“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…”

  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.

  8. THE HEARING

  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.

  “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 offences 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 for 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 defence, 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 surveyed 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 out,

  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 the second of August at twenty-three minutes past nine, which constitutes an offence under Paragraph C of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, and also under Section 13 of the International Confederation of Warlocks’ 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 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 vapour 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 his 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, her thick eyebrows rising until 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 a tone of great surprise. “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 tarradiddles, 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, ran down the stone steps from the judge’s balcony and hurried 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 seal.

  “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 closely. “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.

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

  Fudge looked back down at her, his eyebrows raised. “Very well,” he said aloofly. “What is your story?”

  “I had gone out to buy cat food from the corner shop at the end of Wisteria Walk, around about nine o’clock, 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 towards what looked like two boys.”

  “What did they look like?” said Madam Bones, narrowing her eyes so that the edge of the monocle 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 might say, 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…

  In the second row, a dumpy wizard with a large black moustache leaned close to whisper in the ear of his neighbour, a frizzy-haired witch. 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’s 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 only silver vapour. On the third attempt, he produced a Patronus, which charged down the first Dementor and then, with his encouragement, chased the second one away from his cousin. And that that is 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 is 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 otf towards the door. 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?” Fudge asked 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.