Chapter 9. The Auction at the Ministry
Harry had worked at the Ministry of Magic for decades, but the lonely and desolate landscape of the upper street was still foreign to him. The first time he had come here for a hearing with Arthur Weasley was still fresh in his mind. Had he lost that day, he would have lost his wand and been banished from his world forever, and the mere thought of that made him shudder.
Harry leaned against the red telephone box as he surveyed the shabby street. There were a few abandoned, unsightly offices with sparsely broken windows along the outside walls. Every time the wind blew, the overflowing dumpster spewed stuffed garbage onto the street, and people came and went from a small pub across the street. Harry buttoned his gray coat; spring had finally arrived, yet it was still chilly where the sun didn't shine. He glanced at his watch and saw that the promised time was approaching. Then there was the sound of an engine and a white car drove into the empty street. The car stopped right where Harry was, and Faraday got out.
"Taxis were yellow when I was a kid," Harry said as the car drove away.
"That's not a taxi. I just used the service called Uber, which allows common drivers to pick up passengers. It's faster and cheaper," Faraday said as he showed his smartphone. "Are you used to the phone I gave you?"
"Actually, I haven't tried it yet," Harry said as he led him to the heavily graffitied wall, whose original color was hard to see. Just in front of the wall was an old red telephone box. "There was a lot going on yesterday. . . . To form a new Department of Treasury, we have lifted the shutdown of the Ministry of Magic and brought the employees back to work as of today."
"That's why the news reported a high number of owl sightings. . . .You're doing it the hard way when a text or email would do." Faraday clucked his tongue in sympathy.
"Here's the entrance — come in." Harry barely closed the door after pushing Faraday into the cramped phone box. It was as if Faraday wanted to comment on the impractical means of entering the Ministry of Magic, but he just shook his head.
"Please listen carefully," Harry said as he lifted the receiver from the lopsided phone and dialed the numbers one by one. "Pick this up and dial six two four four two and you can get into the Ministry."
"You change your password regularly, don't you?"
" Er — probably not. It was the same numbers about thirty years ago."
"Let's not discuss it, it's just a waste of breath . . ."
As soon as Harry finished putting in the numbers, the dial whirred and gently returned to its original position. Then a cool female voice sounded from inside the box, "Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business."
"This is Harry Potter, and I am here to escort Mr. Faraday Prewett, who will be taking up his post as Treasurer today. First, we need to meet with the Minister."
"Thank you," said the female voice. "Visitor, please take the badge and attach it to the front of your robes."
There was a metallic rattle and a shiny object rolled down the coin slot of the pay phone. Harry picked up the silver square badge that read Faraday Prewett, Reporting to Minister and pinned it to Faraday's suit jacket.
"Your name will be registered starting tomorrow, so just dial the password," said Harry.
"Thanks for nothing," grunted Faraday. "Or should I thank you for not making me go down a toilet?"
As if there had been an earthquake, a vibration rose up Harry's legs and the entire telephone box began to sink into the ground.
"I think so . . . honestly, there was a time when we had to flush ourselves to get in."
Faraday remained silent at these words during the short journey underground that followed. Gradually, the glass panels of the telephone box were obscured by the rising pavement around them, and soon the interior was completely dark. It was quiet in the darkness, except for the sound of gravel and dirt grinding as the outer wall of the booth brushed against the tunnel. After about a minute, a beam of golden light emerged from beneath the box. First, Faraday's shoes glowed with the light moving across their bodies to their faces, and then the telephone box finally stopped moving.
"The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant day," said the cool female voice.
Harry led the way out of the phone box when the door opened by itself. A little after rush hour, the lavishly decorated hall was almost empty. A house-elf polishing the dark wooden floor saw Harry and bowed deeply until his nose almost touched the floor.
"Good morning." He greeted the elf as well and led Faraday past the many gilded fireplaces on either side of them. "Let's go to the security desk over there. With me by your side, you'll have nothing to worry about."
As usual, a group of large golden statues of a wizard, a witch, a centaur, a goblin, and a house-elf stood in the center of the fountain as they passed. Faraday was busy observing the coin-filled fountain and the golden gate beyond. Seeing how impressed the outsider was, Harry felt a little proud to be a part of the magical world.
An old wizard in peacock-blue robes sat under a sign that read SECURITY. He bowed to Harry as two of them approached the desk next to the golden gates. "Good morning, Mr. Potter."
"Good morning to you, Eric. Coming back to work after a long absence can be a challenge, can't it?"
"Don't mention it — I had to work during the shutdown. I was designated as a needed manpower, being a watchwizard. . . ."
"Thanks for your service. I'll make sure that the watchwizards get some bonuses."
"It's my pleasure!" Eric smiled brightly for a moment, but then he became serious again. "Er — no offense, but does the Ministry have the needed gold? That last incident at Gringotts aside, hosting the Quidditch World Cup would cost a lot . . ."
"To manage the budget, we have created a new Department of Treasury, to be headed by Mr. Prewett here," Harry said, pointing at Faraday. "This will bring us some gold, I hope."
"I look forward to it." Eric rose from his chair, his face lifted, waving a thin gold rod in the air. "But there's still a search to be done . . ." He passed the instrument up and down Faraday's front and back and held out a hand. "Your wand, please."
"I've never had one," said Faraday bluntly. "I'm a Squib."
"He's right," Harry assured him. "He's guaranteed, so you don't have to worry about leaks."
In the smaller hall, lifts lined the walls as Harry and Faraday passed through the gates. He felt uncomfortable at Eric's open disdain upon hearing that Faraday was a Squib, but he did not show it. One of the wrought golden grilles opened and Harry led Faraday into the lift. When they reached the top floor, the golden grille slid back to reveal the red-carpeted corridor.
"This way, Faraday. The other two will be waiting in Hermione's office."
Following Harry's lead, they turned left and right in the direction of the Minister's office. With the thick carpet on the floor muffling their footsteps, the hallway was almost completely silent, except for the occasional murmur of words through the cracks in the slightly open office doors. Harry knocked on the Minister's door when they finally reached their destination.
"Come in!" Hermione's voice came from the closed door, which opened on its own. Ron and Hermione were sitting together at the large table in the middle.
"Hello, Faraday. How did you find the Ministry of Magic?"
"Impressive," Faraday grunted as he sat with Harry across from them. "Still room for improvements, though."
"Feel free to make any." Hermione smiled and placed a parchment in front of him. "Attached is the letter of appointment for Head of the Department of Treasury." She swung her wand and a quill flew out of nowhere, scrawling Hermione's name at the bottom. "A few floors down, an empty office will house your department. For now, the Magical Maintenance staff will help you with your work, and you can hire new staff as needed."
"It's all very well, Hermione. You have prepared well." After carefully reading the letter of appointment, Faraday said solemnly. "I'll do my best."
"Just come by your office today and get used to it, nothing more. Rushing can lead to mistakes," Hermione said, the letter still occupying Faraday's attention as he nodded vaguely. "I'll be going now; I have to go to Gringotts on business to return this ledger. . . . I also have to implement a new policy for exchanging Muggle currency."
"Okay, have a good trip," muttered Faraday. Picking up the thick book, Hermione stepped out of her office and Faraday followed shortly after.
"Well, it worked out well in the end," Ron said when it was just the two of them. "We've always done so — whatever difficulties we've faced, we've managed to overcome them somehow."
"I agree." A smile spread across Harry's face as he waved his wand and summoned two goblets of iced pumpkin juice. They toasted and took a drink together. "As soon as Eisenbein is caught and my Invisibility Cloak and the stolen gold are recovered, this fiasco will be over."
"I know you can do it, mate — that bastard is no match for you." Placing both feet on the desk, Ron leaned against the chair. "This reminds me of the beginning of second year, sitting here with you . . . we missed the train and then got into a flying car — ended up both getting detentions."
"Yeah, I'll never forget that," laughed Harry. "I really thought we were going to get expelled that night."
"Me too. I thought we had to get our stuff and leave right away . . ." Massaging his shoulder, Ron sighed. "That wicked Willow hit me so hard that sometimes my arm still hurts. Besides, the hardships I endured with my broken wand still shakes me."
"That wand saved us from Lockhart at the last minute, though," Harry pointed out.
"Yeah, you're right." Ron nodded. "I couldn't just throw away the broken wand for that grace."
The door suddenly swung open while they were chatting about old times, revealing Hermione's Senior Undersecretary, Ethel.
"Mrs. Granger! Mrs. Granger, it's urgent!" Ethel rushed in, but stopped when she found Harry and Ron. Her hair, which had always been neat, was disheveled from running and her face was pale as a ghost. "Where's the Minister?"
"Hermione mustn't have informed her secretaries. She's gone to Gringotts on business," said Harry. "What is it, Ethel?"
"Mr. Potter — Mr. Weasley — it's a mess in the hall!" said Ethel, shaking a little. "A Squib is messing with the Ministry at will!"
Harry's heart sank when he heard these words; he and Ron exchanged worried glances.
"If you're referring to Faraday, he's only just been made Treasurer," said Ron anxiously. "Maybe he went out to inspect; it's his first time here . . ."
"You call that an inspection!" Ethel squealed. "I've never seen an inspection like that before! Come with me — I'll show you the horrors."
As the lift descended into the Atrium, Harry could already sense a strange omen: There were mournful cries and shrieks, and hundreds of people muttering in the background. Ron clasped his hands together, standing stiffly in the lift with him. It didn't feel right to Harry. How could Faraday have caused such a scene on the first day of work?
Stepping out of the lift, they found the hall packed with workers from every department. Through the crowd, Harry and Ron followed Ethel to the fountain behind the golden gates. Inexplicable cries and sighs grew louder as they approached, but it was difficult to see exactly what was happening. Just then, Eric the watchwizard came up from the opposite direction, spotted Harry and rushed to him. A red flush covered Eric's face and his bearded mouth trembled.
"Good to see you, Mr. Potter! I've been looking for the Aurors," said Eric urgently. "We're being openly robbed by that Squib you brought in earlier. He's making a big fuss, holding a forged document that he claims is signed by the Minister herself!"
"If you're talking about his letter of appointment, it's true that Hermione signed it," said Harry weakly. "Come with me — I need to see for myself what's going on."
The ranks of anxiously muttering onlookers thinned when the small group, led by Harry, passed through. A quick examination revealed the source of the noise. Dozens of portraits were neatly arranged on the railing of the fountain, each of their subjects shaking, crying, shouting, or sighing. Surrounding the portraits were ancient cups, crowns, and gilded statues, more of which were being carried by wizards in navy blue robes from Magical Maintenance. Next to them, Faraday shouted or gave directions to the wizards on where to place the items they had brought.
"Put the stuffed owl there, not here — it could be used for firewood at best. . . . The bronze jug can stay here, someone might pay for it."
"Faraday! What the hell is going on?" asked Harry. With confused faces, the staff in navy blue robes stopped what they were doing to look at Harry's complexion. They seemed to be hoping he would stop all of this.
"Me? I'm doing what the Minister told me to do — expand our budget," Faraday said, examining each crying portrait as if assessing it. "Didn't she tell me to raise money to host the Quidditch World Cup?"
"You're right about that . . . Still, Hermione wishes you would share some Muggle wisdom on how to budget, instead of jumping the gun like this."
"My Muggle wisdom?" snorted Faraday. "You think gold will fall from the sky if I write something down in the book? During my inspection of this place, I thought of the person we need right now. . . . Though I don't share the same political views as that person, I need that kind of determination."
"And who is that?" asked Ron in a worried tone.
"Margaret Thatcher. It never occurred to me that a government agency could be so inefficient. No matter what, I'm going to change everything around here, even if I'm accused of being a witch like her!"
At that moment, there was a commotion among the people gathered around the golden gates. Barry Ryan, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, pushed through the crowd to reach them. Behind him, more wizards in navy blue robes were carrying crates full of Quidditch-related artifacts, such as old brooms, moth-eaten robes, and rusty Golden Snitches.
"WHAT ARE YOU PLAYING AT?" Barry shouted at Faraday. "By what authority do you take our department's collections at your command?"
"Here — read on." Without evem looking at him, Faraday unfolded the parchment in front of him. "According to this letter, I have been given full authority to take the necessary steps to secure the budget to host the Quidditch World Cup."
Reading the letter, Barry's face turned even redder. "As much as I appreciate the Minister's passion for hosting the World Cup, this is unacceptable!" he shouted. "The Ministry of Magic has been collecting these Quidditch collections since the beginning!"
"And you stored them in a warehouse to rot," snapped Faraday. "Allowing dust and rust to build up. . . . I've just inspected your department. It deserved your sincere attention if it was that important."
If it weren't for the people watching, Barry would have knocked Faraday out with his thick arms. Unaware of this, Faraday found something behind him and pushed Barry away. "Ah, you must be from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures . . . I was just waiting for you."
A long wooden crate was being carried by four wizards in brown robes as they walked past the onlookers. The crate wobbled from time to time, giving the impression that it contained more than just an antique.
"Pour them into the fountain, please," Faraday instructed them.
The wizards in brown robes carefully opened the box beside the well. Inside were creatures with fluffy black fur that looked like platypuses, with long snouts like ducks. Harry knew these cuddly animals were nifflers thanks to Hagrid's class he had attended long ago. Confused by the humans around them, the nifflers rubbed their spade-shaped flat paws together.
One by one, the staff carefully placed the nifflers, whose swimming skills proved to be excellent, into the stagnant water of the fountain. They collected the gold and silver coins from the bottom of the water, placed them in their poach on their bellies, and then returned to the crate to deposit them. To clear the water full of glittering Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts, the nifflers jumped into the water several times. Finally, all the coins were placed in the crate, which had been transformed into a treasure chest.
"These donations belong to St. Mungo's!" shouted an elderly witch, and many others nodded in agreement.
"Not anymore," Faraday said, pointing to a small sign next to the fountain. The sign read as follows, with a few red words added at the end:
All proceeds from the Brothers of Wizardry fountain will be donated to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries and used to host the Quidditch World Cup.
When the brown-robed wizards had returned to their department with the nifflers in their arms, Faraday climbed onto the railing of the fountain. His greedy eyes rested for a moment on the golden statues of a wizard and a witch. It might have been Harry's illusion, but the statues seemed to tremble a little as Faraday smacked his lips at their golden glow.
"Greetings, fellow members of the Ministry of Magic," said Faraday. Though he used no magic, his loud voice echoed through the hall. "My name is Faraday Prewett, and it is my pleasure to introduce myself as your newly appointed Treasurer."
The audience murmured in surprise at the mention of his last name, Prewett, which belonged to a prestigious pure-blood Wizarding family.
"After the unfortunate incident at Gringotts, the Ministry of Magic has run out of gold, and we must raise additional funds to host next year's Quidditch World Cup. It is my intention to accomplish this mission using the powers granted to me by the Minister herself, and the first step will be to auction off unnecessary items within the Ministry of Magic."
"UNNECESSARY ITEMS!" shouted Barry Ryan in anger, but the louder roar of the people in the Atrium drowned out his voice. Harry's sharp ears had picked up a mixture of dissatisfaction at the drastic action and joy at the opportunity to get the valuable antiques at a reasonable price.
"The auction will begin this afternoon. All citizens of the magical world are welcome to attend, so if you are interested, please gather in the Great Hall," he continued, looking down at Harry. "And Mr. Potter, please assist us with five Aurors under your command to ensure the auction runs smoothly."
Faraday leapt from the railing before Harry could reply and began sorting through the items his assistants had brought. The crowd quickly dispersed and Harry felt helpless as people left the area, either using the lifts or the fireplaces. Although he still had strong doubts about whether this auction was the right move, it seemed too late to stop it.
"What are you waiting for, Harry?" Ron grabbed his elbow and pulled him toward the lifts. "We should go too!"
"Go where?"
"To the Grand Meeting Room! We should go to the auction!" said Ron excitedly, stifling his laughter. "Didn't you just see what they brought from the Department of Magical Games and Sports? It would be great if we could get an official Chudley Cannons uniform — or a signed Golden Snitch!"
"Oh Ron — I don't know," said Harry thoughtfully. "Wouldn't it look weird if I was there?"
"Just sit still and do nothing — I can bid on anything you want for you."
Harry found himself sitting in one of the hundreds of chairs set up in the Grand Meeting Room after lunch. Teddy and Edmund, along with three other young Aurors, were stationed against the wall, directing people and keeping an eye out for any suspicious activity. An old, small wizard in navy blue robes with a ferret-like appearance soon took the podium. On the stage next to him was a display for the items.
"You know who the auctioneer is, don't you?" said Harry, grinning.
"How could I not?" said Ron flatly. "I was him once."
Reginald Cattermole, whom Ron had long ago transformed into with Polyjuice to infiltrate the Ministry of Magic, was now serving as a senior employee of the Magical Maintenance.
"We'll start by taking bids on the portraits in the corridors and halls," said Cattermole, today's auctioneer.
A younger wizard in navy blue robes stepped forward and placed a black-veiled painting on the display stand when Cattermole beckoned. A bright light from the ceiling illuminated the portrait as Cattermole slowly removed the black cloth. A very old witch in the painting, dressed in green robes and hats and dyed green on her head to make her look like an overgrown frog, raised her hand to block out the intense light shining on her.
"Madam Elfrida Clagg is the subject of this portrait — you would have known if you hadn't fallen asleep during History of Magic," Cattermole explained, drawing laughter from some of the people, including Harry and Ron. "Elfrida gave legal rights to magical beings like centaurs and mermaids who could speak human languages."
"I know that witch!" cried Ron. "I have a Chocolate Frog card with her on it."
"The minimum bid for this painting will be three hundred Galleons, considering its historical significance," said Cattermole, while Elfrida crossed her arms and snorted in the painting.
In the front row, a man raised his hand and said, "Three hundred and ten Galleons."
"Three hundred and thirty Galleons," a fat lady in green silk robes and a red wig said this time.
"The current bid is — three hundred and thirty Galleons. No one else?" Cattermole looked around the room for a moment before banging the gavel twice. "This item has been sold to Mrs. Smith."
The young wizard placed another portrait covered in black cloth.
"A former Hogwarts headmaster, Professor Everard, posed for this portrait," Cattermole explained. "He was probably one of the most famous headmasters in history, with the exception of Albus Dumbledore."
Everard's portrait had previously saved Arthur Weasley from Nagini the serpent, and Harry was heartbroken to see it sold. However, he didn't have to watch Everard grieve, for the inside of the frame was empty when the black cloth was removed.
"Oh, he seems to be gone for now," said Catermole, looking perplexed. "Two hundred Galleons will be the reserve price."
The empty portrait wasn't that popular — two hundred and twenty Galleons was paid for it by an old wizard. One by one, dozens of other portraits were displayed and sold in the same way. Two of the portraits were as empty as Everard's, but the people in the portraits, who had no other pictures of themselves to escape to, watched themselves being sold to strangers with their eyes closed or a somber expression on their faces.
"Feels a little saggy, doesn't it?" said Ron in a whisper. "But can they just give them away like that? Maybe the portrait will give us some information, like it did when you and Dumbledore saved my dad."
"Don't tell Faraday, or he'll try to install surveillance cameras in the Ministry of Magic," said Harry warningly. "Let's not get into trouble, shall we?"
After all the portraits were sold, the atmosphere of the auction heated up as the focus shifted to more interesting items. One by one, the cursed jewels and ornaments confiscated by the Ministry began to be displayed.
"For reasons unknown, this opal necklace was taken to the Ministry of Magic." Harry and Ron exchanged looks of dismay when Catermole explained a certain jewel. During their sixth year at Hogwarts, the ornate opal necklace had nearly killed their friend Katie Bell, but it seemed that the cursed jewelry had somehow found its way to the Ministry of Magic. Cattermole went on.
"After being imbued with the most powerful curse, this necklace killed nineteen Muggle owners and nearly murdered a witch. It should never be touched with bare skin, and the Ministry of Magic will not be held responsible for any damage caused by disregarding this warning," said Catermole somberly, causing the crowd to roar with fear. "Two hundred Galleons is the starting price. Is there a bidder?"
Even after Cattermole had waited a minute or so, no one raised their hand, despite obvious interest.
"Then it will be one hundred and ninety galleons . . . will anyone bid?"
Only after the price had dropped considerably did the bidder appear.
"My bid is one hundred and twenty Galleons." Harry turned as he heard the oily voice and saw Mr. Bogin raise his hand, his greasy hair looking oily as well.
"How shameless is he? He was the one who sold it to Malfoy in the first place." Ron whispered indignantly in response to Mr. Bogin's successful bid. "Surely that idiot Malfoy paid five times as much for it. . . . You should be on the lookout if Malfoy is interested in that necklace again, Harry."
"Honestly, Ron, Draco isn't the kind of person to do that anymore," said Harry firmly.
Afterward, Mr. Borgin bought the cursed bracelet, earrings, and gilded armor at a low price among the other dangerous accessories for sale. It was likely that the Borgin and Burkes' display cases would soon be filled. Then a middle-aged woman bought a cheap black musical box that emitted an ominous, tinkling melody that made everyone in the hall sleepy and weak.
"Ah, here come Madam Granger's personal collectibles — she donated them to the Ministry of Magic a few weeks ago . . ."
Interest in the upcoming items increased when Cattermole mentioned this.
"Did Hermione actually make a donation?" Ron asked Harry, his eyes wide. "Without a word to me!"
"It wasn't a donation — more like just putting away unused things," said Harry. "They were probably labeled as collectibles to promote them in a better way . . ."
"Those of you who have been to the Minister's office will remember that this painting used to hang on the wall."
When Cattermole had finished introducing it, his assistant took off the black cloth. Wearing the green and silver of Slytherin, the familiar face of a clever-looking wizard with a pointed beard appeared behind it.
"What's this all about? I'm not for sale, you madman! None of this will be tolerated!" Phineas Nigellus Black shouted in a rage. "There must be some misunderstanding, but I am supposed to be in the Minister's office. Now take me back there!"
"Please accept my apologies, Mr. Black, but I personally saw the Minister bring your portrait to our warehouse," said Cattermole calmly, turning back to the audience. "As some of you may know, Phineas Nigellas Black was one of the most — er — serious headmasters Hogwarts has ever seen."
His words caused some people to burst out laughing, and Phineas Nigellus glared at them.
"He was the least popular headmaster Hogwarts ever had, according to Sirius," said Harry.
"Nothing strange about that," Ron grinned.
"Harry! You're sitting there, aren't you?" Phineas Nigellus, his eyes narrowed, shouted at Harry. Suddenly all eyes were on him; Harry would have fallen flat on the ground if he could have. "Harry — my boy! Put an end to this nonsense! I achieved so much in the last war, don't you remember?"
"I'm terribly sorry, Professor Black," said Harry, "but I have no authority to change anything in this auction . . ."
"Shame on you! You ungrateful scoundrel!" Phineas Nigellas ran wild in his frame.
"The bidding will start at one hundred Galleons," said Cattermole, ignoring him.
"A hundred Galleons! Is that all I'm worth?" cried Phineas. "I used to pay that much for a meal in my prime, you insolent braggart!"
"Is there no bidder? Is there no bidder for ninety Galleons?" Cattermole asked. Still not a hand was raised.
"Why don't you just take it, Harry?" grinned Ron. "The painting was once in your house."
"Ginny'll kill me if I do that — I've just recently dealt with that horrible painting of Mrs. Black . . ."
"How about eighty Galleons? Anyone?" asked Cattermole.
"Eighty Galleons — you've got to be kidding! I'm sure my house-elf had more than that!" In anger, Phineas Nigllus began pulling out large tufts of his beard.
"Will anyone bid fifty Galleons?" Cattermole ignored him again, but there were still no bidders.
Phinieas Nigellus became increasingly depressed with the falling price of his portrait.
"Here's the final price. Five Galleons? Is there a bidder for five Galleons?" asked Cattermole, and there was no one willing to buy it at that price. "Bidding on this item will then be treated as having failed."
Phineas Nigellas stepped out of the frame, shaking his head. After the portrait had been wrapped in black cloth and removed, a walnut-colored wand and a black quill were placed on a soft red cushion.
"Here are two things you might find more interesting: Bellatrix Restrange, the infamous Death Eater, and Dolores Umbridge, the former Senior Undersecretary to the Minister and Head of the Muggle-born Registration Commission, once owned this wand and quill respectively," said Cattermole gravely. "I can only guess how they ended up in Madam Granger's hands, but it's time to find their new owners . . ."
As Harry heard these words, the back of his right hand tingled; the faint white scars on it said: I must not not tell lies. Umbridge had made Harry write those words with her special black quill to ensure that they would be engraved there. As for Bellatrix Lestrange's wand, it had caused the death of his dear godfather. Harry stared at the two items on display and felt an intense hatred for them.
"What kind of person would bid on such horrible things?" shuddered Ron.
"I hope no one does," Harry said, clenching his fists and teeth. "I want to burn it down if nobody buys."
"Bidding on the wand and quill will begin at two hundred Galleons for the bundle." A hand flashed up from the front just as Cattlemole finished speaking.
"Two hundred and fifty Galleons."
It was the same woman who had purchased the eerie music box earlier, whose netted black hair had turned white in several places. Though he could not see her face, Harry thought her voice sounded unlike anyone he knew.
"Two hundred and seventy Galleons," said Mrs. Smith, raising her hand, who had won the bidding for Elfrida's portrait.
"Three hundred Galleons," Mr. Bogin said this time in his oily voice.
"Four hundred Galleons," said the woman in the hair net who had raised her hand first. The murmur in the room grew louder with the rising bid.
"Can you tell me who she is? I don't know anyone from a wealthy family who looks like her," Ron said, looking uneasily at Harry.
"She could be from another country," said Harry uncertainly.
"Four hundred and thirty Galleons." Mr. Bogin raised his hand again. Because of his nervousness, his voice did not sound as oily as before. Getting those two infamous items into his shop seemed to be his top priority.
"Five hundred Galleons," said the woman wearing a hairnet, and the number of muffled voices in the Grand Meeting Room increased.
"Five hundred and fifty Galleons!" exclaimed Mr. Borgin tensely. Now his hand trembled a little as he raised it to the sky.
"One thousand Galleons," declared the mysterious woman. There was a sudden hush in the room as the murmuring stopped abruptly.
"The current bid is one thousand Galleons," Cattermole said, breaking the silence, "Are there any other bids? A thousand Galleons will do, then."
"Pack my purchases — I'll take them with me right now," the woman said, getting up from her seat. As she walked toward the stage, clicking her heels, hundreds of shocked glances were fixed on her back. Afterward, a young wizard dressed in navy blue handed her the black music box, Bellatrix's wand and Umbridge's black quill, all packed in a paper bag.
Harry tried to look ahead again, but then he had a feeling he needed to check her face, just in case. He turned and met the woman's eyes just as she was leaving the hall. Staring at Harry with a vicious glare, her face, plain and slightly wrinkled with no prominent features, was consumed by a fierce hatred. By the time Harry's hand unconsciously reached for his wand, she was gone.
"What are you looking at, mate?" A call from Ron woke Harry and he turned to look back at the stage. "The real thing's about to start . . . over there — they're bringing out the Quidditch equipment!"
Ron's high expectations weren't unreasonable. In subsequent auctions, he won Ludo Bagman's autographed bat, which had helped England win the Quidditch match against Turkey decades ago, along with orange robes worn by a Chudley Cannons keeper. Looking at each item with interest, Harry asked Ron to bid on an antique Golden Snitch caught by Victor Krum that ended the 1994 Quidditch World Cup. Meanwhile, he had already forgotten the woman who had just glared at him fiercely.
"Wow, aren't they great?" Ron, who couldn't wait for the auction to end, had already returned from the stage after collecting the items he'd bought. "Look at the smooth texture! Looks like Bagman took good care of his personal bat. . . . This will make a great gift for George!"
"It would've been nice if Bagman had taken care of other things," said Harry sourly.
Harry's attention was then caught by something new on the shelf and he almost groaned. With a glittering ebony handle and a tail of smooth, streamlined birch twigs, the broomstick looked very familiar to him. . . . Harry had owned a broomstick of the same type a long time ago.
"It's a Firebolt! Too bad they kept it in storage all these years," sighed Ron. "I'd have stolen it if I'd known. . . ."
"We'll end today's auction with the Firebolt broomstick you all know and love. While many brooms have been made before and since, this luxury broom is unsurpassed for stability and speed." Even Cattermole, who had been talking monotonously, came over to take a closer look at the Firebolt with personal interest. "The starting price will be five hundred Galleons, as it appears to be an older model. It's unclear how it ended up in the Ministry of Magic's warehouse. . . . For reference, the registration number engraved on the top of the handle is seven hundred and eleven."
"How could that be? That's my old broom!" exclaimed Harry, jumping to his feet.
"Six hundred Galleons!" Mrs. Smith raised her hand.
"Seven hundred Galleons!" shouted an old wizard in maroon robes this time.
In an instant, Harry regretted revealing that the broom was his. It was obvious that the value of the broom, which was quite valuable in itself, would skyrocket if it had belonged to the most famous person in the Wizarding world.
"Seven hundred and fifty!" Harry shouted without hesitation.
When the auction was finally over, Harry and Ron left the auditorium with the Firebolt slung over Ron's shoulders.
"Don't you think you paid too much?" grumbled Ron. "Besides, it's kind of weird winning a bid on your own stuff."
"Right, it certainly cost a lot," Harry said, just realizing that he must have spent more Galleons on the broom than Sirius had when he first bought it. Instead of a heavy heart, however, he felt joy well up inside him. "But I couldn't let anyone else take it — it was a gift from my godfather."
"How did the Firebolt end up in the Ministry of Magic, anyway? What d'you reckon?" asked Ron. "I heard it slipped out of your hands when we were fleeing your aunt's house that night. . . ."
"That's right — it fell off when the flying motorcycle tipped over," Harry said, caressing the Firebolt. "I thought it was lost forever, but I suppose a Ministry official working for Voldemort at the time might have picked it up and put it in storage."
Harry had secretly tried to find his Firebolt after the war ended, but had failed, and came to believe he had lost it forever. . . . But now the treasured broom his godfather had given him was once again his rightful property. His heart filled with hope as he thought about how easy it would be to retrieve the Invisibility Cloak from Eisenbein if he continued to be so lucky.
While admiring the still smooth and shiny surface of the Firebolt, Harry and Ron made their way to the Atrium and soon found themselves surrounded by a large number of fireplaces. There Harry was supposed to drop Ron off and return to work. At that moment, a sharp voice echoed through the vaulted ceilings and oak-paneled walls of the hall, "WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE!"
Harry and Ron stared at each other, stunned. The enraged voice surely belonged to Hermione.
"That broom — Harry — give it to me," said Ron urgently. "She'll kill us if she finds out we were at the auction. . . ."
"All right — I'll pick it up at your shop later. Don't you want to come with me to Hermione?" said Harry, handing him the Firebolt.
"Are you mad? I'd rather jump in the fire pit." Ron shook his head, hurrying into the nearby fireplace. He hoisted himself into it with a sack full of Quidditch equipment and the Firebolt on his shoulders. "Then good luck, mate."
"See ya, Ron."
As soon as Ron had disappeared in the flash of green flames, Harry turned to follow the roar of Hermione that had been going on until then. Faraday and Hermione were standing face to face by the golden fountain, surrounded by dozens of house-elves fidgeting and pinching their own ears. Other passersby looked away from them, as if they didn't want to be caught in the Minister's wrath, and hurried their steps.
"I've spent most of my career improving the elfish rights, only for you to ruin them in half a day!" Hermione shouted, her face flushed like an overheated cauldron and her arms shaking. "You just needed to get used to your work for now, I said! What kind of person are you to be doing this while I'm away?"
"Don't be silly — I wanted to take it easy too. But I just couldn't sit idle after reviewing your disastrous budget," said Faraday calmly. "And don't you remember telling me to prioritize funding for the Quidditch World Cup? I was just following your orders, Hermione."
"I do think the World Cup is extremely important," Hermione said through clenched teeth. She didn't even pretend to notice when Harry came over and stood next to her. "But what does that have to do with the Ministry of Magic firing all its house-elves! Do you know how many laws I've passed to make these elves our full-time employees?"
"Listen to me, Hermione. As for those little friends you cherish so much," Faraday said, looking at the house-elves who were bowing their heads in utter confusion, "the Tax Eaters, I would call them. The cost of labor is too high compared to the importance of their work."
Hearing this, the house-elves around them began to howl, banging their heads, twisting their noses and pulling their ears. Harry and Hermione had to quieten the commotion, pacifying one elf at a time.
"But that doesn't mean we shouldn't use their work. We'll just use them in a different way." Faraday's declaration immediately caused the devastated house-elves, who had been sobbing or secretly hurting themselves, to lift their heads hopefully in unison, their tennis-ball-sized eyes shining brightly.
"The house-elves are not slaves!" Hermione glared at Faraday with crossed arms. "If you want to boss them around without paying them a fair wage, I won't stand for it!"
"A noble ideal like yours certainly deserves respect," Faraday said, now leaning against the railing of the fountain. "But can you say you respect house-elves if you offer them money they don't really want? What if someone criticizes you for seeing them as inferior under the guise of protecting them?"
It took Hermione a while to open her mouth.
"You don't know much about our world," she said. There was less emotion in her voice than before, but it sounded colder. "House-elves were treated like vermin for a long time in the dark times, and it must have damaged their free will greatly. . . . So even when they get paid, they don't know how to spend it. Trying to correct this practice was all I was trying to do."
"Let me help you, then," Faraday said quietly, snapping his fingers. On the other side of the fountain, several wizards in navy blue robes held up a large banner. When one of them waved his wand, the banner floated into the air and unfolded by itself, revealing the giant gold letters on the red background: S.C.R.E.W.
"Screw?" wondered Harry. "What does that mean?"
"Not screw," said Faraday idly. "It's S-C-R-E-W, which stands for the Subsidiary Company Run by Elifish Workers. It's time for the house-elves to work for themselves, not for the wizardkind. Rather than hiring them directly, the Ministry of Magic will now enter into a service contract with their subsidiary company, which will consist entirely of house-elves."
"There's an obvious conspiracy at work here!" fumed Hermione. "You're going to exploit the fair price paid to the house-elves by this company, aren't you?"
"Not at all. My only wish is to see the poor little fellows become completely independent."
Faraday motioned to one of his subordinates, who tied a red armband around the arm of an elderly house-elf, the one with the most wrinkled face. As the elf stared at Faraday and Hermione in confusion, he fiddled uncomfortably with the new armband on his arm. With Harry and Hermione watching, Faraday then pulled out the heavy sack he'd received from the wizard and showed them its contents: It was filled with shiny gold coins.
"Absolutely no cheating. The subsidiary will receive its wages immediately in advance. It's now up to the house-elves to decide how to spend the money they've earned for their work."
The wizard in the navy blue robes glanced at Hermione before handing the sack to the house-elf; she nodded reluctantly. The house-elf with the armband took the sack of gold coins and stood still, as if unsure of what to do.
"Well, that's it for now. It wasn't as bad as you feared, was it?" grinned Faraday. "It's just that you don't understand the market economy yet. . . . When it comes to money, you can trust me."
"Oh yeah, because you're incredibly trustworthy," said Hermione coldly, turing around. Harry quickly caught up with her in the hall. "Why didn't you call me, Harry? I only heard from Barry Ryan what was going on when I got back from Gringotts. . . . He was upset because the Quidditch antiques in his department had been auctioned off. He also said that all the paintings had been taken off the walls and sold, and that the elves had been fired. Didn't you realize you had to stop him?"
"Er — I was busy, so I didn't know what was going on," said Harry vaguely. It seemed best to leave the story of getting the Firebolt back from the auction until later. "Anyway, Faraday was able to fill the Ministry vault, so it all worked out in the end, didn't it?"
Just as Hermione was about to answer, they heard footsteps behind them and looked back. House-elves were now pouring gold and silver coins into the golden fountain from sacks filled with them.
"Now let's hear what he has to say!" Hermione snorted as she walked over to Faraday, followed by Harry. "Faraday, what in the name of Merlin's pants is this? You're tricking the house-elves the moment I turn around?
"Please don't underestimate the voluntary contributions of these fellows."
The sign next to the fountain, to which Faraday pointed with a grin, said, "House-elf donations are also welcome."
With the help of two other house elves, the old elf with the red armband emptied all the gold coins from the large sack into the fountain.
"Look at that! All the wages they just received are being donated!" exclaimed Hermione, stamping her foot on the ground.
"Labor-management negotiations within the house-elf subsidiary led to this decision," said Faraday casually. "Is the Minister going to overrule their own conclusion?"
Hermione opened and closed her mouth several times before turning away without saying anything. As Harry and she made their way across the Atrium to the lifts, coins rattled in the fountain behind them.
"What have I done?" moaned Hermione. "I feel like using a Time-Turner! I just want to rip his appointment letter to shreds . . ."
"Why can't you just fire him now?" asked Harry, and Hermione looked at him in disbelief.
"Think about it, Harry!" she said sharply in a small voice, nodding at the murmuring crowd. The grunting wizards and witches were mostly from Slytherin House, Harry realized. "If I fired Faraday in less than a day, how would our opponents react? Using my incompetence as an excuse, they will try to impeach me immediately. As of now, I'm in the same boat as that awful miser, whether I like it or not."
"That makes sense," said Harry. Despite all the fuss that day, Harry didn't feel like disliking Faraday, especially since he had gotten his old broom back thanks to him. Even now, his head was full of the Firebolt Ron would be keeping now. He pressed the button to call the lift, thinking that he should take a ride on his old, beloved broom with Ron as soon as he left his office.