The Spiteful Sorting Hat

Nicholas Flamel

Harry was nervous. He'd never been to a party before. The Dursleys sometimes went to soirees hosted by his Uncle Vernon's coworkers, but on these occasions Harry had always been sent to visit Mrs. Figg, who did nothing but talk about her cats the whole time. On the few occasions when Dudley had a group of his friends stay over, Harry had either been locked out of sight in the cupboard under the stairs, or he'd served as part of the entertainment for the other boys – most often as a human punching bag. So when Blaise asked if he'd happened to pack any dress robes, Harry realized how completely out of his depth he was.

"Are there usually a lot of people who come to this party?" Harry asked as Blaise searched through a closet of his old clothes for something that might fit Harry.

Blaise appeared to be doing some mental math, then he said, "Not a lot. I'd say about fifty people show up each year."

"Fifty?" asked Harry in amazement. He wasn't sure he even knew fifty people by name, much less knew them well enough to invite them to a Christmas party.

"I know, it's not much. But it makes for a pretty decent crowd. Boring though. Mum always makes me spend the evening entertaining Draco... It's bollocks," he added quickly, apparently anxious to assure Harry that he wasn't and had never been Draco's friend.

"But your mum likes them? I mean Malfoy's family."

"Mum and Narcissa – that's Draco's mum – they good friends. They met at St. Mungo's when they were both pregnant, and I guess they bonded over that."

"St. Mungo's is a hospital?" Harry asked.

"Yup, it's a hospital for magic folk. People usually go there for counter-jinxes and remedies for potions gone wrong, that sort of thing. But there is a midwifery ward as well. I guess some witches can have really tricky pregnancies. Others simply don't trust a muggle doctor to know what he's talking about."

Harry didn't need to meet Narcissa Malfoy to know that she fell in the camp of witches who didn't trust a muggle doctor. If she was at all like her son, she'd stick her nose up at anything remotely connected to muggles and their culture.

"Which kind was your mum?"

Blaise smiled sadly at Harry, "I was tricky."

Harry could sense that there was some history Blaise didn't want to talk about, so he tried lightening the mood.

"I thought you said you were born on the back of a broomstick?" Harry asked teasingly, remembering their conversation from earlier in the year.

Blaise erupted into laughter, "Of course! That's what made it so tricky!"

Harry kne whe'd guessed correctly from the way Blaise dissolved into mirth. His joke hadn't been that funny. But he remembered the way Millie let his jealous comment pass unnoticed on the train, and he decided to follow her example by not prying into Blaise's past.

"Aha! Here's something!" Blaise exclaimed with enthusiasm, dragging a set of black dress robes out of his closet. "I wore this last year... It might be a bit big for you, though."

"It looks nice. Are you sure I'll have to wear it?"

"It's a formal party, Harry. Yes, you have to wear it. We'll have to hem it in though..."

They went to appeal to Blaise's mother for assistance, but Mrs. Zabini dismissed them offhand.

"You know I'm no good at domestic spells," she said, placing heavy emphasis on domestic with an air of disdain, "Have Torsh help you."

They found Torsh hard at work decorating a large Christmas tree in one of the grand salons that would be used for the party. Harry felt bad asking the house elf stop in the middle of decorating to adjust his dress robes. He suggested that they help by taking over while Torsh hemmed the robes for Harry's height.