Kreacher didn't return that morning or even that afternoon. By nightfall, the four felt discouraged and anxious, and a supper composed largely of moldy bread, upon which Hermione had tried a variety of unsuccessful Transfigurations, did nothing to help.

Kreacher didn't return the following day, nor the day after that. However, two cloaked men had appeared in the square outside number twelve, and they remained there into the night, gazing in the direction of the house that they could not see.

"Death Eaters, for sure," said Johnny, as he, Ron, Harry, and Hermione watched from the drawing room windows.

"Reckon they know we're in here?" Ron asked.

"I don't think so," said Hermione, though she looked frightened, "or they'd have sent Snape in after us, wouldn't they?"

"D'you reckon he's been in here and has his tongue tied by Moody's curse?" asked Ron.

"Yes," said Hermione, "otherwise he'd have been able to tell that lot how to get in, wouldn't he? But they're probably watching to see whether we turn up. They know that Harry owns the house, after all."

"How do they-?" began Harry.

"Wizarding wills are examined by the Ministry, remember? They'll know Dani and Remus wanted nothing and left you the place."

The presence of the Death Eaters outside increased the ominous mood inside number twelve. They hadn't heard a word form anyone beyond Grimmauld Place since Mr. Weasley's Patronus, and the strain was starting to tell. Restless and irritable, Ron had developed an annoying habit of playing with the Deluminator in his pocket; This particularly infuriated Hermione, who was whiling away the wait for Kreacher by studying The Tales of Beedle the Bard and didn't appreciate the way the lights kept flashing on and off.

"Will you stop it!" she cried on the third evening of Kreacher's absence, as all the light was sucked from the drawing room yet again.

"Sorry, sorry!" said Ron, clicking the Deluminator and restoring the lights. "I don't know I'm doing it!"

"Well, can't you find something useful to occupy yourself?"

"What, like reading kids' stories?"

"Dumbledore left me this book, Ron-"

"-and he left me the Deluminator, maybe I'm supposed to use it!"

Johnny the turned page of the Daily Prophet loudly, and Dumbledore's name leapt out at him. It was a moment or two before he took in the meaning of the photograph, which showed a family group. Beneath the photograph were the words: The Dumbledore family, left to right: Albus; Percival, holding newborn Ariana; Kendra, and Aberforth.

His attention caught, Johnny examined the picture more carefully. Dumbledore's father, Percival, was a good-looking man with eyes that seemed to twinkle even in this faded old photograph. The baby, Ariana, was a little longer than a loaf of bread and no more distinctive-looking. The mother, Kendra, had jet black hair pulled into a high bun. Her face had a carved quality about it. Johnny thought of photos of Native Americans he'd seen as he studied her dark eyes, high cheekbones, and straight nose, formally composed above a high-necked silk gown. Albus and Aberforth wore matching lacy collared jackets and had identical, shoulder-length hairstyles. Albus looked several years older, but otherwise the two boys looked very alike, for this was before Albus's nose had been broken and before he started wearing glasses.

The family looked quite happy and normal, smiling serenely up out of the newspaper. Baby Ariana's arm waved vaguely out of her shawl. Johnny looked above the picture and saw the headline:

EXCLUSIVE EXTRACT FROM UPCOMING BIOGRAPHY OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

by Rita Skeeter

Thinking it could hardly make him feel any worse than he already did, Johnny began to read:

Proud and haughty, Kendra Dumbledore could not bear to remain in Mould-on-the-Wold after her husband Percival's well-publicised arrest and imprisonment in Azkaban. She therefore decided to uproot the family and relocate to Godric's Hollow, the village that was later to gain fame as the scene of Harry Potter's strange escape from You-Know-Who.

Like Mould-on-the-Wold, Godric's Hollow was home to a number of Wizarding families, but as Kendra knew none of them, she would be spared the curiosity about her husband's crime she had faced in her former village. By repeatedly rebuffing the friendly advances of her new Wizarding neighbors, she soon ensured that her family was left well alone.

"Slammed the door in my face when I went around to welcome her with a batch of homemade Cauldron Cakes," says Bathilda Bagshot. "The first year they were there I only ever saw the two boys. Wouldn't have known there was a daughter if I hadn't been picking Plangentines by moonlight the winter after they moved in, and saw Kendra leading Ariana out into the back garden. Walked her round the lawn once, keeping a firm grip on her, then took her back inside. Didn't know what to make of it."

It seems that Kendra thought the move to Godric's Hollow was the perfect opportunity to hide Ariana once and for all, something she had probably been planning for years. The timing was significant. Ariana was barely seven years old when she vanished from sight, and seven is the age by which most experts agree that magic will have revealed itself, if present. Nobody now alive remembers Ariana ever demonstrating even the slightest sign of magical ability. It seems clear, therefore, that Kendra made a decision to hide her daughter's existence rather than suffer the shame of admitting that she had produced a Squib. Moving away from the friends and neighbors who knew Ariana would, of course, make imprisoning her all the easier. The tiny number of people who henceforth knew of Ariana's existence could be counted upon to keep the secret, including her two brothers, who had deflected awkward questions with the answer their mother had taught them. "My sister is too frail for school."

Next week: Albus Dumbledore at Hogwarts- the Prizes and the Pretense.

Johnny had been wrong: What he had read had indeed made him feel worse. He looked back at the photograph of the apparently happy family. Was it true? How could he find out? He wanted to go to Godric's Hollow, even if Bathilda was in no fit state to talk to him: he wanted to visit the place where Harry and Dumbledore had both lost loved ones. He was in the process of lowering the newspaper, to ask his companions opinions, when a deafening crack echoed around the kitchen.

For the first time in three days Johnny had forgotten all about Kreacher. His immediate thought was that Death Eaters were attacking, and for a split second, he didn't take in the mass of struggling limbs that had appeared out of thin air right beside his chair. He hurried to his feet as Kreacher disentangled himself and, bowing low to Harry, croaked, "Kreacher has returned with the thief Mundungus Fletcher, Master."

Mundungus scrambled up and pulled out his wand; Hermione, however, was too quick for him.

"Expelliarmus!"

Mundungus's wand soared into the air, and Hermione caught it. Wild-eyed, Mundungus dived for the stairs.

"Nice one, babe," Johnny grinned, causing Hermione to blush slightly and kiss his cheek.

Ron rugby-tackled him and Mundungus hit the stone floor with a muffled crunch.

"What?" he bellowed, writhing in his attempts to free himself from Ron's grip. "Wha've I done? Setting a bleedin' 'house-elf on me, what are you playing at, wha've I done, lemme go, lemme go, of-"

"You're not in much of a position to make threats," said Johnny, pulling his wand out. He threw aside the newspaper, crossed the kitchen in a few strides, and dropped to his knees beside Mundungus, who stopped struggling and looked terrified. Ron got up, panting, and watched as Johnny pointed his wand deliberately at Mundungus's neck. Mundungus stank of stale sweat and tobacco smoke. His hair was matted and his robes stained.

"Kreacher apologizes for the delay in bringing the thief, Master," croaked the elf. "Fletcher knows how to avoid capture, has many hidey-holes and accomplices. Nevertheless, Kreacher cornered the thief in the end."

"You've done really well, Kreacher," said Harry, and the elf bowed low.

"Right, we've got a few questions for you," Johnny told Mundungus, who shouted at once.

"I panicked, okay? I never wanted to come along, no offense, mate, but I never volunteered to die for you, an' that was bleedin' You-Know-Who come flying at me, anyone woulda got outta there. I said all along I didn't wanna do it-"

"For your information, none of the rest of us Disapparated," said Hermione.

"Well, you're a bunch of bleedin' 'eroes then, aren't you, but I never pretended I was up for killing meself-"

"We're not interested in why you ran out on Mad-Eye," said Harry, as Johnny dug his wand a little closer to Mundungus's baggy, bloodshot eyes.

"We already knew you were an unreliable bit of scum," said Johnny coldly.

"Well then, why the 'ell am I being 'unted down by 'ouse-elves? Or is this about them goblets again? I ain't got none of 'em left, or you could 'ave 'em-"

"It's not about the goblets either, although you're getting warmer," said Harry. "Shut up and listen. When you cleaned out this house of anything valuable," Harry began, but Mundungus interrupted him again.

"Sirius never cared about any of the junk-"

There was the sound of pattering fee, a blaze of shining copper, an echoing clang, and a shriek of agony; Kreacher had taken a run at Mundungus and hit him over the head with a saucepan.

"Call 'im off, call 'im off, 'e should be locked up!" screamed Mundungus, cowering as Kreacher raised the heavy-bottomed pan again.

"Kreacher, no!" shouted Harry.

Kreacher's thin arms trembled with the weight of the pan, still held aloft.

"Perhaps just one more, Master Harry, for luck?"

Ron and Johnny laughed heartily.

"We need him conscious, Kreacher, but if he needs persuading, you can do the honors," said Harry.

"Thank you very much, Master," said Kreacher with a bow, and he retreated a short distance, his great pale eyes still fixed upon Mundungus with loathing.

"When you stripped this house of all the valuables you could find," Harry began again, "you took a bunch of stuff from the kitchen cupboard. There was a locket there," Johnny's mouth was suddenly dry. "What did you do with it?"

"Why?" asked Mundungus. "Is it valuable?"

"You've still got it!" cried Hermione.

"No, he hasn't," said Johnny coldly. "He's wondering whether he should have asked more money for it."

"More?" said Mundungus. "That wouldn't have been effing difficult... bleedin' gave it away, di'n' I? No choice."

"What do you mean?"

"I was selling in Diagon Alley and she come up to me and asks if I've got a license for trading in magical artifacts. Bleedin' snoop. She was gonna fine me, but she took a fancy to the locket an' told me she'd take it and let me off that time, and to fink meself lucky."

"Who was this woman?" asked Johnny.

"I dunno, some Ministry hag."

Mundungus considered for a moment, brow wrinkled.

"Little woman. Bow on top of 'er head."

He frowned and then added, "Looked like a toad."

Johnny dropped his wand: It hit Mundungus on the nose and shot red sparks into his eyebrows, which ignited.

"Aquamenti!" screamed Hermione, and a jet of water streamed from her wand, engulfing a spluttering and choking Mundungus.

Johnny looked up and saw his own shock reflected in Harry's, Ron's and Hermione's faces. Johnny's tattoo of his Azkaban number began tingling once more.

As August wore on, the square of unkempt grass in the middle of Grimmauld Place shriveled in the sun until it was brittle and brown. The inhabitants of number twelve were never seen by anyone in the surrounding houses, and nor was number twelve itself. The muggles who lived in Grimmauld Place had long since accepted the amusing mistake in the numbering that had caused number eleven to sit beside number thirteen.

And yet the square was now attracting a trickle of visitors who seemed to find the anomaly most intriguing. Barely a day passed without one or two people arriving in Grimmauld Place with no other purpose, or so it seemed, than to lean against the railings facing numbers eleven and thirteen, watching the join between the two houses. The lurkers were never the same two days running, although they all seemed to share a dislike for normal clothing. Most of the Londoners who passed them were used to eccentric dressers and took little notice, though occasionally one of them might glance back, wondering why anyone would wear cloaks in this heat.

The watchers seemed to be gleaning little satisfaction from their vigil. Occasionally one of them started forward excitedly, as if they had seen something interesting at last, only to fall back looking disappointed.

On the first day of September there were more people lurking in the square than ever before. Half a dozen men in long cloaks stood silent and watchful, gazing as ever at houses eleven and thirteen, but the thing for which they were waiting still appeared elusive. As evening drew in, bringing with it an unexpected gust of chilly rain for the first time in weeks, there occurred one of those inexplicable moments when they appeared to have seen something interesting. The man with the twisted face pointed and his closest companion, a podgy, pallid man, started forward, but a moment later they had relaxed into their previous state of inactivity, looking frustrated and disappointed.

Meanwhile, inside number twelve, Johnny had just entered the hall. He had nearly lost his balance as he Apparated onto the top step just outside the front door, and thought that the Death Eaters might have caught a glimpse of his momentarily exposed elbow. Shutting the front door carefully behind him, he pulled off the Invisibility Cloak, draped it over his arm, and hurried along the gloomy hallway toward the door that led to the basement, a stolen copy of the Daily Prophet clutched in his hand.

The usual low whisper of "Severus Snape" greeted him, the chill wind swept him, and his tongue rolled up for a moment.

"I didn't kill you," Johnny said, once it had unrolled, then held his breath as the dusty jinx-figure exploded. He waited until he was halfway down the stairs to the kitchen, out of earshot of Mrs. Black and clear of the dust cloud, before calling, "I've got news, and you won't like it."

The kitchen was almost unrecognisable. Every surface now shone; Copper pots and pans had been burnished to a rosy glow; the wooden tabletop gleamed; the goblets and plates already laid for dinner glinted in the light from a merrily blazing fire, on which a cauldron was simmering. Nothing in the room, however, was more dramatically different than the house-elf who now came hurrying toward Johnny, dressed in a snowy-white towel, his ear hair as clean and fluffy as cotton wool, Regulus's locket bouncing on his thin chest.

"Shoes off, if you please, Master Johnathan, and hands washed before dinner," croaked Kreacher, seizing the Invisibility Cloak and slouching off to hang it on a hook on the wall, beside a number of old-fashioned robes that had been freshly laundered.

"What's happened?" Ron asked apprehensively. He, Harry and Hermione had been pouring over a sheaf of scribbled notes and hand drawn maps that littered the end of the long kitchen table, but now they watched Johnny as he strode toward them and threw down the newspaper on top of their scattered parchment.

A large picture of a familiar, hook-nosed, black-haired man stared up at them all, beneath a headline that read:

SEVERUS SNAPE CONFIRMED AS HOGWARTS HEADMASTER

"No!" said Harry, Ron and Hermione loudly.

Hermione was quickest; she snatched up the newspaper and began to read the accompanying story out loud.

"Severus Snape, long-standing Potions Master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and wizardry, was today appointed headmaster in the most important of several staffing changes at the ancient school. Following the resignation of the previous Muggle Studies teacher, Alecto Carrow will take over the post while her brother, Amycus, fills the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."

" 'I welcome the opportunity to uphold our finest Wizarding traditions and values- Like committing murder and cutting off people's ears, I suppose! Snape, headmaster! Snape in Dumbledore's study- Merlin's pants!" she shrieked, making Johnny, Harry and Ron jump. She leapt up from the table and hurtled from the room, shouting as she went, "I'll be back in a minute!"

"'Merlin's pants'?" repeated Johnny, looking amused. "She must be upset."

Ron pulled the newspaper toward him and perused the article about Snape.

"The other teachers won't stand for this, McGonagall and Flitwick and Sprout all know the truth, they know how Dumbledore died. They won't accept Snape as headmaster. And who are these Carrows?"

"Death Eaters," said Johnny. "There are pictures of them inside."

"They were at the top of the tower when Snape killed Dumbledore, so it's all friends together. And," Harry went on bitterly, drawing up a chair, "I can't see that the other teachers have got any choice but to stay. If the Ministry and Voldemort are behind Snape, it'll be a choice between staying and teaching, or a nice few years in Azkaban- and that's if they're lucky. I reckon they'll stay to try and protect the students."

Kreacher came bustling to the table with a large curcen in his hands, and ladled out soup into pristine bowls, whistling between his teeth as he did so.

"Thanks, Kreacher," said Harry, flipping over the Prophet so as not to have to look at Snape's face. "Well, at least we know exactly where Snape is now."

Johnny began to spoon soup into his mouth. The quality of Kreacher's cooking had improved dramatically ever since he had been given Regulus's locket: Today's French onion was as good as Johnny had ever tasted.

"There are still a load of Death Eaters watching this house," Johnny told Ron and Harry as he ate, "more than usual. It's like they're hoping we'll march out carrying our school trunks and head off for the Hogwarts Express."

Ron glanced at his watch.

"I've been thinking about that all day. It left nearly six hours ago. Weird, not being on it, isn't it?"

In his mind's eye Johnny seemed to see the scarlet steam engine, shimmering between fields and hills, a rippling scarlet caterpillar. He was sure Pansy, Mia, Blaise and all their friends were sitting close together at this moment, perhaps wondering where he, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were, or debating how best to undermine Snape's new regime.

"They nearly saw me coming back in just now," Johnny said, "I landed badly on the top step, and the Cloak slipped."

"I do that every time. Oh, here she is," Harry added, craning around in his seat to watch Hermione reentering the kitchen. "And what in the name of Merlin's most baggy fronts was that about?"

"I remembered this," Hermione panted.

She was carrying a large, framed picture, which she now lowered to the floor before seizing her small, beaded bag from the kitchen sideboard. Opening it, she proceeded to force the painting inside and despite the fact that it was patently too large to fit inside the tiny bag, within a few seconds it had vanished, like so much ease, into the bag's capacious depths.

"Phineas Nigellus," Hermione explained as she threw the bag onto the kitchen table with the usual sonorous, clanking crash.

The painted image of Phineas Nigellus Black was able to travel between his portrait in Grimmauld Place and the one that hung in the headmaster's office at Hogwarts: the circular cower-top room where Snape was no doubt sitting right now, in triumphant possession of Dumbledore's collection of delicate, silver magical instruments, the stone Pensieve, the Sorting Hat and, unless it ad been moved elsewhere, the sword of Gryffindor.

"Snape could send Phineas Nigellus to look inside this house for him," Hermione explained to Ron as she resumed her seat. "But let him try it now, all Phineas Nigellus will be able to see is the inside of my handbag."

"Good thinking!" said Ron, looking impressed.

"Thank you," smiled Hermione, pulling her soup toward her. "So, darling, what else happened today?"

"Nothing," said Johnny. "Watched the Ministry entrance for seven hours. No sign of her. Saw your dad though, Ron. He looks fine."

Ron nodded his appreciation of this news. The had agreed that it was far too dangerous to try and communicate with Mr. Weasley while he walked in and out of the Ministry, because he was always surrounded by other Ministry workers. It was, however, reassuring to catch these glimpses of him, even if he did look very strained and anxious.

"Dad always told us most Ministry people use the Floo Network to get to work," Ron said. "That's why we haven't seen Umbridge, she'd never walk, she'd think she's too important."

"And what about that funny old witch and that little wizard in the navy robes?" Hermione asked.

"Oh yeah, the bloke from Magical Maintenance," said Ron.

"How do you know he works for Magical Maintenance?" Hermione asked, her soupspoon suspended in midair.

"Dad said everyone from Magical Maintenance wears navy blue robes."

"But you never told us that!"

Hermione dropped her spoon and pulled toward her the sheaf of notes and maps that she, Harry and Ron had been examining when Johnny had entered the kitchen.

"There's nothing in here about navy blue robes, nothing!" she said, flipping feverishly through the pages.

"Well, does it really matter?"

"Ron, it all matters! If we're going to get into the Ministry and not give ourselves away when they're bound to be on the lookout for intruders, every little detail matters! We've been over and over this, I mean, what's the point of all these reconnaissance trips if you aren't even bothering to tell us-"

"Blimey, Hermione, I forget one little thing-"

"You do realise, don't you, that there's probably no more dangerous place in the whole world for us to be right now than the Ministry of-"

"I think we should do it tomorrow," said Harry, interrupting the argument.

Hermione stopped dead, her jaw hanging; Johnny choked a little over his soup.

"Tomorrow?" repeated Hermione. "You aren't serious, Harry?"

"I am," said Harry. "I don't think we're going to be much better prepared than we are now even if we skulk around the Ministry entrance for another month. The longer we put it off, the farther away that locket could be. There's already a good chance Umbridge has chucked it away; the thing doesn't open."

"Unless," said Ron, "she's found a way of opening it and she's now possessed."

"Wouldn't make any difference to her, she was a Death Eater first place," Johnny shrugged.

Hermione was biting her lip, deep in thought.

"We know everything important," Harry went on, addressing Hermione. "We know they've stopped Apparition in and out of the Ministry; We know only the most senior Ministry members are allowed to connect their homes to the Floo Network now, because Ron heard those two Unspeakables complaining about it. And we know roughly where Umbridge's office is, because of what you heard the bearded bloke saying to his mate-"

"'I'll be up on level one, Dolores wants to see me,'" Hermione recited immediately.

"Exactly," said Harry. "And we know you get in using those funny coins, or tokens, or whatever they are, because I saw that witch borrowing one from her friend-"

"But we haven't got any!"

"If the plan works, we will have," Harry continued calmly.

"I don't know, Harry, I don't know... There are an awful lot of things that could go wrong, so much relies on chance..."

"That'll be true even if we spend another three months preparing," said Harry. "It's time to act."

They had spent the previous four weeks taking it in turns to don the Invisibility Cloak and spy on the official entrance to the Ministry, which Ron, thanks to Mr. Weasley, had known since childhood. They had tailed Ministry workers on their way in, eavesdropped on their conversations, and learned by careful observation which of them could be relied upon to appear, alone, at the same time every day. Occasionally there had been a chance to sneak a Daily Prophet out of somebody's briefcase. Slowly they had built up the sketchy maps and notes now stacked in front of Hermione.

"All right," said Johnny slowly, "let's say we go for it tomorrow... I think it should just be me, Ron and Harry."

"Oh, don't start that again!" sighed Hermione. "I thought we'd settled this."

"It's one thing hanging around the entrances under the Cloak, but this is different, Hermione," Johnny jabbed a finger at a copy of the Daily Prophet dated ten days previously. "You're on the list of Muggle-borns who didn't present themselves for interrogation!"

"And you're supposed to be a Death Eater acting as Voldemort's right hand man! If anyone shouldn't go, it's you and Harry, you've both got a ten-thousand-Galleon price on your heads-"

"Fine, we'll stay here," said Harry. "Let us know if you ever defeat Voldemort, won't you?"

As Ron and Hermione laughed, pain shot through the scar on Harry's forehead. His hand jumped to it. He saw Johnny's eyes narrow, and Harry tried to pass off the movement by brushing his hair out of his eyes.

"Well, if all four of us go we'll have to Disapparate separately," Ron was saying. "We can't all fit under the Cloak anymore."

Harry stood up. At once, Kreacher hurried forward.

"Master has not finished his soup, would master prefer the savory stew, or else the treacle tart to which Master is so partial?"

"Thanks, Kreacher, but I'll be back in a minute- er- bathroom."

After fifteen minutes of waiting for Harry, Hermione and Johnny had enough and started banging on the bathroom door.

"Harry! HARRY! Harry, open up!"

The door was unbolted and Hermione toppled inside at once, regained her balance, and looked around suspiciously. Johnny was right behind her, looking unnerved as he pointed his wand into the corners of the chilly bathroom.

"What were you doing?" asked Hermione sternly.

"What d'you think I was doing?" asked Harry with feeble bravado.

"You were yelling your head off!" said Johnny.

"Oh yeah... I must've dozed off or-"

"Harry, please don't insult our intelligence," said Hermione, taking deep breaths. "We know your scar hurt downstairs, and you're white as a sheet."

Harry sat down on the edge of the bath.

"Fine. I've just seen Voldemort murdering a woman. By now he's probably killed her whole family. And he didn't need to. It was Cedric all over again, they were just there..."

"Harry, you aren't supposed to let this happen anymore!" Hermione cried, her voice echoing through the bathroom. "Dumbledore wanted you to use Occlumency! HE thought the connection was dangerous- Voldemort can use it, Harry! What good is it to watch him kill and torture, how can it help?"

"Because it means I know what he's doing," said Harry.

"So you're not even going to try to shut him out?"

"Hermione, I can't. You know I'm lousy at Occlumency. I never got the hang of it."

"You never really tried!" she said hotly. "I don't get it, Harry- do you like having this special connection or relationship or what- whatever-"

She faltered under the look he gave her as he stood up.

"Like it?" he said quietly. "Would you like it?"

"I- no- I'm sorry, Harry. I just didn't mean-"

"I hate it, I hate the fact that he can get inside me, that I have to watch him when he's most dangerous. But I'm going to use it."

"Dumbledore-"

"Forget Dumbledore. This is my choice, nobody else's. I want to know why he's after Gregorovitch."

"Who?"

"He's a foreign wandmaker," said Johnny, furrowing his eyebrows. "He made my Grandfather's wand and Grandfather reckons he's brilliant."

"But according to you," said Hermione, "Voldemort's got Ollivander locked up somewhere. If he's already got a wandmaker, what does he need another one for?"

"Maybe he agrees with Krum, maybe he thinks Gregorovitch is better... or else he thinks Gregorovitch will be able to explain what my wand did when he was chasing me, because Ollivander didn't know."

"Harry, you keep talking about what your wand did," said Hermione, "but you made it happen! Why are you so determined not to take responsibility for your own power?"

"Because I know it wasn't me! And so does Voldemort, Hermione! We both know what really happened!"

They glared at each other. To their relief, Ron intervened from behind Johnny.

"Drop it," Ron advised Hermione. "It's up to him. And if we're going to the Ministry tomorrow, don't you reckon we should go over the plan?"

Reluctantly, as the other three could tell, Hermione let the matter rest. In the meantime, they returned to the basement kitchen, where Kreacher served them all stew and treacle tart.

They didn't get to bed until late that night, after spending hours going over and over their plan until they could recite it, word perfect, to each other. Johnny and Hermione, who were now sleeping in Regulus's bedroom, laid in each other's arms, neither saying anything.

Dawn seemed to follow midnight with indecent haste.

"You look terrible," was Harry's greeting as he entered the room to wake Hermione and Johnny.

"Thanks," said Johnny sarcastically, yawning.

They found Ron downstairs in the kitchen. He was being served coffee and hot rolls by Kreacher and wearing the slightly manic expression that they associated with exam revision.

"Robes," Hermione said under her breath, taking a seat and beginning to poke around in her beaded bag, "Polyjuice Potion... Invisibility Cloak... Decoy Detonators... You should each take a couple just in case... Puking Pastilles, Nosebleed Norgat, Extendable Ears..."

They gulped down their breakfast, then set off upstairs, Kreacher bowing them out and promising to have a steak-and-kidney pie ready for them when they returned.

"Bless him," said Johnny fondly, "and when you think I used to fantasise about cutting off his head with my claws and sticking it on the wall."

They made their way onto the front step with immense caution. They could see a couple of puffy-eyed Death Eaters watching the house from across the misty square.

Hermione Disapparated with Ron first, then came back for Harry, them Johnny.

After the usual brief spell of darkness and near suffocation, Johnny found himself in the tiny alleyway where the first phase of their plan was scheduled to take place. It was as yet deserted, except for a couple of large bins; the first Ministry workers didn't usually appear here until at least eight o'clock.

"Right then," said Hermione, checking her watch. "she ought to be here in about five minutes. When I've Stunned her-"

"Hermione, we know," said Ron sternly. "And I thought we were supposed to open the door before she got here?"

Hermione squealed.

"I nearly forgot! Stand back-"

She pointed her wand at the padlocked and heavily graffitied fire door beside them, which burst open with a crash. The dark corridor behind it led, as they knew from their careful scouting trips, into an empty theater. Hermione pulled the door back toward her, to make it look as thought it was still closed.

"And now," she said, turning, back to face the other two in the alleyway, "we put on the Cloak again-"

" -and we wait," Johnny finished, throwing it over Hermione's head like a blanket over a birdcage.

Little more than a minute later, there was a tiny pop and a little Ministry witch with flyaway gray hair Apparated feet from them, blinking a little in the sudden brightness: the sun had just come out from behind a cloud. She barely had time to enjoy the unexpected warmth, however, before Hermione's silent Stunning Spell hit her in the chest and she toppled over.

"Nicely done, Hermione," said Johnny, emerging behind a bin beside the theater door as Harry took off the Invisibility Cloak. Together they carried the little witch into the dark passageway that led backstage. Hermione plucked a few hairs from the witch's head and added them to a flask of muddy Polyjuice Potion she had taken from the beaded bag. Ron was rummaging through the little witch's handbag.

"She's Mafalda Hopkirk," he said, reading a small card that identified their victim as an assistant in the Improper Use of Magic Office. "You'd better take this, Hermione, and here are the tokens."

He passed her several small golden coins, all embossed with the letters M.O.M. which he had taken from the witch's purse.

Hermione drank the Polyjuice Potion, which was now a pleasant heliotrope color, and within seconds stood before them, the double of Mafalda Hopkirk. As she removed Mafalda's spectacles and put them on, Johnny checked his watch.

"We're running late, Mr. Magical Maintenance will be here any second."

They hurried to close the door on the real Mafalda; Johnny hid benign the doors, Harry and Ron threw the Invisibility Cloak over themselves and Hermione remained in view, waiting. Seconds later there was another pop, and a small, ferrety looking wizard appeared before them.

"Oh, hello, Mafalda."

"Hello!" said Hermione in a quavery voice, "How are you today?"

"Not so good, actually," replied the little wizard, who looked thoroughly downcast.

As Hermione and the wizard headed for the main road, Harry and Ron crept along behind them.

"I'm sorry to hear you're under the weather," said Hermione, talking firmly over the little wizard and he tried to expound upon his problems; it was essential to stop him from reaching the street. "Here, have a sweet."

"Eh? Oh, no thanks-"

"I insist!" said Hermione aggressively, shaking the bag of pastilles in his face. Looking rather alarmed, the little wizard took one.

The effect was instantaneous. The moment the pastille touched his tongue, the little wizard started vomiting so hard that he didn't even notice as Hermione yanked a handful of hairs from the top of his head.

"Oh dear!" she said, as he splattered the alley with sick. "Perhaps you'd better take the day off!"

"No- no!" He choked and retched, trying to continue on his way despite being unable to walk straight. "I must- today- must go-"

"But that's just silly!" said Hermione, alarmed. "You can't go to work in this state- I think you ought to go to St. Mungo's and get them to sort you out."

The wizard had collapsed, heaving, onto all fours, still trying to crawl toward the main street.

"You simply can't go to work like this!" cried Hermione.

At last he seemed to accept the truth of her words. Using a reposed Hermione to claw his way back into a standing position, he turned on the spot and vanished, leaving nothing behind but the bag Ron had snatched from his hand as he went and some flying chunks of vomit.

"Urgh," said Hermione, holding up the skirt of her robe to avoid the puddles of sick. "It would have made much less mess to Stun him too."

"Yeah," said Johnny, emerging from behind the door, "but I still think a whole pile of unconscious bodies would have drawn more attention."

"Keen on his job, though, isn't he? Chuck us the hair and the potion, then," said Ron, holding the bag.

Within two minutes, Ron stood before them, as small and ferrety as the sick wizard, and wearing the navy blue robes that had been folded in his bag.

"Weird he wasn't wearing them today, wasn't it, seeing how much he wanted to go? Anyway, I'm Reg Cattermole, according to the label in the back."

"Now wait here," Hermione told Johnny, who was under the Invisibility Cloak with Harry, "and we'll be back with some hairs for you."

He had to wait ten minutes, but it seemed much longer to Johnny, skulking with Harry in the sick-splattered alleyway beside the door concealing the Stunned Mafalda. Finally Ron and Hermione reappeared.

"We don't know who he is," Hermione said, passing Johnny several curly black hairs, "but he's gone home with a dreadful nosebleed! Here, he's pretty tall, you'll need bigger robes..."

She pulled out a set of the old robes Kreacher had laundered for them, and Johnny retired to take the potion and change.

Once the painful transformation was complete he was more than six feet tall and, from what he could tell from his well-muscled arms, powerfully built. He also had a beard. He rejoined the other two and Harry (who would be under the Invisibility cloak the whole trip.

"Blimey, that's scary," said Ron, looking up at Johnny, who now towered over him.

"Take one of Mafalda's tokens," Hermione told Johnny, "and let's go, it's nearly nine."

They stepped out of the alleyway together. Fifty yards along the crowded pavement there were spiked black railings flanking two flights of stairs, one labeled GENTLEMEN, the other LADIES.

"See you in a moment, then," said Hermione nervously, and she tottered off down the steps to LADIES. Johnny and Ron (and they hoped Harry) joined a number of oddly dressed men descending into what appeared to be an ordinary underground public toilet, tiled in grimy black and white.

"Morning, Reg!" called another wizard in navy blue robes as he let himself into a cubicle by inserting his golden token into a slot in the door. "Blooming pain in the bum, this, eh? Forcing us all to get to work this way! Who are they expecting to turn up, Harry Potter and Johnathan Grindelwald?"

The wizard roared with laughter at his own wit. Ron gave a forced chuckle.

"Yeah," he said, "stupid, isn't it?"

To Johnny's left and right came the sound of flushing. He crouched down and peered through the gap at the bottom of the cubicle, just in time to see a pair of booted feet climbing into the toilet next door. He looked left and saw Ron blinking at him.

"We have to flush ourselves in?" Ron whispered.

"Looks like it," Johnny whispered back; his voice came out deep and gravelly.

They both stood up. Feeling exceptionally foolish, Johnny clambered into the toilet.

He knew at once that he had done the right thing; thought he appeared to be standing in water, his shoes, feet, and robes remained quite dry. He reached up, pulled the chain, and next moment had zoomed down a short chute, emerging out of a fireplace into the Ministry of Magic.

He got up clumsily; there was a lot more of his body than he was accustomed to. The great Atrium seemed darker than Johnny remembered it. Previously a golden fountain had filled the center of the hall, casting shimmering spots of light over the polished wooden floor and walls. Now a gigantic statue of black stone dominated the scene. It was rather frightening, this vast sculpture of a witch and a wizard sitting on ornately carved thrones, looking down at the Ministry workers toppling out of fireplaces below them. Engraved in foot-high letters at the base of the statue were the words MAGIC IS MIGHT.

Johnny received a heavy blow on the back of the legs. Another wizard had just flown out of the fireplace behind him.

"Out of the way, can't y- oh, sorry, Runcorn."

Clearly frightened, the balding wizard hurried away. Apparently the man who Johnny was impersonating, Runcorn, was intimidating.

"Psst!" said a voice, and he looked around to see a whispy little witch and the ferrety wizard from Magical Maintenance gesturing to him from over beside the statue. Johnny hastened to join them.

"Harry's with us. You got in all right, then?" Hermione whispered to Johnny.

"No, he's still stuck in the hog," said Ron.

"Oh, very funny... It's horrible, isn't it?" she said to Johnny, who was staring up at the statue. "Have you seen what they're sitting on?"

Johnny looked more closely and realised that what he had thought were decoratively carved thrones were actually mounds of carved humans: hundreds and hundreds of naked bodies, men, women, and children, all with rather stupid, ugly faces, twisted and pressed together to support the weight of the handsomely robed wizards.

"Muggles," whispered Hermione, "In their rightful place. Come on, let's get going."

They joined the stream of witches and wizards moving toward the golden gates at the end of the hall, looking around as surreptitiously as possible, but there was no sign of the distinctive figure of Dolores Umbridge. They passed through the gates and into a smaller hall, where queues were forming in front of twenty golden grilles housing as many lifts. They had barely joined the nearest one when a voice said, "Cattermole!"

They looked around: Johnny's stomach turned over. One of the Death Eaters who had been involved in his torture was striding toward them. The Ministry workers beside them fell silent, their eyes downcast; Johnny could feel fear rippling through them. The man's scowling, slightly brutish face was somehow at odds with his magnificent, sweeping robes, which were embroidered with much gold thread. Someone in the crowd around the lifts called sycophantically, "Morning, Yaxley!" Yaxley ignored them.

"I requested somebody from Magical Maintenance to sort out my office, Cattermole. It's still raining in there."

Ron looked around as though hoping somebody else would intervene, but nobody spoke.

"Raining... in your office? That's- that's not good, is it?"

Ron gave a nervous laugh. Yaxley's eyes widened.

"You think it's funny, Cattermole, do you?"

A pair of witches broke away from the queue for the lift and bustled off.

"No," said Ron, "no, of course-"

"You realise that I am on my way downstairs to interrogate your wife, Cattermole? In fact, I'm quite surprised you're not down there holding her hand while she waits. Already given her up as a bad job, have you? Probably wise. Be sure and marry a Pureblood next time."

Hermione had let out a little squeak of horror. Yaxley looked at her. She cough feebly and turned away.

"I-I-" stammered Ron.

"But if my wife were accused of being a Mudblood," said Yaxley, "-not that any woman I married would ever be mistaken for such filth- and the Head of Department of Magical Law Enforcement needed a job doing, I would make it my priority to do this job, Cattermole. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," whispered Ron.

"Then attend to it, Cattermole, and if my office is not completely dry within an hour, your wife's Blood Status will be in even greater doubt than it is now."

The golden grille before them clattered open. With a nod and unpleasant smile to Johnny, who was evidently expected to appreciate this treatment of Cattermole, Yaxley swept away toward another lift. Johnny, Ron, and Hermione entered theirs, but nobody followed them: It was as if they were infectious. The grilles shut with a clang and the lift began to move upward.

"Are you with us, Har?" Johnny asked, looking around the elevator. When he felt a sharp poke in his back, Johnny nodded in understanding.

"What am I going to do?" Ron asked the other three; he looked stricken. "If I don't turn up, my wife... I mean, Cattermole's wife-"

"We'll come with you, we should stick together-" began Hermione, but Ron shook his head feverishly.

"That's mental, we haven't got much time. You three find Umbridge, I'll go and sort out Yaxley's office- but how do I stop a raining?"

"Try Finite Incantatem," said Hermione at once, "that should stop the rain if it's a hex or curse; if it doesn't something's gone wrong with an Atmospheric Charm, which will be more difficult to fix, so as an interim measure try Impervius to protect his belongings-"

"Say it again, slowly-" said Ron, searching his pockets desperately for a quill, but at that moment the lift juddered to a halt. A disembodied female voice said, "Level four, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, incorporating Beast, Being, and Spirit Divisions, Goblin Liaison Office, and Pest Advisory Bureau," and the grilles slid open again, admitting a couple of wizards and several pale violet paper airplanes that fluttered around the lamp in the ceiling of the lift.

"Morning, Albert," said a bushily whiskered man, smiling at Johnny. He glanced over at Ron and Hermione as the lift creaked upward once more; Hermione was now whispering frantic instructions to Ron. The wizard leaned toward Johnny, leering, and muttering "Dirk Cresswell, eh? From Goblin Liaison? Nice one, Albert. I'm pretty confident I'll get his job now!"

He winked. Johnny smiled back, hoping that this would suffice. The lift stopped; the grilles opened once more.

"Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services," said the disembodied witch's voice.

Johnny saw Hermione give Ron a little push and he hurried out of the lift, followed by the other wizards. Harry gave Johnny a little poke as he passed, leaving Johnny and Hermione alone. The moment the golden door had closed Hermione said, very fast, "Actually, Johnny, I think I'd better go after him, I don't think he knows what he's doing and if he gets caught the whole thing-"

"Level one, Minister of Magic and Support Staff."

The golden grilles slid apart again and Hermione gasped. Four people stood before them, two of them deep in conversation: a long-haired wizard wearing magnificent robes of black and gold, and a squat, toadlike witch wearing a velvet bow in her short hair and clutching a clipboard to her chest.

"Ah, Mafalda!" said Umbridge, looking at Hermione. "Travers sent you, did he?"

"Y-yes," squeaked Hermione.

"God, you'll do perfectly well," Umbridge spoke to the wizard in black and gold. "That's that problem solved. Minister, if Mafalda can be spared for record-keeping we shall be able to start straightaway," She consulted her clipboard. "Ten people today and one of them the wife of a Ministry employee! Tut, tut... even here, in the heart of the Ministry!" She stepped into the lift besides Hermione, as did the two wizards who had been listening to Umbridge's conversation with the Minister. "We'll go straight down, Mafalda, you'll find everything you need in the courtroom. Good morning, Albert, aren't you getting out?"

"Yes, of course," said Johnny in Runcorn's deep voice.

Johnny stepped out of the lift. The golden grilles clanged shut behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, Johnny saw Hermione's anxious face sinking back out of sight, a tall wizard on either side of her, Umbridge's velvet hair-bow level with her shoulder.

"What brings you here, Runcorn?" asked the new Minister of Magic. His long black hair and beard were streaked with silver and a great overhanging forehead shadowed his glinting eyes, putting Johnny in the mind of a crab looking out from beneath a rock.

"Needed a quick word with," Johnny hesitated for a fraction of a second, "Arthur Weasley. Someone said he was up on level one."

"Ah," said Plum Thicknesse. "Has he been caught having contact with an Undesirable?"

"No," said Johnny, his throat dry. "No, nothing like that."

"Ah, well. It's only a matter of time," said Thicknesse. "If you ask me, the blood traitors are as bad as the Mudbloods. Good day, Runcorn."

"Good day, Minister."

Johnny watched Thicknesse march away along the thickly carpeted corridor. The moment the Minister had passed out of sight, Johnny set off along the corridor in the opposite direction.

Panic pulsed in the pit of his stomach. As he passed gleaming wooden door after gleaming wooden door, each bearing a small plaque with the owner's name and occupation upon it, the might of the Ministry, its complexity, its impenetrability, seemed to force itself upon him so that the plan he had been carefully concocting with Harry, Ron and Hermione over the past four weeks seemed laughably childish. They had concentrated all their efforts on getting inside without being detected: They hadn't given a moment's thought to what they would do if they were forced to separate. Now Hermione was stuck in court proceedings, which would undoubtedly last hours; Ron and Harry was struggling to do magic that Johnny was sure was beyond them, a woman's liberty possibly depending on the outcome, and he, Johnny, was wandering around on the top floor when he knew perfectly well that his quarry had just gone down in the lift.

He stopped walking, leaned against a wall, and tried to decide what to do. The silence pressed upon him: There was no bustling or talk or swift footsteps here the purple-carpeted corridors were as hushed as though the Muffliato charm had been cast over the place.

Her office must be up here, Johnny thought.

It seemed most unlikely that Umbridge would keep her jewelry in her office, but on the other hand it seemed foolish not to search it to make sure. He therefore set off along the corridor again, passing nobody but a frowning wizard who was murmuring instructions to a quill that floated in front of him, scribbling on a trail of parchment.

Now paying attention to the names on the doors, Johnny turned a corner. Halfway along the next corridor he emerged into a wide, open space where a dozen witches and wizards sat in rows at small desks not unlike school desks, though much more highly polished and free from graffiti. Johnny paused to watch them, for the effect was quite mesmerising. They were all waving and twiddling their wands in unison, and squares of colored paper were flying in every direction like little pink kites. After a few seconds, Johnny realised that there was a rhythm to the proceedings, that the papers all formed the same pattern and after a few more seconds he realised what he was watching was the creation of pamphlets- that the paper squares were pages, which, when assembled, folded and magicked into place, fell into neat stacks beside each witch or wizard.

Johnny crept closer, although the workers were so intent on what they were doing that he doubted they would notice him, and he slid a completed pamphlet from the pile beside a young witch. He examined it. Its pink cover was emblazoned with a golden title:

Mudbloods and the Dangers They Pose to a Peaceful Pureblood Society

Beneath the title was a picture of a red rose with a simpering face in the middle of its petals, being strangled by a green weed with fangs and a scowl. There was no author's name upon the pamphlet, but again, the tattoo on his neck seemed to tingle as he examined it. Then the young witch beside him confirmed his suspicion as she said, still waving and twirling her wand, "Will the old hag be interrogating Mudbloods all day, does anyone know?"

"Careful," said the wizard beside her, glancing around nervously; one of his pages slipped and fell to the floor.

"Runcorn isn't gonna tell her. Has she got magic ears as well as an eye, now too?"

The witch glanced at Johnny for a moment and then towards the shining mahogany door facing the space full of pamphlet-makers; Johnny looked too, and the rage reared in him like a snake. Where there might have been a peephole on a Muggle front door, a large, round eye with a bright blue iris had been set into the wood- an eye that was shockingly familiar to anybody who had known Alastor Moody.

For a split second Johnny forgot where he was and what he was doing there. He strode straight over to the door to examine the eye. It wasn't moving. It gazed blindly upward, frozen. The plaque beneath it read:

Dolores Umbridge

Senior Undersecretary to the Minister

Below that a slightly shinier new plaque read:

Head of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission

Johnny looked back at the dozen pamphlet-makers: Though they were intent upon their work, he could hardly suppose that they wouldn't notice if the door of an empty office opened in front of them. He therefore withdrew from an inner pocket an odd object with little waving legs and a rubber-bulbed horn for a body. He placed the Decoy Detonator on the ground.

It scuttled away at once through the legs of the witches and wizards in front of him. A few moments later, during which Johnny waited with his hand upon the doorknob, there came a loud bang and a great deal of acrid smoke billowed from a corner. The young witch in the front row shrieked: Pink pages flew everywhere as she and her fellows jumped up, looking around for the source of the commotion. Johnny turned the doorknob, stepped into Umbridge's office, and closed the door behind him.

He felt he had stepped back in time. The room was exactly like Umbridge's office at Hogwarts: Lace draperies, doilies and dried flowers covered every surface. The walls bore the same ornamental plates, each featuring a highly colored, beribboned kitten, gamboling and frisking with sickening cuteness. The desk was covered with a flouncy, flowered cloth. Behind Mad-eye's eye, a telescopic attachment enabled Umbridge to spy on the workers on the other side of the door. Johnny took a look through it and saw that they were all still gathered around the Decoy Detonator. He wrenched the telescope out of the door, leaving a hole behind, pulled the magical eyeball out of it, and placed it in his pocket. The he turned to face the room again, raised his wand, and murmured, "Accio Locket."

Nothing happened, but he hadn't expected it to; no doubt Umbridge knew all about protective charms and spells. He therefore hurried behind her desk and began pulling open all the drawers. He saw quills and notebooks and Spellotape; enchanted paper clips that coiled snakelike from their drawer and had be beaten back; a fussy little lace box full of spare hair bows and clips; but no sign of a locket.

There was a filing cabinet behind the desk: Johnny set to searching it. Like Filch's filing cabinet at Hogwarts, it was full of folders, each labeled with a name. It was not until Johnny reached the bottommost drawer that he saw something to distract him from the search: Mr. Weasley's file.

He pulled it out and opened it.

Arthur Weasley

Blood Status: Pureblood, but with unacceptable pro-Muggle leanings. Known member of the Order of the Phoenix.

Family: Wife (pureblood), seven children, two youngest at Hogwarts. NB: Youngest son currently at home, seriously ill, Ministry inspectors have confirmed.

Security Status: TRACKED. All movements are being monitored. Strong likelihood Undesirable No. 1 and 2 will contact (has stayed with Weasley family previously)

"Undesirable Number One and Two," Johnny muttered under his breath as he replaced Mr. Weasley's folder and shut the drawer. He had an idea he knew who they were, and sure enough, as he straightened up and glanced around the office for fresh hiding places he saw a poster of himself and Harry on the wall, with the words UNDESIRABLE NO. 1 and 2 emblazoned across their chests. A little pink note was stuck to it with a picture of a kitten in the corner. Johnny moved across to read it and saw that Umbridge had written, "To be punished."

Angrier than ever, he proceeded to grope in the bottoms of the vases and baskets of dried flowers, but wasn't at all surprised that the locket wasn't there. He gave the office one last sweeping look, and his heart skipped a beat. Dumbledore was staring at him from a small rectangular mirror, propped up on a bookcase beside the desk.

Johnny crossed the room at a run and snatched it up, but realised that the moment he touched it that it wasn't a mirror at all. Dumbledore was smiling wistfully out of the front cover of a glossy book. Johnny hadn't immediately noticed the curly green writing across his hat- The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore- nor the slightly smaller writing across his chest: "by Rita Skeeter, bestselling author of Armando Dippet: Master or Moron?"

Johnny opened the book at random and saw a full-page photograph of two teenage boys, both laughing immoderately with their arms around each other's shoulders. Dumbledore, now with elbow-length hair, had grown a tiny wispy beard that recalled the one on Krum's chin that had so annoyed him. The boy who roared in silent amusement beside Dumbledore had a gleeful, wild look about him. His golden hair fell in curls to his shoulders. Harry wondered whether it was a young Doge, or even his Grandfather, but before he could check the caption, the door of the office opened.

If Thicknesse hadn't been looking over his shoulder as he entered, Johnny wouldn't have had time to dive under Umbridge's desk. As it was, he thought Thicknesse might have caught a glimpse of movement, because for a moment or two he remained quite still, staring curiously at the place where Johnny had just vanished. Perhaps deciding that that all he had seen was Dumbledore scratching his nose on the front of the book, for Johnny had hastily replaced it upon the shelf. Thicknesse finally walked to the desk and pointed his wand at the quill standing ready in the ink pot. It sprang out and began scribbling a note to Umbridge. Very slowly, hardly daring to breathe, Johnny silently put a disillusionment charm on himself and backed out of the office into the open area beyond.

The pamphlet-makers were still clustered around the remains of the Decoy Detonator, which continued to hoot feebly as it smoked. J0hmmy 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, Johnny got rid of the charm and 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 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 Harry, and then they could work out a way of extracting Hermione from the courtroom.

The lift was empty when it arrived. Johnny jumped in 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 Johnny as the lift set off again.

"Ron, it's him, Johnny!" Harry muttered beneath the cloak, poking Johnny's back.

"Johnny! Blimey, I forgot what you looked like- why isn't Hermione with you?"

"She had to go down to the courtrooms with Umbridge, she couldn't refuse, and-"

But before Johnny could finish the lift had stopped again. The doors opened and Mr. Weasley walked inside, talking to an elderly 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 Johnny. It was very strange to have Mr. Weasley glare at him with that much dislike. The lift doors closed and the five 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 questioning 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 Johnny felt sure he was scared that his father might recognise him if they looked directly into each other's eyes. "I couldn't 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 Meterolojinx 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. Johnny 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 realise he was in a lit 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, Johnny 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 had information about Dirk Cresswell."

Johnny 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 Azkaban, you'll have to answer to him, not to mention his wife, his sons, and his friends-"

"Arthur," Johnny interrupted, "you know you're being tracked, don't you?"

"Is that a threat, Runcorn?" said Mr. Weasley loudly.

"No," said Johnny, "it's a fact! They're watching your every move-"

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

"That was intense," Harry muttered, breathing heavily. "Here, get under, we'll go get Hermione.{

When the doors opened, they stepped out into a torch-lit stone passageway quite different from the wood-paneled and carpeted corridors above. As the left rattled away again, the two boys shivered slightly, looking toward the distant black door that marked the entrance to the Department of Mysteries.

Lost in thought, they didn't immediately register the unnatural chill that was creeping over them, as if they were descending into fog. It was becoming colder and colder with every step they took; a cold that reached right down his throat and tore at his lungs. And then he felt that stealing sense of despair, or hopelessness, filling him, expanding inside him....

Dementors.

And as they reached the foot of the stairs and turned to their right they 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 Johnny like a curse....

They moved forward as silently as they could, and with every step they took numbness seemed to steal over their brains, but Johnny forced himself to think of Hermione, his fiancé, who needed him.

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, Johnny saw her shudder.

Johnny 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 out of the invisibility cloak and into the courtroom behind her.

"Runcorn?" Asked Umbridge in confusion. "Finished your work have you? Very well, enjoy the show, you can take a seat next to Mafalda."

There were more dementors in here, casting their freezing aura over the place; they stood like faceless sentinels in the corners farthest 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 bight-silver, long-haired cat prowled up and down, up and down, and Johnny 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.

Hermione's eyes met Johnny's as he sat down on her right.

"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 that I might not come home-"

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

"I'm behind you," Harry whispered into Hermione's and Johnny's ears. Hermione 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 the 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 Johnny 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.

"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 Johnny 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 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 Pureblood 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 Johnny'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 Pureblood credentials. Johnny felt the effects of the Polyjuice Potion wear off. In full Wolf form, Johnny let out a deafening roar as his clawed hand slashed Umbridge's throat.

Johnny had succeeded in both killing Umbridge and getting the locket. Umbridge crumpled and her forehead hit the edge of the balustrade, blood dripping from her open wound and onto the floor: Mrs. Cattermole's papers slid off her lap onto 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.

"Guys!"

"Hermione, if you think I was going to sit here and let her pretend-"

"Guys, Mrs. Cattermole!"

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 the room.

"Diffindo!" Harry yelled, pointing at the chains. Nothing happened. "Hermione, how do I get rid of these chains?"

Beethoven (Johnny's Wolf) let out another deafening roar as he gripping a Dementor by the throat and choke slammed it to the floor. Beethoven stomped on the Dementors skull and grey, gooey blood splattered across the floor

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 and a big wolf," said Harry, pointing his wand at his own and then to Johnny, who mindlessly threw Umbridge's dead corpse at a nearby wall. The stag slowed and walked, still gleaming brightly, toward the door. "As many as we can muster; do yours, Hermione."

"Expecto- 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 and Johnny came out of the dungeon there were cries of shock from the people waiting outside. Johnny/Beethoven grabbed two Dementors by the neck and smashed them against the wall, hearing a satisfying crunch from their skulls.

"It's been decided that you should all go home and go into hiding with your families," Harry told the waiting Muggle-born, who were dazzled by the light of the Patronuses and cowering slightly as the wolf let out another roar. "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 and the big wolf, you'll be able to leave the Atrium."

Johnny/Beethoven let out a pain whimper as he was stuffed into the back of the cramped elevator. Being ten foot tall and three foot wide with big burly arms and a large snout wasn't pleasant in this experience.

If they emerged into the Atrium with a silver stag, an otter and a massive werewolf, and twenty or so people, half of them accused Muggle-borns, they would attract unwanted attention. They 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- Grindelwald, whoever he is! He's a wolf now, he let me out, he attacked Umbridge and Yaxley, and Harry Potter 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, they're closing in-!"

Johnny let out another dealing roar and sunk his teeth into a nearby wizard who tried to stun him. He threw the wizard into the stone statue of the two wizards sitting on Muggles, and the statue broke into a million little pieces of dust and rubble.

"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!"

Johnny roared, he sunk his teeth into Yaxley's neck and tugged. With a grim sounding ripping noise, Yaxley's Adam's Apple, Tongue and head disconnected from his body. Just as the wolf dropped the human insides, it turned back to Johnny in oversized robes with blood dripping down in his front. Yaxley's cold, grey eyes twitched at Johnny for a moment, and the seventeen year old boy stood there in shock.

"Come on!" Hermione shouted at Johnny; she seized her fiancé's hand and they jumped into the fireplace together as a curse sailed over Johnny's head. They spun for a few seconds before shooting up out of a toilet into a cubicle. Johnny flung open the door: Ron and Harry was standing 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; Johnny looked around; Jakob had just appeared.

"LET'S GO!" Johnny yelled. He seized Hermione by the hand and Harry by the arm and turned on the spot. He was thankful he saw Harry grab Ron.

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

He wondered whether he was going to suffocate; he couldn't 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 to 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 suddenly vicelike upon his and everything went dark again.