Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
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
was
n't
right
,
it
was
n'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
.
"
