Harry Potter 05 - Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

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 windows, 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 and 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 enquiringly 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 on to a rather fine antique rug, brushing ash from the sleeves of his long pinstriped cloak, a lime-green bowler hat in his hand.
    ‘Ah … Prime Minister,’ said Cornelius Fudge, striding forwards 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 greyer, 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 towards 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 realised what’s going on?’
    ‘I …’ hesitated the Prime Minister.
    It was precisely this sort of behaviour 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