Owen Harris, standing at the very center of his living room, adjusted his perfectly trimmed beard—a testament to his recent, almost frantic pursuit of a heroic appearance—and surveyed his family.
They were all present and accounted for, immaculately dressed in their newly tailored emerald green robes, trimmed with celebratory gold braid. With a theatrical flourish befitting the moment, he reached into the cuff of his sleeve and produced a small, intricately carved silver pendant. It was shaped like a stylized peacock, its fan of tail feathers shimmering with tiny inlaid moonstones.
"Dad, what is that shiny thing? It looks like jewelry!" Emily asked, her small hand reaching out inquisitively. She was wearing a miniature version of the luxurious robes, looking like an absurdly serious, tiny scholar ready for a ball.
"This, my little sweetheart, is our transport for the day," Owen replied, his voice brimming with expansive paternal affection. "The key to the whole operation, if you will."
"A key to what door, though?" Emily persisted, clearly entering the relentless, charmingly frustrating questioning phase of childhood development.
"It's not a door key, sweetie, it's a Portkey," Owen explained patiently, beaming at her curiosity. "You used one last year, remember? It's a powerful magical object, simply enchanted to whisk a person—or in our case, seven people—quickly and, mostly safely, from one location to a pre-determined destination deep beneath London." He smiled proudly. "Today, we travel in glorious style, bypassing the soot and the crowds."
"Honestly, it's certainly a much cleaner option than using Floo Powder, even if it is slightly more jarring," Albert muttered, dusting a non-existent speck from his already pristine shoulder. He and Lenn had initially planned to simply Apparate to a nearby Muggle square and meet their parents there.
But Owen had been utterly insistent: since the Order of Merlin was an honor bestowed upon the entire Harris family, the entire family should arrive at the Ministry together, in a single, perfectly coordinated flash of family unity and pride.
"Now, everyone, gently touch one of the peacock feathers protruding from the pendant," Mr. Harris instructed, demonstrating by gingerly plucking one of the delicate, silver-inlaid feathers himself. Emily, still captivated by the moonstones, immediately followed her father's lead.
Allen observed the Portkey with a clinical eye. The peacock design was beautiful, bordering on the ridiculously ostentatious—a clear indication that Owen, despite his serious job, preferred personal flair over low-profile utility.
Portkeys were usually quite ordinary, often mundane objects like old boots or rusty kettles, which was precisely what made them so effective at bypassing both Muggle and magical airport security. Allen recognized the crucial security loophole instantly.
The greatest act of sabotage the Ministry ever suffered, the replacement of the Triwizard Cup with an illegal Portkey, hinged entirely on the fact that Portkeys could be set up virtually anywhere, using anything.
The Ministry's security around where the Portkey ended was excellent, but controlling what became a Portkey was a messy, administrative nightmare—and clearly, his father was taking advantage of a loophole allowing Ministry personnel to use personalized, elaborate ones for official travel.
Judging by the sheer number of shimmering feathers attached to the peacock's fan, this Portkey was specifically designed for mass transit. Morgan LeFay, the matriarch, and Daisy joined the circle, each carefully taking hold of a separate, fragile feather. Daisy, ever the elegant witch, gingerly held hers between two fingertips, as if afraid the official robes would instantly acquire catastrophic wrinkles from the contact.
The moment everyone's fingers brushed the Portkey simultaneously, Allen felt a sudden, profound, and utterly sickening shift in his center of gravity—an irresistible, sharp tug from behind his navel, like an invisible, powerful hook had snagged him and was yanking him forward through solid space.
The Portkey is an instant, violent violation of all non-magical physics, Allen thought, his internal voice surprisingly clear and analytical amidst the swirling chaos. He was yanked off the ground, propelled forward with the dizzying, nauseating speed of a meteor crashing through the atmosphere.
He couldn't distinguish anything clearly; the world dissolved into violent, streaky colors of green, grey, and blinding white light.
The only constants were the crushing magnetic force of the Portkey, which seemed to have fused the peacock feather to his fingertips, and the muffled, communal sound of his siblings groaning in discomfort. The process was utterly violent, impersonal, and undeniably efficient.
Just as quickly as it began, the sensation ceased with a jarring, mechanical thud that momentarily rattled Allen's teeth. He found himself deposited unceremoniously, alongside his slightly green-faced family, onto a grimy, rain-slicked pavement.
They had arrived on what appeared to be a severely neglected Muggle street in the heart of the city. One high wall was covered in a confusing patchwork of faded, crooked graffiti and peeling municipal paint. Several dilapidated, grey brick buildings stood in one corner, looking fragile and pathetic, desperately in need of both structural support and magical maintenance.
A dusty pub sign hung crookedly over a doorway, its windows opaque with grime, utterly deserted and silently broadcasting an air of profound decay and abandonment. This low-key squalor was the necessary, unremarkable camouflage for the gateway to the glorious Ministry of Magic.
Owen, however, was beaming, looking entirely unfazed by the sudden arrival. He pointed toward a specific object standing near the wall: an antique, bright-red phone booth. It looked particularly forlorn; its glass windows were chipped or missing entirely, and the walls were covered in crude, spray-painted messages that barely adhered to the damp metal.
"Here we are. The front door," Owen announced briskly. "Everyone inside, please."
Allen hesitated, genuinely puzzled. The phone booth looked impossibly cramped, barely designed to hold one person comfortably, let alone seven full-sized witches and wizards in ceremonial robes. He watched as Albert and Lenn—two fully grown Auror-build men—followed their father without a blink.
Morgan LeFay, meanwhile, scooped up the slightly whimpering Emily and smoothly squeezed herself into the confined space. Daisy frowned deeply, carefully lifting the heavy hem of her brand-new, expensive velvet robes, and somehow managed to delicately thread herself inside without allowing any fabric to brush the grimy walls.
Allen was the last to step in. The moment he crossed the threshold, he realized the cramped appearance was merely the exterior camouflage. While everyone was certainly close, the booth was magically expanded just enough to accommodate his family of seven comfortably, though definitely snugly. It was a marvelous feat of subtle, spatial magic.
Allen leaned back against the interior wall, immediately trapped by the old, black telephone, which hung crookedly as if some previous, highly agitated user had tried to rip it clean off its moorings.
Mr. Harris reached past Allen, his hand easily finding the bulky receiver. He seemed to dial with an air of practiced, almost ritualistic routine.
"Let's see… six…" he muttered, his finger plunging into the rotary dial. "Two… four… another four… and finally, a two…" The numbers were the long-recognized code for the Ministry: 62442, the magic word "MAGIC" spelled out on a Muggle keypad. He paused, waiting for the tell-tale sound.
As the phone dial smoothly and silently returned to its original position, a cold, perfectly modulated female voice emanated, not from the receiver in Mr. Harris's hand, but directly from the phone booth apparatus itself. The voice was unnervingly loud and clear, echoing with sterile efficiency as if an invisible, highly efficient administrator were standing right beside them, demanding data entry.
"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and the purpose of your visit."
Mr. Harris, demonstrating the typical magical confusion with Muggle technology, spoke directly into the handset as if it were a two-way radio or a walkie-talkie. "The Owen Harris family! Seven people in total! We've been invited to the Ministry of Magic to attend the official awarding of the Order of Merlin, Third Class!"
"Thank you," the cold, female voice replied without emotion. "Guests are required to display their purpose. Please retrieve your designated badges and fasten them prominently to the front of your robes."
Click. A faint, internal mechanical sound, and then something metallic slid out of a small, rectangular metal slot, the kind usually used for returned coins in old vending machines.
Allen picked up the object—a square silver badge, finely etched with the inscription: "ORDER OF MERLIN, THIRD CLASS – Awarded to the seven members of the Owen Harris family." He pinned the badge conspicuously to the front of his new robes just as the woman's voice returned.
"All invited visitors to the Ministry of Magic must pass through a basic security check and formally register their wands at the Security Office, which is located at the far end of the Central Atrium."
Suddenly, the entire floor of the phone booth shuddered violently. Then, with a slow, grinding, and utterly monotonous sccchhh sound that echoed horribly in the small, enclosed space, they began to sink.
Allen couldn't see anything outside the grimy windows; he could only hear the mechanical groan the phone booth made as it descended deeper and deeper into the earth. The journey was long and unsettling, a rumbling dive into the administrative heart of British wizardry.
Their downward motion finally stopped, and Allen had to squint instantly as a blinding, golden light immediately flooded the booth, chasing away the darkness.
"The Ministry of Magic wishes you all a productive and pleasant day," the woman's voice concluded, its tone unchangingly sterile.
The heavy door of the phone booth swung open, and Mr. Harris stepped out, his face utterly alight with pride and excitement, followed closely by the rest of his family.
Allen stepped out last, and the spectacle that lay before him was truly magnificent, overwhelming, and immediately humbling. He was standing in the Atrium—the massive, cavernous Central Hall of the Ministry of Magic—a space designed to impress, intimidate, and dominate.
It was a gigantic, awe-inspiring hall, magnificently decorated and filled with an almost tangible aura of divine, governmental power. The walls were lined with highly polished, dark wood paneling that soared hundreds of feet upward to a ceiling of deep sapphire blue, studded with glittering golden astrological symbols that constantly shifted and twinkled.
He immediately noticed the numerous gilded, imposing fireplaces lining the walls on either side of the vast, open space. Every few seconds, with a soft whoosh and a faint haze of shimmering green smoke, a witch or wizard would emerge instantly from one of the fireplaces on the left, dusting residual soot from their immaculate cloaks.
On the right, small, impatient queues had already formed in front of each Floo grate, waiting their turn to vanish in a flash of green fire. The constant, rhythmic flow of people in and out provided a mesmerizing, chaotic spectacle of magical transportation in action.
At the very center of the hall, dominating the massive space, was the colossal Fountain of Magical Brethren. It was a towering, ornate sculpture of five figures—a powerful wizard, a graceful witch, a sturdy centaur, a mischievous-looking goblin, and a timid, tiny house-elf—all cast in blindingly reflective gold.
Jets of crystal-clear water shot high into the air from the wizards' wands and even the elf's pointed ear, raining down into a huge, beautifully carved marble basin. The sheer noise of the running water, combined with the constant crackle-whoosh of the Floo Network and the echoing footsteps of thousands of busy, purposeful wizards, created a powerful, humming, overwhelming cacophony.
"Usually, if we were coming to work, we'd have to use the Floo Network like everyone else, and arrive covered in soot," Albert explained, subtly catching Allen's eye and noticing his absorbed expression. "Today, because we're receiving an Order of Merlin, we get the VIP treatment—the visitor's phone booth entrance. Much more dignified."
"It feels terrifically strange, pretending not to be from the department and walking in through a passage you never use!" Owen replied cheerfully, his voice carrying easily over the hall's immense noise. He was already greeting everyone he recognized with a radiant, almost theatrical smile and a slight, heroic inclination of his head.
He couldn't resist stopping every few steps to repeat his triumphant mission statement. "Yes, we're here for the Third Class Order of Merlin awards ceremony," he announced warmly to passing colleagues, acquaintances, and even complete strangers.
His chest swelled with pride, the silver badge gleaming conspicuously on his new robes. "It was for that record-breaking Sea Serpent incident in Cornwall, you know! Took the whole family to handle it!"
It seemed the wizards at the Ministry truly valued the honor of the Order of Merlin, recognizing it as a defining career achievement.