Harry Potter and the Locked Door: Chapter IV
Title: Harry Potter and the Locked Door
Rating: PG-13 / R
Length: Chaptered, WIP
Pairings: H/G, R/Hr, Bill/Fleur, Remus/Tonks, and other canon pairings
Era: Seventh-Year, Hogwarts
Summary: Harry has left the Dursleys’ house for the final time, and has joined back up with his two best friends: Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. Together, the trio of Gryffindors are heading to London on their way to the Ministry of Magic so that the boys can take (and pass) their Apparition tests.
~*~
Chapter IV: Apparition
Harry, Ron, and Hermione finally arrived at the front door of Arabella Figg’s house several minutes later. The topic of the trio’s conversation had changed several times as they walked. It had begun with Apparition (Hermione continuously wanting to question both of her friends to make sure that they were fully prepared), and then headed into Bill and Fleur’s wedding (Ron filling both Harry and Hermione in on the chaos of The Burrow). Currently, Hogwarts and its future was being discussed among the three friends.
“The Daily Prophet was reporting last week that Hogwarts is reopening for the year,” said Hermione, turning to look at Harry to judge his response. Harry gave no indication that the news surprised him in any way. Instead, he simply shrugged his shoulders, the only acknowledgement that he gave to Hermione that he had heard her. “It said the governors decided that the school was still safe enough for students to come,” she continued, “and they have officially appointed Professor McGonagall as the new headmistress.” The only reaction that Harry and Ron made at this news was a slight nod of their heads, and nothing more. Silence fell over the trio for a brief moment, until it was suddenly broken by a response.
“That’s not really a surprise,” muttered Harry. “I mean, McGonagall took over at the end of last year after . . .” He did not finish his statement. He didn’t want to, and he thought that, even if he had wanted to speak of last year’s tragic and horrible events, he didn’t think that he could. Much in the same way it had been difficult for him to talk about Sirius last year, Harry found it hard to mention the night Dumbledore died, with his memory of that event on the Astronomy Tower burning blazingly in his mind, as well as to contribute to the conversation when it ended up straying to the late headmaster. Neither Ron nor Hermione pushed him to continue with his response. Both understood Harry’s pain, even if they had not spent as much time in Dumbledore’s company as Harry had. They had loved the kind, wise wizard very much, and it was immensely difficult for anyone who had known him to not love the old headmaster.
The conversation, which had fallen into silence upon reaching the topic of Dumbledore, now completely came to a halt when Harry, Ron, and Hermione knocked on the door in front of them, and Mrs. Figg opened it to let the trio inside the house. Once they were inside, the three friends abruptly came face to face with Arthur Weasley, who was sitting on the brown sofa in the musty living room and looked as if he had been waiting for them to arrive for some time now. Turning his slightly balding head around as the group of people entered the living room, Mr. Weasley stood from the sofa upon meeting Harry’s eyes.
“Hello, Harry,” he said, walking forward towards the trio of friends. “How’s your summer been?”
“Okay, Mr. Weasley,” Harry answered, even though his summer had been barely “okay”. By now, that response was strictly a habit. As Mr. Weasley smiled knowingly and shook Harry’s hand, Harry was briefly taken aback at just how different Ron’s dad looked from the last time he had seen the older man, back at Dumbledore’s funeral only a few weeks ago. Mr. Weasley looked thinner now, and he had definitely lost some more hair. There were thick, dark circles under his exhausted eyes, and the elder wizard looked as if he had slept very little in the past couple of weeks. Harry assumed Mr. Weasley’s haggard appearance had to do with overwork at the Ministry, which was only bound to increase, especially after Voldemort’s takeover of Azkaban.
“Well,” said Mr. Weasley as he released Harry’s hand and turned to face both Ron and Hermione as well. His mouth stretched into a smile, though the expression still appeared tired and strained. “Are you three ready to go?”
“Why are you here, Dad?” asked Ron as his father moved towards the fireplace on the opposite side of the room after the trio had nodded in reply to his question. “I thought Harry, Hermione, and I were just Flooing into the Ministry.”
Mr. Weasley turned back towards his son, removing his glasses to rub at his exhausted eyes. “You are,” he replied, “but with the way security is at the Ministry right now, it’s far quicker if you three just Floo into the authorized fireplaces, rather than the visitor’s entrance, and to do that, you’ll need to be travelling with someone who has security clearance.” At this, Mr. Weasley pulled a laminated card from an inside pocket of his dark blue robe, and showed his identification and security pass to the teenagers. “That being one reason,” he said, replacing the cards in his pocket as he spoke, “and the other is that Molly wants everyone back home at The Burrow as soon as possible.”
After they had said farewell to Mrs. Figg, thanking her for the use of her fireplace, Mr. Weasley, Ron, Hermione, and Harry each took a handful of the green Floo powder from a chipped and light-brown coloured, clay jar that sat atop the mantle. Stepping into the fireplace, the group Flooed to the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic in London.
It had been a little over a year since Harry had set foot in the building, and he had not been in any hurry to do so again. There were too many memories that plagued him with the Ministry. He could remember exactly what had happened in the Ministry of Magic over a year ago - how Sirius had fallen behind the veil and died, how Dumbledore and Voldemort had fought in the Atrium, and how Voldemort had tried to take possession of him.
Stepping out of the authorized fireplaces, Mr. Weasley, Ron, Harry, and Hermione tried to make their way over to the golden lifts on the opposite side of the room. As Harry’s eyes locked on different parts of the Atrium, the memories of what had happened not long ago began to plague his mind even more. The walls were the same: all panelled in shiny, dark wood and inlaid with many gilded fireplaces, out of which appeared several witches and wizards. The dark-wood floor was still highly polished, and golden symbols moved and changed across the same peacock-blue ceiling. Numerous desks were scattered along the walls, and the Apparition points were surrounded by people.
The Ministry entrance was far more crowded than Harry remembered it ever being. Witches and wizards were tightly packed into the Atrium, lines from the Apparition points and exiting Floo fireplaces stretching all the way across the distance of the giant room. Other than the large increase of people, however, the Ministry of Magic looked almost the same as it had looked on that fateful night over a year ago, save for one very noticeable difference.
The Fountain of Magical Brethren, which had been destroyed by Dumbledore and Voldemort’s battle, had yet to be repaired, and Harry doubted strongly that the Ministry even cared about repairing it at all at this time. Nothing had been put in the Fountain’s place, either. There was just a large, empty space where it had previously stood.
As Harry gazed as the empty space, his mind returned suddenly to dwell on the events of that night, the memories as clear in his head as if he was witnessing everything through a Pensieve for a second time: Bellatrix’s spell blasting the golden wizard’s head off and sending it flying across the room; the centaur’s arm, which was holding a bow, being fired to the other end of the Atrium by her Cruciatus Curse, and one of the goblin’s ears quickly following it; the headless wizard jumping in between Voldemort and himself; the witch running at Bellatrix and pinning her to the floor; the goblin and house-elf running to the Floo fireplaces to summon help; and the centaur circling Dumbledore and Voldemort as the two wizards battled before one of Voldemort’s curses shattered the centaur into hundreds of pieces.
Don’t think about it, Harry thought, shaking his head in a desperate move to clear the memories from his mind. The action worked, and the memories, though not completely disappearing, slowly receded from the forefront of his mind as he continued to walk on with Mr. Weasley, Hermione, and Ron.
They passed by the space where the Fountain had stood, the latter three doing so without giving the empty space a second glance and Harry purposefully focussing his gaze elsewhere, and pushed their way through the thick crowds to the lifts on the other side of the Atrium. They entered a lift that only had one other person in it, a young, brown-haired wizard, who could not be much older than seventeen, and who was carrying several rolls of parchment in his arms. The pile was so high that the man’s face was barely visible over the many rolls. As the golden grilles slid shut with a clang, the lift began to ascend and the cool, female voice soon sounded around the small area.
“Level seven, Department of Magical Games and Sports, incorporating the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters, Official Gobstones Club, and Ludicrous Patents Office.” The doors opened, but as no one left the lift, and none of the many witches and wizards crowding the corridor beyond entered, the doors quickly shut again and ascended to the next level of the Ministry.
“Level six,” the woman’s voice said again, “Department of Magical Transport, incorporating the Floo Network Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, Portkey Office, and Apparition Test Centre.”
“That’s our level,” said Mr. Weasley, and as the golden grilles slid open, he and the three friends got off of the lift. This floor looked just as run-down as the corridor where Mr. Weasley’s old office used to be had looked. There were not as many people on this floor as there had been down in the Atrium; however, there was still a pretty good-sized line outside the door to the Apparition Test Centre.
Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Mr. Weasley joined the end of the long line. “Okay, you three,” said Mr. Weasley, after taking a quick look up at the large group of people in front of them, “I need to go to the office, but you’ll be fine here. Hermione,” he said, turning to look at the young witch, “you can wait with Harry and Ron if you want.”
“Of course,” answered Hermione, nodding. “I want to wait.”
Mr. Weasley nodded. “Well, Harry, Ron,” he said, glancing at both of the teenagers as he spoke, “once you two have finished taking the test, the three of you can go back to the Atrium and either Apparate back to The Burrow or use the Floo Network. You won’t need any security clearance since you’re already within the Ministry.
“And don’t forget, Ron, Harry, Hermione,” continued Mr. Weasley, his voice taking on a more serious tone as he looked at each of the teenagers in turn. “Go directly home after you’re finished,” he said, his voice expressing both the graveness and the importance of his words at the same time. “Do not go anywhere other than The Burrow. Understood?”
The three friends nodded their heads in assent, fully grasping the seriousness of Mr. Weasley’s order. Times had become immensely worse in just the past couple of weeks, and nowhere was considered “safe” anymore, especially in the Wizarding World. Even the Muggle world was not immune to the darkness that seeped throughout the Magical locations of Great Britain, for attacks by both Dementors and Death Eaters had increased ten-fold within the past few weeks. They all knew that it was no longer very wise to wander around anywhere, whether it was morning, noon, or in the middle of the night.
“Okay, Mr. Weasley,” replied Harry. “We will.”
“Bye, Dad,” said Ron at the same time as Hermione responded with, “Good-bye, Mr. Weasley.” And as Arthur Weasley left the trio of friends in the line and headed back towards the lift, Ron, Harry, and Hermione huddled close together, glad for the time to talk about some more serious things that the trio had not mentioned after leaving the Dursleys’ house.
After glancing around quickly and making sure that they were not being overheard, Harry began the conversation, talking about the first thing that came to his mind. “Did you two hear the news about Sean Davis?” asked Harry.
“You mean that shy boy in Ravenclaw?” whispered Hermione, and Harry nodded. “What happened to him?”
“I heard it on the Muggle news. He and his family were discovered in their home yesterday,” replied Harry, lowering his voice to the whispering volume of Hermione’s. “They were all killed, and the reporter said that the Muggle police have no idea how they died.” Harry paused as both Hermione and Ron displayed knowing expressions. The fact that the Muggle authorities were completely stumped as to the murders did not surprise any of them. That fact alone, as a matter of fact, actually helped to confirm their suspicions as to the truth. Everyone present in the conversation knew exactly how Sean had been killed, though the Muggles, regardless of the fact that they were discovering more and more of these deaths, would never figure it out.
“Was he a Muggle-born?” muttered Ron.
“No,” answered Harry, shaking his head in disagreement. “He was a half-blood. His dad was a wizard, a former Ravenclaw and the owner of that restaurant, M. Davis’s, in London -” (Hermione and Ron nodded in understanding) - “but his mother was a Muggle.”
Harry did not continue and neither Ron nor Hermione responded immediately to their friend’s last statement. The Davis family had not been members of the Order, but neither were any of them Death Eaters. None of them had placed themselves on any particular side of the war; instead, Sean’s family had decided to stay neutral, and his father’s restaurant symbolized that feeling and decision perfectly. M. Davis’s would have served Dumbledore just as easily as they would serve the Malfoys, or even Voldemort himself. But apparently, the Davis’ viewpoint had not saved them from death in the end.
The Second War was beginning to get to the point where neutrality was simply not an option, and where there was little to no difference between a half-blood and a Muggle-born. Unless something happened to change it, both would be only good for death in Voldemort and the Death Eaters’ view before very long. After a few more brief comments, the conversation finally steered away from the Ravenclaw’s death. However, it did not leave the realm of the immense chaos caused by the war and the return of Voldemort, though Harry did not want to dwell on some of the war’s aspects, and Azkaban was one of them.
“Did you see about Azkaban?” Ron asked, looking at both Hermione and Harry, trying to judge the reactions of his two best friends to the news.
Harry did not respond immediately. Instead, he just stared at the ground, not really wanting to discuss the great victory that Voldemort had recently achieved. However much he tried to find an up side to the turnover of the Wizarding prison, he couldn’t. There was simply no getting around the knowledge that Azkaban’s fall was a victory for the Dark. The fact that Voldemort just continued to gain power caused many emotions to flow through Harry, and he was not quite sure at the moment which one should have dominance. Hermione, on the other hand, did not remain silent, and quickly answered Ron’s question.
“I did,” she whispered. “I saw it in the Daily Prophet this morning. It’s horrible. I mean, all those Death Eaters free again, and who knows what happened to the Aurors. The Ministry doesn’t have much hope for their survival, according to the paper.”
“They’re alive,” muttered Harry, causing both his friends to focus their gazes on him at his sudden interruption. He had not meant to say anything on the subject, had planned on allowing the topic to end and the conversation to head somewhere else, but the two words had just slipped out before he could stop them. And now, as his friends stared at him, awaiting more information, Harry knew he would have to elaborate on his two words, but before he could continue, his friends got in first.
Ron was the first to get over his shock at Harry’s statement and respond. “How do you know?” he asked. “They’re Aurors, after all, and wouldn’t Voldemort want to kill them?”
Harry sighed as he looked up from the ground and into the eyes of his two friends. “He would want to kill them, yes, but he would also want to torture them first,” whispered Harry. “He wouldn’t give them an easy death, and he would probably want to try to break them anyway.
“Besides, all of the Death Eaters who were in Azkaban are going to want some revenge,” the Boy Who Lived continued, “and who better to take their anger out on than some Aurors, especially those who were guards at the prison?”
Neither Ron nor Hermione responded to Harry’s question, for the question was simply one of those that did not need the answer spoken aloud. Everyone knew that Harry spoke the truth, and, though this particular truth made none of them happy or pleased, no one wished to argue with it. Any arguing done about the subject, after all, would only be dealing in lies and false truths, both of which were too reminiscent of Fudge for the trio to even consider immersing themselves in. The conversation slowly left the realm of Voldemort and the actions of the Death Eaters, making its way through a multitude of other topics, as the trio waited in the long line. When the choices of subjects began to dwindle down, Hermione brought up the conversation of Hogwarts once more.
“I read in the Prophet that the Ministry is putting a lot of extra security measures in place at the school,” she said. “Apparently, they’re hoping that it will keep the students safe from anything like what happened last year.”
“Yeah, well, Dumbledore put up a load more protection, and that didn’t keep the Death Eaters out, now, did it?” asked Harry, his voice dripping with sarcasm and at the same time, betraying some of his bitter emotions towards anything relating to the Ministry and Dumbledore’s death. “Why should the Ministry’s efforts be any better than his?”
Hermione, her mouth open to respond to Harry’s statement, was not given the chance because no sooner had Harry finished talking, did the trio of Gryffindors finally reach the front of the line, standing on the other side of the Apparition Test Centre’s front desk. Standing behind the tall, mahogany, and unprofessionally cluttered desk was a young, blond-haired witch who was slightly on the plump side. She wore long, bright, sky-blue robes that wrapped tightly around her large frame, making it look as if she had gotten a pair that was two sizes too small. A pair of jewelled spectacles (that were uncannily very much like the hideous pair that Rita Skeeter wore the last time that Harry had seen the reporter) sat atop the witch’s round and piggish-looking nose. Glancing up from the roll of parchment on her desk, the witch turned her slightly pale face down to face the trio of friends.
“Name?” she said, her voice annoyingly high and perky, like she had consumed far too much caffeine (or helium, Harry thought with a grin), as she turned her jewelled eyes to stare intently at Ron.
“Er, Ronald Weasley,” he said, sounding slightly taken aback by the pitch and extreme alertness in the witch’s voice.
The young witch gave a slight nod and looked down at some papers on her desk, her fingers rummaging through the piles so fast that it seemed impossible she was seeing every one of them, as she continued speaking to Ron. “State your age, and whether or not you have taken the Apparition Test previously.”
“Seventeen,” answered Ron, now expecting the witch’s odd voice, “and I’ve taken it once before.” The blond-haired witch never looked back up at Ron, instead simply motioning with her right hand towards a pair of high, double doors. “Please step through the doors, and there will be an Apparition instructor to your left,” she said. “Follow him to take the test.”
Ron turned to face his friends, a slightly nervous expression on his face, (which was now pale and displaying a slight, greenish tint), that displayed the anxiety he was feeling. Both Harry and Hermione gave him a reassuring smile. “You’ll do fine, Ron,” whispered Harry, grasping his friend’s shoulder, and Hermione gave the redhead a quick hug. “Good luck,” she said, stepping back from Ron as the latter followed the Apparition witch’s instructions and exited through the pair of double doors, though not before turning his head around and giving his friends one last look.
Once Ron had barely gone beyond the doors, the blond witch turned her jewelled spectacles in Harry’s direction.
“Name?” she said, her voice, having lost some of its previous perkiness, now sounding slightly bored with everything.
“Harry Potter,” he said. A brief pause followed at Harry’s answer as the witch quit rummaging through the rolls of parchment and looked up from her desk. She stared at him, her blue eyes widening slightly from behind her glasses and doing the familiar shift upward towards the lightning-bolt shaped scar on Harry’s forehead. Though the frustration was evident in Harry’s voice, he simply sighed, by now being used to people’s reactions when he introduced himself, and waited for the witch to continue with her questions.
“State your age, Mr. Potter,” she finally said, her voice now holding a hint of slight shock and awe, though the reasons why her tone changed escaped Harry, “and whether or not you have taken the Apparition Test previously.”
“Sixteen,” he answered, “and no, I’ve never taken it.” The witch shuffled through some of the many papers lining her desk before revealing a long scroll. Untying the ribbon wrapped around the roll of parchment, the witch spread the entire scroll out before her.
“Because of your age, Mr. Potter,” she said, “I have to ask when your birthday is.”
A slight grin split Harry’s face, though he had no idea why. “I’ll be seventeen on 31 July,” he replied, and after the witch, running her long-nailed finger down the lines, had scanned down the writing on the scroll, which Harry just noticed was stamped with the official seal of the Minister of Magic, she nodded.
“Very well, Mr. Potter,” said the blond-haired witch and, turning those hideous jewelled spectacles in his direction and looking directly at him with her bright, blue eyes, continued. “You have been cleared to take the test.” Raising her right hand, she motioned towards the doors just as she had for Ron. Giving a slight smile to Hermione, who returned it with her own grin, Harry, swallowing and suddenly very nervous, went through the doors to take his test.
Once the pair of doors had shut behind him, however, Harry entered a room that was far from what he had expected. He found himself in a dark and nearly empty room, with the only furnishings being a few old, spindly chairs - much like the one he remembered being in Ollivander’s wand shop - that stood in a long row along the far left side wall. Harry felt odd at the unexpected environment, and he reached calmly towards his pocket, reassured by his wand’s presence.
At first, Harry thought he was all alone, but he soon noticed the only other figure in the room. Down at the end of the row of chairs sat an older, bald man wearing tattered blue robes that basically hung off of his thin frame - a vast opposite of the witch’s robes that had seemed far too small for the woman. The old man sat with his back to Harry at first, but as Harry looked at him, the man turned around to stare at the young wizard.
“Apparition Test?” the man asked, his low voice gruff and hoarse. Harry, his anxiety causing him to wrap his fingers around his wand in his pocket, nodded. The old man, rising from his chair with a creaking sound, limped across the room to another corridor, and Harry followed closely behind. From the corridor, Harry and the instructor went through the second door on their left, a simple, though slightly damaged, brown wooden door. Becoming slightly more nervous with the man and the intensely dark room, Harry grasped his wand tighter as he entered the spacious room beyond the door after the old man.
Harry felt his mouth drop open slightly at the sight that greeted him. The room had become an exact replica of Diagon Alley, or more correctly, a replica of how Diagon Alley used to be, up until about a year ago. Everything was just how he remembered it being, even down to the sounds of owls and the smells of potion ingredients. All of the shops were still there, lined along the same twisting, cobble stone walkway. Quality Quidditch Supplies stood proudly to his left, the model of the gleaming Firebolt broomstick still being displayed smugly in the window. Flourish and Blotts had piles of books in their display window, with Magical Mysteries: Volume XXI, situated right in the centre. Madam Malkins’, meanwhile, showed the newest fashions in dress robes in their window: A blood-red coloured, high-collared pair of robes clothed the male mannequin, while the female mannequin bore an off-white, flowing pair. Bright, painted script shone out from the window of Florean Fortescue’s Ice-Cream Parlour, the numerous tables still scattered around the entrance way of the shop.
Before Harry could take in more of the shops and the scenery, however, his attention was pulled abruptly back to the instructor as the old man spoke.
“All right,” he said, clearing his throat, “your test is simple. Just Apparate first to Flourish and Blotts, then to Madam Malkins’. After Madam Malkins’, Apparate to Ollivanders, which is just further down the street there, and finally, back here. At every location and attached to the front door, there will be a square card with a number, ranging from one to three, on it. Grab the card, and if you return here with all the cards and have done everything without screwing up or splinching yourself, you pass the test.”
Once the man had finished talking, Harry looked at him for a moment. The old instructor did not offer any more instructions to Harry, instead just waving him on (though the action looked more like the instructor was trying to shoo away annoying flies). As the old man took out his wand, conjuring a mug of what appeared to be Firewhiskey, Harry knew he was not going to get any more directions from the man and simply nodded. He did as the man had said, Apparating to the three shops, grabbing the coloured and numbered cards from the doors, and arriving back to stand beside the instructor a few seconds later.
When Harry had arrived back at the beginning, the old man, having obviously consumed the Firewhiskey, was scribbling notes on a piece of parchment with a crinkled grey quill that he had apparently conjured strictly for the situation. “You passed,” said the instructor, ripping the parchment in half and handing a strip of it to Harry, though at the same time not even looking up at him. “Take this to the witch seated at the desk,” he said, “and she’ll give you your license.” A fit of coughing assaulted the old man as he motioned Harry towards the exit, which was on the opposite side of the room than from where he had entered from. Following the instructor’s wave, he pushed the set of doors open and left the Apparition Test Centre, the man’s coughs still echoing in his ears.
Immediately upon leaving the room, Harry heard Hermione’s voice. “Did you pass?” she said as the doors closed behind Harry. He nodded and, grabbing his arm, she showed him which of the three witches at the desk he was supposed to give the results to. Ron was already in line, holding an identical strip of parchment as Harry had clutched in his hand. When Hermione and Harry approached behind him, he turned around, asking Harry the same question that Hermione had as soon as she had seen him.
“Did you pass?” said Ron, and Harry nodded as the witch finished up with the tall, black-haired girl who was in front of Ron.
“Next,” said the witch, and Ron walked forward. This witch was far older than the one working on the other end of the Test Centre. While the first witch looked little more than nineteen-years-old, this witch looked near seventy. She had silvery grey hair that was pulled back into a bun tightly behind her head. Her lips were stretched thin across her mouth, giving her the distinct impression that she very rarely, if ever, smiled. She was quite thin and wore a dark green set of robes, and with her stern expression and straight-backed posture, the elder witch bore a striking resemblance to Professor McGonagall, though she still seemed far more hostile than the Head of Gryffindor House and new headmistress had ever appeared to Harry.
“Next,” she said again as Ron stepped out of the way, this time clutching another square piece of parchment, the official license to legally Apparate. Harry stepped closer to the desk and handed his test results to the witch. She took them and, after scanning her dark brown eyes, which looked eerily like two small bugs, over the writing, picked up a quill and began to write out Harry’s license, her hands moving at a speed that showed definite practice and skill. It was only a few seconds before the witch looked up to hand Harry the new piece of parchment, and, as Harry reached out his hand to take it, the witch’s eyes, after glancing at the parchment once more, went towards his forehead like every single other person that he had met in his life. Harry simply sighed and, after grabbing the paper from the witch’s extended hand, replied in a slightly annoyed voice. “Thank you,” he said, turning away from her and leaving the Test Centre with Ron and Hermione.
After eventually making it to the long row of lifts, Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered one and, after it visited what felt like all of the floors in the entire Ministry of Magic twice, the cool, female voice finally sounded around the lift with, “The Atrium.” As the golden grilles slid open, Hermione, Ron, and Harry pushed their way out of the thick group of people on the lift and began to make their way through the massive crowds of witches and wizards in the Ministry. Even though it felt like the trio had been in the Ministry forever, the crowds had not thinned since the Gryffindors had arrived, almost three hours previously. If anything, there seemed to be even more witches and wizards in the building.
With a glance at each other and a loud sigh, the three friends took their places behind an old, grey-haired witch in the long line of people waiting to Disapparate. Hopefully, they would be back at The Burrow soon.
Soon, thought Harry, giving a slight laugh as he looked at the many people in front of him and his friends. Yeah, right.
~*~
And that's the end of Chapter IV.
~Megan
Rating: PG-13 / R
Length: Chaptered, WIP
Pairings: H/G, R/Hr, Bill/Fleur, Remus/Tonks, and other canon pairings
Era: Seventh-Year, Hogwarts
Summary: Harry has left the Dursleys’ house for the final time, and has joined back up with his two best friends: Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. Together, the trio of Gryffindors are heading to London on their way to the Ministry of Magic so that the boys can take (and pass) their Apparition tests.
~*~
Chapter IV: Apparition
Harry, Ron, and Hermione finally arrived at the front door of Arabella Figg’s house several minutes later. The topic of the trio’s conversation had changed several times as they walked. It had begun with Apparition (Hermione continuously wanting to question both of her friends to make sure that they were fully prepared), and then headed into Bill and Fleur’s wedding (Ron filling both Harry and Hermione in on the chaos of The Burrow). Currently, Hogwarts and its future was being discussed among the three friends.
“The Daily Prophet was reporting last week that Hogwarts is reopening for the year,” said Hermione, turning to look at Harry to judge his response. Harry gave no indication that the news surprised him in any way. Instead, he simply shrugged his shoulders, the only acknowledgement that he gave to Hermione that he had heard her. “It said the governors decided that the school was still safe enough for students to come,” she continued, “and they have officially appointed Professor McGonagall as the new headmistress.” The only reaction that Harry and Ron made at this news was a slight nod of their heads, and nothing more. Silence fell over the trio for a brief moment, until it was suddenly broken by a response.
“That’s not really a surprise,” muttered Harry. “I mean, McGonagall took over at the end of last year after . . .” He did not finish his statement. He didn’t want to, and he thought that, even if he had wanted to speak of last year’s tragic and horrible events, he didn’t think that he could. Much in the same way it had been difficult for him to talk about Sirius last year, Harry found it hard to mention the night Dumbledore died, with his memory of that event on the Astronomy Tower burning blazingly in his mind, as well as to contribute to the conversation when it ended up straying to the late headmaster. Neither Ron nor Hermione pushed him to continue with his response. Both understood Harry’s pain, even if they had not spent as much time in Dumbledore’s company as Harry had. They had loved the kind, wise wizard very much, and it was immensely difficult for anyone who had known him to not love the old headmaster.
The conversation, which had fallen into silence upon reaching the topic of Dumbledore, now completely came to a halt when Harry, Ron, and Hermione knocked on the door in front of them, and Mrs. Figg opened it to let the trio inside the house. Once they were inside, the three friends abruptly came face to face with Arthur Weasley, who was sitting on the brown sofa in the musty living room and looked as if he had been waiting for them to arrive for some time now. Turning his slightly balding head around as the group of people entered the living room, Mr. Weasley stood from the sofa upon meeting Harry’s eyes.
“Hello, Harry,” he said, walking forward towards the trio of friends. “How’s your summer been?”
“Okay, Mr. Weasley,” Harry answered, even though his summer had been barely “okay”. By now, that response was strictly a habit. As Mr. Weasley smiled knowingly and shook Harry’s hand, Harry was briefly taken aback at just how different Ron’s dad looked from the last time he had seen the older man, back at Dumbledore’s funeral only a few weeks ago. Mr. Weasley looked thinner now, and he had definitely lost some more hair. There were thick, dark circles under his exhausted eyes, and the elder wizard looked as if he had slept very little in the past couple of weeks. Harry assumed Mr. Weasley’s haggard appearance had to do with overwork at the Ministry, which was only bound to increase, especially after Voldemort’s takeover of Azkaban.
“Well,” said Mr. Weasley as he released Harry’s hand and turned to face both Ron and Hermione as well. His mouth stretched into a smile, though the expression still appeared tired and strained. “Are you three ready to go?”
“Why are you here, Dad?” asked Ron as his father moved towards the fireplace on the opposite side of the room after the trio had nodded in reply to his question. “I thought Harry, Hermione, and I were just Flooing into the Ministry.”
Mr. Weasley turned back towards his son, removing his glasses to rub at his exhausted eyes. “You are,” he replied, “but with the way security is at the Ministry right now, it’s far quicker if you three just Floo into the authorized fireplaces, rather than the visitor’s entrance, and to do that, you’ll need to be travelling with someone who has security clearance.” At this, Mr. Weasley pulled a laminated card from an inside pocket of his dark blue robe, and showed his identification and security pass to the teenagers. “That being one reason,” he said, replacing the cards in his pocket as he spoke, “and the other is that Molly wants everyone back home at The Burrow as soon as possible.”
After they had said farewell to Mrs. Figg, thanking her for the use of her fireplace, Mr. Weasley, Ron, Hermione, and Harry each took a handful of the green Floo powder from a chipped and light-brown coloured, clay jar that sat atop the mantle. Stepping into the fireplace, the group Flooed to the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic in London.
It had been a little over a year since Harry had set foot in the building, and he had not been in any hurry to do so again. There were too many memories that plagued him with the Ministry. He could remember exactly what had happened in the Ministry of Magic over a year ago - how Sirius had fallen behind the veil and died, how Dumbledore and Voldemort had fought in the Atrium, and how Voldemort had tried to take possession of him.
Stepping out of the authorized fireplaces, Mr. Weasley, Ron, Harry, and Hermione tried to make their way over to the golden lifts on the opposite side of the room. As Harry’s eyes locked on different parts of the Atrium, the memories of what had happened not long ago began to plague his mind even more. The walls were the same: all panelled in shiny, dark wood and inlaid with many gilded fireplaces, out of which appeared several witches and wizards. The dark-wood floor was still highly polished, and golden symbols moved and changed across the same peacock-blue ceiling. Numerous desks were scattered along the walls, and the Apparition points were surrounded by people.
The Ministry entrance was far more crowded than Harry remembered it ever being. Witches and wizards were tightly packed into the Atrium, lines from the Apparition points and exiting Floo fireplaces stretching all the way across the distance of the giant room. Other than the large increase of people, however, the Ministry of Magic looked almost the same as it had looked on that fateful night over a year ago, save for one very noticeable difference.
The Fountain of Magical Brethren, which had been destroyed by Dumbledore and Voldemort’s battle, had yet to be repaired, and Harry doubted strongly that the Ministry even cared about repairing it at all at this time. Nothing had been put in the Fountain’s place, either. There was just a large, empty space where it had previously stood.
As Harry gazed as the empty space, his mind returned suddenly to dwell on the events of that night, the memories as clear in his head as if he was witnessing everything through a Pensieve for a second time: Bellatrix’s spell blasting the golden wizard’s head off and sending it flying across the room; the centaur’s arm, which was holding a bow, being fired to the other end of the Atrium by her Cruciatus Curse, and one of the goblin’s ears quickly following it; the headless wizard jumping in between Voldemort and himself; the witch running at Bellatrix and pinning her to the floor; the goblin and house-elf running to the Floo fireplaces to summon help; and the centaur circling Dumbledore and Voldemort as the two wizards battled before one of Voldemort’s curses shattered the centaur into hundreds of pieces.
Don’t think about it, Harry thought, shaking his head in a desperate move to clear the memories from his mind. The action worked, and the memories, though not completely disappearing, slowly receded from the forefront of his mind as he continued to walk on with Mr. Weasley, Hermione, and Ron.
They passed by the space where the Fountain had stood, the latter three doing so without giving the empty space a second glance and Harry purposefully focussing his gaze elsewhere, and pushed their way through the thick crowds to the lifts on the other side of the Atrium. They entered a lift that only had one other person in it, a young, brown-haired wizard, who could not be much older than seventeen, and who was carrying several rolls of parchment in his arms. The pile was so high that the man’s face was barely visible over the many rolls. As the golden grilles slid shut with a clang, the lift began to ascend and the cool, female voice soon sounded around the small area.
“Level seven, Department of Magical Games and Sports, incorporating the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters, Official Gobstones Club, and Ludicrous Patents Office.” The doors opened, but as no one left the lift, and none of the many witches and wizards crowding the corridor beyond entered, the doors quickly shut again and ascended to the next level of the Ministry.
“Level six,” the woman’s voice said again, “Department of Magical Transport, incorporating the Floo Network Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, Portkey Office, and Apparition Test Centre.”
“That’s our level,” said Mr. Weasley, and as the golden grilles slid open, he and the three friends got off of the lift. This floor looked just as run-down as the corridor where Mr. Weasley’s old office used to be had looked. There were not as many people on this floor as there had been down in the Atrium; however, there was still a pretty good-sized line outside the door to the Apparition Test Centre.
Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Mr. Weasley joined the end of the long line. “Okay, you three,” said Mr. Weasley, after taking a quick look up at the large group of people in front of them, “I need to go to the office, but you’ll be fine here. Hermione,” he said, turning to look at the young witch, “you can wait with Harry and Ron if you want.”
“Of course,” answered Hermione, nodding. “I want to wait.”
Mr. Weasley nodded. “Well, Harry, Ron,” he said, glancing at both of the teenagers as he spoke, “once you two have finished taking the test, the three of you can go back to the Atrium and either Apparate back to The Burrow or use the Floo Network. You won’t need any security clearance since you’re already within the Ministry.
“And don’t forget, Ron, Harry, Hermione,” continued Mr. Weasley, his voice taking on a more serious tone as he looked at each of the teenagers in turn. “Go directly home after you’re finished,” he said, his voice expressing both the graveness and the importance of his words at the same time. “Do not go anywhere other than The Burrow. Understood?”
The three friends nodded their heads in assent, fully grasping the seriousness of Mr. Weasley’s order. Times had become immensely worse in just the past couple of weeks, and nowhere was considered “safe” anymore, especially in the Wizarding World. Even the Muggle world was not immune to the darkness that seeped throughout the Magical locations of Great Britain, for attacks by both Dementors and Death Eaters had increased ten-fold within the past few weeks. They all knew that it was no longer very wise to wander around anywhere, whether it was morning, noon, or in the middle of the night.
“Okay, Mr. Weasley,” replied Harry. “We will.”
“Bye, Dad,” said Ron at the same time as Hermione responded with, “Good-bye, Mr. Weasley.” And as Arthur Weasley left the trio of friends in the line and headed back towards the lift, Ron, Harry, and Hermione huddled close together, glad for the time to talk about some more serious things that the trio had not mentioned after leaving the Dursleys’ house.
After glancing around quickly and making sure that they were not being overheard, Harry began the conversation, talking about the first thing that came to his mind. “Did you two hear the news about Sean Davis?” asked Harry.
“You mean that shy boy in Ravenclaw?” whispered Hermione, and Harry nodded. “What happened to him?”
“I heard it on the Muggle news. He and his family were discovered in their home yesterday,” replied Harry, lowering his voice to the whispering volume of Hermione’s. “They were all killed, and the reporter said that the Muggle police have no idea how they died.” Harry paused as both Hermione and Ron displayed knowing expressions. The fact that the Muggle authorities were completely stumped as to the murders did not surprise any of them. That fact alone, as a matter of fact, actually helped to confirm their suspicions as to the truth. Everyone present in the conversation knew exactly how Sean had been killed, though the Muggles, regardless of the fact that they were discovering more and more of these deaths, would never figure it out.
“Was he a Muggle-born?” muttered Ron.
“No,” answered Harry, shaking his head in disagreement. “He was a half-blood. His dad was a wizard, a former Ravenclaw and the owner of that restaurant, M. Davis’s, in London -” (Hermione and Ron nodded in understanding) - “but his mother was a Muggle.”
Harry did not continue and neither Ron nor Hermione responded immediately to their friend’s last statement. The Davis family had not been members of the Order, but neither were any of them Death Eaters. None of them had placed themselves on any particular side of the war; instead, Sean’s family had decided to stay neutral, and his father’s restaurant symbolized that feeling and decision perfectly. M. Davis’s would have served Dumbledore just as easily as they would serve the Malfoys, or even Voldemort himself. But apparently, the Davis’ viewpoint had not saved them from death in the end.
The Second War was beginning to get to the point where neutrality was simply not an option, and where there was little to no difference between a half-blood and a Muggle-born. Unless something happened to change it, both would be only good for death in Voldemort and the Death Eaters’ view before very long. After a few more brief comments, the conversation finally steered away from the Ravenclaw’s death. However, it did not leave the realm of the immense chaos caused by the war and the return of Voldemort, though Harry did not want to dwell on some of the war’s aspects, and Azkaban was one of them.
“Did you see about Azkaban?” Ron asked, looking at both Hermione and Harry, trying to judge the reactions of his two best friends to the news.
Harry did not respond immediately. Instead, he just stared at the ground, not really wanting to discuss the great victory that Voldemort had recently achieved. However much he tried to find an up side to the turnover of the Wizarding prison, he couldn’t. There was simply no getting around the knowledge that Azkaban’s fall was a victory for the Dark. The fact that Voldemort just continued to gain power caused many emotions to flow through Harry, and he was not quite sure at the moment which one should have dominance. Hermione, on the other hand, did not remain silent, and quickly answered Ron’s question.
“I did,” she whispered. “I saw it in the Daily Prophet this morning. It’s horrible. I mean, all those Death Eaters free again, and who knows what happened to the Aurors. The Ministry doesn’t have much hope for their survival, according to the paper.”
“They’re alive,” muttered Harry, causing both his friends to focus their gazes on him at his sudden interruption. He had not meant to say anything on the subject, had planned on allowing the topic to end and the conversation to head somewhere else, but the two words had just slipped out before he could stop them. And now, as his friends stared at him, awaiting more information, Harry knew he would have to elaborate on his two words, but before he could continue, his friends got in first.
Ron was the first to get over his shock at Harry’s statement and respond. “How do you know?” he asked. “They’re Aurors, after all, and wouldn’t Voldemort want to kill them?”
Harry sighed as he looked up from the ground and into the eyes of his two friends. “He would want to kill them, yes, but he would also want to torture them first,” whispered Harry. “He wouldn’t give them an easy death, and he would probably want to try to break them anyway.
“Besides, all of the Death Eaters who were in Azkaban are going to want some revenge,” the Boy Who Lived continued, “and who better to take their anger out on than some Aurors, especially those who were guards at the prison?”
Neither Ron nor Hermione responded to Harry’s question, for the question was simply one of those that did not need the answer spoken aloud. Everyone knew that Harry spoke the truth, and, though this particular truth made none of them happy or pleased, no one wished to argue with it. Any arguing done about the subject, after all, would only be dealing in lies and false truths, both of which were too reminiscent of Fudge for the trio to even consider immersing themselves in. The conversation slowly left the realm of Voldemort and the actions of the Death Eaters, making its way through a multitude of other topics, as the trio waited in the long line. When the choices of subjects began to dwindle down, Hermione brought up the conversation of Hogwarts once more.
“I read in the Prophet that the Ministry is putting a lot of extra security measures in place at the school,” she said. “Apparently, they’re hoping that it will keep the students safe from anything like what happened last year.”
“Yeah, well, Dumbledore put up a load more protection, and that didn’t keep the Death Eaters out, now, did it?” asked Harry, his voice dripping with sarcasm and at the same time, betraying some of his bitter emotions towards anything relating to the Ministry and Dumbledore’s death. “Why should the Ministry’s efforts be any better than his?”
Hermione, her mouth open to respond to Harry’s statement, was not given the chance because no sooner had Harry finished talking, did the trio of Gryffindors finally reach the front of the line, standing on the other side of the Apparition Test Centre’s front desk. Standing behind the tall, mahogany, and unprofessionally cluttered desk was a young, blond-haired witch who was slightly on the plump side. She wore long, bright, sky-blue robes that wrapped tightly around her large frame, making it look as if she had gotten a pair that was two sizes too small. A pair of jewelled spectacles (that were uncannily very much like the hideous pair that Rita Skeeter wore the last time that Harry had seen the reporter) sat atop the witch’s round and piggish-looking nose. Glancing up from the roll of parchment on her desk, the witch turned her slightly pale face down to face the trio of friends.
“Name?” she said, her voice annoyingly high and perky, like she had consumed far too much caffeine (or helium, Harry thought with a grin), as she turned her jewelled eyes to stare intently at Ron.
“Er, Ronald Weasley,” he said, sounding slightly taken aback by the pitch and extreme alertness in the witch’s voice.
The young witch gave a slight nod and looked down at some papers on her desk, her fingers rummaging through the piles so fast that it seemed impossible she was seeing every one of them, as she continued speaking to Ron. “State your age, and whether or not you have taken the Apparition Test previously.”
“Seventeen,” answered Ron, now expecting the witch’s odd voice, “and I’ve taken it once before.” The blond-haired witch never looked back up at Ron, instead simply motioning with her right hand towards a pair of high, double doors. “Please step through the doors, and there will be an Apparition instructor to your left,” she said. “Follow him to take the test.”
Ron turned to face his friends, a slightly nervous expression on his face, (which was now pale and displaying a slight, greenish tint), that displayed the anxiety he was feeling. Both Harry and Hermione gave him a reassuring smile. “You’ll do fine, Ron,” whispered Harry, grasping his friend’s shoulder, and Hermione gave the redhead a quick hug. “Good luck,” she said, stepping back from Ron as the latter followed the Apparition witch’s instructions and exited through the pair of double doors, though not before turning his head around and giving his friends one last look.
Once Ron had barely gone beyond the doors, the blond witch turned her jewelled spectacles in Harry’s direction.
“Name?” she said, her voice, having lost some of its previous perkiness, now sounding slightly bored with everything.
“Harry Potter,” he said. A brief pause followed at Harry’s answer as the witch quit rummaging through the rolls of parchment and looked up from her desk. She stared at him, her blue eyes widening slightly from behind her glasses and doing the familiar shift upward towards the lightning-bolt shaped scar on Harry’s forehead. Though the frustration was evident in Harry’s voice, he simply sighed, by now being used to people’s reactions when he introduced himself, and waited for the witch to continue with her questions.
“State your age, Mr. Potter,” she finally said, her voice now holding a hint of slight shock and awe, though the reasons why her tone changed escaped Harry, “and whether or not you have taken the Apparition Test previously.”
“Sixteen,” he answered, “and no, I’ve never taken it.” The witch shuffled through some of the many papers lining her desk before revealing a long scroll. Untying the ribbon wrapped around the roll of parchment, the witch spread the entire scroll out before her.
“Because of your age, Mr. Potter,” she said, “I have to ask when your birthday is.”
A slight grin split Harry’s face, though he had no idea why. “I’ll be seventeen on 31 July,” he replied, and after the witch, running her long-nailed finger down the lines, had scanned down the writing on the scroll, which Harry just noticed was stamped with the official seal of the Minister of Magic, she nodded.
“Very well, Mr. Potter,” said the blond-haired witch and, turning those hideous jewelled spectacles in his direction and looking directly at him with her bright, blue eyes, continued. “You have been cleared to take the test.” Raising her right hand, she motioned towards the doors just as she had for Ron. Giving a slight smile to Hermione, who returned it with her own grin, Harry, swallowing and suddenly very nervous, went through the doors to take his test.
Once the pair of doors had shut behind him, however, Harry entered a room that was far from what he had expected. He found himself in a dark and nearly empty room, with the only furnishings being a few old, spindly chairs - much like the one he remembered being in Ollivander’s wand shop - that stood in a long row along the far left side wall. Harry felt odd at the unexpected environment, and he reached calmly towards his pocket, reassured by his wand’s presence.
At first, Harry thought he was all alone, but he soon noticed the only other figure in the room. Down at the end of the row of chairs sat an older, bald man wearing tattered blue robes that basically hung off of his thin frame - a vast opposite of the witch’s robes that had seemed far too small for the woman. The old man sat with his back to Harry at first, but as Harry looked at him, the man turned around to stare at the young wizard.
“Apparition Test?” the man asked, his low voice gruff and hoarse. Harry, his anxiety causing him to wrap his fingers around his wand in his pocket, nodded. The old man, rising from his chair with a creaking sound, limped across the room to another corridor, and Harry followed closely behind. From the corridor, Harry and the instructor went through the second door on their left, a simple, though slightly damaged, brown wooden door. Becoming slightly more nervous with the man and the intensely dark room, Harry grasped his wand tighter as he entered the spacious room beyond the door after the old man.
Harry felt his mouth drop open slightly at the sight that greeted him. The room had become an exact replica of Diagon Alley, or more correctly, a replica of how Diagon Alley used to be, up until about a year ago. Everything was just how he remembered it being, even down to the sounds of owls and the smells of potion ingredients. All of the shops were still there, lined along the same twisting, cobble stone walkway. Quality Quidditch Supplies stood proudly to his left, the model of the gleaming Firebolt broomstick still being displayed smugly in the window. Flourish and Blotts had piles of books in their display window, with Magical Mysteries: Volume XXI, situated right in the centre. Madam Malkins’, meanwhile, showed the newest fashions in dress robes in their window: A blood-red coloured, high-collared pair of robes clothed the male mannequin, while the female mannequin bore an off-white, flowing pair. Bright, painted script shone out from the window of Florean Fortescue’s Ice-Cream Parlour, the numerous tables still scattered around the entrance way of the shop.
Before Harry could take in more of the shops and the scenery, however, his attention was pulled abruptly back to the instructor as the old man spoke.
“All right,” he said, clearing his throat, “your test is simple. Just Apparate first to Flourish and Blotts, then to Madam Malkins’. After Madam Malkins’, Apparate to Ollivanders, which is just further down the street there, and finally, back here. At every location and attached to the front door, there will be a square card with a number, ranging from one to three, on it. Grab the card, and if you return here with all the cards and have done everything without screwing up or splinching yourself, you pass the test.”
Once the man had finished talking, Harry looked at him for a moment. The old instructor did not offer any more instructions to Harry, instead just waving him on (though the action looked more like the instructor was trying to shoo away annoying flies). As the old man took out his wand, conjuring a mug of what appeared to be Firewhiskey, Harry knew he was not going to get any more directions from the man and simply nodded. He did as the man had said, Apparating to the three shops, grabbing the coloured and numbered cards from the doors, and arriving back to stand beside the instructor a few seconds later.
When Harry had arrived back at the beginning, the old man, having obviously consumed the Firewhiskey, was scribbling notes on a piece of parchment with a crinkled grey quill that he had apparently conjured strictly for the situation. “You passed,” said the instructor, ripping the parchment in half and handing a strip of it to Harry, though at the same time not even looking up at him. “Take this to the witch seated at the desk,” he said, “and she’ll give you your license.” A fit of coughing assaulted the old man as he motioned Harry towards the exit, which was on the opposite side of the room than from where he had entered from. Following the instructor’s wave, he pushed the set of doors open and left the Apparition Test Centre, the man’s coughs still echoing in his ears.
Immediately upon leaving the room, Harry heard Hermione’s voice. “Did you pass?” she said as the doors closed behind Harry. He nodded and, grabbing his arm, she showed him which of the three witches at the desk he was supposed to give the results to. Ron was already in line, holding an identical strip of parchment as Harry had clutched in his hand. When Hermione and Harry approached behind him, he turned around, asking Harry the same question that Hermione had as soon as she had seen him.
“Did you pass?” said Ron, and Harry nodded as the witch finished up with the tall, black-haired girl who was in front of Ron.
“Next,” said the witch, and Ron walked forward. This witch was far older than the one working on the other end of the Test Centre. While the first witch looked little more than nineteen-years-old, this witch looked near seventy. She had silvery grey hair that was pulled back into a bun tightly behind her head. Her lips were stretched thin across her mouth, giving her the distinct impression that she very rarely, if ever, smiled. She was quite thin and wore a dark green set of robes, and with her stern expression and straight-backed posture, the elder witch bore a striking resemblance to Professor McGonagall, though she still seemed far more hostile than the Head of Gryffindor House and new headmistress had ever appeared to Harry.
“Next,” she said again as Ron stepped out of the way, this time clutching another square piece of parchment, the official license to legally Apparate. Harry stepped closer to the desk and handed his test results to the witch. She took them and, after scanning her dark brown eyes, which looked eerily like two small bugs, over the writing, picked up a quill and began to write out Harry’s license, her hands moving at a speed that showed definite practice and skill. It was only a few seconds before the witch looked up to hand Harry the new piece of parchment, and, as Harry reached out his hand to take it, the witch’s eyes, after glancing at the parchment once more, went towards his forehead like every single other person that he had met in his life. Harry simply sighed and, after grabbing the paper from the witch’s extended hand, replied in a slightly annoyed voice. “Thank you,” he said, turning away from her and leaving the Test Centre with Ron and Hermione.
After eventually making it to the long row of lifts, Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered one and, after it visited what felt like all of the floors in the entire Ministry of Magic twice, the cool, female voice finally sounded around the lift with, “The Atrium.” As the golden grilles slid open, Hermione, Ron, and Harry pushed their way out of the thick group of people on the lift and began to make their way through the massive crowds of witches and wizards in the Ministry. Even though it felt like the trio had been in the Ministry forever, the crowds had not thinned since the Gryffindors had arrived, almost three hours previously. If anything, there seemed to be even more witches and wizards in the building.
With a glance at each other and a loud sigh, the three friends took their places behind an old, grey-haired witch in the long line of people waiting to Disapparate. Hopefully, they would be back at The Burrow soon.
Soon, thought Harry, giving a slight laugh as he looked at the many people in front of him and his friends. Yeah, right.
~*~
And that's the end of Chapter IV.
~Megan