“You can’t come down here!” Ginny was calling to the crowd. “No, sorry, you’re going to have to go round by the swivelling staircase, someone’s let off Garrotting Gas just along here—”
They could hear people complaining; one surly voice said, “I can’t see no gas.”
“That’s because it’s colourless,” said Ginny in a convincingly exasperated voice, “but if you want to walk through it, carry on, then we’ll have your body as proof for the next idiot who doesn’t believe us.”
Slowly, the crowd thinned. The news about the Garrotting Gas seemed to have spread; people were not coming this way any more. When at last the surrounding area was quite clear, Hermione said quietly, “I think that’s as good as we’re going to get, Harry—come on, let’s do it.”
They moved forwards, covered by the Cloak. Luna was standing with her back to them at the far end of the corridor. As they passed Ginny, Hermione whispered, “Good one… don’t forget the signal.”
“What’s the signal?” muttered Harry, as they approached Umbridge’s door.
“A loud chorus of ‘Weasley is our King’ if they see Umbridge coming,” replied Hermione, as Harry inserted the blade of Sirius’s knife in the crack between door and wall. The lock clicked open and they entered the office.
The garish kittens were basking in the late-afternoon sunshine that was warming their plates, but otherwise the office was as still and unoccupied as last time. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief.
“I thought she might have added extra security after the second Niffler.”
They pulled off the Cloak; Hermione hurried over to the window and stood out of sight, peering down into the grounds with her wand out. Harry dashed over to the fireplace, seized the pot of Floo powder and threw a pinch into the grate, causing emerald flames to burst into life there. He knelt down quickly, thrust his head into the dancing fire and cried, “Number twelve, Grimmauld Place!”
His head began to spin as though he had just got off an air-ground ride though his knees remained firmly planted on the cold office floor. He kept his eyes screwed up against the whirling ash and when the spinning stopped he opened them to find himself looking out at the long, cold kitchen of Grimmauld Place.
There was nobody there. He had expected this, yet was not prepared for the molten wave of dread and panic that seemed to burst through his stomach at the sight of the deserted room.
“Sirius?” he shouted. “Sirius, are you there?”
His voice echoed around the room, but there was no answer except a tiny scuffing sound to the right of the fire.
“Who’s there?” he called, wondering whether it was just a mouse.
Kreacher the house-elf crept into view. He looked highly delighted about something, though he seemed to have recently sustained a nasty injury to both hands, which were heavily bandaged.
“It’s the Potter boy’s head in the fire,” Kreacher informed the empty kitchen, stealing furtive, oddly triumphant glances at Harry. “What has he come for, Kreacher wonders?”
“Where’s Sirius, Kreacher?” Harry demanded.
The house-elf gave a wheezy chuckle.
“Master has gone out, Harry Potter.”
“Where’s he gone? Where’s he gone, Kreacher?”
Kreacher merely cackled.
“I’m warning you!” said Harry, fully aware that his scope for inflicting punishment upon Kreacher was almost non-existent in this position. “What about Lupin? Mad-Eye? Any of them, are any of them there?”
“Nobody here but Kreacher!” said the elf gleefully, and turning away from Harry he began to walk slowly towards the door at the end of the kitchen. “Kreacher thinks he will have a little chat with his mistress now, yes, he hasn’t had a chance in a long time, Kreacher’s master has been keeping him away from her—”
“Where has Sirius gone?” Harry yelled after the elf. “Kreacher, has he gone to the Department of Mysteries?”
Kreacher stopped in his tracks. Harry could just make out the back of his bald head through the forest of chair legs before him.
“Master does not tell poor Kreacher where he is going,” said the elf quietly.
“But you know!” shouted Harry. “Don’t you? You know where he is!”
There was a moment’s silence, then the elf let out his loudest cackle yet.
“Master will not come back from the Department of Mysteries!” he said gleefully. “Kreacher and his mistress are alone again!”
And he scurried forwards and disappeared through the door to the hall.
“You—!”
But before he could utter a single curse or insult, Harry felt a great pain at the top of his head; he inhaled a lot of ash and, choking, found himself being dragged backwards through the flames, until with a horrible abruptness he was staring up into the wide, pallid face of Professor Umbridge who had dragged him backwards out of the fire by the hair and was now bending his neck back as far as it would go, as though she were going to slit his throat.
“You think,” she whispered, bending Harry’s neck back even further, so that he was looking up at the ceiling, “that after two Nifflers—”
“I was going to let one more foul, scavenging little creature enter my office without my knowledge? I had Stealth Sensoring Spells placed all around my doorway after the last one got in, you foolish boy. Take his wand,” she barked at someone he could not see, and he felt a hand grope inside the chest pocket of his robes and remove the wand. “Hers, too.”
Harry heard a scuffle over by the door and knew that Hermione had also just had her wand wrested from her.
“I want to know why you are in my office,” said Umbridge, shaking the fist clutching his hair so that he staggered.
“I was—trying to get my Firebolt!” Harry croaked.
“Liar.” She shook his head again. “Your Firebolt is under strict guard in the dungeons, as you very well know, Potter. You had your head in my fire. With whom have you been communicating?”
“No one—” said Harry, trying to pull away from her. He felt several hairs part company with his scalp.
“Liar!” shouted Umbridge. She threw him from her and he slammed into the desk. Now he could see Hermione pinioned against the wall by Millicent Bulstrode. Malfoy was leaning on the windowsill, smirking as he threw Harry’s wand into the air one-handed and caught it again.
There was a commotion outside and several large Slytherins entered, each gripping Ron, Ginny, Luna and—to Harry’s bewilderment—Neville, who was trapped in a stranglehold by Crabbe and looked in imminent danger of suffocation. All four of them had been gagged.
“Got ’em all,” said Warrington, shoving Ron roughly forwards into the room. “That one,” he poked a thick finger at Neville, “tried to stop me taking her,” he pointed at Ginny, who was trying to kick the shins of the large Slytherin girl holding her, “so I brought him along too.”
“Good, good,” said Umbridge, watching Ginny’s struggles. “Well, it looks as though Hogwarts will shortly be a Weasley-free zone, doesn’t it?”
Malfoy laughed loudly and sycophantically. Umbridge gave her wide, complacent smile and settled herself into a chintz-covered armchair, blinking up at her captives like a toad in a flowerbed.
“So, Potter,” she said. “You stationed lookouts around my office and you sent this buffoon,” she nodded at Ron—Malfoy laughed even louder—“to tell me the poltergeist was wreaking havoc in the Transfiguration department when I knew perfectly well that he was busy smearing ink on the eyepieces of all the school telescopes—Mr. Filch having just informed me so.
“Clearly, it was very important for you to talk to somebody. Was it Albus Dumbledore? Or the half-breed, Hagrid? I doubt it was Minerva McGonagall, I hear she is still too ill to talk to anyone.”