The wedding celebrations lasted through night and well into the next morning. As evening drew near and the guests started to shiver in the fast-cooling night air, Madame Delacour invited them all inside the mansion, which was so huge that even containing over a hundred guests it hardly felt crowded at all. Snacks and drinks were set on small tables in all the rooms, replenished regularly by beaming, bowing House Elves.
The crisp French wine was so good that after a couple of glasses Harry even managed to forget how stupid he felt in his floaty blue dressrobes as he moved among the guests, chatting and laughing with them all. He had been determined to enjoy this wedding to the full, as he knew it would probably be the last fun event in his life for a while. As the party drew to a close, Harry was sitting in a comfortable, high-backed armchair half-listening sleepily to Tonks and Lupin’s conversation from where they sat close by. Ron was sprawled inelegantly across a chaise-longue next to them, throwing honey-coated peanuts into the air and catching them lazily in his mouth.
“But do you really have to, Remus? I just don’t want you to get hurt, or killed--and this is avoidable.” Harry, who had been sinking drowsily into his chair for the last half-hour now looked over curiously at Lupin and Tonks, who appeared worryingly grave for their first wedding night together.
“Tonks, I assure you I am not at all eager to go back. But two days are all I ask. If Sullius isn’t persuaded by then, I’ll leave it.” At that moment, Lupin glanced over at Harry, and smiled when he noticed Harry’s eyes were open.
“Go back? To the werewolves?” asked Harry, a cold feeling of dread creeping slowly through his wine-induced relaxed mood. He suddenly felt fully awake. Ron, on the other hand, appeared blissfully unaware of the conversation as he lay with eyes half-closed, crunching yet another peanut.
“Yes,” said Lupin. “Now that Tonks and I are married, of course, I am not going to stay with them any more. My efforts are proving almost futile anyway--but I have all but convinced one of them to leave Fenrir’s group, I am certain that a little more persuasion would bring him over to our side. Surely it would be a pity to abandon him now? Dumbledore asked me to do my best, and I can’t just give this up. I owe it to Dumbledore,” he finished, looking at Tonks soberly.
Harry understood Lupin’s feelings perfectly, if reluctantly, and it seemed Tonks did too, for although the characteristic sparkle in her black eyes had died and her heart-shaped face was rather pale, she squeezed Lupin's hand in agreement. “Well, if you must,” she said quietly. “Just--just be careful, Remus!” She looked as though she wanted to say more, but not in front of Harry, who felt distinctly awkward and cast around quickly for an excuse to leave. But just then, there was a loud choking, spluttering sound beside them and the little group all turned to find Ron going purple in the face and energetically thumping his own throat with his palm. Harry leapt up in alarm, but Lupin just pointed his wand quickly and wordlessly at Ron’s throat, and Ron heaved in a lungful of air, his airway unblocked.
“Sorry!” he gasped. “Breathed in a peanut…” and he grabbed a glass of water and gulped some down. Harry, Lupin and Tonks all chuckled.
“Teach you not to do this, then,” said Lupin, expertly flicking seven peanuts into his mouth in quick succession.
“Well, maybe we should make a move,” said Tonks, a shadow of the unhappiness returning to her face, though she made an obvious effort to hide it.
“All righ’, all o’ yeh?” Hagrid appeared behind, red in the face from too much wine and a happy smile plastered across face. “Molly reckons we oughter be makin’ our way back, lotta the guests got work tomorrer--today, rather.”
“Of course,” said Lupin, standing and helping Tonks up. “I have work myself to do,” he added, and Harry saw Tonks pause for only the slightest moment, meeting Lupin’s eyes before giving a tiny, reluctant nod of her head.
“What, work righ’ after yer wedding day? Keen, aren’t yeh?” chuckled Hagrid, completely oblivious to the silent communication going on between the two of them, and he left them to look for the rest of their company.
“Just two days, Tonks,” murmured Lupin, laying his hand on her arm.
Tonks sighed, then forced a smile. “I know,” she said quietly. “I'm just being horribly selfish. And if you can persuade this Sullius person to leave Voldemort, I’ll be a very proud--wife.” The last word left her mouth awkwardly and Tonks looked as though she was tasting the sound of it.
“I’m a wife,” she said, grinning. Harry, Ron and Lupin all laughed. “You’ll get used to it,” said Lupin, eyes twinkling. “Though I’m not sure if I’ll ever get used to you being my wife.” He seemed to have forgotten Harry and Ron’s presence as he smiled at Tonks, and she beamed back.
Mr and Mrs Weasley came up to them at this point and Harry and Ron exchanged relieved looks--Harry certainly didn’t want to be caught in the middle of any slushy sentimental scenes between the two newly-weds.
“All ready to go?” said Mrs Weasley. Her magically curled hair was coming down from its neat knot and she had a hairpin stuck in her collar, but she looked overflowing with happiness and pride. “Charlie and Flavia are coming to stay at Grimmauld for a while,” she said in a low voice. “And where are Fred and George?”
“Over there,” said Ron, pointing to the far side of the huge dining-room. The twins were bent over a table, around which a small group of blonde-haired girls were clustered. Mrs Weasley bustled over, and Harry heard the girls tinkling laughs as Fred and George straightened up, Fred’s face bright violet, George’s acid-green. As Harry watched, grinning, Fred removed a small pill-like object from his left ear--his face slowly returned to normal--and deposited it into George’s. Ron snorted with laughter next to Harry, and the girls broke into applause--now George’s face was half-green, half-purple, the two colours running down his neck and disappearing into his robes. The twins bowed low and Fred began tossing the small pills to the girls, who all started pushing them eagerly into their ears, shrieking with laughter and pointing at each others faces as they turned turquoise, orange, crimson, and a multitude of other colours.
Harry watched as Mrs Weasley reached the group, expecting her to start shouting at her sons, but she just smiled good-naturedly and chivvied Fred and George away. The girls waved after them, looking like a bunch of Bertie Botts Every-Flavour Beans on legs.
“Hope they take them out soon,” muttered Fred to Harry when he reached him. “We didn’t tell them, the colour tends to stick for ages if they leave it in too long.”
“Why didn’t you tell them?” asked Harry suspiciously.
“Don’t speak French,” shrugged Fred, though his eyes held a spark of mischief.
Mrs Weasley now led Ginny and Hermione over, who were both yawning.
“Bill and Fleur are staying here for the night, then they’re going to Thailand for their honeymoon!” Mrs Weasley told everyone, her cheeks glowing with happiness. “I’m going to find Charlie and Flavia then we’ll be off.”
“They’re outside,” said George. “Ahem--just taking a walk, of course,” he added innocently as Mrs Weasley looked suspiciously outside the patio doors at the dark garden, then hurried outside, shaking her head with a small smile on her face.
“Where are you going for your honeymoon?” said Hermione, turning to Tonks.
“Oh, we’ve decided not to go anywhere,” said Tonks casually. Hermione looked shocked, and Tonks quickly explained. “We both have too much to do for the Order, and besides, I need to carry on with work as normal, seeing as no-one there knows I’m married now.”
Hermione looked sympathetic but Tonks just shrugged, not seeming at all put out. “Oh, I don’t mind,” she said. “As long as I’m with Remus, I’m happy!”
Lupin looked rather flattered.
Mrs Weasley returned at that point, a sheepish-looking Charlie following her, his bright-red hair oddly messy. Flavia, behind him, was also rather pink in the face but her lips kept curving into a smile and her eyes were dancing with suppressed mirth.
Hagrid stumped over to say goodbye and Harry, Ron and Hermione all hugged him--he was staying in France for while so he could visit Madame Maxime, the headmistress of the French school of magic, Beauxbatons. Then came the long task of saying goodbye to every one of Fleur’s relatives, in particular Christophe, Marguerite and Gabrielle. Gabrielle offered her hand graciously to Harry, her face composed and looking very beautiful though her fingers trembled in Harry’s awkward grasp.
“I ‘ope I will see you anuzzer time, ‘Arry,” she said, curtseying elegantly, her long silver hair sweeping nearly to the floor as she inclined her head. Harry nodded back, feeling stupid; he could see the amused look Hermione threw in his direction. But, luckily, most of the guests seemed to at last have finished wishing Bill, Fleur, Lupin and Tonks good luck and goodbye and with one last handshake and smile for a blonde-haired woman, Mr Weasley took hold of Ginny’s hand, preparing to Apparate with her. Harry’s head was starting to ache a little from the late night, the chatter, and the wine, and he was quite glad to leave the great marble mansion behind as he focussed his mind on Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place and Disapparated.
As he appeared out of thin air in the dining room of Sirius’ old house, Harry found himself once more exhausted from the long journey, and barely registering the ‘goodnight’ from Mrs Weasley, he dragged himself upstairs and into bed, Ron slouching tiredly behind him. Harry still had a headache from the wine he had drunk and he fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow, forgetting even to take off his glasses. That night, Harry’s dreams were filled with confused images of rings shining on dozens of hands, fountains shooting multi-coloured drinks in every direction, and hundreds of blonde-haired Veela with green and purple faces flying Comet Two-Sixties…
Harry was suffocating--he was drowning--cold wetness had pervaded his dream and he choked, gasping, as his eyes snapped open and he found himself staring up at Ginny, freezing water trickling inside his pyjamas and down his spine like the path of an icy finger. Ginny was standing there clutching an empty bucket and was doubled up with laughter at the look on his face.
“W-what did you do that for?” spluttered Harry, still rigid with shock. From across the room Harry heard a splash and a startled yell, and looking over he saw Ron sat bolt upright in bed, red hair plastered to his forehead, and water running in rivulets down his face, upon which was stamped an expression of mixed confusion and horror. Hermione was stood by the bed, smiling mischievously, also clutching a large, empty bucket.
“We thought you needed a wake-up call,” explained Ginny, turning her bucket upside down and perching herself neatly upon it.
“What the--why did you--couldn’t you just have shaken us?” Ron said, his teeth chattering, and Harry wrung a thin stream of water from his sopping wet pyjama sleeve onto the floor.
“We tried,” said Hermione. “We shook you, pulled the covers off, yelled your names--you didn’t even twitch. You had far too much wine,” she added severely to Ron, who looked over at Harry and raised his eyebrows at him in mock disbelief. The effects of the shock starting to wear off, it was at this moment that Harry realised his head was pounding, and he groaned, slumping back onto his pillows and closing his eyes, ignoring the water which seeped from his hair into his ears. He was too wet already to care.
“Oh, no you don’t,” said Ginny firmly, grabbing his arm and yanking him off the bed with surprising strength. Harry fell onto the floor but he didn’t bother to get up.
“We didn’t go to all that effort to have you go back to sleep,” said Hermione. “Besides, you need to get up now, remember what day it is?”
“Er,” said Harry stupidly, to the floor. “Monday?”
“Yes, and it’s the first of August, silly,” said Ginny impatiently, and Harry opened one eyelid slowly so he could look at her, waiting for an explanation for why this should mean anything to him. Hermione and Ginny both rolled their eyes.
“We’re going to Azkaban with Scrimgeour today, remember?” said Hermione, looking as though she was curbing her impatience with difficulty.
Azkaban… Scrimgeour… the words crept slowly past the large, throbbing lump that was Harry’s headache and he remembered--of course, they had to see Mundungus today--and perhaps find out what had happened to the golden locket which had been in this house and was almost certainly a Horcrux. What was he doing, lying on the floor when there was such important work to be done?
Harry get up hastily, ignoring his pounding head as best he could, and reached for his wand, drying himself off with a quick Heating Charm before telling Hermione and Ginny to go away while he and Ron got dressed.
“Well, at least we won’t have to shower,” yawned Ron, following Harry’s example and drying the water in his hair and pyjama top, overdoing the Heating Charm slightly out of sleepiness. Harry grabbed Ron’s arm and diverted it as he saw smoke beginning to curl from Ron’s head. Ron inspected his singed hair in the dressing-table mirror, which hooted with laughter at the sight of him--irritably Ron told it to shut its face--then they dressed hurriedly and went downstairs to the kitchen.
“Eat that, quickly--we have to be there in ten minutes,” said Hermione, pointing to a stack of buttered toast on the table as Harry and Ron walked into the room. Mrs Weasley was standing at the sink, clearing away the dishes, and at Hermione’s words she glanced over at them.
“Be where in ten minutes?” she said casually, though her eyes were anxious.
“The Ministry of Magic,” Ginny replied as she bit into a slice of toast.
Mrs Weasley looked slightly surprised, almost relieved, but she appeared to bite back her questions and merely nodded, before turning back to the sink. Harry was grateful for her restraint.
“Bad news, Molly.” They all turned at the sound of Arthur Weasley’s voice, and the grim tidings the words foreboded. Mr Weasley had entered the kitchen looking very pale, clutching a rolled up copy of the Daily Prophet, and Mrs Weasley laid down a dish very abruptly at the sight of his face, as though her hands were suddenly weak.
“What’s happened, Arthur?” she said, eyes anxious and her voice slightly higher than usual. “Has someone we know--” she stopped, unable to speak her fears aloud.
“Frank and Alice’s son, Neville, is missing--and Augusta, his grandmother, has been killed…” said Mr Weasley tiredly, holding up the paper. Hermione gave a choked, horrified sob, and Harry’s insides seemed to freeze as he stared at the black and white photo of the Dark Mark glittering above the ruins of a house--Neville’s house.
Neville couldn’t be dead, thought Harry desperately--no, he’s only missing, he’ll be found! Hermione, Ron and Ginny all looked white and shocked, and for a while they just sat there, stricken, while Mr and Mrs Weasley discussed the news in low, sad voices. Harry suddenly felt a huge, unexpected upsurge of guilt. If Neville was dead, it was his, Harry’s fault, muttered a nasty little voice in his brain. You’re supposed to be the one getting rid of Voldemort, and instead you’re wasting time at weddings while your friends are being killed Harry shook his head silently to clear the unwelcome voice from his mind, his thoughts in a sickened, appalled turmoil of disbelief. He felt sudden hot tears burning behind his eyes.
At that moment Charlie and Flavia strolled into the kitchen looking bright and cheerful, and Harry’s headache worsened as he looked at them through a sort of mist. How could they look so happy? But they didn’t know what was plastered all over the front of the newspaper--the news that Neville Longbottom, Harry’s fellow Gyrffindor and classmate at Hogwarts for six years, was missing…
“We--we’d better get going,” murmured Hermione, not looking at anyone as she gathered up the plates, suppressed tears in her eyes. Harry rose to his feet in a sort of daze. But some part of him knew he had to concentrate on the work of today--finding the locket--and so he did his best to push the thought of Neville to the back of his mind, hating himself as he did so. And the four of them left the room and went into the hall to Disapparate. Harry could distinctly feel Mrs Weasley’s gaze on his back as it followed them through the door and out of the kitchen.
Several seconds later, the squeezing sensation of Apparition over, Harry found himself standing in the beautiful, huge Entrance Chamber of the Ministry of Magic, the famous Fountain of Magical Brethren standing, whole again, in the centre. At the end of Harry’s fifth year, during a fight with Death Eaters in the Ministry, this fountain had been smashed by a curse from Voldemort but had now been expertly repaired. The four of them stood in the Chamber in a sad, silent group. It was a mark of how distressed she was by the news of Neville’s disappearance that Hermione didn’t even comment on the little golden statue of the house elf gazing up humbly at the handsome wizard in the middle of the fountain.
“Names and business please, and I’ll need to weigh your wands.” A bored voice spoke behind them and they all turned. It was the same secretary that Harry had seen here last time, and he had just silently handed over his wand when he heard footsteps behind him and looked over his shoulder to see the Minister for Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, loping towards them. The thin, bespectacled figure of Percy Weasley, Scrimgeour’s assistant, followed close behind.
“Harry!” said Scrimgeour genially. “No need, Eric, they’re with me,” he added, and the wizard nodded, thrusting Harry’s wand back at him.
“Morning, Minister,” said Harry, trying to keep the hostility he felt for the Minister out of his voice, seeing as without Scrimgeour, they had no way of getting into Azkaban. Harry noticed that Percy was avoiding Ron and Ginny’s eyes--they were both scowling at him. But Percy lacked his usual stiffness towards them; today he seemed strangely disturbed and unhappy. Had he, too, heard the news about Neville?
Harry introduced Scrimgeour to Ron, Hermione and Ginny, for though the Minister had seen them all before at the Burrow a couple of years ago, he didn’t appear to remember them. Scrimgeour glanced at Ron and Ginny and spoke to Percy over his shoulder. “These’ll be your brother and sister, eh, Weasley?”
Percy muttered an embarrassed, “Yes, sir,” a deep flush creeping up his neck.
“Well, we’d better be going, I informed the few guards we have left that we’d be there around 11.15,” said Scrimgeour, checking his watch. “Weasley, I’ve given you your instructions for this morning, yes?” Oddly, Scrimgeour sounded rather apologetic, and Percy nodded, walking off looking for some reason extremely uncomfortable. While Scrimgeour had been talking, Percy’s neck had been getting steadily redder and redder and Ginny and Ron had been watching their brother, identical suspicious expressions on their faces.
“This way,” said Scrimgeour, motioning them to follow him, and they set off across the huge hall, which was bustling with witches and wizards, all rather pale and tense, some nodding at each other in greeting but not stopping to talk.
“So, Harry, what brings you to Azkaban today?” his voice was light and casual, but Harry noticed the Minister’s fingers tighten around his cane. “Is Fletcher a friend of yours? Family? Or perhaps--something else?” Harry could tell Scrimgeour had wanted to ask this ever since he had seen their letter requesting the visit to Mundungus.
“It’s family business,” said Hermione, her voice admirably calm. She seemed to have controlled her tears. Scrimgeour spared her a short glance, and she met his gaze steadily.
“It is, is it?” said Scrimgeour, disbelievingly.
“Yes, it is,” said Hermione, throwing a warning glance at rest of them to stop them from saying anything. “I’m a Muggleborn, you see, so I thought I had no wizarding relatives, but I’ve been tracing back the family line and it turns out I’m distantly related to the Fletchers. Mundungus’ family is descended from my great-grandmother’s brother, and Mundungus is the last of that line. I wanted to see the only wizarding relative I have.”
Scrimgeour looked suddenly doubtful, as though Hermione’s confident tone and the words that tripped so easily from her tongue had convinced him that this really was the reason for their coming, and not some secret plot. But the Minister soon recovered his poise, glancing shrewdly from Harry to Hermione, who kept on walking coolly in the direction they were taking, towards a large black door on the far side of the Hall. Their little party, especially Harry, was getting a lot of curious glance from witches and wizards passing them on the way to their various workstations.
“This is the only way you can get into Azkaban,” said Scrimgeour, as they reached the door. The Minister inserted a thin, sharp key into the lock and the door swung open noiselessly, which seemed to Harry peculiarly ominous.
To Harry’s surprise, the door did not open into a room, but instead enclosed a built-in, grim black fireplace, the embers in the grate glowing a sinister green.
“No need to tell the Floo where you want to go--it’s only connected to Azkaban. Obviously, the prison is heavily laced with Anti-Apparition spells. You first, Harry?”
Harry looked slightly apprehensively at the fireplace, dreading where it was going to take him, but he nodded and climbed into the grate. Green flames instantly whooshed up his legs, and he had a brief glimpse of the rest of the company shielding their faces, which were glowing green from the sudden light emanating from the fireplace, before he span away in a rush and whirl of emerald fire. He barely had time to steady himself or tuck his elbows in before he started spinning and he took several nasty knocks before the journey stopped abruptly, and he staggered out right into a hard stone wall.
Rubbing his bruised elbow and taking in his surroundings, Harry found himself in a tiny room and hastily flattened himself against the wall as the flames in the fireplace leapt to full height and glowed luminous green again. The spinning form of Hermione appeared in the grate, followed by Ginny, Ron, and finally Scrimgeour. Harry found himself crushed and almost unable to breathe as the Minister awkwardly reached over to fit the key into the lock and when the lock glowed white and clicked they all spilled out of the room into the darkness beyond, gasping for air.
Harry soon forgot the bruises from the Floo ride as a sudden chill seeped into his bones. At first he thought a Dementor was near but then realised the cold was simply the usual grim dankness of the place. A steady dripping sound could be heard from somewhere in the darkness and the smell of sea-salt hung heavily in the air. Harry remembered that the prison was based in the middle of the ocean--but no murmur of waves reached them from outside. The only sounds were the slow drip…drip…drip of water, a faint, guttural coughing, and echoing from several directions, an unidentifiable scraping, clinking noise. The faint green light from the fireplace behind them--which had returned to the low glowing embers--hardly illuminated the area around it at all. It felt as though the light was sucked up unnaturally quickly by the darkness. Harry shivered with anger and pity as he thought of Sirius, trapped in this lightless, lifeless place for twelve years of his life.
Scrimgeour cleared his throat and Harry realised they had just all been standing in silence for ages, taking it in.
“Fletcher is in the right wing--cell one hundred and thirty-five. Come, and be as quiet as you can--now that we have lost all but a couple of guards, the prisoners are rather more--aware. It would probably not be a good idea if they knew you were here.”
Harry nodded, and started to walk forward, more than anxious to get this over with so they could leave. This place, stinking of fear and cold and loneliness, gave him the creeps. The few torches hung in brackets on the walls did little to light the way, their flames low and flickering, and as Harry moved and felt his feet slide on the floor, he realised the floor was wet and slippery with slime.
Scrimgeour led the way along a narrow passage, the walls gleaming with water that oozed through the cold stone. He felt Ginny slip next to him in the darkness, and she groped for his arm and gripped it tightly. Harry was focussing on just trying to keep his feet and guide Ginny when he thought he heard an odd scuffling noise back in the direction they had come. A rat? Harry thought, turning to look, but all he could see was the distant bright green glow of the Floo flames, which dimmed as he watched, casting weird shadows. He felt the pressure of Scrimgeour’s hand pushing him gently forward just as a tall cloaked shadow, silhouetted black against the dull green light, was framed momentarily in the doorway of the Floo room. Harry hastily turned his head away, not wanting to attract the attention of the Dementor, and they walked on.
They passed cell after cell, each as dank and grim as the next. Most of the occupants lay huddled in a corner or draped limply over the few boards which served as beds. Once or twice Harry saw the gleam of eyes and turned his face away, keeping it hidden--not that he’d be recognised in this darkness, anyway. Every now and then a prisoner would move an arm or a leg and there would be a drag of chains--this was the scraping, clinking noise that could be heard.
“We have to keep them chained now we have so few guards,” murmured Scrimgeour as he saw Harry stop and gaze in repulsion at the thick manacles binding the wrists of a sleeping man in the cell nearest to them. Harry did not know who the man was or what he had done but he still felt pity at the thought of him bound with heavy chains, day and night, for perhaps years to come. Harry had been close enough to see the raw redness of the man’s skin, where the chains had chafed his wrists, lit by the weak flame of a lonely torch. Scrimgeour moved on and Harry stopped staring at the man and moved on. He thought he could hear quiet movements not too far behind him, and not eager to come any closer to a Dementor than he had to, he quickened his pace.
“Here,” said Scrimgeour at last, coming to a halt nearly at the end of the corridor. “Cell one hundred and thirty five.” He inserted a key into the lock and turned it. It glowed white briefly then Scrimgeour took hold of the bars and pulled. The heavy grille slid open surprisingly silently--Harry had been expecting a screech of metal. They peered inside the dark cell. Mundungus lay curled up on the floor in a heap of dirty grey prison-robes. A faint snoring noise was coming from the heap, and Scrimgeour motioned for Harry not to wake Mundungus yet.
“I won’t come in,” Scrimgeour said in a low voice. “I expect you’ll want some privacy, my girl, to catch up with your, ah, family.” Only the faintest hint of disbelief showed in his voice. “I’ll be back at the fireplace--you can see it from here, so you’ll find your way back all right?” They all murmured a ‘yes’ and Scrimgeour continued. “Very well, when you’ve finished, lock the door--don’t let Fletcher see you’ve got the key or he’ll steal it--and come back to the fireplace straightaway. Is half an hour enough?”
“Half an hour is fine,” said Hermione, sliding the keys into her pocket as they trooped into the cell. “Thank you, Minister, I really appreciate being able to meet the wizarding side of my family.”
Scrimgeour nodded to her--Harry couldn’t see his expression in the poor light--and he turned and left, sliding the grille shut behind them. All four of them did not move from the bars until they saw his distant, limping black shadow reach the fireplace and stand there, waiting.
“I’m surprised,” commented Hermione. “I thought he would have tried to listen in.”
“Maybe he really believed all that guff about Dung being your long-lost great cousin or whatever it was,” said Ron, turning away from the bars. Privately Harry didn’t believe that for one minute--he was still highly suspicious of the Minister--after all, why take the trouble of escorting them personally to Azkaban if not to find out what they were up to? But Harry, too, moved away from the bars and watched as Ron approached the snoring pile of rags on the floor.
“Dung!” Ron said in a loud whisper. “Mundungus!”
Hermione nudged the heap of rags gingerly with her foot, and it moved.
“W-Wazzermadder?” Mundungus mumbled, opening one bleary, bloodshot eye, then saw Hermione and jumped in shock.
“’Ermione? That you? Blimey! An ‘Arry!”
“Shh!” hushed Hermione quickly, but it was too late; at the sound of Harry’s name there had been a definite clink of chains from the adjoining cell.
“Whatcher all ‘ere for?” said Mundungus, looking both amazed and disbelieving, and pushing himself into a sitting position with manacled hands. Harry noticed a long, heavy chain running from a bolt in the wall to one of Mundungus’ filthy ankles, and his anger with the thief for stealing the locket Horcrux abated slightly.
“You come to ‘elp me out of this stinkin’ place, yeah?” said Mundungus. Even in the dark Harry could see Mundungus’ hopeful look and he felt bad at having to crush his hopes.
“Sorry, Dung,” Harry said quietly. Mundungus’ face fell and he slumped against the damp wall, scraping the grey dirt off one foot with one long, broken fingernail. “Why, then? Whatcher want?” he said, his voice a pitiful whine. “If I ‘elp you, you’ll gemme out, won’tcha? You’ll ‘elp old Dung?”
“We can’t, Mundungus,” said Hermione helplessly, looking at Harry for support. But it was Ginny who came to the rescue.
“You’ve only got one more month in here anyway, Dung, you got six months, right? And that was in March,” she said reasonably. “Seeing as you didn’t actually manage to steal anything. It was more the pretending to be an Inferius that get you here.” Inferi were dead bodies, bewitched to act like puppets to a wizard’s bidding, and Mundungus had been thrown in jail after trying to scare the owner of the house he had been attempting to burgle by impersonating one.
“One month in ‘ere’s like ten years outside,” whined Mundungus. “You don’t know what it’s like...”
“Talking of stealing,” interrupted Harry, who was tired with Mundungus’ acting and impatient to find out what had happened to the locket. “We need to know what you did with Sirius’ stuff.”
Mundungus narrowed his eyes. “Wot makes you fink--”
“Don’t bother, Dung,” said Ron impatiently. “We saw you with it, in Hogsmeade.” Mundungus said nothing, maintaining a mutinous silence. Finally Harry, in desperation, reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out his moneybag. Mundungus sat up a little straighter and his eyes gleamed as the gold clinked.
“Ten Galleons if you tell me what you did with the locket,” said Harry urgently. Beside him, Ron shifted slightly.
“That fine old locket? Great ‘eavy gold fing?” Harry nodded yes, praying no one had heard, and his heart giving a leap--Mundungus had taken it!
“Ten Galleons ain’t very much, ‘Arry. Thought you’d ‘ave pity on a poor prisoner,” said Mundungus, deliberately clinking his chains. “If it were twenty, now--”
“Dammit, Dung, tell me and I’ll give you the whole bag!” said Harry angrily, his nerves already stretched to the limit today, after this morning’s news about Neville.
“Done,” said Mundungus, quicker than lightning. “Aberforf bought it orf me. Now, gimme the money.” Aberforth? Dumbledore’s brother had bought the locket? Harry’s breath caught in his chest with excitement--they were so near to finding it. If Aberforth had it… Harry pushed the bag towards Mundungus, barely noticing what he was doing. He met Ron’s gaze in the darkness and Harry felt the same hope he was feeling reflected in Ron’s eyes.
Harry remembered now that Mundungus had indeed been talking to Aberforth that day last year when Harry discovered the man had been stealing Sirius’ possessions. And to think, he had been so close to one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes, without knowing! Harry felt the pressure of Ginny’s hand on his arm, pulling him up--their half-hour was over--and he rose, mind spinning over this revelation.
Mundungus had poured the gold and silver in a heap on the floor and was counting it awkwardly with his bound hands. At the sound of them getting ready to leave, he looked up, letting some gold slip through his fingers like water. “Blimey, ‘Arry, when I get out’ve this place I’m gonna be loaded!”
“Yeah, well, we’d better be going,” said Ron, a trace of resentment in his words. Harry felt bad at having thrown away so much money in front of Ron, who didn’t have much, but his mind was more occupied with thoughts of the locket at that time. Mundungus was so absorbed with counting the money he barely noticed as Hermione locked him back in.
“Thanks, Dung,” said Harry through the bars. “See you when you get out…” He didn’t like to leave anyone in this hellhole but it wasn’t as though he had a choice in the matter.
Mundungus just grunted, and Harry turned away, thinking he spied yet another Dementor shrinking into the shadows near the cell, and frowned--for a place that was supposed to have very few guards left, there certainly seemed plenty near them.
They made their way quickly back to the fireplace, where Scrimgeour stood waiting patiently.
“Was Fletcher surprised to hear of his relationship to you?” Scrimgeour asked Hermione when they reached him.
“What? Oh--yes, very surprised. He couldn’t believe it at first,” said Hermione, covering up her confusion quickly, but Harry saw Scrimgeour give a small, satisfied nod, seemingly to himself, and Harry knew he hadn’t missed Hermione’s false start. But Harry was sure Scrimgeour had stayed by the fireplace all the time they had been talking to Mundungus, so he couldn’t see how the Minister could actually have heard what the conversation had been about. Just so long as he doesn’t give Mundungus Veritaserum or anything Harry thought slightly worriedly, glancing back down the narrow stone corridor in the direction of Mundungus’ cell. Harry thought he saw yet another black shadowed figure slipping towards them. Just how many Dementors were there in here? But before he could muse on this any longer, Harry felt Scrimgeour’s hand on his arm, turning him firmly away from the dark prison and steering him towards the fireplace. One by one they climbed into the grate, Scrimgeour in the lead, and Harry, glad to be finally going, didn’t look back as he left the cold, grim prison behind him and stepped into the warm, whirling green flames.
And when he stepped out at the other end, back into the Ministry of Magic, Harry got one of the biggest shocks of his life.
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