“Shh!” hissed a voice.
Harry turned and saw a small witch and the ferret-faced wizard from Magical Maintenance waving at him beside the giant statue. He hurried over.
“Did you get in all right?” Hermione whispered.
Harry nodded, though his gaze was fixed on the monunt towering above them.
Only now did he notice what he’d missed before. The ornate “thrones” weren’t thrones at all, they were made up of countless stone figures, hundreds of them: n, won, and children, their faces vacant and twisted in pain, their bodies contorted and crushed together to form the seat on which the robed witch and wizard sat in triumph.
“They’re Muggles,” Hermione said quietly. “You noticed too. I suppose… that’s what they think we deserve.”
A few richly robed figures strolled through the hall, their cloaks embroidered with threads of gold. Anne had warned them about these people, the inspectors, all Death Eaters in disguise. Despite their elegant clothing, their expressions were uniformly grim. One of them passed close enough that Harry caught a whiff of cologne and tension.
“All right,” Ron murmured once the man had gone. “Let’s move.”
They rged into the slow-moving crowd of witches and wizards heading toward the great golden doors at the end of the Atrium, doing their best to look ordinary while scanning for any sign of Dolores Umbridge. Her pink, toadlike presence was nowhere to be seen.
Through the golden doors lay a smaller hall lined with twenty lifts. People queued in front of the golden grilles. The trio joined one of the lines, murmuring their next steps, they’d head straight for Umbridge’s office once inside.
But before they could reach the lifts, a harsh voice barked beside them.
“Cattermole!”
Several people turned, then quickly looked away, unwilling to be associated.
A hard-faced wizard in an extravagant robe strode toward them, his expression a mixture of cruelty and authority. He gave Harry a curt nod. Harry hesitated, then returned it in character.
“I called for soone from Maintenance to fix our office, Cattermole. It’s been raining there for days.”
“Er… I just got here,” Ron mumbled, keeping his head low.
The man snorted. “If my office isn’t dry within the hour, you can put on that filthy robe of yours and join your forr colleagues in the unemploynt queue.”
He stalked off, but not before flashing Harry a revolting grin, as if expecting him, Albert Runcorn, to approve of his bullying.
The lift in front of them clattered open. Harry, Ron, and Hermione stepped inside. No one else joined them, as though they were contagious. The grilles slamd shut, and the lift began to rise with a groan.
“Ergency plan, Hermione!” Ron said the mont the doors closed.
Hermione dug through her enchanted bag. “Here, take this.” She handed him a small stack of cards, each covered in neat handwriting.
Ron flipped through them quickly until he found the one labeled Rain-Related Spells.
“Right… let’s see. Try the counter-charm first. If that doesn’t work, cancel the weather enchantnt entirely. Easy enough.” He pocketed the card. “Okay, you two go find Umbridge. I’ll fix the rain and et you afterward.”
Hermione glanced at her watch, its hands counting down from four hours. Only a little over three hours remained.
“Got it. We’ll go. Fix the leak fast, and if you run into Umbridge, you know what to say!” Harry warned.
“Tell her the office is flooded. Got it,” Ron said, flashing an “OK” sign.
The lift shuddered to a halt.
“Level Three,” intoned a hollow female voice. “Departnt of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, including the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, Obliviator Headquarters, and Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee. Office of Independent Inquiry.”
Ron nodded at them both and stepped out. Just as he left, two wizards hurried in, followed by several pale-purple interdepartntal mos fluttering like paper airplanes around the ceiling lights.
“Morning, Albert!” called a bearded wizard cheerfully, glancing curiously at Hermione. The lift creaked upward again.
Harry gave a curt nod, keeping his expression cold. But the wizard leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
“Dirk Cresswell, right? From Goblin Liaison. Good work, Albert, you got him caught! Thanks to you, I’m almost certain to get his post!”
He winked. Harry forced a smile, hoping it was enough to satisfy him.
The lift stopped once more.
“Level Two,” droned the voice. “Departnt of Magical Law Enforcent, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services.”
A few witches and wizards exited. Now only Harry, Hermione, and a short, nervous-looking wizard remained inside. He stood stiffly, keeping his distance from Runcorn’s intimidating presence.
“Level One, Minister for Magic and Support Staff,” said the voice.
The golden grilles slid open again, and Hermione gasped softly.
Four people stood waiting outside. Two of them were deep in conversation: a tall wizard in black-and-gold robes, Pius Thicknesse, the new Minister for Magic, and a short, toad-faced witch with a velvet bow perched on her cropped hair, clutching a clipboard to her chest.
“Ah, Mafalda!” Umbridge’s saccharine voice cut through the air. “Perfect timing! I was just about to send it to you. Co along, dear.”
“O–oh, all right,” Hermione said in Mafalda’s timid voice.
“Excellent,” Umbridge said, turning to Thicknesse. “That settles it, Minister. With Mafalda here to take notes, we can begin imdiately.”
She consulted her clipboard, beaming. “Today will be a very productive day, nearly twenty hearings in total—”
She stepped into the lift, standing right beside Hermione. The two other wizards who had been accompanying the Minister followed as well.
“We’ll head down now,” she said briskly. “Mafalda, everything you need is in the courtroom. Good morning, Albert, aren’t you getting off?”
Harry caught Hermione’s eye and gave a subtle nod. She returned it almost imperceptibly.
“Yes,” Harry growled in Runcorn’s deep voice. “Of course.”
The doors closed again, leaving only Hermione, Umbridge, and the two guards inside.
Umbridge flipped through her clipboard, her face alight with self-satisfied delight.
The disembodied voice spoke again:
“Level Five, Departnt of International Magical Cooperation, including the International Magical Trading Standards Body, the Office of Magical Law, and the International Confederation of Wizards, British Seats.”
A cool, precise female voice rang out from sowhere nearby:
“And clause fifteen in that docunt. I want the revision on my desk this afternoon.”
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