“Thanks,” Harry said, though the word tasted flat.
The guard had been about as helpful as a locked door.
At least the man hadn’t recognised him.
That was something.
The last thing Harry needed right now was a crowd forming, people craning their necks to stare at the scar on his forehead like it was some kind of sideshow attraction.
He kept his head down and moved through the atrium crowd as quickly as he could without running.
The lifts were tucked behind golden gates that looked more like they belonged in a bank vault than a government building.
Harry stepped into the first one that opened.
The doors slid shut and the lift began to descend.
He watched the numbers light up in reverse order.
Level Eight — the Atrium — was apparently the highest.
Level Two was several stops below.
When the doors finally opened, a cool female voice announced: “Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters and Wizengamot Administration Services.” Harry stepped out into a long corridor lined with dark wooden doors.
Two witches who had shared the lift with him strode off without a glance in his direction.
He walked more slowly, reading every plaque.
Most of the names meant nothing to him.
Then he found it.
Improper Use of Magic Office He hesitated for half a second, then pushed the door open.
The room was larger than he expected.
Two rows of desks ran along the side walls and a bigger one sat at the back beneath a huge map of Britain and Ireland.
The map was covered in moving symbols — dots and runes that probably lit up whenever someone broke the rules.
Four people looked up at his entrance.
None of them smiled.
“Um… hi?” Harry said.
The word sounded stupid the second it left his mouth.
He tried again.
“I got a letter about attending a hearing —” A witch at the large desk looked up sharply.
Recognition flashed across her face.
“Oh, Mr Potter!
Yes, we were expecting you.
Not for another hour or so, but still.” She stood up, brisk and efficient.
“I’m Mafalda Hopkirk, head of this office.
Why don’t you take a seat at Summerby’s desk — she’s in Majorca for the month — and I’ll go and let Madam Bones know you’re here.” She was gone before Harry could answer.
He crossed to the empty desk at the front left.
A small plaque read E.
Summerby.
The surface was covered in scattered parchment, some covered in hurried notes, others marked with runes he didn’t recognise.
In the middle of the mess sat a photograph of a boy about Harry’s age in Hufflepuff robes.
Eric Summerby.
The same Eric Summerby who had looked at Harry like he was something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of his shoe during the Triwizard Tournament.
Harry sat down slowly.
The chair creaked.
He could feel the other three people in the room still watching him.
He kept his eyes on the desk.
Small world, he thought bitterly.
The door opened again a few minutes later.
Mafalda Hopkirk returned, this time with a square-jawed woman in dark red robes.
The woman’s hair was cropped short and iron-grey.
A monocle glinted in her left eye.
“Mr Potter,” she said.
Her voice was clipped, professional.
“You’re here.
Good.
I’m Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
Follow me.” Harry stood up too fast.
“I thought the hearing was supposed to be in here.” Madam Bones shook her head once.
“Those hearings are usually held in my office.” “Usually?” “There has been a change of plans.” She was already walking.
Harry had to lengthen his stride to keep up.
“Minister Fudge has decided your case requires the attention of the full Wizengamot.” Harry’s stomach tightened.
“The what?” “A judicial and legislative body,” Bones replied as they reached the lifts.
“They pass decrees and create laws.
Normally they wouldn’t be involved in a simple underage magic hearing.” Harry opened his mouth to ask why they were involved now, but the lift doors opened and three Ministry workers stepped in — employees from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, judging by the badges on their robes.
Madam Bones fell silent.
Harry took the hint and kept his mouth shut.
The lift kept going down.
Past level four.
Past the Atrium.
Past every level Harry had expected.
When the doors finally opened, the cool female voice announced: “Department of Mysteries.” Harry stared at the sign.
“Er…” “Nothing to do with where we’re going,” Madam Bones said shortly.
She led him out of the lift and down a side staircase.
The air grew colder.
The walls changed from polished marble to rough stone.
Flaming torches in iron brackets threw long, flickering shadows.
They passed several heavy wooden doors reinforced with iron bolts and massive keyholes.
The place felt less like an office building and more like a dungeon that had been repurposed.
Madam Bones stopped in front of one particularly dark, grimy door.
“Courtroom Ten.” Harry looked at it.
The wood was almost black with age.
The iron fittings looked ancient.
Bones turned to him.
“I have to go straight in — I’m a member of the Wizengamot.
Take a seat on that bench.
Someone will call for you when we’re ready.” Before Harry could answer, she pushed the door open and stepped through.
The door swung shut behind her with a heavy, final thud that echoed down the stone corridor.
Harry stood alone.
The bench against the wall was made of the same dark wood as the door.
He sat down slowly.
The stone floor was cold even through his trainers.
Somewhere above him, the rest of the Ministry was carrying on with its day — people laughing in corridors, Floo powder hissing in fireplaces, the golden fountain gleaming under enchanted lights.
Down here, there was only torchlight and silence.
He could hear voices on the other side of the door, low and indistinct.
He couldn’t make out words, but the tone was enough.
Serious.
Formal.
Unforgiving.
Fudge had changed the rules at the last minute.
Pulled the hearing in front of the entire Wizengamot instead of letting Madam Bones handle it quietly in her office.
That wasn ‘t procedure.
That was politics.
Harry didn’t need to be a genius to work that out.
They were going to make an example of him.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and stared at the floor between his feet.
The silver badge on his chest felt heavier than it had any right to be.
No one had come with him.
Not Dumbledore.
Not Sirius.
Not even a note explaining what he should say or do.
He was fifteen years old, sitting outside an ancient courtroom in the bowels of the Ministry, about to face the most powerful people in wizarding Britain with nothing but his own memory of what had happened in a graveyard.
The scar on his forehead gave a slow, warning throb.
Harry closed his eyes and waited for them to call his name.