“Some would say it’s your duty to be used by the Ministry!”
“Yeah, and others might say it’s your duty to check that people really are Death Eaters before you chuck them in prison,” said Harry, his temper rising now. “You’re doing what Barty Crouch did. You never get it right, you people, do you? Either we’ve got Fudge, pretending everything’s lovely while people get murdered right under his nose, or we’ve got you, chucking the wrong people into jail and trying to pretend you’ve got ‘the Chosen One’ working for you!”
“So you’re not ‘the Chosen One’?” said Scrimgeour.
“I thought you said it didn’t matter either way?” said Harry, with a bitter laugh. “Not to you anyway.”
“I shouldn’t have said that,” said Scrimgeour quickly. “It was tactless —”
“No, it was honest,” said Harry. “One of the only honest things you’ve said to me. You don’t care whether I live or die, but you do care that I help you convince everyone you’re winning the war against Voldemort. I haven’t forgotten, Minister. . . .”
He raised his right fist. There, shining white on the back of his cold hand, were the scars which Dolores Umbridge had forced him to carve into his own flesh: I must not tell lies.
“I don’t remember you rushing to my defense when I was trying to tell everyone Voldemort was back. The Ministry wasn’t so keen to be pals last year.”
They stood in silence as icy as the ground beneath their feet. The gnome had finally managed to extricate his worm and was now sucking on it happily, leaning against the bottommost branches of the rhododendron bush.
“What is Dumbledore up to?” said Scrimgeour brusquely. “Where does he go when he is absent from Hogwarts?”
“No idea,” said Harry.
“And you wouldn’t tell me if you knew,” said Scrimgeour, “would you?”
“No, I wouldn’t,” said Harry.
“Well, then, I shall have to see whether I can’t find out by other means.”
“You can try,” said Harry indifferently. “But you seem cleverer than Fudge, so I’d have thought you’d have learned from his mistakes. He tried interfering at Hogwarts. You might have noticed he’s not Minister anymore, but Dumbledore’s still headmaster. I’d leave Dumbledore alone, if I were you.”
There was a long pause.
“Well, it is clear to me that he has done a very good job on you,” said Scrimgeour, his eyes cold and hard behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “Dumbledore’s man through and through, aren’t you, Potter?”
“Yeah, I am,” said Harry. “Glad we straightened that out.”
And turning his back on the Minister of Magic, he strode back toward the house.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A SLUGGISH MEMORY
Late in the afternoon, a few days after New Year, Harry, Ron, and Ginny lined up beside the kitchen fire to return to Hogwarts. The Ministry had arranged this one-off connection to the Floo Network to return students quickly and safely to the school. Only Mrs. Weasley was there to say good-bye, as Mr. Weasley, Fred, George, Bill, and Fleur were all at work. Mrs. Weasley dissolved into tears at the moment of parting. Admittedly, it took very little to set her off lately; she had been crying on and off ever since Percy had stormed from the house on Christmas Day with his glasses splattered with mashed parsnip (for which Fred, George, and Ginny all claimed credit).
“Don’t cry, Mum,” said Ginny, patting her on the back as Mrs. Weasley sobbed into her shoulder. “It’s okay. . . .”
“Yeah, don’t worry about us,” said Ron, permitting his mother to plant a very wet kiss on his cheek, “or about Percy. He’s such a prat, it’s not really a loss, is it?”
Mrs. Weasley sobbed harder than ever as she enfolded Harry in her arms.
“Promise me you’ll look after yourself. . . . Stay out of trouble. . . .”
“I always do, Mrs. Weasley,” said Harry. “I like a quiet life, you know me.”
She gave a watery chuckle and stood back. “Be good, then, all of you. . . .”
Harry stepped into the emerald fire and shouted “Hogwarts!” He had one last fleeting view of the Weasleys’ kitchen and Mrs. Weasley’s tearful face before the flames engulfed him; spinning very fast, he caught blurred glimpses of other Wizarding rooms, which were whipped out of sight before he could get a proper look; then he was slowing down, finally stopping squarely in the fireplace in Professor McGonagall’s office. She barely glanced up from her work as he clambered out over the grate.
“Evening, Potter. Try not to get too much ash on the carpet.”
“No, Professor.”
Harry straightened his glasses and flattened his hair as Ron came spinning into view. When Ginny had arrived, all three of them trooped out of McGonagall’s office and off toward Gryffindor Tower. Harry glanced out of the corridor windows as they passed; the sun was already sinking over grounds carpeted in deeper snow than had lain over the Burrow garden. In the distance, he could see Hagrid feeding Buckbeak in front of his cabin.
“Baubles,” said Ron confidently, when they reached the Fat Lady, who was looking rather paler than usual and winced at his loud voice.
“No,” she said.
“What d’you mean, ‘no’?”
“There is a new password,” she said. “And please don’t shout.”
“But we’ve been away, how’re we supposed to — ?”
“Harry! Ginny!”
Hermione was hurrying toward them, very pink-faced and wearing a cloak, hat, and gloves.
“I got back a couple of hours ago, I’ve just been down to visit Hagrid and Buck — I mean Witherwings,” she said breathlessly. “Did you have a good Christmas?”
“Yeah,” said Ron at once, “pretty eventful, Rufus Scrim —”
“I’ve got something for you, Harry,” said Hermione, neither looking at Ron nor giving any sign that she had heard him. “Oh, hang on — password. Abstinence.”
“Precisely,” said the Fat Lady in a feeble voice, and swung forward to reveal the portrait hole.