It was nearing midnight and the Prime Minister was sitting alone in his office, reading a long memo2 that was slipping through his brain without leaving the slightest trace of meaning behind. He was waiting for a call from the President of a far distant country, and between wondering when the wretched man would telephone, and trying to suppress unpleasant memories of what had been a very long, tiring, and difficult week, there was not much space in his head for anything else. The more he attempted to focus on the print on the page before him, the more clearly the Prime Minister could see the gloating face of one of his political opponents. This particular opponent had appeared on the news that very day, not only to enumerate3 all the terrible things that had happened in the last week (as though anyone needed reminding) but also to explain why each and every one of them was the government's fault.
The Prime Minister's pulse quickened at the very thought of these accusations4, for they were neither fair nor true. How on earth was his government supposed to have stopped that bridge collapsing5? It was outrageous6 for anybody to suggest that they were not spending enough on bridges. The bridge was fewer than ten years old, and the best experts were at a loss to explain why it had snapped cleanly in two, sending a dozen cars into the watery7 depths of the river below. And how dare anyone suggest that it was lack of policemen that had resulted in those two very nasty and well-publicized murders? Or that the government should have somehow foreseen the freak hurricane in the West Country that had caused so much damage to both people and property? And was it his fault that one of his Junior Ministers, Herbert Chorley, had chosen this week to act so peculiarly that he was now going to be spending a lot more time with his family?
“A grim mood has gripped the country,” the opponent had concluded, barely concealing8 his own broad grin.
And unfortunately, this was perfectly9 true. The Prime Minister felt it himself; people really did seem more miserable10 than usual. Even the weather was dismal11; all this chilly12 mist in the middle of July... it wasn't right, it wasn't normal...
He turned over the second page of the memo, saw how much longer it went on, and gave it up as a bad job. Stretching his arms above his head he looked around his office mournfully. It was a handsome room, with a fine marble fireplace facing the long sash windows, firmly closed against the unseasonable chill. With a slight shiver, the Prime Minister got up and moved over to the window, looking out at the thin mist that was pressing itself against the glass. It was then, as he stood with his back to the room, that he heard a soft cough behind him.
He froze, nose to nose with his own scared-looking reflection in the dark glass. He knew that cough. He had heard it before. He turned very slowly to face the empty room.
“Hello?” he said, trying to sound braver than he felt.
For a brief moment he allowed himself the impossible hope that nobody would answer him. However, a voice responded at once, a crisp, decisive voice that sounded as though it were reading a prepared statement. It was coming—as the Prime Minister had known at the first cough— from the froglike little man wearing a long silver wig13 who was depicted14 in a small, dirty oil painting in the far corner of the room.
“To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Urgent we meet. Kindly15 respond immediately. Sincerely, Fudge.”
The man in the painting looked inquiringly at the Prime Minister.
“Er,” said the Prime Minister, “listen... it's not a very good time for me... I'm waiting for a telephone call, you see... from the president of—”
“That can be rearranged,” said the portrait at once. The Prime Minister's heart sank. He had been afraid of that.
“But I really was rather hoping to speak—”
“We shall arrange for the president to forget to call. He will telephone tomorrow night instead,” said the little man. “Kindly respond immediately to Mr. Fudge.”
“I... oh... very well,” said the Prime Minister weakly. “Yes, I'll see Fudge.”
He hurried back to his desk, straightening his tie as he went. He had barely resumed his seat, and arranged his face into what he hoped was a relaxed and unfazed expression, when bright green flames burst into life in the empty grate beneath his marble mantelpiece. He watched, trying not to betray a flicker17 of surprise or alarm, as a portly man appeared within the flames, spinning as fast as a top. Seconds later, he had climbed out onto a rather fine antique rug, brushing ash from the sleeves of his long pin-striped cloak, a lime-green bowler18 hat in his hand.
“Ah... Prime Minister,” said Cornelius Fudge, striding forward with his hand outstretched. “Good to see you again.”
The Prime Minister could not honestly return this compliment, so said nothing at all. He was not remotely pleased to see Fudge, whose occasional appearances, apart from being downright alarming in themselves, generally meant that he was about to hear some very bad news. Furthermore, Fudge was looking distinctly careworn19. He was thinner, balder, and grayer, and his face had a crumpled20 look. The Prime Minister had seen that kind of look in politicians before, and it never boded21 well.
“How can I help you?” he said, shaking Fudge's hand very briefly22 and gesturing toward the hardest of the chairs in front of the desk.
“Difficult to know where to begin,” muttered Fudge, pulling up the chair, sitting down, and placing his green bowler upon his knees. “What a week, what a week...”
“Had a bad one too, have you?” asked the Prime Minister stiffly, hoping to convey by this that he had quite enough on his plate already without any extra helpings23 from Fudge.
“Yes, of course,” said Fudge, rubbing his eyes wearily and looking morosely24 at the Prime Minister. “I've been having the same week you have, Prime Minister. The Brockdale Bridge... the Bones and Vance murders... not to mention the ruckus in the West Country...”
“You—er—your—I mean to say, some of your people were—were involved in those—those things, were they?”
Fudge fixed25 the Prime Minister with a rather stern look.
“Of course they were,” he said, “Surely you've realized what's going on?”
“I...” hesitated the Prime Minister.
It was precisely26 this sort of behavior that made him dislike Fudge's visits so much. He was, after all, the Prime Minister and did not appreciate being made to feel like an ignorant schoolboy. But of course, it had been like this from his very first meeting with Fudge on his very first evening as Prime Minister. He remembered it as though it were yesterday and knew it would haunt him until his dying day.
He had been standing27 alone in this very office, savoring28 the triumph that was his after so many years of dreaming and scheming, when he had heard a cough behind him, just like tonight, and turned to find that ugly little portrait talking to him, announcing that the Minister of Magic was about to arrive and introduce himself
Naturally, he had thought that the long campaign and the strain of the election had caused him to go mad. He had been utterly29 terrified to find a portrait talking to him, though this had been nothing to how he felt when a self-proclaimed wizard had bounced out of the fireplace and shaken his hand. He had remained speechless throughout Fudge's kindly explanation that there were witches and wizards still living in secret all over the world and his reassurances30 that he was not to bother his head about them as the Ministry31 of Magic took responsibility for the whole Wizarding community and prevented the non-magical population from getting wind of them. It was, said Fudge, a difficult job that encompassed32 everything from regulations on responsible use of broomsticks to keeping the dragon population under control (the Prime Minister remembered clutching the desk for support at this point). Fudge had then patted the shoulder of the still-dumbstruck Prime Minister in a fatherly sort of way.
“Not to worry,” he had said, “it's odds-on you'll never see me again. I'll only bother you if there's something really serious going on our end, something that's likely to affect the Muggles—the non-magical population, I should say. Otherwise, it's live and let live. And I must say, you're taking it a lot better than your predecessor33. He tried to throw me out the window, thought I was a hoax34 planned by the opposition35.”
At this, the Prime Minister had found his voice at last.
“You're—you're not a hoax, then?”
It had been his last, desperate hope.
“No,” said Fudge gently. “No, I'm afraid I'm not. Look.”
And he had turned the Prime Minister's teacup into a gerbil.
“But,” said the Prime Minister breathlessly, watching his teacup chewing on the corner of his next speech, “but why—why has nobody told me—?”
“The Minister of Magic only reveals him—or herself to the Muggle Prime Minister of the day,” said Fudge, poking36 his wand back inside his jacket. “We find it the best way to maintain secrecy37.”
“But then,” bleated38 the Prime Minister, “why hasn't a former Prime Minister warned me—?”
At this, Fudge had actually laughed.
“My dear Prime Minister, are you ever going to tell anybody?”
Still chortling, Fudge had thrown some powder into the fireplace, stepped into the emerald flames, and vanished with a whooshing39 sound. The Prime Minister had stood there, quite motionless, and realized that he would never, as long as he lived, dare mention this encounter to a living soul, for who in the wide world would believe him?
The shock had taken a little while to wear off. For a time, he had tried to convince himself that Fudge had indeed been a hallucination brought on by lack of sleep during his grueling election campaign. In a vain attempt to rid himself of all reminders40 of this uncomfortable encounter, he had given the gerbil to his delighted niece and instructed his private secretary to take down the portrait of the ugly little man who had announced Fudge's arrival. To the Prime Minister's dismay, however, the portrait had proved impossible to remove. When several carpenters, a builder or two, an art historian, and the Chancellor41 of the Exchequer42 had all tried unsuccessfully to pry43 it from the wall, the Prime Minister had abandoned the attempt and simply resolved to hope that the thing remained motionless and silent for the rest of his term in office. Occasionally he could have sworn he saw out of the corner of his eye the occupant of the painting yawning, or else scratching his nose; even, once or twice, simply walking out of his frame and leaving nothing but a stretch of muddy-brown canvas behind. However, he had trained himself not to look at the picture very much, and always to tell himself firmly that his eyes were playing tricks on him when anything like this happened.
Then, three years ago, on a night very like tonight, the Prime Minister had been alone in his office when the portrait had once again announced the imminent44 arrival of Fudge, who had burst out of the fireplace, sopping45 wet and in a state of considerable panic. Before the Prime Minister could ask why he was dripping all over the Axminster, Fudge had started ranting46 about a prison the Prime Minister had never heard of, a man named “Serious” Black, something that sounded like “Hogwarts,” and a boy called Harry47 Potter, none of which made the remotest sense to the Prime Minister.
“... I've just come from Azkaban,” Fudge had panted, tipping a large amount of water out of the rim1 of his bowler hat into his pocket. “Middle of the North Sea, you know, nasty flight... the dementors are in uproar"—he shuddered—"they've never had a breakout before. Anyway, I had to come to you, Prime Minister. Black's a known Muggle killer48 and may be planning to rejoin You-Know-Who... but of course, you don't even know who You-Know-Who is!” He had gazed hopelessly at the Prime Minister for a moment, then said, “Well, sit down, sit down, I'd better fill you in... have a whiskey...”
The Prime Minister rather resented being told to sit down in his own office, let alone offered his own whiskey, but he sat nevertheless. Fudge pulled out his wand, conjured49 two large glasses full of amber50 liquid out of thin air, pushed one of them into the Prime Minister's hand, and drew up a chair.
Fudge had talked for more than an hour. At one point, he had refused to say a certain name aloud and wrote it instead on a piece of parchment, which he had thrust into the Prime Minister's whiskey-free hand. When at last Fudge had stood up to leave, the Prime Minister had stood up too.
“So you think that...” He had squinted51 down at the name in his left hand. “Lord Vol—”
“He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!” snarled52 Fudge.
“I'm sorry... you think that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is still alive, then?”
“Well, Dumbledore says he is,” said Fudge, as he had fastened his pin-striped cloak under his chin, “but we've never found him. If you ask me, he's not dangerous unless he's got support, so it's Black we ought to be worrying about. You'll put out that warning, then? Excellent. Well, I hope we don't see each other again, Prime Minister! Good night.”
But they had seen each other again. Less than a year later a harassed-looking Fudge had appeared out of thin air in the cabinet room to inform the Prime Minister that there had been a spot of bother at the Kwidditch (or that was what it had sounded like) World Cup and that several Muggles had been “involved,” but that the Prime Minister was not to worry, the fact that You-Know-Who's Mark had been seen again meant nothing; Fudge was sure it was an isolated53 incident, and the Muggle Liaison54 Office was dealing55 with all memory modifications56 as they spoke57.
“Oh, and I almost forgot,” Fudge had added. “We're importing three foreign dragons and a sphinx for the Triwizard Tournament, quite routine, but the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures tells me that it's down in the rule book that we have to notify you if we're bringing highly dangerous creatures into the country.”
“I—what—dragons?” spluttered the Prime Minister.
“Yes, three,” said Fudge. “And a sphinx. Well, good day to you.”
The Prime Minister had hoped beyond hope that dragons and sphinxes would be the worst of it, but no. Less than two years later, Fudge had erupted out of the fire yet again, this time with the news that there had been a mass breakout from Azkaban.
“A mass breakout?” repeated the Prime Minister hoarsely58.
“No need to worry, no need to worry!” shouted Fudge, already with one foot in the flames. “We'll have them rounded up in no time—just thought you ought to know!”
And before the Prime Minister could shout, “Now, wait just one moment!” Fudge had vanished in a shower of green sparks.
Whatever the press and the opposition might say, the Prime Minister was not a foolish man. It had not escaped his notice that, despite Fudge's assurances at their first meeting, they were now seeing rather a lot of each other, nor that Fudge was becoming more flustered59 with each visit. Little though he liked to think about the Minister of Magic (or, as he always called Fudge in his head, the Other Minister), the Prime Minister could not help but fear that the next time Fudge appeared it would be with graver news still. The site, therefore, of Fudge stepping out of the fire once more, looking disheveled and fretful and sternly surprised that the Prime Minister did not know exactly why he was there, was about the worst thing that had happened in the course of this extremely gloomy week.
“How should I know what's going on in the—er—Wizarding community?” snapped the Prime Minister now. “I have a country to run and quite enough concerns at the moment without—”
“We have the same concerns,” Fudge interrupted. “The Brockdale Bridge didn't wear out. That wasn't really a hurricane. Those murders were not the work of Muggles. And Herbert Chorley's family would be safer without him. We are currently making arrangements to have him transferred to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. The move should be affected60 tonight.”
“What do you... I'm afraid I... what?” blustered61 the Prime Minister.
Fudge took a great, deep breath and said, “Prime Minister, I am very sorry to have to tell you that he's back. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back.”
“Back? When you say ‘back'... he's alive? I mean—”
The Prime Minister groped in his memory for the details of that horrible conversation of three years previously62, when Fudge had told him about the wizard who was feared above all others, the wizard who had committed a thousand terrible crimes before his mysterious disappearance63 fifteen years earlier.
“Yes, alive,” said Fudge. “That is—I don't know—is a man alive if he can't be killed? I don't really understand it, and Dumbledore won't explain properly—but anyway, he's certainly got a body and is walking and talking and killing64, so I suppose, for the purposes of our discussion, yes, he's alive.”
The Prime Minister did not know what to say to this, but a persistent65 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 eyewitnesses—but anyway, as I say, he's dead. Murdered, as a matter of fact. On Ministry of Magic premises66. There's going to be an inquiry67, actually...”
To his great surprise, the Prime Minister felt a fleeting68 stab of pity for Fudge at this point. It was, however, eclipsed almost immediately by a glow of smugness at the thought that, deficient69 though he himself might be in the area of materializing 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 nervously70. “Surely that's a little bit of an overstatement?”
“He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has now been joined by those of his followers71 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 blur72. “Since they have moved into the open, they have been wreaking73 havoc74. 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 rusted75 rigging and corroded76 expansion joints77 and I don't know what else!” said the Prime Minister furiously.
“My fault!” said Fudge, coloring up. “Are you saying you would have caved in to blackmail78 like that?”
“Maybe not,” said the Prime Minister, standing up and striding about the room, “but I would have put all my efforts into catching79 the blackmailer80 before he committed any such atrocity81!”
“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 eluded82 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 miserably83.
“Excuse me!” barked the Prime Minister, now positively84 stamping up and down. “Trees uprooted85, roofs ripped off, lampposts bent86, 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 grimaced87. “He used giants last time, when he wanted to go for the grand effect,” he said. “The Office of Misinformation has been working around 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 morale88 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-aged89 woman who lived alone. It was a—a nasty killing, wasn't it? It's had rather a lot of publicity90. The police are baffled, you see.”
Fudge sighed. “Well, of course they are,” he said. “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 toward 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 around the corner from here, as a matter of fact. The papers had a field day with it, Breakdown91 of law and order in the Prime Minister's backyard—”
“And as if all that wasn't enough,” said Fudge, barely listening to the Prime Minister, “we've got dementors swarming92 all over the place, attacking people left, right, and center...”
Once upon a happier time this sentence would have been unintelligible93 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 anymore. They've deserted94 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 swooping95 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 of Magic!”
“My dear Prime Minister, you can't honestly think I'm still Minister of 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 around 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 quill96. 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 budge97. If he'd just been prepared to persuade the boy, I might still be... well, maybe Scrimgeour will have more success.”
Fudge subsided98 into what was clearly an aggrieved99 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 of Magic.”
“Yes, yes, fine,” said the Prime Minister distractedly, and he barely flinched100 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 onto the antique rug.
Fudge got to his feet and, after a moment's hesitation101, 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 streaks102 of gray in his mane of tawny103 hair and his bushy eyebrows104; 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 immediate16 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 lo 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 lookout105 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 lamely106, 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 addled107 his brains, but he could still be dangerous.”
“He's only quacking108!” 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 are 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 shrugged109, already moving back toward 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 advisory110 capacity.”
Fudge attempted to smile, but was unsuccessful; he merely looked as though he had a toothache. Scrimgeour was already rummaging111 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.
已经快接近午夜了，首相一个人坐在他的办公室里看着一份长长的备忘录，可他一点儿也没读进去。他正在等一个遥远国家的总统给他打来电话，一面在猜测那个可怜的人什么时候才能把电话打过来，一面又努力不去回想这漫长、劳累和艰难的一周留给他的不愉快记忆，他脑子里快要容不下什么别的了。越是想要专注于面前的文件，他的政敌那心满意足的脸就越是清晰可见。就在今天这个特殊的对手还出现在新闻里，又是列举一周来发生的那些可怕的事（好像每个人都需要提醒似的），又是解释为什么那些事情统统都是政府的错。
一想到这些谴责，首相的心跳就加快了，因为这些东西既不公平也不真实。他的政府为什么就应该能阻止大桥的断裂呢？任何对他们在修桥上花的钱不够多的指责都显得很蛮横。那座桥建了还不到10年，就连最好的专家也很困惑为什么它会干干脆脆地折成两段，让一打汽车栽进了河。而又有谁能指责是因为警力不够才导致那两起被狠狠曝光的残忍谋杀案发生的？或者他们应该指责政府没能预报西南部那场导致重大伤亡的怪诞飓风？而他的次长（副部长）之一赫尔伯特·乔利，偏偏在这一周做出那些奇特的行为而被迫回家待着，这也是他的错吗？
“我们的国家被一种阴沉的情绪所笼罩，”他的政敌毫不掩饰露骨的嘲笑。
不幸的是，他说的并没有错。就连首相自己都能感受到这一点；人们确实看起来比从前要痛苦得多了。甚至天气也阴沉起来；七月中旬竟起了寒冷的雾……这不对，这不正常……
他翻过备忘录的第二页，看了看到底有多长，终于还是把它当作一件麻烦事似的放弃了。他伸了伸懒腰，又悲哀地环顾了一下办公室。这真是间华丽的办公室，用精美大理石做成的壁炉正对着推拉式的窗子，将不合时令的寒冷紧紧关在外面。首相打了个寒战，起身走向窗户，外面只有薄薄的雾向窗玻璃压过来。就在他背对房间站着时，身后突然传来了一声轻轻的咳嗽。
他愣住了，玻璃里反射出自己恐惧的脸。那声咳嗽他是认得的。从前就听到过。他非常缓慢地转过身来，面对着这间空屋子。
“你好？”他努力使自己的声音听起来比他本人要勇敢。
过了一小会儿，他准备相信没人会回应他了。但一个干脆、坚决的声音突然冒出来，就像在念一份准备好的声明。那声音——正如首相在听到第一声咳嗽时就预料到的那样——是从屋子角落里一个又小又脏的油画传来的，那里面画着一个头戴银白色假发，长得像青蛙一样的矮小男人。
“致麻瓜首相。我们需要紧急会面。速速回复。福吉诚呈。”那画像里的男人询问般地看着首相。
“呃，”首相说，“听着……我现在没有时间……我在等电话，你知道……从总统——”
“那个可以重新安排，”画像马上说道。首相的心一沉，他怕的就是这个。
“但我真的更希望和——”
“我们会安排那位总统忘掉今晚的电话约定。他会明晚再打过来，”那个矮小的男人说。“请速速回复福吉先生。”
“我……哦……好吧，”首相虚弱地说。“好，我见福吉。”
他快步走回他的桌子，边走边把领带弄直。他刚来得及回到座位，换上一副故作轻松的表情，他的大理石壁炉架下面就窜起了一团亮绿色的火焰。他看着那儿，努力不流露出一丝惊讶和慌张，这时一个肥胖的男人出现在壁炉的火焰里，转得像陀螺一样快。几秒钟之后，他就爬出来站到一张上好的古式垫子上，掸了掸他细条纹斗篷袖子上的灰尘，手上拿着灰绿色的圆顶礼帽。
“啊……首相大人，”康奈利·福吉一边说，一边大步走向首相并伸出他的手。“再见到你真高兴。”
首相没法真诚地回敬这句问候，所以什么都没说。他一点儿也不为见到福吉而高兴，福吉的偶尔造访（且不说它本身就完全是一种警报）通常意味着他将要听到一些非常坏的消息。更何况福吉看起来饱受忧虑的折磨。他变得更瘦，头发更少，脸色也更灰白，而且布满了皱纹。首相从前在政客身上见过这种模样，它从来就不是好的预兆。
“有什么我能做的吗？”首相说，简单地握了握福吉的手，便指向了桌前一个最硬的椅子。
“不知道从哪儿开始说，”福吉小声嘀咕着，他抽出椅子坐上去，把绿色的礼帽放在双膝上。“多糟糕的一周，多糟糕啊……”
“你这一周也很糟糕吗？”首相僵硬地问，希望能让福吉明白，不算上福吉的事儿都已经够他受的了。
“是的，当然，”福吉揉了揉疲倦的眼睛，郁闷地望着首相，说。“我过了和你一样糟的一周，首相大人。布罗戴尔大桥……博恩斯和万斯的谋杀案……更别提西南部地区的骚动了……”
“你——呃——我是想说，你们中有些人也——也卷入了这些——这些事情，是吗？”
福吉用严峻的目光瞪着首相。
“当然是啊，”他说。“你知道发生什么了吧？”
“我……”首相有些犹豫。
就是这种行为，让首相对福吉的每次造访都非常厌恶。他毕竟是首相，不想被人当成无知的学生。但从他刚当上首相时和福吉的第一次见面开始，这种情况就发生了。那一幕就像在昨天一样，他还记得，并且确信会一直萦绕在他心头一直到死的那天。
那时候他一个人站在这间办公室里，品尝着他经过这么多年的梦想和计划才赢来的胜利，这时候他听到了他身后的一声咳嗽，就像今晚一样，转身发现那个画像里的丑陋男人正在对他说话，宣布魔法部部长准备和他见面。
自然，他以为漫长的竞选活动和紧张的选举让他的头脑有些迷糊。当他发现一个画像在和他说话时简直吓坏了，虽然这根本比不上随后一个巫师从壁炉里冒出来并和他握手来得疯狂。在福吉向他解释这个世界上到处都住着隐藏起来的巫师的过程中，他一直哑口无言，福吉宽慰他说魔法部会对整个巫师社会负责，不让非魔法人群发现他们，这些都不用他来伤脑筋。他还说，这管理起来真不是一件容易的事，从规范飞天扫帚的使用责任到保持龙的数量在可控制的范围内（首相记得他当时得抓着桌子来支撑自己），涵盖了每一件事。最后福吉在呆若木鸡的首相肩膀上慈父般地拍了拍。
“没什么可担心的，”他说，“你可能再也不用见到我了。我只会在我们那头出了真正严重的事的时候才会来打扰你，除非那种事情足以影响到麻瓜——非魔法人群，也许应该说。否则我们就相安无事。而，我必须承认你比你的前任更能承受这些。他当时想把我扔出窗子，还以为我是对手派来愚弄他的呢。”
这时，首相终于发现他又能说话了。
“那么，你——你不是在愚弄我？”
他还想做垂死挣扎。
“不是，”福吉轻轻地说。“恐怕不是。看。”
他把首相的茶杯变成了一只沙鼠。
“但是，”首相有点儿喘不过气，他的茶杯正咬着他下一次的演讲稿。“但为什么——为什么没有人告诉过我——？”
“魔法部部长仅仅对时任的首相显示身份，”福吉把魔杖插回上衣的兜里。“我们发现这是最好的保密方法。”
“但是，”首相低声说，“为什么没有一个前任首相警告过我——？”
这时候福吉真正笑了起来。
“我亲爱的首相大人，你会告诉别人吗？”
福吉往壁炉里扔了些粉末，仍旧咯咯地笑着走进了翠绿色的火焰，呼的一声消失了。首相呆立在那儿，他明白自己不会向任何一个活人提起这事儿，因为在这世上有谁会去信他？
震惊的感觉在逐渐消散。他一度确信福吉其实压根儿只是一个幻觉，经过紧张的竞选，他太缺乏睡眠了。他徒劳地想要除去所有能提醒他回忆起那件事的东西，他把沙鼠送给了他的侄女，还让私人秘书把宣布福吉到访的那幅丑男人画像给摘下来。可令他沮丧的是，那画像根本动不了。在几个木匠、一两个建筑工、一个艺术史学家和财政大臣把它从墙上弄下来的努力都以失败告终之后，首相终于放弃了努力，只好寄希望于那幅画像在他余下的任期里再也不要动了。但有时候，他发誓从眼角瞥到了油画的主人在打呵欠，或者在挠鼻子；甚至，有那么一两次竟然走出了自己的画框，只留下一段泥巴色的画布。然而，他又训练自己不去经常注意那幅画，而每次看到这些，他总是坚定地告诉自己眼睛爱和他开小玩笑。
三年前，在一个酷似今晚的夜里，首相一个人待在办公室，画像突然宣告福吉即将到访，然后福吉就从壁炉里闯出来，浑身湿透了，显得相当紧张。首相还没来得及开口问他干嘛要把地毯弄得都是水，福吉就开始咆哮了，他提到一个首相从来没有听说过的囚犯，叫做“小添乱星”布莱克，一个听起来像是霍格沃茨的东西，还有一个叫哈利·波特的男孩，没有一个是首相能理解的。
“……我刚从阿兹卡班回来，”福吉喘着气，把帽沿里的水倒进口袋。“在北海的中部，你知道的，令人厌恶的旅行……摄魂怪在骚动——”他打了个寒战，“——他们从没让人逃脱过。无论如何我还是要来告诉你。布莱克是一个臭名昭著的麻瓜杀手，而且可能正计划重新投靠神秘人……不过当然了，你甚至不知道神秘人是谁！”他绝望地看了看首相，说，“好吧，坐下，坐下，我最好还是讲给你听……来杯威士忌吧……”
首相对于在自己办公室里被人叫着坐下显得很愤怒，更别说要拿出自己的威士忌了，但他还是坐下了。福吉抽出魔杖，从空气中变出两个装满琥珀色液体的大杯子，把其中一杯塞给首相，自己抽了把椅子坐下来。
福吉说了一个多小时。有一次福吉不愿意大声说出某个名字，就把它写在了一张羊皮纸上，塞给首相没有拿威士忌的那只手。最后福吉站起来准备走了，首相也站了起来。
“那么你认为那个……”他瞟了一眼左手上握着的名字，“伏——”
“他的名字不能提！”福吉低声咆哮着说。
“对不起……那么，你认为那个连名字都不能提的魔头还活着？”
“唔，邓布利多说他还活着，”福吉说，一边把细条纹斗篷系在下巴下面，“但我们一直没找到他。如果你问我的话，我会说他并不危险，除非有人帮他，所以我们应该担心的是布莱克。你会发布那个警告的，是吧？好极了。那么，我希望我们再也不用见面了，首相大人！晚安。”
但他们又见面了。一年之后，一个看起来很疲倦的福吉出现在内阁房间的空气中，他来通知首相在葵地奇（至少听起来是这样）世界杯上出现了一点小麻烦，有几个麻瓜被“卷入”了，但不用担心，神秘人标记重现的事不足挂齿；福吉确信那是一个孤立事件，麻瓜联络办公室会处理修改记忆的事宜。
“噢，我差点儿忘了，”福吉补充说。“我们为了准备三强争霸赛而进口了三只外国龙和一只斯芬克斯，非常普通，但神奇动物管理控制司告诉我，手册里写了如果我们要带非常危险的生物到这个国家，就必须通知你。”
“我——什么——龙？”首相语无伦次地问。
“对，三只，”福吉说。“还有一只斯芬克斯。那么，祝你过得愉快。”
首相有点绝望地希望龙和斯芬克斯是最糟糕的，但不是。不到两年之后，福吉又从火里喷出来，这次带来了阿兹卡班发生大规模越狱的消息。
“大规模越狱？”首相嘶哑地重复着。
“不用担心，不用担心！”福吉吼道，一只脚已经踏进了火焰中。“我们已经立即开展围捕了——只是觉得你应该知道！”
首相还没来得及叫，“稍等一下！”福吉已经在一阵绿色火花中消失了。
无论新闻和反对派怎么说，首相却并不是一个愚蠢的人。尽管在第一次见面时福吉就信誓旦旦地向他保证，但现在他们互相了解得更多了，他并非没有注意到，福吉每次造访都变得更加慌乱。虽然他并不想考虑那个魔法部部长（或者像他平时在脑子里称呼他的，另一个部长）的事，但首相仍然禁不住担心福吉的下一次出现会带来更灰暗的消息。因此，看上去既蓬乱又烦躁的福吉从壁炉里走出来，苛刻地惊讶于首相竟不知道他为何造访的景象，就是这黑暗的一周里发生的最糟糕的事。
“我怎么就该知道——呃——巫师社会里发生的事情呢？”首相呵斥般地说。“我有一个国家需要管理，而且目前有许多需要关注的事情，除了你那些——”
“我们有着共同的关注，”福吉打断了他的话。“布罗戴尔大桥并不是垮掉了。也没有什么真正的飓风。那些谋杀也不是麻瓜的作品。而赫尔伯特·乔利如果远离他的家庭，也许他们会更安全。我们现在正安排将他转入圣芒戈魔法伤病医院。这个转移今晚就要完成。”
“你在说——我恐怕——什么？”首相咆哮起来。
福吉深吸了一口气，然后说，“首相大人，我非常遗憾地告诉你，他回来了。那个连名字都不能提的魔头回来了。”
“回来？你说‘回来’……他还活着？我的意思是——”
首相在他的记忆里摸索三年前那场可怕谈话的细节，那时候福吉说人人都惧怕这个巫师，十五年前这个巫师在犯下一千多件恐怖的罪行之后，神秘地消失了。
“对，还活着，”福吉说。“那就是——我不知道——如果一个人不能被杀死，是不是就指他活着？我并不能真正理解这个词，邓布利多也没解释清楚——不过他有了一个身体，能走路能谈话也能杀人，所以我认为，为了我们的讨论能进行下去，对，他还活着。”
首相不知道该说什么，但出于希望能在讨论的各个话题中都表现得见识多广的持久习惯，他开始搜寻从前谈话中他还能记起的任何细节。
“小添乱星布莱克是不是跟着——呃——那个连名字都不能提的魔头？”
“布莱克？布莱克？”福吉把手中的礼帽转得飞快，心烦意乱地说。“小天狼星布莱克，你是说？我的天哪，不。布莱克死了。看起来我们——呃——误会布莱克了。他毕竟是清白的。他也不是那个连名字都不能提的魔头那边的人。我是说，”他把礼帽转得更快了，解围一般地说，“所有事实都指明这一点——我们有多于五十个的目击者——但无论如何，正如我刚才说的，他死了。事实上是被杀害了。在魔法部里面被杀害。实际上还会有个调查……”
让福吉大为惊讶的是，这时候首相脸上闪过一丝对福吉的怜悯。但首相马上就装模作样地把它掩饰起来，他想，虽然他在从壁炉里显形这方面可能比不过福吉，但他还不至于让一场谋杀发生在他管辖的政府部门里……无论如何，还没有……
首相偷偷碰了碰他的木头桌子，这时福吉接着说了下去，“但我们只是顺便提及布莱克。关键在于，我们正处于战争之中，首相大人，我们必须采取措施。”
“战争当中？”首相紧张地重复。“肯定有点夸大其辞了吧。”
“那个连名字都不能提的魔头现在有了一批支持者，一月份他们从阿兹卡班逃脱，”福吉说得越来越急促，把手中的礼帽转得那么快，看起来就像个灰绿色的模糊小球。“自从获得自由之后，他们就开始制造报复性的灾难。布罗戴尔大桥——他做的，首相大人，他威胁说如果我不给他让路，就会有一大堆的麻瓜要死掉，而且……”
“天哪，这么说是那些人的死都是你的错，而我却不得不去回答说是因为铁索生锈和伸缩接头被腐蚀了，而且我还不知道有什么别的！”首相狂怒地说。
“我的错！”福吉涨红了脸，说。“你是说，你会屈服于像那样的勒索吗？”
“也许不会，”首相站了起来，在房子里大步大步地踱，“但我会尽全力在这个勒索者犯下任何这样的暴行之前抓住他。”
“你真的认为我没有做每一种努力吗？”福吉激烈地说。“每一个部里的傲罗都找过——而且也正在找他并且围捕他的追随者，但我们不巧正好谈论的是有史以来最强大的巫师，一个逃脱追捕几乎三十年的巫师。”
“那么我想你要告诉我，也是他在西南部制造的飓风？”首相每迈出一步，脾气都变得更大。找到了所有这些可怕的灾难发生的原因，却不能将它公布给公众是令人愤怒的；几乎比都怪罪到政府头上还要糟糕。
“那不是飓风，”福吉悲伤地说。
“哦，对不起！”首相跺着脚大叫。“树被连根拔起，屋顶被撕开，路灯柱被折弯，可怕的伤亡——”
“那是食死徒们干的，”福吉说。“那个连名字都不能提的魔头的追随者。而且……我们怀疑巨人也参与其中了。”
首相停下了他的脚步，就像撞到了一面无形的墙。
“什么参与了？”
福吉苦笑了一下。“上一次他为了寻求盛大的效果，用过巨人。误导办公室在昼夜不停地工作，我们有一队记忆注销员来修改那些看到真实情况的麻瓜的记忆，几乎所有的神奇动物管理控制司的成员都在索默塞忙得团团转，但我们找不到巨人——这是一场灾难。”
“这是真的吗！”首相狂怒地说。
“我不会否认现在部里士气非常低落，”福吉说。“除了那些，我们还失去了阿米莉亚·博恩斯。”
“失去了谁？”
“阿米莉亚·博恩斯。法律执行司的司长。我们觉得是那个连名字都不能提的魔头亲自杀了她，因为她是个非常有天分的巫师，而——而所以迹象表明她真正搏斗过。”
福吉清了清嗓子，似乎做了极大的努力不去转动他的帽子。
“但那场谋杀上了报纸，”首相旋即压了压怒气。“我们的报纸。阿米莉亚·博恩斯……上面只说她是个独居的中年妇女。那是——肮脏的谋杀，不是吗？众所周知。警察们都很困惑，你知道。”
福吉叹息道。“哦，他们当然会。在一个从里面锁着的房子里被杀害，不是吗？另一方面，我们确切地知道那是谁干的，但那并不能有助于我们抓到他。然后又是爱米琳·万斯，也许你没有听说过那个名字——”
“哦，我听说过！”首相说。“实际上就发生在这附近。报纸对它大做文章：在首相的后院践踏法律和秩序——”
“而好像那些都还不够一样，”福吉几乎没有听首相的话，接着说，“我们还有摄魂怪涌往各地，到处攻击人群。”
要在以前，这句话对首相来说可能会显得莫名其妙，但他现在更加明智了。
“我本以为摄魂怪看守阿兹卡班监狱？”他慎重地说。
“他们曾经是，”福吉疲惫地说。“但现在不再是了。他们放弃了那所监狱并且投靠了那个连名字都不能提的魔头。我不会否认那是一个突然的打击。”
“不过，”首相感觉到一种逐渐清晰的恐惧，他说，“你不是要告诉我它们是那些能吸干人的希望和快乐的生物吧？”
“就是那样。他们在繁殖。那就是起雾的原因。”
首相瘫软地陷进最近的椅子里。一想到那些看不见的动物在城镇和乡村飞来飞去，在他的选民中间散布绝望，这个想法就让他感到虚弱不堪。
“现在，听着，福吉——你必须做些什么！这是你作为魔法部部长的责任！”
“我亲爱的首相大人，在经过了所有这些之后，你会相信我还是魔法部部长吗？我三天前就被解雇了！整个巫师世界强烈要求我下台已经两周了。我在任期里从没有见过他们如此团结一致！”福吉鼓起勇气笑了笑。
首相一时间说不出话来。尽管他对目前的处境非常愤怒，但他还是相当同情这个坐在他面前的干瘪的人。
“非常抱歉，”他最终说。“我还能做些什么吗？”
“真的非常感谢，首相大人，但没有什么可以做的了。我今晚是被派来向你提供近来这些事件的最新情况的，同时也要向你介绍我的继任者。我觉得他应该到了，但当然了，他此时应该非常忙碌，有这么多事情在进行。”
福吉回头看了看画像里戴着银白色卷发的丑陋男人，他正在用羽毛笔挖耳朵。
他接触到了福吉的目光，于是说“他一会儿就来，他快要把给邓布利多的信写完了。”
“祝他好运，”福吉说，第一次听起来有些苦涩。“过去的两周我每两天就给邓布利多写一封信，但他不为所动。如果他准备好了要说服那个男孩，我还是……好了，也许斯克林杰会更成功。”
福吉又退回到令人苦恼的沉静之中，但它马上被画像清脆、打着官腔的声音打破了。
“致麻瓜首相。请求一个会面。紧急。速速回复。鲁弗斯·斯克林杰，魔法部部长。”
“是，是，好，”首相心烦意乱地说，当壁炉里的火焰又一次变成翠绿色的时候，他都几乎没有畏缩，又一个巫师从里面旋转着显现出来，一转眼他又被火焰吐到那张古朴的垫子上。福吉站了起来，片刻犹豫之后首相也站了起来，他们看着新来的客人站起身，掸掉长长的黑色袍子上的灰尘，然后环顾四周。
首相第一眼看到鲁弗斯·斯克林杰时觉得他就像是一头老狮子。茶色的长发和浓密的眉毛里夹杂着缕缕灰发；一副金属框的眼镜下有一双锐利的黄眼睛。他走起路来虽然微微跛脚，却透出一种散漫、悠闲的雅致。马上给人一种精明强干的印象；首相觉得他明白了为什么在这种危急时期巫师社会要选他来替代福吉作为领导者。
“你好。”首相礼貌地说，伸出了他的手。
斯克林杰简单地抓住它握了握，他的眼睛扫视着这个屋子，然后从袍子里抽出一根魔杖。
“福吉已经告诉你所有的事了？”他问道，然后大步走向房门，用魔杖在钥匙孔上轻轻一点。首相听到锁响了一下。
“呃——对，”首相说。“如果你不介意的话，我希望别锁那扇门。”
“我情愿不被打断，”斯克林杰简洁地说，“或者被注视，”他又加上一句，并用魔杖把窗户上的窗帘也拉了下来。“好的，那么，我是一个大忙人，所以让我们忙活起来。首先，我们需要讨论你的安全。”
首相猛跳起来说，“我对目前我的安全状况很满意，非常感——”
“好了好了，并非如此，”斯克林杰打断他。“对麻瓜们来说，如果他们的首相被夺魂咒控制，他们的前景就不妙了。你外面办公室的新秘书——”
“我不会放弃金斯莱·沙克尔，如果你说要弃用他的话！”首相激烈地说。“他非常能干，能做的事是剩下人的两倍——”
“那是因为他是一个巫师，”斯克林杰微微一笑，说。“一个严格训练的傲罗，被指派去做你的保护工作。”
“等一等！”首相说。“你们不能就这么把你们的人放到我的办公室里，应该由我决定谁为我工作——”
“我以为你对沙克尔很满意？”斯克林杰冷冷地说。
“我是——那是指，我曾经是——”
“那么就没有问题，不是吗？”斯克林杰说。
“我……好吧，只要沙克尔的工作仍然……呃……杰出，”首相结结巴巴地说，但斯克林杰几乎没有听他的。
“现在，关于赫尔伯特·乔利——你的次长，”他继续说道。“那个通过模仿鸭子来愉悦大众的人。”
“他怎么了？”首相问。
“他很明显中了一个不太高明的夺魂咒，”斯克林杰说。“这弄坏了他的脑子，但他仍然很危险。”
“他只不过在学鸭子叫而已！”首相虚弱地说。“当然还有些其他的毛病……也许喜欢饮酒……”
“在我们谈话的同时，一组圣芒戈魔法伤病医院的治疗师正在给他做检查。目前为止他已经企图扼死他们中的三个了，”斯克林杰说。“我认为暂时把他同麻瓜社会隔离开比较好。”
“我……好吧……他会好起来的，是吗？”首相焦急地问。斯克林杰只是耸了耸肩，已经起身走到了壁炉边。
“好了，那就是我想说的。我会让你知道事情的进展，首相——或者，至少我可能会太忙而没有时间亲自来你这儿，在这种情况下我会派福吉来。他已经答应继续留任一个提供建议的职位。”
福吉试图微笑，但并不成功；他仅仅弄得看起来像是牙痛。斯克林杰已经开始在口袋里摸索那能使火焰变绿的神秘粉末了。首相绝望地凝视了他们俩一会儿，最终忍不住说出了那句被他压抑了一整夜的话。
“老天！——你们是巫师！你们会施魔法！你们肯定能解决——嗯——任何问题！”
斯克林杰慢慢转过身来，和福吉交换了一个怀疑的眼神，福吉这次真的试图挤出笑容，他温和地说，“可问题在于，那一边也会施魔法，首相大人。”
说完这些，两人一先一后地走进那明亮的绿色火焰中，消失了。
收听单词发音 |
1
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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memo
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| n.照会，备忘录；便笺；通知书；规章 | |
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enumerate
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| v.列举，计算，枚举，数 | |
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accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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collapsing
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| 压扁[平]，毁坏，断裂 | |
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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bowler
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| n.打保龄球的人，（板球的）投（球）手 | |
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careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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boded
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| v.预示，预告，预言( bode的过去式和过去分词 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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helpings
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| n.（食物）的一份( helping的名词复数 )；帮助，支持 | |
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morosely
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| adv.愁眉苦脸地，忧郁地 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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savoring
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| v.意味，带有…的性质( savor的现在分词 )；给…加调味品；使有风味；品尝 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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reassurances
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| n.消除恐惧或疑虑( reassurance的名词复数 )；恢复信心；使人消除恐惧或疑虑的事物；使人恢复信心的事物 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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hoax
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| v.欺骗，哄骗，愚弄；n.愚弄人，恶作剧 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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bleated
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的过去式和过去分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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whooshing
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| v.（使）飞快移动( whoosh的现在分词 ) | |
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reminders
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| n.令人回忆起…的东西( reminder的名词复数 )；提醒…的东西；（告知该做某事的）通知单；提示信 | |
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chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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exchequer
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| n.财政部；国库 | |
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43
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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44
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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45
sopping
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| adj. 浑身湿透的 动词sop的现在分词形式 | |
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46
ranting
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| v.夸夸其谈( rant的现在分词 )；大叫大嚷地以…说教；气愤地)大叫大嚷；不停地大声抱怨 | |
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47
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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48
killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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49
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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50
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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51
squinted
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| 斜视( squint的过去式和过去分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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52
snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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53
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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54
liaison
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| n.联系，（未婚男女间的）暖昧关系，私通 | |
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55
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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56
modifications
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| n.缓和( modification的名词复数 )；限制；更改；改变 | |
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57
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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59
flustered
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| adj.慌张的；激动不安的v.使慌乱，使不安( fluster的过去式和过去分词) | |
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60
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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61
blustered
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| v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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62
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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64
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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65
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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67
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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68
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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73
wreaking
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| 诉诸（武力），施行（暴力），发（脾气）( wreak的现在分词 ) | |
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havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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75
rusted
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| v.（使）生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
corroded
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| 已被腐蚀的 | |
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77
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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78
blackmail
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| n.讹诈，敲诈，勒索，胁迫，恫吓 | |
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79
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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80
blackmailer
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| 敲诈者，勒索者 | |
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81
atrocity
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| n.残暴，暴行 | |
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82
eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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83
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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85
uprooted
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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86
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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87
grimaced
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
morale
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| n.道德准则，士气，斗志 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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90
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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91
breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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92
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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swooping
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的现在分词 ) | |
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96
quill
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| n.羽毛管；v.给（织物或衣服）作皱褶 | |
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budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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100
flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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102
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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103
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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105
lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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106
lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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107
addled
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| adj.（头脑）糊涂的，愚蠢的；（指蛋类）变坏v.使糊涂( addle的过去式和过去分词 )；使混乱；使腐臭；使变质 | |
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108
quacking
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| v.（鸭子）发出嘎嘎声( quack的现在分词 ) | |
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109
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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110
advisory
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| adj.劝告的，忠告的，顾问的，提供咨询 | |
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111
rummaging
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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