It was nearly midnight, and the Prime Minister was sitting alone in his office looking at a long memo that he hadn't read at all. He was waiting for the president of a distant country to call him, wondering when the poor man would be able to call, and trying not to recall the unpleasant memories of that long, tiring and difficult week, and his mind was running out of room for anything else.

The more he tried to focus on the document in front of him, the more the satisfied faces of his political opponents became visible. Even today, this particular adversary is in the news, listing the horrific things that have happened in the past week (as if everyone needs to be reminded) and explaining why all those things are the government's fault. The thought of these denunciations makes the Prime Minister's heart beat faster because these things are neither fair nor true.

Why should his government be able to stop the bridge from breaking? Any accusation that they didn't spend enough money on building the bridge would be outrageous. The bridge was less than 10 years old, and even the best experts were puzzled as to why it simply broke in two, leaving a dozen cars in the river.

And who can blame the lack of police for the two brutal murders that came to light, or for the government's failure to anticipate the grotesque hurricane in the southwest, which resulted in heavy casualties? Is it also his fault that one of his deputy ministers, Herbert Joly, was forced to go home for those strange acts this week?

"Our country is gripped by a gloomy mood," his political opponents unabashedly mocked. Unfortunately, he wasn't wrong. Even the Prime Minister himself can feel this.

People do look a lot more miserable than they used to. Even the weather was gloomy, and in mid-July there was a cold fog...... It's not right, it's not normal...... He flipped to the second page of the memo to see how long it was, and finally gave up on it as if it were a nuisance.

He stretched, and looked around the office sadly. It's a gorgeous office, with a fine marble fireplace facing the sliding windows, keeping the unseasonable cold out. The Prime Minister shuddered, got up and walked to the window, where only a thin fog was pressing down on the windowpane. Just as he was standing with his back to the room, a soft cough suddenly came from behind him.

He froze, his frightened face reflected in the glass. He recognized the cough. I've heard it before. He turned very slowly, facing the empty room.

"Hello?" he struggled to make his voice sound braver than he was. After a few moments, he was ready to believe that no one would respond to him. But a crisp, resolute voice popped out, as if reading a prepared statement. The voice, as the Prime Minister had anticipated at the first cough, came from a small, dirty painting in the corner of the room of a short man in a silver-white wig who looked like a frog.

"To the Muggle Prime Minister. We need to meet urgently. Fast recovery. Sincerely, Fudge. The man in the portrait looked at the Prime Minister inquiringly.

"Uh," said the Prime Minister, "listen...... I don't have time right now...... I'm waiting for a call, you know...... From the president—"

"That can be rearranged," the portrait said immediately. The Prime Minister's heart sank, and this was what he was afraid of.

"But I really want to be and-"

"We'll arrange for that president to forget about tonight's phone call. He'll call again tomorrow night," the diminutive man said. "Please reply to Mr. Fudge quickly. ”

"I ...... Oh...... Well," said the prime minister weakly. "Okay, I'll see Fudge. ”

He walked briskly back to his table, straightening his tie as he went. He had barely had time to return to his seat and put on a pretended relaxed expression when a bright green flame erupted from beneath his marble mantelpiece. He looked there, trying not to show a hint of surprise or panic, when a fat man appeared in the flames of the fireplace, spinning as fast as a spinning top. After a few seconds, he climbed out and stood on a fine antique mat, dusting off the sleeve of his pinstriped cape, and holding a gray-green bowler hat in his hand.

"Ah...... Your Excellency," Connelly Fudge said, striding over to the Prime Minister and extending his hand. "I'm glad to see you again. ”

The prime minister could not sincerely return the greeting, so he said nothing. He wasn't at all happy to see Fudge, and Fudge's occasional visit (not to mention that it was an alarm in its own right) usually meant that he was about to hear some very bad news. What's more, Fudge looked tormented by worry. He became thinner, with less hair, and his face was grayer and wrinkled.

The Prime Minister has seen this look in politicians before, and it is never a good omen.

"Is there anything I can do?" said the Prime Minister, briefly shaking Fudge's hand and pointing to the hardest chair in front of the table.

"I don't know where to start," Fudge muttered quietly, pulling out his chair and sitting down, his green top hat on his lap. "What a bad week, what a bad week......"

"Have you had a bad week too?" asked the Prime Minister stiffly, hoping to make Fudge understand that he had enough to do without Fudge.

"Yes, of course," Fudge rubbed his tired eyes and looked depressedly at the Prime Minister's worst week as you did, Prime Minister. Brodale Bridge...... The murders of Bones and Vance...... Not to mention the commotion in the southwest......"

"You-uh-I mean, some of you are also — involved in these things, too, aren't you?" Fudge glared at the Prime Minister with a stern gaze.

"Of course it is," he said. "You know what's going on, right?"

"I ......" the prime minister hesitated.

It was this kind of behavior that made the prime minister very disgusted with each of Fudge's visits. He is, after all, the prime minister and does not want to be seen as an ignorant student. But that happened from the first meeting he had with Fudge when he first became prime minister.

It was a scene he remembered as if it had been yesterday, and was sure it would haunt him until the day he died. He was standing alone in this office, savoring the victory he had won after so many years of dreams and plans, when he heard a cough behind him, and turned around to find the ugly man in the portrait talking to him, announcing that the Minister of Magic was ready to meet him.

Naturally, he thought that the long election campaign and the tense election had left his mind a little foggy. He was horrified when he found a portrait talking to him, though it wasn't as crazy as a wizard who came out of the fireplace and shook his hand.

Fudge was speechless as he explained that the world was full of hidden wizards, and Fudge was relieved that the Ministry of Magic would be responsible for the entire wizarding community and would not let the non-magical crowd discover them. He added that it was not an easy task to manage, covering everything from regulating the responsibility for the use of broomsticks to keeping the number of dragons under control (the prime minister remembers that he had to hold on to the table to support himself).

Finally, Fudge paternally patted the stunned Prime Minister on the shoulder.

"There's nothing to worry about," he said, "and you'll probably never have to see me again." I'll only bother you when something really serious happens on our side, unless it's big enough to affect Muggles, non-magical people, perhaps. Otherwise, we'll be fine. And, I must admit that you can bear this better than your predecessor. He wanted to throw me out of the window, thinking I was sent by my opponent to fool him. ”

At this time, the prime minister finally found out that he was able to speak again.

"So, you-you're not fooling me?" he still wanted to do his death throes.

"No," Fudge said softly. "I'm afraid not. See. "He turned the prime minister's teacup into a gerbil.

"But," the prime minister was a little out of breath, his teacup biting into his next speech. "But why - why didn't anyone tell me ——?"

"The Minister of Magic only identifies himself to the Prime Minister at the time," Fudge said, tucking his wand back into the pocket of his jacket. "We've found that this is the best way to keep it secret. ”

"But," the prime minister whispered, "why hasn't a single former prime minister warned me ——?"

That's when Fudge really laughed. "My dear Prime Minister, will you tell anyone?" Fudge threw some powder into the fireplace, still giggling and walking into the emerald green flames, and disappeared with a thud.

The Prime Minister stood there, knowing that he would not mention it to anyone alive, because who in the world would believe him? He was convinced that Fudge was just a hallucination, and that he had been too sleep-deficient after a tense campaign. In vain trying to get rid of everything that reminded him of the incident, he gave the gerbil to his niece and had the private secretary take down the portrait of the ugly man who had announced Fudge's visit.

To his dismay, the portrait couldn't move at all. After several carpenters, a builder or two, an art historian and the Chancellor of the Exchequer had failed in their efforts to get it off the wall, the Prime Minister finally gave up his efforts and had to hope that the portrait would never be touched again for the rest of his term. Sometimes, however, he swore to catch a glimpse out of the corner of his eye that the owner of the painting was yawning or scratching his nose, and even, once or twice, he stepped out of his frame, leaving only a piece of muddy canvas.

However, he trained himself not to pay attention to the painting too often, and every time he saw it, he always firmly told himself that his eyes loved to play little jokes with him.

Three years ago, on a night that looked like tonight, the prime minister was alone in his office, and the portrait suddenly announced that Fudge was about to visit, and then Fudge burst out of the fireplace, drenched and nervous.

Before the Prime Minister could ask him why he had made the carpet watery, Fudge began to growl, mentioning a prisoner the Prime Minister had never heard of, named "Little Messy Star" Black, a Hogwarts-sounding thing, and a boy named Harry Potter, none of whom the Prime Minister could understand.

“...... I've just come back from Azkaban," Fudge gasped, pouring water from the brim of his hat into his pocket. "In the middle of the North Sea, you know, disgusting travel...... The Dementors were in a commotion—"he shuddered," and they never let anyone escape. I'm going to tell you anyway. Blake is a notorious Muggle killer and may be planning to return to the Mystery...... But of course, you don't even know who the mystery man is!"

He looked at the Prime Minister in despair and said, "Okay, sit down, sit down, I'd better tell you...... Let's have a glass of whiskey......"

The Prime Minister was angry at being told to sit down in his office, let alone bring out his whiskey, but he sat down anyway. Fudge drew his wand, conjured two large cups filled with amber liquid from the air, shoved one of them to the Prime Minister, and sat down in a chair himself. Fudge said for more than an hour.

On one occasion Fudge was reluctant to say a name out loud, so he wrote it down on a piece of parchment and shoved it into the prime minister's hand that didn't hold whiskey. Finally Fudge stood up and prepared to leave, and the Prime Minister stood up.

"So what do you think of that ......" he glanced at the name he was holding in his left hand, "Vo-"

"His name can't be mentioned!" Fudge said with a low growl. "I'm sorry...... So, do you think the adversary who can't even mention his name is still alive?"

"Well, Dumbledore said he's still alive," Fudge said, tucking his pinstriped cloak under his chin, "but we haven't been able to find him." If you ask me, I'd say he's not dangerous unless someone helps him, so it's Blake that we should be worried about. You're going to issue that warning, right? Great. Well, I hope we never have to see each other again, Prime Minister. ”

But they met again. A year later, a tired-looking Fudge appeared in the air in the Cabinet room, informing the Prime Minister that there had been a little trouble at the Kwaidich (or at least it sounded) World Cup, and that several Muggles had been "involved", but there was no need to worry, the reappearance of the Mysterio's mark was not a cause for concern;

"Oh, I almost forgot," Fudge added. "We imported three foreign dragons and a Sphinx in preparation for the Triwizard Tournament, which is very ordinary, but the Department of Magical Beasts Management and Control told me that the manual says that if we are going to bring very dangerous creatures to this country, we must notify you. ”

"I-what-dragon?" the Prime Minister asked incoherently.

"Yes, three," Fudge said. "And a Sphinx. Well, have a great day. ”

The Prime Minister was a little desperate to hope that the dragon and the Sphinx were the worst, but no. Less than two years later, Fudge erupted from the fire again, this time bringing news of a mass prison break in Azkaban.

"Mass prison breaks?" repeated the Prime Minister hoarsely. "Don't worry, don't worry!" Fudge roared, one foot already in the flames. "We've started a roundup right away - just think you should know!"

Before the Prime Minister could call, "Wait a minute!" Fudge had already disappeared in a burst of green sparks. Whatever the news and the opposition say, the prime minister is not a stupid man. Although Fudge had sworn to him during the first meeting, now that they knew each other better, he didn't fail to notice that Fudge became more flustered with each visit. While he didn't want to think about the Minister of Magic (or another minister, as he usually called him in his head), the Prime Minister couldn't help but worry that Fudge's next appearance would bring even more gloomy news.

So Fudge, who looked unkempt and agitated, came out of the fireplace, astonishing at the sight of the Prime Minister not knowing why he was visiting, the worst thing that had happened in the dark week.

"How should I know—uh—what's going on in wizarding society?" said the Prime Minister scoldingly. "I have a country to manage, and there's a lot to focus on at the moment, except for you-"

"We have a common concern," Fudge interrupted. "The Brodale Bridge is not broken. There are no real hurricanes either. Those murders were not Muggle works either. And Herbert Jolly might have been safer if he had stayed away from his family. We are now in the process of arranging for him to be transferred to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Injuries and Injuries. The transfer is going to be completed tonight. ”

"You're saying—I'm afraid—what?" the prime minister roared.

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