It was nearing midnight and the Prime Minister was sitting alone in his

office, reading a long memo 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 enumerate 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

accusations, for they were neither fair nor true. How on earth was his

government supposed to have stopped that bridge collapsing? It was

outrageous 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 watery 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 concealing his own broad grin.


And unfortunately, this was perfectly true. The Prime Minister felt it

himself; people really did seem more miserable than usual. Even the weather

was dismal; all this chilly 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 wig who was depicted in a small,

dirty oil painting in the far corner of the room.


"To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Urgent we meet. Kindly 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 flicker 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 bowler 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 careworn. He was thinner, balder, and grayer, and his

face had a crumpled look. The Prime Minister had seen that kind of look in

politicians before, and it never boded well.


"How can I help you?" he said, shaking Fudge's hand very briefly 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 helpings from Fudge.


"Yes, of course," said Fudge, rubbing his eyes wearily and looking

morosely 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 fixed 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 precisely 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 standing alone in this very office, savoring 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 utterly 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 reassurances that he was not to bother his head about them as the

Ministry 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 encompassed 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 predecessor. He tried to throw me out the window,

thought I was a hoax planned by the opposition."


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, poking his wand back inside his jacket.

"We find it the best way to maintain secrecy."


"But then," bleated 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 whooshing 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 reminders 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

Chancellor of the Exchequer had all tried unsuccessfully to pry 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

imminent arrival of Fudge, who had burst out of the fireplace, sopping 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 ranting about

a prison the Prime Minister had never heard of, a man named "Serious"

Black, something that sounded like "Hogwarts," and a boy called Harry

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 rim 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 killer 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, conjured two large glasses full of amber 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 squinted down at the name in his left hand.

"Lord Vol--"


"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!" snarled 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 isolated incident, and the Muggle Liaison Office was dealing with all

memory modifications as they spoke.


"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 hoarsely.


"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 flustered 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 Brock-dale 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

affected tonight."


"What do you... I'm afraid I... What?" blustered 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 previously, 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 disappearance 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 killing, 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 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 eyewitnesses--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 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 Blacks 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, coloring 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," 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 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," 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,

'breakdown 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 swarming all over the place, attacking

people left, right, and center..."


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 anymore. 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 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 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 of 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 onto 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 gray 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 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 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 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 shrugged, 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 advisory capacity."


Fudge attempted to smile, but was unsuccessful; he merely looked as

though he had a 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.