The Order of the Phoenix Read online

  ‘Is Mum here?’ said Fred, turning to Sirius.

  ‘She probably doesn’t even know what’s happened yet,’ said Sirius. ‘The important thing was to get you away before Umbridge could interfere. I expect Dumbledore’s letting Molly know now.’

  ‘We’ve got to go to St Mungo’s,’ said Ginny urgently. She looked around at her brothers; they were of course still in their pyjamas. ‘Sirius, can you lend us cloaks or anything?’

  ‘Hang on, you can’t go tearing off to St Mungo’s!’ said Sirius.

  ‘Course we can go to St Mungo’s if we want,’ said Fred, with a mulish expression. ‘He’s our dad!’

  ‘And how are you going to explain how you knew Arthur was attacked before the hospital even let his wife know?’

  ‘What does that matter?’ said George hotly.

  ‘It matters because we don’t want to draw attention to the fact that Harry is having visions of things that are happening hundreds of miles away!’ said Sirius angrily. ‘Have you any idea what the Ministry would make of that information?’

  Fred and George looked as though they could not care less what the Ministry made of anything. Ron was still ashen-faced and silent.

  Ginny said, ‘Somebody else could have told us … we could have heard it somewhere other than Harry.’

  ‘Like who?’ said Sirius impatiently. ‘Listen, your dad’s been hurt while on duty for the Order and the circumstances are fishy enough without his children knowing about it seconds after it happened, you could seriously damage the Order’s –’

  ‘We don’t care about the dumb Order!’ shouted Fred.

  ‘It’s our dad dying we’re talking about!’ yelled George.

  ‘Your father knew what he was getting into and he won’t thank you for messing things up for the Order!’ said Sirius, equally angry. ‘This is how it is – this is why you’re not in the Order – you don’t understand – there are things worth dying for!’

  ‘Easy for you to say, stuck here!’ bellowed Fred. ‘I don’t see you risking your neck!’

  The little colour remaining in Sirius’s face drained from it. He looked for a moment as though he would quite like to hit Fred, but when he spoke, it was in a voice of determined calm.

  ‘I know it’s hard, but we’ve all got to act as though we don’t know anything yet. We’ve got to stay put, at least until we hear from your mother, all right?’

  Fred and George still looked mutinous. Ginny, however, took a few steps over to the nearest chair and sank into it. Harry looked at Ron, who made a funny movement somewhere between a nod and a shrug, and they sat down too. The twins glared at Sirius for another minute, then took seats either side of Ginny.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Sirius encouragingly, ‘come on, let’s all … let’s all have a drink while we’re waiting. Accio Butterbeer!’

  He raised his wand as he spoke and half a dozen bottles came flying towards them out of the pantry, skidded along the table, scattering the debris of Sirius’s meal, and stopped neatly in front of the six of them. They all drank, and for a while the only sounds were those of the crackling of the kitchen fire and the soft thud of their bottles on the table.

  Harry was only drinking to have something to do with his hands. His stomach was full of horrible hot, bubbling guilt. They would not be here if it were not for him; they would all still be asleep in bed. And it was no good telling himself that by raising the alarm he had ensured that Mr Weasley was found, because there was also the inescapable business of it being he who had attacked Mr Weasley in the first place.

  Don’t be stupid, you haven’t got fangs, he told himself, trying to keep calm, though the hand on his Butterbeer bottle was shaking, you were lying in bed, you weren’t attacking anyone …

  But then, what just happened in Dumbledore’s office? he asked himself. I felt like I wanted to attack Dumbledore, too …

  He put the bottle down a little harder than he meant to, and it slopped over on to the table. No one took any notice. Then a burst of fire in midair illuminated the dirty plates in front of them and, as they gave cries of shock, a scroll of parchment fell with a thud on to the table, accompanied by a single golden phoenix tail feather.

  ‘Fawkes!’ said Sirius at once, snatching up the parchment. ‘That’s not Dumbledore’s writing – it must be a message from your mother – here –’

  He thrust the letter into George’s hand, who ripped it open and read aloud: ‘Dad is still alive. I am setting out for St Mungo’s now. Stay where you are. I will send news as soon as I can. Mum.’

  George looked around the table.

  ‘Still alive …’ he said slowly. ‘But that makes it sound …’He did not need to finish the sentence. It sounded to Harry, too, as though Mr Weasley was hovering somewhere between life and death. Still exceptionally pale, Ron stared at the back of his mother’s letter as though it might speak words of comfort to him. Fred pulled the parchment out of George’s hands and read it for himself, then looked up at Harry, who felt his hand shaking on his Butterbeer bottle again and clenched it more tightly to stop the trembling.

  If Harry had ever sat through a longer night than this one, he could not remember it. Sirius suggested once, without any real conviction, that they all go to bed, but the Weasleys’ looks of disgust were answer enough. They mostly sat in silence around the table, watching the candle wick sinking lower and lower into liquid wax, occasionally raising a bottle to their lips, speaking only to check the time, to wonder aloud what was happening, and to reassure each other that if there was bad news, they would know straightaway, for Mrs Weasley must long since have arrived at St Mungo’s.

  Fred fell into a doze, his head lolling sideways on to his shoulder. Ginny was curled like a cat on her chair, but her eyes were open; Harry could see them reflecting the firelight. Ron was sitting with his head in his hands, whether awake or asleep it was impossible to tell. Harry and Sirius looked at each other every so often, intruders upon the family grief, waiting … waiting …

  At ten past five in the morning by Ron’s watch, the door swung open and Mrs Weasley entered the kitchen. She was extremely pale, but when they all turned to look at her, Fred, Ron and Harry half rising from their chairs, she gave a wan smile.

  ‘He’s going to be all right,’ she said, her voice weak with tiredness. ‘He’s sleeping. We can all go and see him later. Bill’s sitting with him now; he’s going to take the morning off work.’

  Fred fell back into his chair with his hands over his face. George and Ginny got up, walked swiftly over to their mother and hugged her. Ron gave a very shaky laugh and downed the rest of his Butterbeer in one.

  ‘Breakfast!’ said Sirius loudly and joyfully, jumping to his feet. ‘Where’s that accursed house-elf? Kreacher! KREACHER!’

  But Kreacher did not answer the summons.

  ‘Oh, forget it, then,’ muttered Sirius, counting the people in front of him. ‘So, it’s breakfast for – let’s see – seven … bacon and eggs, I think, and some tea, and toast –’

  Harry hurried over to the stove to help. He did not want to intrude on the Weasleys’ happiness and he dreaded the moment when Mrs Weasley would ask him to recount his vision. However, he had barely taken plates from the dresser when Mrs Weasley lifted them out of his hands and pulled him into a hug.

  ‘I don’t know what would have happened if it hadn’t been for you, Harry,’ she said in a muffled voice. ‘They might not have found Arthur for hours, and then it would have been too late, but thanks to you he’s alive and Dumbledore’s been able to think up a good cover story for Arthur being where he was, you’ve no idea what trouble he would have been in otherwise, look at poor Sturgis …’

  Harry could hardly bear her gratitude, but fortunately she soon released him to turn to Sirius and thank him for looking after her children through the night. Sirius said he was very pleased to have been able to help, and hoped they would all stay with him as long as Mr Weasley was in hospital.

  ‘Oh, Sirius, I’m so
grateful … they think he’ll be there a little while and it would be wonderful to be nearer … of course, that might mean we’re here for Christmas.’

  ‘The more the merrier!’ said Sirius with such obvious sincerity that Mrs Weasley beamed at him, threw on an apron and began to help with breakfast.

  ‘Sirius,’ Harry muttered, unable to stand it a moment longer. ‘Can I have a quick word? Er – now?’

  He walked into the dark pantry and Sirius followed. Without preamble, Harry told his godfather every detail of the vision he had had, including the fact that he himself had been the snake who had attacked Mr Weasley.

  When he paused for breath, Sirius said, ‘Did you tell Dumbledore this?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harry impatiently, ‘but he didn’t tell me what it meant. Well, he doesn’t tell me anything any more.’

  ‘I’m sure he would have told you if it was anything to worry about,’ said Sirius steadily.

  ‘But that’s not all,’ said Harry, in a voice only a little above a whisper. ‘Sirius, I … I think I’m going mad. Back in Dumbledore’s office, just before we took the Portkey … for a couple of seconds there I thought I was a snake, I felt like one – my scar really hurt when I was looking at Dumbledore – Sirius, I wanted to attack him!’

  He could only see a sliver of Sirius’s face; the rest was in darkness.

  ‘It must have been the aftermath of the vision, that’s all,’ said Sirius. ‘You were still thinking of the dream or whatever it was and –’

  ‘It wasn’t that,’ said Harry, shaking his head, ‘it was like something rose up inside me, like there’s a snake inside me.’

  ‘You need to sleep,’ said Sirius firmly. ‘You’re going to have breakfast, then go upstairs to bed, and after lunch you can go and see Arthur with the others. You’re in shock, Harry; you’re blaming yourself for something you only witnessed, and it’s lucky you did witness it or Arthur might have died. Just stop worrying.’

  He clapped Harry on the shoulder and left the pantry, leaving Harry standing alone in the dark.

  *

  Everyone but Harry spent the rest of the morning sleeping. He went up to the bedroom he and Ron had shared over the last few weeks of summer, but while Ron crawled into bed and was asleep within minutes, Harry sat fully clothed, hunched against the cold metal bars of the bedstead, keeping himself deliberately uncomfortable, determined not to fall into a doze, terrified that he might become the serpent again in his sleep and wake to find that he had attacked Ron, or else slithered through the house after one of the others …

  When Ron woke up, Harry pretended to have enjoyed a refreshing nap too. Their trunks arrived from Hogwarts while they were eating lunch, so they could dress as Muggles for the trip to St Mungo’s. Everybody except Harry was riotously happy and talkative as they changed out of their robes into jeans and sweatshirts. When Tonks and Mad-Eye turned up to escort them across London, they greeted them gleefully, laughing at the bowler hat Mad-Eye was wearing at an angle to conceal his magical eye and assuring him, truthfully, that Tonks, whose hair was short and bright pink again, would attract far less attention on the Underground.

  Tonks was very interested in Harry’s vision of the attack on Mr Weasley, something Harry was not remotely interested in discussing.

  ‘There isn’t any Seer blood in your family, is there?’ she enquired curiously, as they sat side by side on a train rattling towards the heart of the city.

  ‘No,’ said Harry, thinking of Professor Trelawney and feeling insulted.

  ‘No,’ said Tonks musingly, ‘no, I suppose it’s not really prophecy you’re doing, is it? I mean, you’re not seeing the future, you’re seeing the present … it’s odd, isn’t it? Useful, though …’

  Harry didn’t answer; fortunately, they got out at the next stop, a station in the very heart of London, and in the bustle of leaving the train he was able to allow Fred and George to get between himself and Tonks, who was leading the way. They all followed her up the escalator, Moody clunking along at the back of the group, his bowler tilted low and one gnarled hand stuck in between the buttons of his coat, clutching his wand. Harry thought he sensed the concealed eye staring hard at him. Trying to avoid any more questions about his dream, he asked Mad-Eye where St Mungo’s was hidden.

  ‘Not far from here,’ grunted Moody as they stepped out into the wintry air on a broad store-lined street packed with Christmas shoppers. He pushed Harry a little ahead of him and stumped along just behind; Harry knew the eye was rolling in all directions under the tilted hat. ‘Wasn’t easy to find a good location for a hospital. Nowhere in Diagon Alley was big enough and we couldn’t have it underground like the Ministry – wouldn’t be healthy. In the end they managed to get hold of a building up here. Theory was, sick wizards could come and go and just blend in with the crowd.’

  He seized Harry’s shoulder to prevent them being separated by a gaggle of shoppers plainly intent on nothing but making it into a nearby shop full of electrical gadgets.

  ‘Here we go,’ said Moody a moment later.

  They had arrived outside a large, old-fashioned, red-brick department store called Purge & Dowse Ltd. The place had a shabby, miserable air; the window displays consisted of a few chipped dummies with their wigs askew, standing at random and modelling fashions at least ten years out of date. Large signs on all the dusty doors read: ‘Closed for Refurbishment’. Harry distinctly heard a large woman laden with plastic shopping bags say to her friend as they passed, ‘It’s never open, that place …’

  ‘Right,’ said Tonks, beckoning them towards a window displaying nothing but a particularly ugly female dummy. Its false eyelashes were hanging off and it was modelling a green nylon pinafore dress. ‘Everybody ready?’

  They nodded, clustering around her. Moody gave Harry another shove between the shoulder blades to urge him forward and Tonks leaned close to the glass, looking up at the very ugly dummy, her breath steaming up the glass. ‘Wotcher,’ she said, ‘we’re here to see Arthur Weasley.’

  Harry thought how absurd it was for Tonks to expect the dummy to hear her talking so quietly through a sheet of glass, with buses rumbling along behind her and all the racket of a street full of shoppers. Then he reminded himself that dummies couldn’t hear anyway. Next second, his mouth opened in shock as the dummy gave a tiny nod and beckoned with its jointed finger, and Tonks had seized Ginny and Mrs Weasley by the elbows, stepped right through the glass and vanished.

  Fred, George and Ron stepped after them. Harry glanced around at the jostling crowd; not one of them seemed to have a glance to spare for window displays as ugly as those of Purge & Dowse Ltd; nor did any of them seem to have noticed that six people had just melted into thin air in front of them.

  ‘C’mon,’ growled Moody, giving Harry yet another poke in the back, and together they stepped forward through what felt like a sheet of cool water, emerging quite warm and dry on the other side.

  There was no sign of the ugly dummy or the space where she had stood. They were in what seemed to be a crowded reception area where rows of witches and wizards sat upon rickety wooden chairs, some looking perfectly normal and perusing out-of-date copies of Witch Weekly, others sporting gruesome disfigurements such as elephant trunks or extra hands sticking out of their chests. The room was scarcely less quiet than the street outside, for many of the patients were making very peculiar noises: a sweaty-faced witch in the centre of the front row, who was fanning herself vigorously with a copy of the Daily Prophet, kept letting off a high-pitched whistle as steam came pouring out of her mouth; a grubby-looking warlock in the corner clanged like a bell every time he moved and, with each clang, his head vibrated horribly so that he had to seize himself by the ears to hold it steady.

  Witches and wizards in lime-green robes were walking up and down the rows, asking questions and making notes on clipboards like Umbridge’s. Harry noticed the emblem embroidered on their chests: a wand and bone, crossed.

  ‘Are they doctors?’ he aske
d Ron quietly.

  ‘Doctors?’ said Ron, looking startled. ‘Those Muggle nutters that cut people up? Nah, they’re Healers.’

  ‘Over here!’ called Mrs Weasley, above the renewed clanging of the warlock in the corner, and they followed her to the queue in front of a plump blonde witch seated at a desk marked Enquiries. The wall behind her was covered in notices and posters saying things like: A CLEAN CAULDRON KEEPS POTIONS FROM BECOMING POISONS and ANTIDOTES ARE ANTI-DON’TS UNLESS APPROVED BY A QUALIFIED HEALER. There was also a large portrait of a witch with long silver ringlets which was labelled:

  Dilys Derwent

  St Mungo’s Healer 1722–1741

  Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry 1741–1768

  Dilys was eyeing the Weasley party as though counting them; when Harry caught her eye she gave a tiny wink, walked sideways out of her portrait and vanished.

  Meanwhile, at the front of the queue, a young wizard was performing an odd on-the-spot jig and trying, in between yelps of pain, to explain his predicament to the witch behind the desk.

  ‘It’s these – ouch – shoes my brother gave me – ow – they’re eating my – OUCH – feet – look at them, there must be some kind of – AARGH – jinx on them and I can’t – AAAAARGH – get them off.’ He hopped from one foot to the other as though dancing on hot coals.

  ‘The shoes don’t prevent you reading, do they?’ said the blonde witch, irritably pointing at a large sign to the left of her desk. ‘You want Spell Damage, fourth floor. Just like it says on the floor guide. Next!’