The doorbell rang several times a day, which was the cue for Sirius’s mother to start shrieking again, and for Harry and the others to attempt to eavesdrop on the visitor, though they gleaned very little from the brief glimpses and snatches of conversation they were able to sneak before Mrs. Weasley recalled them to their tasks. Snape flitted in and out of the house several times more, though to Harry’s relief they never came face-to-face; he also caught sight of his Transfiguration teacher, Professor McGonagall, looking very odd in a Muggle dress and coat, though she also seemed too busy to linger.
Sometimes, however, the visitors stayed to help; Tonks joined them for a memorable afternoon in which they found a murderous old ghoul lurking in an upstairs toilet, and Lupin, who was staying in the house with Sirius but who left it for long periods to do mysterious work for the Order, helped them repair a grandfather clock that had developed the unpleasant habit of shooting heavy bolts at passersby. Mundungus redeemed himself slightly in Mrs. Weasley’s eyes by rescuing Ron from an ancient set of purple robes that had tried to strangle him when he removed them from their wardrobe.
Despite the fact that he was still sleeping badly, still having dreams about corridors and locked doors that made his scar prickle, Harry was managing to have fun for the first time all summer. As long as he was busy he was happy; when the action abated, however, whenever he dropped his guard, or lay exhausted in bed watching blurred shadows move across the ceiling, the thought of the looming Ministry hearing returned to him. Fear jabbed at his insides like needles as he wondered what was going to happen to him if he was expelled. The idea was so terrible that he did not dare voice it aloud, not even to Ron and Hermione, who, though he often saw them whispering together and casting anxious looks in his direction, followed his lead in not mentioning it. Sometimes he could not prevent his imagination showing him a faceless Ministry official who was snapping his wand in two and ordering him back to the Dursleys’ . . . but he would not go. He was determined on that. He would come back here to Grimmauld Place and live with Sirius.
He felt as though a brick had dropped into his stomach when Mrs. Weasley turned to him during dinner on Wednesday evening and said quietly, “I’ve ironed your best clothes for tomorrow morning, Harry, and I want you to wash your hair tonight too. A good first impression can work wonders.”
Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, and Ginny all stopped talking and looked over at him. Harry nodded and tried to keep eating his chops, but his mouth had become so dry he could not chew.
“How am I getting there?” he asked Mrs. Weasley, trying to sound unconcerned.
“Arthur’s taking you to work with him,” said Mrs. Weasley gently.
Mr. Weasley smiled encouragingly at Harry across the table.
“You can wait in my office until it’s time for the hearing,” he said.
Harry looked over at Sirius, but before he could ask the question, Mrs. Weasley had answered it.
“Professor Dumbledore doesn’t think it’s a good idea for Sirius to go with you, and I must say I —”
“— think he’s quite right,” said Sirius through clenched teeth.
Mrs. Weasley pursed her lips.
“When did Dumbledore tell you that?” Harry said, staring at Sirius.
“He came last night, when you were in bed,” said Mr. Weasley.
Sirius stabbed moodily at a potato with his fork. Harry dropped his own eyes to his plate. The thought that Dumbledore had been in the house on the eve of his hearing and not asked to see him made him feel, if that were possible, even worse.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC
Harry awoke at half-past five the next morning as abruptly and completely as if somebody had yelled in his ear. For a few moments he lay immobile as the prospect of the hearing filled every tiny particle of his brain, then, unable to bear it, he leapt out of bed and put on his glasses. Mrs. Weasley had laid out his freshly laundered jeans and T-shirt at the foot of his bed. Harry scrambled into them. The blank picture on the wall sniggered again.
Ron was lying sprawled on his back with his mouth wide open, fast asleep. He did not stir as Harry crossed the room, stepped out onto the landing, and closed the door softly behind him. Trying not to think of the next time he would see Ron, when they might no longer be fellow students at Hogwarts, Harry walked quietly down the stairs, past the heads of Kreacher’s ancestors, and into the kitchen.
He had expected it to be empty, but it was not. When he reached the door he heard the soft rumble of voices on the other side and when he pushed it open he saw Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Sirius, Lupin, and Tonks sitting there almost as though they were waiting for him. All were fully dressed except Mrs. Weasley, who was wearing a quilted, purple dressing gown. She leapt to her feet the moment he entered.
“Breakfast,” she said as she pulled out her wand and hurried over to the fire.
“M-m-morning, Harry,” yawned Tonks. Her hair was blonde and curly this morning. “Sleep all right?”
“Yeah,” said Harry.
“I’ve b-b-been up all night,” she said, with another shuddering yawn. “Come and sit down . . .”
She drew out a chair, knocking over the one beside it in the process.
“What do you want, Harry?” Mrs. Weasley called. “Porridge? Muffins? Kippers? Bacon and eggs? Toast?”
“Just — just toast, thanks,” said Harry.
Lupin glanced at Harry, then said to Tonks, “What were you saying about Scrimgeour?”
“Oh . . . yeah . . . well, we need to be a bit more careful, he’s been asking Kingsley and me funny questions . . .”
Harry felt vaguely grateful that he was not required to join in the conversation. His insides were squirming. Mrs. Weasley placed a couple of pieces of toast and marmalade in front of him; he tried to eat, but it was like chewing carpet. Mrs. Weasley sat down on his other side and started fussing with his T-shirt, tucking in the label and smoothing out creases across the shoulders. He wished she wouldn’t.
“. . . and I’ll have to tell Dumbledore I can’t do night duty tomorrow, I’m just t-t-too tired,” Tonks finished, yawning hugely again.
“I’ll cover for you,” said Mr. Weasley. “I’m okay, I’ve got a report to finish anyway . . .”
Mr. Weasley was not wearing wizard’s robes but a pair of pin-striped trousers and an old bomber jacket. He turned from Tonks to Harry.
“How are you feeling?”