The Pacifist Necromancer of Hogwarts

Chapter 372 Inside the Ministry of Magic
A gust of wind blew by, sending several empty bags spinning and making a rough rustling sound as they scraped the ground. Peter shook the spray paint, drew the letters "BSVZ" on the wall, then stepped back, admiring his work with satisfaction. The wall was already covered with graffiti by other artists—some might call it "scribbling" or "vandalism," but it was too secluded for any respectable person to tread this quiet, run-down street, so naturally no one cared about this little bit of mess. Frankly, instead of trying to erase their work—perhaps a few rebellious slogans mixed with some venting profanities, but harmless enough—they should probably use their fingers to do something worthwhile, like hiring someone to clean those shop windows that were probably covered in Victorian grime, or repairing that centuries-old telephone booth next door.

Peter shook the spray paint again, intending to add a touch of 20th-century style to the old, drafty phone booth. But just as he placed his hand on the door, he suddenly felt he'd better go back immediately, or he'd miss his soccer class, not to mention—he glanced behind him—he'd felt a faint, strange unease all day, as if something his brain refused to believe was behind him. So he put the spray paint back in his bag, adjusted his hood, head down, hands in his pockets, and slowly walked away, proud of his aloofness and mystery.

……

“He’s gone,” Hermione whispered.

Harry nodded. "How do we get in?"

“I don’t know.” Ron looked around. “This should be the VIP entrance. I guess it’s that phone booth; Dad mentioned it, but I’ve never actually been here before…”

Harry lowered his head: "Do you know how to get in, Kreacher?"

Even though they were all huddled together, the Invisibility Cloak still couldn't completely cover all four of their feet, so everyone hunched over. Kreacher was curled up next to Harry, clutching his arm, his head bowed, revealing tufts of white hair sticking out from his bald, wrinkled head. Harry could feel Kreacher's dry hands and thin fingers. Looking at Kreacher's small frame and the tattered rag around his waist, he felt a pang of pity for the house-elf for the first time. But that faint pity vanished almost immediately after Kreacher spoke.

“Boy Potter wants to get into the Ministry of Magic. Kreacher has taken him to the magic gate as he was ordered, but he’s insatiable…” Kreacher muttered hoarsely to himself, “Kreacher wants to know what he’s up to…maybe he’s planning something bad in the Ministry of Magic…”

“It couldn’t be worse,” Harry said. “We’re going to steal something. Do you even know how to get in?”

Kreacher looked up, glancing at him furtively, scrutinizing his expression.

“To put it another way, we’re going to our deaths,” Harry said impatiently. “We’re going to the Department of Mysteries to steal something right under Voldemort’s nose. Now, do you have a plan?”

Kreacher's bloodshot eyes widened: "The Dark Lord? Did Kreacher just hear the Dark Lord's name?"

“Yes, if no one else happens to share his name. Voldemort is in the Ministry of Magic,” Harry said. “Take me in, and you’ll have plenty of time to express your admiration to him—what floor did you say it was again?” He turned to Ron.

“First floor,” Ron said blankly.

“A meeting room on the first floor,” Harry said to the house-elf. “Take me to the Department of Mysteries—”

Kreacher interrupted him: "Kreacher cannot enter the Department of Mysteries. No house-elves are permitted to enter the Department of Mysteries."

"Alright, then take him to the Ministry of Magic. Anywhere, as long as it's not in front of Voldemort. Can you do that?"

“Boy Potter wants to die…” Kreacher glared at Harry with a venomous look. “If he dies, Master will be very sad…”

Harry's heart clenched at the thought of Sirius's reaction to hearing all this, along with a growing concern for Sirius's safety. But he quickly dismissed those thoughts.

“That’s right,” he said sternly. “So—”

Before he could finish his sentence, Kreacher's fingers tightened on his arm, and Harry felt dizzy, losing his balance and nearly falling. He heard Hermione's scream and realized that Ron's hand, which had been on his shoulder, had slipped away. He waved his hand, trying to grab Ron—the next second, he found himself standing in a foyer with Kreacher, back against a dark wooden wall, and what he was holding in his hands was not Ron's wizarding robes, but his own Invisibility Cloak.

He was about to unleash his fury on Kreacher when he suddenly realized there were several other wizards in the foyer. Harry hastily pulled on his Invisibility Cloak, held his breath, and after a few seconds noticed that the wizards were all standing with their backs to him, gathered around a golden lattice gate. There were at least twenty such lattice gates in the foyer, and Harry didn't understand what they were for.

Kreacher hunched over, seemingly trying to sneak away. Harry grabbed his withered arm, pulled him under the Invisibility Cloak, and said firmly in a low voice, "You're not going anywhere. Where is this place?"

"Kreacher obeyed the boy Potter's orders, bringing him into the Ministry of Magic's halls and even leading him past the inspection table, and now he's yelling at Kreacher again... Poor Kreacher has no choice, because his spendthrift master orders him to obey his godson's orders... The mistress would never allow Kreacher to serve anyone outside the Black family... The boy Potter, like his master, is an ungrateful fellow..."

"Alright, alright." Harry couldn't take it anymore. He saw two wizards carrying huge cardboard boxes toward them, making a rattling sound and emitting ominous green smoke. "This is the Great Hall, right?"

“Yes,” Kreacher replied. He started muttering some curses again, but they were drowned out by a whooshing sound. The golden gate opened, revealing an elevator, and the wizards who had been standing outside the gate went inside.

The wizard carrying the box stopped in front of Harry.

"Let's take a break," one of the wizards said, slightly out of breath.

"Is this one fixed?" another asked. "Nobody rides this one."

"Who knows, but at least the 'under repair' sign is finally down. Let's give it a try; I don't want to walk another step."

"Hmm, the sign was taken down two weeks ago, but I heard that last week it snagged Fudge's belt in front of the Bulgarian Minister of Magic and almost got caught in his stomach... The Bulgarian guy seemed to find it quite amusing, but Fudge gave the Magical Maintenance Department a good dressing down."

The two of them chuckled.

“Reggie worked two extra days after that, so he probably fixed it again. It should be done now,” the first person said.

"Reggie? Oh, right, did you hear? He's getting married..."

A large plume of green smoke billowed from the box, and its contents rattled against the sides, nearly pushing the lid open. Startled, they quickly held the box down and stopped joking.

Harry glanced at the nearest gate, and a thought struck him. He took a deep breath, somewhat relieved that Kreacher hadn't brought Ron and Hermione in…at least they wouldn't be in danger because of him, let alone possibly face Voldemort. But somehow, he still felt a little lonely. Ron and Hermione must be anxiously searching for a way out outside, he thought. This thought dispelled his hesitation, and courage returned to his chest.

“Go back now, Kreacher,” Harry said quickly in a low voice.

Kreacher's mutterings stopped: "Go back?"

“House-elves aren’t allowed in the Department of Mysteries, are they? Besides, I wasn’t planning on having you come along on an adventure. Hermione’s wrath would drive me crazy.” Harry tried to joke, but Kreacher didn’t react. “Well, if you see Ron and Hermione… or Sirius… no, never mind. Thanks for your help, Kreacher.”

Kreacher remained silent, his bloodshot eyes fixed on Harry, sending a chill down his spine. Just then, with a clanging metallic sound, the elevator beside them descended, and the doors opened.

"Let's go," Harry said hastily, watching the two wizards try to lift the box into the elevator, and secretly stuck his leg out to block the gate.

“Harry Potter,” Kreacher said hoarsely, “the Department of Mysteries is on the ninth floor.”

After saying this, he Apparated and disappeared without waiting for Harry's reply. The wizard carrying the box looked up suspiciously, then focused on dealing with the violently shaking box again. Harry thought Hagrid would definitely be interested in what was inside, but he was currently preoccupied with pressing down on the creaking gate and had no interest in peeking out to investigate what it was.

"Is the door still broken?" the wizard asked, pressing on the box lid. "Bob, could you take a look?"

“Okay.” The wizard named Bob stepped out of the elevator, stood next to Harry, and shook the gate. Harry gritted his teeth and braced himself against the door.

“It’s broken,” Bob said dejectedly. “Get it out.”

"That guy Reggie Cattermole! I knew he couldn't fix anything..."

While they were carrying the trunk out again, Harry ducked and slipped inside. The gate slammed shut in frustration, shutting out the two wizards' bewildered expressions. There were nine buttons in front of Harry; without thinking, he quickly pressed the ninth one from the bottom. The elevator began to wobble and rise. Harry didn't know if the wobbling was normal, but he could only pray that Reggie Cattermole had actually fixed it.

Perhaps because no one believed it was truly fixed, no one pressed the button to stop the elevator, nor did anyone care that it was rising empty. After an unknown amount of time, a cold female voice suddenly rang out, startling Harry: "First floor, the Minister of Magic's office and logistics department."

The door opened. Harry stared outside and saw a deep, dark corridor covered with thick carpets, just as he had seen in his daze. He felt his scars throb again.

As if by some strange twist of fate, he, cloaked in invisibility, slowly stepped out of the elevator. The door closed behind him.

The corridor was silent. Harry walked forward, passing one tightly closed door after another… Each wooden door gleamed golden in the lamplight… His footsteps barely made any noise on the crimson carpet, which should have pleased him, but the silence only made his heart pound with unease… What if a Ministry of Magic officer suddenly caught him? They probably wouldn't believe him, and he didn't want to actually lead them to Voldemort's door… He hoped Professor McGonagall or Dumbledore would send someone quickly…

Thinking of this, he suddenly came to his senses. He didn't know what was wrong with him. How could he have been wandering around the first floor for so long when he was supposed to be rushing to the Department of Mysteries?
Just then, he suddenly heard low voices in the corridor.

“Over here… Bella and… yes, Azkaban… don’t worry, everything is arranged…”

The sound grew closer. Harry could vaguely see several people walking side by side. He could risk crouching down to pass by their legs, but then he noticed the door beside him was slightly ajar, so he gently pulled it open, slipped inside, and pressed his ear against the wooden door.

“But he…that sir…Master…why is he at the Ministry of Magic?” a voice said, sounding somewhat fearful and uneasy.

"The Dark Lord's powers are beyond our comprehension," another older voice said coldly.

The young voice said, "Of course, of course...it's just...I feel awe..."

“Alright.” The older man seemed slightly more satisfied. “Bella knows I’m trustworthy, so she confided a bit more to me… Hmph, I think she just wanted to show off. In short, the Master used a high-ranking official in the Ministry of Magic to issue a secret interrogation order, bringing Bella and the others out of Azkaban, and left instructions for them to pass on messages to us. Booking the meeting room was just one of the insignificant little things we did for the Master…”

They walked away again. Harry's heart pounded as he slowly opened the door, preparing to leave in the opposite direction.

“No…” a trembling voice came from behind him. Harry froze, turned around, and saw the room clearly for the first time.

Bows, lace, dried flowers, small cushions with dangling tassels, ceramic decorative plates hanging on the wall, brightly colored cats on the plates… pink, pink, pink room. How could he not realize who this office belonged to after he walked in?
Umbridge, dressed in her pink suit, sat in a chair, staring intently at the doorway as if she could already see Harry.

“No…” she repeated.

Harry recovered from his shock and quietly took a few steps forward, away from the doorway. But Umbridge remained staring blankly at the door, her toad-like eyes empty and lifeless.

“No, that’s not me…” Umbridge said, trembling, her face ashen.

Harry took a few steps closer (while his reason clicked in disapproval in his head) and saw Umbridge scribbling furiously on her brightly colored tablecloth, oblivious to the sharp pen snagging on the fabric. Bright red ink kept gushing from the pen, staining the tablecloth a mess.

He then noticed that her right hand was covered in blood, with a line of words deeply etched into it: You're lying, I'm not! With her movements, the words kept breaking apart, cutting open her hand again and again, as if she were holding not a long, black quill pen, but a sharp scalpel.

Harry was about to grab her hand when he remembered the Investigative Task Force's unbridled use of deduction powers... The fifth and seventh years had just had their second final exams, and the older students were saying it was because Umbridge had tormented the Muggle-born students... Colin was secretly crying in the common room...

He withdrew his hand, donned the invisibility cloak, and left silently.

(End of this chapter)