Adventures of Harriet Potter

The Polyjuice Potion

They stepped off the stone staircase at the top, and Professor McGonagall rapped on the door. It opened silently and they entered. Professor McGonagall told Harriet to wait and left her there, alone. Harriet was slightly confused by this, since if she was attacking students, pets and ghosts it would be a bad call to leave her alone where she could orchestrate another attack. She momentarily let it go though. Harriet looked around. One thing was certain: of all the teachers' offices Harriet had visited so far this year, Dumbledore's was by far the most interesting. If she hadn't been scared out of her wits that she was about to be thrown out of school, she would have been very pleased to have a chance to look around it.
It was a large and beautiful circular room, full of funny little noises. A number of curious silver instruments stood on spindle-legged tables, whirring and emitting little puffs of smoke. The walls were covered with portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses, all of whom were snoozing gently in their frames. There was also an enormous, claw-footed desk, and, sitting on a shelf behind it, a shabby, tattered wizard's hat — the Sorting Hat.
Harriet hesitated. She cast a wary eye around the sleeping witches and wizards on the walls. Surely it couldn't hurt if she took the hat down and tried it on again? Just to see . . . just to make sure it had put her in the right House —
She walked quietly around the desk, lifted the hat from its shelf, and lowered it slowly onto her head. It was much too large and slipped down over her eyes, just as it had done the last time she'd put it on. Harriet stared at the black inside of the hat, waiting. Then a small voice said in her ear, "Bee in your bonnet, Harriet Potter?" She squirmed a little as its tone, soft and slightly friendly, carried an air of having been distracted by her putting it on. "Er, yes," Harriet muttered. "Er — sorry to bother you — I wanted to ask —"
"You've been wondering whether I put you in the right House," said the hat smartly. "Yes . . . you were particularly difficult to place. But I stand by what I said before" — Harriet's heart leapt — "you would have done well in Slytherin —" Harriet's stomach plummeted. She grabbed the point of the hat and pulled it off. It hung limply in her hand, grubby and faded. Harriet pushed it back onto its shelf, feeling sick. "You're wrong," she said aloud to the still and silent hat. It didn't move. Harriet backed away, watching it. Then a strange, gagging noise behind her made her wheel around.
She wasn't alone after all. Standing on a golden perch behind the door was a decrepit-looking bird that resembled a half-plucked turkey. Harriet stared at it and the bird looked balefully back, making its gagging noise again. Harriet thought it looked very ill. Its eyes were dull and, even as Harriet watched, a couple more feathers fell out of its tail. Harriet was just sarcastically thinking that all she needed was for Dumbledore's pet bird to die while she was alone in the office with it, when the bird burst into flames.
Harriet yelled in shock and backed away into the desk. She looked feverishly around in case there was a glass of water somewhere but couldn't see one; the bird, meanwhile, had become a fireball; it gave one loud shriek and next second there was nothing but a smoldering pile of ash on the floor. The office door opened. Dumbledore came in, looking very somber. "Professor," Harriet gasped. "Your bird — I couldn't do anything — he just caught fire —" To Harriet's astonishment, Dumbledore smiled. "About time, too," he said. "He's been looking dreadful for days; I've been telling him to get a move on."
He chuckled at the stunned look on Harriet's face. "Fawkes is a phoenix, Harriet. Phoenixes burst into flame when it is time for them to die and are reborn from the ashes. Watch him . . ." Harriet looked down in time to see a tiny, wrinkled, newborn bird poke its head out of the ashes. It was quite as ugly as the old one. "It's a shame you had to see him on a Burning Day," said Dumbledore, seating himself behind his desk. "He's really very handsome most of the time, wonderful red and gold plumage. Fascinating creatures, phoenixes. They can carry immensely heavy loads, their tears have healing powers, and they make highly faithful pets."
In the shock of Fawkes catching fire, Harriet had forgotten what she was there for, but it all came back to her as Dumbledore settled himself in the high chair behind the desk and fixed Harriet with his penetrating, light-blue stare. Before Dumbledore could speak another word, however, the door of the office flew open with an almighty bang and Hagrid burst in, a wild look in his eyes, his balaclava perched on top of his shaggy black head and the dead rooster still swinging from his hand. "It wasn' Harriet, Professor Dumbledore!" said Hagrid urgently. "I was talkin' ter her seconds before that kid was found, he never had time, sir —" Dumbledore tried to say something, but Hagrid went ranting on, waving the rooster around in his agitation, sending feathers everywhere.
"— it can't've bin her, I'll swear it in front o' the Ministry o' Magic if I have to —" Harriet was deeply moved that Hagrid was defending her. "Hagrid, I —" Dumbledore tried again. "— yeh've got the wrong girl, sir, I know Harriet never —" She smiled fondly at the giant of a man defending her. "Hagrid!" said Dumbledore loudly. "I do not think that Harriet attacked those people." Harriet was stunned by this news, a quick glance at Dumbledore told her he knew who the responsible party was but didn't have definitive proof. Let alone a means for how they were doing it. "Oh," said Hagrid, the rooster falling limply at his side. "Right. I'll wait outside then, Headmaster." And he stomped out looking embarrassed. "You don't think it was me, Professor?" Harriet repeated hopefully as Dumbledore brushed rooster feathers off his desk. "No, Harriet, I don't," said Dumbledore, though his face was somber again. "But I still want to talk to you." Harriet waited nervously while Dumbledore considered her, the tips of his long fingers together. She felt a gentle probing of her mind and embraced it. "I must ask you, Harry, whether there is anything you'd like to tell me," he said gently. "Anything at all." Harriet didn't know what to say. As though going down a corridor of memories she thought of Malfoy shouting, "You'll be next, Mudbloods!" and of the Polyjuice Potion simmering away in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Then she thought of the disembodied voice she had heard twice and remembered what Ron had said: "Hearing voices no one else can hear isn't a good sign, even in the Wizarding world." She thought, too, about what everyone was saying about her, and her growing dread that she was somehow connected with Salazar Slytherin. . . . "No," said Harry. "There isn't anything, Professor. . . ."