The Spiteful Sorting Hat

The worst birthday

Harry Potter, of sound mind and body, was certain that there were a pair of eyes staring at him from the shrub.

A first, he thought it had to be a mirage. He'd been sitting in the garden under the hot summer sun for a while now, trying to avoid his Aunt Petunia as she savagely scoured the house for any dust motes before the arrival of Uncle Vernon's guests. There wasn't much to do in the garden, and he was starting to feel thirsty and hungry, but it was preferable to sit outdoors than face the Dursleys.

Harry stared at the eyes, imagining them to be nothing more than a trick of the light. But as he stared, they didn't shimmer out of sight the way a mirage should. They were certainly holding his gaze.

They were too large to be the eyes of a cat, and the shrub was far too small to admit a human hiding in its depths. Harry's next thought was of Torsh, the busy little house elf with large, bulbous eyes he'd met last Christmas while visiting Blaise's house.

He stood up, seized with sudden hope. He hadn't heard from Blaise all summer, in spite of his promises to write. Perhaps he was feeling jilted, as Harry hadn't been able to write to him, either. Uncle Vernon had locked Hedwig in her cage the second Harry returned from school. Could it be possible that Blaise, having received no letters from Harry, sent his house elf to check up on him?

"Torsh?" Harry asked tentatively, taking a cautious step toward the eyes in the shrub.

The eyes blinked out of existence, but Harry was sure they had really been there. He hadn't imagined them. He was about to take another step toward the shrub, when a voice arrested his progress.

"What's a torsh?"

It was Dudley, Harry's cruel and massive cousin. He stood on the back stoop of the house, the expression on his face a mixture of sarcasm and curiosity.

Harry rolled his eyes at him and said, "It's a new spell I'm developing. I've just about managed to turn this shrub into cotton candy."

Harry thought the sound of some fluffy, sweet candy sounded wonderful at the moment, but Dudley's eyes grew in horror.

"You're not supposed to do that!" he whined, "Mum says you're not to do any of that here! I'll tell if you do anything weird!"

Harry smirked at him. It hadn't escaped his notice that Dudley carefully avoided saying the words "spell" or "magic" around Harry.

"What do you want, Dudley?" asked Harry, ignoring his cousin's threat to run to Petunia.

Dudley appeared confused for a moment, as if his sudden fear had blasted away whatever intention had brought him to the garden. Harry hoped that he'd wander back indoors and forget whatever bullying plans he had in store, but Dudley appeared to recall himself, and drew his great, flabby chest up proudly.

"I know what day it is," he announced with utmost smugness.

"It's Friday, Dudley," Harry said in a bored voice, "It's not like it's a secret. Not everyone is as slow to learn the days of the week as you."

"No, not that," Dudley said, an irritated lilt to his voice, "It's your birthday."

"I'm touched that you remembered, cousin," Harry said with mock tenderness.

"Seems I'm the only one that did," Dudley fired back. Harry sensed that he was getting nearer to his point as his corpulent body swelled even greater, nearly filling the door frame he guarded. "You haven't gotten anything from them, have you?"

"From who?" Harry asked, though he was already bracing himself for Dudley's answer.

"From those freak friends at your freak school," Dudley clarified, "You must really be pathetic. No friends at your old school, and now you haven't any friends among your own kind."