[Part 4] "Harry Potter and Order of Phoenix" by Rowling J.K.

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CHAPTER VII. THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC

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Harry awoke at half-past five the next morning as abruptly and completely as if somebody had yelled in his ear.

For a few moments he lay immobile as the prospect of the hearing filled every tiny particle of his brain.

Then, unable to bear it, he leapt out of bed and put on his glasses.

Mrs. Weasley had laid out his freshly laundered jeans and T-shirt at the foot of his bed.

Harry scrambled into them.

The blank picture on the wall sniggered again.

Ron was lying sprawled on his back with his mouth wide open, fast asleep.

He did not stir as Harry crossed the room, stepped out onto the landing, and closed the door softly behind him.

Trying not to think of the next time he would see Ron, when they might no longer be fellow students at Hogwarts, Harry walked quietly down the stairs, past the heads of Kreacher’s ancestors, and into the kitchen.

He had expected it to be empty, but it was not.

When he reached the door he heard the soft rumble of voices on the other side.

When he pushed it open, he saw Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Sirius, Lupin, and Tonks sitting there almost as though they were waiting for him.

All were fully dressed except Mrs. Weasley, who was wearing a quilted, purple dressing gown.

She leapt to her feet the moment he entered.

“Breakfast,” she said as she pulled out her wand and hurried over to the fire.

“M-m-morning, Harry,” yawned Tonks.

Her hair was blonde and curly this morning.

“Sleep all right?”

“Yeah,” said Harry.

“I’ve b-b-been up all night,” she said, with another shuddering yawn.

“Come and sit down . . .”

She drew out a chair, knocking over the one beside it in the process.

“What do you want, Harry?” Mrs. Weasley called.

“Porridge? Muffins? Kippers? Bacon and eggs? Toast?”

“Just — just toast, thanks,” said Harry.

Lupin glanced at Harry, then said to Tonks, “What were you saying about Scrimgeour?”

“Oh . . . yeah . . . well, we need to be a bit more careful, he’s been asking Kingsley and me funny questions . . .”

Harry felt vaguely grateful that he was not required to join in the conversation.

His insides were squirming.

Mrs. Weasley placed a couple of pieces of toast and marmalade in front of him.

He tried to eat, but it was like chewing carpet.

Mrs. Weasley sat down on his other side and started fussing with his T-shirt, tucking in the label and smoothing out creases across the shoulders.

He wished she wouldn’t.

“. . . and I’ll have to tell Dumbledore I can’t do night duty tomorrow, I’m just t-t-too tired,” Tonks finished, yawning hugely again.

“I’ll cover for you,” said Mr. Weasley.

“I’m okay, I’ve got a report to finish anyway . . .”

Mr. Weasley was not wearing wizard’s robes but a pair of pin-striped trousers and an old bomber jacket.

He turned from Tonks to Harry.

“How are you feeling?”

Harry shrugged.

“It’ll all be over soon,” Mr. Weasley said bracingly.

“In a few hours’ time you’ll be cleared.”

Harry said nothing.

“The hearing’s on my floor, in Amelia Bones’s office.”

“She’s Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and she’s the one who’ll be questioning you.”

“Amelia Bones is okay, Harry,” said Tonks earnestly.

“She’s fair, she’ll hear you out.”

Harry nodded, still unable to think of anything to say.

“Don’t lose your temper,” said Sirius abruptly.

“Be polite and stick to the facts.”

Harry nodded again.

“The law’s on your side,” said Lupin quietly.

“Even underage wizards are allowed to use magic in life-threatening situations.”

Something very cold trickled down the back of Harry’s neck.

For a moment, he thought someone was putting a Disillusionment Charm on him again.

Then he realized that Mrs. Weasley was attacking his hair with a wet comb.

She pressed hard on the top of his head.

“Doesn’t it ever lie flat?” she said desperately.

Harry shook his head.

Mr. Weasley checked his watch and looked up at Harry.

“I think we’ll go now,” he said.

“We’re a bit early, but I think you’ll be better off there than hanging around here.”

“Okay,” said Harry automatically, dropping his toast and getting to his feet.

“You’ll be all right, Harry,” said Tonks, patting him on the arm.

“Good luck,” said Lupin.

“I’m sure it will be fine.”

“And if it’s not,” said Sirius grimly, “I’ll see to Amelia Bones for you . . .”

Harry smiled weakly.

Mrs. Weasley hugged him.

“We’ve all got our fingers crossed,” she said.

“Right,” said Harry.

“Well . . . see you later then.”

He followed Mr. Weasley upstairs and along the hall.

He could hear Sirius’s mother grunting in her sleep behind her curtains.

Mr. Weasley unbolted the door and they stepped out into the cold, gray dawn.

“You don’t normally walk to work, do you?” Harry asked him, as they set off briskly around the square.

“No, I usually Apparate,” said Mr. Weasley.

“But obviously you can’t, and I think it’s best we arrive in a thoroughly non-magical fashion . . . makes a better impression, given what you’re being disciplined for . . .”

Mr. Weasley kept his hand inside his jacket as they walked.

Harry knew it was clenched around his wand.

The run-down streets were almost deserted, but when they arrived at the miserable little Underground station, they found it already full of early morning commuters.

As ever, when he found himself in close proximity to Muggles going about their daily business, Mr. Weasley was hard put to contain his enthusiasm.

“Simply fabulous,” he whispered, indicating the automatic ticket machines.

“Wonderfully ingenious.”

“They’re out of order,” said Harry, pointing at the sign.

“Yes, but even so . . .” said Mr. Weasley, beaming fondly at them.

They bought their tickets instead from a sleepy-looking guard (Harry handled the transaction, as Mr. Weasley was not very good with Muggle money).

Five minutes later, they were boarding an Underground train that rattled them off toward the center of London.

Mr. Weasley kept anxiously checking and rechecking the Underground map above the windows.

“Four stops, Harry . . . three stops left now . . . two stops to go, Harry . . .”

They got off at a station in the very heart of London, swept from the train in a tide of besuited men and women carrying briefcases.

Up the escalator they went, through the ticket barrier (Mr. Weasley delighted with the way the stile swallowed his ticket), and emerged onto a broad street lined with imposing-looking buildings, already full of traffic.

“Where are we?” said Mr. Weasley blankly.

For one heart-stopping moment, Harry thought they had gotten off at the wrong station despite Mr. Weasley’s continual references to the map.

A second later, Mr. Weasley said, “Ah yes . . . this way, Harry,” and led him down a side road.

“Sorry,” he said.

“But I never come by train and it all looks rather different from a Muggle perspective.”

“As a matter of fact I’ve never even used the visitor’s entrance before.”

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The farther they walked, the smaller and less imposing the buildings became.

Finally, they reached a street that contained several rather shabby-looking offices, a pub, and an overflowing dumpster.

Harry had expected a rather more impressive location for the Ministry of Magic.

“Here we are,” said Mr. Weasley brightly, pointing at an old red telephone box, which was missing several panes of glass and stood before a heavily graffitied wall.

“After you, Harry.”

He opened the telephone box door.

Harry stepped inside, wondering what on earth this was about.

Mr. Weasley folded himself in beside Harry and closed the door.

It was a tight fit; Harry was jammed against the telephone apparatus, which was hanging crookedly from the wall as though a vandal had tried to rip it off.

Mr. Weasley reached past Harry for the receiver.

“Mr. Weasley, I think this might be out of order too,” Harry said.

“No, no, I’m sure it’s fine,” said Mr. Weasley, holding the receiver above his head and peering at the dial.

“Let’s see . . . six . . .” he dialed the number, “two . . . four . . . and another four . . . and another two . . .”

As the dial whirred smoothly back into place, a cool female voice sounded inside the telephone box, not from the receiver in Mr. Weasley’s hand, but as loudly and plainly as though an invisible woman were standing right beside them.

“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business.”

“Er . . .” said Mr. Weasley, clearly uncertain whether he should talk into the receiver or not; he compromised by holding the mouthpiece to his ear.

“Arthur Weasley, Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, here to escort Harry Potter, who has been asked to attend a disciplinary hearing . . .”

“Thank you,” said the cool female voice.

“Visitor, please take the badge and attach it to the front of your robes.”

There was a click and a rattle, and Harry saw something slide out of the metal chute where returned coins usually appeared.

He picked it up: It was a square silver badge with Harry Potter, Disciplinary Hearing on it.

He pinned it to the front of his T-shirt as the female voice spoke again.

“Visitor to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium.”

The floor of the telephone box shuddered.

They were sinking slowly into the ground.

Harry watched apprehensively as the pavement rose up past the glass windows of the telephone box until darkness closed over their heads.

Then he could see nothing at all; he could only hear a dull grinding noise as the telephone box made its way down through the earth.

After about a minute, though it felt much longer to Harry, a chink of golden light illuminated his feet and, widening, rose up his body, until it hit him in the face and he had to blink to stop his eyes from watering.

“The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant day,” said the woman’s voice.

The door of the telephone box sprang open and Mr. Weasley stepped out of it, followed by Harry, whose mouth had fallen open.

They were standing at one end of a very long and splendid hall with a highly polished, dark wood floor.

The peacock-blue ceiling was inlaid with gleaming golden symbols that were continually moving and changing like some enormous heavenly notice board.

The walls on each side were paneled in shiny dark wood and had many gilded fireplaces set into them.

Every few seconds a witch or wizard would emerge from one of the left-hand fireplaces with a soft whoosh; on the right-hand side, short queues of wizards were forming before each fireplace, waiting to depart.

Halfway down the hall was a fountain.

A group of golden statues, larger than life-size, stood in the middle of a circular pool.

Tallest of them all was a noble-looking wizard with his wand pointing straight up in the air.

Grouped around him were a beautiful witch, a centaur, a goblin, and a house-elf.

The last three were all looking adoringly up at the witch and wizard.

Glittering jets of water were flying from the ends of the two wands, the point of the centaur’s arrow, the tip of the goblin’s hat, and each of the house-elf’s ears, so that the tinkling hiss of falling water was added to the pops and cracks of Apparators and the clatter of footsteps as hundreds of witches and wizards, most of whom were wearing glum, early-morning looks, strode toward a set of golden gates at the far end of the hall.

“This way,” said Mr. Weasley.

They joined the throng, wending their way between the Ministry workers, some of whom were carrying tottering piles of parchment, others battered briefcases, still others reading the Daily Prophet as they walked.

As they passed the fountain Harry saw silver Sickles and bronze Knuts glinting up at him from the bottom of the pool.

A small, smudged sign beside it read: All proceeds from the Fountain of Magical Brethren will be given to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.

If I’m not expelled from Hogwarts, I’ll put in ten Galleons, Harry found himself thinking desperately.

“Over here, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley, and they stepped out of the stream of Ministry employees heading for the golden gates, toward a desk on the left, over which hung a sign saying SECURITY.

A badly shaven wizard in peacock-blue robes looked up as they approached and put down his Daily Prophet.

“I’m escorting a visitor,” said Mr. Weasley, gesturing toward Harry.

“Step over here,” said the wizard in a bored voice.

Harry walked closer to him and the wizard held up a long golden rod, thin and flexible as a car aerial, and passed it up and down Harry’s front and back.

“Wand,” grunted the security wizard at Harry, putting down the golden instrument and holding out his hand.

Harry produced his wand.

The wizard dropped it onto a strange brass instrument, which looked something like a set of scales with only one dish.

It began to vibrate.

A narrow strip of parchment came speeding out of a slit in the base.

The wizard tore this off and read the writing upon it.

“Eleven inches, phoenix-feather core, been in use four years. That correct?”

“Yes,” said Harry nervously.

“I keep this,” said the wizard, impaling the slip of parchment on a small brass spike.

“You get this back,” he added, thrusting the wand at Harry.

“Thank you.”

“Hang on . . .” said the wizard slowly.

His eyes had darted from the silver visitor’s badge on Harry’s chest to his forehead.

“Thank you, Eric,” said Mr. Weasley firmly, and grasping Harry by the shoulder, he steered him away from the desk and back into the stream of wizards and witches walking through the golden gates.

Jostled slightly by the crowd, Harry followed Mr. Weasley through the gates into the smaller hall beyond, where at least twenty lifts stood behind wrought golden grilles.

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Harry and Mr. Weasley joined the crowd around one of them.

A big, bearded wizard holding a large cardboard box stood nearby.

The box was emitting rasping noises.

“All right, Arthur?” said the wizard, nodding at Mr. Weasley.

“What’ve you got there, Bob?” asked Mr. Weasley, looking at the box.

“We’re not sure,” said the wizard seriously.

“We thought it was a bog-standard chicken until it started breathing fire. Looks like a serious breach of the Ban on Experimental Breeding to me.”

With a great jangling and clattering a lift descended in front of them; the golden grille slid back and Harry and Mr. Weasley moved inside it with the rest of the crowd.

Harry found himself jammed against the back wall of the lift.

Several witches and wizards were looking at him curiously; he stared at his feet to avoid catching anyone’s eye, flattening his fringe as he did so.

The grilles slid shut with a crash and the lift ascended slowly, chains rattling all the while, while the same cool female voice Harry had heard in the telephone box rang out again.

“Level seven, Department of Magical Games and Sports, incorporating the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters, Official Gobstones Club, and Ludicrous Patents Office.”

The lift doors opened.

Harry glimpsed an untidy-looking corridor, with various posters of Quidditch teams tacked lopsidedly on the walls.

One of the wizards in the lift, who was carrying an armful of broomsticks, extricated himself with difficulty and disappeared down the corridor.

The doors closed, the lift juddered upward again, and the woman’s voice said, “Level six, Department of Magical Transport, incorporating the Floo Network Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, Portkey Office, and Apparation Test Center.”

Once again the lift doors opened and four or five witches and wizards got out.

At the same time, several paper airplanes swooped into the lift.

Harry stared up at them as they flapped idly around above his head; they were a pale violet color and he could see MINISTRY OF MAGIC stamped along the edges of their wings.

“Just Interdepartmental memos,” Mr. Weasley muttered to him.

“We used to use owls, but the mess was unbelievable . . . droppings all over the desks . . .”

As they clattered upward again, the memos flapped around the swaying lamp in the lift’s ceiling.

“Level five, Department of International Magical Cooperation, incorporating the International Magical Trading Standards Body, the International Magical Office of Law, and the International Confederation of Wizards, British Seats.”

When the doors opened, two of the memos zoomed out with a few more witches and wizards, but several more memos zoomed in, so that the light from the lamp in the ceiling flickered and flashed as they darted around it.

“Level four, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, incorporating Beast, Being, and Spirit Divisions, Goblin Liaison Office, and Pest Advisory Bureau.”

“’S’cuse,” said the wizard carrying the fire-breathing chicken and he left the lift pursued by a little flock of memos.

The doors clanged shut yet again.

“Level three, Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, including the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, Obliviator Headquarters, and Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee.”

Everybody left the lift on this floor except Mr. Weasley, Harry, and a witch who was reading an extremely long piece of parchment that was trailing on the ground.

The remaining memos continued to soar around the lamp as the lift juddered upward again, and then the doors opened and the voice said, “Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services.”

“This is us, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley, and they followed the witch out of the lift into a corridor lined with doors.

“My office is on the other side of the floor.”

“Mr. Weasley,” said Harry, as they passed a window through which sunlight was streaming, “aren’t we underground?”

“Yes, we are,” said Mr. Weasley, “those are enchanted windows; Magical Maintenance decide what weather we’re getting every day. We had two months of hurricanes last time they were angling for a pay raise. . . . Just round here, Harry.”

They turned a corner, walked through a pair of heavy oak doors, and emerged in a cluttered, open area divided into cubicles, which were buzzing with talk and laughter.

Memos were zooming in and out of cubicles like miniature rockets.

A lopsided sign on the nearest cubicle read AUROR HEADQUARTERS.

Harry looked surreptitiously through the doorways as they passed.

The Aurors had covered their cubicle walls with everything from pictures of wanted wizards and photographs of their families, to posters of their favorite Quidditch teams and articles from the Daily Prophet.

A scarlet-robed man with a ponytail longer than Bill’s was sitting with his boots up on his desk, dictating a report to his quill.

A little farther along, a witch with a patch over her eye was talking over the top of her cubicle wall to Kingsley Shacklebolt.

“Morning, Weasley,” said Kingsley carelessly, as they drew nearer.

“I’ve been wanting a word with you, have you got a second?”

“Yes, if it really is a second,” said Mr. Weasley, “I’m in rather a hurry.”

They were talking to each other as though they hardly knew each other, and when Harry opened his mouth to say hello to Kingsley, Mr. Weasley stood on his foot.

They followed Kingsley along the row and into the very last cubicle.

Harry received a slight shock; Sirius’s face was blinking down at him from every direction.

Newspaper cuttings and old photographs — even the one of Sirius being best man at the Potters’ wedding — papered the walls.

The only Sirius-free space was a map of the world in which little red pins were glowing like jewels.

“Here,” said Kingsley brusquely to Mr. Weasley, shoving a sheaf of parchment into his hand.

“I need as much information as possible on flying Muggle vehicles sighted in the last twelve months.”

“We’ve received information that Black might still be using his old motorcycle.”

Kingsley tipped Harry an enormous wink and added, in a whisper, “Give him the magazine, he might find it interesting.”

Then he said in normal tones, “And don’t take too long, Weasley, the delay on that firelegs report held our investigation up for a month.”

“If you had read my report you would know that the term is ‘firearms,’” said Mr. Weasley coolly.

“And I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for information on motorcycles, we’re extremely busy at the moment.”

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He dropped his voice and said, “If you can get away before seven, Molly’s making meatballs.”

He beckoned to Harry and led him out of Kingsley’s cubicle, through a second set of oak doors, into another passage, turned left, marched along another corridor, turned right into a dimly lit and distinctly shabby corridor, and finally reached a dead end, where a door on the left stood ajar, revealing a broom cupboard, and a door on the right bore a tarnished brass plaque reading MISUSE OF MUGGLE ARTIFACTS.

Mr. Weasley’s dingy office seemed to be slightly smaller than the broom cupboard.

Two desks had been crammed inside it and there was barely room to move around them because of all the overflowing filing cabinets lining the walls, on top of which were tottering piles of files.

The little wall space available bore witness to Mr. Weasley’s obsessions; there were several posters of cars, including one of a dismantled engine, two illustrations of postboxes he seemed to have cut out of Muggle children’s books, and a diagram showing how to wire a plug.

Sitting on top of Mr. Weasley’s overflowing in-tray was an old toaster that was hiccuping in a disconsolate way and a pair of empty leather gloves that were twiddling their thumbs.

A photograph of the Weasley family stood beside the in-tray.

Harry noticed that Percy appeared to have walked out of it.

“We haven’t got a window,” said Mr. Weasley apologetically, taking off his bomber jacket and placing it on the back of his chair.

“We’ve asked, but they don’t seem to think we need one.”

“Have a seat, Harry, doesn’t look as if Perkins is in yet.”

Harry squeezed himself into the chair behind Perkins’s desk while Mr. Weasley rifled through the sheaf of parchment Kingsley Shacklebolt had given him.

“Ah,” he said, grinning, as he extracted a copy of a magazine entitled The Quibbler from its midst, “yes . . .”

He flicked through it.

“Yes, he’s right, I’m sure Sirius will find that very amusing — oh dear, what’s this now?”

A memo had just zoomed in through the open door and fluttered to rest on top of the hiccuping toaster.

Mr. Weasley unfolded it and read aloud, “‘Third regurgitating public toilet reported in Bethnal Green, kindly investigate immediately.’”

“This is getting ridiculous . . .”

“A regurgitating toilet?”

“Anti-Muggle pranksters,” said Mr. Weasley, frowning.

“We had two last week, one in Wimbledon, one in Elephant and Castle.”

“Muggles are pulling the flush and instead of everything disappearing — well, you can imagine.”

“The poor things keep calling in those — those pumbles, I think they’re called — you know, the ones who mend pipes and things —”

“Plumbers?”

“— exactly, yes, but of course they’re flummoxed.”

“I only hope we can catch whoever’s doing it.”

“Will it be Aurors who catch them?”

“Oh no, this is too trivial for Aurors, it’ll be the ordinary Magical Law Enforcement Patrol — ah, Harry, this is Perkins.”

A stooped, timid-looking old wizard with fluffy white hair had just entered the room, panting.

“Oh Arthur!” he said desperately, without looking at Harry.

“Thank goodness, I didn’t know what to do for the best, whether to wait here for you or not, I’ve just sent an owl to your home but you’ve obviously missed it — an urgent message came ten minutes ago —”

“I know about the regurgitating toilet,” said Mr. Weasley.

“No, no, it’s not the toilet, it’s the Potter boy’s hearing — they’ve changed the time and venue — it starts at eight o’clock now and it’s down in old Courtroom Ten —”

“Down in old — but they told me — Merlin’s beard —”

Mr. Weasley looked at his watch, let out a yelp, and leapt from his chair.

“Quick, Harry, we should have been there five minutes ago!”

Perkins flattened himself against the filing cabinets as Mr. Weasley left the office at a run, Harry on his heels.

“Why have they changed the time?” Harry said breathlessly as they hurtled past the Auror cubicles.

People poked out their heads and stared as they streaked past.

Harry felt as though he had left all his insides back at Perkins’s desk.

“I’ve no idea, but thank goodness we got here so early, if you’d missed it it would have been catastrophic!”

Mr. Weasley skidded to a halt beside the lifts and jabbed impatiently at the down button.

“Come ON!”

The lift clattered into view and they hurried inside.

Every time it stopped Mr. Weasley cursed furiously and pummelled the number nine button.

“Those courtrooms haven’t been used in years,” said Mr. Weasley angrily.

“I can’t think why they’re doing it down there — unless — but no . . .”

A plump witch carrying a smoking goblet entered the lift at that moment, and Mr. Weasley did not elaborate.

“The Atrium,” said the cool female voice and the golden grilles slid open, showing Harry a distant glimpse of the golden statues in the fountain.

The plump witch got out and a sallow-skinned wizard with a very mournful face got in.

“Morning, Arthur,” he said in a sepulchral voice as the lift began to descend.

“Don’t often see you down here . . .”

“Urgent business, Bode,” said Mr. Weasley, who was bouncing on the balls of his feet and throwing anxious looks over at Harry.

“Ah, yes,” said Bode, surveying Harry unblinkingly.

“Of course.”

Harry barely had emotion to spare for Bode, but his unfaltering gaze did not make him feel any more comfortable.

“Department of Mysteries,” said the cool female voice, and left it at that.

“Quick, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley as the lift doors rattled open, and they sped up a corridor that was quite different from those above.

The walls were bare; there were no windows and no doors apart from a plain black one set at the very end of the corridor.

Harry expected them to go through it, but instead Mr. Weasley seized him by the arm and dragged him to the left, where there was an opening leading to a flight of steps.

“Down here, down here,” panted Mr. Weasley, taking two steps at a time.

“The lift doesn’t even come down this far . . . why they’re doing it there . . .”

They reached the bottom of the steps and ran along yet another corridor, which bore a great resemblance to that which led to Snape’s dungeon at Hogwarts, with rough stone walls and torches in brackets.

The doors they passed here were heavy wooden ones with iron bolts and keyholes.

“Courtroom . . . ten . . . I think . . . we’re nearly . . . yes.”

Mr. Weasley stumbled to a halt outside a grimy dark door with an immense iron lock and slumped against the wall, clutching at a stitch in his chest.

“Go on,” he panted, pointing his thumb at the door.

“Get in there.”

“Aren’t — aren’t you coming with — ?”

“No, no, I’m not allowed.”

“Good luck!”

Harry’s heart was beating a violent tattoo against his Adam’s apple.

He swallowed hard, turned the heavy iron door handle, and stepped inside the courtroom.

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CHAPTER VIII. THE HEARING

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Harry gasped; he could not help himself.

The large dungeon he had entered was horribly familiar.

He had not only seen it before, he had been here before: This was the place he had visited inside Dumbledore’s Pensieve, the place where he had watched the Lestranges sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban.

The walls were made of dark stone, dimly lit by torches.

Empty benches rose on either side of him, but ahead, in the highest benches of all, were many shadowy figures.

They had been talking in low voices, but as the heavy door swung closed behind Harry an ominous silence fell.

A cold male voice rang across the courtroom.

“You’re late.”

“Sorry,” said Harry nervously. “I-I didn’t know the time had changed.”

“That is not the Wizengamot’s fault,” said the voice. “An owl was sent to you this morning. Take your seat.”

Harry dropped his gaze to the chair in the center of the room, the arms of which were covered in chains.

He had seen those chains spring to life and bind whoever sat between them.

His footsteps echoed loudly as he walked across the stone floor.

When he sat gingerly on the edge of the chair the chains clinked rather threateningly but did not bind him.

Feeling rather sick, he looked up at the people seated at the bench above.

There were about fifty of them, all, as far as he could see, wearing plum-colored robes with an elaborately worked silver W on the left-hand side of the chest and all staring down their noses at him, some with very austere expressions, others with looks of frank curiosity.

In the very middle of the front row sat Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic.

Fudge was a portly man who often sported a lime-green bowler hat, though today he had dispensed with it; he had dispensed too with the indulgent smile he had once worn when he spoke to Harry.

A broad, square-jawed witch with very short gray hair sat on Fudge’s left; she wore a monocle and looked forbidding.

On Fudge’s right was another witch, but she was sitting so far back on the bench that her face was in shadow.

“Very well,” said Fudge.

“The accused being present — finally — let us begin. Are you ready?” he called down the row.

“Yes, sir,” said an eager voice Harry knew.

Ron’s brother Percy was sitting at the very end of the front bench.

Harry looked at Percy, expecting some sign of recognition from him, but none came.

Percy’s eyes, behind his horn-rimmed glasses, were fixed on his parchment, a quill poised in his hand.

“Disciplinary hearing of the twelfth of August,” said Fudge in a ringing voice, and Percy began taking notes at once, “into offenses committed under the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery and the International Statute of Secrecy by Harry James Potter, resident at number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey."

“Interrogators: Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister of Magic; Amelia Susan Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister.

Court Scribe, Percy Ignatius Weasley —”

“— Witness for the defense, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,” said a quiet voice from behind Harry, who turned his head so fast he cricked his neck.

Dumbledore was striding serenely across the room wearing long midnight-blue robes and a perfectly calm expression.

His long silver beard and hair gleamed in the torchlight as he drew level with Harry and looked up at Fudge through the half-moon spectacles that rested halfway down his very crooked nose.

The members of the Wizengamot were muttering.

All eyes were now on Dumbledore.

Some looked annoyed, others slightly frightened; two elderly witches in the back row, however, raised their hands and waved in welcome.

A powerful emotion had risen in Harry’s chest at the sight of Dumbledore, a fortified, hopeful feeling rather like that which phoenix song gave him.

He wanted to catch Dumbledore’s eye, but Dumbledore was not looking his way; he was continuing to look up at the obviously flustered Fudge.

“Ah,” said Fudge, who looked thoroughly disconcerted.

“Dumbledore. Yes.

You — er — got our — er — message that the time and — er — place of the hearing had been changed, then?”

“I must have missed it,” said Dumbledore cheerfully.

“However, due to a lucky mistake I arrived at the Ministry three hours early, so no harm done.”

“Yes — well — I suppose we’ll need another chair — I — Weasley, could you — ?”

“Not to worry, not to worry,” said Dumbledore pleasantly; he took out his wand, gave it a little flick, and a squashy chintz armchair appeared out of nowhere next to Harry.

Dumbledore sat down, put the tips of his long fingers together, and looked at Fudge over them with an expression of polite interest.

The Wizengamot was still muttering and fidgeting restlessly; only when Fudge spoke again did they settle down.

“Yes,” said Fudge again, shuffling his notes.

“Well, then. So. The charges. Yes.”

He extricated a piece of parchment from the pile before him, took a deep breath, and read, “The charges against the accused are as follows: That he did knowingly, deliberately, and in full awareness of the illegality of his actions, having received a previous written warning from the Ministry of Magic on a similar charge, produce a Patronus Charm in a Muggle-inhabited area, in the presence of a Muggle, on August the second at twenty-three minutes past nine, which constitutes an offense under paragraph C of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, and also under section thirteen of the International Confederation of Wizards’ Statute of Secrecy.

“You are Harry James Potter, of number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey?” Fudge said, glaring at Harry over the top of his parchment.

“Yes,” Harry said.

“You received an official warning from the Ministry for using illegal magic three years ago, did you not?”

“Yes, but —”

“And yet you conjured a Patronus on the night of the second of August?” said Fudge.

“Yes,” said Harry, “but —”

“Knowing that you are not permitted to use magic outside school while you are under the age of seventeen?”

“Yes, but —”

“Knowing that you were in an area full of Muggles?”

“Yes, but —”

“Fully aware that you were in close proximity to a Muggle at the time?”

“Yes,” said Harry angrily, “but I only used it because we were —”

The witch with the monocle on Fudge’s left cut across him in a booming voice.

“You produced a fully fledged Patronus?”

“Yes,” said Harry, “because —”

“A corporeal Patronus?”

“A — what?” said Harry.

“Your Patronus had a clearly defined form? I mean to say, it was more than vapor or smoke?”

“Yes,” said Harry, feeling both impatient and slightly desperate, “it’s a stag, it’s always a stag.”

“Always?” boomed Madam Bones.

“You have produced a Patronus before now?”

“Yes,” said Harry.

“I’ve been doing it for over a year —”

“And you are fifteen years old?”

“Yes, and —”

“You learned this at school?”

“Yes, Professor Lupin taught me in my third year, because of the —”

“Impressive,” said Madam Bones, staring down at him.

“A true Patronus at that age... very impressive indeed.”

Some of the wizards and witches around her were muttering again; a few nodded, but others were frowning and shaking their heads.

“It’s not a question of how impressive the magic was,” said Fudge in a testy voice.

“In fact, the more impressive the worse it is, I would have thought, given that the boy did it in plain view of a Muggle!”

Those who had been frowning now murmured in agreement, but it was the sight of Percy’s sanctimonious little nod that goaded Harry into speech.

“I did it because of the dementors!” he said loudly, before anyone could interrupt him again.

He had expected more muttering, but the silence that fell seemed to be somehow denser than before.

“Dementors?” said Madam Bones after a moment, raising her thick eyebrows so that her monocle looked in danger of falling out.

“What do you mean, boy?”

“I mean there were two dementors down that alleyway and they went for me and my cousin!”

“Ah,” said Fudge again, smirking unpleasantly as he looked around at the Wizengamot, as though inviting them to share the joke.

“Yes. Yes, I thought we’d be hearing something like this.”

“Dementors in Little Whinging?” Madam Bones said in tones of great surprise.

----------------------------------------------------------

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“I don’t understand —”

“Don’t you, Amelia?” said Fudge, still smirking.

“Let me explain. He’s been thinking it through and decided dementors would make a very nice little cover story, very nice indeed."

"Muggles can’t see dementors, can they, boy?"

"Highly convenient, highly convenient . . . so it’s just your word and no witnesses . . .”

“I’m not lying!” said Harry loudly, over another outbreak of muttering from the court.

“There were two of them, coming from opposite ends of the alley, everything went dark and cold and my cousin felt them and ran for it —”

“Enough, enough!” said Fudge with a very supercilious look on his face.

“I’m sorry to interrupt what I’m sure would have been a very well-rehearsed story —”

Dumbledore cleared his throat.

The Wizengamot fell silent again.

“We do, in fact, have a witness to the presence of dementors in that alleyway,” he said, “other than Dudley Dursley, I mean.”

Fudge’s plump face seemed to slacken, as though somebody had let air out of it.

He stared down at Dumbledore for a moment or two, then, with the appearance of a man pulling himself back together, said, “We haven’t got time to listen to more taradiddles, I’m afraid, Dumbledore."

"I want this dealt with quickly —”

“I may be wrong,” said Dumbledore pleasantly, “but I am sure that under the Wizengamot Charter of Rights, the accused has the right to present witnesses for his or her case?"

"Isn’t that the policy of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Madam Bones?” he continued, addressing the witch in the monocle.

“True,” said Madam Bones.

“Perfectly true.”

“Oh, very well, very well,” snapped Fudge.

“Where is this person?”

“I brought her with me,” said Dumbledore.

“She’s just outside the door."

"Should I — ?”

“No — Weasley, you go,” Fudge barked at Percy, who got up at once, hurried down the stone steps from the judge’s balcony, and hastened past Dumbledore and Harry without glancing at them.

A moment later, Percy returned, followed by Mrs. Figg.

She looked scared and more batty than ever.

Harry wished she had thought to change out of her carpet slippers.

Dumbledore stood up and gave Mrs. Figg his chair, conjuring a second one for himself.

“Full name?” said Fudge loudly, when Mrs. Figg had perched herself nervously on the very edge of her seat.

“Arabella Doreen Figg,” said Mrs. Figg in her quavery voice.

“And who exactly are you?” said Fudge, in a bored and lofty voice.

“I’m a resident of Little Whinging, close to where Harry Potter lives,” said Mrs. Figg.

“We have no record of any witch or wizard living in Little Whinging other than Harry Potter,” said Madam Bones at once.

“That situation has always been closely monitored, given . . . given past events.”

“I’m a Squib,” said Mrs. Figg.

“So you wouldn’t have me registered, would you?”

“A Squib, eh?” said Fudge, eyeing her suspiciously.

“We’ll be checking that."

"You’ll leave details of your parentage with my assistant, Weasley."

"Incidentally, can Squibs see dementors?” he added, looking left and right along the bench where he sat.

“Yes, we can!” said Mrs. Figg indignantly.

Fudge looked back down at her, his eyebrows raised.

“Very well,” he said coolly.

“What is your story?”

“I had gone out to buy cat food from the corner shop at the end of Wisteria Walk, shortly after nine on the evening of the second of August,” gabbled Mrs. Figg at once, as though she had learned what she was saying by heart, “when I heard a disturbance down the alleyway between Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria Walk."

"On approaching the mouth of the alleyway I saw dementors running —”

“Running?” said Madam Bones sharply.

“Dementors don’t run, they glide.”

“That’s what I meant to say,” said Mrs. Figg quickly, patches of pink appearing in her withered cheeks.

“Gliding along the alley toward what looked like two boys.”

“What did they look like?” said Madam Bones, narrowing her eyes so that the monocle’s edges disappeared into her flesh.

“Well, one was very large and the other one rather skinny —”

“No, no,” said Madam Bones impatiently.

“The dementors . . . describe them.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Figg, the pink flush creeping up her neck now.

“They were big."

"Big and wearing cloaks.”

Harry felt a horrible sinking in the pit of his stomach.

Whatever Mrs. Figg said to the contrary, it sounded to him as though the most she had ever seen was a picture of a dementor, and a picture could never convey the truth of what these beings were like: the eerie way they moved, hovering inches over the ground, or the rotting smell of them, or that terrible, rattling noise they made as they sucked on the surrounding air . . .

A dumpy wizard with a large black mustache in the second row leaned close to his neighbor, a frizzy-haired witch, and whispered something in her ear.

She smirked and nodded.

“Big and wearing cloaks,” repeated Madam Bones coolly, while Fudge snorted derisively.

“I see."

"Anything else?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Figg.

“I felt them."

"Everything went cold, and this was a very warm summer’s night, mark you."

"And I felt . . . as though all happiness had gone from the world . . . and I remembered . . . dreadful things . . .”

Her voice shook and died.

Madam Bones’ eyes widened slightly.

Harry could see red marks under her eyebrow where the monocle had dug into it.

“What did the dementors do?” she asked, and Harry felt a rush of hope.

“They went for the boys,” said Mrs. Figg, her voice stronger and more confident now, the pink flush ebbing away from her face.

“One of them had fallen."

"The other was backing away, trying to repel the dementor."

"That was Harry."

"He tried twice and produced silver vapor."

"On the third attempt, he produced a Patronus, which charged down the first dementor and then, with his encouragement, chased away the second from his cousin."

"And that . . . that was what happened,” Mrs. Figg finished, somewhat lamely.

Madam Bones looked down at Mrs. Figg in silence; Fudge was not looking at her at all, but fidgeting with his papers.

Finally, he raised his eyes and said, rather aggressively, “That’s what you saw, is it?”

“That was what happened,” Mrs. Figg repeated.

“Very well,” said Fudge.

“You may go.”

Mrs. Figg cast a frightened look from Fudge to Dumbledore, then got up and shuffled off toward the door again.

Harry heard it thud shut behind her.

“Not a very convincing witness,” said Fudge loftily.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Madam Bones in her booming voice.

“She certainly described the effects of a dementor attack very accurately."

"And I can’t imagine why she would say they were there if they weren’t —”

“But dementors wandering into a Muggle suburb and just happening to come across a wizard?” snorted Fudge.

“The odds on that must be very, very long, even Bagman wouldn’t have bet —”

“Oh, I don’t think any of us believe the dementors were there by coincidence,” said Dumbledore lightly.

The witch sitting to the right of Fudge with her face in shadow moved slightly, but everyone else was quite still and silent.

“And what is that supposed to mean?” asked Fudge icily.

“It means that I think they were ordered there,” said Dumbledore.

“I think we might have a record of it if someone had ordered a pair of dementors to go strolling through Little Whinging!” barked Fudge.

“Not if the dementors are taking orders from someone other than the Ministry of Magic these days,” said Dumbledore calmly.

“I have already given you my views on this matter, Cornelius.”

“Yes, you have,” said Fudge forcefully, “and I have no reason to believe that your views are anything other than bilge, Dumbledore."

"The dementors remain in place in Azkaban and are doing everything we ask them to.”

“Then,” said Dumbledore, quietly but clearly, “we must ask ourselves why somebody within the Ministry ordered a pair of dementors into that alleyway on the second of August.”

In the complete silence that greeted these words, the witch to the right of Fudge leaned forward so that Harry saw her for the first time.

He thought she looked just like a large, pale toad.

She was rather squat with a broad, flabby face, as little neck as Uncle Vernon, and a very wide, slack mouth.

Her eyes were large, round, and slightly bulging.

Even the little black velvet bow perched on top of her short curly hair put him in mind of a large fly she was about to catch on a long sticky tongue.

----------------------------------------------------------

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“The Chair recognizes Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister,” said Fudge.

The witch spoke in a fluttery, girlish, high-pitched voice that took Harry aback; he had been expecting a croak.

“I’m sure I must have misunderstood you, Professor Dumbledore,” she said with a simper that left her big, round eyes as cold as ever.

“So silly of me."

"But it sounded for a teensy moment as though you were suggesting that the Ministry of Magic had ordered an attack on this boy!”

She gave a silvery laugh that made the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stand up.

A few other members of the Wizengamot laughed with her.

It could not have been plainer that not one of them was really amused.

“If it is true that the dementors are taking orders only from the Ministry of Magic, and it is also true that two dementors attacked Harry and his cousin a week ago, then it follows logically that somebody at the Ministry might have ordered the attacks,” said Dumbledore politely.

“Of course, these particular dementors may have been outside Ministry control —”

“There are no dementors outside Ministry control!” snapped Fudge, who had turned brick red.

Dumbledore inclined his head in a little bow.

“Then undoubtedly the Ministry will be making a full inquiry into why two dementors were so very far from Azkaban and why they attacked without authorization.”

“It is not for you to decide what the Ministry of Magic does or does not do, Dumbledore!” snapped Fudge, now a shade of magenta of which Uncle Vernon would have been proud.

“Of course it isn’t,” said Dumbledore mildly.

“I was merely expressing my confidence that this matter will not go uninvestigated.”

He glanced at Madam Bones, who readjusted her monocle and stared back at him, frowning slightly.

“I would remind everybody that the behavior of these dementors, if indeed they are not figments of this boy’s imagination, is not the subject of this hearing!” said Fudge.

“We are here to examine Harry Potter’s offenses under the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery!”

“Of course we are,” said Dumbledore.

“But the presence of dementors in that alleyway is highly relevant. Clause seven of the Decree states that magic may be used before Muggles in exceptional circumstances, and as those exceptional circumstances include situations that threaten the life of the wizard or witch himself, or witches, wizards, or Muggles present at the time of the —”

“We are familiar with clause seven, thank you very much!” snarled Fudge.

“Of course you are,” said Dumbledore courteously.

“Then we are in agreement that Harry’s use of the Patronus Charm in these circumstances falls precisely into the category of exceptional circumstances it describes?”

“If there were dementors, which I doubt —”

“You have heard from an eyewitness,” Dumbledore interrupted.

“If you still doubt her truthfulness, call her back, question her again.

I am sure she would not object.”

“I — that — not —” blustered Fudge, fiddling with the papers before him.

“It’s — I want this over with today, Dumbledore!”

“But naturally, you would not care how many times you heard from a witness, if the alternative was a serious miscarriage of justice,” said Dumbledore.

“Serious miscarriage, my hat!” said Fudge at the top of his voice.

“Have you ever bothered to tot up the number of cock-and-bull stories this boy has come out with, Dumbledore, while trying to cover up his flagrant misuse of magic out of school?

I suppose you’ve forgotten the Hover Charm he used three years ago —”

“That wasn’t me, it was a house-elf!” said Harry.

“YOU SEE?” roared Fudge, gesturing flamboyantly in Harry’s direction.

“A house-elf! In a Muggle house! I ask you —”

“The house-elf in question is currently in the employ of Hogwarts School,” said Dumbledore.

“I can summon him here in an instant to give evidence if you wish.”

“I — not — I haven’t got time to listen to house-elves!

Anyway, that’s not the only — he blew up his aunt, for God’s sake!” Fudge shouted, banging his fist on the judge’s bench and upsetting a bottle of ink.

“And you very kindly did not press charges on that occasion, accepting, I presume, that even the best wizards cannot always control their emotions,” said Dumbledore calmly, as Fudge attempted to scrub the ink off his notes.

“And I haven’t even started on what he gets up to at school —”

“— but as the Ministry has no authority to punish Hogwarts students for misdemeanors at school, Harry’s behavior there is not relevant to this inquiry,” said Dumbledore, politely as ever, but now with a suggestion of coolness behind his words.

“Oho!” said Fudge.

“Not our business what he does at school, eh?

You think so?”

“The Ministry does not have the power to expel Hogwarts students, Cornelius, as I reminded you on the night of the second of August,” said Dumbledore.

“Nor does it have the right to confiscate wands until charges have been successfully proven, again, as I reminded you on the night of the second of August.

In your admirable haste to ensure that the law is upheld, you appear, inadvertently I am sure, to have overlooked a few laws yourself.”

“Laws can be changed,” said Fudge savagely.

“Of course they can,” said Dumbledore, inclining his head.

“And you certainly seem to be making many changes, Cornelius.

Why, in the few short weeks since I was asked to leave the Wizengamot, it has already become the practice to hold a full criminal trial to deal with a simple matter of underage magic!”

A few of the wizards above them shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

Fudge turned a slightly deeper shade of puce.

The toadlike witch on his right, however, merely gazed at Dumbledore, her face quite expressionless.

“As far as I am aware, however,” Dumbledore continued, “there is no law yet in place that says this court’s job is to punish Harry for every bit of magic he has ever performed.

He has been charged with a specific offense and he has presented his defense.

All he and I can do now is to await your verdict.”

Dumbledore put his fingertips together again and said no more.

Fudge glared at him, evidently incensed.

Harry glanced sideways at Dumbledore, seeking reassurance; he was not at all sure that Dumbledore was right in telling the Wizengamot, in effect, that it was about time they made a decision.

Again, however, Dumbledore seemed oblivious to Harry’s attempt to catch his eye.

He continued to look up at the benches where the entire Wizengamot had fallen into urgent, whispered conversations.

Harry looked at his feet.

His heart, which seemed to have swollen to an unnatural size, was thumping loudly under his ribs.

He had expected the hearing to last longer than this.

He was not at all sure that he had made a good impression.

He had not really said very much.

He ought to have explained more fully about the dementors, about how he had fallen over, about how both he and Dudley had nearly been kissed. . . .

Twice he looked up at Fudge and opened his mouth to speak, but his swollen heart was now constricting his air passages and both times he merely took a deep breath and looked back at his shoes.

Then the whispering stopped.

Harry wanted to look up at the judges, but found that it was really much, much easier to keep examining his laces.

“Those in favor of clearing the accused of all charges?” said Madam Bones’s booming voice.

Harry’s head jerked upward.

There were hands in the air, many of them . . . more than half!

Breathing very fast, he tried to count, but before he could finish Madam Bones had said, “And those in favor of conviction?”

Fudge raised his hand; so did half a dozen others, including the witch on his right and the heavily mustached wizard and the frizzy-haired witch in the second row.

Fudge glanced around at them all, looking as though there was something large stuck in his throat, then lowered his own hand.

He took two deep breaths and then said, in a voice distorted by suppressed rage, “Very well, very well . . . cleared of all charges.”

“Excellent,” said Dumbledore briskly, springing to his feet, pulling out his wand, and causing the two chintz armchairs to vanish.

“Well, I must be getting along.

Good day to you all.”

And without looking once at Harry, he swept from the dungeon.