Anti-Muggle pranksters,’ said Mr. Weasley, frowning

Anti-Muggle pranksters,’ said Mr. Weasley, frowning. ‘We had two last week, one in Wimbledon, one in Elephant and Castle. Muggles are pulling the flush and instead of everything disappearing—well, you can imagine. The poor things keep calling in those—pumbles, I think they're called—you know, the ones who mend pipes and things.’

‘Plumbers?’

‘—exactly, yes, but of course they're flummoxed. I only hope we can catch whoever's doing it.’

‘Will it be Aurors who catch them?’

‘Oh no, this is too trivial for Aurors, it'll be the ordinary Magical Law Enforcement Patrol—ah, Harry, this is Perkins.’

A stooped, timid-looking old wizard with fluffy white hair had just entered the room, panting.

‘Oh, Arthur!’ he said desperately, without looking at Harry. ‘Thank goodness, I didn't know what to do for the best, whether to wait here for you or not. I've just sent an owl to your home but you've obviously missed it—an urgent message came ten minutes ago—’

‘I know about the regurgitating toilet,’ said Mr. Weasley.

‘No, no, it's not the toilet, it's the Potter boy's hearing—they've changed the time and venue—it starts at eight o'clock now and it's down in old Courtroom Ten—’

‘Down in old— but they told me—Merlin's beard—’

Mr. Weasley looked at his watch, let out a yelp and leapt from his chair.

‘Quick, Harry, we should have been there five minutes ago!’

Perkins flattened himself against the filing cabinets as Mr. Weasley left the office at a run, Harry close on his heels.

‘Why have they changed the time?’ Harry said breathlessly, as they hurtled past the Auror cubicles; people poked out their heads and stared as they streaked past. Harry felt as though he had left all his insides back at Perkins's desk.

‘I've no idea, but thank goodness we got here so early, if you'd missed it, it would have been catastrophic!’

Mr. Weasley skidded to a halt beside the lifts and jabbed impatiently at the ‘down’ button.

‘Come ON!’

The lift clattered into view and they hurried inside. Every time it stopped Mr. Weasley cursed furiously and pummelled the number nine button.

‘Those courtrooms haven't been used in years,’ said Mr. Weasley angrily. ‘I can't think why they're doing it down there—unless—but no...’

A plump witch carrying a smoking goblet entered the lift at that moment, and Mr. Weasley did not elaborate.

‘The Atrium,’ said the cool female voice and the golden grilles slid open, showing Harry a distant glimpse of the golden statues in the fountain. The plump witch got out and a sallow-skinned wizard with a very mournful face got in.

‘Morning, Arthur,’ he said in a sepulchral voice as the lift began to descend. ‘Don't often see you down here....’

‘Urgent business, Bode,’ said Mr. Weasley, who was bouncing on the balls of his feet and throwing anxious looks over at Harry.

‘Ah, yes,’ said Bode, surveying Harry unblinkingly. ‘Of course.’

Harry barely had emotion to spare for Bode, but his unfaltering gaze did not make him feel any more comfortable.

‘Department of Mysteries,’ said the cool female voice, and left it at that.

‘Quick, Harry,’ said Mr. Weasley as the lift doors rattled open, and they sped up a corridor that was quite different from those above. The walls were bare; there were no windows and no doors apart from a plain black one set at the very end of the corridor. Harry expected them to go through it, but instead Mr. Weasley seized him by the arm and dragged him to the left, where there was an opening leading to a flight of steps.

‘Down here, down here,’ panted Mr. Weasley, taking two steps at a time. ‘The lift doesn't even come down this far ... why they're doing it down there...’

They reached the bottom of the steps and ran along yet another corridor, which bore a great resemblance to the one that led to Snape's dungeon at Hogwarts, with rough stone walls and torches in brackets. The doors they passed here were heavy wooden ones with iron bolts and keyholes.

‘Courtroom ... ten ... I think ... we're nearly ... yes.’

Mr. Weasley stumbled to a halt outside a grimy dark door with an immense iron lock and slumped against the wall, clutching at a stitch in his chest.

‘Go on,’ he panted, pointing his thumb at the door. ‘Get in there.’

‘Aren't—aren't you coming with—?’

‘No, no, I'm not allowed. Good luck!’

Harry's heart was beating a violent tattoo against his Adam's apple. He swallowed hard, turned the heavy iron door handle and stepped inside the courtroom.