Dementors, he thought.

  And as he reached the foot of the stairs and turned to his right, he saw a dreadful scene. The dark passage outside the courtrooms was packed with tall, black hooded figures, their faces completely hidden, their ragged breathing the only sound in the place. The petrified Muggle-borns brought in for questioning sat huddled and shivering on hard wooden benches. Most of them were hiding their faces in their hands, perhaps in an instinctive attempt to shield themselves from the Dementors’ greedy mouths. Some were accompanied by families, others sat alone. The Dementors were gliding up and down in front of them, and the cold, and the hopelessness, and the despair of the place laid themselves upon Harry like a curse …

  Fight it, he told himself, but he knew that he could not conjure a Patronus here without revealing himself instantly. So he moved forwards, as silently as he could, and with every step he took numbness seemed to steal over his brain, but he forced himself to think of Hermione and of Ron, who needed him.

  Moving through the towering, black figures was terrifying: the eyeless faces hidden beneath their hoods turned as he passed, and he felt sure that they sensed him, sensed, perhaps, a human presence that still had some hope, some resilience …

  And then, abruptly and shockingly amid the frozen silence, one of the dungeon doors on the left of the corridor was flung open and screams echoed out of it.

  ‘No, no, I’m half-blood, I’m half-blood, I tell you! My father was a wizard, he was, look him up, Arkie Alderton, he’s a well-known broomstick designer, look him up, I tell you – get your hands off me, get your hands off –’

  ‘This is your final warning,’ said Umbridge’s soft voice, magically magnified so that it sounded clearly over the man’s desperate screams. ‘If you struggle, you will be subjected to the Dementor’s kiss.’

  The man’s screams subsided, but dry sobs echoed through the corridor.

  ‘Take him away,’ said Umbridge.

  Two Dementors appeared in the doorway of the courtroom, their rotting, scabbed hands clutching the upper arms of a wizard who appeared to be fainting. They glided away down the corridor with him and the darkness they trailed behind them swallowed him from sight.

  ‘Next – Mary Cattermole,’ called Umbridge.

  A small woman stood up; she was trembling from head to foot. Her dark hair was smoothed back into a bun and she wore long, plain robes. Her face was completely bloodless. As she passed the Dementors, Harry saw her shudder.

  He did it instinctively, without any sort of plan, because he hated the sight of her walking alone into the dungeon: as the door began to swing closed, he slipped into the courtroom behind her.

  It was not the same room in which he had once been interrogated for improper use of magic. This one was much smaller, though the ceiling was quite as high; it gave the claustrophobic sense of being stuck at the bottom of a deep well.

  There were more Dementors in here, casting their freezing aura over the place; they stood like faceless sentinels in the corners furthest from the high, raised platform. Here, behind a balustrade, sat Umbridge, with Yaxley on one side of her, and Hermione, quite as white-faced as Mrs Cattermole, on the other. At the foot of the platform a bright silver, long-haired cat prowled up and down, up and down, and Harry realised that it was there to protect the prosecutors from the despair that emanated from the Dementors: that was for the accused to feel, not the accusers.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Umbridge in her soft, silky voice.

  Mrs Cattermole stumbled to the single seat in the middle of the floor beneath the raised platform. The moment she had sat down, chains clinked out of the arms of the chair and bound her there.

  ‘You are Mary Elizabeth Cattermole?’ asked Umbridge.

  Mrs Cattermole gave a single, shaky nod.

  ‘Married to Reginald Cattermole of the Magical Maintenance Department?’

  Mrs Cattermole burst into tears.

  ‘I don’t know where he is, he was supposed to meet me here!’

  Umbridge ignored her.

  ‘Mother to Maisie, Ellie and Alfred Cattermole?’

  Mrs Cattermole sobbed harder than ever.

  ‘They’re frightened, they think I might not come home –’

  ‘Spare us,’ spat Yaxley. ‘The brats of Mudbloods do not stir our sympathies.’

  Mrs Cattermole’s sobs masked Harry’s footsteps as he made his way carefully towards the steps that led up to the raised platform. The moment he had passed the place where the Patronus cat patrolled he felt the change in temperature: it was warm and comfortable here. The Patronus, he was sure, was Umbridge’s, and it glowed brightly because she was so happy here, in her element, upholding the twisted laws she had helped to write. Slowly and very carefully, he edged his way along the platform behind Umbridge, Yaxley and Hermione, taking a seat behind the latter. He was worried about making Hermione jump. He thought of casting the Muffliato charm upon Umbridge and Yaxley, but even murmuring the word might cause Hermione alarm. Then Umbridge raised her voice to address Mrs Cattermole, and Harry seized his chance.

  ‘I’m behind you,’ he whispered into Hermione’s ear.

  As he had expected, she jumped so violently she nearly overturned the bottle of ink with which she was supposed to be recording the interview, but both Umbridge and Yaxley were concentrating upon Mrs Cattermole, and this went unnoticed.

  ‘A wand was taken from you upon your arrival at the Ministry today, Mrs Cattermole,’ Umbridge was saying. ‘Eight and three-quarter inches, cherry, unicorn hair core. Do you recognise that description?’

  Mrs Cattermole nodded, mopping her eyes on her sleeve.

  ‘Could you please tell us from which witch or wizard you took that wand?’

  ‘T – took?’ sobbed Mrs Cattermole. ‘I didn’t t – take it from anybody. I b – bought it when I was eleven years old. It – it – it – chose me.’

  She cried harder than ever.

  Umbridge laughed a soft, girlish laugh that made Harry want to attack her. She leaned forwards over the barrier, the better to observe her victim, and something gold swung forwards too, and dangled over the void: the locket.

  Hermione had seen it, she let out a little squeak, but Umbridge and Yaxley, still intent upon their prey, were deaf to everything else.

  ‘No,’ said Umbridge, ‘no, I don’t think so, Mrs Cattermole. Wands only choose witches or wizards. You are not a witch. I have your responses to the questionnaire that was sent to you here – Mafalda, pass them to me.’

  Umbridge held out a small hand: she looked so toad-like at that moment that Harry was quite surprised not to see webs between the stubby fingers. Hermione’s hands were shaking with shock. She fumbled in a pile of documents balanced on the chair beside her, finally withdrawing a wad of parchment with Mrs Cattermole’s name on it.

  ‘That’s – that’s pretty, Dolores,’ she said, pointing at the pendant gleaming in the ruffled folds of Umbridge’s blouse.

  ‘What?’ snapped Umbridge, glancing down. ‘Oh yes – an old family heirloom,’ she said, patting the locket lying on her large bosom. ‘The “S” stands for Selwyn … I am related to the Selwyns … indeed, there are few pure-blood families to whom I am not related … a pity,’ she continued, in a louder voice, flicking through Mrs Cattermole’s questionnaire, ‘that the same cannot be said for you. Parents’ professions: greengrocers.’

  Yaxley laughed jeeringly. Below, the fluffy silver cat patrolled up and down, and the Dementors stood waiting in the corners.

  It was Umbridge’s lie that brought the blood surging into Harry’s brain and obliterated his sense of caution; that the locket she had taken as a bribe from a petty criminal was being used to bolster her own pure-blood credentials. He raised his wand, not even troubling to keep it concealed beneath the Invisibility Cloak, and said, ‘Stupefy!’

  There was a flash of red light; Umbridge crumpled and her forehead hit the edge of the balustrade: Mrs Cattermole’s papers slid off her lap on to the floor and, down below, the prowling silver cat vanished. Ice-cold air hit them like an oncoming wind: Yaxley, confused, looked around for the source of the trouble and saw Harry’s disembodied hand and wand pointing at him. He tried to draw his own wand, but too late.

  ‘Stupefy!’

  Yaxley slid to the ground to lie curled on the floor.

  ‘Harry!’

  ‘Hermione, if you think I was going to sit here and let her pretend –’

  ‘Harry, Mrs Cattermole!’

  Harry whirled round, throwing off the Invisibility Cloak; down below, the Dementors had moved out of their corners; they were gliding towards the woman chained to the chair: whether because the Patronus had vanished or because they sensed that their masters were no longer in control, they seemed to have abandoned restraint. Mrs Cattermole let out a terrible scream of fear as a slimy, scabbed hand grasped her chin and forced her face back.

  ‘EXPECTO PATRONUM!’

  The silver stag soared from the tip of Harry’s wand and leapt towards the Dementors, which fell back and melted into the dark shadows again. The stag’s light, more powerful and more warming than the cat’s protection, filled the whole dungeon as it cantered round and round the room.

  ‘Get the Horcrux,’ Harry told Hermione.

  He ran back down the steps, stuffing the Invisibility Cloak back into his bag, and approached Mrs Cattermole.

  ‘You?’ she whispered, gazing into his face. ‘But – but Reg said you were the one who submitted my name for questioning!’

  ‘Did I?’ muttered Harry, tugging at the chains binding her arms. ‘Well, I’ve had a change of heart. Diffindo!’ Nothing happened. ‘Hermione, how do I get rid of these chains?’

  ‘Wait, I’m trying something up here –’

  ‘Hermione, we’re surrounded by Dementors!’

  ‘I know that, Harry, but if she wakes up and the locket’s gone – I need to duplicate it … Geminio! There … that should fool her …’

  Hermione came running downstairs.

  ‘Let’s see … Relashio!’

  The chains clinked and withdrew into the arms of the chair. Mrs Cattermole looked just as frightened as ever before.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she whispered.

  ‘You’re going to leave here with us,’ said Harry, pulling her to her feet. ‘Go home, grab your children and get out, get out of the country if you’ve got to. Disguise yourselves and run. You’ve seen how it is, you won’t get anything like a fair hearing here.’

  ‘Harry,’ said Hermione, ‘how are we going to get out of here with all those Dementors outside the door?’

  ‘Patronuses,’ said Harry, pointing his wand at his own: the stag slowed and walked, still gleaming brightly, towards the door. ‘As many as we can muster; do yours, Hermione.’

  ‘Expec – expecto patronum,’ said Hermione. Nothing happened.

  ‘It’s the only spell she ever has trouble with,’ Harry told a completely bemused Mrs Cattermole. ‘Bit unfortunate, really … come on, Hermione …’

  ‘Expecto patronum!’

  A silver otter burst from the end of Hermione’s wand and swam gracefully through the air to join the stag.

  ‘C’mon,’ said Harry, and he led Hermione and Mrs Cattermole to the door.

  When the Patronuses glided out of the dungeon, there were cries of shock from the people waiting outside. Harry looked around; the Dementors were falling back on both sides of them, melding into the darkness, scattering before the silver creatures.

  ‘It’s been decided that you should all go home and go into hiding with your families,’ Harry told the waiting Muggle-borns, who were dazzled by the light of the Patronuses, and still cowering slightly. ‘Go abroad if you can. Just get well away from the Ministry. That’s the – er – new official position. Now, if you’ll just follow the Patronuses, you’ll be able to leave from the Atrium.’

  They managed to get up the stone steps without being intercepted, but as they approached the lifts Harry started to have misgivings. If they emerged into the Atrium with a silver stag, an otter soaring alongside it, and twenty or so people, half of them accused Muggle-borns, he could not help feeling that they would attract unwanted attention. He had just reached this unwelcome conclusion when the lift clanged to a halt in front of them.

  ‘Reg!’ screamed Mrs Cattermole, and she threw herself into Ron’s arms. ‘Runcorn let me out, he attacked Umbridge and Yaxley, and he’s told all of us to leave the country, I think we’d better do it, Reg, I really do. Let’s hurry home and fetch the children and – why are you so wet?’

  ‘Water,’ muttered Ron, disengaging himself. ‘Harry, they know there are intruders inside the Ministry, something about a hole in Umbridge’s office door, I reckon we’ve got five minutes if that –’

  Hermione’s Patronus vanished with a pop as she turned a horror-struck face to Harry.

  ‘Harry, if we’re trapped here –!’

  ‘We won’t be if we move fast,’ said Harry. He addressed the silent group behind them, who were all gawping at him.

  ‘Who’s got wands?’

  About half of them raised their hands.

  ‘OK, all of you who haven’t got wands need to attach yourself to somebody who has. We’ll need to be fast – before they stop us. Come on.’

  They managed to cram themselves into two lifts. Harry’s Patronus stood sentinel before the golden grilles as they shut and the lifts began to rise.

  ‘Level Eight,’ said the witch’s cool voice, ‘Atrium.’

  Harry knew at once that they were in trouble. The Atrium was full of people moving from fireplace to fireplace, sealing them off.

  ‘Harry!’ squeaked Hermione. ‘What are we going to –?’

  ‘STOP!’ Harry thundered, and the powerful voice of Runcorn echoed through the Atrium: the wizards sealing the fireplaces froze. ‘Follow me,’ he whispered to the group of terrified Muggle-borns, who moved forwards in a huddle, shepherded by Ron and Hermione.

  ‘What’s up, Albert?’ said the same balding wizard who had followed Harry out of the fireplace earlier. He looked nervous.

  ‘This lot need to leave before you seal the exits,’ said Harry, with all the authority he could muster.

  The group of wizards in front of him looked at one another.

  ‘We’ve been told to seal all exits and not let anyone –’

  ‘Are you contradicting me?’ Harry blustered. ‘Would you like me to have your family tree examined, like I had Dirk Cresswell’s?’

  ‘Sorry!’ gasped the balding wizard, backing away. ‘I didn’t mean nothing, Albert, but I thought … I thought they were in for questioning and …’

  ‘Their blood is pure,’ said Harry, and his deep voice echoed impressively through the hall. ‘Purer than many of yours, I dare say. Off you go,’ he boomed to the Muggle-borns, who scurried forwards into the fireplaces and began to vanish in pairs. The Ministry wizards hung back, some looking confused, others scared and resentful. Then –

  ‘Mary!’

  Mrs Cattermole looked over her shoulder. The real Reg Cattermole, no longer vomiting, but pale and wan, had just come running out of a lift.

  ‘R – Reg?’

  She looked from her husband to Ron, who swore loudly.

  The balding wizard gaped, his head turning ludicrously from one Reg Cattermole to the other.

  ‘Hey – what’s going on? What is this?’

  ‘Seal the exit! SEAL IT!’

  Yaxley had burst out of another lift and was running towards the group beside the fireplaces into which all of the Muggle-borns but Mrs Cattermole had now vanished. As the balding wizard lifted his wand, Harry raised an enormous fist and punched him, sending him flying through the air.

  ‘He’s been helping Muggle-borns escape, Yaxley!’ Harry shouted.

  The balding wizard’s colleagues set up an uproar, under cover of which Ron grabbed Mrs Cattermole, pulled her into the still open fireplace and disappeared. Confused, Yaxley looked from Harry to the punched wizard, while the real Reg Cattermole screamed, ‘My wife! Who was that with my wife? What’s going on?’

  Harry saw Yaxley’s head turn, saw an inkling of the truth dawn in that brutish face.

  ‘Come on!’ Harry shouted at Hermione; he seized her hand and they jumped into the fireplace together as Yaxley’s curse sailed over Harry’s head. They spun for a few seconds before shooting up out of a toilet into a cubicle. Harry flung open the door; Ron was standing there beside the sinks, still wrestling with Mrs Cattermole.

  ‘Reg, I don’t understand –’

  ‘Let go, I’m not your husband, you’ve got to go home!’

  There was a noise in the cubicle behind them; Harry looked around; Yaxley had just appeared.

  ‘LET’S GO!’ Harry yelled. He seized Hermione by the hand and Ron by the arm and turned on the spot.

  Darkness engulfed them along with the sensation of compressing bands, but something was wrong … Hermione’s hand seemed to be sliding out of his grip …

  He wondered whether he was going to suffocate, he could not breathe or see and the only solid things in the world were Ron’s arm and Hermione’s fingers, which were slowly slipping away …

  And then he saw the door of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, with its serpent doorknocker, but before he could draw breath there was a scream and a flash of purple light; Hermione’s hand was suddenly vice-like upon his and everything went dark again.

  — CHAPTER FOURTEEN —

  The Thief

  Harry opened his eyes and was dazzled by gold and green; he had no idea what had happened, he only knew that he was lying on what seemed to be leaves and twigs. Struggling to draw breath into lungs that felt flattened, he blinked and realised that the gaudy glare was sunlight streaming through a canopy of leaves far above him. Then an object twitched close to his face. He pushed himself on to his hands and knees, ready to face some small, fierce creature, but saw that the object was Ron’s foot. Looking around, Harry saw that they and Hermione were lying on a forest floor, apparently alone.