In Which Our Heroes Face Down an Evil Possibly Even More Terrible than Voldemort
Harry's stomach had writhed itself into painful knots, but he couldn't even smoke a spliff to calm himself down because Mrs. Weasley had confiscated his stash. Harry supposed the advantage of the wizarding world was that pot wasn't illegal, but that hadn't stopped Mrs. Weasley from assuming they were a new version of mini fake wands and burning them all.
Never mind that. He was now on the London Underground with Mr. Weasley on his way to his hearing and if he was convicted he was quite sure that there would be no pot ever again.
As if to deliberately add to his worries Mr. Weasley was practically about to explode with the joy of being surrounded by so many muggles. He had stared so intently at a young woman's iPod that she had moved carriages to get away from them and the sight of the motionless pictures on the front of the free newspapers littering the seats had filled him with awe.
"However do they manage?" He had whispered repeatedly to Harry.
Harry closed his eyes and tried not to be sick.
However, little did he know what would lie in wait for them when they emerged from the escalators. (which had had Mr. Weasley in fits of delight. "He's mentally disabled." Harry had muttered at a pair of giggling businesswomen, who had immediately started crying in pity and offered them money) The automatic turnstiles were all open and stationed in front of each was a member of that proud and respected British institution: the London transport police.
Harry swore under his breath. Everyone- well, all muggles- knew that being a transport policeman was not a real job. Nevertheless the policemen undertook it was a horrible crushing determination that No Fare-Dodger Should Go Uncaught and woe betide you if you Looked At Them Funny or were even Dangerously Weird. Mr. Weasley did not look like an Islamic Terrorist, but the Transport Police were like the Gestapo in that they could make any charge stick, with or without the thumbscrews.
Mr. Weasley bounced jovially up to them, with Harry trailing miserably in his wake.
"Hello chaps!" He said. "Ticket thingamabob not working today?"
The transport policeman narrowed his eyes. Being Overtly Friendly was, if possible, a worse crime than Being Dangerously Weird.
"Ticket please." He growled, in a tone of voice that was clearly designed to strike fear into the hearts of commuters everywhere. Even if you did have a valid ticket the transport police could always employ some selective blindness and hold you up for endless reams of time while they checked your date of birth, your address, your mother's maiden name and your favourite colour of Smarties.
"Right you are." Said Mr. Weasley, handing it over.
The transport policeman's eyes narrowed until they were practically invisible in his vast splotchy face. This should have been adequate warning but Mr. Weasley continued jovially on.
"If the thingamibob's broken I could always take a look at it. I'm quite the connoisseur when it comes to muggle technologologogy." Clearly Mr. Weasley knew how to begin saying "technology" but not when to stop.
The splotchy face of the transport policeman turned from splotchy to flaming red. Harry knew, from years of observing an incandescent Mr. Dursley, that the next stage would be deep crimson, and then mauve, and then someone would be kicked out of the house or bludgeoned to death with a china ornament.
Harry desperately tried to save the situation. "Uh, you must excuse my friend." He babbled. "He's mentally disabled."
He knew as soon as he said it that it was the wrong thing to say.
"Why doesn't he have the correct form of pass then?" The transport policeman growled. "How do I know if he's fit to travel and not a danger to others and to himself?!"
"He's not violent!" Said Harry. "And I'm- I'm his carer-"
"REALLY?" Roared the Transport Policeman. "DO YOU HAVE THE DESIGNATED PAPERS?"
The queue behind them started to stir.
"What's happening?" Said a lady with exploding bushy hair not unlike Hermione's and carrying a huge bouquet of flowers.
"Bloke's not got the right papers." Said a business man, who was slapping his oyster card against the palm of one hand impatiently.
"Not got the right papers?!" Said someone from further down the line. "What is this, the Soviet Union?!"
Angry voices broke out and whispers spread like wildfire.
"Bloke's not got the right papers."
"What's he need papers for?"
"Apparently he's disabled."
"So? SO? It's his right to travel if he wants to!" This was from the bushy-haired woman with the flowers. She strode commandingly forward. The Transport policeman shrank back slightly, his face fading from deep crimson to a pinkish grey.
"Listen you." Said the woman, drawing herself up to her full (quite imperious) height. "My name is Rosalind Barker and I am one of the top human rights lawyers in this country. It is my understanding that this man is being DISCRIMINATED AGAINST."
There were shouts of "You tell him Ros!" and "Fucking Labour Police State!"
Harry glanced at Mr. Weasley, who was now absent-mindedly pointing his wand at one of the turnstile gates and making it swing back and forth with a dreamy expression on his face. Harry glared and snatched the wand off him.
Meanwhile the transport policeman had called for reinforcements. Nevertheless they were all shrinking back in the face of Rosalind's tirade. Harry heard things like, "gross disrespect for civil liberties" and "my client will expect full compensation".
"Um, actually." He interjected when Rosalind paused to draw breath. "We're- uh- he's actually late for um- a... doctor's appointment, appointment with his psychologist so if we could go?"
Rosalind glared at the transport policemen. The transport policemen stared miserably at each other. They inspected Harry and Mr. Weasley's tickets and with a sigh of relief from practically everyone waved them through.
"Wasn't that exciting?!" Said Mr. Weasley as Harry dragged him away. "No wonder those turnstiley-things broke down, you know. You can't trust technologogoly, so unreliable."
He paused for a second. "Mind you, I reckon that Rosalind whatersername could teach You-Know-Who a thing or two."
Harry hadn't even the heart to answer. The knot in his stomach had gotten, if possible, even worse and a headache was starting to throb in his temples. He desperately wanted a spliff.