"You — well — you — I mean, some of you — had something to do with these things, didn't you?"
Foggy glared at the Prime Minister sternly.
"Of course," he said. "Are you sure you understand what's going on?"
"I …" The Prime Minister hesitated.
It was this state of affairs that made him dislike Foggy's visit.
After all, he was the Prime Minister, and he didn't want anyone to make him feel like an ignorant schoolboy.
But it had been like this since his first meeting with Foggy on his first night as Prime Minister.
He remembered the scene as clearly as if it had happened yesterday, and he knew he would never forget it until he died.
At that time, he was standing alone in this office, savoring the joy of finally succeeding after so many years of dreams and careful planning. Suddenly, he heard a cough behind him, just like tonight. He turned around and saw the ugly little portrait talking to him, informing him that the Minister of the Ministry of Magic was coming to visit him.
Naturally, he thought it was the stress of the long campaign and election that had made him a little crazy.
He was indeed horrified to find a portrait talking to him, but that wasn't all. Then a man who claimed to be a Wizard jumped out of the fireplace and shook hands with him, and he was even more bewildered.
He didn't say a word. Foggy kindly explained that there were still Wizards living in secret all over the world, and reassured him that he didn't need to worry about these things, because the Ministry of Magic was responsible for managing the entire Wizard World and not letting the non- Wizard crowd know of their existence.
Foggy said that it was a very difficult job. It covered almost everything, from dictating how to use the broom seriously and responsibly, to controlling and governing all the fire dragons. (The Prime Minister remembered gripping the table to prevent himself from falling when he heard this.)
When Foggy had finished, he patted the still-dumbfounded Prime Minister on the shoulder like a kind father.
"Don't worry," he said. "You probably won't see me again. I only come to disturb you when there is a serious problem on our side that might affect the Muggles, that is, those who are not wizards.
Otherwise, you can just let nature take its course. By the way, I have to say that your attitude towards this matter is much better than your predecessor's.
He thinks I'm a swindler sent by his political enemy to throw me out the window. "
The Prime Minister finally found an opportunity to speak.
"So, you're not a liar?"
This was the only faint hope he had left.
"No."
Foggy said gently, "I'm sorry, I'm not.
Look. "
With a wave of his wand, the Prime Minister's teacup turned into a gerbil.
"But," said the Prime Minister breathlessly, gazing at his teacup and gnawing at his next speech, "but why — why didn't anyone tell me —?"
"The Minister of Magic only reveals his identity in front of Prime Minister Muggle."
Foggy said as he put the wand back into his clothes. "We think this is the best way to stay hidden."
"But," said the Prime Minister in a trembling voice, "why didn't the former Prime Minister warn me-"
Hearing this, Foggy actually laughed out loud.
"My dear Prime Minister, are you going to tell others?"
Still chuckling, Foggy threw some powder into the fireplace, stepped into the emerald flame, and disappeared with a whoosh.
The Prime Minister stood there motionless. He knew that as long as he was alive, he would never dare to mention this meeting to anyone. In this vast world, who would believe him?
It was some time before his frightened heart began to calm down. He had tried to convince himself that Foggy or whatever he called him was a hallucination, a hallucination brought on by the exhaustion and lack of sleep of the election campaign.
To get rid of all reminders of this unpleasant meeting, he had given the gerbil to his delighted niece and had ordered his private secretary to take down the portrait of the ugly little man who had announced Foggy's visit.
But to his dismay, he couldn't take the portrait away no matter how hard he tried.
Several carpenters, one or two builders, an art-historian, and the Chancellor of the Exchequer tried with all their might to pry it from the wall, but without success.
In the end the Prime Minister gave up trying, and hoped with all his heart that the thing would remain still and silent for the duration of his term.
Occasionally he was sure that he caught a yawn or a scratch out of the corner of his eye, and once or twice even stepped out of the frame, leaving the dusty gray canvas empty.
But the Prime Minister had trained himself not to look at the portrait too often, and whenever something of the sort happened he told himself firmly that his eyes were playing tricks on him.
Then, three years ago, on a night like this one, when the Prime Minister was alone in his office, the portrait announced Fudge's impending visit, and Fudge had leapt out of the fireplace, drenched and frightened like a drowned rat.
Before the Prime Minister could ask why he had dripped all that water on the Axminster feather carpet, Foggy had launched into an angry tirade about a prison the Prime Minister had never heard of, a man called Black the Little Grey Wolf, something that sounded like Hogwarts, and a boy named Harry Potter. The Prime Minister was too confused to know what he was talking about.
"I just came from Azkaban," Foggy said, panting.
Foggy panted heavily as he poured a large amount of water from the brim of his tall hat into his pocket. "You know, the journey in the middle of the North Sea was really tough … The Soul Catchers rebelled —"
He shuddered. "— and they've never had a prison break before.
Anyway, I had to come to you, Prime Minister.
Black is a famous Muggle killer, and he's probably going to join the Mysteries... Of course, you don't even know who the Mysteries are! "
He looked at the Prime Minister helplessly for a moment and said, "Well, sit down, sit down, I'd better tell you in detail... Have a glass of whiskey..."
He was in the Prime Minister's office, but the other party told him to sit down and offered him his own whiskey.
The Prime Minister was annoyed, but he sat down.
Foggy pulled out his magic wand and conjured two large glasses out of thin air, filled with amber liquid. He pushed one of the glasses into the Prime Minister's hand and then pulled over a chair.
Foggy talked for more than an hour, and when he reached a certain point, he refused to say a name out loud. He wrote it down on a piece of parchment and stuffed it into the Prime Minister's hand that wasn't holding the whiskey.
Finally, Foggy got up to leave, and the Prime Minister also stood up.
"So, you think..." He narrowed his eyes at the name in his left hand. "Crouch —"
"That devil who can't even be named!"
"I'm sorry... You think that devil who can't even be named is still alive, don't you?"
"Yes, that's what Dumbledore said," Foggy said, tucking the pinstriped cloak under his chin. "But we haven't been able to find him.
In my opinion, he's only a danger if he's supported, so we have to worry about Black.
You'll publish that warning, won't you?
That's great.
All right, I hope we won't meet again.
Good night, Prime Minister. "
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