Harry Potter 05 - Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

walked back to Harry carrying it. ‘You haven’t got authorisation for that Portkey! You can’t do things like that right in front of the Minister for Magic, you – you –’
    His voice faltered as Dumbledore surveyed him magisterially over his half-moon spectacles.
    ‘You will give the order to remove Dolores Umbridge from Hogwarts,’ said Dumbledore. ‘You will tell your Aurors to stop searching for my Care of Magical Creatures teacher so that he can return to work. I will give you …’ Dumbledore pulled a watch with twelve hands from his pocket and glanced at it ‘… half an hour of my time tonight, in which I think we shall be more than able to cover the important points of what has happened here. After that, I shall need to return to my school. If you need more help from me you are, of course, more than welcome to contact me at Hogwarts. Letters addressed to the Headmaster will find me.’
    Fudge goggled worse than ever; his mouth was open and his round face grew pinker under his rumpled grey hair.
    ‘I – you –’
    Dumbledore turned his back on him.
    ‘Take this Portkey, Harry.’
    He held out the golden head of the statue and Harry placed his hand on it, past caring what he did next or where he went.
    ‘I shall see you in half an hour,’ said Dumbledore quietly. ‘One … two … three …’
    Harry felt the familiar sensation of a hook being jerked behind his navel. The polished wooden floor was gone from beneath his feet; the Atrium, Fudge and Dumbledore had all disappeared and he was flying forwards in a whirlwind of colour and sound …

 
     
— CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN —
     
The Lost Prophecy
    Harry’s feet hit solid ground; his knees buckled a little and the golden wizard’s head fell with a resounding clunk to the floor. He looked around and saw that he had arrived in Dumbledore’s office.
    Everything seemed to have repaired itself during the Headmaster’s absence. The delicate silver instruments stood once more on the spindle-legged tables, puffing and whirring serenely. The portraits of the headmasters and headmistresses were snoozing in their frames, heads lolling back in armchairs or against the edge of the picture. Harry looked through the window. There was a cool line of pale green along the horizon: dawn was approaching.
    The silence and the stillness, broken only by the occasional grunt or snuffle of a sleeping portrait, was unbearable to him. If his surroundings could have reflected the feelings inside him, the pictures would have been screaming in pain. He walked around the quiet, beautiful office, breathing quickly, trying not to think. But he had to think … there was no escape …
    It was his fault Sirius had died; it was all his fault. If he, Harry, had not been stupid enough to fall for Voldemort’s trick, if he had not been so convinced that what he had seen in his dream was real, if he had only opened his mind to the possibility that Voldemort was, as Hermione had said, banking on Harry’s love of playing the hero …
    It was unbearable, he would not think about it, he could not stand it … there was a terrible hollow inside him he did not want to feel or examine, a dark hole where Sirius had been, where Sirius had vanished; he did not want to have to be alone with that great, silent space, he could not stand it –
    A picture behind him gave a particularly loud grunting snore, and a cool voice said, ‘Ah … Harry Potter …’
    Phineas Nigellus gave a long yawn, stretching his arms as he watched Harry with shrewd, narrow eyes.
    ‘And what brings you here in the early hours of the morning?’ said Phineas eventually. ‘This office is supposed to be barred to all but the rightful Headmaster. Or has Dumbledore sent you here? Oh, don’t tell me …’ He gave another shuddering yawn. ‘Another message for my worthless great-great-grandson?’
    Harry could not speak. Phineas Nigellus did not know that Sirius was dead, but Harry could not tell him. To say it aloud would be to make it final, absolute, irretrievable.
    A few more of the portraits had stirred now. Terror of being interrogated made Harry stride across the room and seize the doorknob.
    It would not turn. He was shut in.
    ‘I hope this means,’ said the corpulent, red-nosed wizard who hung on the wall behind the Headmaster’s desk, ‘that Dumbledore will soon be back among us?’
    Harry turned. The wizard was eyeing him with great interest. Harry nodded. He tugged again on the doorknob behind