Don't I just get all the fun, Minerva thought, walking through the tall iron gates into the Ministry of Magic's broad stone courtyard as the sky was just beginning to take on its pre-dawn glow. But Alastor would be hopeless here - far too many in the Ministry wouldn't believe the moon had risen if the news came from Moody's mouth. And I'm glad not to be at the Burrow, just now, even if Fudge isn't likely to be in for hours. He'll be plenty upset with what I have to say even if I don't roust him out of bed. If I start with Mafalda, she may be able to get me into Fudge's office without my having to go through his lackys. And she's always good for tea and sympathy.

Minerva walked into the Ministry's Entrance Hall, which was a large room grand in its design but become rather shabby as a result of day to day hard use. Wrapping around three walls, the Ministry's massive Directory blinked and flickered softly. The fourth wall held a large fireplace, an Owl Post station, and a reception desk, behind which sat a dusty wizard whose nose was buried in a copy of Quidditch Today. He deigned to raise his eyes at McGonagall's entrance, but seeing her stride purposefully past him, he quickly returned to his catatonic obsession with the Wimbourne Wasps' Quaffle possession statistics for 1991-1994.

The Directory was an impressive magical object for all that its purpose was to keep the Ministry's bureaucracy from collapsing under its own weight. Every department, every official, every underling, every desk at the Ministry was represented in the Directory, which took messages, relayed the whereabouts of Ministry personnel to those with the authority to find them, directed emergency communications to the responsible parties, and ordered in meals. It was a side project of the Improper Use of Magic office to keep various Ministry personnel from bewitching the Directory. People were always trying to mark themselves in when they were out, or out when they were in, or off doing important research when they were in fact sunning themselves in Majorca. Only last week, the Department of Magical Games and Sports successfully diverted the Minister of Magic's own catering order and Fudge's office hadn't caught them at it until the red currant rum (kept for official functions only, of course, they hastened to explain) had run out.

"Hopkirk," said Minerva, standing before the Directory. She watched as the giant grid slowly shifted itself and panels slid silently in every direction until one labeled Hopkirk settled in front of her. Mafalda's panel indicated that she was currently assigned to three different committees which shared surveillance duties over Hogwarts students during the hols, not due in until half ten, and presently at home. Only the last piece of information interested Minerva, who crossed over to the fire, removed a silver box from her pocket, and tossed a pinch of powder into the flames. She'll be up, Mafalda will, thought Minerva. She only took up tournament chess via owl post because she's got dreadful insomnia.

"Mafalda?" Minerva called quietly into the fire, glancing to be sure that the desk wizard was paying her no mind. "Minerva calling. May I come round, dear? It's rather important."

"Good evening, Minerva," said a voice through the flames. "Or good morning, I should say. Come along, I'll put on some more tea."

Minerva reached for a drawstring bag from another pocket, threw a pinch of green powder into the fire, and walked into the flames. "29 Mecklenburg Square," she said, and disappeared.

Mafalda Hopkirk's Bloomsbury flat was a comfortable jumble of books and needlework cushions, with piles of parchment files sliding out from beneath every table. "What brings you out so early, dear?" Mafalda asked, as she came out of the flat's kitchen bearing a tea tray. "Certainly not chess?"

"I'm afraid there's trouble, Mafalda," Minerva began. "It impacts your department directly, but more to the point, I need to see Fudge without running the normal gauntlet. He's not going to be pleased with what I have to say, and I wouldn't be too surprised if his staff isn't under orders not to admit me at all."

"That sounds dark. Please, go on," said Mafalda, pouring the tea.

"Arthur Weasley has been attacked. He's not hurt, but he's lucky we at Hogwarts got wind of it and raced to the Burrow in time to capture his assailants."

"Molly, and the children? Are they all right?" Mafalda asked, stunned.

"Yes, they're fine - they weren't even there," Minerva reassured her.

"Who on earth--"

"It was Paul Goyle and Ronald Crabbe, not to put too fine a point on it. They're at the Burrow still, with Dumbledore," Minerva explained. "And with Alastor Moody."

Mafalda winced. "Charming. And you got to come and tell us about it. Well, that's probably for the best. Not talking, are they?"

"Not when I left, but the night was young," said Minerva. "Poor Arthur, he was so upset. Those bunglers shot the Cruciatus curse all around his shed while Arthur clung to the rafters, swathed in his Invisibility Cloak. I don't know what's worse, thinking that they attacked when they knew he'd be alone, or that it was merely lucky the house was empty."

"How terrible for Arthur," Mafalda mused. "And it's not like he hasn't been under Imperius before, which just makes it worse, as I assume they weren't aiming to kill him."

"Much worse," Minerva agreed.

"Well, you obviously think this is connected with You-Know-Who, or you wouldn't be so concerned about Fudge. Am I right?"

"Yes, Mafalda. How much do you already know?"

"I know that the Potter boy says he saw Voldemort return the night of the third TriWizard task, and that Dumbledore and Fudge do not agree about what actually happened that evening or about what it could mean for all of us." She sighed heavily. "I have the choice of believing you and Albus and Arthur, on the one hand, and of trusting in my own superior on the other. It's not a hard choice, although I might prefer Fudge's interpretation if I thought it was based on anything other than his windy self-importance."

Minerva relaxed. She knew that Mafalda was safe as houses, really, but it was a relief to hear her say it.

"This is obviously a matter for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement if Crabbe and Goyle even tried to use the Cruciatus curse on anyone, much less a ministry official. Did they do anything else that might come under my portfolio?" Mafalda asked.

"They trapped him in his shed with a Holding Charm, first thing. Would that do?"

"For a start, but we'll hope it doesn't come down to me. That would be a very bad sign, indeed." Mafalda sighed and sipped her tea. "The trick is going to be to get you to Fudge without his realizing you've talked to me first. Arthur has explained to those of us who can be counted on that Fudge is not to have any idea he's being undermined."

"I really don't know how long we'll be able to make that hold, but for the moment, yes, that is the best thing," said Minerva. "Any ideas?"

Mafalda stared into her teacup for a moment and reached for the pot before replying to Minerva's question. "Well, you can't just apparate, of course, and as you've already been to the Directory, you should steer clear of the Entrance Hall altogether." She thought for a moment. "I've got it. Magical Law Enforcement has a few Portkeys scattered around town that go straight into their inner conference chamber. Bolt holes, you see, for their people in trouble. And there's a passageway that leads from that room to Fudge's office so that he can meet with them on short notice, or without anyone seeing he's personally involved. It's the third panel to the left of the main door. There used to be a Portkey secreted in one of the phone boxes at Russell Square - it's a working girl's card, actually, but a rather unlikely one."

"A what?" Minerva asked, staring at her friend and setting down her tea.

"Millicent the Magnificent, if I recall correctly, complete with a picture of a girl in her knickers pulling a rabbit out of a hat. Pinned to the box's ceiling, if it's still there. Finish your tea, dear, and we'll go have a look."

Well, thought Minerva. I've done more unlikely things in my time. Millicent the Magnificent. I wonder who thought that up?

Mafalda Hopkirk plucked her cloak from the tree by the door and led her friend out into Mecklenburg Square just as the sun rose.