Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (58 page)

‘We will need,’ Dumbledore said very quietly to the bird, ‘a warning.’

There was a flash of fire and the phoenix had gone.

Dumbledore now swooped down upon one of the fragile silver instruments whose function Harry had never known, carried it over to his desk, sat down facing them again and tapped it gently with the tip of his wand.

The instrument tinkled into life at once with rhythmic clinking noises. Tiny puffs of pale green smoke issued from the minuscule silver tube at the top. Dumbledore watched the smoke closely, his brow furrowed. After a few seconds, the tiny puffs became a steady stream of smoke that thickened and coiled in the air … a serpent’s head grew out of the end of it, opening its mouth wide. Harry wondered whether the instrument was confirming his story: he looked eagerly at Dumbledore for a sign that he was right, but Dumbledore did not look up.

‘Naturally, naturally,’ murmured Dumbledore apparently to himself, still observing the stream of smoke without the slightest sign of surprise. ‘But in essence divided?’

Harry could make neither head nor tail of this question. The smoke serpent, however, split itself instantly into two snakes, both coiling and undulating in the dark air. With a look of grim satisfaction, Dumbledore gave the instrument another gentle tap with his wand: the clinking noise slowed and died and the smoke serpents grew faint, became a formless haze and vanished.

Dumbledore replaced the instrument on its spindly little table. Harry saw many of the old headmasters in the portraits follow him with their eyes, then, realising that Harry was watching them, hastily pretend to be sleeping again. Harry wanted to ask what the strange silver instrument was for, but before he could do so, there was a shout from the top of the wall to their right; the wizard called Everard had reappeared in his portrait, panting slightly.

‘Dumbledore!’

‘What news?’ said Dumbledore at once.

‘I yelled until someone came running,’ said the wizard, who was mopping his brow on the curtain behind him, ‘said I’d heard something moving downstairs – they weren’t sure whether to believe me but went down to check – you know there are no portraits down there to watch from. Anyway, they carried him up a few minutes later. He doesn’t look good, he’s covered in blood, I ran along to Elfrida Cragg’s portrait to get a good view as they left –’

‘Good,’ said Dumbledore as Ron made a convulsive movement. ‘I take it Dilys will have seen him arrive, then –’

And moments later, the silver-ringleted witch had reappeared in her picture, too; she sank, coughing, into her armchair and said, ‘Yes, they’ve taken him to St Mungo’s, Dumbledore … they carried him past my portrait … he looks bad …’

‘Thank you,’ said Dumbledore. He looked round at Professor McGonagall.

‘Minerva, I need you to go and wake the other Weasley children.’

‘Of course …’

Professor McGonagall got up and moved swiftly to the door. Harry cast a sideways glance at Ron, who was looking terrified.

‘And Dumbledore – what about Molly?’ said Professor McGonagall, pausing at the door.

‘That will be a job for Fawkes when he has finished keeping a lookout for anybody approaching,’ said Dumbledore. ‘But she may already know … that excellent clock of hers …’

Harry knew Dumbledore was referring to the clock that told, not the time, but the whereabouts and conditions of the various Weasley family members, and with a pang he thought that Mr Weasley’s hand must, even now, be pointing at
mortal peril
. But it was very late. Mrs Weasley was probably asleep, not watching the clock. Harry felt cold as he remembered Mrs Weasley’s Boggart turning into Mr Weasley’s lifeless body, his glasses askew, blood running down his face … but Mr Weasley wasn’t going to die … he couldn’t …

Dumbledore was now rummaging in a cupboard behind Harry and Ron. He emerged from it carrying a blackened old kettle, which he placed carefully on his desk. He raised his wand and murmured,
‘Portus!’
For a moment the kettle trembled, glowing with an odd blue light; then it quivered to rest, as solidly black as ever.

Dumbledore marched over to another portrait, this time of a clever-looking wizard with a pointed beard, who had been painted wearing the Slytherin colours of green and silver and was apparently sleeping so deeply that he could not hear Dumbledore’s voice when he attempted to rouse him.

‘Phineas.
Phineas
.’

The subjects of the portraits lining the room were no longer pretending to be asleep; they were shifting around in their frames, the better to watch what was happening. When the clever-looking wizard continued to feign sleep, some of them shouted his name, too.

‘Phineas!
Phineas!
PHINEAS!’

He could not pretend any longer; he gave a theatrical jerk and opened his eyes wide.

‘Did someone call?’

‘I need you to visit your other portrait again, Phineas,’ said Dumbledore. ‘I’ve got another message.’

‘Visit my other portrait?’ said Phineas in a reedy voice, giving a long, fake yawn (his eyes travelling around the room and focusing on Harry). ‘Oh, no, Dumbledore, I am too tired tonight.’

Something about Phineas’s voice was familiar to Harry, where had he heard it before? But before he could think, the portraits on the surrounding walls broke into a storm of protest.

‘Insubordination, sir!’ roared a corpulent, red-nosed wizard, brandishing his fists. ‘Dereliction of duty!’

‘We are honour-bound to give service to the present Headmaster of Hogwarts!’ cried a frail-looking old wizard whom Harry recognised as Dumbledore’s predecessor, Armando Dippet. ‘Shame on you, Phineas!’

‘Shall I persuade him, Dumbledore?’ called a gimlet-eyed witch, raising an unusually thick wand that looked not unlike a birch rod.

‘Oh, very
well
,’ said the wizard called Phineas, eyeing the wand with mild apprehension, ‘though he may well have destroyed my picture by now, he’s done away with most of the family –’

‘Sirius knows not to destroy your portrait,’ said Dumbledore, and Harry realised immediately where he had heard Phineas’s voice before: issuing from the apparently empty frame in his bedroom in Grimmauld Place. ‘You are to give him the message that Arthur Weasley has been gravely injured and that his wife, children and Harry Potter will be arriving at his house shortly. Do you understand?’

‘Arthur Weasley, injured, wife and children and Harry Potter coming to stay,’ recited Phineas in a bored voice. ‘Yes, yes … very well …’

He sloped away into the frame of the portrait and disappeared from view at the very moment the study door opened again. Fred, George and Ginny were ushered inside by Professor McGonagall, all three of them looking dishevelled and shocked, still in their night things.

‘Harry – what’s going on?’ asked Ginny, who looked frightened. ‘Professor McGonagall says you saw Dad get hurt –’

‘Your father has been injured in the course of his work for the Order of the Phoenix,’ said Dumbledore, before Harry could speak. ‘He has been taken to St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. I am sending you back to Sirius’s house, which is much more convenient for the hospital than The Burrow. You will meet your mother there.’

‘How’re we going?’ asked Fred, looking shaken. ‘Floo powder?’

‘No,’ said Dumbledore, ‘Floo powder is not safe at the moment, the Network is being watched. You will be taking a Portkey.’ He indicated the old kettle lying innocently on his desk. ‘We are just waiting for Phineas Nigellus to report back … I want to be sure that the coast is clear before sending you –’

There was a flash of flame in the very middle of the office, leaving behind a single golden feather that floated gently to the floor.

‘It is Fawkes’s warning,’ said Dumbledore, catching the feather as it fell. ‘Professor Umbridge must know you’re out of your beds … Minerva, go and head her off – tell her any story –’

Professor McGonagall was gone in a swish of tartan.

‘He says he’ll be delighted,’ said a bored voice behind Dumbledore; the wizard called Phineas had reappeared in front of his Slytherin banner. ‘My great-great-grandson has always had an odd taste in house-guests.’

‘Come here, then,’ Dumbledore said to Harry and the Weasleys. ‘And quickly, before anyone else joins us.’

Harry and the others gathered around Dumbledore’s desk.

‘You have all used a Portkey before?’ asked Dumbledore, and they nodded, each reaching out to touch some part of the blackened kettle. ‘Good. On the count of three, then … one … two …’

It happened in a fraction of a second: in the infinitesimal pause before Dumbledore said ‘three’, Harry looked up at him – they were very close together – and Dumbledore’s clear blue gaze moved from the Portkey to Harry’s face.

At once, Harry’s scar burned white-hot, as though the old wound had burst open again – and unbidden, unwanted, but terrifyingly strong, there rose within Harry a hatred so powerful he felt, for that instant, he would like nothing better than to strike – to bite – to sink his fangs into the man before him –

‘…
three.
’

Harry felt a powerful jerk behind his navel, the ground vanished from beneath his feet, his hand was glued to the kettle; he was banging into the others as they all sped forwards in a swirl of colours and a rush of wind, the kettle pulling them onwards … until his feet hit the ground so hard his knees buckled, the kettle clattered to the ground, and somewhere close at hand a voice said:

‘Back again, the blood-traitor brats. Is it true their father’s dying?’

‘OUT!’ roared a second voice.

Harry scrambled to his feet and looked around; they had arrived in the gloomy basement kitchen of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. The only sources of light were the fire and one guttering candle, which illuminated the remains of a solitary supper. Kreacher was disappearing through the door to the hall, looking back at them malevolently as he hitched up his loincloth; Sirius was hurrying towards them all, looking anxious. He was unshaven and still in his day clothes; there was also a slightly Mundungus-like whiff of stale drink about him.

‘What’s going on?’ he said, stretching out a hand to help Ginny up. ‘Phineas Nigellus said Arthur’s been badly injured –’

‘Ask Harry,’ said Fred.

‘Yeah, I want to hear this for myself,’ said George.

The twins and Ginny were staring at him. Kreacher’s footsteps had stopped on the stairs outside.

‘It was –’ Harry began; this was even worse than telling McGonagall and Dumbledore. ‘I had a – a kind of – vision …’

And he told them all that he had seen, though he altered the story so that it sounded as though he had watched from the sidelines as the snake attacked, rather than from behind the snake’s own eyes. Ron, who was still very white, gave him a fleeting look, but did not speak. When Harry had finished, Fred, George and Ginny continued to stare at him for a moment. Harry did not know whether he was imagining it or not, but he fancied there was something accusatory in their looks. Well, if they were going to blame him just for seeing the attack, he was glad he had not told them that he had been inside the snake at the time.

‘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.