Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (109 page)

‘So I suppose you’re going to tell me he caused the hurricane in the West Country, too?’ said the Prime Minister, his temper rising with every pace he took. It was infuriating to discover the reason for all these terrible disasters and not to be able to tell the public; almost worse than it being the government’s fault after all.

‘That was no hurricane,’ said Fudge miserably.

‘Excuse me!’ barked the Prime Minister, now positively stamping up and down. ‘Trees uprooted, roofs ripped off, lampposts bent, horrible injuries –’

‘It was the Death Eaters,’ said Fudge. ‘He Who Must Not Be Named’s followers. And … and we suspect giant involvement.’

The Prime Minister stopped in his tracks as though he had hit an invisible wall.

‘
What
involvement?’

Fudge grimaced. ‘He used giants last time, when he wanted to go for the grand effect. The Office of Misinformation has been working round the clock, we’ve had teams of Obliviators out trying to modify the memories of all the Muggles who saw what really happened, we’ve got most of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures running around Somerset, but we can’t find the giant – it’s been a disaster.’

‘You don’t say!’ said the Prime Minister furiously.

‘I won’t deny that morale is pretty low at the Ministry,’ said Fudge. ‘What with all that, and then losing Amelia Bones.’

‘Losing who?’

‘Amelia Bones. Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. We think He Who Must Not Be Named may have murdered her in person, because she was a very gifted witch and – and all the evidence was that she put up a real fight.’

Fudge cleared his throat and, with an effort, it seemed, stopped spinning his bowler hat.

‘But that murder was in the newspapers,’ said the Prime Minister, momentarily diverted from his anger. ‘
Our
newspapers. Amelia Bones … it just said she was a middle-aged woman who lived alone. It was a – a nasty killing, wasn’t it? It’s had rather a lot of publicity. The police are baffled, you see.’

Fudge sighed. ‘Well, of course they are. Killed in a room that was locked from the inside, wasn’t she? We, on the other hand, know exactly who did it, not that that gets us any further towards catching him. And then there was Emmeline Vance, maybe you didn’t hear about that one –’

‘Oh yes I did!’ said the Prime Minister. ‘It happened just round the corner from here, as a matter of fact. The papers had a field day with it:
Breakdown of law and order in the Prime Minister’s back yard
–’

‘And as if all that wasn’t enough,’ said Fudge, barely listening to the Prime Minister, ‘we’ve got Dementors swarming all over the place, attacking people left right and centre …’

Once upon a happier time this sentence would have been unintelligible to the Prime Minister, but he was wiser now.

‘I thought Dementors guard the prisoners in Azkaban?’ he said cautiously.

‘They did,’ said Fudge wearily. ‘But not any more. They’ve deserted the prison and joined He Who Must Not Be Named. I won’t pretend that wasn’t a blow.’

‘But,’ said the Prime Minister, with a sense of dawning horror, ‘didn’t you tell me they’re the creatures that drain hope and happiness out of people?’

‘That’s right. And they’re breeding. That’s what’s causing all this mist.’

The Prime Minister sank, weak-kneed, into the nearest chair. The idea of invisible creatures swooping through the towns and countryside, spreading despair and hopelessness in his voters, made him feel quite faint.

‘Now see here, Fudge – you’ve got to do something! It’s your responsibility as Minister for Magic!’

‘My dear Prime Minister, you can’t honestly think I’m still Minister for Magic after all this? I was sacked three days ago! The whole wizarding community has been screaming for my resignation for a fortnight. I’ve never known them so united in my whole term of office!’ said Fudge, with a brave attempt at a smile.

The Prime Minister was momentarily lost for words. Despite his indignation at the position into which he had been placed, he still rather felt for the shrunken-looking man sitting opposite him.

‘I’m very sorry,’ he said finally. ‘If there’s anything I can do?’

‘It’s very kind of you, Prime Minister, but there is nothing. I was sent here tonight to bring you up-to-date on recent events and to introduce you to my successor. I rather thought he’d be here by now, but of course he’s very busy at the moment, with so much going on.’

Fudge looked round at the portrait of the ugly little man wearing the long curly silver wig, who was digging in his ear with the point of a quill.

Catching Fudge’s eye the portrait said, ‘He’ll be here in a moment, he’s just finishing a letter to Dumbledore.’

‘I wish him luck,’ said Fudge, sounding bitter for the first time. ‘I’ve been writing to Dumbledore twice a day for the past fortnight, but he won’t budge. If he’d just been prepared to persuade the boy, I might still be … well, maybe Scrimgeour will have more success.’

Fudge subsided into what was clearly an aggrieved silence, but it was broken almost immediately by the portrait, which suddenly spoke in its crisp, official voice.

‘To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Requesting a meeting. Urgent. Kindly respond immediately. Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister for Magic.’

‘Yes, yes, fine,’ said the Prime Minister distractedly, and he barely flinched as the flames in the grate turned emerald-green again, rose up and revealed a second spinning wizard in their heart, disgorging him moments later on to the antique rug. Fudge got to his feet, and after a moment’s hesitation the Prime Minister did the same, watching the new arrival straighten up, dust down his long black robes and look around.

The Prime Minister’s first, foolish thought was that Rufus Scrimgeour looked rather like an old lion. There were streaks of grey in his mane of tawny hair and his bushy eyebrows; he had keen yellowish eyes behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and a certain rangy, loping grace even though he walked with a slight limp. There was an immediate impression of shrewdness and toughness; the Prime Minister thought he understood why the wizarding community preferred Scrimgeour to Fudge as a leader in these dangerous times.

‘How do you do?’ said the Prime Minister politely, holding out his hand.

Scrimgeour grasped it briefly, his eyes scanning the room, then pulled out a wand from under his robes.

‘Fudge told you everything?’ he asked, striding over to the door and tapping the keyhole with his wand. The Prime Minister heard the lock click.

‘Er – yes,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘And if you don’t mind, I’d rather that door remained unlocked.’

‘I’d rather not be interrupted,’ said Scrimgeour shortly, ‘or watched,’ he added, pointing his wand at the windows so that the curtains swept across them. ‘Right, well, I’m a busy man, so let’s get down to business. First of all, we need to discuss your security.’

The Prime Minister drew himself up to his fullest height and replied, ‘I am perfectly happy with the security I’ve already got, thank you very –’

‘Well, we’re not,’ Scrimgeour cut in. ‘It’ll be a poor lookout for the Muggles if their Prime Minister gets put under the Imperius Curse. The new secretary in your outer office –’

‘I’m not getting rid of Kingsley Shacklebolt, if that’s what you’re suggesting!’ said the Prime Minister hotly. ‘He’s highly efficient, gets through twice the work the rest of them –’

‘That’s because he’s a wizard,’ said Scrimgeour, without a flicker of a smile. ‘A highly trained Auror, who has been assigned to you for your protection.’

‘Now, wait a moment!’ declared the Prime Minister. ‘You can’t just put your people into my office, I decide who works for me –’

‘I thought you were happy with Shacklebolt?’ said Scrimgeour coldly.

‘I am – that’s to say, I was –’

‘Then there’s no problem, is there?’ said Scrimgeour.

‘I … well, as long as Shacklebolt’s work continues to be … er … excellent,’ said the Prime Minister lamely, but Scrimgeour barely seemed to hear him.

‘Now, about Herbert Chorley – your Junior Minister,’ he continued. ‘The one who has been entertaining the public by impersonating a duck.’

‘What about him?’ asked the Prime Minister.

‘He has clearly reacted to a poorly performed Imperius Curse,’ said Scrimgeour. ‘It’s addled his brains, but he could still be dangerous.’

‘He’s only quacking!’ said the Prime Minister weakly. ‘Surely a bit of a rest … maybe go easy on the drink …’

‘A team of Healers from St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries is examining him as we speak. So far he has attempted to strangle three of them,’ said Scrimgeour. ‘I think it best that we remove him from Muggle society for a while.’

‘I … well … he’ll be all right, won’t he?’ said the Prime Minister anxiously. Scrimgeour merely shrugged, already moving back towards the fireplace.

‘Well, that’s really all I had to say. I will keep you posted of developments, Prime Minister – or, at least, I shall probably be too busy to come personally, in which case I shall send Fudge here. He has consented to stay on in an advisory capacity.’

Fudge attempted to smile, but was unsuccessful; he merely looked as though he had toothache. Scrimgeour was already rummaging in his pocket for the mysterious powder that turned the fire green. The Prime Minister gazed hopelessly at the pair of them for a moment, then the words he had fought to suppress all evening burst from him at last.

‘But for heaven’s sake – you’re
wizards
! You can do
magic
! Surely you can sort out – well –
anything
!’

Scrimgeour turned slowly on the spot and exchanged an incredulous look with Fudge, who really did manage a smile this time as he said kindly, ‘The trouble is, the other side can do magic too, Prime Minister.’

And with that, the two wizards stepped one after the other into the bright green fire and vanished.