise?

"Can you believe how much he cried? Don't get me wrong, I'm glad someone's representing Gryffindor at all, but if Potter can't make it through an interview without tearing up, how's he supposed to get through the tasks?"

Neville felt a sliver of satisfaction when Lee Jordan threw a handful of gobstones at the back of Cormac McLaggen's head.

"Your star chart says you're going to drown twice next week — better change one to getting attacked by a blast-ended skrewt."

Neville shut his book with a defeated sigh and began gathering up his things. There was no use trying to get anything done in the common room tonight. At least this was Herbology, a subject he actually understood. Once he moved on to Transfiguration, he'd actually have to concentrate.

He weaved his way through the tables toward the staircase that led to the solitude of his dormitory, carefully avoiding the gazes of everyone he passed. He needn't bother, though. They were all sitting amongst friends, laughing, joking, commiserating, doing all of the things one did when they actually had friends. Neville walked by, completely unnoticed, as always. Sometimes it felt like he was perpetually wearing an invisibility cloak.

It had always been this way. At home, he sat silently, observing his Gran and his Great Aunts and Uncles discussing politics, gossip, travel plans — anything really — and he quietly took it all in.

And here at Hogwarts, it happened once again. It's how he knew Katie Bell would rather marry Henry Mitchell than Bartholomew Wartswallow, Gemma Powers thought Karkaroff was creepy, Drew Bertram had tussled with Peeves, and Vicky Frobisher knew about as much about Divination as he did.

Neville entered the empty dorm, tossed his things down, and settled onto his bed. The room was quiet; Neville was used to the silence.

He opened up his Transfiguration book, carefully removing the gum wrapper he used as a bookmark. He was in for a long, tedious night trying to understand Transfiguration.

Twenty minutes later, he knew it was useless. He read the paragraph for the third time, but his head was still swimming. He could no more turn a beetle into a button — something a second year could do — than he could successfully transform a hedgehog into a pincushion, and pretty soon they'd be doing cross-species switches and he'd be completely lost.

What would Gran say then?

Why couldn't he just have more Muggle Studies work to do? He'd already finished his essay on William Shakespeare last night, and thought he'd done a pretty good job. Of course, it was easy for him to do a good job when there was no magic involved. If he were honest with himself, that was the whole reason he even took Muggle Studies in the first place — something he was sure Gran knew, given the disappointed look on her face when he told her what classes he'd chosen.

She wanted him to be clever and powerful and skilled at magic. She wanted him to be exactly like his dad, and Neville was reminded every day that he was anything but.

Neville looked down at the words on the page, seeing them without actually seeing them. Transfiguration wasn't as bad as Potions, but it just about was. Snape terrified him, but McGonagall? She was a different kind of awful.

The way she said his name whenever he messed up — that slightly annoyed, terribly disappointed, and (worst of all) resigned tone — was an exact echo of his Gran from every childhood memory he had where he just never measured up.

There were quite a lot of those memories.

He flipped through the chapter and sighed. There was no way he'd ever understand any of this. Hermione could go through every tiny step with him as much as she wanted, teach him all about the theory, but in the end, Transfiguration came down to execution and Neville was hopeless at it.

He was hopeless at just about everything.

Hermione, though? She was brilliant. His heart skipped a little bit thinking about her encouraging smile and her intelligent eyes. She made everything just seem easier — and, more than anything, she noticed Neville actually existed.

She wasn't perfect, though. Hermione was the most brilliant person he knew, but she was wrong about one thing. She actually thought that what he — dumb, cowardly, boring Neville — thought would in any way matter to Harry Potter.

Sure, Harry was nice to him, but he didn't actually care what Neville thought. He hadn't cared when they'd all gotten in trouble over that dragon trick Harry and his friends had played on Malfoy first year, Harry hadn't cared when Hermione hexed Neville when he tried to stop them from sneaking out, and Harry hadn't cared when he ditched Neville last year when they both couldn't go to Hogsmeade.

Not that Neville blamed Harry. If he were Harry Potter (wouldn't Gran love that?) he wouldn't care what useless Neville Longbottom thought either. Neville knew he didn't really have much to offer — he wasn't smart or funny or memorable at all, really. He'd spent his childhood in the corner, listening to the adults talk while he blended in with the wallpaper. He was very good at blending in with wallpaper.

Harry, Ron, Seamus, Dean — they all liked him well enough, but he doubted they ever thought about him when he wasn't around. Neville was just there, and he knew that. He wasn't important.

Except Hermione thought differently, and she was the most brilliant, vivacious, intimidating witch he knew. He'd been in awe of her since that first meeting on the train. She was a whirlwind of self-assurance, of knowledge, of confidence that she knew exactly who she was and what she was about. He'd never been like that — not once — and it was a little bit thrilling to be around.

He'd looked at her face — she was so sure — when she told him to talk to Harry and her confidence was infectious, her smile coaxing, and he felt like he could do anything.

But now, days later, her smile was gone and so was that absurd idea that he could make any difference at all. She'd just been trying to be nice, he was sure. Or maybe she was grasping at straws trying to help Harry — she'd do anything to help Harry. Everyone knew that.

Still, it nagged at him a bit. He could tell that things weren't quite right with Harry. He had always been guarded, but he'd been even more so since Halloween. You'd have to be an idiot or the world's biggest tosser to miss that Harry was in a bad state.

And Hermione thought Neville could help.

The door to the dormitory banged open with a loud thud. Neville flinched, not expecting it, dropping his Transfiguration book onto the bed in front of him. Ron thundered in, a dark look on his face, followed quickly by Harry. He didn't look any happier.

They'd both been like angry cats lately, hissing and posturing at each other, without anything actually happening. Neville had always liked Ron — they'd fought the Slytherins together in first year, hadn't they? — but that had all dissipated after his conversation with Hermione, Fred, and George.

Neville went to visit his parents every chance he got, and all he got out of it were some gum wrappers, the occasional clump of lint, vacant smiles, and Gran lecturing him about duty, as if the only reason he went to visit them was because he had to and not because he wanted to. Gran might visit out of some sort of familial obligation — he knew she thought those visits were fruitless — but he looked forward to each and every one.

Harry didn't even have the gum wrappers Neville got.

And Ron had both his parents.

And after what Neville learned about the Dursleys? Neville reckoned you'd have to be a first-class git to treat Harry the way Ron was.

Thud.

Ron was gone, and Harry, in a fit of anger, had kicked his trunk, a look of fury and exasperation on his face. He looked like he felt a bit helpless, to be honest. It was an expression Neville wasn't used to seeing on Harry Potter's face, but one he was wholly familiar with himself.

It was that, more than anything, that pushed him to speak.

"Harry?" he asked tentatively. "Bad day?"

"Detention with Snape," Harry responded, and Neville shuddered with revulsion. He'd had his fair share of those over the years. Snape never treated Neville like he was invisible, and he was just about the only person Neville wished would.

"The worst," Neville groaned.

Harry smiled. It was small, but unmistakable, and Neville felt a bit like his fellow Gryffindors downstairs, commiserating over detentions with a friend.

He didn't know if it was that, or if it was Hermione's encouragement, or maybe even the gum wrapper he used as a bookmark reminding him of everything Harry faced alone, but something made him feel braver than usual.

"I don't expect Rita Skeeter's lies helped your day much either," Neville said.

She'd published some rubbish article with quotes from Harry about his family and the Triwizard Tournament that were laughably fabricated.

Harry looked a bit shocked. "How do you know they were lies?"

Neville blinked, a bit thrown that Harry even felt he needed to ask.

"I've known you for years, Harry, and in all that time, you've never once said something to me—or anyone, except Ron and Hermione, I expect—about your parents," Neville said. "But I'm supposed to believe you said four pages worth of stuff to some random reporter you've just met?"

Honestly, Neville might not be the sharpest quill in the set, but he was capable of basic logic.

"Besides," Neville added, "Gran always says that Rita Skeeter's a bottom-feeder whose stories aren't fit to line the bottom of her owl's birdcage."

The second he said it, Neville felt like an idiot. He didn't even have any opinions of his own, relying on his Gran's thoughts as reassurance for Harry instead. No wonder he didn't have friends.

But then Harry surprised him.

"Thanks, Neville."

Harry's tone and his smile seemed so sincere, so earnest, that Neville thought Hermione really might be right about the rest. A flicker of hope rose up in Neville's chest. He'd never thought of himself as someone whose opinion mattered before.

"I believe you about the rest of it, too," Neville said quickly. "About not putting your name in the Goblet of Fire."

"Really?"

"You're not a liar, Harry."

Not when it counted. Not about something like this. Neville couldn't read the expression on Harry's face exactly, and it struck him that Hermione was absolutely wrong, that his opinion didn't matter at all.

But then Harry seemed to relax. His expression was warm and open in a way Neville had only ever really seen him be with Hermione and Ron, and sometimes the twins.

Neville waited for what seemed like an eternity for Harry to say something.

"I saw Hermione behind a pile of books in the common room when I was coming up," Harry said. "Want to help me coax her into a game of exploding snap?"

He'd played exploding snap before with the others, but usually because he was around and they needed another player. He couldn't remember the last time someone invited him to play a game just because (and Merlin, he knew how pathetic that sounded).

"Sure," Neville replied, a peculiar, but not unwelcome, feeling settling in his chest at the thought of playing games in the common room with Harry and Hermione, discussing Durmstrang or Divination or the myriad other topics he'd played observer to in the past. He placed his gum wrapper bookmark in its spot, closed the book, and followed Harry out the dorm and down the dormitory stairs.

A half hour ago, he'd been alone, invisible, forgotten, but as he descended the stairs with Harry, he almost felt like everyone else — joking, laughing, commiserating among friends.