Chapter Text
John sighed heavily to himself as he sat in his chair. Another Wednesday had brought with it another gruelling round of Prime Minister’s Questions, leaving him tired and deflated after a full day of cabinet meetings, reading intelligence briefs of the situation in Northern Ireland, and arguments with the chief whip following the amendments made by the Lords on the home secretary’s latest bill.
Though he had completed his commitments for the day, he felt he should give himself some time before joining his wife. He always felt guilty going to dinner thinking about work. Turning about in his chair, John was about to reach over to the glass tumbler of bourbon when he heard a cough.
As if this day couldn’t get any worse, he thought to himself as he swivelled to face the portrait hung above the mantelpiece.
It had taken some getting used to, but now he had become accustomed to the fact that one of the paintings in his office could move and talk.
The first time it had done so, John had thought he was hallucinating after a long week as Parliament organised itself for a new session. The toll of being sworn into so many things must have worn at his mind. Yet it had not been so, and moments later a short man wearing a pinstriped suit and lime green bowler hat had tumbled out of the fireplace in a flash of green flame.
He had introduced himself as Cornelius Fudge, Britain’s Minister for Magic. At first thinking it to be a crude joke pulled by the civil servants, Fudge’s demonstration had put paid to any doubts. There was indeed an entire ministry dedicated to the service and secrecy of a magical community.
“This is just a formality we extend to new Muggle Prime Ministers, I sincerely doubt you will hear much from me during the course of your premiership,” Fudge had said confidently.
Unfortunately for them both, this had not proven the case. Several years later, he had tumbled out of his fireplace again, looking wet and dishevelled.
“I’m afraid we’ve had a serial killer break out of our prison at Azkaban,” he had said after waving off an offer of tea. “I thought it prudent to warn you about Sirius Black.”
“Isn’t she on our wanted list?” John had asked, befuddled.
“One of ours this time,” Fudge had said. “She’s a Death Eater, one of You-Know-Who’s fanatical followers during the first war.”
“This is the same You-Know-Who that was active during the ‘70s, yes?”
“That’s right,” he had nodded. “We’re not sure how she escaped, truth be told. But my Aurors are on the case. If it’s any consolation, we don’t think she’s escaped to cause havoc. More likely she’s after one person in particular as part of some madcap revenge scheme.”
“Who’s that?”
“The girl who mysteriously defeated You-Know-Who, Holly Potter. But she’s at Hogwarts, under the protection of Albus Dumbledore, so I think it highly unlikely Black will succeed, especially after I’ve posted a few Dementors to guard the gates.”
“Dementors?”
“The guards of Azkaban,” he had explained. “Not exactly wraiths, but their ability to drain happiness and sniff out their quarry is warranted in this case.”
It hadn’t even been a year later that Fudge was dusting ash onto the rug once more to explain an incident that had occurred at the final of a Quidditch world cup. John had assumed Quidditch was some sort of sport wizards played, glad to accept the cover story provided to him by Fudge. His team could always spin some tale about raucous youths in Somerset.
Eight months later, and Fudge was gladly accepting a glass of bourbon as he recounted the disaster that had been the Triwizard Tournament.
Now, the painting over the mantelpiece spoke once again.
“Cornelius Fudge to see you, prime minister.”
The short man tumbled out of the fireplace as John placed two tumblers on the desk. Just as with his own premiership, Fudge’s woes only seemed to increase with each visit.
“Ah, prime minister,” he said as he removed his bowler hat.
“Fudge,” John nodded. “I assume you’re here with another dismal report.”
Fudge sighed, gripping the hat between his hands. “You hit the nail on the head. Rather embarrassing news to be frank. You recall how I mentioned in my last visit that Dumbledore was saying things about You-Know-Who being back?”
“Yes, you said it was rubbish.”
“Well, it turns out he was right,” admitted Fudge sheepishly. “The public were naturally furious, never seen so many protestors outside my office. So, as of today, I’ve been replaced as Minister for Magic. Complete landslide for Rufus Scrimgeour, a former Auror. He’s a bit busy right now, so he sent me to liaise with you.”
John was taken aback. He couldn’t imagine being forced from office by protestors, though given the unpopularity of his government it wasn’t hard to see a similar outcome at the next general election.
“Yes, my thoughts entirely,” Fudge seemed to guess at John’s expression. “In any case, the first order of business is to inform you that the Ministry is doing its best to keep your people from knowing, so expect cover stories like the one from Hendon Bridge.”
“Do you mean that freak fog that was in The Times?”
“Dementors actually,” he said. “A group of them descended on the town, freak fog was the best we could do.”
“But I thought Dementors guarded Azka-what’s-it’s-name?”
“Ah, yes, well, normally they do. Only it seems to have lost control of them,” Fudge’s eyes were downcast at the rug as he said this.
“Are you telling me that freak occurrences that appear in the papers are just cover stories concocted by your lot?” asked John urgently.
“Yes.”
I suppose the failed bridge in Norfolk was him as well?”
“Yes,” said Fudge. “Rule of thumb: if it’s reported as being an accident then it’s likely something to do with us.”
“Is there anything else I need to know?”
“No, I believe that just about covers it, but don’t worry; the Ministry has everything under control.”
When Fudge left, John allowed himself to pour some bourbon into a glass before downing the contents. Though depressing, the conversation had achieved the effect of clearing his mind of the smug smirk on that young new Leader of the Opposition.