Courage doesn't always roar.

Neville slowly walked up to the small white bed. He could vaguely remember that he had been here before, but he couldn't quite remember when. He clambered up onto the stool that provided by the kind faced healer who had led him here. His grandmother stood outside the room, quietly discussing something with another Healer.

He knew who was in this bed - it was his mother. Even at the age of three, he could see his own face in hers; both were round, with patches of pink on their cheeks, a stub of a nose, and long, thin lips. But his mother's eyes were glassy, as if she could see something in the distance. Neville recalled his grandmother telling him that his mother had been hurt badly by some bad men when he was very little.

He always wondered what she saw beyond the white-washed walls of her dorm.

He tried to talk to her, but something in him knew that she couldn't quite hear him. She never seemed to respond to a thing he said; she just stared and stared, seeing something in the cracks and patterns of the ceiling.

He sat on her bed, on her knees. Even that didn't garner her attention. She shifted slightly, but Neville knew that it was just to take some pressure off her legs. She never reached for him, never smoothed his thin blonde hair from his forehead. It scared him.

His father was mumbling something inane. Sometimes Neville swore that he could hear his father calling for him under his breath. Sometimes, Frank would get up and wander around, bumping into walls and other patients. But Neville's attention always went back to his mother.

Her fine blonde hair was rapidly turning grey; it made Neville sad to see her so. Sometimes, the vapid look in her eyes would disappear, and for a moment, a clarity would show. She would tremble and cry out, screaming for mercy.

And Neville knew that she was screaming for him; that he would be spared. Neville, even at his age, knew that his parents were there because they would protect him, had protected him. Sometimes he wondered whether it was worth it, that if in the part of their mind that was still them, if they thought the cost was justified.

And somehow, he knew that they would think it was.

"Neville, it's time to go," his grandmother snapped. Neville stood up and hopped off his bed. He gasped when something snatched his wrist suddenly.

It was his mother.

She stared at him imploringly, as if trying to recognise who he was. Neville smiled shakily, gently tugging his arm. His mother took her other hand and forced his small, chubby fist open, and crammed something inside. A small wrapper.

Neville kissed his mother's hand and hurried outside to his grandmother. He hurriedly pocketed the wrapper before she could inquire what he had.

Perhaps his mother did still recognise him. He smiled, and silently began to count the days until he could see her again.

Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes, courage is the quiet voice

Neville was near tears. His first week of school was horrible. He had gotten lost, and was thus late, for every single class this week. He had his father's old wand, and Neville was pretty sure that it was not the wand for him. He had reduced his matchstick to ashes, blown several feathers into smithereens, and then it had gone downhill from there. But the worst was Potions class.

He was sure that Professor Snape had it in for him. Sure, he hated all Gryffindors, but he seemed to hate Neville even more. He swooped down on him constantly, pointing out each and every mistake that he ever made. And there were plenty. Neville was sure that he'd never make it through the first year. Maybe he really was a Squib.

He turned when he heard the portrait door swing open. It was Hermione Granger, his friend. Neville silently rolled the word around his tongue; he had never had friends before. She had helped him look for his toad on the train, and had stuck with him ever since, trying to help him out. She was a source of encouragement for him; she tried so hard no matter what. He knew that some people made fun of her for being a swot, which made him mad.

He decided that no matter what, he was going to keep trying in Potions. He had one person who believed in him, and really, that's all he really needed. Tomorrow was a new day, and a chance to start fresh. He called out for Hermione, and joined her as she left for the library.

Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes, courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day

Neville felt horrible. The Yule Ball seemed to be getting worse and worse as the minutes passed by. He had already managed to trod on Ginny's toes twice, and they weren't even on the dance floor yet. He felt clumsy and claustrophobic in his tight, floor sweeping robes. Malfoy had already managed to insult him twice, deriding his choice in dates (as if the Parkinson bint was some sort of prize!) and his awkwardness. Neville wanted to sink into the floor and die.

"You look fantastic tonight, Neville," whispered Ginny as he stared at his traitorous feet. She smiled and hurried off to get some butterbeer. Neville's heart swelled; maybe tonight wouldn't be such a bust. He just had to remember not to trod on Ginny's toes.

He waved to Hermione and her date, Viktor Krum, and then to Harry, Ron, and the Patil twins. Seamus came by with Lavender and thumped on the back as way of a greeting, and Dean took a seat next to him and chatted about random Quidditch facts.

Now he didn't just have a friend. He had friends.

"Ready to dance, fair lady?" he said jokingly as Ginny returned.

"Of course, my lord," she shot right back, punching him lightly in the arm as he led her onto the dance floor.

And tonight, he simply enjoyed himself. And tomorrow, he would wake up refreshed and ready to laugh about the silly things he'd have done that night.

Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes, courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day that says

Neville began to sweat profusely. Bellatrix Lestrange stood over him. He had already told Harry not to give up the Prophecy, no matter what. I have to protect them, he thought. I have to get them out of here.

He screamed silently as Bellatrix began to torture him with the Cruiatius Curse. He had to be strong. He had to make it through. People were counting on him, people that he loved. He couldn't give in. He was scared, so scared, but wrapped about in his innate gentleness and sweet disposition, Neville had a core of steel. given to him by his parents and only strengthened by the love of his friends. I was put in Gryffindor for a reason, he reminded himself. I can do this. I can do this. I CAN DO THIS!

And through the veneer of pain, Neville proved what parents always believe : that their children will go on to do better things than they ever could. Neville hung on to his sanity by a thread, but he held on nonetheless. He had things he knew he must do before he could let go; he would see his parents laugh again, and celebrate his birthday with his friends. He had to hold on until tomorrow came.

One month later, Neville went to go see his parents again, a few days before his sixteenth birthday. It was thirteen years since his mother had first pressed a wrapper into his hand, and now he had several boxes full. He sat on her bed, and gently rested his now large, but still chubby hands on her knees.

A flicker of cognizance flickered in her eyes. She smiled vapidly, but that was all Neville needed. He felt it in his heart; his mother and father could still recognise him slightly, could see that he had grown and was becoming a man. He told the tale of his adventure to his parents, re-enacting his movements for him. He held his father's hand up to his nose, to let him feel the small bump he now sported there thanks to his formerly broken nose.

"Neville, it's time to go," his grandmother yelled. Neville leaned forward to kiss his mother's hands. When he looked up, he saw one last flicker in her eyes. Pride and love. She pressed a wrapper into his hand.

He left with a light heart. Maybe next time, there would be even more to discuss. And one day, maybe they'd talk back. It never hurt to hope. He would keep coming back, over and over, to talk to them, until one day his mother would simply open her eyes and smile lucidly, and his father would thump him on his back and congratulate him for all his hard work. Maybe they would, tomorrow.

Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes, courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day that says, "I will try again tomorrow."

A/N : The quote is attributed to Mary Anne Radmacher.