St. Mungo’s smelled faintly of potions and polished floors, a strange mix of hope and heartbreak. You stayed close to Neville as you walked the familiar halls, his shoulders a little tense, his hands fidgeting with the sleeves of his cardigan.

“Thanks for coming,” he said quietly, not quite looking at you. “You don’t have to, you know.”

“I want to,” you replied, and you meant it.

When you entered the ward, Neville’s parents were already there, sitting together just as they always were. His mum looked up when she saw him, shifting in bed.

Neville smiled at her, gentle and practised. “Hi, Mum. Hi, Dad.” He introduced you softly, even though he’d done it before. “This is my friend.”

You waved, heart tight but steady, and his mum reached out to you immediately, pressing a crumpled sweet wrapper into your hand like it was treasure. You thanked her, just as Neville did, slipping it carefully into your pocket.

You watched him then - how patient he was, how tender. How he never rushed them, never corrected them, never showed the ache that lived just beneath his calm. He talked about Hogwarts, about the greenhouses, about how well the plants were doing. His dad nodded blankly at every word.

At one point, Neville’s hand found yours. His grip was light at first, then firmer, like he was reminding himself you were there.

“They’re heroes,” he said later, when you stepped into the hallway to give the ward some quiet. His voice wobbled despite his best efforts. “Everyone knows that. I just wish… I wish they knew it too.”

You squeezed his hand. “They raised you,” you said softly. “And you’re incredible. I think that counts for something.”

He swallowed, eyes shining. “You really think so?”