The man called Dawlish was stirring. Dumbledore seized Harry’s wrist.

“Remember—close your mind—”

But as Dumbledore’s fingers closed over Harry’s skin, a pain shot through the scar on his forehead and he felt again that terrible, snakelike longing to strike Dumbledore, to bite him, to hurt him—

“—you will understand,” whispered Dumbledore.

Fawkes circled the office and swooped low over him. Dumbledore released Harry, raised his hand and grasped the phoenix’s long golden tail. There was a flash of fire and the pair of them were gone.

“Where is he?” yelled Fudge, pushing himself up from the floor. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know!” shouted Kingsley, also leaping to his feet.

“Well, he can’t have Disapparated!” cried Umbridge. “You can’t do it from inside this school—”

“The stairs!” cried Dawlish, and he flung himself upon the door, wrenched it open and disappeared, followed closely by Kingsley and Umbridge. Fudge hesitated, then got slowly to his feet, brushing dust from his front. There was a long and painful silence.

“Well, Minerva,” said Fudge nastily, straightening his torn shirtsleeve, “I’m afraid this is the end of your friend Dumbledore.”

“You think so, do you?” said Professor McGonagall scornfully.

Fudge seemed not to hear her. He was looking around at the wrecked office. A few of the portraits hissed at him; one or two even made rude hand gestures.

“You’d better get those two off to bed,” said Fudge, looking back at Professor McGonagall with a dismissive nod towards Harry and Marietta.

Professor McGonagall said nothing, but marched Harry and Marietta to the door. As it swung closed behind them, Harry heard Phineas Nigellus’s voice.

“You know, Minister, I disagree with Dumbledore on many counts… but you cannot deny he’s got style…”

SNAPE’S WORST MEMORY

...

BY ORDER OF THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC

Dolores Jane Umbridge (High Inquisitor) has replaced Albus Dumbledore as Head of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-eight.

Signed: Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister for Magic

The notices had gone up all around the school overnight, but they did not explain how every single person within the castle seemed to know that Dumbledore had overcome two Aurors, the High Inquisitor, the Minister for Magic and his Junior Assistant to escape. No matter where Harry went within the castle, the sole topic of conversation was Dumbledore’s flight, and though some of the details may have gone awry in the retelling (Harry overheard one second-year girl assuring another that Fudge was now lying in St. Mungo’s with a pumpkin for a head) it was surprising how accurate the rest of their information was. Everybody knew, for instance, that Harry and Marietta were the only students to have witnessed the scene in Dumbledore’s office and, as Marietta was now in the hospital wing, Harry found himself besieged with requests to give a first-hand account.

“Dumbledore will be back before long,” said Ernie Macmillan confidently on the way back from Herbology, after listening intently to Harry’s story. “They couldn’t keep him away in our second year and they won’t be able to this time. The Fat Friar told me—” he dropped his voice conspiratorially, so that Harry, Ron and Hermione had to lean closer to him to hear “—that Umbridge tried to get back into his office last night after they’d searched the castle and grounds for him. Couldn’t get past the gargoyle. The Head’s office has sealed itself against her.” Ernie smirked. “Apparently, she had a right little tantrum.”

“Oh, I expect she really fancied herself sitting up there in the Head’s office,” said Hermione viciously, as they walked up the stone steps into the Entrance Hall. “Lording it over all the other teachers, the stupid puffed-up, power-crazy old—”

“Now, do you really want to finish that sentence, Granger?”

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The man called Dawlish blinked rather foolishly. He looked towards Fudge again, but this time seemed to be hoping for a clue as to what to do next.	\|	Draco Malfoy had slid out from behind the door, closely followed by Crabbe and Goyle. His pale, pointed face was alight with malice.

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