CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Not Azkaban?” croaked Hagrid.
Before Fudge could answer, there was another loud rap on the
door.
Dumbledore answered it. It was Harry’s turn for an elbow in the
ribs; he’d let out an audible gasp.
Mr. Lucius Malfoy strode into Hagrid’s hut, swathed in a long
black traveling cloak, smiling a cold and satisfied smile. Fang
started to growl.
“Already here, Fudge,” he said approvingly. “Good, good . . .”
“What’re you doin’ here?” said Hagrid furiously. “Get outta my
house!”
“My dear man, please believe me, I have no pleasure at all in be-
ing inside your — er — d’you call this a house?” said Lucius Mal-
foy, sneering as he looked around the small cabin. “I simply called
at the school and was told that the headmaster was here.”
“And what exactly did you want with me, Lucius?” said Dum-
bledore. He spoke politely, but the fire was still blazing in his blue
eyes.
“Dreadful thing, Dumbledore,” said Malfoy lazily, taking out a
long roll of parchment, “but the governors feel it’s time for you to
step aside. This is an Order of Suspension — you’ll find all twelve
signatures on it. I’m afraid we feel you’re losing your touch. How
many attacks have there been now? Two more this afternoon,
wasn’t it? At this rate, there’ll be no Muggle-borns left at Hogwarts,
and we all know what an awful loss that would be to the school.”
“Oh, now, see here, Lucius,” said Fudge, looking alarmed,
“Dumbledore suspended — no, no — last thing we want just
now —”
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