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A gust of wind swept down the alley, spinning a few empty plastic bags and scraping them against the pavement with a dry, gritty whisk-whisk-whisk. Peter shook his can of spray paint and tagged the wall with "BSVZ." He took a step back, admiring his work. The brick surface was already a canvas for other artists, though some might call it graffiti or mindless vandalism. This street was too far off the beaten path for any respectable person's polished shoes. No one cared about a little controlled chaos here. Honestly, trying to scrub away their creations was a waste. They were just rebellious slogans mixed with the odd bit of profane venting, but harmless. The powers that be should use their fingers for something useful, like hiring someone to clean the shop windows, probably caked with Victorian-era grime, or fixing that ancient phone booth that had been broken for a hundred years.
Peter shook the can again, ready to add a dash of 20th-century style to the drafty old booth. But as his hand touched the door, a thought struck him. He should head back. He'd be late for football otherwise. And besides. He glanced over his shoulder. He'd had this weird, prickling feeling all day, like something was behind him that his brain refused to process. He stuffed the spray paint into his backpack, adjusted his hood, shoved his hands in his pockets, and ambled off, head down, proud of his own cool, mysterious vibe.
…
"He's gone," Hermione breathed.
Harry nodded. "How do we get in?"
"No idea," Ron muttered, looking around. "This must be the visitor entrance. That phone box, I think. Dad mentioned it. Never actually been here, though…"
Harry looked down. "Do you know how to get in, Kreacher?"
They were all squeezed together, but the Invisibility Cloak couldn't quite cover four pairs of feet. Everyone was hunched over. Kreacher was curled at Harry's side, clutching his arm, head bowed. Tufts of matted white hair poked out from his wrinkled, bald head. Harry felt Kreacher's dry, bony fingers. He looked at the little elf's scrawny frame, the filthy rag tied around his waist. For the first time, a pang of something like pity stirred in his chest.
It vanished almost instantly when Kreacher spoke.
"The Boy Potter wishes to enter the Ministry," Kreacher rasped, mostly to himself. "Kreacher has brought him to its doorstep as ordered. But the boy is greedy… What is he planning? Perhaps he intends wickedness inside…"
"The worst," Harry said flatly. "We're stealing something. Do you know how to get in or not?"
Kreacher looked up, his beady eyes flicking over Harry's face, gauging his expression.
"To put it in a way you might like," Harry snapped, losing patience. "We're going to get ourselves killed. We're going to the Department of Mysteries to steal something right under Voldemort's nose. Now. Do you have a way in or not?"
Kreacher's bloodshot eyes widened. "The Dark Lord? Did Kreacher hear the Dark Lord's name?"
"Yeah, unless there's another one running around. Voldemort is in the Ministry," Harry said. "Get me inside, and then you can have all the time you want to go worship him. What floor was it again?" He turned to Ron.
"Level one," Ron said, sounding dazed.
"Some conference room on level one," Harry told the elf. "Get me to the Department of Mysteries—"
"Kreacher cannot enter the Department of Mysteries," Kreacher interrupted. "No house-elf is permitted."
"Fine. Just get me into the Ministry. Anywhere that's not right in front of Voldemort. Can you do that?"
"The Boy Potter wishes to die…" Kreacher's gaze was pure venom. "If he dies, Master will be heartbroken…"
Harry's heart clenched at the thought of Sirius's reaction to all this, mixed with a fresh surge of fear for Sirius's safety right now. He shoved the feelings aside.
"Exactly," he said stiffly. "So…"
He didn't get to finish. Kreacher's grip on his arm tightened like a vice. The world spun. Harry lost his balance, stumbling. He heard Hermione yelp. Ron's hand, which had been on his shoulder, slipped away. Harry flailed, trying to grab him.
The next second, he and Kreacher were standing in a lobby, his back against dark wood-paneled walls. He wasn't holding Ron's robes. He was clutching his own Invisibility Cloak.
He whirled on Kreacher, fury rising, then froze. They weren't alone. A few wizards stood in the lobby, their backs turned, gathered around a set of golden grilles. There were at least twenty such gates. Harry had no idea what they were for.
Kreacher hunched, trying to slink away. Harry grabbed the elf's scrawny arm and yanked him under the Cloak. "You're not going anywhere," he hissed. "Where is this?"
"Kreacher obeyed the Boy Potter! Brought him into the Ministry Atrium! Even avoided the security desk! And now he shouts at Kreacher… Poor Kreacher has no choice, for the blood-traitor Master ordered Kreacher to obey his godson… Mistress would never make Kreacher serve anyone outside the Noble House of Black… The Boy Potter is as ungrateful as his Master…"
"Alright, alright," Harry muttered, exasperated. He saw two wizards approaching, carrying a large cardboard box between them. Something inside rattled ominously, and sickly green smoke seeped from the seams. "This is the Atrium, right?"
"Yes," Kreacher spat, launching back into a stream of muttered insults. They were drowned out by a loud, rattling clang. A golden grille slid open, revealing an elevator car. The wizards waiting outside stepped in.
The two men with the box stopped right in front of Harry.
"Let's rest a sec," one said, puffing slightly.
"This one fixed?" the other asked, nodding at the elevator beside them. "No one uses it."
"Who knows? The 'Out of Order' sign is finally down, though. Worth a shot. My arms are killing me."
"Mhm, sign came down two weeks ago. But I heard last week, in front of the Bulgarian Minister, it caught Fudge by the belt and nearly took a chunk out of his gut… The Bulgarian seemed to find it hilarious. Fudge blew a gasket at Magical Maintenance."
They both snickered.
"Reg worked overtime for two days after that, so… maybe it's fixed now?" the first one offered.
"Reg? Oh, right, did you hear? He's getting married…"
Another plume of green smoke erupted from the box. The contents rattled and scraped violently against the cardboard, nearly popping the lid off. The wizards jumped, pressing down on it, their laughter dying.
Harry looked at the nearest golden grille. An idea sparked. He took a deep breath, feeling a strange, guilty flicker of relief that Kreacher hadn't brought Ron and Hermione along. At least they weren't in immediate danger. At least they weren't facing Voldemort.
But the thought left him feeling terribly alone.
Ron and Hermione are out there right now, frantic, trying to find a way in, he thought. The image chased away his hesitation, filling him with a fresh, stubborn courage.
"Go back now, Kreacher," Harry whispered urgently.
"Go back?" Kreacher's muttering stopped.
"House-elves can't go to the Department of Mysteries, right? Besides, I wasn't planning on dragging you into this. Hermione's lectures would drive me mad." He tried for a joke. It fell flat. Kreacher just stared. "Fine. If you see Ron or Hermione… or Sirius… no, never mind. Thank you for your help, Kreacher."
Kreacher didn't reply. He just stared at Harry with those unblinking, bloodshot eyes. It was unnerving.
Clang-clatter-rattle. The elevator beside them descended and its grille slid open.
"Go on," Harry urged, watching as the two wizards tried to maneuver their box into the new car. He stealthily stuck his foot out, jamming the grille open.
"Harry Potter," Kreacher rasped. "The Department of Mysteries is on Level Nine."
Before Harry could respond, Kreacher Disapparated with a soft crack. The wizards with the box looked up, puzzled, then went back to wrestling with their rattling cargo. Hagrid would love to know what was in there, Harry thought, but all his focus was on keeping his foot wedged against the complaining metal grille.
"Still broken?" the wizard holding the lid asked. "Bob, check it?"
"Yeah, alright." The wizard named Bob stepped out of the elevator and stood right next to Harry. He shook the grille. Harry gritted his teeth, pushing back with all his might.
"Yep, stuck," Bob said gloomily. "Haul it out."
"That Reg Cattermole! Knew he couldn't fix a bloody thing…"
The moment they shifted the box back out, Harry ducked and slipped inside the elevator. CLANG-RATTLE-BANG! The grille snapped shut in apparent annoyance, blocking out the wizards' startled faces.
Nine buttons were set in the wall. Without thinking, Harry stabbed the ninth one from the bottom. The elevator shuddered and began to rise. Harry didn't know if the shuddering was normal. He could only pray that Reg Cattermole had actually done his job.
Maybe because no one believed it was truly fixed, no one bothered to call the elevator, and no one cared that it was rising, empty and unsummoned, through the heart of the Ministry.
He didn't know how long it took.
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