Chapter 3: The Ministry

Author's Note: Yah, here it is enjoy

Harry lay flat on his back, breathing hard as though he had been running. He had awoken from a vivid dream with his hands pressed over his face. His scar was burning beneath his fingers as though someone had just pressed a white-hot wire to his skin. He sat up, one hand still on his scar, the other reaching out in the darkness for his glasses, which were on the bedside table.

He put them on and his bedroom came into clearer focus, lit by a faint, misty orange light that was filtering through the curtains from the street lamp outside the window. Harry ran his fingers over the scar again. It was still painful. He turned on the lamp beside him, scrambled out of bed, crossed the room, opened his wardrobe, and peered into the mirror on the inside of the door. A skinny boy of fourteen looked back at him, his bright green eyes puzzled under his untidy black hair.

It was interesting, now that Harry knew this wasn't his true reflection he found himself looking in the mirror much more often. He tried to imagine himself with different facial features. A longer nose, straight hair, or even different colored eyes, but it was always difficult. After all, he couldn't imagine himself with any other face than the one he had now. Still, even two months later, Harry was still in a slight state of shock over the revelation that he was adopted.

Harry continued looking at his reflection and examined the lightning-bolt scar of his reflection more closely. It looked normal, but it was still stinging. Harry tried to recall what he had been dreaming about before he had awoken.

It had seemed so real. . . . There had been two people he knew and one he didn't. . . . He concentrated hard, frowning, trying to remember. . . . The dim picture of a darkened room came to him. . . . There had been a snake on a hearth rug . . . a small man called Peter, nicknamed Wormtail . . . and a cold, high voice . . . the voice of Lord Voldemort. Harry felt as though an ice cube had slipped down into his stomach at the very thought. . . . He closed his eyes tightly and tried to remember what Voldemort had looked like, but it was impossible. . . .

All Harry knew was that at the moment when Voldemort's chair had swung around, and he, Harry, had seen what was sitting in it, he had felt a spasm of horror, which had awoken him . . . or had that been the pain in his scar? And who had the old man been? For there had definitely been an old man; Harry had watched him fall to the ground. It was all becoming confused.

Harry put his face into his hands, blocking out his bedroom, trying to hold on to the picture of that dimly lit room, but it was like trying to keep water in his cupped hands; the details were now trickling away as fast as he tried to hold on to them. . . . Voldemort and Wormtail had been talking about someone they had killed, though Harry could not remember the name . . . and they had been plotting to kill someone else . . . him!

Harry took his face out of his hands, opened his eyes, and stared around his bedroom as though expecting to see something unusual there. As it happened, there were an extraordinary number of unusual things in this room. A large wooden trunk stood open at the foot of his bed, revealing a cauldron, broomstick, black robes, and assorted spellbooks. Rolls of parchment littered that part of his desk that was not taken up by the large, empty cage in which his snowy owl, Hedwig, usually perched. On the floor beside his bed a book lay open; Harry had been reading it before he fell asleep last night. The pictures in this book were all moving.

Men in bright orange robes were zooming in and out of sight on broomsticks, throwing a red ball to one another. Harry walked over to the book, picked it up, and watched one of the wizards score a spectacular goal by putting the ball through a fifty-foot-high hoop. Then he snapped the book shut.

Even Quidditch — in Harry's opinion, the best sport in the world — couldn't distract him at the moment. He placed Flying with the Cannons on his bedside table, crossed to the window, and drew back the curtains to survey the street below.

Privet Drive looked exactly as a respectable suburban street would be expected to look in the early hours of Saturday morning. All the curtains were closed. As far as Harry could see through the darkness, there wasn't a living creature in sight, not even a cat.

And yet . . . and yet . . . Harry went restlessly back to the bed and sat down on it, running a finger over his scar again. It wasn't the pain that bothered him; Harry was no stranger to pain and injury. He was used to bizarre accidents and injuries; they were unavoidable if you attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and had a knack for attracting a lot of trouble.

No, the thing that was bothering Harry was that the last time his scar had hurt him, it had been because Voldemort had been close by. . . . But Voldemort couldn't be here, now. . . . The idea of Voldemort lurking in Privet Drive was absurd, impossible. . . . Harry listened closely to the silence around him. Was he half expecting to hear the creak of a stair or the swish of a cloak? And then he jumped slightly as he heard Dudley give a tremendous grunting snore from the next room.

Harry shook himself mentally; he was being stupid. There was no one in the house with him except Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley, and they were plainly still asleep, their dreams untroubled and painless.

Asleep was the way Harry liked the Dursleys best; it wasn't as though they were ever any help to him awake. They were Muggles who hated and despised magic in any form, which meant that Harry was about as welcome in their house as dry rot.

For most of his life, Harry had thought the Dursleys were his only living relatives, despicable as they might be, but he had recently discovered this wasn't true. He had parents who were, most likely, alive, and if they weren't, he would probably have other relatives. Even with the possibility of Harry's biological parents being death eaters, they were probably still better than the Dursleys, who Harry wasn't even related to. The Dursleys hated him, because he was an abnormality in their normal lives, one that they couldn't do anything about.

In order to explain away how Harry was away for most of the year to the neighbors the Dursleys told everyone that he went to St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys. They knew perfectly well that, as an underage wizard, Harry wasn't allowed to use magic outside Hogwarts, but they were still apt to blame him for anything that went wrong about the house.

Harry had never been able to confide in them or tell them anything about his life in the Wizarding world. The very idea of going to them when they awoke, and telling them about his scar hurting him, and about his worries about Voldemort, his parents, was laughable. TThe only they may do is rejoice because the freak was no longer related to them.

And yet it was because of Voldemort that Harry had come to live with the Dursleys in the first place. If it hadn't been for Voldemort, Harry would not have had the lightning scar on his forehead. Harry wondered if that fateful night would had gone differently if Voldemort had known Harry might be the son of his followers. . . .would James and Lily be alive?

If they had lived, would they have told Harry about his adoption, or would they have kept it a secret? Harry liked to imagine that they would have told him eventually, when he was old enough to understand, but there was no use fantasizing about what life might have been like. His second parents were dead, and the first unknown.

Well, at least this summer had been better than the others. Sirius had been of some help to Harry, even if he couldn't be with him. It was due to Sirius that Harry now had all his school things in his bedroom with him. The Dursleys had never allowed this before; their general wish of keeping Harry as miserable as possible, coupled with their fear of his powers, had led them to lock his school trunk in the cupboard under the stairs every two summer prior to this. But their attitude had changed since they had found out that Harry had a dangerous murderer for a godfather — for Harry had conveniently forgotten to tell them that Sirius was innocent.

Harry had received two letters from Sirius since he had been back at Privet Drive. Both had been delivered, not by owls (as was usual with wizards), but by large, brightly colored tropical birds. Hedwig had not approved of these flashy intruders; she had been most reluctant to allow them to drink from her water tray before flying off again.

Harry, on the other hand, had liked them; they put him in mind of palm trees and white sand, and he hoped that, wherever Sirius was (Sirius never said, in case the letters were intercepted), he was enjoying himself.

Somehow, Harry found it hard to imagine dementors surviving for long in bright sunlight; perhaps that was why Sirius had gone south, after stopping at his old house. Sirius's letters, which were now hidden beneath the highly useful loose floorboard under Harry's bed, sounded cheerful, and in both of them he had reminded Harry to call on him if ever Harry needed to.

Harry quickly wrote a letter to Sirius telling him about the basics of his summer, but leaving leaving out his strange dream. There was no point putting it in; he didn't want it to look as though he was too worried. He folded up the parchment and laid it aside on his desk, ready for when Hedwig returned. Then he got to his feet, stretched, and opened his wardrobe once more. Without glancing at his reflection, he started to get dressed before going down to breakfast.

Today was the day he would get picked up by the Grangers, and driven to London to meet the Weasleys. He would get to go to the ministry, and possibly discover who his birth parents were. He was filled with excitement, and with the worry of the strange dream gone, he could barely hold in his joy.

Not even the Dursleys could ruin today. His trunk was packed, and he had put on his best clothes for the occasion. Granted, his best clothes were only slightly too big, mainly because they were supposed to be Dudley's, but they shrunk in the wash and the shop wouldn't take them back.

He took his trunk downstairs, and looked at the clock, 10:30 A.M. Perfect. the Grangers should be here any minute. Unfortunately he was met with the disgruntled face of Vernon, who was looking at him with a glare Snape would be proud of.

"Now listen here boy," he said, "I do not want to see you back here for another year. If by some terrible misfortune you end up back, I will be extremely displeased."

He looked at Harry again, trying to be sure his point was made, before waddling off down the hallway. A few moments later he saw a sedan pull up outside of number four Privet Drive, and he raced out there, with his trunk in hand. Hermione stepped out of the car, along with her parents, and Hermione helped Harry put his trunk and Hedwig in the back.

Hermione's parents looked a bit confused about the rush, but didn't say anything. Hermione had told them the Dursleys were the worst sort of people, but they didn't quite believe her at first. This seemed to confirm her statement.

The ride to London was uneventful, with Hermione telling Harry about her summer, and Harry listening patiently. Hermione's parents introduced themselves, and they fell in love with Harry immediately. They arrived at Whitehall, which was where told them they could meet, and Harry saw the Ford Angila parked next to a red telephone booth.

Harry thanked the Grangers, and got out of the car while Hermione exchanged a heartfelt goodbye with her parents. By the time her parents left Harry and Ron had already greeted each other, but that didn't stop Hermione from enveloping Ron in a hug.

Then Mr Weasley said, "Well, now that we are all here, I can show you the ministry. I'm quite happy I was able to clear this little trip with my supervisor." He smiled and led them to a red telelphone booth.

Harry looked over to Ron, "Um, Ron, how is a telephone booth helping us get to the ministry." Harry hoped it wasn't a new method of wizard travel. He already hated floo, he didn't want to add another to the list. There wasn't enough room for all of them, so Harry and Mr. Weasley would go first, then Ron and Hermione.

Mr. Weasley opened the telephone-box door. Harry stepped inside, wondering what on earth this was about. Mr. Weasley folded himself in beside Harry and closed the door. It was a tight fit; Harry was jammed against the telephone apparatus, which was hanging crookedly from the wall as though a vandal had tried to rip it off. Mr. Weasley reached past Harry for the receiver.

"Mr. Weasley, I think this might be out of order," Harry said.

"No, no, I'm sure it's fine," said Mr. Weasley, holding the receiver above his head and peering at the dial. "Let's see… six…" he dialed the number, "two… four… and another four… and another two…"

As the dial whirred smoothly back into place, a cool female voice sounded inside the telephone box, not from the receiver in Mr. Weasley's hand, but as loudly and plainly as though an invisible woman were standing right beside them.

"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business."

"Er…" said Mr. Weasley, clearly uncertain whether or not he should talk into the receiver. He compromised by holding the mouthpiece to his ear, "Arthur Weasley, Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, here to escort Harry Potter, as well as his friend and my son to my workplace, to show them around…"

"Thank you," said the cool female voice.

"Visitor, please take the badge and attach it to the front of your robes."

There was a click and a rattle, and Harry saw something slide out of the metal chute where returned coins usually appeared. He picked it up: it was a square silver badge with Harry Potter, intern, on it. He pinned it to the front of his T-shirt as the female voice spoke again.

"Visitor to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium."

The floor of the telephone box shuddered. They were sinking slowly into the ground. Harry watched apprehensively as the pavement seemed to rise up past the glass windows of the telephone box until darkness closed over their heads. Then he could see nothing at all; he could hear only a dull grinding noise as the telephone box made its way down through the earth.

After about a minute, though it felt much longer to Harry, a chink of golden light illuminated his feet and, widening, rose up his body, until it hit him in the face and he had to blink to stop his eyes from watering.

"The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant day," said the woman's voice.

The door of the telephone box sprang open and Mr. Weasley stepped out of it, followed by Harry, whose mouth had fallen open. They were standing at one end of a very long and splendid hall with a highly polished, dark wood floor. The peacock blue ceiling was inlaid with gleaming golden symbols that kept moving and changing like some enormous heavenly notice board. The walls on each side were paneled in shiny dark wood and had many gilded fireplaces set into them. Every few seconds a witch or wizard would emerge from one of the left-hand fireplaces with a soft whoosh.

On the right-hand side, short queues of wizards were forming before each fireplace, waiting to depart. Halfway down the hall was a fountain. A group of golden statues, larger than life-size, stood in the middle of a circular pool. Tallest of them all was a noble-looking wizard with his wand pointing straight up in the air. Grouped around him were a beautiful witch, a centaur, a goblin and a house-elf. The last three were all looking adoringly up at the witch and wizard. Glittering jets of water were flying from the ends of their wands, the point of the centaur's arrow, the tip of the goblins hat and each of the house-elf's ears, so that the tinkling hiss of falling water was added to the pops and cracks of the Apparators and the clatter of footsteps as hundreds of witches and wizards, most of whom were wearing glum, early-morning looks, strode towards a set of golden gates at the far end of the hall.

They waited by the elevator until Ron and Hermione came down as well, both also wearing silver badges that said 'intern'. Mr. Weasley looked at the both of them

"This way," said Mr. Weasley. They joined the throng, wending their way between the Ministry workers, some of whom were carrying tottering piles of parchment, others battered briefcases; still others were reading the Daily Prophet while they walked.

They passed through security and ended up at an elevator where Mr. Weasley pressed the button for level two, and they passed into where he said his office was.

Ron, Harry and hermione exchanged a look, and then Harry said, "Mr. Weasley! I left my...my uh, sneakascope in the atrium. Could I run down to grab it? I'll be quick."

He considered it for a moment, then said, "Alright, but take someone with you please, don't want you getting lost do we?"

"I'll go!" Ron and Hermione said at the same time. Mr Weasley chuckled, "Ah, all three of you can go, but remember to stay together."

They got into the elevator and looked at eachother. "So," Ron said, "where do you reckon they keep the files for wizarding children and stuff?"

Hermione examined the buttons, "Level three is the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, including the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, Obliviator Headquarters, and Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee. They probably keep the records there."

She pressed the button and the elevator began moving the two looked at Harry, "DO the have the cloak?" Hermione asked.

Harry reached inside his pocket and pulled it out, "Right here." He covered the three of them with it just as the doors opened. They walked out of the elevator with no one in the area any the wiser. Granted, this floor wasn't very busy. There was only a few people at some scattered desks. It seemed that today was a slow day for the department.

The three looked around for any sort of records hall, and finally found it. There was a gold plaque above a door that read, "Registry for Magic-Users". They hurried towards it and tried to quickly open the door. Luckily no one saw them go in, or if they did they didn't take any notice. Once inside the small room they took off the cloak.

The only piece of furniture in the room was a large book on a pedestal. Harry was the first the walk over to it. after months of worry he was finally going to figure it out. He couldn't believe it. In a sense it was almost surreal. He began imagining that he would contact his true family and he could have a real, live family. It was something he had dreamed of his whole life.

Harry began flipping through the pages, turning them back to the year 1980. "I should start looking at children born around June 1st, James Potter said I was only a month old, so I should have been born around that time."

There were only four magical children born in the month of June 1980. One was a muggleborn girl, another was a pureblood girl named Tracey Davis, and the third was Draco Malfoy. Harry didn't know Malfoy was born in June, but it was the fourth name that made his blood run cold.

He sank to the floor, Ron and Hermione looking at the name and then gasping. They couldn't...comprehend what was happening. They sat beside Harry trying to console him.

At the bottom of the page it neat handwriting was the name Antonius Arcturus Malfoy.

Author's Note: Sorry so much time has passed, this chapter is longer than usual, so enjoy! Don't forget to review and favorite stuff. And seriously, don't like something, tell me.