Pete's Expert Summary
The Human has procured a rather ostentatious plastic clamshell that apparently depicts a "wizarding school," which sounds drafty and entirely too full of shrieking children for my taste. Inside, it's a veritable flea market of tiny plastic homunculi and their even tinier accoutrements. From my esteemed position on the sofa cushion, I can see the potential appeal. The minuscule figures—especially the one with the glasses and the one with the unruly hair—are of a perfect size for being batted under the heaviest piece of furniture, ensuring the Staff spends a frantic afternoon on their hands and knees. The "glistening stars" on the exterior might catch the light in a moderately amusing fashion. However, its "collector" status suggests it will be kept on a high shelf, rendering it a glorified, and ultimately quite boring, dust-gatherer. A toy one cannot touch is not a toy; it is an insult.
Key Features
- Take a trip down memory lane with this Harry Potter x Polly Pocket Compact shaped like Hogwarts with glistening stars
- Fans can play with the 5 main character dolls, 11 accessories, and 4 iconic Harry Potter locations from the first movie, The Sorcerer's Stone
- Take the journey to Hogwarts with Harry Potter, Ron, and Hermione from King's Cross station. Arrive in the evening and sail into Hogwarts castle
- Upon arrival, use the sorting hat to find out who belongs in which house Celebrate the start of a new school year with Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall by feasting in the dining hall
- Perfect for collectors, this set comes in a displayable box with premium materials and intricate details that celebrate the Harry Potter fandom
- Makes a great toy for Polly fans and especially Harry Potter fanatics
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The object arrived in a box within a box, a level of security that immediately piqued my interest. The Staff placed it on the coffee table with a reverence usually reserved for the sacred Tuna Can. They called it "Hogwarts," and for a moment, I sat motionless, observing. It was a tableau, a frozen diorama of tiny figures locked in silent, plastic conversation. The Human would occasionally move them, narrating some insipid tale of "magic" and "friendship." I, of course, saw it for what it truly was: a celestial map, a tool for divination. One evening, after the Staff had retired, I leaped silently onto the table to consult the oracle. The five figures were not characters; they were portents. The small one with the scar was a clear omen of an impending trip to the place of pokes and prods. The bearded elder, positioned near the tiny plastic feast, was a symbol of hope—a sign that the premium salmon pâté might soon make a return. The girl with the bushy hair? An undeniable forecast of a vigorous and unwanted brushing. I saw the truth laid bare where my human saw only play. My interaction, therefore, was not play, but a solemn ritual. With a delicate, calculated paw, I nudged the figures to alter the cosmic balance. The scar-headed omen was promptly swatted from the castle walls, tumbling into the dark abyss of the shag rug, thus averting a veterinary visit. I carefully repositioned the bearded elder to the highest turret, a plea to the universe for better treats. The little boats were a bad sign, heralding the dreaded bath, so I made sure to dislodge them, sending them skittering under the television stand. I was not playing; I was rewriting my fate. The Human found the scattered pieces the next morning and simply chuckled, "Oh, Pete, you had fun!" The sheer ignorance. Fun is for kittens. This was serious, theological work. But as I settled into a sunbeam, purring with the satisfaction of a crisis averted, I had to admit the plastic oracle had its merits. It was a poor substitute for a live mouse, certainly, but as a mechanism for managing the chaotic whims of the universe and its clumsy, two-legged agents, it was proving to be an indispensable tool. It was worthy.
