Neville Longbottom lifted the gillyweed from the water, examining it closely. Amazing to think that this little plant could do so much. Amazing that such an easily overlooked bit of weed could enable people to breath underwater. Amazing that this knowledge had been passed down from wizarding generation to wizarding generation. Amazing that...

"You're doing it again, Neville," said Harry, and Neville realized that he had been repeating "Amazing! Amazing!" aloud again.

"Sorry," Neville said, not sure why he was apologizing, but somehow feeling, as usual, that being different was—well, it was a bit off, wasn't it, and wizard or not, Neville was still a teenage boy.

He was good at Herbology. Really good. It fascinated him to study the various magical properties of seemingly common plants. It made him feel important to collect specimens for various professors. It was relieving to find something in the wizarding world, something at last, that came easily to him. But none of his classmates wanted to talk about Herbology. In general, their eyes glazed over the moment Neville began a sentence with "Did you know..." Neville spent a lot of time talking to Professor Sprout and wondering why he had been sorted into Gryffindor instead of the steady, dependable Hufflepuff House.

Gryffindor, everybody said, was a house of bravery. And while some of his classmates—Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, for example—weren't exactly what Neville would call heroic, they were by no means self-conscious and insecure, either. None of the other students in Gryffindor seemed to get as nervous about things as he did. They all had so much confidence. Neville wondered if the students in Hufflepuff were unsure of themselves. But then Cedric Diggory, the Triwizard champion, certainly seemed brave and confident enough. Maybe, Neville thought, the house distinctions weren't as clear-cut as the students believed.

The Triwizard Tournament, an event meant to encourage international bonds of friendship, had in fact turned the house rivalry into a school rivalry. Hogwarts itself was split into two schools—the school that believed Harry Potter was a lying cheat who connived his way into the Tournament, and the (admittedly much smaller) school that believed Harry was an innocent pawn who had been entered in the Tournament against his will.

Neville was unsure just what to think of it all, and he tried not to choose sides. He ignored the "Potter Stinks" lapel buttons and the vicious comments flying between Harry's opponents and his defenders. He ignored the preparations for the Tournament. He ignored the students from Durmstrang, the students from Beauxbatons, and most of his fellow students at Hogwarts. He had learned early on in his time there that it didn't pay to make yourself noticed if you were different. Rather, it didn't pay to make himself noticed. Many others, like Harry or Hermione or Fred and George, were different in their own ways, but nobody seemed to mind. None of them, however, went around muttering "amazing" over obscure bits of botanical knowledge.

So he went about his business, studying harder than most because so little had ever come easily to him; ignoring everyone who ignored him, which was pretty much everyone; trying not to stand out; and wondering why he had been sorted into Gryffindor in the first place.

Surely a true Gryffindor would have been able to watch the spider writhing in pain from the Cruciatus curse. A true Gryffindor wouldn't have felt his stomach flop over. A true Gryffindor wouldn't have had to close his eyes tightly so no tears fell. A true Gryffindor, having closed his eyes, wouldn't have seen the image of his parents writhing like the spider, wouldn't have had it burned into his mind in that minute as if he had actually witnessed it, wouldn't have been too weak even for gratitude when a classmate called for the torture to stop.

As Neville stood by the window, staring at the bright colors of the stained glass and seeing only that horrible scene played out unendingly, he realized for the first time that once his father and mother had been young and whole, like he was. Once their lives lay ahead of them, bright and promising. Once they had felt invulnerable. He counted the years between his age and the age his father had reached when the fateful attack came. There were not so many years. Not so many years at all.

When Professor McGonagall first announced the Yule Ball to the assembly of Gryffindor students, Neville stiffened. He risked a glance across the room and saw a sea of girls' faces, most of them excited at the prospect of dancing the night away in formal robes. His heart thudded strangely as he looked at Hermione, who had always been so helpful to him when he struggled with his schoolwork. He imagined himself stepping on her toes and quickly looked away. His eye met Ginny's. She looked as nervous as he felt, and had obviously just turned from looking at Harry. She threw an awkward grin at him. He swallowed hard. Here he was, a Gryffindor, and afraid of a dance.

He turned to look at his classmates on the boys' side of the room. They were slouching down low in their chairs, some fidgeting uncomfortably and some eerily still. Most were looking intently at the floor.

"It's only a dance," he thought, surprising himself.

He remembered the way Moody had made the spider dance around the classroom. He saw it twitching in agony. And as he screwed his eyes shut again, the music began playing, and he saw his parents….

He saw his parents dancing.

"It's only a dance," he thought again, because there was so much worse out there than rejection by his peers, so much worse than stepping on a few toes, and because if life was so horribly unpredictable, he might just as well take every opportunity he had to live it to the fullest.

When Professor McGonagall signaled for the assembly to stand, the girls leapt to their feet as one. Neville looked around at the other boys again. Many had managed, improbably, to slouch even lower in their seats and to look even more uncomfortable.

He took a deep breath and rose to his feet, the first of all the Gryffindor boys to stand. The other boys looked at him in amazement, and a few of the girls laughed, but he didn't even notice.

Neville Longbottom was going to learn to dance.