Harry's POV

Today was the day of The Hogwarts Sorting. More appropriately, it was the first day of a new Hogwarts term, the first day of me no longer being a miserable little second year, but far more mature and eloquent. Oh yes, third year had arrived. Unfortunately for me, it may be a slight strain this year to be so-called 'mature' and 'poised', not because I haven't got the will- and when there's a will, there's a way- but because of the simple reason being that there is a murderous psychopath on my tail that wishes to… murder me. Siriusly. I need a break, but everything just keeps on coming towards me right, left and frickin' centre. True, I doubt if books would be written if I did not have a least one adventure per year- who wants to read about a bespectacled boy brushing his teeth?- but Voldemort, more Voldemort and now some murderous fool from Azkaban? Do people take into account my lessening mental state? If I'm in St Mungos by the time I'm twenty-five, raving and having pleasant conversations with Lockhart, then guess who I shall blame?

Correct- that bearded villain Albus Dumbledore. I know that in him I am meant to have the ultimate faith but there's something about that particular man. Why does he keep inviting me to his office? His 'cosy chats' are beginning to make me wonder if there may be an ulterior motive beneath 'wanting the best for me'. And last time I had such 'cosy chat' he offered me strawberries dipped in melted chocolate. He forced on me an entire bottle of champagne. Deep down I began to suspect. Was this honoured professor deliberately trying to get me drunk? If so, why? He obviously wanted something, something that I would be in no position to give him if I was sober… After much thought I had found my answer. Professor Albus Dumbledore was after my Nimbus Two-Thousand. Just think, a man with all his money, all his fame, is deliberately forcing alcoholic liquor down the throat of one so frightfully underage in order to acquire a second hand broomstick which ain't that good. I tried to tell him during our tête-à-tête, that Draco Malfoy, and the entirety of the Slytherin Quidditch Team for that matter, were in possession of Nimbus Two Thousand and ones, in the hope that he would remove the bottle from my lips and put the strawberries in the fridge in order to eat a more suitable time. However, I only succeeded in making a faint glugging noise, and spilling champagne down my robes. Luckily for me, Dumbledore seemed to realise the error of his ways and sent me from his office in haste. I suppose the true reason for such inexcusable behaviour will remain a mystery. Anyway- that was last year.

So I merely sit here, waiting for the sorting to begin. It's true that I am still rather shaken by that episode on the train. Dementors I have decided, are unpleasant creatures that should have been left in Azkaban. As for those people that say "They are for your own good!" in increasingly high pitched voices, I have something to say right back. Don't. Tell. Them. That. I have a feeling that if they knew they were patrolling the school for little old me, they may try and become my friends. And to be honest, I have enough little buddies as it is. I mean Ron… could he ever get irritating? And Hermione, the amounts of stupid mistakes she makes daily are so hilarious that I frequently laugh my arse off in the most unsophisticated manner. Really, I could not ask for better companions, and the Dementors will never take their place. That is my last word in the matter and I will stand by decision. Particularly if Dumbledore tries to bribe me with more alcoholic beverages. Some things just get so far, then you realise it has to stop. Unfortunately by the time you realise it has to stop, such things are often so out of control that it is impossible to cease with them. Like Hagrid's secret crack habit, though by God, it's not a secret anymore…

The doors of the great Hall swing open and there stand a very miserable group of First Years, some actually shaking with fear and cold. I felt like shouting at them :"Cheer up, it might not happen!" But let's face it, 'it' already has. They've become wizards and witches, for some (the muggleborns) their little worlds have been turned upside down. If I could help the poor little souls… I still wouldn't. One because becoming a wizard will possibly become the greatest thing that will ever happen to them. Two, because I just can't be asked. Helping people requires effort, and to be brutally truthful (although I have been diagnosed with a 'hero complex') today I'm not in the right mind. Let them shiver, let them cry. It's good for you in the future. That, or you'll just die early. Some call me callous, some call me pitiless, some call me cruel. Whatever. If you look those three up in the dictionary you'll see that they all mean the same thing. No, I am none of those. I am Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Survivor, the Chosen One… the Boy Who Is Hitting Puberty The Same Time As Everybody Else. Surely just because I managed to resist a killing curse way back when I was yay high, doesn't mean that I am not entitled to the same mood swings and bodily urges that camp out in boys of a similar age. Puh-lease. Nobody's perfect.

I watched with cold-eyes which I thought betrayed little or no interest as the Sorting Hat was placed on it's little three legged stool. It was only later that Ron informed me that I was on the edge of my seat, eyes wide and muttering furiously "it better be a good song this year… It better be a good song…" Well, well; what can I say? Different things affect different people. Hermione would usually say something here like 'simple things for simple minds,' but naturally I would return her waspish comment with something equally as cutting and clever. "Whatever, shut up," may do. Or even better: "I'm not talking to you anymore!" Hey- that one worked at Primary school.

It has come to that time of year again,

Where I arrange the houses,

I separate the Lions from the

Eagles, Snakes and Mouses…

Mouses? It seemed to me that the Sorting Cap was not worth the reputation it was given. Number one, it didn't seem to realise that Hufflepuff was in fact represented by a badger not a mouse, so no wonder half the Hufflepuff house suffered from inferiority complexes and had the biggest drop-out rate of any wizarding school in the country (though thinking about it, that's not particularly difficult as we are the only wizarding school in the country). Secondly, the Sorting Hat's grammar was appalling.

I know that Hufflepuff's a badger,

But nothing rhymes with that…

On the contrary, I'm sure if you permitted yourself access to a rhyming dictionary or the internet, these two wonderful things would give you many, many fine examples of what rhymes with "badger".

After all I'm only cloth,

A ragged Sorting Hat.

So Slytherin with the massive beard that

Went down to his toes,

Very useful when he had a cold,

For he could wipe his nose.

Wait. What?

Ravenclaw with all her brains,

Her beauty and her grace.

Until she slipped on a banana skin

And fell flat upon her face.

Gryffindor, he was so brave,

A lion with deadly paws!

He often said to Slytherin,

"My sword's bigger than yours."

And finally there is Hufflepuff,

She truly was a brick,

Some said that she was loyal and true…

But she was in fact, just thick.

And now I have to sort you,

Into houses: Whose is whose?

I hope you have no preferences

Cos you don't fucking get to choose.

Naturally, after that little performance there was a rather stunned silence. I watched amused as all eyes from the teacher's table turned accusingly to Fred and George- the only ones, in their minds, who would dare play such a trick. Before the twins truly knew what was going on, they had been shoved from the Great Hall to have a shouting session with Scary Professor Flitwick himself. Of course, I could have stood up for them, knowing full well they were innocent, but why bother? For once Harry Potter is snapping back. And this time I'm ruthless. It was obvious that the Hat was sick and tired of his performances, and that he merely wanted to retire. Unsurprisingly, this was wishful thinking. Who else was going to do the sorting? Snape? Is it desirous for the entire world to implode?

"Harry," Hermione Granger, companion and reputably a female leant towards me, her brown eyes wide. "Why… why did the Sorting Hat use such disgusting language?"

A ha. A question that finally Miss Brainy-Bags could not answer. However, I could not either. I had two options: I could admit I didn't know… or I could make up the bullshittiest answer possible and hope that she believed it. Some choice.

I straightened my shoulders, and slid my glasses down to the end of my nose so I could observe the girl with a wide-worldly expression that displayed all my knowledge on the matter (aka, very little). "You see, Hermione," my voice had already become deeper and more rhythmical, like a nursery-school teacher telling young children a Brother's Grimm story and waiting for them to cry. "You see Hermione, the Sorting Hat is going through a difficult time. He is effectively tired of existence, feels isolated and that nobody cares about him. Being a hat, he can do nothing about the deep black, abyss of his life, but instead has to run his course, feeling bleaker and bleaker at every corner. Nobody can feel his pain, his negative attitude to the constant doom that disguises itself as a life. If you cared to look at it, sitting in Dumbledore's office, you would see it's tears coursing down it's black fabric not-face, and you too can share it's sheer misery as you encounter the first ever wizard's hat with suicidal tendencies."

"So, what you're actually trying to say is," Hermione started fiddling with her dessert spoon. "Is that The Sorting Hat has psychological problems and wishes to be recycled into something else such as… a Sorting Cloak."

"Yes!" I nodded hard and momentarily forgot that my spectacles precariously balanced. With a little tinkle, they smashed to the floor. "Oh dear."

"Harry, that's the biggest load of crap I've ever heard in my life."

"On the contrary, I'm sure The Sorting Hat would agree. I feel for it, actually. I know what it's like to feel… repressed." I stared very hard at Miss Hermione Granger, hoping she would get the hint. Instead she gave a roll of her eyes, and started a conversation with Lavender Brown on her immediate right. I just sat there and stared at the back of her head. Stupid, curly fizzgog… Tearing my eyes away, I settled back onto the Sorting Hat, which appeared to be looking at me, and nodding. Tentatively, I gave a small wave. The Sorting Hat did not return the gesture, so that was that then. Rude little bastard.

It was only later when I realised it possessed no arms, so the chances of it waving back were pretty slim. But still. Instead, I raised my eyebrows encouragingly, hoping for a response. I got one- the Sorting Hat twitched in my general direction, and it's black fabric not-eye winked. I returned the favour.

"Harry…" It was Ronald who was now on my case. "Why are you winking at Pansy Parkinson?"

"Parkinson, you red-headed fool?" Distracted, I let my tongue run away with me, forgetting that Ronald was one who I had, perhaps mistakenly, labelled 'friend'. "Don't be so stupid. I'm winking at The Sorting Hat."

"The Sorting Hat, Harry? Why?"

"Because I can empathise with it."

There was a short, rather confused silence. As I gave a sidelong glance, I could see that Ronald had his face screwed up in the most monkeyish of facial expressions, articulating I suppose, his surprise. I really was distracted. I should have known that was Ron's normal face. Then:

"Harry, I'm worried about you."

"Why would that be, Ron?" I attempted to keep my voice light-hearted, but my true concentration was on the Sorting which was now in full-swing. The Sorting Hat was pissing it up on purpose of course- he put one boy that looked like he had never seen a school book in the entirety of his life into Ravenclaw, whilst one other boy with "I'M OUT TO DESTROY HUMANITY" tattooed on his bicep was promptly put into Hufflepuff. One filly with rather fetching pink daisies interwoven into her hair, and clutching a rather bedraggled toy pony was sorted to Slytherin and was immediately mutilated by vicious third years, including those old charmers Crabbe and Goyle. How I laughed. By that of course, I meant wept.

"Harry, look at me," It seemed like the ginger-follicled prat was still attempting to speak- so sighing, I looked him squarely in the eye.

"What do you want?"

"I'm worried about you. You seem… different now. Different from last year."

"That's not surprising is it?"

"No, I guess. I mean if some creepy psycho was trying to murder my face, I guess I would be pretty gutted."

"Once again Ronald I commend you for your character and understanding."

He gave his usual gormless grin. "Thanks, Harry."

"However, due to your unfortunate hair colour, I cannot take you seriously."

Turning back to watch the Sorting Hat, I watched it sort the last few, seemingly entirely at random. Finally the formalities were over, and the Hat was placed back on the stool, to be removed at the end of the feast. It turned towards me. It nodded. I nodded back, and threw it over half a treacle pudding. Unfortunately I missed my target, and could only watch as it went soaring over the Hufflepuff table and hit Professor Snape squarely in the face. As expected, for some obscure reason so-called Potions Master decided to take offence towards this small, yet blatant to anybody else, affectionate accident. The overgrown bat leapt to his feet and started shrieking:

"Who threw that? If I ever catch the person that did this, I will make sure they are expelled!" His words were greeted with half a chicken to the solar plexus, looking suspiciously like it was thrown by a certain Mr Dean Thomas.

"RIGHT!" In a fit of rage, and most unbecoming for a man of his 'reputation', Snape left the teacher's table and ran towards the general direction of which the chicken was thrown. As expected, not looking where he was going, he tripped over the three legged stool and the Sorting Hat tumbled to the ground. Hastily Snape picked it up, and for some reason (someone or something must have compelled him to do it) he jammed it on his head.

There was a short, tense silence as the whole school looked over at Professor Snape, waiting for the Sorting Hat to give it's verdict. At first it looked like it was going to say nothing at all. Then, without warning, the brim opened and…

"PISSHEAD."

The entire Hall- including the teacher table- erupted into cheers and applause. Snape's eyes flashed with murder, and without a word he swept from the Great Hall with a billow of his cloak. Laughing, I glanced over to the Sorting Hat, and I could swear upon my life that it gave me a dazzling, yet fabricky grin.

This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.