CHAPTER TWELVE
The potion hissed loudly like a boiling kettle and frothed madly.
A second later, it had turned a sick sort of yellow.
“Urgh — essence of Millicent Bulstrode,” said Ron, eyeing it
with loathing. “Bet it tastes disgusting.”
“Add yours, then,” said Hermione.
Harry dropped Goyle’s hair into the middle glass and Ron put
Crabbe’s into the last one. Both glasses hissed and frothed: Goyle’s
turned the khaki color of a booger, Crabbe’s a dark, murky brown.
“Hang on,” said Harry as Ron and Hermione reached for their
glasses. “We’d better not all drink them in here. . . . Once we turn
into Crabbe and Goyle we won’t fit. And Millicent Bulstrode’s no
pixie.”
“Good thinking,” said Ron, unlocking the door. “We’ll take sep-
arate stalls.”
Careful not to spill a drop of his Polyjuice Potion, Harry slipped
into the middle stall.
“Ready?” he called.
“Ready,” came Ron’s and Hermione’s voices.
“One — two — three —”
Pinching his nose, Harry drank the potion down in two large
gulps. It tasted like overcooked cabbage.
Immediately, his insides started writhing as though he’d just
swallowed live snakes — doubled up, he wondered whether he was
going to be sick — then a burning sensation spread rapidly from
his stomach to the very ends of his fingers and toes — next, bring-
ing him gasping to all fours, came a horrible melting feeling, as the
skin all over his body bubbled like hot wax — and before his eyes,
his hands began to grow, the fingers thickened, the nails broadened,
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