“Yes — well — I suppose we’ll need another chair — I — Weasley, could you — ?”
“Not to worry, not to worry,” said Dumbledore pleasantly; he took out his wand, gave it a little flick, and a squashy chintz armchair appeared out of nowhere next to Harry. Dumbledore sat down, put the tips of his long fingers together, and looked at Fudge over them with an expression of polite interest. The Wizengamot was still muttering and fidgeting restlessly; only when Fudge spoke again did they settle down.
“Yes,” said Fudge again, shuffling his notes. “Well, then. So. The charges. Yes.”
He extricated a piece of parchment from the pile before him, took a deep breath, and read, “The charges against the accused are as follows: That he did knowingly, deliberately, and in full awareness of the illegality of his actions, having received a previous written warning from the Ministry of Magic on a similar charge, produce a Patronus Charm in a Muggle-inhabited area, in the presence of a Muggle, on August the second at twenty-three minutes past nine, which constitutes an offense under paragraph C of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, and also under section thirteen of the International Confederation of Wizards’ Statute of Secrecy.
“You are Harry James Potter, of number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey?” Fudge said, glaring at Harry over the top of his parchment.
“Yes,” Harry said.
“You received an official warning from the Ministry for using illegal magic three years ago, did you not?”
“Yes, but —”
“And yet you conjured a Patronus on the night of the second of August?” said Fudge.
“Yes,” said Harry, “but —”
“Knowing that you are not permitted to use magic outside school while you are under the age of seventeen?”
“Yes, but —”
“Knowing that you were in an area full of Muggles?”
“Yes, but —”
“Fully aware that you were in close proximity to a Muggle at the time?”
“Yes,” said Harry angrily, “but I only used it because we were —”
The witch with the monocle on Fudge’s left cut across him in a booming voice.
“You produced a fully fledged Patronus?”
“Yes,” said Harry, “because —”
“A corporeal Patronus?”
“A — what?” said Harry.
“Your Patronus had a clearly defined form? I mean to say, it was more than vapor or smoke?”
“Yes,” said Harry, feeling both impatient and slightly desperate, “it’s a stag, it’s always a stag.”
“Always?” boomed Madam Bones. “You have produced a Patronus before now?”
“Yes,” said Harry, “I’ve been doing it for over a year —”
“And you are fifteen years old?”
“Yes, and —”
“You learned this at school?”
“Yes, Professor Lupin taught me in my third year, because of the —”
“Impressive,” said Madam Bones, staring down at him, “a true Patronus at that age . . . very impressive indeed.”
Some of the wizards and witches around her were muttering again; a few nodded, but others were frowning and shaking their heads.
“It’s not a question of how impressive the magic was,” said Fudge in a testy voice. “In fact, the more impressive the worse it is, I would have thought, given that the boy did it in plain view of a Muggle!”
Those who had been frowning now murmured in agreement, but it was the sight of Percy’s sanctimonious little nod that goaded Harry into speech.
“I did it because of the dementors!” he said loudly, before anyone could interrupt him again.
He had expected more muttering, but the silence that fell seemed to be somehow denser than before.
“Dementors?” said Madam Bones after a moment, raising her thick eyebrows so that her monocle looked in danger of falling out. “What do you mean, boy?”
“I mean there were two dementors down that alleyway and they went for me and my cousin!”
“Ah,” said Fudge again, smirking unpleasantly as he looked around at the Wizengamot, as though inviting them to share the joke. “Yes. Yes, I thought we’d be hearing something like this.”
“Dementors in Little Whinging?” Madam Bones said in tones of great surprise. “I don’t understand —”
“Don’t you, Amelia?” said Fudge, still smirking. “Let me explain. He’s been thinking it through and decided dementors would make a very nice little cover story, very nice indeed. Muggles can’t see dementors, can they, boy? Highly convenient, highly convenient . . . so it’s just your word and no witnesses . . .”
“I’m not lying!” said Harry loudly, over another outbreak of muttering from the court. “There were two of them, coming from opposite ends of the alley, everything went dark and cold and my cousin felt them and ran for it —”
“Enough, enough!” said Fudge with a very supercilious look on his face. “I’m sorry to interrupt what I’m sure would have been a very well-rehearsed story —”
Dumbledore cleared his throat. The Wizengamot fell silent again.
“We do, in fact, have a witness to the presence of dementors in that alleyway,” he said, “other than Dudley Dursley, I mean.”
Fudge’s plump face seemed to slacken, as though somebody had let air out of it. He stared down at Dumbledore for a moment or two, then, with the appearance of a man pulling himself back together, said, “We haven’t got time to listen to more taradiddles, I’m afraid, Dumbledore. I want this dealt with quickly —”
“I may be wrong,” said Dumbledore pleasantly, “but I am sure that under the Wizengamot Charter of Rights, the accused has the right to present witnesses for his or her case? Isn’t that the policy of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Madam Bones?” he continued, addressing the witch in the monocle.
“True,” said Madam Bones. “Perfectly true.”
“Oh, very well, very well,” snapped Fudge. “Where is this person?”