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“Yes, of course,” said Mr. Weasley, who looked nervous. “The, er, sitting room, why don’t you use that?”
“You can lead the way,” Scrimgeour said to Ron. “There will be no need for you to accompany us, Arthur.”
Harry saw Mr. Weasley exchange a worried look with Mrs. Weasley as he, Ron, and Hermione stood up. As they led the way back to the house in silence, Harry knew that the other two were thinking the same as he was; Scrimgeour must, somehow, had learned that the three of them were pla
Scrimgeour did not speak as they all passed through the messed kitchen and into the Burrow’s sitting room. Although the garden had been full of soft golden evening light, it was already dark in here; Harry flicked his wand at the oil lamps as he entered and they illuminated the shabby but cozy room. Scrimgeour sat himself in the sagging armchair that Mr. Weasley normally occupied, leaving Harry, Ron, and Hermione to squeeze side by side onto the sofa. Once they had done so, Scrimgeour spoke.
“I have some questions for the three of you, and I think it will be best if we do it individually. If you two”—he pointed at Harry and Hermione—“can wait upstairs, I will start with Ronald.”
“We’re not going anywhere,” said Harry, while Hermione nodded vigorously. “You can speak to us together, or not at all.”
Scrimgeour gave Harry a cold, appraising look. Harry had the impression that the Minister was wondering whether it was worthwhile opening hostilities this early.
“Very well then, together,” he said, shrugging. He cleared his throat. “I am here, as I’m sure you know, because of Albus Dumbledore’s will.”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another.
“A surprise, apparently! You were not aware then that Dumbledore had left you anything?”
“A—all of us?” said Ron, “Me and Hermione too?”
“Yes, all of—”
But Harry interrupted.
“Dumbledore died over a month ago. Why has it taken this long to give us what he left us?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” said Hermione, before Scrimgeour could answer. “They wanted to examine whatever he’s left us. You had no right to do that!” she said, and her voice trembled slightly.
“I had every right,” said Scrimgeour dismissively. “The Decree for Justifiable Confiscation gives the Ministry the power the confiscate the contents of a will—”
“That law was created to stop wizards passing on Dark artifacts,” said Hermione, “and the Ministry is supposed to have powerful evidence that the deceased’s possessions are illegal before seizing them! Are you telling me that you thought Dumbledore was trying to pass us something cursed?”
“Are you pla
“No, I’m not,” retorted Hermione. “I’m hoping to do some good in the world!”
Ron laughed. Scrimgeour’s eyes flickered toward him and away again as Harry spoke.
“So why have you decided to let us have our things now? Can’t think of a pretext to keep them?”
“No, it’ll be because thirty-one days are up,” said Hermione at once. “They can’t keep the objects longer than that unless they can prove they’re dangerous. Right?”
“Would you say you were close to Dumbledore, Ronald?” asked Scrimgeour, ignoring Hermione.
Ron looked startled.
“Me? Not—not really… It was always Harry who…”
Ron looked around at Harry and Hermione, to see Hermione giving him a stop—talking—now! sort of look, but the damage was done; Scrimgeour looked as though he had heard exactly what he had expected, and wanted, to hear. He swooped like a bird of prey upon Ron’s answer.
“If you were not very close to Dumbledore, how do you account for the fact that he remembered you in his will? He made exceptionally few personal bequests. The vast majority of his possessions—his private library, his magical instruments, and other personal effects—were left to Hogwarts. Why do you think you were singled out?”
“I… du
“You’re being modest, Ron,” said Hermione. “Dumbledore was very fond of you.”
This was stretching the truth to breaking point; as far as Harry knew, Ron and Dumbledore had never been alone together, and direct contact between them had been negligible. However, Scrimgeour did not seem to be listening. He put his hand inside his cloak and drew out a drawstring pouch much larger than the one Hagrid had given Harry. From it, he removed a scroll of parchment which he unrolled and read aloud.
“‘The Last Will and Testament of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore’… Yes, here we are… ‘To Ronald Bilius Weasley, I leave my Deluminator, in the hope that he will remember me when he uses it.’”
Scrimgeour took from the bag an object that Harry had seen before: It looked something like a silver cigarette lighter, but it had, he knew, the power to suck all light from a place, and restore it, with a simple click. Scrimgeour leaned forward and passed the Deluminator to Ron, who took it and turned it over in the fingers looking stu
“That is a valuable object,” said Scrimgeour, watching Ron. “It may even be unique. Certainly it is of Dumbledore’s own design. Why would he have left you an item so rare?”
Ron shook his head, looking bewildered.
“Dumbledore must have taught thousands of students,” Scrimgeour persevered. “Yet the only ones he remembered in his will are you three. Why is that? To what use did he think you would put to the Deluminator, Mr. Weasley?”
“Put out lights, I s’pose,” mumbled Ron. “What else could I do with it?”
Evidently Scrimgeour had no suggestions. After squinting at Ron for a moment or tow, he turned back to Dumbledore’s will.
“‘To Miss Hermione Jean Granger, I leave my copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard, in the hope that she will find it entertaining and instructive.’”
Scrimgeour now pulled out of the bag a small book that looked as ancient as the copy of Secrets of the Darkest Art upstairs. Its binding was stained and peeling in places. Hermione took it from Scrimgeour without a word. She held the book in her lap and gazed at it. Harry saw that the title was in runes; he had never learned to read them. As he looked, a tear splashed onto the embossed symbols.
“Why do you think Dumbledore left you that book, Miss Granger?” asked Scrimgeour.
“He… he knew I liked books,” said Hermione in a thick voice, mopping her eyes with her sleeve.
“But why that particular book?”
“I don’t know. He must have thought I’d enjoy it.”
“Did you ever discuss codes, or any means of passing secret messages, with Dumbledore?”
“No, I didn’t,” said Hermione, still wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “And if the Ministry hasn’t found any hidden codes in this book in thirty-one days, I doubt that I will.”
She suppressed a sob. They were wedged together so tightly that Ron had difficulty extracting his arm to put it around Hermione’s shoulders. Scrimgeour turned back to the will.
“‘To Harry James Potter,’” he read, and Harry’s insides contracted with a sudden excitement, “‘I leave the Snitch he caught in his first Quidditch match at Hogwarts, as a reminder of the rewards of perseverance and skill.’”
As Scrimgeour pulled out the tiny, walnut-sized golden ball, its silver wings fluttered rather feebly, and Harry could not help feeling a definite sense of anticlimax.
“Why did Dumbledore leave you this Snitch?” asked Scrimgeour.
“No idea,” said Harry. “For the reasons you just read out, I suppose… to remind me what you can get if you… persevere and whatever it was.”
“You think this a mere symbolic keepsake, then?”
“I suppose so,” said Harry. “What else could it be?”
“I’m asking the questions,” said Scrimgeour, shifting his chair a little closer to the sofa. Dusk was really falling outside now; the marquee beyond the windows towered ghostly white over the hedge.