A bitter wind swept through the streets of London, bringing with it a dripping, icy rain. It was Christmas Eve, and no one was expecting a White Christmas this year, just sleet and greyness. Which was fine, Neville thought as he stood on the steps of St Mungo's Home of Magical Maladies, Christmas presents in hand, if you weren't standing outside in the middle of the streets with no hat, or gloves, or umbrella, and weren't having a mental crisis. He'd never been able to perfect the Shielding Charm Hermione had often used when they were in the stands watching Gryffindor play Quidditch. But he couldn't rely on his friends for everything.

He'd told everyone, or everyone he thought should know, what Bellatrix LeStrange had done to his mother and father. Where he went, at Christmas, to see them, see if they might suddenly remember him.

They never did.

And it hurt, coming here, year after year. It hurt, to see them like this.

He did not have any happy memories of them. All his memories were of them, sitting in those awful hospital chairs -it seemed magic hospitals had the same poor quality of chairs as Muggle ones- and staring at him. Staring through him, as if he was one of the Hogwarts ghosts.

Sometimes he worried that it hurt them, him coming to visit. If somewhere in their minds they were still his mum and dad, but unable to reach out to him. To let him know that he remembered. Gran had offered to come with him, but she was getting older and Neville knew in his heart that she didn't want to come, only did it out of pity for him. Because she was all he had, her stories he had ever know of how his parents used to be. How brave they were. But Gran was proud of him, but sometimes he wondered if that was only because of Voldemort and his actions on May 2nd. If she would have loved him any less, if he had not stood up for what he believed in.

Deciding that standing about being maudlin in the middle of the night wasn't doing him or anyone to else any good, Neville wrapped his scarf about himself a little tighter and opened the heavy door, traversing the path to his parent's wing. He'd know the route blindfolded, he'd walked dit so many times.

A sweet, dark-haired witch greeted him at the front desk, smiling as he signed the visitor's log. "Good, evening, Mr Longbottom," she said kindly. She didn't look much older than him.

He looked at her name tag. "Good evening, Iris. Is it just me?"

"It's just you, Mr Longbottom. Take as long as you want; I'll be here if you require anything."

"Thank you, Iris" Neville said, and made his way down the hall. Neville made to open the door, but his slick hand missed the metal door handle. He shouldn't be nervous, he chided himself. It wasn't like they could judge him for his actions, or say anything at all. But they were his parents, and they deserved to know that their efforts hadn't been in vain, that although they couldn't stop Voldemort, their son, who no one had ever looked twice at, had been part of the wizard's downfall.

But running wouldn't solve anything. And it was Christmas Eve, and they deserved to have someone remember them, to sit with them. Neville opened the door.

Frank and Alice Longbottom were seated in matching chairs, not even blinking as he crossed the threshold. It seemed someone had tried to make an effort in pretending the place wasn't a sickly hospital room: Christmas music player softly from an old gramaphone, and a tiny Christmas tree stood alone in one corner, nearly toppling over with the weight of it's only decoration: a gold star, glitter glinting softly in the lamplight. He knew that Harry had set up a fund for St Mungo's after the War, not just for his parents but to improve the quality of care in general. Harry had never even mentioned it, and it warmed Neville to know that his friend cared, that he and taken the time and effort, had used the money he had for good -not for praise but because he wanted to, thought that people deserved it. He was glad that they were friends.

Neville claimed the rooms only remaining chair, cringing as it's metal feet scraped loudly over the linoleum. Taking off his coat -that had seen better days, it's pockets probably stuffed with sweet wrapped from fifth year- he draped it over the chair's back and sat down, hands resting on his knees, careful not to dislodge the presents sitting in his lap.

He'd wrapped them himself, although Luna had helped with the bows, since she was the best at wrapping out of all of them. Except maybe Draco; Neville had seen him the other day wrapping presents, and he had to admit, the guy was both meticulous and methodical when it came to folding corners.

But he wasn't here to think about presents. He was stalling, and he knew it.

Grasping his mother's hand, Neville cleared his throat. "Hi, Mum," he whispered. "It's me, it's Neville. I came to see you." Then he took his dad's hand in his. "Hey, Dad. I've missed you both. But I'm here now."

Neville let go, leaning back in his chair. "So much happened this year. First of all, I got beat up a couple of times, but it's okay, I'm better know. And Dobby, the House Elf, who was friends with Harry and helped me and Aberforth during this last school year. Then there was a Battle, at Hogwarts, against Voldemort. But we won, mum and dad. He's dead, and he can't hurt anyone anymore. And Bellatrix, the witch who did this too you, she's dead now, too. Mrs Weasley killed her. It was definitely something to see. But Remus, your friend, he died. He died with his wife, Tonks, who he loved so very much, but at least they had each other, right up to the end. And they have a boy, Teddy, and he's living with Andromeda know, since her husband's gone, too. Harry is his godfather, and I know he keeps in touch And Fred, Fred Weasley, he died during the Battle. He was my friend, and I really miss him. And it turns out that Professor Snake was a spy, a double agent, but Voldemort killed him. So much as happened, and I wish you could have been there to see it. But I hope you know... I hope you know that your friends didn't die for nothing, that what happened to you, how brave you were, wasn't for nothing. And I was thinking of you, when I faced Voldemort. I was thinking of you, and that I was your son, and it was my job to be as brave as you, even if it went badly, at least you would have been proud. Because I'm still proud to be your son, I always have and I always will be."

Neville wiped his face on the sleeve of his jumper, tears clinging to he woven threads. Mrs Weasley had knitted it for him, after the Battle, as she had done for all of them, those kids who were like family. Ron was lucky to have her, even if he sure as hell didn't act like it.

"But, onto cheerier news, I've been doing some thinking. About my future, and what I want to do. When I first went to Hogwarts, I thought that I wouldn't be good at anything, that I wouldn't find my place. That the teachers would realize they made some terrible mistake, that I wasn't good enough to learn magic, and they'd send me home. But then I got into Herbology. And it was a gradual fascination, at first, about plants and how they operated and how to take care of them and how certain species can be used for different things. But Professor Sprout, she was always so nice to me, and I got on well with her. Maybe I should have been a Hufflepuff. Anyways, I think that's what I want to do. I want to teach Herbology, like her. I want to nurture and inspire kids like me, who maybe feel like they don't fit in anywhere, show them that if you put in the work, and if you truly love something, you can achieve anything you want."

Neville fiddled with his cuff, unable to look his parents in the eye. "And, um, there's this witch. That I like. Her names Hannah. Hannah Abbott. She's a Hufflepuff, and she's so sweet and kind and caring and she listens to me talk about things and actually laughs at my jokes. And she's really pretty and I think I might ask her out. After Christmas. Maybe. But I think, I think you'd really like her. Although she's not as into Herbology as I am, she still takes an interest in it. She really likes Charms, and she's so good with people. She can talk to anybody. She's helped me come out of my shell a little, and she doesn't hang out with me because of what happened at the Battle. It's like she sees me, appreciates me, for me. I've never really and that with anyone, except my friends. I suppose I'll just see how it goes."

The door rattled slightly, hinges squeaking, as someone on the other side knocked.

"Come in," Neville called, turning around as the nurse from the front desk, Iris, came bursting in, gasping for air, hands braced on her knees. She straightened, brushing imaginary lint from her uniform. "Merlin, that was unprofessional of me. My apologies for barging in on you, Mr Longbottom, but a package arrived for you earlier and was addressed to St Mungo's with clear instructions to give it to you when you arrived. I'd almost forgotten about it and I had to run all the way to staffroom, and there was nobody there! So I had to find a key, then find the correct draw, which took about five tries: they're warded against magic ao that if any patient material was somehow left, it would remain confidential. Then I had to come all the way back. And these shoes kill. You'd think, standing and/or sitting all day, I'd get to wear more comfortable shoes. Alas, I do not. And it's only my fourth day. But enough about the last twelve minutes of my life. The is for you," she said, leaving the parcel on a table by the door. "Now, I'm going to make a cup of tea, then perhaps write a complaint about hospital footwear policy. I'm sorry for the intrusion. And I'm sorry, about your parents. I know they were wonderful people."

Iris left before he could thank her. Curious as to who could be sending him packages, to here of all places, Neville proceeded with caution. After giving it a shake, making sure no strange noises came from it, and that it didn't start moving when he waved a sweet at it, he deemed it safe enough. Tearing at the paper, Neville undid the string and laid out the contents.

Files and files, reams of paper covered in handwriting that was vaguely familiar. Notes, experiments, potion ingredients and possible combinations. What looked like months of research. On memories and healing the mind.

With shaking hands, Neville picked up the attached note.

Dearest Neville,

I hope the research I've gathered may be of some use to you and your parents. Although it won't be easy, just know that nothing worth doing in this life is easy, or comes with instructions. But know that you have friends here to support you, should you go down this road.

Merry Christmas, Neville

All my love, Hermione Granger.

Neville dropped the note. It sailed to the floor, landing without a sound.

He couldn't believe that she'd done this.

Well, he could believe it, because it was Hermione Granger, always doing something for someone else because it was the right thing to do. He'd always admired and respected her, but he truly felt the depth of their friendship in that moment. Even after everything that had happened to her over the last two days, she'd still done this for him, still thought of him and parents. It was the best present he could have asked for.

Pushing the papers into a semblance of a pile, Neville rushed out if the room, elbows landing on the oak front desk, waving Hermione's notes around.

"Could you take a look at these for me?" he asked Iris.

"Sure," she replied uncertainly, pulling a pair of glasses from her hair.

She scanned the first few lines.

"Where did you get these, Mr Longbottom? The depth of knowledge, the skill, this of a professional quality."

If only Hermione could here that.

"They were a present," he told he truthfully.

She arched a dark brow. "A present? One of your famous friends gave you highly detailed medical notes, as a present? Are socks not good enough these days? A Chocolate Frog or two, or ten?"

So she liked chocolate then.

"A friend was using them for something, but they've finished with them now and thought they could be useful, for helping my parents. I had given up hope, but, in your professional opinion, is there anything in here for me?" Neville poured out desperately.

Iris smiled, the smile Neville had dubbed 'The Pity Smile.' He'd seen it often enough in his life, especially this year. Even from friends. He hated it. He didn't want pity. Pity wouldn't help his parents come back, wouldn't allow them to spend next Christmas with him, instead of this tomb, this hell with a sagging tree and probably burnt cookies and gross eggnog.

Neville didn't like eggnog.

"I must be honest with you, Mr Longbottom, I'm no expert on the Cruciatus Curse and it's effect on witches and wizard's brains. I only recently finished my training course, and there's still so much left for me to learn. But in my professional opinion, I think something like this has to be tackled from too angles. One, repairing the physical damage done to the brain, be it with spell or potions. That can be achieved, through testing and trial and error. The second is more emotional. Physical healing and emotional healing often go hand in hand. Your parents have been in this state for such a long time that it may be cruel to wake them up, as it were. The process could be painful, and since they aren't coherent, we can't ask for their consent. So it's your decision, Mr Longbottom, on whether or not to act on this information."

Neville let out a tearful sigh, eyes fixed on the closed door behind him. "I know it's not exactly a professional question, and you don't have to answer, but what would you do? If it was your parents?"

Iris fiddled with a quill, unable to look at him. "My parents split up, when they found out I had magic, too. My mother was scared, since my first signs were often destructive. If I got worried or upset, things would break or smash. I never hurt here, but I could see it in her eyes when she looked at me, this sword hanging constantly over her head. So I stayed with my dad, who helped me through it. He was so wonderful. A few years ago, he and a heart attack, and I tried to help him. And my magic did help him, for a while. But in the end, he had to go into hospital. He had to have surgery, and he didn't survive. So that's why I'm here, so that I can use my magic for good. Because my father fought for me, was my hero when I felt so alone. So I fight for other people's families, their loved ones. Well, I plan to. If I ever get out from desk duty. So if it was me, Mr Longbottom, I'd fight. And if it doesn't work, then so be it. You have to take risks in life if you want to get anywhere. What's the point of a leap of faith if the ravine isn't a hundred miles deep?"

Neville put out a hand. "I'm Neville," he said, feeling somewhat stupid.

"Iris. Iris Masters." She took his hand, grip unfaltering. He could name at least four people she'd get on well with.

"Well, Miss Masters. Where do I need to start?"


Neville walked through the mostly deserted London streets, paperwork weighing his pocket, yet he felt lighter than he had in some time. It may be painful, what he hoped to achieve with his parents, but they were fighters, and they deserved a second chance, a chance to live in a world without war, without Voldemort. A better world. And if they could truly do nothing for them, if it was too painful, then he would let them go, or try something else.

All along the suburban streets, children sat by Christmas trees, staring at presents as parents smiled, music drifting in the air like invisible feathers. It was the holiday, and he should spent it with family. But there was only one place he wanted to be.

Neville appartated, only the rain noting his absence.


It was dark, that unusual dark, that particular brand of country dark, away from all the hustle and bustle and light pollution. He could even see the stars. He'd only been there once, after the Battle, when all of them had congregated here, not wanting to be alone yet not wanting to be at Hogwarts just yet, the wound still red and raw.

Yet he felt some imaginary tension ease from his shoulders, a weight lifting from himself. A first stitch to close a wound.

Neville knocked on the door.

It opened within a moment, warm light pooling at his feet. Mrs Weasley opened the door, looking harried, cardigan done up the wrong way.

"Mrs Weasley, I'm so sorry for waking you up at this hour. It's just, well, I saw my parents and Hermione gave me this stuff and I want to use it to help them but it could go bad and honestly, I'm terrified and I know it's the holiday and I'm not family..."

Neville collided with Mrs Weasley as she brought him into a bone-bruising hug. "Neville, dear, of course you're welcome. Stay as long as you want. The door is always open. Do you want some tea? Toast? Another hug?"

Neville chuckled shyly. "Can I go for all three?"


Author's Note: Hello, everyone! Happy Friday! Gosh, that was a hard chapter to write. I really had to break it down, find the heart and the emotion I wanted to put out, which is why it took so long to write. Thank you so, so much for all the lovely reviews you've been leaving me. Life's tough at the moment, and each and every one makes me smile, helps keto keep going on the hard days. What did you think of Iris? Do you like her? Do you want to see more of her? If you do, I've got so many fun things planned for her. Let me know!

Draco and Hermione will be back by the weekend. Who's up for some breakfast and banter?

Until next time.

All my love, Temperance Cain