Dolores Umbridge 16 страница

The pamphlet-makers were still clustered around the remains of the Decoy Detonator, which continued to hoot feebly as it smoked. Harry hurried off up the corridor as the young witch said, “I bet it sneaked up here from Experimental Charms, they’re so careless, remember that poisonous duck? ”

Speeding back toward the lifts, Harry reviewed his options. It had never been likely that the locket was here at the Ministry, and there was no hope of bewitching its whereabouts out of Umbridge while

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she was sitting in a crowded court. Their priority now had to be to leave the Ministry before they were exposed, and try again another day. The first thing to do was to find Ron, and then they could work out a way of extracting Hermione from the courtroom.

The lift was empty when it arrived. Harry jumped in and pulled off the Invisibility Cloak as it started its descent. To his enormous relief, when it rattled to a halt at level two, a soaking-wet and wild- eyed Ron got in.

“M-morning, ” he stammered to Harry as the lift set off again. “Ron, it’s me, Harry! ”

“Harry! Blimey, I forgot what you looked like — why isn’t Her- mione with you? ”

“She had to go down to the courtrooms with Umbridge, she couldn’t refuse, and —”

But before Harry could finish the lift had stopped again: The doors opened and Mr. Weasley walked inside, talking to an el- derly witch whose blonde hair was teased so high it resembled an anthill.

“. . . I quite understand what you’re saying, Wakanda, but I’m afraid I cannot be party to —”

Mr. Weasley broke off; he had noticed Harry. It was very strange to have Mr. Weasley glare at him with that much dislike. The lift doors closed and the four of them trundled downward once more. “Oh, hello, Reg, ” said Mr. Weasley, looking around at the sound

of steady dripping from Ron’s robes. “Isn’t your wife in for question- ing today? Er — what’s happened to you? Why are you so wet? ” “Yaxley’s office is raining, ” said Ron. He addressed Mr. Weasley’s shoulder, and Harry felt sure he was scared that his father might rec- ognize him if they looked directly into each other’s eyes. “I couldn’t

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stop it, so they’ve sent me to get Bernie — Pillsworth, I think they said —”

“Yes, a lot of offices have been raining lately, ” said Mr. Weasley. “Did you try Meteolojinx Recanto? It worked for Bletchley. ” “Meteolojinx Recanto? ” whispered Ron. “No, I didn’t. Thanks, D — I mean, thanks, Arthur. ”

The lift doors opened; the old witch with the anthill hair left, and Ron darted past her out of sight. Harry made to follow him, but found his path blocked as Percy Weasley strode into the lift, his nose buried in some papers he was reading.

Not until the doors had clanged shut again did Percy realize he was in a lift with his father. He glanced up, saw Mr. Weasley, turned radish red, and left the lift the moment the doors opened again. For the second time, Harry tried to get out, but this time found his way blocked by Mr. Weasley’s arm.

“One moment, Runcorn. ”

The lift doors closed and as they clanked down another floor, Mr. Weasley said, “I hear you laid information about Dirk Cresswell. ” Harry had the impression that Mr. Weasley’s anger was no less because of the brush with Percy. He decided his best chance was to act stupid.

“Sorry? ” he said.

“Don’t pretend, Runcorn, ” said Mr. Weasley fiercely. “You tracked down the wizard who faked his family tree, didn’t you? ”

“I — so what if I did? ” said Harry.

“So Dirk Cresswell is ten times the wizard you are, ” said Mr. Weasley quietly, as the lift sank ever lower. “And if he survives Az- kaban, you’ll have to answer to him, not to mention his wife, his sons, and his friends —”

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“Arthur, ” Harry interrupted, “you know you’re being tracked, don’t you? ”

“Is that a threat, Runcorn? ” said Mr. Weasley loudly. “No, ” said Harry, “it’s a fact! They’re watching your every move —”

The lift doors opened. They had reached the Atrium. Mr. Weasley gave Harry a scathing look and swept from the lift. Harry stood there, shaken. He wished he was impersonating somebody other than Runcorn. . . . The lift doors clanged shut.

Harry pulled out the Invisibility Cloak and put it back on. He would try to extricate Hermione on his own while Ron was dealing with the raining office. When the doors opened, he stepped out into a torch-lit stone passageway quite different from the wood-paneled and carpeted corridors above. As the lift rattled away again, Harry shivered slightly, looking toward the distant black door that marked the entrance to the Department of Mysteries.

He set off, his destination not the black door, but the doorway he remembered on the left-hand side, which opened onto the flight of stairs down to the court chambers. His mind grappled with pos- sibilities as he crept down them: He still had a couple of Decoy Detonators, but perhaps it would be better to simply knock on the courtroom door, enter as Runcorn, and ask for a quick word with Mafalda? Of course, he did not know whether Runcorn was suf- ficiently important to get away with this, and even if he managed it, Hermione’s non-reappearance might trigger a search before they were clear of the Ministry. . . .

Lost in thought, he did not immediately register the unnatural chill that was creeping over him, as if he were descending into fog. It was becoming colder and colder with every step he took: a cold

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that reached right down into his throat and tore at his lungs. And then he felt that stealing sense of despair, of hopelessness, filling him, expanding inside him. . . .

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 hid- den, 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 forward as silently as he could, and with every step he took numb- ness 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

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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, magi- cally 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 far- thest from the high, raised platform. Here, behind a balustrade, sat

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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 realized that it was there to protect the pros- ecutors 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 toward 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

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his way along the platform behind Umbridge, Yaxley, and Hermi- one, 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 recognize 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 any- body. 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 forward over the barrier, the better to observe her victim, and something gold swung forward 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.

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“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 toadlike 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 sheaf of parchment with Mrs. Cattermole’s name on it.

“That’s — that’s pretty, Dolores, ” she said, pointing at the pen- dant 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 bo-

som. “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 bol- ster 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 fore- head hit the edge of the balustrade: Mrs. Cattermole’s papers slid

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off her lap onto the floor and, down below, the prowling silver cat vanished. Ice-cold air hit them like an oncoming wind: Yaxley, con- fused, 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 around, throwing off the Invisibility Cloak; down below, the dementors had moved out of their corners; they were gliding toward 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 leaped toward 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 around and around 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.

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“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, toward the door. “As many as we can muster; do yours, Hermione. ”

“ Expec — Expecto patronum, ” said Hermione. Nothing hap-

pened.

“It’s the only spell she ever has trouble with, ” Harry told a com- pletely 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.

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“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 Pa- tronuses, 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.

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“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.

“Okay, 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 Patro- nus 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 forward in a huddle, shepherded by Ron and Hermione.

“What’s up, Albert? ” said the same balding wizard who had fol- lowed 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

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nothing, Albert, but I thought. . . I thought they were in for ques- tioning and. . . ”

“Their blood is pure, ” said Harry, and his deep voice echoed im- pressively through the hall. “Purer than many of yours, I daresay. Off you go, ” he boomed to the Muggle-borns, who scurried forward into the fireplaces and began to vanish in pairs. The Ministry wiz- ards hung back, some looking confused, others scared and resent- ful. Then:

“Mary! ”

Mrs. Cattermole looked over her shoulder. The real Reg Catter- mole, 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 toward 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

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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 door knocker, but before he could draw breath, there was a scream and a flash of purple light; Hermione’s hand was sud- denly vicelike upon his and everything went dark again.

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arry 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 realized 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 onto 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.

Harry’s first thought was of the Forbidden Forest, and for a mo- ment, even though he knew how foolish and dangerous it would be for them to appear in the grounds of Hogwarts, his heart leapt at the thought of sneaking through the trees to Hagrid’s hut. How- ever, in the few moments it took for Ron to give a low groan and Harry to start crawling toward him, he realized that this was not the

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Forbidden Forest: The trees looked younger, they were more widely spaced, the ground clearer.

He met Hermione, also on her hands and knees, at Ron’s head. The moment his eyes fell upon Ron, all other concerns fled Harry’s mind, for blood drenched the whole of Ron’s left side and his face stood out, grayish-white, against the leaf-strewn earth. The Polyjuice Potion was wearing off now: Ron was halfway between Cattermole and himself in appearance, his hair turning redder and redder as his face drained of the little color it had left.

“What’s happened to him? ”

“Splinched, ” said Hermione, her fingers already busy at Ron’s sleeve, where the blood was wettest and darkest.

Harry watched, horrified, as she tore open Ron’s shirt. He had always thought of Splinching as something comical, but this. . . His insides crawled unpleasantly as Hermione laid bare Ron’s up- per arm, where a great chunk of flesh was missing, scooped cleanly away as though by a knife.

“Harry, quickly, in my bag, there’s a small bottle labeled ‘Essence of Dittany’ —”

“Bag — right —”

Harry sped to the place where Hermione had landed, seized the tiny beaded bag, and thrust his hand inside it. At once, object after object began presenting itself to his touch: He felt the leather spines of books, woolly sleeves of jumpers, heels of shoes —

“ Quickly! ”

He grabbed his wand from the ground and pointed it into the depths of the magical bag.

“ Accio Dittany! ”

A small brown bottle zoomed out of the bag; he caught it and

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hastened back to Hermione and Ron, whose eyes were now half- closed, strips of white eyeball all that were visible between his lids. “He’s fainted, ” said Hermione, who was also rather pale; she no longer looked like Mafalda, though her hair was still gray in places. “Unstopper it for me, Harry, my hands are shaking. ”

Harry wrenched the stopper off the little bottle, Hermione took it and poured three drops of the potion onto the bleeding wound. Greenish smoke billowed upward and when it had cleared, Harry saw that the bleeding had stopped. The wound now looked several days old; new skin stretched over what had just been open flesh. “Wow, ” said Harry.

“It’s all I feel safe doing, ” said Hermione shakily. “There are spells that would put him completely right, but I daren’t try in case I do them wrong and cause more damage. . . . He’s lost so much blood already. . . . ”

“How did he get hurt? I mean” — Harry shook his head, trying to clear it, to make sense of whatever had just taken place — “why are we here? I thought we were going back to Grimmauld Place? ” Hermione took a deep breath. She looked close to tears.

“Harry, I don’t think we’re going to be able to go back there. ” “What d’you —? ”