Vol 2 Chapter 1080: Prime Minister

It was almost midnight, and the Prime Minister was sitting in his office alone looking at a long memo, but he didn't read it at all. He was waiting for the president of a faraway country to call him, while guessing when the poor man could call him, and at the same time trying not to recall the unpleasant memories of this long, tiring and difficult week. There is almost nothing else in his mind.
The more he wanted to focus on the documents in front of him, the more clearly the contented faces of his political opponents became visible. Just today, this particular opponent is still in the news. It lists the terrible things that happened in the past week (as if everyone needs to be reminded), and explains why those things are all the government's fault. Thinking of these condemnations, the Prime Minister’s heart beat faster because these things are neither fair nor true.
Why should his government be able to prevent the bridge from breaking? Any accusation that they didn't spend enough money on bridge repairs would seem arrogant. The bridge has been built less than 10 years ago, and even the best experts are puzzled as to why it would simply be folded into two sections, causing a dozen cars to fall into the river.
And who can accuse the two brutal murders that were heavily exposed because of insufficient police power? Or should they accuse the government of failing to predict the weird hurricane that caused heavy casualties in the Southwest? And Herbert Jolly, one of his undersecretaries (deputy ministers), was forced to stay home by doing those strange behaviors this week. Is this also his fault?
"Our country is shrouded in a gloomy mood," his political opponents made no secret of sneers. Unfortunately, what he said is not wrong. Even the Prime Minister himself can feel this.
People do seem to be suffering more than before. Even the weather became gloomy; there was a cold fog in mid-July... This was wrong, this was abnormal... He turned the second page of the memo and saw how long it was, and finally treated it as a piece. Give up in trouble.
He stretched and looked around the office sadly. This is a magnificent office. A fireplace made of fine marble faces the sliding windows, shutting out the unseasonable cold. The Prime Minister shivered, got up and walked towards the window, only a thin mist pressed against the windowpanes. Just as he was standing with his back to the room, a soft cough suddenly came from behind him.
He was stunned, his face of fear reflected in the glass. He recognized the cough. Heard it before. He turned around very slowly, facing the empty room.
"Hello?" He tried to make his voice sound braver than he himself. After a while, he was ready to believe that no one would respond to him. But a crisp, determined voice suddenly appeared, as if reading a prepared statement. The voice—as the Prime Minister had expected when he heard the first cough—was from a small, dirty oil painting in the corner of the room, with a silver-white wig painted on it, which looked so long. A short man like a frog.
"To the Muggle Prime Minister. We need an urgent meeting. Reply quickly. Fudge is sincere." The man in the portrait looked at the Prime Minister inquiringly.
"Uh," the prime minister said, "listen...I don't have time now...I'm waiting for the call, you know...from the president--"
"That can be rearranged," the portrait said immediately. The prime minister's heart sank. This is what he feared.
"But I really want to and—"
"We will arrange for the president to forget the telephone appointment tonight. He will call again tomorrow night," the little man said. "Please reply to Mr. Fudge quickly."
"I...oh...well," the prime minister said weakly. "Okay, I see Fudge."
He walked quickly back to his table and straightened his tie as he walked. He just had time to get back to his seat and put on an expression of pretending to be relaxed, and a bright green flame sprang up under his marble mantelpiece. He looked there, trying not to show a trace of surprise and panic, when a fat man appeared in the fire of the fireplace, spinning as fast as a top. After a few seconds, he climbed out and stood on a fine antique mat, dusted the sleeves of his pinstriped cloak, and held a gray-green bowler hat in his hand.
"Ah... the Prime Minister," Cornelius Fudge said, striding over to the Prime Minister and extending his hand. "It's nice to see you again."
The Prime Minister couldn't respond sincerely to this greeting, so he said nothing. He is not at all happy to see Fudge. Fudge's occasional visit (not to mention that it is a complete alarm in itself) usually means that he is about to hear some very bad news. Not to mention Fudge seemed to be tortured by worry. He became thinner, he had fewer hair, his face was grayer, and he was wrinkled.
The prime minister has seen this in politicians before, and it has never been a good omen.
"Is there anything I can do?" the prime minister said, shook Fudge's hand briefly, and pointed to one of the hardest chairs at the table.
"I don't know where to start," Fudge murmured, pulling out his chair and sitting on it, putting his green top hat on his knees. "What a bad week, how bad..."
"Are you bad this week too?" the Prime Minister asked stiffly, hoping to make Fudge understand that nothing more than Fudge was enough for him.
"Yes, of course," Fudge rubbed his tired eyes and looked at the Prime Minister gloomily. A week as bad as yours, Prime Minister. Brodale Bridge... the murders of Burns and Vance... let alone the commotion in the southwest..."
"You-uh-I mean, some of you are also involved in these-these things, right?" Fudge glared at the Prime Minister with a stern look.
"Of course it is," he said. "Do you know what happened?"
"I..." The Prime Minister hesitated.
It is this kind of behavior that makes the Prime Minister very disgusted with every visit to Fudge. After all, he is the prime minister and does not want to be regarded as an ignorant student. But this happened from the first meeting between him and Fudge when he became prime minister.
That scene was like yesterday, he still remembers, and is sure it will linger in his heart until the day of death. At that time he stood alone in this office, tasting the victory he won after so many years of dreams and plans. At this time, he heard a cough behind him, just like tonight, and turned around to find the portrait The ugly man was talking to him, announcing that the Minister of Magic was ready to meet him.
Naturally, he thought that the long campaign and intense elections had confused his mind. He was horrified when he found a portrait talking to him, although it was not at all as crazy as a wizard emerged from the fireplace and shook hands with him.
While Fudge explained to him that there are hidden wizards everywhere in this world, he remained speechless. Fudge was relieved that the Ministry of Magic would be responsible for the entire wizarding society and prevent non-magic people from discovering them. He came to trouble his brain. He also said that it is really not an easy task to manage, from regulating the responsibilities of flying broomsticks to keeping the number of dragons within a controllable range (the prime minister remembered that he had to hold a table to support himself at the time). one thing.
Finally, Fudge patted fatherly on the shoulder of the dumbfounded Prime Minister.
"There is nothing to worry about," he said. "You may never need to see me again. I will only disturb you when something really serious happens on our side, unless that kind of thing is enough to affect Ma Melon-non-magical people, maybe it should be said. Otherwise, we will be fine. And, I must admit that you can bear this more than your predecessor. He wanted to throw me out of the window, thinking that I was sent by the opponent to fool His."
At this time, the Prime Minister finally found that he could speak again.
"So, you—are you fooling me?" He still wanted to do a dying struggle.
"No," Fudge said softly. "I'm afraid not. Look." He turned the prime minister's teacup into a gerbil.
"But," the prime minister was a little breathless, his teacup biting his next speech. "But why—why has no one told me—?"
"The Minister of Magic only reveals his identity to the then Prime Minister," Fudge put his wand back into his jacket pocket. "We found this to be the best way to keep it secret."
"But," the prime minister whispered, "why didn't a previous prime minister warn me--?"
At this moment Fudge really laughed. "My dear Prime Minister, would you tell anyone?" Fudge threw some powder into the fireplace, and still giggled into the emerald flame, and disappeared with a whirr.
The Prime Minister stood there, knowing that he would not mention this to any living person, because who in this world would believe him? The shock was gradually dissipating. He was once convinced that Fudge was actually just an illusion at all. After an intense campaign, he was too sleepy. He tried in vain to get rid of everything that reminded him of the incident. He gave the gerbil to his niece and asked his personal secretary to remove the portrait of the ugly man who announced Fudge's visit.
But to his dismay, the portrait couldn't move at all. After several carpenters, one or two builders, an art historian, and the chancellor of finance failed to get it off the wall, the prime minister finally gave up his efforts and had to hope that the portrait was in his remaining Never move again during the tenure. But sometimes, he swears from the corner of his eye that the owner of the oil painting is yawning or scratching his nose; even, once or twice he walks out of his frame, leaving only a muddy canvas.
However, he trained himself not to pay attention to the painting often, and every time he saw these, he always told himself that his eyes love to play small jokes with him.
Three years ago, on a night that resembled tonight, the Prime Minister stayed alone in his office. The portrait suddenly announced that Fudge was about to visit, and then Fudge broke out of the fireplace, soaked and very nervous.
Before the Prime Minister had time to ask him why he made the carpet all water, Fudge began to growl. He mentioned a prisoner that the Prime Minister had never heard of, called "Little Tim Chaotic Star" Black, one that sounded like There is also a boy named Harry Potter about Hogwarts, none of which the Prime Minister can understand.
"...I just returned 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, disgusting travel... The dementors are in a commotion-" he shivered, "- they never let anyone escape. I will tell you anyway. Black is a notorious Muggle killer, and may be planning to return to the mysterious man... but of course, you don’t even know who the mysterious man is!"
He looked at the prime minister desperately and said, "Well, sit down, sit down, I'd better tell you... a glass of whiskey..."
The Prime Minister looked angry when he was called to sit down in his office, let alone take out his whiskey, but he sat down anyway. Fudge drew out his wand, conjured two large cups filled with amber liquid from the air, stuffed one of them to the Prime Minister, and took a chair by himself. Fudge spoke for more than an hour.
Once Fudge didn't want to say a certain name out loud, so he wrote it on a piece of parchment and stuffed it into the hand of the prime minister that didn't hold the whiskey. Finally Fudge stood up and was about to leave, and the Prime Minister also stood up.
"Then you think that..." He glanced at the name he was holding on his left hand, "V-"
"His name can't be mentioned!" Fudge snarled in a low voice. "I'm sorry...Then, do you think that demon who can't even mention his name is still alive?"
"Well, Dumbledore said he was still alive," Fudge said, tying the pinstriped cloak under his chin, "but we never found him. If you ask me, I will say he is not dangerous unless someone helps. He, so it’s Black that we should worry about. You will issue that warning, right? Great. Then I hope we never have to meet again, Prime Minister! Good night."
But they met again. A year later, a tired-looking Fudge appeared in the air in the cabinet room. He came to inform the Prime Minister that there was a little trouble in the Kuitichi (at least it sounds) World Cup, and several Muggles were "rolled". I’ve entered, but don’t worry, what the Mysterious Man has marked and reproduced is not enough; Fudge is sure it’s an isolated incident and the Muggle Liaison Office will deal with the matter of revising the memory.
"Oh, I almost forgot," Fudge added. "We imported three foreign dragons and a sphinx to prepare for the Triwizard Tournament. It is very common, but the Department of Management and Control of Fantastic Beasts told me that the manual states that if we are to bring very dangerous creatures to this country , You must be notified."
"I—what—the dragon?" the Prime Minister asked incoherently.
"Yes, three," Fudge said. "There is also a sphinx. Then, I wish you a good time."
The Prime Minister desperately hoped that Dragon and Sphinx were the worst, but they were not. Less than two years later, Fudge came out of the fire again, this time bringing news of a large-scale escape from Azkaban.
"A mass escape?" the Prime Minister repeated hoarsely. "Don't worry, don't worry!" Fudge shouted, one foot already in the flame. "We have started the round up immediately-just think you should know!"
Before the Prime Minister had time to call, "Wait a minute!" Fudge had disappeared in a burst of green sparks. No matter what the news and the opposition say, the prime minister is not a stupid person. Although Fudge promised him vowedly at the first meeting ~EbookFREE.me~ but now they know more about each other, he did not fail to notice, Fudge became more flustered every time he visited. Although he didn't want to think about the Minister of Magic (or another Minister as he usually called him in his mind), the Prime Minister still couldn't help worrying that Fudge's next appearance would bring even darker news.
Therefore, Fudge, who looked disheveled and irritable, walked out of the fireplace, harshly surprised that the Prime Minister didn't know why he visited, and it was the worst thing that happened in this dark week.
"How should I know-uh-what happened in the wizarding society?" the Prime Minister said scoldingly. "I have a country that needs to be managed, and there are a lot of things that need attention at the moment, except for yours—"
"We have a common concern," Fudge interrupted him. "The Brodell Bridge did not collapse. There were no real hurricanes. Those murders were not Muggle works. And if Herbert Jolly stayed away from his family, maybe they would be safer. We are now. Arrange to transfer him to St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Injuries. This transfer will be completed tonight."
"You're talking about—I'm afraid—what?" the Prime Minister roared.
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