Chapter Twelve: Afflicted Powers
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The ignominious failure of Jack's escape attempt rankled; not least because, with six sets of eyes to avoid, opportunities for another attempt were severely curtailed. He and Ilona had been consigned to a corner piled with old packing crates; tied by the wrists, but with a long enough rope that they could move independently. Jack fiddled about with the binding for some time but could find no knot or loose end to work at. Magic knots, he decided, were altogether tricky things.
The other people in the room viewed them with varying degrees of interest. The breathless man's dark eyes studied Jack with a perceptiveness that made him rather uncomfortable, and the thin, dark man looked at them in surprise sometimes, as if he had only just noticed them.
The other three men were harder to fathom and the alien kept well away. Jack almost wondered if it was afraid of them, although he could not see why it would be. He thought Pig-face was, though. And the tall man with glasses kept looking at the two prisoners as if they were infectious.
"We need some food!" demanded Ilona loudly. "You have try to poison us, are you starve us, now?"
Jack tried a more diplomatic approach. "Ilonas' in a bad mood 'cause she's very hungry," he explained, "and we'll both be poorly if you don't give us summat proper to eat. Can we have some food, please?"
The breathless man agreed, making no attempt to hide his amusement. "We need to feed them." He addressed the alien in his rasping, accented voice. "You should take care of them, since no one else want to solve tricky problem of prisoners."
The alien clasped its hands in front of its narrow chest, and closed its eyes, as if thinking. The large ears drooped, then perked up. It opened its eyes again. "You is correct," it said firmly. "They is our responsibility." It beckoned to the poet-wizard with a skinny finger.
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A few minutes later, the wizard deposited two large tankards and a wide wooden platter with several fragrant golden pasties on the floor within reach of the prisoners. He regarded Jack with wariness, but Jack assumed his most guileless expression and said politely, "Thank you very much."
He picked up one of the tankards and looked at the contents with some suspicion. "D'y think it's poisonous?" he muttered to Ilona.
She sniffed at hers. "It smells good Jack. I not think they want to poison us. I try some." She took a mouthful. Her eyes widened. "Oh Jack," she breathed. "That is delicious!"
Jack watched her closely for a couple of minutes and nothing terrible happened. She did not start to choke or grow faint or foam at the mouth. In fact, some colour returned to her cheeks, and she looked better. Jack took a mouthful from the other cup. The honey-coloured drink was slightly sweet with a warm flavour he could not quite identify. He drank some more and looked at the plate with longing.
"Shall we try them pies, Ilona?"
"I think so, Jack, what we can lose now?"
This was what jack wanted to hear. He took a bite from one of the pasties. The pastry was soft and crumbly, and the filling had the same subtle, unidentifiable flavour as the drink, but was seasoned with herbs and pepper. It was not quite like anything he had eaten before, but he tucked in with enthusiasm, and so did Ilona, although she showed rather more restraint than Jack and did not drop as many crumbs or get so much filling on her face.
The big man observed them in wonder. "They're eatin' it!"
"For the love of Merlin! Of course they're eating it! It's food!" snapped the poet. "Cretin," he added under his voice. But the big wizard was oblivious and watched Jack and Ilona like exotic animals in a zoo.
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Jack felt very sleepy, and his chin dropped to his chest. He was practically asleep and grumbled resentfully when Ilona nudged him awake. "Look."
Jack opened his eyes and yawned. Ilona was pointing at the gang. The breathless man was lying down and seemed to be unconscious. The thin, dark man was sitting upright on the floor with his eyes half closed and unfocused, absently chewing on something, with a trail of brown drool running down his unshaven chin. The tall man and Pig-face were both resting with their heads on the rough table. The poet's head was tipped back, exposing a skinny neck with a prominent Adam's apple. He gave a loud snore. The only one who seemed to be fully awake was the alien, who was motionless, its bulbous eyes observant, watching its colleagues.
Taking advantage of the situation, Jack shuffled on his backside to where he would be partly hidden behind a box, turned his back to the alien, slipped Pig-Face's wand out of his sleeve, and tried to make some sparks again. The warm, tingly feeling had gone. He looked at the wand in dismay, seeing just a carved wooden stick, not a means of escape.
"Oh no, Ilona, it's not workin'!" he whispered. "I can't do it no more!" He felt tears threatening, sore in his eyes, sour at the back of his throat. He did not think he could bear it. He would not be able to go to the school in the castle with Megan next September. Would never be able to turn Ollie into a toad when he was being annoying. Was not a wizard after all.
He tried not to cry, but when Ilona pulled him into a gentle hug, shushing him like his mum did when he was out of sorts, he could not stop the hot tears from falling.
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Kingsley scribbled his signature at the bottom of a sheet of parchment and pushed it to the back of his desk feeling an extraordinary wave of weariness. He put his quill down and leaned back in his chair allowing his eyes to drop closed for a few moments, half-aware that outside his office, the Ministry had become very quiet. The lights and window dimmed a little. He forced himself awake, shaking his head and stretching. Yawning, he picked up his wand and summoned a drink. Nothing happened. In disbelief, he looked at the end of his wand. He tapped it on the side of his desk and tried again, without success. Putting the wand down, he attempted to perform wandless magic, but the energy that should have flowed to the tips of his fingers was terrifyingly absent.
Almost unable to breathe, he sat and stared at his hands, then looked round to his window. It was fading into a ghostly mist. After a minute, he opened his laptop and switched it on. The screen was resolutely black. He fiddled with the twisted silver contraption that was plugged into one of the usb ports, but the machine was unresponsive.
A fear like nothing he had ever experienced gripped his lungs like a steel band, and after several more disbelieving seconds, Kingsley closed his laptop.
Outside his office, the noise level was rising, and he could hear raised voices and cries of distress.
Arthur burst in without knocking. "Kingsley, this is incredible! You'll never believe what has happened!"
Kingsley put his head in his hands. "I just might. Try me."
"Magic has stopped. Just stopped! Just like that!" Arthur snapped his fingers. "What do you think has caused this? I've never heard of it happening before! It's quite amazing really!"
Kingsley did not share Arthur's excitement. "You think so, do you, Arthur? The Ministry can't function without magic. Unless it comes back very soon, we'll have to get everyone out." Kingsley pulled himself together, opened a drawer in his desk and took out a large key; heavy, plain and very old. He handed it to Arthur. "I'm putting you in charge of the evacuation. If anyone wants to stay down here and help," he said, "be very grateful, but I expect most people will want to get home to their families. This will open the doors to the stairs that run from level eight to the emergency exit above the Owlery. There is an entrance on each level at the very end of the south corridors. If anyone is trapped in the lifts, there is a manual winch in the maintenance room on level two."
"Oh Kingsley, isn't this fascinating!"
Kingsley did not dignify the statement with a reply, and Arthur seemed to realise his remark had been less than tactful. "No, of course it's not. Sorry, Kingsley. I'll report back later." He rummaged in a pocket. "Here, have some matches."
Kingsley stood and picked up his laptop, but a few seconds after Arthur had left, the door burst open again, and a dishevelled and excited Hector rushed in. "Minister! I have caught you!"
"Doesn't anybody bother to knock these days? It's merely a formality, I know," Kingsley grumbled. "We have quite a crisis here, Hector. Won't this wait?"
"No it won't. This crisis - It's the machine!"
"The what?" Kingsley's grip on his laptop loosened and he nearly dropped it. Kingsley's window was now as black as his computer screen, and the lights were growing steadily dimmer.
He took a couple of candles from a drawer, lit them with one of Arthur's matches, and handed one to Hector. "Tell me what you know."
The Eversio machine!" Hector could hardly get the words out for his excitement. "This is what it does! Whoever took it, they have made it work! Something came back to me! Something Erasmus had a theory about. The machine is something to do with manipulating the particular energy that wizards use to do magic!"
"Merlin!" Kingsley remembered Hermione's owl of the previous day and urgently leafed through some papers on his desk until he found it. By the light of the candle he read through it again.
"Hector," he said, "I want you to find Arthur Weasley and tell him to send any elves in the Ministry to my office. Arthur and his staff are assisting those who wish to leave. They will show you the way out. I don't think the lights will last a great deal longer. Conditions are likely to become rather ‒ difficult."
Hector smiled and shook his head. "The movement of time is not dependent on magic, Minister. I have plenty of candles. My place is in the Time Room."
"Then I must ask you to excuse me, Hector. I have to conduct some urgent business . . . upstairs." Kingsley held the door open for Hector as he left the room, then got to his knees and searched under his desk for the cable he had never had to use. Fortunately, he had not thrown it away and found it in a tangle of wires under his desk. Clutching the laptop to his chest, he left the room.
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Panting heavily from the long climb up several hundred narrow steps, Kingsley waited on a dark landing for several minutes until he had caught his breath and his heart rate had slowed. He opened a small door and glanced around to check he was unobserved, then emerged into a deserted side passage that had once been the province of an extensive domestic staff.
At the end of the corridor, he passed through another door into the main hallway. The lights were bright there, glittering in cut glass shades hung on long cables from ornate, moulded plaster ceiling roses. A thick carpet was fitted tight against walls hung with portraits of stern men wearing handlebar moustaches and military uniforms rich with medals. He slowed his pace to a brisk but dignified walk.
"Sir Kingsley!" A short, officious man in a pinstriped suit hailed him as he passed an open door, and followed him into the corridor. "We did not expect to see you here today! Can you spare some time to discuss the Foreign Aid budget? The Prime Minister is keen to see some progress."
"Hawthorne." With practised control, Kingsley expunged any trace of impatience from his tone. "Of course. If you could give me a few minutes? I have some calls to make. Perhaps I could come to your office in half an hour or so?"
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Out on the side of Lay Hill, Padfoot marked out his terrain and desultorily scratched at a rabbit hole for a few minutes. A pheasant squawked into the bare lower branches of a tree in a panic of bronze feathers and fixed him with a resentful gaze. He inspected some fox droppings with annoyance and gnawed at a fallen branch to clean his teeth.
Satisfied that his territory was in no immediate danger from intruders, he began to make his way downhill to the cottage. Julia might be home now, and he did not like to be away from her for too long. Albie was a good enough lad, but Padfoot liked to keep an eye on things for himself. He seemed to recall she had been baking earlier on. Shortbread. One of his favourites. He broke into an eager trot but paused for a while at the old hay barn at the back of the cottage to check for rats.
As he investigated among the mouldy bales of hay, a wave of exhaustion drained all his energy for a moment and he dropped to his belly, his head falling on to his paws and his eyes closing.
After a few minutes, he felt better and got to his feet, stretching and yawning. He wriggled the length of his spine and shook himself and ‒ nothing happened. With a spontaneous yelp of shock, he stretched and twisted again.
In his doggy mind he felt for the power that ran in his veins ‒ the energy that made him what he was ‒ and found it missing.
In fear and helpless misery, he lifted his shaggy head skywards and gave a deep, involuntary howl.
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When Harry realised he had eaten six pieces of Julia's excellent shortbread, he decided it was probably time to be going and got to his feet.
"I'll have to discuss all this with Minister Shacklebolt and Hermione Granger-Weasley," he said. "I don't see how the death of Eileen Prince and the disappearance of two Muggles can possibly be connected with the thefts from the Ministry, but it's certainly a coincidence. Goodbye, Mr Prewett."
"Won't you come and say hello to Sirius?" asked Julia.
"Not just now," said Harry. "I need to speak to Kingsley. Give him my best though, won't you? I will visit soon. When we've sorted this lot out."
He stepped through into the porch and flicked his wand to apparate away. He gave an involuntary yell. "What the‒!" He tried to apparate again, but nothing happened. He took his wand and gave it an anxious tap as if that might fix it and tried again.
Julia appeared at the door. "Harry? Did you shout?"
Isaac followed and stood behind her. "Mr Potter? Whatever is the matter?"
Harry was shaking uncontrollably and had to lean on the wall. "I – I can't do magic." Julia and Isaac stared at him.
"What, not at all? Has this happened before, Harry?" said Julia. "Perhaps you're coming down with something."
He shook his head, unable to talk. He was afraid that if he tried to speak he would start to wail like a child.
"Isaac," said Julia, "have you ever heard of this happening before?"
"Not like this," said Isaac. "It is possible for outside influences to interfere sometimes, and magic can be rendered ineffective in certain circumstances – as you know – but in all my years I have never seen it stop altogether. Never!"
"What am I going to do?" Harry asked, in bewilderment, close to tears. "I don't know what to do!"
"Come home with me, Harry," said Julia, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. "Perhaps Sirius will be able to help."
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Julia clipped a lead to Albie's collar and they walked the short distance to her cottage on the other side of the hill. Every so often, Harry would give his wand an experimental flick, muttering spells under his breath. He had never consciously been aware of the energy that ran from his body, through the wand and back, but now he recognised its absence.
He followed Julia round to the back of her cottage. "Sirius!" she called through the door. "Sweetheart?" There was no reply.
"He's not inside," she said. "His wand is here, though. Perhaps he's out on the hill. Padfoot likes to go out there." She went out into the garden. "Albie!" she called. "Go and find Sirius for me!"
Albie slipped through a gap at the side of the gate and into the field beyond. In less than a minute they heard a sharp bark.
Julia looked at Harry, her expression anxious. "Something's wrong," she said. "Come on!" They went out through the gate, and Harry saw a dilapidated open-sided hay barn some yards away. Julia ran towards it and Harry followed. Albie was there, wagging his tail cheerfully enough, but Padfoot was lying motionless and miserable on the damp ground.
Julia went pale and dropped to his side ignoring the muddy ground. "Padfoot, Sweetie, what is it?" she lifted his head and looked into his eyes. "Oh my God, Harry!" She looked up, her face filled with fear. "I don't think he can change back. It's not just you!"
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