His fingers looked larger and thicker than usual in the light of the lantern, his knuckles jutting out, black grime embedded beneath his nails—not dirt, not ash, but the kind of filth that came from being locked up too long, with no water to wash and no heart to care. His breathing was heavy, every exhale carrying a low sound like a leaking bellows.
Fudge stood at the door, wearing his usual smile, the corners of his mouth turned up and his eyes narrowed, like an official making an inspection to ensure that a prisoner was still alive—that he had neither escaped nor died in his cell.
Hermione's Extendable Ear was still in Harry's pocket. It had faithfully recorded every word Fudge had said outside Hagrid's cell—"Potter, you've always been close to the Weasley Family's children, haven't you? Mr. Weasley is a good man, an old employee. The Ministry has always valued him. It's just that his current post is full, and his abilities haven't quite found room to shine... After all, he isn't as skilled at socializing as some others."
"Of course," Fudge's voice dropped even lower, so low it was almost as though he were speaking to himself, "a position may be opening up at the Ministry soon. A key post, one very suitable for a practical worker like Mr. Weasley. All it would take is for the right person to offer a few appropriate words of praise in the right setting—for example, before reporters, at a Wizengamot meeting, or while chatting with certain important members of the Board of Governors. What do you think, Mr. Potter? You're a sensible child."
Harry's throat moved. His lips trembled, not from fear, but from disgust.
But he heard Hagrid's heavy breathing inside the cell and saw those red, bloodshot eyes