Harry Potter and the Great Old Ones

Chapter 501 Garrison
It was nearly midnight, and the British Prime Minister sat alone in his office, reading a note that had suddenly appeared beside him that evening. His mind was blank; he had no idea what it meant.

Or perhaps he had a slightly unrealistic guess in his mind, but he wasn't quite sure if his guess was correct.

He seemed to be waiting for a call from the president of a distant country.

On the one hand, he doubted whether the unfortunate guy would actually call, and on the other hand, he suppressed the many unpleasant memories of the long and tiring week, so there wasn't much room in his mind to think about anything else.

The more he tried to concentrate on deciphering the words on the note in front of him, the clearer he saw the gloating face of one of his political enemies.

This political opponent appeared on the news that day, not only listing all the terrible accidents that had happened the previous week, but also providing a detailed analysis of how each accident was caused by government negligence.

The Prime Minister's blood pressure rises and his pulse quickens whenever he thinks of these accusations, because they are so unfair and untrue. How could his government possibly prevent that bridge from collapsing?
It's outrageous that someone would suggest the government hasn't invested enough in bridge construction. That bridge was less than ten years old, and even the best experts couldn't explain how it suddenly and neatly broke in two, plunging more than a dozen cars into the deep river below.

Furthermore, some have suggested that insufficient police resources led to the two high-profile murders, and that the government should have foreseen the bizarre hurricane in the west that caused enormous loss of life and property.

Furthermore, one of his assistant ministers, Herbert Joly, has been behaving strangely this week, saying he wants to spend more time with his family. Is that also his fault?

"The whole country is in a state of panic," the opposition leader concluded, making almost no attempt to hide his smug smile.

Unfortunately, that is indeed the case. The Prime Minister himself felt it too.

People did seem more anxious than usual, and even the weather was uncooperative; it was only mid-July, yet a cold fog had already settled over the place… This was very wrong, very abnormal…

The Prime Minister shivered slightly, stood up, and walked to the window, gazing at the thin mist clinging to the glass. Just as he stood there with his back to the room, he heard a soft cough behind him.

He froze, his own terrified face reflected in the dark windowpane.

He recognized the cough; he had heard it before.

The Prime Minister slowly turned around, facing the empty room.

“Hello?” he said, trying to make his voice sound brave.

In that instant, he knew it was impossible, but deep down he still vaguely hoped that no one would agree to it.

However, a voice immediately answered, a clear and decisive voice, as if reading a prepared speech.

The Prime Minister knew from the first cough that it came from the short, frog-like man with a long silver wig, who was the subject of a dirty little oil painting in the corner of the room.

"To the Muggle Prime Minister, requesting an urgent meeting. Please reply immediately, Your trusted Connelly Fudge." The man in the painting looked at the Prime Minister questioningly.

“Well,” the Prime Minister said, “listen… this time isn’t right for me… I’m waiting for a phone call… from the President—”

“That can be rearranged,” the portrait said without hesitation. The Prime Minister’s heart sank. This was exactly what he had been worried about.

"But I really want to talk to him—"

“We’ll make sure the president forgets about the call. He’ll call again tomorrow night,” the short man said firmly. “Please give Mr. Fudge an immediate reply.”

“I…oh…okay,” the Prime Minister said helplessly, “Fine, I’ll see Fudge.”

He hurried to his desk, straightening his tie as he went. He had barely settled in, adjusting his expression to be as relaxed and composed as he hoped, when suddenly bright green flames erupted from the empty grate beneath the marble fireplace. The Prime Minister, desperately trying to conceal his surprise and panic, watched as a large, fat man appeared in the center of the flames, spinning rapidly like a top.

A few seconds later, the fat man stepped over the grate, holding a yellow-green round hat, and stood on an antique-style carpet, dusting the ashes off the sleeves of his thin-striped cloak.

“Ah… Prime Minister…” Cornelius Fudge walked over with a smile and extended a hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

The Prime Minister, unwilling to respond to this polite remark, said nothing.

He didn't want to see Fudge at all. Fudge's previous appearances, besides being particularly alarming, usually meant that he was about to hear some particularly bad news.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" the Prime Minister asked, quickly shaking Fudge's hand and gesturing for him to sit in the hardest chair at the table.

"I really don't know where to begin." Connelly Fudge's face was rosy, but he had a worried expression on his face.

“Then please get to the point,” said the Muggle Prime Minister, or rather Jim Harker, impatiently but with no choice but to remain patient.

Jim Hack could never forget the scene where, after painstakingly winning the ruthless political struggle and successfully moving into 10 Downing Street, he was suddenly startled by the short, fat wizard who jumped out of the fireplace.

“Alright!” Cornelius Fudge replied with a booming voice, “Then I’ll get straight to the point, first of all—”

“A dark wizard has risen in our wizarding world, and he is planning to invade the Muggle world. Our firepower is insufficient to stop him, so I am here to remind you to be careful and wish you good luck,” Cornelius Fudge said quickly.

"The Dark Lord? The Dark Lord!" Jim Hack's face turned deathly pale instantly. "That legendary Dark Lord whose name can't even be mentioned?"

The day after meeting with Connelly Fudge, a book thicker than the Encyclopedia Britannica suddenly appeared on Jim Hack's desk.

There was also a note attached—

"This is everything you need to know about the wizarding world—Cornelly Fudge"

Jim Hack flipped through it a few times when he was bored.

Most of them, in his view, were fairy tales and fantasy novels, but only one story about a dark wizard called "Voldemort" seemed like a horror story or the mental journey of a mental patient.

“I’m afraid so,” Cornelius Fudge said, his face flushed with shame. “He’s risen again, and he’s even more powerful than he was last time. He’s built a much stronger army… I mean… he’s carrying out terrorist activities all over Britain, and we’re powerless to stop him…”

Jim Hack was at a loss for words upon hearing this, but he had a deep-rooted habit of showing off his omniscience no matter the topic. So he racked his brains to recall the stories he had read about this Dark Lord.

“So that means…” Jim Hack suddenly changed his tone, speaking with a fierce but weak voice, “He’s going to start slaughtering non-magical people? And you’re powerless to stop it? This isn’t what you promised me, Minister Fudge.”

“Yes, I’m so sorry, Mr. Prime Minister.” Connelly Fudge bowed and scraped humbly, “It was our mistake, so I’m afraid I have to ask you for help.”

"Help?" Jim Hack asked, feigning anger. "What help?"

“We request that you secretly dispatch a modern army to be stationed at the Ministry of Magic long-term,” Cornelius Fudge made Tierra’s request.

(End of this chapter)