The Spiteful Sorting Hat

The worst birthday

Harry could have pointed out that the only reason he didn't have friends at his muggle school had been because Dudley and his gang beat up anyone who ever dared get close to Harry. Instead, he merely stated, "I have friends."

"Then they must have forgotten you already. Not very memorable, are you?"

"How do you know they haven't been speaking to me?" Harry asked quietly.

Dudley gave him a confused look. "What do you mean? There haven't been any owls or anything this year."

Harry uttered a forced, deranged sort of cackle, purposely trying to put Dudley on edge.

"Do you think that owls are the only way wizards communicate? How do you know I'm not casting my aura out of my body and flying to my friend's houses at night? Or talking with them through the mirrors in the bathroom? How do you know they're not watching you while you sleep, scrying through a stone basin of glacier water?"

Harry had no idea where he was getting this nonsense from, but Dudley was clearly shaken.

"Y-You're lying," he stammered.

Harry took a slow, menacing step toward him, "Why shouldn't they spy on you, Dudders? I've told them so much about you. They're curious to see the fat muggle boy who lives with the next great dark wizard of our time. If I were you, I'd cover the mirror in your bedroom."

Harry made a sudden lunge toward his cousin. He was much smaller than Dudley, and wouldn't have been able to do him any harm whatsoever, but Dudley was so spooked he squealed like the pink pig he resembled, and bolted indoors, screaming for his mother.

Harry knew he was going to pay for that outburst sooner rather than later, but he'd lost his patience with his cousin. Dudley, however thick he appeared, had managed to hit on the one thing that had been weighing on Harry's mind since summer began. What had happened to Blaise and Millie? He'd received no letters, no parcels, not even a post card. Could they really have forgotten him? Or had they only been his friend because of his fame, and quickly lost interest when they realized how normal he truly was?

Harry had chided himself for thinking this way, and he always managed to think of some plausible excuse for why his friends hadn't written to him yet. But as the days turned to weeks, Harry had begun to feel desperate for some news of the wizarding world. Even a sneeringly worded letter from Draco Malfoy would be welcome at this point. Harry would even consider an offer to visit his home if it meant escaping his mundane life with the Dursleys and getting a taste of the magical world again.

The shrill screech of his Aunt Petunia interrupted his musing. He was being called indoors to "make himself useful" and help prepare a dinner he wasn't going to get a morsel of. After helping his aunt by sweeping and scrubbing the floors, washing the dishes, and heading back into the garden to spread manure in the flowerbeds, Harry was given only two slices of bread and a chunk of rank smelling cheese. He was too tired and hungry at this point to complain, and the food was quickly bolted down.

His aunt was already dressed in a hideous salmon-colored cocktail dress, while Dudley and Veron adjusted their dinner jackets in the front room. Harry slunk by them silently, dragging his feet to his room for a night of pretending he didn't exist while his relatives schmoozed with Vernon's wealthy potential clients.

He had just shut his door and turned to his bed, ready to flop down in complete exhaustion and misery, when he stopped. There was someone already sitting on the bed.

Harry recognized the large, round green eyes instantly. They were the same eyes staring at him from the garden shrub. He was elated to see that he'd been right in assuming they belonged to a house-elf, but the little creature before him certainly wasn't Torsh. True, they had the same large ears, the same long, pointed nose, and green eyes, but here the similarities ended. The creature in front of him had eyes of a darker shade than Torsh, and the pillowcase it wore for a covering was shabby and dirty, where Torsh was always dressed neatly, although a bit eccentrically.