Harry Potter and the Sixth Year

Dudley was in the hall as Harry came down the stairs, and he tried to flatten himself against the wall as Harry passed. Even so, there wasn’t a lot of room to spare. Harry resisted the temptation to tap Dudley on the stomach or say “boo!” as he squeezed past. Despite his downcast mood, he felt his spirits rise as he stepped out into the warm sunlit day. There were no neighbours tending their gardens or washing their cars, neighbours who would normally give him very suspicious glances as he walked past their houses. And he hadn’t far to walk: Mrs Figg lived only a few streets away. When she saw him at the door, she waved him in for a cup of tea.

“I’m afraid Mr Tibbles has passed away,” she told Harry, as they waited for the kettle to boil.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said, feeling slightly guilty, because he wasn’t really that sorry. Mr Tibbles had been an elderly and rather smelly cat.

“Well, he was getting on a bit. But I’ve a new kitten coming in a day or so. From Diagon Alley.”

“Ah,” said Harry. “Well, I was wondering if you could help me out on something there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’ve plenty of Galleons, but no Muggle money. I was wondering if …”

Mrs Figg shot him a sharp look as she poured the boiling water into the pot. “Not just a social visit then?”

“Well,” said Harry awkwardly, “it’s nice to get out of Privet Drive from time to time and come and see you.” But he didn’t think he sounded very convincing.

“Hmm, well. Actually, it does suit me, you see. I was running low on Galleons, and the new Mr Tibbles … well, if I get the cat I would like, he’d be expensive.”

Over tea they negotiated an exchange. Harry left many Galleons lighter, but clutching four twenty pound notes. That should see him right to London and back. And with a bit of spending money over too.

So at breakfast on Tuesday he announced he was going up to London. There was a grunt from Uncle Vernon; no one else said a word. He was getting a little tired of the silence. He decided to be just a little bit provocative.

“I’m going up to the Ministry of Magic,” he went on. Uncle Vernon’s head swivelled on its non-existent neck, and his eyes focussed on him. It was like looking down the barrels of a shotgun. Before Uncle Vernon could splutter out his usual response - “Don’t mention magic in this house!” - Harry went on. “I’ll be talking to the Chief Examiner about my exam results.”

That was a slightly tricky subject in the Dursley household. They were waiting for Dudley’s GCSE results, and Harry for one wasn’t holding his breath. Uncle Vernon grunted again.

“And then there’s the reading of my godfather’s will.”

That did produce a reaction. All the same, Harry wasn’t sure whether he should have mentioned it. They’d be sure to want to know what he’d inherited. Perhaps a rich Harry might get better treatment than a poor Harry. And he could always fob them off by telling them that his money was magical money, not Muggle money. They didn’t have to know that galleons were made from gold.

“I suppose you want a lift then,” said Uncle Vernon grudgingly.

Harry smiled inwardly. Nothing like the mention of wills, or money, to make the Dursleys more amenable.

“No, thanks,” said Harry brightly. “I’ll catch the train.”

Uncle Vernon looked at him suspiciously. Where had Harry got the money from to pay for the train fare? But Harry gazed guilelessly back.

“I thought your lot used broomsticks or whatever to travel around.”

“Oh, yes,” said Harry. “But not up to London. Might be seen by Muggles, you know.”

Uncle Vernon grunted again. Harry knew he hated references to Muggles or anything magical. But the memory of his meeting with Mad Eye Moody at the railway station had obviously worked the trick, for he kept quiet. Satisfied with his little joust with Uncle Vernon, Harry left the table and went upstairs to get his things for the journey.

Travelling on the small suburban train up to London was not a patch on travelling on the Hogwarts Express. For a start, there was no friendly witch with her trolley of cauldron cakes, chocolate frogs, and Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans. But he sat and stared at the passing houses as the train trundled slowly into the city. Soon, he hoped, he’d be able to Apparate to the Ministry of Magic instead of sitting here watching the countryside roll past. But for now he had to leave the train, catch the Underground, and trudge the streets until he found the dilapidated telephone box, standing ignored by all the Muggles hastening by. He swung open the door and lifted the receiver, then dialled the number written on the phone dial.

“Ministry of Magic – can I help you?” answered a voice. It seemed to be a different voice to the one he’d heard before. Did they have witches working shifts on the phone?

“Harry Potter – meeting with O.W.L. Chief Examiner.”

“Please take your card and remember to register your wand at the reception desk.”

He took the card and pinned it to his jumper as the box began slowly to descend into the ground. It seemed a long time until it reached the reception hall. Harry stepped out into the bright light and blinked. Superficially, the hall seemed as it always had done. The statue in the centre had now been repaired, but elsewhere Harry could see the scars from the duels that had been fought in there that night not so very long ago. And he remembered other things from that night, too, things he’d rather forget.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Harry walked over to the reception desk. Security seemed tighter now, too – there were what looked like guards by the fireplaces, keeping an eye on people coming and going. And then, before he could ask where he should go, he saw Professor McGonagall emerging from one of the fireplaces. It was a relief to see her. She strode briskly towards him, and they stood for a moment, looking at each other. Perhaps those lines of care in her face were written a little more deeply, but after what Harry had seen happen to her a few weeks ago he wasn’t surprised. Then she turned to the desk and handed over her wand.

“Ebony, unicorn hair, eight inches, in use twenty nine years?”

“That is correct.”

She took her wand back from the guard and turned round to Harry. “This way, Potter.”

“I just need to check in my wand too, Professor.”

“Of course.”

She waited while the security guard checked his wand – and waited through the usual delay as the guard realised just who it was he had in front of him. Harry did his best to cut the encounter short, although it wasn’t easy. If he had been famous before, he was notorious now.

He followed Professor McGonagall to one of the lifts, and in silence they rode down to the third floor. The doors opened again with a swoosh and once again Harry found himself following the stiff upright figure in front of him. Professor McGonagall stopped at a door, knocked, and opened it.

“In here, Potter,” she said, holding the door.

Harry went in to see a wizard rising to his feet from behind a desk. To his surprise, this was no old dodderer, like some of the examiners he had seen in the summer, but a relatively young man, who smiled at Harry, then held out a hand to Professor McGonagall.

“Please - sit down,” he told them, indicating two chairs.

He sat down at the same time that they did, tidied some papers in front of him (were they his exam papers?), then he leaned forward, fixing Harry with his gaze.

“I am Professor Preceptor, Harry. I have been talking to some of your teachers, and I realise that the fifth year students at Hogwarts have had – well, shall we say – a rather a rough time of it this year. We did make allowances for this in our exam marking. However, Professor McGonagall feels that you suffered more than most under last term’s … umm ... regime. And, of course, with the trouble involving … You Know Who.”

Harry nodded, but didn’t feel he could say much without sounding rather self pitying. He glanced sideways at Professor McGonagall, who took up the cudgels on his behalf.

“Indeed, Professor. Dolores Umbridge singled out Harry in particular as part of the Ministry’s policy of discrediting the Headmaster.” Preceptor looked somewhat uncomfortable at this rather blunt remark. “It was her who set Dementors on Harry and his cousin during the summer holidays in the hope of having him expelled,” she went on. “Whilst she failed in that, Potter had to face a full trial here in the Ministry, even if the court did clear him of all the charges. As his teacher, she gave him a particularly hard time in lessons, with numerous detentions.”

She stopped to gather breath.

Harry had resolved never to tell anyone of what had happened to him in those detentions, but suddenly he felt impelled to break his silence.

“It wasn’t just detentions,” he said quietly. The two looked enquiringly at him. “All I had to do was write out I must not tell lies. But not in the usual sort of way.”

“What do you mean, Potter?”

And Harry explained about Umbridge’s special quill, how it had cut the back of his hand, how the writing had been in his own blood. “The scars are fading,” he said in a matter of fact tone, “but I think they’ll be there for some time yet.”

He held up his hand to show them.

There was a horrified silence. Then: “My dear, why didn’t you tell me?”

McGonagall calling him ‘my dear’? What was the world coming to? But then Harry saw the expression of horror on her face. He shrugged. “I wasn’t going to let her beat me. I wanted to win that one on my own.”

“But even so.” She looked at his hand again and gave a shudder. “Treating a pupil in that manner – I’ve never heard anything like it before. This is a matter that should go straight to the Minister.”

“Don’t bother,” said Harry. “It’s over and done with now. And what proof is there?”

“Your hand, boy.”

Harry gave a small smile. “It could have been the act of an attention seeking child – doing it himself.”

“I think after what’s just happened people will have no problem believing you,” said McGonagall tartly.

“Leave it,” said Harry. “Just leave it.”

He looked up, and saw Professor Preceptor’s gaze – a gaze he couldn’t quite fathom.

“You know,” said the Professor, changing the subject back to his results, “your Defence Against the Dark Arts theory paper and practical test – they really were outstanding. The examiner was extremely impressed.”

Harry gave that small smile again. “I’ve had some good teachers. Bartimeus Crouch – he might have been mad, but they were good lessons. And the same with Professor Lupin. Any good teachers we get seem to run in trouble.”

“Yes – both those were rather … unfortunate … incidents.”

“And I’ve had quite a lot of practical experience in the last year or two.” Such as duelling with Voldemort.

“Quite. The point is that it puts your other results rather in the shade. To be frank, your History of Magic paper was weak – very weak.” Harry nodded. “As to the others – well, good in parts. But weak points too. However, given what we’ve just heard, I’ll review them once more. I can’t promise anything, but in view of what I’ve heard today, they do need further consideration. You should hear from me the day after tomorrow at the latest.”

He smiled with a certain finality. Harry realised that the meeting was at an end, and stood up. Professor McGonagall was shaking hands with Professor Preceptor, and Harry leaned forward and shook Preceptor’s hand too. “Thank you, Professor,” he said.

Preceptor smiled. “Not at all, Harry. It was interesting to meet you.”

For the briefest of moments Harry felt that familiar flash of resentment. He heard in his mind’s ear the drawling voice of Draco Malfoy: ‘The famous Harry Potter.’ There were times when he didn’t want to be famous. Just plain Harry Potter instead. But he knew that would never be. It was something he was going to have to live with – perhaps for the rest of his life.

When McGonagall had closed the door the door behind her, she turned on Harry. “You will never – never! – let anything like that happen to you again at Hogwarts. Do you understand?”

Harry blinked. McGonagall could be very fearsome when she wanted to. He didn’t understand what she was going on about for a moment, then he realised: she was talking about the detentions with Umbridge. “Yes, Professor.”

“Let me see.”

She took his hand and looked at it, running her fingers over the faint welts. “That woman! The hypocrisy of it all. And Fudge appointing her like that. I’ve a good mind to tell him exactly what it was he was appointing.”

“No, Professor, don’t.”

“And, pray, why not?”

Harry hesitated, then: “Because there are more important things to worry about at the moment.”

McGonagall sighed. “Perhaps you’re right, Potter.”

“There are other things – which I didn’t mention.”

“Go on.”

“The Cruciatus curse.”

He heard an intake of breath. “She used it on you?”

“She certainly threatened to. And there are witnesses to that. And she tried to trick me into drinking Verasetum.”

“That wicked, wicked woman.” And Harry heard something distinctly like a sniff. “Now then, Potter,” she went on more briskly, “I’ve worked hard for you to get you this review. If you want to get into the Ministry, you will need to have some very good exam results. That means that next year you are going to work, do you understand? Not just in Defence Against the Dark Arts, but in all your other subjects too: Transfiguration, Charms and Potions.”

“Yes, Professor,” Harry heard himself saying. “Providing …”

“Providing what, Potter?”

“That nothing else happens.”

“Well, we don’t know that anything will happen. But in the meantime, you are going to promise me that you will work hard for your N.E.W.T.s. Not just copy out Hermione Granger’s homework. Will you promise me that?”

How had she known he copied Hermione’s work? Was it that obvious? “I promise, Professor.”

“Good. Right then, we’d better be off.”

“I’ve another appointment at the Ministry – this afternoon.”

“Oh?”

“It’s the reading of Sirius’ will.”

“Ah.” And the tone of her voice changed. “Of course. Well, in that case, Potter, I shall bid you farewell until term starts in September.”

“Professor?”

“Yes?”

Awkwardly Harry said: “Thank you for your help with the exam results.”

She surveyed him, and he wilted slightly under her gaze. “In some ways, Potter, you don’t deserve it. In others …” and she sighed, then turned on her heel, and strode off. Harry watched her walk away down the corridor, then looked down to his watch. Nearly one o’clock. He had an hour to kill yet before his next appointment. He thought of going down and seeing Tonks, or Kingsley, or Mr Weasley, but then thought of the reaction that his appearance in Ministry offices might cause. Perhaps Mr Weasley. Yes, of all the people in the Ministry, Mr Weasley would be the one to go to see.

He wandered slowly down the corridors of the Ministry building, killing time. No one here recognised him or took any notice of him as he ambled along. It was a nice feeling, anonymity. After a quarter of an hour’s dawdling he reaching Mr Weasley’s office and knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

Mr Weasley was sitting at his desk, almost buried in a sea of parchments. His face brightened when he looked up and saw who it was. “Ah, Harry. Good to see you.” Then his face fell slightly. “Pity about the reason for your visit though. Wills – not a pleasant reminder.”

Harry sat down behind the other desk. There was nowhere else to sit in the small crowded office. How did Mr. Weasley know about the will, he wondered.

“How did the O.W.L.s go?” Mr Weasley asked brightly.

Harry explained why he was already at the Ministry.

“Ah, I see. Well, I hope things go your way. Ron’s were OK – nothing brilliant, but I don’t think we were expecting a string of Outstandings.”

“Hermione got that,” said Harry with a smile.

“Did she? Did she? Bright girl, that.”

“Yeah.” Harry looked around the tiny room, windowless, with its pictures of Muggle motorcars stuck to the wall. “Still stuck in this little office?”

Mr Weasley shrugged. “No one takes Muggles seriously, you know.”

Harry knew Mr Weasley did. “Even so, I would have thought after what happened last month, the Ministry would be taking more care of you. And more notice of what you have to say about things.”

Mr Weasley pulled a face. “If it were only that simple.”

“What do you mean?” asked Harry, curious.

“Well …” Mr Weasley hesitated, then went on: “ … Fudge does now accept that You Know Who is back again.”

“Doesn’t have much choice on that, does he?”

“No, well, quite.” Mr Weasley smoothed back the strands of red hair that were trying, rather ineffectually, to hide his bald patch. “But that doesn’t mean he’s grateful to those in the Ministry who were working with Dumbledore.”

“What do you mean?”

“Unorthodox, that’s the current word. Tonks and Kingsley and I - well, everyone accepts that we were right, but being right isn’t enough. You’ve got to be right in the right way. Going through the right channels, and all that. And we didn’t.”

“I see,” said Harry, although he didn’t.

Mr Weasley smiled again. “You will one day. One day you’ll find out that what counts in the Ministry is not being right but going through the proper channels to be right.”

“I want to work for the Ministry. As an Auror,” said Harry stubbornly.

Mr Weasley looked at him steadily. “Don’t hold your breath.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve trodden on lots of toes. Oh, yes, everyone accepts your story. Can’t deny You Know Who is back again. But that doesn’t mean to say they’ll accept you. You’d be much better off writing reports on the thickness of cauldron bottoms. That’s what they really like.” There was a rare note of bitterness in Mr Weasley’s voice as he referred indirectly to his son Percy.

“How is Percy getting on now?” Harry asked, emboldened.

Mr Weasley sighed. “Keeping a low profile at the moment. But don’t worry. He’ll come out of things in a few months time, smelling of roses.”

“What? After that business with Umbridge? ‘A truly delightful person’ he called her in that article in the Daily Prophet.”

Mr. Weasley sighed. “You might know the truth about Dolores Umbridge, and so do I, but not many other people do. That episode at Hogwarts – it’s not something the Ministry is going to publicise, is it? And you know there’s an Umbridge rehabilitation campaign on at the moment?”

“What??” cried Harry, now truly outraged.

“Oh yes. ‘Over zealous’ is the expression they’re using about her. Heart was in the right place, and all that, but just a touch … overzealous.” Harry sat with his mouth open, feeling like a goldfish, gaping for words. Mr Weasley nodded. “You think it’s unbelievable, and I think it’s unbelievable, but Fudge doesn’t really listen to you or me. Oh, yes, I know you had that long talk with him, but I don’t think it’s really sunk in to him yet – what it would really mean to have You Know Who back again.”

“I do have contacts at the Daily Prophet, you know,” said Harry.

Mr Weasley looked at him, eyebrows raised, slightly amused. “Rita Skeeter?”

“That’s right,” said Harry, slightly surprised. “How did you find that out?”

“Fairly obvious after that article in The Quibbler. Ron filled me in on the details.”

“Ah.”

“But is it worth it? You’re just going to irritate the Ministry even more.”

“Maybe. But she shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.”

“Maybe not. But it wouldn’t solve any of our present problems,” echoing Harry’s words of earlier.

“I suppose not,” admitted Harry. “And in the meantime?”

Mr Weasley shrugged. “In the meantime, we lie low, with our eyes and ears open. Don’t go doing anything stupid, Harry. Take it from me – if you want the Ministry to be on our side against the Death Eaters and the rest, you’ve got to do things their way.” He paused. “Or at least make it seem as if we’re doing things their way.” He stood up. “Come on. Time for the reading of the will.”