Chapter 1080 Prime Minister

It was almost midnight, and the Prime Minister was sitting alone in his office, looking at a long memo, but he didn't read it at all. He was waiting for a call from the president of a distant country, and while he was wondering when the poor man would call, he was trying not to think about the unpleasant memories of this long, tiring and difficult week. There was almost no room for anything else in his mind.

The more he tried to focus on the documents in front of him, the more clearly the contented face of his political opponent became visible. Just today this particular adversary is in the news, listing the horrific events of the past week (as if everyone needed a reminder) and explaining why they are all the government's fault. The Prime Minister's heart beats faster when he thinks about these accusations, because they are neither fair nor true.

Why should his government be able to prevent the bridge from breaking? Any accusation that they haven't spent enough money on the bridge seems outrageous. The bridge was less than 10 years old, and even the best experts were baffled as to why it simply snapped in two, sending a dozen cars plunging into the river.

And who can blame the lack of police force for the two brutal murders that were so exposed? Or should they blame the government for failing to predict the freak hurricane in the Southwest that caused so many casualties? And one of his deputy ministers (deputy ministers), Herbert Jolly, did those strange behaviors this week and was forced to go home. Is this also his fault?

“Our country is gripped by a gloomy mood,” his political opponents said with unabashed mockery. Unfortunately, he wasn't wrong. Even the Prime Minister himself feels this.

People do look a lot more miserable than before. Even the weather became gloomy; there was a cold fog in the middle of July... This was wrong, this was not normal... He turned to the second page of the memo, looked at how long it was, and finally regarded it as one I gave up as if it was troublesome.

He stretched and looked around the office sadly. This is really a gorgeous office, with a fireplace made of fine marble facing the sliding window, keeping out the unseasonal cold. The Prime Minister shuddered, stood up and walked to the window. There was only a thin layer of fog pressing against the window glass. As he stood with his back to the room, a soft cough suddenly came from behind him.

He froze, his fearful face reflected in the glass. He recognized that cough. Heard it before. Very slowly he turned around and faced the empty room.

"Hello?" He tried to sound braver than he was. After a while, he was ready to believe that no one would respond to him. But a crisp, determined voice emerged suddenly, as if reading a prepared statement. The sound - just as the Prime Minister had predicted when he heard the first cough - came from a small, dirty painting in the corner of the room, which showed a tall man in a silver wig. A little frog-like man.

"To the Muggle Prime Minister. We need an urgent meeting. Reply quickly. Yours sincerely, Fudge." The man in the portrait looked at the Prime Minister questioningly.

"Well," the Prime Minister said, "look... I don't have time right now... I'm waiting for a call, you know... from the President -"

"That can be rearranged," the portrait said immediately. The Prime Minister's heart sank, this was what he was afraid of.

"But I'd really rather be with-"

"We'll arrange for the president to forget about tonight's phone call. He'll call back tomorrow night," the little man said. "Please reply quickly to Mr. Fudge."

"I...oh...okay," the Prime Minister said weakly. "Okay, I'll see Fudge."

He walked quickly back to his desk, straightening his tie as he went. He had just had time to return to his seat and put on an affectedly relaxed expression when a bright green flame broke out from under his marble mantelpiece. He was looking there, trying not to show a trace of surprise or panic, when a fat man appeared in the flames of the fireplace, spinning as fast as a top. A few seconds later he was crawling out onto a fine antique cushion, dusting off the sleeves of his pinstriped cloak, holding his gray-green bowler hat.

"Ah... Prime Minister," Cornelius Fudge said, striding towards the Prime Minister and extending his hand. "It's nice to see you again."

The Prime Minister could not return the greeting sincerely, so he said nothing. He was not at all happy to see Fudge, and Fudge's occasional visit (not to mention being a complete alarm in itself) usually meant that he was about to hear some very bad news. Not to mention that Fudge looked wracked with worry. He became thinner, had less hair, and his face was grayer and wrinkled.

The Prime Minister has seen this look in politicians before, and it never bodes well.

"Is there anything I can do?" the Prime Minister said, briefly shaking Fudge's hand and pointing to the hardest chair in front of the table.

"I don't know where to start," Fudge muttered, pulling out his chair and sitting on it, placing his green top hat on his knees. "What a terrible week, what a terrible week..."

"Have you had a bad week too?" the Prime Minister asked stiffly, hoping to make Fudge understand that he had enough to bear without Fudge.

"Yes, of course," Fudge rubbed his tired eyes, looking gloomily at the Prime Minister who has had as bad a week as you, Prime Minister. Braudel Bridge...the murders of Bones and Vance...not to mention the agitation in the Southwest..."

"You - uh - I'm trying to say, some of you are - involved in these - these things, aren't you?" Fudge glared at the Prime Minister with a stern look.

"Of course," he said. "You know what happened, right?"

"I..." The Prime Minister hesitated.

It was this kind of behavior that made the Prime Minister hate Fudge every time he visited. He was the Prime Minister after all, and he didn't want to be seen as an ignorant student. But this has been happening since his first meeting with Fudge when he first became prime minister.

He remembered the scene like it was yesterday and was sure it would haunt him until the day he died. At that time, he was standing alone in this office, savoring the victory he had won after so many years of dreaming and planning. At this time, he heard a cough behind him, just like tonight, turned around and found that in the portrait The ugly man was speaking to him, announcing that the Minister of Magic was ready to meet with him.

Naturally, he thought the long campaign and tense election had left him a little confused. He was absolutely freaked out when he found a portrait talking to him, though not nearly as crazy as when a wizard emerged from the fireplace and shook his hand.

He was speechless as Fudge explained to him that there were hidden wizards living everywhere in the world. Fudge reassured him that the Ministry of Magic would be responsible for the entire wizarding society and prevent non-magical people from discovering them. He comes to trouble. He also said that it was not an easy task to manage, covering everything from regulating the responsibilities of broomsticks to keeping the number of dragons under control (the Prime Minister remembers having to hold on to the table to support himself). one thing.

Finally Fudge gave the stunned Prime Minister a fatherly pat on the shoulder.

"There's nothing to worry about," he said. "You'll probably never have to see me again. I'll only bother you if something really serious happens on our end, unless it's something that affects Ma." Melon - non-magical people, maybe. Otherwise we'd be fine. And, I must admit, you were more tolerant of this than your predecessor was, thinking I was sent to fool him. His."

At this time, the Prime Minister finally found that he could speak again.

"So, you - you're not fooling me?" He still wanted to make a death struggle.

"No," Fudge said softly. "I'm afraid not. Look." He turned the Prime Minister's teacup into a gerbil.

"But," the Prime Minister gasped a little, chewing on his next speech from his teacup. "But why - why didn't anyone tell me -?"

"The Minister of Magic only shows his identity to the then Prime Minister," Fudge said, putting his wand back into his coat pocket. "We found that was the best way to keep it secret."

“But,” whispered the Prime Minister, “why didn’t any previous Prime Minister warn me—?”

That's when Fudge actually started laughing. "My dear Prime Minister, will you tell others?" Fudge threw some powder into the fireplace, still giggling, walked into the emerald flames, and disappeared with a whoosh.

The Prime Minister stood there blankly, knowing that he would not mention this to any living person, because who in the world would believe him? The shock was gradually dissipating. He was convinced at one point that Fudge was actually a hallucination, too sleep-deprived after the intense campaign. In a vain attempt to remove all reminders of the event, he gave the gerbil to his niece and asked his private secretary to remove the portrait of the ugly man that had announced Fudge's visit.

But to his dismay, the portrait couldn't move at all. After several carpenters, a builder or two, an art historian and the Chancellor of the Exchequer failed in their efforts to remove it from the wall, the Prime Minister finally gave up and hoped that the portrait would remain with him for the rest of his life. Don't move again during your term. But sometimes, he swore he saw the owner of the painting yawning or scratching his nose from the corner of his eye; even once or twice, he even walked out of his painting frame, leaving only a mud-colored canvas.

However, he had trained himself not to pay attention to that painting so often, and every time he saw it, he always firmly told himself that his eyes were playing tricks on him.

Three years ago, on a night exactly like tonight, the Prime Minister was alone in the office. The portrait suddenly announced that Fudge was about to visit, and then Fudge burst out of the fireplace, soaked to the skin and looking quite nervous.

Before the Prime Minister could ask him why he wanted to soak the carpet with water, Fudge started ranting, referring to a prisoner the Prime Minister had never heard of called "Little Tim" Black, a man who sounded like There was nothing about Hogwarts or a boy named Harry Potter that the Prime Minister could understand.

"...I just came back from Azkaban," Fudge panted, pouring the water from the brim of his hat into his pocket. "In the middle of the North Sea, you know, the disgusting trip...the dementors are stirring—" he shuddered, "—and they never let anyone escape. I'm here to tell you anyway. "Black is a notorious Muggle killer and may be planning to return to You-Know-Who...but of course, you don't even know who He-Know-Who is!"

He looked at the Prime Minister desperately and said, "Well, sit down, sit down, I'd better tell you... have a glass of whiskey..."

The Prime Minister looked furious at being asked to sit down in his office, let alone get out his whiskey, but he sat down anyway. Fudge pulled out his wand and conjured two large cups filled with amber liquid from the air. He gave one of the cups to the Prime Minister and pulled out a chair to sit down. Fudge talked for more than an hour.

One time Fudge didn't want to say a name out loud, so he wrote it on a piece of parchment and thrust it into the Prime Minister's non-whiskey hand. Finally Fudge stood up to leave, and the Prime Minister stood up as well.

"Then what do you think..." He glanced at the name on his left hand, "Fu——"

"His name shall not be mentioned!" growled Fudge. "I'm sorry... So, do you think the devil who must not even be named is still alive?"

"Well, Dumbledore said he was alive," said Fudge, tying his pinstriped cloak under his chin, "but we never found him. If you ask me, he's not dangerous unless someone helps Him, so it's Blake we should be worried about. You're going to issue that warning, aren't you? Well, I hope we never have to meet again, good night, Prime Minister!"

But they met again. A year later, a tired-looking Fudge filled the air in the Cabinet Rooms to inform the Prime Minister that there had been a bit of trouble at the World Cup in Kuwaitchi (or so it sounded like), and that a few Muggles had been "involved." "In", but don't worry, the reappearance of the You-Know-Who's Mark is nothing to worry about; Fudge is convinced that it is an isolated incident and that the Muggle Liaison Office will handle the matter of modifying the memory.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Fudge added. "We imported three foreign dragons and a sphinx in preparation for the Triwizard Tournament. They were very ordinary, but the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures told me that the manual said if we were to bring very dangerous creatures into this country , I must inform you.”

"I-what-a dragon?" the Prime Minister asked incoherently.

"Yes, three," said Fudge. "And a sphinx. So, have a nice day."

The Prime Minister was kind of desperately hoping that dragons and sphinxes were the worst, but no. Less than two years later, Fudge burst out of the fire again, this time with news of a massive prison break in Azkaban.

"A mass jailbreak?" the Prime Minister repeated hoarsely. "Don't worry, don't worry!" Fudge shouted, already stepping into the flames with one foot. "We've launched a roundup immediately - just thought you should know!"

Before the Prime Minister could shout, "Wait a minute!" Fudge disappeared in a burst of green sparks. Despite what the news and the opposition say, the Prime Minister is not a stupid man. Despite Fudge's assurances to him on their first meeting, now that they knew each other better, it was not unnoticed by him that Fudge became more flustered with each visit. Although he didn't want to think about the Minister of Magic (or, as he usually called him in his head, the other Minister), the Prime Minister couldn't help but worry that Fudge's next appearance would bring darker news.

So the sight of a disheveled and irritated Fudge emerging from the fireplace, harshly surprised that the Prime Minister had no idea why he was visiting, was the worst thing that had happened in that dark week.

"How am I supposed to know - uh - what's happening in wizarding society?" the Prime Minister said scoldingly. "I have a country to run, and a lot to focus on right now besides your—"

"We share common concerns," Fudge interrupted. "Braudel Bridge didn't collapse. There was no real hurricane. Those murders weren't the work of Muggles. And if Herbert Jolly stayed away from his family, maybe they would be safer. We are now Arrangements will be made for his transfer to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries."

"What are you talking about - I'm afraid -?" growled the Prime Minister. (To be continued)