The Spiteful Sorting Hat

Ascending downs

Three days passed, and Harry was no closer to breaking his way out of the bedroom than he'd been before. He had tried picking the locks on both the door and Hedwig's cage to no avail. Once, when he heard the Dursley's go out, he had spent the afternoon throwing himself against the door, thinking to bust it open. But he was a small and scrawny twelve-year-old. All he had managed to do was develop a magnificent bruise on his shoulder. Trying to coax his Aunt Petunia was like talking to a brick wall, so that was out of the question. He considered tricking his cousin into letting him out, but so far Dudley had given Harry's bedroom a wide berth. Harry figured he was under strict orders to pretend that his cousin simply ceased to exist.

Harry, in his desperation, and settled on a plan. He would feign an illness, think that then the Dursleys would be forced to take him to a doctor, or at least open the door to see that he wasn't dead. But on the very day he decided to enact this brilliant plan, he heard from below a knock at the front door.

The Dursleys usually went out rather than bring guests over, wanting to avoid any possibility of Harry being observed by their friends and acquaintances. This was especially true after Harry's imprisonment began, and even sleepovers from Dudley's friends had been suspended. Harry listened attentively, wondering who it was who could be dropping by, and prepared to scream for help at a moment's notice.

He heard Vernon's deep voice speaking to someone, but Harry couldn't make out what was said. He crouched by his bedroom door, putting his ear near the plastic cat flap, straining to hear better.

If he didn't know better, he would have thought that was the voice of Mrs. Zabini. But surely he had to be imagining things. A diet of nothing but cold soup still in the can must finally be taking its toll on his mind.

Vernon was speaking again. Harry could make out the words, "He doesn't live here."

Suddenly a third voice rang out, clearly calling his name. Harry's heart swelled. There could be no mistake this time.

"Blaise!" Harry shouted at the top of his voice, "I'm here! I'm upstairs!"

He heard Vernon give a yelp and the sound of quick feet rushing up the stairs. Harry pounded on the door to signify which room was his, and a moment later the knob was jiggling back and forth.

"What are you doing, Harry?" Blaise asked, his voice slightly muffled by the door, "Let me in!"

"I can't," Harry said, "It's locked from the outside."

"MUM!" called Blaise, and a moment later Harry heard the smooth voice of Mrs. Zabini join that of her son.

"Harry, dear?" she called softly, "Could you stand clear of the door, please?"

Harry obediently jumped back, and the door blasted open enough force to slam into the wall, knocking out a large chunk of plaster where the knob had struck. Mrs. Zabini stepped calmly into Harry's bedroom, as if she hadn't nearly knocked his door off its hinges. Harry thought she looked more grand and beautiful than ever in her long purple witches robes. Blaise was close at her heels, greeting Harry with a wide grin before casting his eyes around the bedroom.

Mrs. Zabini was giving Harry's room similar scrutiny. Harry had no doubt that she observed the bars on the window and the lock on Hedwig's cage. And if course, there was Harry himself, looking skinny, pale, and generally miserable.

Mrs. Zabini's lip compressed into a thin line, and when she spoke to Harry, he could tell it was taking all of her self-possession to keep herself under control.

"Harry," she said with forced softness, "Gather your things. You're coming with us."

Harry was bursting with joy, but he tried to contain his emotion, thinking his excitement would contrast too sharply with Mrs. Zabini's calm demeanor. He and Blaise could celebrate his rescue later.