Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (17 page)

‘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 upwards again and the woman’s voice announced:

‘Level Six, Department of Magical Transportation, incorporating the Floo Network Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, Portkey Office and Apparition Test Centre.’

Once again the lift doors opened and four or five witches and wizards got out; at the same time, several paper aeroplanes swooped into the lift. Harry stared up at them as they flapped idly around above his head; they were a pale violet colour and he could see
Ministry of Magic
stamped along the edge of their wings.

‘Just inter-departmental memos,’ Mr Weasley muttered to him. ‘We used to use owls, but the mess was unbelievable … droppings all over the desks …’

As they clattered upwards again the memos flapped around the lamp swaying from the lift’s ceiling.

‘Level Five, Department of International Magical Co-operation, 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 of the witches and wizards, but several more memos zoomed in, so that the light from the lamp flickered and flashed overhead 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 floor. The remaining memos continued to soar around the lamp as the lift juddered upwards again, then the doors opened and the voice made its announcement.

‘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 still underground?’

‘Yes, we are,’ said Mr Weasley. ‘Those are enchanted windows. Magical Maintenance decide what weather we’ll get every day. We had two months of hurricanes last time they were angling for a pay rise … 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 was 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 favourite 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 further along, a witch with a patch over one 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 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; blinking down at him from every direction was Sirius’s face. 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.’ 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 Artefacts.

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 space 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: 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 hiccoughing 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 riffled 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 hiccoughing toaster. Mr Weasley unfolded it and read it 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 –
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 close 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’d 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 down there I …’

They reached the bottom of the steps and ran along yet another corridor, which bore a great resemblance to the one that 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.

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 been 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 centre 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 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-coloured 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 looks of frank curiosity.

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