The Hearing

           Harrygasped;hecouldnothelphimself.Thelargedungeonhehadenteredwashorriblyfamiliar.Hehadnotonlyseenitbefore,hehadbeenherebefore.ThiswastheplacehehadvisitedinsideDumbledore’sPensieve,theplacewherehehadwatchedtheLestrangessentencedtolifeimprisonmentinAzkaban.

           Thewallsweremadeofdarkstone,dimlylitbytorches.Emptybenchesroseoneithersideofhim,butahead,inthehighestbenchesofall,weremanyshadowyfigures.Theyhadbeentalkinginlowvoices,butastheheavydoorswungclosedbehindHarryanominoussilencefell.

           Acoldmalevoicerangacrossthecourtroom.

           ’You’relate.

           ’Sorry,’saidHarrynervously.’IIdidn’tknowthetimehadbeenchanged.

           ’ThatisnottheWizengamot’sfault,’saidthevoice.’Anowlwassenttoyouthismorning.Takeyourseat.

           Harrydroppedhisgazetothechairinthecentreoftheroom,thearmsofwhichwerecoveredinchains.Hehadseenthosechainsspringtolifeandbindwhoeversatbetweenthem.Hisfootstepsechoedloudlyashewalkedacrossthestonefloor.Whenhesatgingerlyontheedgeofthechairthechainsclinkedthreateningly,butdidnotbindhim.Feelingrathersick,helookedupatthepeopleseatedatthebenchabove.

           Therewereaboutfiftyofthem,all,asfarashecouldsee,wearingplum-colouredrobeswithanelaboratelyworkedsilver’W’ontheleft-handsideofthechestandallstaringdowntheirnosesathim,somewithveryaustereexpressions,otherslooksoffrankcuriosity.

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