In third-year halls, their paths first crossed,
A Raven boy, a Blonde girl lost.
"Stay out of my way," she warned with a glare,
But something lingered in the frosty air.
Crimson with his scar and fame,
Emerald with her secrets untamed.
Two worlds ap...
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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. Hewas waiting for a call from the President of a far distant country, and between wondering when thewretched man would telephone, and trying to suppress unpleasant memories of what had been avery long, tiring, and difficult week, there was not much space in his head for anything else.
Themore 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 hadappeared 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 ofthem 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 hadsnapped 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 hisfault that one of his Junior Ministers, Herbert Chorley, had chosen this week to act so peculiarly thathe 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 ownbroad grin. And unfortunately, this was perfectly true.
The Prime Minister felt it himself; people really didseem more miserable than usual. Even the weather was dismal; all this chilly mist in the middle ofJuly...It wasn't right, it wasn't normal...He turned over the second page of the memo, saw how much longer it went on, and gave it upas a bad job. Stretching his arms above his head he looked around his office mournfully. It was ahandsome 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 thatcough. 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 aprepared 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."The man in the painting looked inquiringly at the Prime Minister."Er," said the Prime Minister, "listen...It's not a very good time for me...I'm waiting for a telephone call, you see...from the President of —"That can be rearranged," said the portrait at once. The Prime Minister's heart sank. He hadbeen afraid of that."But I really was rather hoping to speak —"
