The elevator gave another jolt and stopped.
"I was just about to come find—" Ron began, but the doors slid open again.
Mr. Weasley stepped in, talking to an elderly witch whose pale-yellow hair was piled high like an anthill.
"…I understand what you're saying, Wakanda, but I'm afraid I can't get involved—"
He broke off mid-sentence. His gaze had fallen on Harry.
The look of disgust Mr. Weasley gave him was so sharp, so alien, that for a second Harry forgot to breathe. The doors slid shut again, and the four of them descended with a shuddering clatter.
"Hello, Reg," Mr. Weasley said, looking at Ron. "What happened to you? You're soaked."
"It was raining in the Office of Independent Investigation," Ron muttered, keeping his head down. "I got called in to fix it."
"Ah, a lot of departments have been raining lately," said Mr. Weasley conversationally. "Did you get it sorted?"
"Yeah. It's fixed," Ron said, still avoiding his father's eyes.
"That's good."
The doors opened again. The witch with the anthill hair swept out, and Percy Weasley stepped in, nose buried deep in a stack of papers.
It wasn't until the doors clanged shut that Percy realized who else was in the elevator. He looked up, saw his father, and his face went beet red. The moment the doors opened again, he hurried out without a word.
Mr. Weasley stood there for a moment, then turned to Harry.
"Runcorn, isn't it?" he said stiffly. "I heard you reported Dirk Cresswell."
"What?" said Harry.
"Don't pretend, Runcorn!" Mr. Weasley's voice rose sharply. "You were the one who hunted down the wizard who forged bloodline records, weren't you?"
"I, yeah. So what?" Harry shot back.
"So what? Dirk Cresswell was ten times the wizard you'll ever be!" Mr. Weasley hissed, voice low and angry as the elevator continued its descent. "If he ever gets out of Azkaban, he'll come for you. And that's not even counting his wife and friends—"
The doors slid open again. They had reached the Atrium. Ron quickly tugged on his father's sleeve. An inspector stood waiting just outside.
Mr. Weasley cut himself off. He cast Harry one last, searing glare, then swept out of the elevator.
The inspector nodded briefly to Harry and turned away on his patrol.
The doors clanged shut, and the elevator began rising again. Harry stood frozen for a moment until Ron hit the button for the lower levels.
"Harry!" Ron barked.
"I–"
"I know. Getting told off by my dad isn't exactly pleasant, is it?" Ron shrugged. "Don't worry. I've seen it happen before."
The doors opened again. They had reached Level Nine, the Department of Mysteries.
Ron rubbed his arms. "Still cold as ever down here. Last time we came we were in too much of a rush to notice. It's like a tomb, dark, freezing, and dead quiet."
In front of them stretched a torch-lit stone corridor. Unlike the carpeted, paneled hallways above, this one gleamed with black glassy stone, cold and echoing.
Harry handed Ron the Invisibility Cloak. "You stay here and wait for us. As soon as we're out, press the elevator button. We'll go straight up."
Ron nodded, glancing at his watch. "You've got one hour. Make it quick."
"Right." Harry turned left, down the stairway that led to the courtrooms of Level Ten.
His fingers brushed his wand, then the small decoy detonators and flash bombs in his pocket. Once he delivered the note to Umbridge, the plan would begin.
He pulled out the note, glancing at it under the flickering torchlight.
More information about the Order of the Phoenix has been uncovered. Meeting tonight at seven on Level One.
Harry frowned. What new information? He'd have to warn Anne to be careful when he got back.
Lost in thought, he didn't notice the creeping chill until it pierced his lungs. The air grew heavy, each step colder than the last. The cold slid down his throat, freezing his chest from the inside out. Despair seeped into his veins.
Dementors, he realized.
At the bottom of the stairs, he turned right, and froze.
The corridor outside the courtroom was lined with tall, hooded figures. Their faces were hidden, their rattling breaths the only sound. A crowd of terrified witches and wizards, some in rags, some trembling uncontrollably, huddled together on wooden benches. Some covered their faces, as if that could shield them from the creatures' gaping mouths. A few clutched the hands of family members; others sat alone, shaking.
The Dementors drifted back and forth among them, the stench of hopelessness thick as smoke.
Don't react, Harry told himself. Don't use the Patronus. Not here.
He crept forward, every step slower, every heartbeat heavier. Passing between the towering black shapes was a nightmare, he could feel their eyeless faces turn toward him, sensing the flicker of life and hope still burning in him.
Then, a door burst open to his left.
"No, no, I told you, I'm half-blood! My father's a wizard, Archie Alderton, he designed broomsticks, you can check, you can, don't touch me, don't—"
"This is your final warning," Umbridge's syrupy voice rang out, magically amplified. "Resist again, and you'll receive the Dementor's Kiss."
The man's cries faded into sobs.
"Take him away," Umbridge said.
Two Dementors appeared in the doorway, dragging the unconscious wizard by the arms. Their rotting hands clamped down, and the darkness seemed to swallow him whole.
"Next, Tartar Methen, caught last night," Umbridge called, smug satisfaction lacing her tone.
A gaunt wizard rose shakily, eyes vacant, robes torn. As he passed a Dementor, he convulsed with a violent shudder.
Harry followed him into the courtroom.
It wasn't the same one where he'd once been tried for "underage magic." This was smaller, but the ceiling was just as high, and the atmosphere even more suffocating, like being trapped at the bottom of a deep well.
Dementors stood in every corner. The cold pressed down from all sides.
Behind the high bench sat Umbridge, flanked by Yaxley, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and, on the other side, Hermione, her face deathly pale.
A silver cat prowled beneath the platform, a Patronus to shield the prosecutors from despair. The accused, clearly, were not afforded the same protection.
When Hermione saw Harry, color flickered in her cheeks. She pointed subtly toward Umbridge's neck. Harry's eyes followed, and there it was: the shining locket glinting from within the folds of Umbridge's frilly blouse.
"Tartar Methen," Umbridge said, consulting a parchment. "Muggle-born wizard, caught in the outskirts of London?"
"No, I'm not—" the man muttered, staring down at his scarred hands.
"Hmm? Mudblood or not, oh? Albert, what brings you here?" Umbridge looked up, just as Yaxley's eyes lifted from his file.
Harry raised the note. "Urgent message from the Minister. Confidential."
"Oh!" Umbridge and Yaxley both stood at once. They descended from the bench, and Harry caught Hermione's eye. She nodded slightly, wand ready.
"Stupefy!"
The red flash hit Umbridge squarely in the chest. She crumpled, striking her head on the rail. Yaxley slumped a heartbeat later, stunned by Hermione.
But as Umbridge fell, her silver cat vanished. The cold rushed in like a wave.
Hermione darted forward, snatched the real locket from Umbridge's neck, and replaced it with the fake one they'd prepared.
"Harry!" she shouted.
Harry was at the defendant's chair, trying to break the man's chains with a spell.
"They're enchanted, I can't—" he said, teeth clenched.
"Harry, there are Dementors everywhere!"
"I know! But I'm not leaving him here to get the Kiss, and neither are all those others out there!Expecto Patronum!"
A silver stag burst from Harry's wand, brilliant and blazing.
Hermione joined him, pointing her wand. "Relashio!"
The chains sprang back into the chair with a metallic rattle.
"Got it!" Harry pulled the man to his feet. "Come on, let's go!"
The dazed wizard stared at the glowing stag, then stumbled after them.
"Hermione, your Patronus, now! There are more at the door!" Harry shouted.
"Expecto—Expecto Patronum!" Hermione cried.
A sleek silver otter leapt from her wand, gliding gracefully through the air to join the shining stag.