Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince hp-6 Page 2

  “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 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 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.

  2. SPINNER’S END

  Many miles away the chilly mist that had pressed against the Prime Minister’s windows drifted over a dirty river that wound between overgrown, rubbish-strewn banks. An immense chimney, relic of a disused mill, reared up, shadowy and ominous. There was no sound apart from the whisper of the black water and no sign of life apart from a scrawny fox that had slunk down the bank to nose hopefully at some old fish-and-chip wrappings in the tall grass.

  But then, with a very faint pop, a slim, hooded figure appeared out of thin air on the edge of the river. The fox froze, wary eyes fixed upon this strange new phenomenon. The figure seemed to take its bearings for a few moments, then set off with light, quick strides, its long cloak rustling over the grass.

  With a second and louder pop, another hooded figure materialized.

  “Wait!”

  The harsh cry startled the fox, now crouching almost flat in the undergrowth. It leapt from its hiding place and up the bank. There was a flash of green light, a yelp, and the fox fell back to the ground, dead.

  The second figure turned over the animal with its toe.

  “Just a fox,” said a woman’s voice dismissively from under the hood. “I thought perhaps an Auror—Cissy, wait!”

  But her quarry, who had paused and looked back at the flash of light, was already scrambling up the bank the fox had just fallen down.

  “Cissy—Narcissa—listen to me—”

  The second woman caught the first and seized her arm, but the other wrenched it away.

  “Go back, Bella!”

  “You must listen to me!”

  “I’ve listened already. I’ve made my decision. Leave me alone!”

  The woman named Narcissa gained the top of the bank, where a line
of old railings separated the river from a narrow, cobbled street. The other woman, Bella, followed at once. Side by side they stood looking across the road at the rows and rows of dilapidated brick houses, their windows dull and blind in the darkness.

  “He lives here?” asked Bella in a voice of contempt. “Here? In this Muggle dunghill? We must be the first of our kind ever to set foot—”

  But Narcissa was not listening; she had slipped through a gap in the rusty railings and was already hurrying across the road.

  “Cissy, wait!”

  Bella followed, her cloak streaming behind, and saw Narcissa darting through an alley between the houses into a second, almost identical street. Some of the streetlamps were broken; the two women were running between patches of light and deep darkness. The pursuer caught up with her prey just as she turned another corner, this time succeeding in catching hold of her arm and swinging her around so that they faced each other.

  “Cissy, you must not do this, you can’t trust him—”

  “The Dark Lord trusts him, doesn’t he?”

  “The Dark Lord is… I believe… mistaken,” Bella panted, and her eyes gleamed momentarily under her hood as she looked around to check that they were indeed alone. “In any case, we were told not to speak of the plan to anyone. This is a betrayal of the Dark Lord’s—”

  “Let go, Bella!” snarled Narcissa, and she drew a wand from beneath her cloak, holding it threateningly in the other’s face. Bella merely laughed.

  “Cissy, your own sister? You wouldn’t—”

  “There is nothing I wouldn’t do anymore!” Narcissa breathed, a note of hysteria in her voice, and as she brought down the wand like a knife, there was another flash of light. Bella let go of her sister’s arm as though burned.

  “Narcissa!”