Harry Potter and the Secret Treasures

Such an uncanny and abnormal scene would scare anyone who saw it.

The Prime Minister shrank back into his chair, trying not to betray a flicker of surprise or alarm.

He watched as a portly man appeared within the flames, spinning as fast as a top.

Seconds later, the portly man stepped over the grate, a lime-green bowler hat in his hand.

He stood on a rather fine antique rug, brushing ash from the sleeves of his long pin-striped cloak.

“Ah … Muggle Prime Minister,” said Cornelius Fudge, striding forward with his hand outstretched. “Good to see you again.”

The Prime Minister could not honestly return this compliment, so said nothing at all.

To be honest, he was not remotely pleased to see Fudge, whose occasional appearances, apart from being downright alarming in themselves, generally meant that he was about to hear some very bad news.

Furthermore, Fudge was looking distinctly careworn. He was thinner than before, balder, and grayer, and his face had a crumpled look.

The Prime Minister had seen that kind of look on politicians before, and it had never boded well.

“Hello, how can I help you?” asked the Prime Minister, shaking Fudge’s hand very briefly and gesturing toward the hardest of the chairs in front of the desk.

“A lot, a lot! Difficult to know where to begin,” muttered Fudge, pulling up the chair sitting down, and placing his green bowler hat upon his knees. “The last few months have been tough, really tough…”

“Had a bad time too, have you?” asked the Prime Minister stiffly, hoping to convey by this that he had quite enough on his plate already without any extra helpings from Fudge.

“Yes, of course, terrible,” said Fudge, rubbing his eyes wearily and looking morosely at the Prime Minister. “I guess I’ve been through much the same as you, Prime Minister. The Brockdale Bridge … the Bones and Vance murders … not to mention the ruckus in the West Country. Believe me, this is just the beginning, just the beginning…”

“You — er — your — I mean to say, some of your people were — were involved in those — those things, were they?” The Prime Minister tried to keep his tone calm, but it was really difficult, “And — you just said —this — this is just the beginning?”

“Of course they were,” Fudge fixed the Prime Minister with a rather stern look. “Surely you’ve realized what’s going on?”

“I…” hesitated the Prime Minister.

It was precisely this sort of behavior that made him dislike Fudge’s visits so much.

He was, after all, the Prime Minister and did not appreciate being made to feel like an ignorant schoolboy.

But of course, it had been like this from his very first meeting with Fudge on his very first evening as Prime Minister.

He remembered it as though it were yesterday and knew it would haunt him until his dying day.

He had been standing alone in this very office, savoring the triumph that was his after so many years of dreaming and scheming. He was alone…

“I’m sorry, we have limited time,” said Fudge directly. “I came here to inform you of a few things, Prime Minister. First of all, you must understand that neither Brockdale Bridge nor those murders were accidents.”

The Prime Minister’s unpleasantness because of the interruption of his memories was fleeting, and was quickly replaced by anger.

“You mean — it’s because of wizards? It’s you who did it?” the Prime Minister said stiffly. “My God, do you know how much trouble this has caused me? I have a country to run and quite enough concerns at the moment without —”

“We have the same concerns,” Fudge interrupted him. “You need to know that the Brockdale 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.”

“I don’t understand at all, what happened to my Junior Minister?” the Prime Minister roared excitedly, his anger almost out of control. “Speak clearly!”

“He’s been controlled by someone and has been under the Imperius Curse, poor guy!” said Fudge. “I’m not sure if I’m the right person to tell you this, but you should know that this means they want to control you. This is the main reason I came tonight; you’re in great danger.”

“Danger? Want to control me?!” The Prime Minister was immediately deflated and his face turned pale. “You, you mean someone wants to control me?”

“It’s very easy to control you, and there are many benefits. Scrimgeour thinks they want to control you to start a war, a war between nations, just like the war that affected the whole world more than fifty years ago,” Fudge sighed. “It’s terrifying, but after talking to Dumbledore, Scrimgeour seems convinced…”

The Prime Minister couldn’t hear what Fudge said next. He felt that strength was draining away from his body little by little.

The current situation was that a group of wizards wanted to control him to start a World War. It was crazy! The current world environment was completely different from the past, and if they started a war, who would be the enemy…

Imagine if he were to speak of such things — how would Parliament and Britain’s allies react? Obviously, they would think he was crazy and his political career would be over!

But what if they all ended up being controlled as well?

The Prime Minister didn’t dare to think about it anymore. The result would be even worse.

War, the result of a Third World War would be the destruction of everyone on this planet!

“Who? Who is it that wants to control me?” the Prime Minister asked weakly.

Fudge paused, took a deep breath, and then continued, “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 knew He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Fudge was talking about. He had heard about this person from Fudge many times, and each time was accompanied by terrible events. He 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 countless terrible crimes before his mysterious disappearance fifteen years earlier.

“Yes, alive,” said Fudge, equally pale. “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, and, of course, he can come and control you. So I suppose, for the purposes of our discussion, yes, he’s alive…”

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