The Prime Minister did not know what to say to this, but a persistent habit of wishing to appear well-informed on any subject that came up made him cast around for any details he could remember of their previous conversations.
‘Is Serious Black with – er – He Who Must Not Be Named?’
‘Black? Black?’ said Fudge distractedly, turning his bowler rapidly in his fingers. ‘Sirius Black, you mean? Merlin’s beard, no. Black’s dead. Turns out we were – er – mistaken about Black. He was innocent after all. And he wasn’t in league with He Who Must Not Be Named either. I mean,’ he added defensively, spinning the bowler hat still faster, ‘all the evidence pointed – we had more than fifty eye-witnesses – but anyway, as I say, he’s dead. Murdered, as a matter of fact. On Ministry of Magic premises. There’s going to be an inquiry, actually …’
To his great surprise, the Prime Minister felt a fleeting stab of pity for Fudge at this point. It was, however, eclipsed almost immediately by a glow of smugness at the thought that, deficient though he himself might be in the area of materialising out of fireplaces, there had never been a murder in any of the government departments under his charge … not yet, anyway …
While the Prime Minister surreptitiously touched the wood of his desk, Fudge continued, ‘But Black’s by-the-by now. The point is, we’re at war, Prime Minister, and steps must be taken.’
‘At war?’ repeated the Prime Minister nervously. ‘Surely that’s a little bit of an overstatement?’
‘He Who Must Not Be Named has now been joined by those of his followers who broke out of Azkaban in January,’ said Fudge, speaking more and more rapidly, and twirling his bowler so fast that it was a lime-green blur. ‘Since they have moved into the open, they have been wreaking havoc. The Brockdale bridge – he did it, Prime Minister, he threatened a mass Muggle killing unless I stood aside for him and —’
‘Good grief, so it’s your fault those people were killed and I’m having to answer questions about rusted rigging and corroded expansion joints and I don’t know what else!’ said the Prime Minister furiously.
‘My fault!’ said Fudge, colouring up. ‘Are you saying you would have caved in to blackmail like that?’
‘Maybe not,’ said the Prime Minister, standing up and striding about the room, ‘but I would have put all my efforts into catching the blackmailer before he committed any such atrocity!’
‘Do you really think I wasn’t already making every effort?’ demanded Fudge heatedly. ‘Every Auror in the Ministry was – and is – trying to find him and round up his followers, but we happen to be talking about one of the most powerful wizards of all time, a wizard who has eluded capture for almost three decades!’
‘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,’