Stan Shunpike made his way down the aisle with the rolling gait of a man who had spent too many years on a violently lurching bus.
He stopped beside Harry’s seat and leaned in, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret.
“A’right, ‘Arry?
We just got a passenger on board what needs to get to the Leaky Cauldron sumfink fast, so we’re gonna change course, drop her off, then you.
That all right?” Harry nodded.
His stomach gave a warning roll at the thought of more sudden stops and starts, but he kept his face blank.
“That’s fine.” To be honest, he could hardly wait to get off.
The single slice of stale bread he’d forced down for breakfast sat like a brick behind his ribs.
Another hour of this and he was fairly certain he’d be decorating the floor of the Knight Bus with it.
The bus swung hard to the left, throwing Harry against the window.
He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose until the world steadied.
Outside, London was beginning to replace fields.
Grey buildings.
Grey sky.
The same colour as the inside of his head.
They dropped the new passenger outside the Leaky Cauldron with the usual lurch and roar of the engine.
Then they were moving again, faster now, the buildings blurring past until Stan’s voice rang out from the front.
“Ministry o’ Magic!
Visitor’s Entrance!” The bus slammed to a halt so abruptly Harry’s teeth jarred.
He stood, legs unsteady, and stepped down onto the pavement.
The Knight Bus was already pulling away before he could turn around.
He found himself facing a red telephone box.
For a second he just stared at it.
He had expected… something else.
Grand doors.
Warded gates.
Not a battered red box that looked like it belonged on any Muggle street corner.
He turned back toward the bus, but it was already gone, purple tail lights disappearing around the corner.
“What—” he started.
Stan’s voice floated back from the open window.
“Jus’ get in an’ dial ‘magic’!” The doors slammed.
The bus vanished.
Harry stood alone on the pavement, the silver badge the Ministry had sent him burning a hole in his pocket.
He looked at the phone box again.
No choice, then.
He stepped inside.
The door clicked shut behind him with a sound far too final for his liking.
He picked up the receiver.
Silence.
No dial tone.
Just the faint smell of old plastic and someone else’s breath.
He found the keypad and pressed the numbers slowly.
Six.
Two.
Four.
Four.
Two.
A click.
Then a cool, nasal female voice spoke in his ear.
“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic.
Please state your name and business.” Harry swallowed.
His mouth was dry.
“Er… Harry Potter.
Here to attend a disciplinary hearing.” “Thank you.
Visitor, please take the badge and attach it to the front of your robes.” There was a rattle.
Something slid out of the coin return.
Harry picked it up.
A square silver badge, cold against his fingers.
The words were engraved in sharp, official letters: Harry Potter Disciplinary Hearing He pinned it to his school robes — the only ones he owned that weren’t dress robes.
The metal felt heavy.
Like a label.
Like a target.
The voice spoke again.
“Visitor to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration.
This can be done at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the atrium.” The floor shuddered.
Harry’s stomach dropped as the entire phone box began to sink into the ground.
Slow.
Steady.
Like a lift designed by someone who wanted you to feel every inch of your descent.
The light changed.
The air grew cooler, thicker.
He kept his hand on his wand through his robes, fingers curled tight around the wood.
When the box finally stopped, the door swung open on its own.
“The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant day.” Harry stepped out.
The atrium stretched before him like the inside of a cathedral built by people who wanted you to feel small.
Black marble walls.
Dark polished wood floors that reflected the green flames flickering in the line of fireplaces along one side.
Every few seconds another wizard or witch stepped out of the Floo in a burst of emerald sparks, brushed soot from their robes, and walked away without looking at anyone.
Halfway down the hall stood a massive golden fountain.
Harry slowed without meaning to.
A wizard and witch stood at the centre, wands raised, looking noble and wise.
Below them, a centaur, a goblin, and a house-elf gazed upward with identical expressions of adoration.
The house-elf’s face was the only one that looked right.
The centaur looked like it had been carved by someone who had never met a real centaur in their life.
And the goblin … Harry’s mouth twisted.
If any goblin from Gringotts ever saw this thing, they’d burn the Ministry to the ground before breakfast.
The whole fountain reeked of the same lie the Prophet had been printing for weeks: that everything was fine, that the old order was still in charge, that creatures like centaurs and goblins were grateful just to exist in the shadow of wizards.
It made him want to hex it.
He forced himself to keep walking.
The badge on his chest felt like it was glowing.
A few people glanced at him as they passed.
Some looked away quickly.
Others stared a second too long.
He kept his eyes forward.
At the far end of the atrium stood a desk with a plaque that read Security.
A guard sat behind it, nose buried in today’s Daily Prophet.
Harry stopped in front of the desk and cleared his throat.
The guard looked up like Harry had personally offended him.
“What?” “I just came down the visitor’s entrance,” Harry said, trying to keep his voice even.
“The phone told me to come here.” The guard sighed like the weight of the entire Ministry had just landed on his shoulders.
He set the paper down and waved Harry around the side of the desk.
“Come round here.” Harry stepped through.
The guard picked up something that looked like a television aerial attached to a box and began waving it slowly around Harry’s body.
Up.
Down.
Around his back.
The device made a soft, whining noise that set Harry’s teeth on edge.
After a long minute the guard grunted, apparently satisfied, and held out his hand.
“Wand.” Harry hesitated for half a second, then placed his wand in the man’s palm.
It felt wrong.
Like handing over a piece of himself.
The guard turned it over, checked the length, muttered something about holly and phoenix feather, then handed it back without another word.
He picked up his newspaper again.
Harry didn’t move.
“Excuse me,” he said, polite even though every part of him wanted to snap.
“I’m here for a hearing.
Underage magic use.
Do you know where I’m supposed to go?” The guard didn’t look up.
“Go over to the golden gates.
Get in a lift.
Second level.
Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
Ask someone there.” That was it.
No map.
No escort.
No explanation.
Just a grunt and a flick of the paper.
Harry stood there for a moment longer, then turned away.
The golden gates gleamed at the end of the atrium like the entrance to a vault.
Beyond them, lifts waited.
Somewhere on the second level, Courtroom Ten was waiting for him.
His scar gave a low, warning throb.
He touched the cold silver badge on his chest, felt the engraved letters under his fingers, and started walking.
No one was coming to help him.
No one had ever really been coming.
He was on his own.