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"
But
then
,
"
bleated
the
Prime
Minister
,
"
why
has
n'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
do
n'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
.
