Clearly, Fudge attached great importance to this publicity event, which let him burnish his own reputation by trampling on his predecessor.
The three children began spinning in Dumbledore's fireplace, tumbling along as though they had been thrown into a washing machine before finally stumbling out. Coughing hard to clear the black smoke they had accidentally inhaled and rubbing soot off their faces, they opened their eyes blearily—and were stunned by the sight before them.
It was a magnificent hall. The floor had been polished like a mirror, bright enough to reflect their figures. Flowers clustered around the high podium, ribbons fluttered extravagantly, and gilded lettering danced above it. The ceiling was very, very high, and enchanted to look like the real sky.
Well, on closer inspection, it was not all that realistic—where in Britain could you find such bright sunshine and mild weather at the end of December?
Which only made their soot-covered selves look even shabbier.
"Whirlwind Sweep!" Eliana flicked her wand, and Harry felt as though an extremely powerful vacuum cleaner had been aimed straight at his head and given him a thorough suctioning.
"Er, thanks," he said, running a hand through his even messier hair.
Ron rubbed his face, which had nearly been sucked out of shape, and muttered, "I reckon the wind Eliana used on Hermione was gentler than ours."
Harry glanced at Hermione, whose hairstyle did not seem to have changed at all, then turned back and declared firmly, "Not at all!"
Ron: ???
Ron's eyes widened in shock, and he leaned closer in disbelief.
He looked at the perfectly tidy Hermione, then at Harry's bird's-nest hair, before finally spotting his own wildly exploded hairstyle reflected in Harry's pupils.
"Has your eyesight got worse again, Harry?" he asked in genuine bewilderment.
Before Harry could answer,