The villagers of Little Hangleton still called it 'the Riddle House,' even though it had been many years since the Riddle family had lived there. It stood on a hill overlooking the village, some of its windows boarded, tiles missing from its roof, and ivy spreading unchecked over its face. Once a fine-looking manor, and easily the largest and grandest building for miles around, the Riddle House was now damp, derelict, and unoccupied.

This is a story of how the Marauders, enemies and acquaintances read the Harry Potter books, but with some changes. Add to library 47 Discussion 15. Harry Potter reacting. Fanfiction Fantasy Romance Harry Potter Maruaders Reading The Books. Watch familiar faces reading Harry Potter at home - including Daniel Radcliffe, David Beckham, Dakota Fanning & Tom Felton. Sign up to hear who's next. Harry Potter and the Chamber of SecretsRead online books from your Mobile or PC. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets The book is wrote by J. Rowling Free online books for you to read. Read all Game of Thrones books online for free, read with your mobile, tablet or desktop. Harry Potter Books Online Read. Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone. Published Year: 1997 Young Adult Science Fiction. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. #1 Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone - Chapter 1 The Boy Who Lived online, free novel reading, your favorite novel station - read online novels.

The Little Hangletons all agreed that the old house was 'creepy.' Half a century ago, something strange and horrible had happened there, something that the older inhabitants of the village still liked to discuss when topics for gossip were scarce. The story had been picked over so many times, and had been embroidered in so many places, that nobody was quite sure what the truth was anymore. Every version of the tale, however, started in the same place: Fifty years before, at daybreak on a fine summer's morning when the Riddle House had still been well kept and impressive, a maid had entered the drawing room to find all three Riddles dead.

The maid had run screaming down the hill into the village and roused as many people as she could.

'Lying there with their eyes wide open! Cold as ice! Still in their dinner things!'

The police were summoned, and the whole of Little Hangleton had seethed with shocked curiosity and ill-disguised excitement. Nobody wasted their breath pretending to feel very sad about the Riddles, for they had been most unpopular. Elderly Mr. and Mrs. Riddle had been rich, snobbish, and rude, and their grown-up son, Tom, had been, if anything, worse. All the villagers cared about was the identity of their murderer - for plainly, three apparently healthy people did not all drop dead of natural causes on the same night.

The Hanged Man, the village pub, did a roaring trade that night; the whole village seemed to have turned out to discuss the murders. They were rewarded for leaving their firesides when the Riddles' cook arrived dramatically in their midst and announced to the suddenly silent pub that a man called Frank Bryce had just been arrested.

'Frank!' cried several people. 'Never!'

Frank Bryce was the Riddles' gardener. He lived alone in a run-down cottage on the grounds of the Riddle House. Frank had come back from the war with a very stiff leg and a great dislike of crowds and loud noises, and had been working for the Riddles ever since.

There was a rush to buy the cook drinks and hear more details.

'Always thought he was odd,' she told the eagerly listening villagers, after her fourth sherry. 'Unfriendly, like. I'm sure if I've offered him a cuppa once, I've offered it a hundred times. Never wanted to mix, he didn't.'

'Ah, now,' said a woman at the bar, 'he had a hard war, Frank. He likes the quiet life. That's no reason to -'

'Who else had a key to the back door, then?' barked the cook. 'There's been a spare key hanging in the gardener's cottage far back as I can remember! Nobody forced the door last night! No broken windows! All Frank had to do was creep up to the big house while we was all sleeping...'

The villagers exchanged dark looks.

'I always thought that he had a nasty look about him, right enough,' grunted a man at the bar.

'War turned him funny, if you ask me,' said the landlord.

'Told you I wouldn't like to get on the wrong side of Frank, didn't I, Dot?' said an excited woman in the corner.

'Horrible temper,' said Dot, nodding fervently. 'I remember, when he was a kid...'

By the following morning, hardly anyone in Little Hangleton doubted that Frank Bryce had killed the Riddles.

But over in the neighboring town of Great Hangleton, in the dark and dingy police station, Frank was stubbornly repeating, again and again, that he was innocent, and that the only person he had seen near the house on the day of the Riddles' deaths had been a teenage boy, a stranger, dark-haired and pale. Nobody else in the village had seen any such boy, and the police were quite sure Frank had invented him.

Then, just when things were looking very serious for Frank, the report on the Riddles' bodies came back and changed everything.

The police had never read an odder report. A team of doctors had examined the bodies and had concluded that none of the Riddles had been poisoned, stabbed, shot, strangles, suffocated, or (as far as they could tell) harmed at all. In fact (the report continued, in a tone of unmistakable bewilderment), the Riddles all appeared to be in perfect health - apart from the fact that they were all dead. The doctors did note (as though determined to find something wrong with the bodies) that each of the Riddles had a look of terror upon his or her face - but as the frustrated police said, whoever heard of three people being frightened to death?

As there was no proof that the Riddles had been murdered at all, the police were forced to let Frank go. The Riddles were buried in the Little Hangleton churchyard, and their graves remained objects of curiosity for a while. To everyone's surprise, and amid a cloud of suspicion, Frank Bryce returned to his cottage on the grounds of the Riddle House.

'As far as I'm concerned, he killed them, and I don't care what the police say,' said Dot in the Hanged Man. 'And if he had any decency, he'd leave here, knowing as how we knows he did it.'

But Frank did not leave. He stayed to tend the garden for the next family who lived in the Riddle House, and then the next - for neither family stayed long. Perhaps it was partly because of Frank that the new owners said there was a nasty feeling about the place, which, in the absence of inhabitants, started to fall into disrepair.

The wealthy man who owned the Riddle House these days neither lived there nor put it to any use; they said in the village that he kept it for 'tax reasons,' though nobody was very clear what these might be. The wealthy owner continued to pay Frank to do the gardening, however. Frank was nearing his seventy-seventh birthday now, very deaf, his bad leg stiffer than ever, but could be seen pottering around the flower beds in fine weather, even though the weeds were starting to creep up on him, try as he might to suppress them.

Weeds were not the only things Frank had to contend with either. Boys from the village made a habit of throwing stones through the windows of the Riddle House. They rode their bicycles over the lawns Frank worked so hard to keep smooth. Once or twice, they broke into the old house for a dare. They knew that old Frank's devotion to the house and the grounds amounted almost to an obsession, and it amused them to see him limping across the garden, brandishing his stick and yelling croakily at them. Frank, for his part, believed the boys tormented him because they, like their parents and grandparents, though him a murderer. So when Frank awoke one night in August and saw something very odd up at the old house, he merely assumed that the boys had gone one step further in their attempts to punish him.

It was Frank's bad leg that woke him; it was paining him worse than ever in his old age. He got up and limped downstairs into the kitchen with the idea of refilling his hot-water bottle to ease the stiffness in his knee. Standing at the sink, filling the kettle, he looked up at the Riddle House and saw lights glimmering in its upper windows. Frank knew at once what was going on. The boys had broken into the house again, and judging by the flickering quality of the light, they had started a fire.

Frank had no telephone, in any case, he had deeply mistrusted the police ever since they had taken him in for questioning about the Riddles' deaths. He put down the kettle at once, hurried back upstairs as fast as his bad leg would allow, and was soon back in his kitchen, fully dressed and removing a rusty old key from its hook by the door. He picked up his walking stick, which was propped against the wall, and set off into the night.

The front door of the Riddle House bore no sign of being forced, nor did any of the windows. Frank limped around to the back of the house until he reached a door almost completely hidden by ivy, took out the old key, put it into the lock, and opened the door noiselessly.

He let himself into the cavernous kitchen. Frank had not entered it for many years; nevertheless, although it was very dark, he remembered where the door into the hall was, and he groped his way towards it, his nostrils full of the smell of decay, ears pricked for any sound of footsteps or voices from overhead. He reached the hall, which was a little lighter owing to the large mullioned windows on either side of the front door, and started to climb the stairs, blessing the dust that lay thick upon the stone, because it muffled the sound of his feet and stick.

On the landing, Frank turned right, and saw at once where the intruders were: At the every end of the passage a door stood ajar, and a flickering light shone through the gap, casting a long sliver of gold across the black floor. Frank edged closer and closer, he was able to see a narrow slice of the room beyond.

The fire, he now saw, had been lit in the grate. This surprised him. Then he stopped moving and listened intently, for a man's voice spoke within the room; it sounded timid and fearful.

'There is a little more in the bottle, My Lord, if you are still hungry.'

'Later,' said a second voice. This too belonged to a man - but it was strangely high-pitched, and cold as a sudden blast of icy wind. Something about that voice made the sparse hairs on the back of Frank's neck stand up. 'Move me closer to the fire, Wormtail.'

Frank turned his right ear toward the door, the better to hear. There came the clink of a bottle being put down upon some hard surface, and then the dull scraping noise of a heavy chair being dragged across the floor. Frank caught a glimpse of a small man, his back to the door, pushing the chair into place. He was wearing a long black cloak, and there was a bald patch at the back of his head. Then he went out of sight again.

'Where is Nagini?' said the cold voice.

'I - I don't know, My Lord,' said the first voice nervously. 'She set out to explore the house, I think...'

'You will milk her before we retire, Wormtail,' said the second voice. 'I will need feeding in the night. The journey has tired me greatly.'

Brow furrowed, Frank inclined his good ear still closer to the door, listening very hard. There was a pause, and then the man called Wormtail spoke again.

'My Lord, may I ask how long we are going to stay here?'

'A week,' said the cold voice. 'Perhaps longer. The place is moderately comfortable, and the plan cannot proceed yet. It would be foolish to act before the Quidditch World Cup is over.'

Frank inserted a gnarled finger into his ear and rotated it. Owing, no doubt, to a buildup of earwax, he had heard the word 'Quidditch,' which was not a word at all.

'The - the Quidditch World Cup, My Lord?' said Wormtail. (Frank dug his finger still more vigorously into his ear.) 'Forgive me, but - I do not understand - why should we wait until the World Cup is over?'

'Because, fool, at this very moment wizards are pouring into the country from all over the world, and every meddler from the Ministry of Magic will be on duty, on the watch for signs of unusual activity, checking and double-checking identities. They will be obsessed with security, lest the Muggles notice anything. So we wait.'

Frank stopped trying to clear out his ear. He had distinctly heard the words 'Ministry of Magic,' 'wizards,' and 'Muggles.' Plainly, each of these expressions meant something secret, and Frank could think of only two sorts of people who would speak in code: spies and criminals. Frank tightened his hold on his walking stick once more, and listened more closely still.

'Your Lordship is still determined, then?' Wormtail said quietly.

'Certainly I am determined, Wormtail.' There was a note of menace in the cold voice now.

A slight pause followed - and the Wormtail spoke, the words tumbling from him in a rush, as though he was forcing himself to say this before he lost his nerve.

'It could be done without Harry Potter, My Lord.'

Another pause, more protracted, and then -

'Without Harry Potter?' breathed the second voice softly. 'I see...'

'My Lord, I do not say this out of concern for the boy!' said Wormtail, his voice rising squeakily. 'The boy is nothing to me, nothing at all! It is merely that if we were to use another witch or wizard - any wizard - the thing could be done so much more quickly! If you allowed me to leave you for a short while - you know that I can disguise myself most effectively - I could be back here in as little as two days with a suitable person -'

'I could use another wizard,' said the cold voice softly, 'that is true...'

'My Lord, it makes sense,' said Wormtail, sounding thoroughly relieved now. 'Laying hands on Harry Potter would be so difficult, he is so well protected -'

'And so you volunteer to go and fetch me a substitute? I wonder...perhaps the task of nursing me has become wearisome for you, Wormtail? Could this suggestion of abandoning the plan be nothing more than an attempt to desert me?'

'My Lord! I - I have no wish to leave you, none at all -'

'Do not lie to me!' hissed the second voice. 'I can always tell, Wormtail! You are regretting that you ever returned to me. I revolt you. I see you flinch when you look at me, feel you shudder when you touch me...'

'No! My devotion to Your Lordship -'

'Your devotion is nothing more than cowardice. You would not be here if you had anywhere else to go. How am I to survive without you, when I need feeding every few hours? Who is to milk Nagini?'

'But you seem so much stronger, My Lord -'

'Liar,' breathed the second voice. 'I am no stronger, and a few days alone would be enough to rob me of the little health I have regained under your clumsy care. Silence!'

Wormtail, who had been sputtering incoherently, fell silent at once. For a few seconds, Frank could hear nothing but the fire crackling. The second man spoke once more, in a whisper that was almost a hiss.

'I have my reasons for using the boy, as I have already explained to you, and I will use no other. I have waited thirteen years. A few more months will make no difference. As for the protection surrounding the boy, I believe my plan will be effective. All that is needed is a little courage from you, Wormtail - courage you will find, unless you wish to feel the full extent of Lord Voldermort's wrath -'

'My Lord, I must speak!' said Wormtail, panic in his voice now. 'All through our journey I have gone over the plan in my head - My Lord, Bertha Jorkin's disappearance will not go unnoticed for long, and if we proceed, if I murder -'

'If?' whispered the second voice. 'If? If you follow the plan, Wormtail, the Ministry need never know that anyone else has died. You will do it quietly and without fuss; I only wish that I could do it myself, but in my present condition...Come, Wormtail, one more death and our path to Harry Potter is clear. I am not asking you to do it alone. By that time, my faithful servant will have rejoined us -'

'I am a faithful servant,' said Wormtail, the merest trace of sullenness in his voice.

'Wormtail, I need somebody with brains, somebody whose loyalty has never wavered, and you, unfortunately, fulfill neither requirement.'

'I found you,' said Wormtail, and there was definitely a sulky edge to his voice now. 'I was the one who found you. I brought you Bertha Jorkins.'

'That is true,' said the second man, sounding amused. 'A stroke of brilliance I would not have thought possible from you, Wormtail - though, if truth be told, you were not aware how useful she would be when you caught her, were you?'

'I - I thought she might be useful, My Lord -'

'Liar,' said the second voice again, the cruel amusement more pronounced than ever. 'However, I do not deny that her information was invaluable. Without it, I could never have formed our plan, and for that, you will have your reward, Wormtail. I will allow you to perform an essential task for me, one that many of my followers would give their right hands to perform...'

'R-really, My Lord? What -?' Wormtail sounded terrified again.

'Ah, Wormtail, you don't want me to spoil the surprise? Your part will come at the very end...but I promise you, you will have the honor of being just as useful as Bertha Jorkins.'

'You...you...' Wormtail's voice suddenly sounded hoarse, as though his mouth had gone very dry. 'You...are going...to kill me too?'

'Wormtail, Wormtail,' said the cold voice silkily, 'why would I kill you? I killed Bertha because I had to. She was fit for nothing after my questioning, quite useless. In any case, awkward questions would have been asked if she had gone back to the Ministry with the news that she had met you on her holidays. Wizards who are supposed to be dead would do well not to run into Ministry of Magic witches at wayside inns...'

Wormtail muttered something so quietly that Frank could not hear it, but it made the second man laugh - an entirely mirthless laugh, cold as his speech.

'We could have modified her memory? But Memory Charms can be broken by a powerful wizard, as I proved when I questioned her. It would be an insult to her memory not to use the information I extracted from her, Wormtail.'

Out in the corridor, Frank suddenly became aware that the hand gripping his walking stick was slippery with sweat. The man with the cold voice had killed a woman. He was talking about it without any kind of remorse - with amusement. He was dangerous - a madman. And he was planning more murders - this boy, Harry Potter, whoever he was - was in danger -

Frank knew what he must do. Now, if ever, was the time to go to the police. He would creep out of the house and head straight for the telephone box in the village...but the cold voice was speaking again, and Frank remained where he was, frozen to the spot, listening with all his might.

'One more murder...my faithful servant at Hogwarts...Harry Potter is as good as mine, Wormtail. It is decided. There will be no more argument. But quiet...I think I hear Nagini...'

And the second man's voice changed. He started making noises such as Frank had never heard before; he was hissing and spitting without drawing breath. Frank thought he must be having some sort of fit or seizure.

And then Frank heard movement behind him in the dark passageway. He turned to look, and found himself paralyzed with fright.

Something was slithering toward him along the dark corridor floor, and as it drew nearer to the sliver of firelight, he realized with a thrill of terror that it was a gigantic snake, at least twelve feet long. Horrified, transfixed, Frank stared as its undulating body cut a wide, curving track through the thick dust on the floor, coming closer and closer - What was he to do? The only means of escape was into the room where the two men sat plotting murder, yet if he stayed where he was the snake would surely kill him -

But before he had made his decision, the snake was level with him, and then, incredibly, miraculously, it was passing; it was following the spitting, hissing noises made by the cold voice beyond the door, and in seconds, the tip of its diamond-patterned tail had vanished through the gap.

There was sweat on Frank's forehead now, and the hand on the walking stick was trembling. Inside the room, the cold voice was continuing to hiss, and Frank was visited by a strange idea, an impossible idea...This man could talk to snakes.

Frank didn't understand what was going on. He wanted more than anything to be back in his bed with his hot-water bottle. The problem was that his legs didn't seem to want to move. As he stood there shaking and trying to master himself, the cold voice switched abruptly to English again.

'Nagini has interesting news, Wormtail,' it said.

'In-indeed, My Lord?' said Wormtail.

'Indeed, yes,' said the voice, 'According to Nagini, there is an old Muggle standing right outside this room, listening to every word we say.'

Frank didn't have a chance to hide himself. There were footsteps and then the door of the room was flung wide open.

A short, balding man with graying hair, a pointed nose, and small, watery eyes stood before Frank, a mixture of fear and alarm in his face.

'Invite him inside, Wormtail. Where are your manners?'

The cold voice was coming from the ancient armchair before the fire, but Frank couldn't see the speaker. the snake, on the other hand, was curled up on the rotting hearth rug, like some horrible travesty of a pet dog.

Wormtail beckoned Frank into the room. Though still deeply shaken, Frank took a firmer grip on his walking stick and limped over the threshold.

The fire was the only source of light in the room; it cast long, spidery shadows upon the walls. Frank stared at the back of the armchair; the man inside it seemed to be even smaller than his servant, for Frank couldn't even see the back of his head.

'You heard everything, Muggle?' said the cold voice.

'What's that you're calling me?' said Frank defiantly, for now that he was inside the room, now that the time had come for some sort of action, he felt braver; it had always been so in the war.

'I am calling you a Muggle,' said the voice coolly. 'It means that you are not a wizard.'

'I don't know what you mean by wizard,' said Frank, his voice growing steadier. 'All I know is I've heard enough to interest the police tonight, I have. You've done murder and you're planning more! And I'll tell you this too,' he added, on a sudden inspiration, 'my wife knows I'm up here, and if I don't come back -'

'You have no wife,' said the cold voice, very quietly. 'Nobody knows you are here. You told nobody that you were coming. Do not lie to Lord Voldemort, Muggle, for he knows...he always knows...'

'Is that right?' said Frank roughly. 'Lord, is it? Well, I don't think much of your manners, My Lord. Turn 'round and face me like a man, why don't you?'

'But I am not a man, Muggle,' said the cold voice, barely audible now over the crackling of the flames. 'I am much, much more than a man. However...why not? I will face you...Wormtail, come turn my chair around.'

The servant gave a whimper.

'You heard me, Wormtail.'

Slowly, with his face screwed up, as though he would rather have done anything than approach his master and the hearth rug where the snake lay, the small man walked forward and began to turn the chair. The snake lifted its ugly triangular head and hissed slightly as the legs of the chair snagged on its rug.

And then the chair was facing Frank, and he saw what was sitting in it. His walking stick fell to the floor with a clatter. He opened his mouth and let out a scream. He was screaming so loudly that he never heard the words the thing in the chair spoke as it raised a wand. There was a flash of green light, a rushing sound, and Frank Bryce crumpled. He was dead before he hit the floor.

Two hundred miles away, the boy called Harry Potter woke with a start.

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 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 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.'

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 had been afraid of that.

'But I really was rather hoping to speak--'

'We shall arrange for the president to forget to call. He will telephone tomorrow night instead,' said the little man. 'Kindly respond immediately to Mr. Fudge.'

'I... oh... very well,' said the Prime Minister weakly. 'Yes, I'll see Fudge.'

He hurried back to his desk, straightening his tie as he went. He had barely resumed his seat, and arranged his face into what he hoped was a relaxed and unfazed expression, when bright green flames burst into life in the empty grate beneath his marble mantelpiece. He watched, trying not to betray a flicker of surprise or alarm, as a portly man appeared within the flames, spinning as fast as a top. Seconds later, he had climbed out onto a rather fine antique rug, brushing ash from the sleeves of his long pin-striped cloak, a lime-green bowler hat in his hand.

'Ah... 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. 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, balder, and grayer, and his face had a crumpled look. The Prime Minister had seen that kind of look in politicians before, and it never boded well.

'How can I help you?' he said, shaking Fudge's hand very briefly and gesturing toward the hardest of the chairs in front of the desk.

'Difficult to know where to begin,' muttered Fudge, pulling up the chair, sitting down, and placing his green bowler upon his knees. 'What a week, what a week...'

'Had a bad one 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,' said Fudge, rubbing his eyes wearily and looking morosely at the Prime Minister. 'I've been having the same week you have, Prime Minister. The Brockdale Bridge... the Bones and Vance murders... not to mention the ruckus in the West Country...'

'You--er--your--I mean to say, some of your people were--were involved in those--those things, were they?'

Fudge fixed the Prime Minister with a rather stern look.

'Of course they were,' he said, '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, when he had heard a cough behind him, just like tonight, and turned to find that ugly little portrait talking to him, announcing that the Minister of Magic was about to arrive and introduce himself

Naturally, he had thought that the long campaign and the strain of the election had caused him to go mad. He had been utterly terrified to find a portrait talking to him, though this had been nothing to how he felt when a self-proclaimed wizard had bounced out of the fireplace and shaken his hand. He had remained speechless throughout Fudge's kindly explanation that there were witches and wizards still living in secret all over the world and his reassurances that he was not to bother his head about them as the Ministry of Magic took responsibility for the whole Wizarding community and prevented the non-magical population from getting wind of them. It was, said Fudge, a difficult job that encompassed everything from regulations on responsible use of broomsticks to keeping the dragon population under control (the Prime Minister remembered clutching the desk for support at this point). Fudge had then patted the shoulder of the still-dumbstruck Prime Minister in a fatherly sort of way.

'Not to worry,' he had said, 'it's odds-on you'll never see me again. I'll only bother you if there's something really serious going on our end, something that's likely to affect the Muggles--the non-magical population, I should say. Otherwise, it's live and let live. And I must say, you're taking it a lot better than your predecessor. He tried to throw me out the window, thought I was a hoax planned by the opposition.'

At this, the Prime Minister had found his voice at last.

'You're--you're not a hoax, then?'

It had been his last, desperate hope.

'No,' said Fudge gently. 'No, I'm afraid I'm not. Look.'

And he had turned the Prime Minister's teacup into a gerbil.

'But,' said the Prime Minister breathlessly, watching his teacup chewing on the corner of his next speech, 'but why--why has nobody told me--?'

'The Minister of Magic only reveals him--or herself to the Muggle Prime Minister of the day,' said Fudge, poking his wand back inside his jacket. 'We find it the best way to maintain secrecy.'

'But then,' bleated the Prime Minister, 'why hasn't a former Prime Minister warned me--?'

At this, Fudge had actually laughed.

'My dear Prime Minister, are you ever going to tell anybody?'

Still chortling, Fudge had thrown some powder into the fireplace, stepped into the emerald flames, and vanished with a whooshing sound. The Prime Minister had stood there, quite motionless, and realized that he would never, as long as he lived, dare mention this encounter to a living soul, for who in the wide world would believe him?

The shock had taken a little while to wear off. For a time, he had tried to convince himself that Fudge had indeed been a hallucination brought on by lack of sleep during his grueling election campaign. In a vain attempt to rid himself of all reminders of this uncomfortable encounter, he had given the gerbil to his delighted niece and instructed his private secretary to take down the portrait of the ugly little man who had announced Fudge's arrival. To the Prime Minister's dismay, however, the portrait had proved impossible to remove. When several carpenters, a builder or two, an art historian, and the Chancellor of the Exchequer had all tried unsuccessfully to pry it from the wall, the Prime Minister had abandoned the attempt and simply resolved to hope that the thing remained motionless and silent for the rest of his term in office. Occasionally he could have sworn he saw out of the corner of his eye the occupant of the painting yawning, or else scratching his nose; even, once or twice, simply walking out of his frame and leaving nothing but a stretch of muddy-brown canvas behind. However, he had trained himself not to look at the picture very much, and always to tell himself firmly that his eyes were playing tricks on him when anything like this happened.

Then, three years ago, on a night very like tonight, the Prime Minister had been alone in his office when the portrait had once again announced the imminent arrival of Fudge, who had burst out of the fireplace, sopping wet and in a state of considerable panic. Before the Prime Minister could ask why he was dripping all over the Axminster, Fudge had started ranting about a prison the Prime Minister had never heard of, a man named 'Serious' Black, something that sounded like 'Hogwarts,' and a boy called Harry Potter, none of which made the remotest sense to the Prime Minister.

'... I've just come from Azkaban,' Fudge had panted, tipping a large amount of water out of the rim of his bowler hat into his pocket. 'Middle of the North Sea, you know, nasty flight... the dementors are in uproar'--he shuddered--'they've never had a breakout before. Anyway, I had to come to you, Prime Minister. Black's a known Muggle killer and may be planning to rejoin You-Know-Who... but of course, you don't even know who You-Know-Who is!' He had gazed hopelessly at the Prime Minister for a moment, then said, 'Well, sit down, sit down, I'd better fill you in... have a whiskey...'

The Prime Minister rather resented being told to sit down in his own office, let alone offered his own whiskey, but he sat nevertheless. Fudge pulled out his wand, conjured two large glasses full of amber liquid out of thin air, pushed one of them into the Prime Minister's hand, and drew up a chair.

Fudge had talked for more than an hour. At one point, he had refused to say a certain name aloud and wrote it instead on a piece of parchment, which he had thrust into the Prime Minister's whiskey-free hand. When at last Fudge had stood up to leave, the Prime Minister had stood up too.

'So you think that...' He had squinted down at the name in his left hand. 'Lord Vol--'

'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!' snarled Fudge.

'I'm sorry... you think that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is still alive, then?'

'Well, Dumbledore says he is,' said Fudge, as he had fastened his pin-striped cloak under his chin, 'but we've never found him. If you ask me, he's not dangerous unless he's got support, so it's Black we ought to be worrying about. You'll put out that warning, then? Excellent. Well, I hope we don't see each other again, Prime Minister! Good night.'

But they had seen each other again. Less than a year later a harassed-looking Fudge had appeared out of thin air in the cabinet room to inform the Prime Minister that there had been a spot of bother at the Kwidditch (or that was what it had sounded like) World Cup and that several Muggles had been 'involved,' but that the Prime Minister was not to worry, the fact that You-Know-Who's Mark had been seen again meant nothing; Fudge was sure it was an isolated incident, and the Muggle Liaison Office was dealing with all memory modifications as they spoke.

'Oh, and I almost forgot,' Fudge had added. 'We're importing three foreign dragons and a sphinx for the Triwizard Tournament, quite routine, but the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures tells me that it's down in the rule book that we have to notify you if we're bringing highly dangerous creatures into the country.'

'I--what--dragons?' spluttered the Prime Minister.

'Yes, three,' said Fudge. 'And a sphinx. Well, good day to you.'

The Prime Minister had hoped beyond hope that dragons and sphinxes would be the worst of it, but no. Less than two years later, Fudge had erupted out of the fire yet again, this time with the news that there had been a mass breakout from Azkaban.

'A mass breakout?' repeated the Prime Minister hoarsely.

'No need to worry, no need to worry!' shouted Fudge, already with one foot in the flames. 'We'll have them rounded up in no time--just thought you ought to know!'

And before the Prime Minister could shout, 'Now, wait just one moment!' Fudge had vanished in a shower of green sparks.

Whatever the press and the opposition might say, the Prime Minister was not a foolish man. It had not escaped his notice that, despite Fudge's assurances at their first meeting, they were now seeing rather a lot of each other, nor that Fudge was becoming more flustered with each visit. Little though he liked to think about the Minister of Magic (or, as he always called Fudge in his head, the Other Minister), the Prime Minister could not help but fear that the next time Fudge appeared it would be with graver news still. The site, therefore, of Fudge stepping out of the fire once more, looking disheveled and fretful and sternly surprised that the Prime Minister did not know exactly why he was there, was about the worst thing that had happened in the course of this extremely gloomy week.

'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 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. 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.'

The Sorcerer's Stone Pdf

'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.

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