HP Magic Biography

It was nearly midnight, and the Prime Minister was sitting alone in his office looking at a long memorandum, which he hadn't read at all. He was waiting for a call from the president of a faraway country, trying not to recall unpleasant memories of a long, tiring, difficult week while wondering when the poor man would be calling. There was almost no room for anything else in his mind.

The more he tries to focus on the document in front of him, the more clearly the contented face of his political opponent becomes visible. Just today this particular adversary was in the news, again listing all the horrible things that happened over the past week (as if everyone needed a reminder) and explaining why it was all the government's fault. The Prime Minister's heart beats faster at the thought of these accusations, because these things are neither fair nor true.

Why should his government have prevented the bridge from breaking? Any accusation that they didn't spend enough money on the bridge seems outrageous. The bridge was built less than 10 years ago, and even the best experts are puzzled why it snapped in two, sending a dozen cars into the river.

And who can blame the lack of police force for the two brutal murders that were heavily exposed? Or should they be blaming the government for failing to forecast that freak hurricane that killed so many people in the Southwest? And one of his undersecretaries (deputy ministers), Herbert Chorley, was forced to go home after doing those strange behaviors this week. Is this also his fault?

“A sombre mood hangs over our country,” his political opponents sneered vehemently. Unfortunately, he was right. Even the Prime Minister himself can feel this.

People do look a lot more miserable than they used to. Even the weather was gloomy; there was a cold fog in the middle of July... It was not right, it was not normal... He turned to the second page of the memo, saw how long it was, and finally took it as a Give up like trouble.

He stretched and looked around the office sadly again. It was a magnificent office, with a fireplace of fine marble facing sliding windows to keep out the unseasonable cold. The Prime Minister shivered, got up and walked to the window, only a thin mist pressed against the window glass outside. Just as he was standing with his back to the room, a soft cough suddenly came from behind him.

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

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

To the Muggle Prime Minister. We need an urgent meeting.

Quick reply. Fuji sincerely presents. ’ The man in the portrait looked at the Prime Minister questioningly.

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

That can be rearranged, said the portrait 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 that president to forget about the phone call tonight. He'll call back tomorrow night, the little man said. Please reply quickly to Mr. Fudge.

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

He walked briskly back to his desk, straightening his tie as he went. He had barely time to get back to his seat, with an air of mock relief, when a bright green flame burst from beneath his marble mantelpiece. He was looking there, trying not to look surprised or flustered, when a fat man appeared in the hearth flames, spinning like a top. A few seconds later he was crawling out onto a good antique cushion, dusting the sleeves of his pinstriped cloak, his grey-green bowler hat in hand.

Ah... Your Excellency the Prime Minister, said Cornelius Fudge, striding up to the Prime Minister and holding out his hand. Nice to see you again.

The Prime Minister, unable to return the greeting sincerely, said nothing. He wasn't at all happy to see Fudge, and Fudge's occasional visit (not to mention that it was all an alarm in itself) usually meant that he was about to hear some very bad news. Not to mention that Fudge seemed to be suffering from worry. He was thinner, with less hair, and his face was grayer and more lined.

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

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

Don't know where to start, muttered Fudge, pulling out his chair and sitting in it, putting his green top hat on his lap. What a bad week, what a bad...

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

Yes, of course, said Fudge, rubbing his weary eyes, looking gloomily at the Prime Minister having had a week as bad as yours, Mr Prime Minister. The Broaddale Bridge...the murders of Burns and Vance...not to mention the commotion in the South West...

You - er - I meant to say that some of you are also - involved in these - these things, aren't you? Fudge gave the Prime Minister a stern look.

Of course it is, he said. You know what happened?

I... The Prime Minister hesitated.

It was this behavior that made the Prime Minister resent every visit to Fudge. He is the prime minister after all, and he doesn't want to be seen as an ignorant student. But it happened from the first time he met Fudge when he first became Prime Minister.

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

Naturally, he thought the long campaign and tense election had clouded his mind. He was horrified when he found a portrait talking to him, though it wasn't nearly as crazy as when a wizard then popped out of the fireplace and shook his hand.

Fudge was speechless during the process of explaining to him that the world was full of hidden wizards, and Fudge reassured him that the Ministry of Magic would be responsible for the entire wizarding society and that it would not be necessary for non-magical people to discover them. He's going to be a headache. He also said it was not an easy task to manage, covering every aspect of the process, from regulating responsible use of broomsticks to keeping the number of dragons manageable (the Prime Minister remembers holding on to a table to support himself). one thing.

At last Fudge gave the stunned Prime Minister a paternal pat on the shoulder.

It's nothing to worry about, he said. You'll probably never see me again. I'll only bother you if something really serious happens on our end, unless it's enough to affect Ma. Melons - non-magical people, maybe. Otherwise we'd be fine. However, I have to admit that you can handle this better than your predecessor. He was trying to throw me out of the window, thinking I was sent by the opponent to fool What about his?

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

So, you—you're not fooling me? He was still on the verge of dying.

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

But, the Prime Minister gasped, nibbling at his next speech in his teacup. But why—why has no one ever told me—?

The Minister for Magic only shows himself to the Prime Minister at the time, said Fudge, slipping his wand back into his coat pocket. We've found that's the best way to keep it secret.

But, whispered the Prime Minister, why didn't a previous Prime Minister warn me—?

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

The Prime Minister stood there dumbfounded, knowing that he would not mention it to any living person, because who in the world would believe him? The feeling of shock is gradually dissipating. At one point he was convinced that Fudge was really just an illusion after all, he was so sleep deprived after a tense campaign. In a vain attempt to get rid of all reminders of the event, he gave the gerbil to his niece and had the private secretary take down the portrait of the ugly man announcing Fudge's visit.

To his dismay, the portrait didn't move at all. After several carpenters, a builder or two, an art historian and the chancellor tried unsuccessfully to get it off the wall, the prime minister finally gave up and hoped that the portrait would remain in his remaining collection. Never move again during tenure. But sometimes, out of the corner of his eye, he swore he saw the owner of the oil painting yawning, or scratching his nose; even, once or twice, he even stepped out of his frame, leaving only a muddy canvas.

However, he has trained himself not to pay attention to the painting very often, and every time he sees these, he always firmly tells himself that the eyes love to play tricks on him.

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

Before the Prime Minister could ask him why he was getting water all over the carpet, Fudge started ranting, referring to a prisoner the Prime Minister had never heard of, called Little Timber Blake, a man who sounded like Hogwarts stuff, and a boy named Harry Potter, none of which the Prime Minister could understand.

...I just got back from Azkaban, gasped Fudge, emptying the water from the brim of his hat into his pocket. In the middle of the North Sea, you know, nasty travel...the dementors are stirring— he shuddered, —they never let anyone escape. I'm coming to tell you anyway .Blake is a notorious Muggle killer, and may be planning to rejoin You-Know-Who...but of course, you don't even know Who You-Know-Who is!

He looked hopelessly at the Prime Minister and said, Okay, sit down, sit down, I'd better tell you... have a whiskey...

The Prime Minister looked annoyed at being told to sit down in his office, let alone get out his whiskey, but he sat down anyway. Fudge drew his wand, conjured two large cups filled with amber liquid out of the air, gave one of them to the Prime Minister, and drew a chair for himself to sit down. Fudge talked for over an hour.

Once Fudge, unwilling to say a name aloud, wrote it on a piece of parchment and pressed it into the Prime Minister's hand that was not holding the whiskey. At last Fudge stood up to go, and the Prime Minister stood up too.

Then what do you think... He glanced at the name held in his left hand, V—

His name must not be mentioned! growled Fudge under his breath. I'm sorry...then, do you think the devil who can't even mention his name is still alive?

Well, Dumbledore says he's alive, said Fudge, fastening his pinstriped cloak under his chin, but we never found him. If you ask me, he's not dangerous unless someone helps He, so it's Black we should be worried about. You'll issue that warning, won't you? Great. Well then, I hope we never see each other again, Mr Prime Minister! Good night.

But they meet again. A year later, a tired-looking Fudge appeared on the air in the Cabinet Room, coming to inform the Prime Minister that there had been a little trouble at the Quidditch (or so it sounded) World Cup, with a few Muggles being wrapped in, but don't worry, the reappearance of You-Know-Who's mark is nothing to worry about; Fudge is sure that's an isolated incident, and the Muggle Liaison Office will take care of memory modification.

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

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

Yes, three, said Fudge. And a sphinx. Have a good time, then.

The Prime Minister is kind of desperately hoping that dragons and sphinxes are the worst, but no. Less than two years later, Fudge emerged from the fire again, this time bringing news of a mass escape from Azkaban.

Mass escape? the Prime Minister repeated hoarsely. Don't worry, don't worry! roared Fudge, one foot already in the flames. We've launched an immediate roundup - just thought you should know!

Before the Prime Minister could say, Wait a minute! Fudge had disappeared in a shower of green sparks. Whatever the news and the opposition may say, the prime minister is not a fool. Despite Fudge's assurances to him during their first meeting, now that they were getting to know each other better, he was not unaware that Fudge was getting more flustered with each visit. While he didn't want to think about the Minister for Magic (or, as he usually called him in his head, the other Minister), the Prime Minister still couldn't help worrying that Fudge's next appearance would bring darker news.

So the sight of a disheveled and fretful-looking Fudge coming out of the fireplace, harshly surprised that the Prime Minister had no idea why he was visiting, was the worst thing to happen to this dark week.

How am I supposed to know about - er - what's going on in wizarding society? the Prime Minister snapped. I've got a country to run, and a lot to focus on at the moment, except for your—

We share a common concern, Fudge interrupted. Brodell Bridge didn't fall. There was no real hurricane. Those murders weren't the work of Muggles. And maybe Herbert Chorley's family would be safer if they stayed away. Arrangements have been made for his transfer to St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Injuries and Injuries. The transfer will be completed tonight.

What are you talking about—I'm afraid—what? growled the Prime Minister.

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