Hey! I'm back with another chapter. Thank you, all you wonderful reviewers - it's you guys and gals who have motivated me to continue. Shout out to magical medicine, who has helped me sort out who the next 'angel' is.

This one's a bit dark and bitter, and I don't really know how it went, so please tell me what you think!

The picture was a thing of beauty for Neville. He had never seen pictures of them before. Not ones like this, anyway - his grandma had only briefly showed him photos of Frank as a child, and the Alice at their wedding. It had all seemed fake. Either they were hopelessly silly photos of Neville's father spilling porridge down his shirt, or his mother was dressed up in a gown that didn't suit her at all. They were wearing either annoyed smiles or ridiculously large ones. None of it seemed right. Not right at all. And they didn't look the same now. He loved them, but their cheeks were sunken and their eyes held a vacant look, as if there was nothing inside at all.

This photograph, however was perfect. Frank was looking around, smirking at the person holding the camera, and Alice was laughing at something a woman beside her had said. They looked so real, so comfortable and happy that Neville longed to reach into the picture and join them in their gentle, cosy joy that lit up the room. He wished to leap into his mother's arms and to shake his father's hand. To hear them tell him that they loved him and that they were proud. That's all he wanted. He wanted to see them, in real life, and to revel in their peace.

But that wasn't possible. Because they weren't the same. Not at all. Now, it was as if they were totally hollow, their eyes glazed and staring. Their movement was slow and awkward, their speech muddled and almost unintelligible. Frank was no longer handsome and funny and caring and loyal. Alice was no longer kind and understanding and clever. They were simply shells. Empty shells that sat and mumbled and gave Neville an endless supply of sweet wrappers.

He almost wished they weren't there at all.

Better dead than unable to function with any semblance of their former selves.

Better gone than doing nothing but making their son weep.

And he did weep. He wept in grief. Ultimate, unrivalled grief that filled him with pain and sorrow and all the horrible thoughts that he didn't want to think. The type of grief that mothers have when their own child dies. Because they might as well be dead. Their thoughts were dead and their defining characteristics were blown away with the spiteful wind. Neville didn't want to grieve for the living. But he did.

He wept in pity. Pity not for his poor parents but for those who did that to them. Those who would have so much hatred in their hearts that they could torture someone until they were just .. gone. Alive, but not quite there. He felt pity for Bellatrix Lestrange and her accomplices, who could not even feel that hopeless pain that comes with pity. Neville didn't want to feel anything for them. But he did.

He wept in anger. Because of that fateful curse, he was effectively left motherless and fatherless. Because they were not there for him. And he was forgetful because there was no-one truly patient enough to remind him. He was disadvantaged in class because the wand he wielded wasn't his. It was his father's, and if said father had been able to use it, Neville wouldn't have to. Neville didn't want to feel angry, because he knew his parents died for a noble cause. But he did.

Neville wept in despair. How could he gain advice without someone who truly cared enough to give it to him? How could he brush up his magic with nobody to practice with? How could he do all the things a father was meant to explain … what would happen when he couldn't tie a bow tie, or when he needed to start shaving? There was no helpful advisor, no caring and patient teacher, no mother or father to nurture him. His grandmother was strict and strong and couldn't do that. She couldn't - not on her own. Neville didn't want to despair over simple problems like that. But he did.

Neville wept with hate. Not for the evil group who had tortured Frank and Alice Longbottom. Not for his parents, or his grandmother, or for those who had what he didn't. He hated himself in the times he saw his thoughtless parents. He hated himself when Bellatrix Lestrange escaped from Azkaban. Because he treated them like the deceased. Like they were dead already. Because he felt pity for the bad and anger for the good. Because he was too weak to respect his parents. Because he couldn't be independant; couldn't even try to do things without a parent or a friend or his grandmother. And because he would rather they were dead. He hated his own thoughts. He had a wish he couldn't control. He wished they didn't complicate matters in his life without even being there to sort it out. He wished they wouldn't be like they were, so useless. Like dolls that Voldemort's followers played with before discarding. He wished that Bellatrix Lestrange had finished the job and ripped the heads right off the dolls. He wished that his parents were completely gone, in body as well as mind, rather than lingering as a painful reminder of Neville's suffering. He didn't want to wish all these things and he didn't want to hate himself for not wanting to wish these things. But he did.

And the picture … it showed a time before the couple caused that pain. Showed that they had done something worthwhile before this simple uselessness. Showed the two of them in the centre of a top secret organisation, doing something truly noble. Showed that they were strong. Showed that they had done something other than give birth to a thick son and then shown him how hopelessly stuck he was. And Neville realised, finally staring into two pairs of bright eyes - not dull or glazed or clouded, but bright and shining - that his parents hadn't deserved to fall.

They had fallen into a pit of darkness, yet their descent to death had been cushioned. But they didn't deserve that. No-one deserved that, especially these smiling, happy people were surrounded by people whose falls to death had not been obstructed. Lucky people who had this lovable pair who everyone liked, this talented couple, these parents … they were not like the hundreds of beautiful angels who had reached the end. Frank and Alice Longbottom instead took the road of pain and madness and suffering. They would prefer to be dead. Even better, alive and well enough to see their son grow and make them proud.

And Neville finally looked up from the photo. He would make them proud. Maybe they weren't here to see him do it, but when they finally stumbled down that pit - right to the end this time - he'd join them. And they'd smile like they had in the photo, with warmth and glittering joy, and Neville would leap into his mother's arms and shake his father's hand, and all would be well.

He'd do it. He really would. These shining angels deserved all his strength, all his love and his effort. He'd make them proud, and their memory would linger in his heart forever.

Even the strongest of angels fall.

Wow. That came out totally different from everything I planned … oops! But thanks for reading - I really appreciate it. Tell me what you think!