Author's Note: Pure, sweet, innocence, for which the only warning needed is that it may give you cavities. *g* Written for Khirsah.

Disclaimer: For some reason, no one gave me either Percy *or* Neville for Christmas. This is very wrong, but means that they still belong to JKR.

Someone was crying.

One of the first years, probably; it was late September, time for the exciting newness of school to wear off and the homesickness to set in. He remembered sending three and four owls a day home to his parents for a few weeks, himself. It would pass, probably by Halloween.

For a minute, Percy considered leaving his History of Magic textbook where he'd forgotten it in the common room, and going back upstairs to give whoever it was some privacy.

But they were sobbing hard enough that he could hear them from the stairs, and if it _was_ a first-year, then he or she was only a child--only eleven, Ron's age--and he was a prefect, and it was his job to help the first-years adjust to life at school. And what if it _was_ Ron? What if it was his own brother he was leaving alone to his misery?

Not that Ron would thank him for intervening; he took after the twins in that respect, stubbornly independent. But at least he would have tried, and he'd be able to send Hermes with a quick note to his mother suggesting that she write to Ron more often than the rest of them for a bit.

When he got to the common room, though, he didn't see anyone at first. It could have been one of the ghosts, he supposed, although only Sir Nicholas usually visited the tower. Well, at least he could get his book while he was down here.

He didn't see the boy until he nearly tripped over him. He was sitting in the narrow space between one of the study tables and the wall, head lowered, arms wrapped around pajama-clad knees. He hadn't heard Percy, or if he had, he hadn't cared.

Percy looked at him for a minute, trying to match the round, tear-streaked face and fair hair to a name. There weren't that many first-year Gryffindor boys, and since he knew this wasn't Ron or Harry...Dean Thomas was tall and dark-skinned, the Finnegan boy was shorter and freckled..."Neville?" he said softly. "Neville, are you all right?"

The boy looked up, scrubbing away tears with the back of his hand. "I'm s-sorry, Percy," he said at once, voice still shaking from tears. "I didn't think anyone would wake up."

"I was already awake," he explained. "I don't think you disturbed anyone, and if you did, they'll go right back to sleep. Which brings up the question -- why aren't you in bed? What's the matter?"

If this had been Ron, now would be the time that the boy would start to push him away, would mutter that there wasn't anything wrong, and that Percy should stop fussing over him and leave him alone. If this were Ron, it would only make matters worse to kneel down beside him and put what he hoped was a comforting hand on the younger boy's shoulder. But this wasn't Ron, and he couldn't look at the obvious misery in Neville's eyes and not try to do something, so he decided to take his chances.

"It isn't important," Neville said, wiping at his eyes again, but it didn't sound like a dismissal--or at least, not a dismissal of Percy's concern. "Just me being stupid again."

"It isn't stupid to be homesick," Percy countered. "I cried myself to sleep until Christmas, my first year," he added. "It gets better."

Neville shook his head. "I'm not homesick," he said. Then, quietly, as though he only half-wanted Percy to hear him, he added, "I just shouldn't be here."

Percy squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. For a moment, he thought that Neville had flinched away from him, but then realized that the boy was shivering. "Well, you shouldn't be over here leaning against the cold stone," he said in what he recognized as the tone that made the twins call him an old mother hen and close ranks against him. "Come on over and sit by the fire, and then you can tell me what you meant by that."

Any of the younger Weasleys, even Ginny, who didn't seem to mind him nearly as much as Ron and the twins did, would have ignored him, but Neville didn't object. He let himself be led over to one of the armchairs nearest the fire. Percy waited until Neville was settled comfortably before taking his own seat and repeating his question. "What do you mean, you shouldn't be here? Where's 'here'?"

"Here," Neville said, with a wave of his hand. "Hogwarts. I'm not supposed to be here. They made a mistake; I'm sure of it."

"Rubbish," he said promptly. "You got a letter, didn't you?" Neville nodded. "Then you're supposed to be here."

"But I'm practically a squib," Neville protested.

"You can't be a squib if you got a letter. Squibs don't _get_ letters," he pointed out. "And you've got a wand, don't you? Did you get it at Ollivander's?"

"Yes, but--"

"Mr. Ollivander doesn't make that kind of mistake. He'd never sell a squib or a Muggle a wand," he said. "You're a wizard, Neville." Then something occurred to him. He didn't know anything about the boy; maybe he was from a Muggle family and was overwhelmed by his introduction to the wizarding world. "Don't you want to be?"

"More than anything," he said. "My family are all wizards; my gran says there hadn't been a squib in the family for five generations, before--" He sighed. "Before me."

"But you're not a squib," Percy reminded him. "You're at Hogwarts."

"If I'm a wizard, how come I'm not any good at magic?" Neville asked plaintively.

That was a question Percy'd never had to consider. He was better in some of his classes than others; Transfiguration and History of Magic had always come easily to him, while Charms and Astronomy had been a bit of a struggle. But magic hadn't been something he'd ever considered being unable to do. It was just part of him, like having red hair, or being unable to see four feet in front of him without his glasses. "What do you mean?" he asked, trying to conceal the fact that he had no answer.

"Professor Snape says that I'm the worst student he's ever seen."

"Professor Snape always picks a Gryffindor to say that to," Percy said. "It doesn't mean anything."

"I turned Parvati Patil green."

"Well, accidents hap--"

"Twice."

Good Lord. The term had only started three weeks ago. "All right, so you're not good in Potions," he admitted.

"I'm not good at _anything,_" Neville said. "I'm failing everything, or I would be, if Hermione wasn't helping me." He thought for a second. "Except Herbology. I'm doing all right there."

"Well, then, there is something magical you're good at."

"It's just plants."

"Magical plants. Muggles can't grow them, or at least, not properly. So I'd say that counts."

Neville gave him a genuine, if a bit watery, smile. "You really think so?"

"Absolutely." In all honesty, he'd never thought much about Herbology before. It was one of those subjects that he simply assumed that he had to get through because everyone else did, and he'd forget about it as soon as he left school. But it did make sense that magic was involved; even the plants that Muggles could grow didn't have the same properties that they did when grown by wizards. "So no more talk about not belonging here, all right?"

Another smile. Neville had curled up in the chair, feet tucked underneath him, and Percy could barely imagine ever having been as young as Neville looked. _It was only four years ago,_ he reminded himself, but it was still almost unfathomable. And maybe he hadn't been that young four years ago, either. He'd come to Hogwarts with Bill and Charlie's legacies to live up to, and a lifetime of being in charge of the twins (and later, Ron and Ginny, but they were never half as much work) behind him, and he couldn't imagine being so innocently trusting of anyone as to pour out his heart to them on three weeks' bare acquaintance. He'd never have been able to get over the fear that they'd laugh.

Neville, however, only chewed on his lower lip for a moment before asking, very softly, "Do you think the Sorting Hat ever makes mistakes?" Before Percy could answer, he went on, "Because you may be right about the magic, but I can't possibly be a Gryffindor, I'm not brave, I'm afraid of lots of things. And I'm not clever, either, so I can't be a Ravenclaw, and I don't think I could be a Slytherin either, and Gran says I'm silly because our family are always in Gryffindor, except for her great-aunt Euphronia who was a Slytherin but we don't discuss her because she was Not A Very Nice Person, but the Hat took an awfully long time to decide where to put me, and sometimes I wonder whether I ought to have been --" He paused to take a breath. "In Hufflepuff," he finished.

It took him a moment to sort through the torrent of words, and he realized that Neville must have been fretting over this since the moment he'd been Sorted. "No, I do _not_ think the Sorting Hat makes mistakes," he said. _At least I know the answer to this one._ "Maybe you don't feel particularly brave now, but--you're eleven years old, Neville. _No one_ feels especially brave their first year at school. I didn't, either. But the Sorting Hat sees what you're like deep inside, where it really counts. It knows what you're going to be, not just what you are right now. And no matter what it looks like at the outset, in all the years that Hogwarts has been in existence, it has _never_ made a mistake. Not once."

"How can you be so sure?" Neville asked.

_I can't tell him,_ Percy thought. _It's silly, and I've never told *anyone*, and he'll just--_ He stopped himself. If anyone could hear this story and not laugh, it would probably be this boy. "I can be sure," he said, drawing a deep breath, "because when _I_ was Sorted, I went to Professor Dumbledore immediately after dinner to tell him there'd been a terrible mistake, and that I was afraid the Sorting Hat had only put me in Gryffindor because Bill and Charlie had been. I was absolutely certain that I was meant to be a Ravenclaw--and terrified that I might wind up in Slytherin; Charlie'd been teasing me about that for three or four years by that point. But I was so scared of being away at school--and by myself; my older brothers had already left Hogwarts--that I knew I couldn't be a Gryffindor."

"And he told you what you told me?"

"Essentially. He rambled a bit more, but I think I've given you the gist of it."

"Oh." Then, a moment later, a pleased tone: "So you think I do belong here?"

"I know you do." And somehow, that was the right thing to say. The thing he'd always hoped to find, every time he tried to help the twins or Ron or Ginny with some problem, every time he wound up sounding like the stuffy old fussbudget they accused him of being, every time they pushed him away. The one thing he'd despaired of ever being able to find, and this time, it had been easy.

He'd been worried about this ever since he'd gotten the letter saying he'd been chosen as a prefect. He'd known he could make sure that the students in his House followed the rules, and he'd been certain that he could handle anything Professor McGonagall asked him to help her with -- getting the other students off the train in an orderly fashion, posting notices in the common room, distributing course schedules; those were all easy. But he'd been afraid that he wouldn't be able to _help_ anyone if they needed it. He'd never been able to help his brothers and sister, after all, and his attempts had always felt awkward and forced. But it had been almost easy tonight. The right words came to him almost naturally, like breathing. Maybe he'd been the right choice for the job after all.

Neville yawned then, interrupting his train of thought. He glanced at his watch; it was past one o'clock in the morning. "You should go to bed."

"Think I will," the younger boy said, rubbing his eyes. "You should, too," he added.

"I'll go up in a bit. I wanted to read the next chapter in History of Magic before class tomorrow." He got up and started for the table where he'd left the book.

Neville's face fell. "I'm sorry."

"What on earth for?"

"Wasting your time. I should have realized you wouldn't have been up so late if you didn't have something important to do."

"You didn't waste my time, Neville. As a prefect, I'm supposed to be available to help you first-years get used to--" He was back to saying the wrong thing; he could tell from the expression in Neville's eyes. "It wasn't a waste of time," he repeated. "I didn't mind at all. And I don't _have_ to read that chapter; Professor Binns probably won't get to the Pixie Revolt of 1737 until Thursday, anyway, so I think I'll go to bed after all." That was better; the kicked-puppy look had faded. "And if you need to talk about anything -- you'll remember I'm here? I know it can be hard to talk to your friends sometimes, especially if they don't seem to be having--"

Neville mumbled something he couldn't quite hear.

"Pardon?"

"Don'thaveanyfriends," Neville said only a shade less indistinctly, his cheeks stained pink with embarrassment.

God, it was his first year all over again, wasn't it? Well, except for the bad marks. But marks didn't make up for feeling as though everyone else in the world knew what to say and what to do, and you were the one idiot who hadn't gotten it yet. "Yes you do," he said, surprising himself. "And if you ever want to talk to me, you know where you can find me."

"Thank you. I'd, er, say that you could do the same, only I know you're just saying that to be--"

"I'm saying it because I meant it. Ask Ron if you don't believe me--I don't say things just to be nice."

Neville smiled at him again. "All right, then. Good night." He started up the stairs to the first-years' dormitory, then paused. "Say, Percy?"

"What, Neville?"

"You know when you said that Professor Snape always picks one Gryffindor out of every year to say is the worst student he's ever taught?"

"Yes."

"Who did he pick out of your year?"

He grinned. "Who do you think?" At Neville's answering grin, he knew he'd said the right thing. And he hadn't technically lied. He hadn't actually said it was him. And it might well have been him, if Oliver Wood hadn't, on the second day of class, responded to Professor Snape's question about what should be added to an infusion of sundew and love-lies-bleeding to create a potion to ease nightmares with, "A Quaffle."

And if it made it a little easier for the boy to get through seven years of Potions with Snape criticizing his every mistake--and it sounded as though there'd be plenty--a little misdirection wouldn't do any harm. "Now, go to bed, Neville."

"Good night, Percy."

"Good night."