Horklump: The Horklump is not very useful, so write about someone who doesn't think they're important.

With trembling hands, Neville stuffed his Potions notes into his bookbag, wincing when the ink smeared, but not otherwise able to care. Jeers and taunts aimed at him shredded his meagre mental defenses until finally, he had to hurry out of the classroom, bookbag flap unbuckled, to the tune of sneering laughter. His leg burned where his useless potion had splashed up, but he refused to go to the Hospital Wing for it. Not again. Madam Pomfrey would give him that look and click her tongue and while she helped, she always did, he knew what she was thinking. How had he made it to Hogwarts?

Truth be told, not even he knew. He'd been ever so pleased when he got his letter. Even more pleased than when his great uncle was holding him out of the window, accidentally let go, and he bounced. For a moment then, when he'd felt all the blood rushing to his head, felt the strange pressure in his temples, he'd almost hoped he wouldn't have magic. That Uncle Algie would drop him and he'd splatter all over the back garden. But the moment had passed, like they always did, and his grandmother's approval had felt like the most soothing balm he'd ever experienced.

But now that he was here, well...Neville sighed and slackened his pace, noticing that once again, his path unconsciously led him to the greenhouses. He liked plants. Liked Herbology. He was actually good at that. It was just everything else he couldn't seem to manage to do. Professor Snape looked at him with that scathing sneer, those cruel black eyes, and labelled him a complete incompetent nitwit. Professor McGonagall just sighed and shook her head and directed "Again, Mr. Longbottom," and he knew she was wondering how he'd managed to get Sorted into her House. He wondered the same thing. He wasn't brave enough for Gryffindor. He'd wanted to be placed in Hufflepuff. Longed for it, actually. A place where he could finally belong!

But no, the Hat had opened up its rip of a brim and shouted "GRYFFINDOR" to the entire Hall, and how could Neville argue with that? He'd been in such a daze he'd forgotten to take the Hat off, and wasn't that lovely, starting off your school career with the entire student body laughing at you.

He knocked tentatively on the doorframe of Greenhouse 1, hoping that Professor Sprout wasn't in another class. Sometimes she was and he took to wandering around the grounds at those times, studying his shoes intently as he kicked small pebbles around or scuffed aimless patterns into the dirt.

But this time, thankfully, the door opened wide and her smiling face beckoned him in.

"Neville!" she exclaimed happily, brushing dirt off her gardening gloves and giving him a brisk hug. "Come in! You're just in time, I was about to repot a wailing begonia." Neville cast a dubious look at the overly large magenta flower, currently shrouded in glass to keep from breaking the eardrums of everyone in earshot.

"Can I help?" he asked tentatively, nibbling on his bottom lip. Professor Sprout beamed at him and clapped him on the shoulder, nearly knocking him over.

"Of course, Neville, that's why I mentioned it," she said kindly. She always had a kind word for Neville. Never yelled at him, never told him he was the nearest thing to a Squib. He found himself blushing to the tips of his ears every class period when she praised his work.

"See here, everyone, Mr. Longbottom has done it!" she would direct them all to see where he'd performed a particularly challenging bit of pruning, or how he'd watered his tubers perfectly. The rest of the class would grumble and roll their eyes, but it didn't matter to Neville, because Professor Sprout believed in him. And that was worth everything, wasn't it?

He washed up and placed a pair of pink, fluffy earmuffs over his head, just in case, as Professor Sprout removed the glass. The repotting went without a hitch, and the begonia was toted off to Greenhouse 5, with the other more dangerous plants. Like a venomous tentacula who was currently inching its tendrils around Neville's waist until Professor Sprout gave it a playful tap and an order to knock it off.

"Thanks, Neville, I don't know what I'd do without your help," Professor Sprout smiled at him. "Twenty points to Gryffindor."

"Thank you, Professor," he mumbled, staring at the ground in embarrassment. For a moment, he wished he was in Hufflepuff.

"Professor?" he added, cheeks burning at his own audacity. She turned and smiled at him, giving the tentacula another absent-minded pat.

"Yes, Neville?"

"Can a student ever be ReSorted?"