Harry placed the Sorting Hat on his head, staring into its black lining, and waited with some nervousness.
Just then, a small voice said in his ear, "Having trouble figuring something out, Harry Potter?"
"Oh, yes," Harry mumbled indistinctly. "Sorry to bother you, I wanted to ask..."
"You've always wanted to know if I put you in the right House," the hat said shrewdly. "Yes... you were a difficult placement. But at least you were much easier to decide than that Marcel Maclean..."
"Marcel?" Harry said in surprise.
"Yes! Weren't you just thinking about him?" the hat said softly. "Maclean should have gone to Ravenclaw, but he went to Hufflepuff; and you should have gone to Slytherin, but—"
Harry's heart sank. He grabbed the top of the hat and pulled it off. It hung limply in his hand, dirty and faded.
He put it back on its shelf, feeling sick.
"You're wrong," he said loudly to the silent, motionless hat.
The hat didn't move.
Harry stared at it, backing away. Suddenly, a strange, choking sound came from behind him, and he spun around.
On a high, golden perch behind the door stood a very old-looking bird. It looked like a half-plucked turkey.
Harry stared at it, and the bird stared back at him with a mournful look, while making that choking sound again.
Harry thought it looked very ill—its eyes were dull, and even as Harry watched, a few more feathers fell from its tail.
Harry thought, if Dumbledore's bird died while he was alone in the office with it, that alone would be more than he could handle...
Just as he was thinking this, the bird suddenly burst into flames.
Harry cried out in alarm and backed into the desk. He looked around anxiously, hoping for a cup of water or something, but saw none.
Meanwhile, the bird had become a fireball. It let out a piteous cry, and then disappeared, leaving only a pile of still-smoldering ashes in a tray beneath the perch.
The office door opened, and Dumbledore walked in, his expression very grave.
"Professor," Harry panted. "Your bird—I couldn't do anything—it just caught fire..."
Dumbledore looked at the pile of ashes in the tray, and a slight smile appeared on his previously grave face.
"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 Harry's face.
"Fawkes is a phoenix, Harry. Phoenixes burst into flame when it is time for them to die and are reborn from the ashes. Watch him—"
Harry looked down and saw a tiny, wrinkled, newborn bird poke its head out of the ashes. It was as ugly as the old one.
"It's a shame you had to see him on a Burning Day," said Dumbledore, sitting down 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's self-immolation, Harry had temporarily forgotten why he was there. But now, as Dumbledore sat down in the high-backed chair behind his desk and fixed him with his piercing, light-blue eyes, it all came flooding back.
"Professor Dumbledore..."
"Is there something you wish to tell me?" Dumbledore said gently. "It's alright, take your time."
Harry found that, now that he was actually facing Dumbledore, the things he had wanted to say had become difficult to voice.
His relationship with Marcel had always been very good. He had even received a present from him last Christmas—although he had never really read the notebook on "Occlumency."
But these were all proofs of friendship.
If he told Dumbledore what had happened to Marcel, wouldn't that be like...
No, this was for Marcel's own good! Perhaps it was just as Hermione had said: Marcel was just under the influence of some dark magic, and this matter needed to be resolved as soon as possible.
"Professor Dumbledore," Harry took a deep breath, his gaze firm. "I think it's very likely that Marcel has been affected by some dark magic from Voldemort. He..."
Harry poured out everything he had seen and heard, as well as some of his speculations. He told Dumbledore everything, including what Ron had seen, what Hermione had deduced, and what he himself had felt.
"...And that's it, Professor Dumbledore."
After he finished, he looked at Dumbledore's face with a complex mixture of apprehension and expectation, hoping he would offer some solution.
But who would have known that Dumbledore would just smile.
"Don't worry, Harry," Dumbledore said with a smile. "Marcel is fine. He is not under the influence of any dark magic. Yes, I know he has changed a lot, but this is his own choice. What we need to do is just trust him, that's all."
Dumbledore paused, then said, "And you? Harry, is there anything else you are willing to tell me? I mean—about yourself."
Harry was stunned and hesitated.
He thought of Malfoy's shout: "You'll be next, Mudbloods!"; he thought of the Polyjuice Potion still brewing slowly in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.
Then he thought of the ghostly voice he had heard; of Ron saying, "Hearing voices no one else can hear isn't a good sign, even in the wizarding world."
He also thought of what everyone was saying about him, and his growing fear that he might be related to Salazar Slytherin...
For a moment, the tangled and complex doubts made Harry press his lips tightly together.
"No," said Harry. "Nothing, sir."
…
The double attack on Justin and Nearly Headless Nick turned the already tense atmosphere into a full-blown panic.
Strangely enough, it was the attack on Nearly Headless Nick that scared people the most.
What could do this to a ghost, people asked each other. What terrible power could harm someone who was already dead? Students were practically scrambling to book seats on the Hogwarts Express, hoping to go home for Christmas.
And the trio had lately been falling into silence whenever they talked.
Although the Polyjuice Potion was almost ready, they didn't know if they should still use it.
Even though Harry had told Ron and Hermione Dumbledore's answer, it didn't provide much comfort. The things to worry about didn't seem to have diminished.
After a lot of wild thinking, they still decided to use the Polyjuice Potion to test Malfoy, just to have something to do and not be too troubled by their various worries.
Finally, the term ended. A silence as thick as the snow on the ground covered the entire castle.
Luna had gone home. She spent every Christmas at home with her father, and this year was no exception.
Although she had asked Marcel if he wanted to go to her house for a lively Christmas like last year, this time Marcel had not agreed.
He still had many things to do, and he couldn't delay any longer.
But what he didn't expect was that this Christmas, he would not be alone.
"There's a flower. Help me take a look."
As Marcel was sitting on the wall of the Astronomy Tower, writing something, a familiar voice came from the top of the stairs.
"Miss Blois," Marcel said, turning his head. "You didn't go home?"
"There's a flower. Help me take a look."
Vylie stood at the top of the stairs, still wearing her loose, oversized Slytherin robes, and calmly repeated what she had just said.
"..." Marcel looked at Vylie and, after a while, asked, "What flower?"
"It has no name."
Vylie took out a small cloth bag from her robes and opened it for Marcel to see.
It was a small handful of flower seeds, pinkish-white, with a faint, elusive psychedelic shimmer.
Marcel carefully picked up a seed, brought it to his nose, and immediately smelled a pungent odor—it was definitely not a pleasant smell.
"I've never seen it before. It should be a relatively rare magical plant," Marcel said. "It looks very similar to the seeds of the Crystal Orchid. Perhaps it's also a flower with very high environmental requirements."
"Let's go try planting it. I'll go apply for Greenhouse Five for you."
Marcel took Vylie to Professor Sprout's office and soon got the key to the greenhouse.
In Greenhouse Five, Marcel quietly recorded the morphological characteristics of the seeds in his Herbology notebook, while Vylie stood by, laying the bottom soil in a flowerpot.
Now, neither of them liked to talk. They were clearly doing something together, but there was no corresponding atmosphere.
Because of this, their work efficiency was exceptionally high, and they finished everything quickly.
Just as Marcel was about to leave, Vylie spoke up.
"What about you?" she said suddenly.
"What?"
"Do you need help with anything?"
Vylie's abbreviated speech seemed to have become a habit, and she always liked to omit the context.
"Me?" Marcel thought for a moment, then shook his head slightly. "No."
Vylie pushed up the brim of her large, pointed hat, looked at Marcel quietly, and after a good while, said softly, "If you do... tell me."
With that, she turned calmly and left through the greenhouse door.
Marcel stood in the greenhouse, looking at the closed door and pondering for a moment, before finally striding quickly after her.
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