Author's Notes: This was originally done by my friend, Carrie. Unfortunately, her college load became too much and so she let me adopt the story. Yay for me! Yes, I will do my best to continue with what she has written. DANG, she has written a lot. Oh well.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter obviously.
Bad Days and The Other Minister
No, it was not a good day for Harry Potter. As a habit, he had waited for Dudley to come toddling down the stairs, yelling, "Wake up, lazy bones!" And as such, he waited until the dust fell down from his so called 'ceiling' to actually get up from his so called 'bed.' Yes, he had angered his Uncle Vernon; he was back in his cupboard underneath the stairs.
It wasn't as if he had really done anything. All he had truly done was threaten to do the same thing he had done to Aunt Marge he had done the previous two years ago. It wasn't like he actually was going to blow him up, but the thoughts had gone through his head more than a few times.
Truthfully, he just wanted to get away from the Dursleys. He had only been with them for about three weeks and he was already getting sick of them. Uncle Vernon had not his temper in check throughout the entire week and was liable to blow up at anyone who dared step the wrong way in his path. The reason for this behavior was due to his job at the screwdriver factory. It appeared as though he was getting more than his fair share of work there and he was getting yelled at left and right. What better therapy than to turn right back around and start yelling at his family?
Harry had barely gotten out of the shower before he was immediately ushered into the kitchen by Aunt Petunia, muttering something about Vernon being in an, "awful state this morning." That had been the understatement of the year.
"HARRY POTTER!!" Harry had winced when he heard the pronounced roar of his Uncle, and had walked into the kitchen with something of a screwed up smirk on his face.
"Yes, Uncle Vernon?" Harry asked.
"You were supposed to cook breakfast this morning!" Vernon yelled, stabbing at the curdled milk inside his coffee cup. "And I thought I sent you on an errand to go to the grocery store to pick up some milk! This stuff is spoiled!"
"You did Uncle Vernon, but there was none left at the store apparently, they were restocking it that day, so I had no choice but to resort to cream."
"The ruddy cream was spoiled , you insolent beggar!"
Harry didn't know what had possessed him (perhaps the desperate need to get out of the house drove him mad) to say shrewdly, "Should I run on over to the grocery store now and pick up some milk?"
"Why yes, I think you should!" Vernon said, imitating the voice similar to Dolores Umbridge. And it wasn't like Harry couldn't see Vernon Dursley and Dolores Umbridge sitting by each other at the breakfast table and having tea together.
So Harry had left, but at the moment, he was regretting ever leaving Privet Drive. His scar was burning something awful and his he had a headache on top of that. He wanted nothing more than to curl under some warm blankets and sleep for an eternity…or at least until he felt better. The yelling had made his headache start in the first place, and it seemed like the Dark Lord was ticked off about something. Again.
Finally the milk was bought, and he hurried back to his Uncle's house, hoping he had come home after his Uncle Vernon had already left.
Unfortunately, that was not the case. Harry returned home to a furious Uncle Vernon, shrieking at the top of his lungs about the car not being able to start.
"I got that thing fixed two months ago!" Uncle Vernon was shouting.
Harry made a quick dash inside the house, hoping he would go unnoticed. Unfortunately for him, Uncle Vernon just happened to be raving inside the living room.
"Where have you been, you filth?!" Uncle Vernon yelled, pointing a fat finger at Harry, his face as purple as a plum.
"I've been out getting milk at the store like you asked me to this morning," Harry said simply, unconsciously slipping his wand through his fingers in his pocket.
"Oh, I highly doubt that," Vernon said dangerously, taking two fat steps toward Harry.
Petunia was currently cowering in the center of the living room, her face as white and translucent as baking sheet paper, her horsey face turning into that of a pony's.
"You were out hexing the neighborhood, is that it? You cursed my car!"
Harry blinked in confusion and then shot one of his famous, "I-have-a-wand-and-I'm-not-afraid-to-use-it," looks. "Of course! I can use my wand without having a screeching owl delivering me a howler from the Ministry of Magic telling me I've been expelled!" Harry said sarcastically. "Of course, that makes perfect sense!"
If possible, Uncle Vernon's face turned even a darker shade a purple, border lining chartreuse. He took his grubby sausage like hand, gripped Harry's collar, and then began dragging him to his cupboard.
"One little peep out of you and you're going to regret it! No lunch and no dinner, do you understand that? I want have some snot-nosed freak sass me, no sir!"
And that's where Harry ended up and was stuck there again, much to his chagrin. No, it was not a good day for Harry Potter. But then again…what day was?
Ron Weasley had had enough! No, it was not a good day for Ronald Weasley. Ginny, his sister, was running around the house asking where her jumper was and her mother, Molly Weasley, otherwise known as Mrs. Weasley or 'mum', was going round the house trying to tell her that it was on the cat.
Fred and George, his older twin brothers, very much identical, were of no help to him whatsoever, teasing him and poking fun at him 'round every corner. They also had the habit of playing hideous and sometimes disgusting pranks on Ron, and he would usually get the worst of it.
And Bill was off gallivanting with Fleur, his girlfriend, or so he surmised, and Arthur Weasley, his Father, was off busy working at the Ministry of Magic at the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office, and so was Percy, another one of his older brothers, and he was the personal assistant to the Minister of Magic himself! But ever since Percy got that title, Ron had dubbed him, "Air-Head." He'd become a little too proud since obtaining that role.
And that was just the local family. Charlie, another older brother, was working in Romania, so it was no use to get any sort of help from him.
Ron moaned and put his head down on the table in annoyance. Oh how he hated not having someone to talk to. Harry wasn't answering his letters, Hermione was too busy studying for her NEWTS she was going to take this year, and well…truthfully…there was no one else to talk to except members of the Order, but it wasn't like any of them had any time.
No, everybody was too busy worrying about their own schedules instead of giving a helping hand to someone who actually needed it.
He got up from the table and moved over towards the window staring out of it. His real problem was not the new material they were studying this year, oh no, but it was the fact that he had felt overlooked by both his friends and family for the past three weeks. Ever since school ended, well, an odd loneliness had crept up around
Someone might ask, well, how can you be lonely in a family of 7 children and 2 adults? "Lot's of ways," Ron would've replied.
If they would've asked to list them, Ron would've easily been able to. But they wouldn't ask that, would they? Nobody had asked how he was or how he had been doing, so one could only assume they wouldn't ask for details.
He glared at the room moodily and picked up an apple from the center bowl, only to have his mother walk in and slap his hand at that very moment.
"Ronald Weasley, don't you dare, you'll ruin your lunch!" Mrs. Weasley said, a very scolding tone seeping through her normally sweet but strict voice. "You've had enough snacks today; I'm surprised you and your brothers don't eat us out of house and home!"
Ron scowled and put the apple back in the bowl. Oh how he'd love to play a prank on his mother right now. Of course, that would be a mistake. She would most definitely send him upstairs for a good hour, and then she'd forget about him and allow him to come out of hiding whenever she was in a good mood.
"But mum, I'm bored. I've done my chores, I've looked over this stuff for school, and I have to tell you, its complete rubbish. Since when do I need a dream diary about certain odd facts like missing sneakers? Harry is considered the loony in Divination and his dreams actually do make sense!" Ron whined.
"Well, I could think of a good many things you could do around the house," Mrs. Weasley said, placing her hands on her hips, a smirk on her face.
And just then Fred and George popped in. "Oh," Fred said. "You said you were bored, right?"
The twins snickered and shook their heads. "I thought for sure you would have learned by now," said George.
"Boys," Mrs. Weasley said, shooting a finger up in the air, her red hair flailing and frizzled already. She continued, "One more fight…one more prank and I'll drag you into Azkaban myself!"
Fred and George knew that their mother wouldn't do such a thing, but when she threatened Azkaban you knew it was time run and scram. They headed upstairs with grins on their faces, thinking about what proper punishment their poor brother Ron was going to get.
"You can clean out the hen house, Ronald. It seems as if a few of the chickens got into a fight and there are smelly eggs everywhere. I'm too busy, so, if you would be so kind…"
Ron felt his cheeks grow warm and knew they were starting a color competition with his hair. He had to do this without a wand. No, today was not a good day for Ronald Weasley.
Hermione slammed her Arithmancy book down on her bed and threw herself beside it. No, today was not a good day for Hermione Granger.
Even though she adamant about Purebloods verses Mixed Bloods or Muggleborns, she had a bit of a problem with her Muggle friends. Backstabbers by the looks of it.
She had tried to converse with one of her best Muggle friends, Alameade Henderson, a very respectable young lady, smart and cunning like Hermione, but boisterous and funny at the same time. Perhaps that's why Hermione and Alameade got along so well. Then again, there had been a bit of a resistance whenever Hermione left for Hogwarts…and apparently far more than Hermione realized.
Alameade had apparently thought it better to become the best and final friend of Hermione's worst Muggle enemy, Uberta Hemmingsworth.
To describe Hemmingsworth, it was only fair to call her the female and muggle version of Draco Malfoy. Yes, she was that bad. And it was only fair that Hermione describe her as the girl who didn't think that the sun shone until she got up. A piece of money, snobby, and selfish trash.
And now, Uberta made Alameade swear that she was to never speak to Hermione the freak ever again. Hermione had been called a freak by Uberta. That was a first, but it wasn't like Hermione was surprised. They had never really been on speaking terms with each other, but it was only plausible that if they ever were, Uberta would speak harshly.
And not only that, but Hermione now had the slightest clue as to how Harry felt over the summer. His own family had been calling him a freak since they first learned he had the ability to use magic. Yet, hearing the name 'freak' from Alameade had been a word she never wished to hear and it hurt.
She curled her head around in her white a flower-patterned bed comforter and groaned. If only life and its people were easier. Crookshanks jumped on top of the bed and began to meow defiantly.
"I'll get you some food later, Crookshanks, okay? And I'll make it up to you with fish treats…"
Crookshanks just stared at her and meowed again. "Right then. Maybe-"
"Hermione! Time for dinner! Oh, and remember to feed Crookshanks!"
Hermione groaned. She didn't want to feed Crookshanks right now, she was too depressed, but apparently, she had no choice in the matter. No, today was not a good day for Hermione Granger.
Draco Malfoy leaned tiredly against the banister. No, today had not been a good day for Draco Malfoy.
His father had just come back from another meeting with the Dark Lord, only to nearly be Crucio'd into oblivion, save for the Dark Lord thought perhaps Lucius might've still been of some use to him.
Draco and Narcissa, his mother, had been up with the house-elves taking care of Lucius all night, administering him various potions to help with the after-effects of the Cruciatus, that of which consisted of uncontrollable shaking, clamminess, nausea, possible vomiting, pain, and spasms.
Snape had visited once or twice in the following night, both to give various potions to Draco and Narcissa for Lucius' pain and to check up on him just for the heck of it. He was suffering from his own Crucio curse, but he hid it well.
Now, it was midnight, and his father was still moaning and groaning in pain. Draco had less sympathy now for his father, and wanted nothing more than several hours of decent sleep. But no one got sleep whenever his father had come back from a violent meeting with the Dark Lord.
Not only was Lucius moaning and groaning in pain, but he was also moaning and groaning because he felt guilty. He had let the Dark Lord down by letting Harry Potter and his nasty little friends get away with the Prophecy, and then of all the things they did, they broke the prophecy and not a single soul heard it fully.
Lucius felt horrid, and he now knew that he was definitely going to be punished more than just a mere Cruciatus curse. As of right now, he was considered the laughing stock among all the Death Eaters. The Dark Lord had a thing about subordinates who couldn't keep their tops on straight. Theodore Nott was now top dog of the Death Eaters. He hadn't failed as badly as Lucius had. Not only had Lucius angered him, but so had Bellatrix. She had failed at getting that dog behind the veil, that dog named Sirius Black. And the Dark Lord had used Lucius as a siphon of anger to that extent.
And now, Draco was catching a small break. He wanted nothing more than some food and a nice rest. His mother had fallen asleep in the chair next to his father, and Lucius was FINALLY asleep.
Draco crept down the stairs and hurried down towards the kitchens. He wanted some chocolate…or some warm milk…as he always seemed to want whenever things weren't going his way. Some comfort food. He was not at all an emotional eater, but there was just sometimes he wanted more than just the comfort his bed could give him.
As he was going down to the kitchens, he came upon a rather stubborn looking house-elf. Tibby. "Does Master Draco want something, sir? Or is it Master Lucius?" Tibby asked.
"Nothing, you silly house-elf. I'll get it myself," Draco said. It was obvious he was tired. He was actually sinking to a new low. Chastising house-elves. He only did that when he wanted a little dirty fun or whenever he just wanted to kick something around. Call them the tin cans of the house.
"Yes, Master Draco," Tibby answered. "Tibby has to do some cleaning in the kitchen, if that's alright with Master Draco…"
Draco rolled his eyes. "Only if you promise not to bother me," Draco answered.
Tibby's floppy ears drooped. "Of course not, Tibby promises not to bother you." And Draco hoped it would stay that way. He moved over to the cabinet and pulled out a few of the Bertie Botts Every Flavor Bean packet and hoped to find some chocolate flavored beans inside…but his musings were immediately interrupted by a loud crash and a groan from upstairs.
Draco looked to Tibby, who appeared to have dropped an expensive bowl and it had shattered into a million pieces. Draco groaned, and that groan was immediately answered by a familiar yell from upstairs.
"Draco?! Where are you?! I need my anti-nausea po-" And there was suddenly a splattering sound and a few coughing sounds after. Draco moaned and slapped his forehead. "Tibby…you better get a mop!" Draco growled, and picked up a bucket himself.
No, today had and was not a good day for Draco Malfoy.
The Muggle Prime Minister of Britain was currently sitting in his office, drinking a cup of tea and waiting for a call from a rather important representative from a foreign country. It was 3 o' clock in the afternoon. Yesterday had been a rather awful day and today seemed similar if not worse.
The morale and people of the country of Britain had seemingly been like wet blankets and as whiny as a toddler would be if the toddler didn't get his or her own way.
The weather didn't seem to be of any help either. It was completely wet and rainy, and it seemed as if it was only going to get drearier. The sky was grey and there seemed to be a thick fog covering the place. Visibility was close to nada, and it was barely even July!
Suddenly, the Prime Minister heard a strange sort of coughing noise in the room. He froze. It was the picture. He recognized that cough.
"The Minister of Magic will be arriving shortly with some news," the portrait said, his deep eyebrows twitching. "Well…uh…never mind. Perhaps he'll tell you himself."
And with that, the portrait stopped moving. The Prime Minister seemed to unfreeze slowly as he realized what was going on. The Minister of Magic was coming...and that could only mean one thing. Bad news. Or more odd creatures needing to be pushed into Britain. He was sincerely hoping that he had misheard it two years ago whenever Fudge told him they needed to bring Dragons in from Romania. Maybe it was Dragonflies…oh no, that would never make sense.
The Prime Minister started to shake a bit in his knees and suddenly wished for the small flask he used to carry around until his wife made him give up the stuff. "Too much for you," she used to say. "It will make you lose the election!"
And indeed, he didn't drink and the general public seemed pleased. But if he was ever caught…his reputation could've become a sham.
Another cough came from the portrait a few seconds later and the Prime Minister stood up this time. "The Minister of Magic...Minister Fudge!" the portrait said loudly, and suddenly vibrant green flames erupted from the fireplace and in stumbled a very stormy weathered looking Minister of Magic.
"Ah, Minister!" Fudge said somewhat distractedly as he took off his bowler hat and cloak and set it on the coat rack by the door. "How lovely to see you again! It's been a while, hasn't it? Why I haven't talked to you since two years ago, haven't I? Well, it certainly has, my dear boy, it's good to see you again!"
"Uh…Minister," the Prime Minister said, clearing his throat. "I highly doubt you came in here for a little chit-chat. Just take a seat," he said pointing to the hardest chair in front of his desk, and smiling at the same time. "Will you tell me why you've come and then leave? I don't mean to be rude, but I have a very important phone call coming in-"
Fudge laughed and slapped the Prime Minister on the back. "Don't worry about it, we'll have our Memory Department make him forget to call you today and he'll call you tomorrow! Now, there are a few important matters of business I must speak to you about."
The Prime Minister tried desperately not to roll his eyes. Whatever it was, it couldn't have been good.
"Now then, where was I? Oh yes! I was about to tell you. You see, we have a bit of a problem," Fudge said, his brow furrowing deeper into his skull, and the Prime Minister could see a few more wrinkles on his forehead, quite a few more grey hairs, and many of the remaining brown ones seemed to have crawled back away from his sagging face.
"And what problem would that be, Minister?"
Fudge began pacing and then said, "Perhaps you better have a sit down, dear chap. I promised dear old Dumbledore I wouldn't worry you too much. Here, uh, have a scotch!" And Fudge began to pour a shot glass for the Prime Minister, putting it in front of Prime Minister once it was filled to the brim.
Not only did the Prime Minister not like being asked to sit at his own desk in his own office, but he most certainly did not like this preposterous excuse for a Minister telling him to have his own scotch!
Yet he took the shot glass without complaint, and waited for the Minister of Magic to continue.
"Well now, here we go. Uh, do you remember when the bridge collapsed a few weeks ago?" Fudge asked, wringing his hands around as if he was cold.
"How could I forget? Phone call after phone call of people calling in screaming about how unsafe the rest of the bridges are and how much more funds must go into them. I'm still receiving calls! You think they would've died away by now, but they haven't. They're still pouring in!"
"I think I've just added to your problems, dear chap. Do you remember a few years back whenever I mentioned uh…" the Minister fidgeted again. "A certain uh…Dark Lord that supposedly posed no threat to the Muggles or the Magical world?"
The Prime Minister stared at him. "What do you mean by supposedly?"
"Oh, well, it just seems that…it was that certain…You-Know-Who's fault that the bridge collapsed…"
The Prime Minister just stared at him. "You mean the Dark Lord?"
Fudge nodded miserably.
The Prime Minister's face went red. "You mean to tell me that you didn't realize that this man, this villain, was a threat to you? You just…let him do this? You mean to tell me that I've been receiving phone call after phone call blaming me for a bridge that collapsed whenever it was one of your people's doing?!"
The Minister of Magic fidgeted under the Prime Minister's stern gaze again. "We weren't aware that he was even alive, much back in power. If you hear anything from any one that is of this name…of V-V-Vol…oh, never mind. I'll write it down!"
After he had written it down, the Prime Minister seemed to calm down, but hide and buckle down underneath the boulder of stress. "So you mean to tell me that this Lord Vol-"
"Don't say it, dear boy! Don't say it!"
"Fine then that this Lord Vol-I mean that You-Know-Who, has risen back into power and has new people along for the ride? These Death Eaters, or whatever you call them?"
"Oh yes!" Fudge exclaimed, going back over to the drink cart and pouring out another shot glass for the Prime Minister and for which the Minister gladly took another swig of. "Yes, these Death Eaters have risen back to power and-oh! That reminds me!"
"Well, have you noticed how your Junior Minister, Herbert Chorley, has been acting recently?"
"Ah…a little," the Prime Minister replied, having a gut feeling that this wasn't a good thing.
"Apparently he was placed under a rather badly cast Imperious Curse, an Unforgiveable curse, most likely given by a Death Eater to usurp or destroy you. I'm afraid we'll have to take him to St. Mungo's for care. Don't worry, we'll make sure he's up and at his feet in no time! Give or take a few weeks…"
"A few weeks?!" the Prime Minister asked incredulously. "That long? I need him!"
"Oh, I'm sure Kingsley Shacklebolt would be glad to help you for the time being," Fudge said, sighing and taking his gloves out of his pockets, rubbing them distractedly.
"Quacking isn't all that bad, Fudge, really it isn't. It's just a bit of-wait, how do you know about Kingsley?"
The Minister of Magic laughed heartily. "Who do you think hired him to look after you, my dear lad?"
At this, the Prime Minister looked beet red. Had the entire Muggle world been taken over by these magical people? He had no idea that Kingsley had anything to do with…that world!
The Prime Minister gritted his teeth and said, "He does not have to work here anymore if he does not wish to."
The Minister of Magic raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Is that so? Has his work been less than nominal? Has he done something wrong?"
"Then what's the problem?"
The Prime Minister couldn't help but grind his teeth together. He poured himself another shot of scotch and downed it. At this rate, he'd be so hammered by tonight he wouldn't even have to show up for work tomorrow morning. Say he caught the flu. They would believe him, and think it was due to all this weather. It wasn't like he wanted to come into work at the moment. Oh wait, he couldn't do that. He just remembered. He was expecting a very important call tomorrow.
"Nothing," the Prime Minister replied, and then looked wearily back at Fudge.
"Yes, so the Dark Lord's back in power along with his cronies. And that's also why it's been so dreary around here recently," Fudge sighed.
"What do you mean?" the Prime Minister asked, mentally bracing himself for more dreary, weary, and perhaps even horrid news.
"Well, you remember three years back when I told you about the creatures called Dementors?"
Something clicked within the various hidden corners of the Prime Minister's mind. Yes, he had heard of those things before.
"Aren't those the creatures that guard that prison…Azkaban, was it?"
Fudge put on a forced smile and said, "Yes! Quick as whip, for sure! Yes, well, it appears as though the Dementors are no longer…uh…working as guards for Azkaban."
The Prime Minister blinked. "What do you mean they're no longer working as guards…oh no…don't tell me they've-"
"Yes, they've formed an alliance with the Dark Lord," Fudge said wearily, pressing his palms on his eyelids. "The weather is like this…well…at least, the heavy fog is like this because the Dementors are breeding."
"What?" the Prime Minister asked. "What, you mean they're going to be more of them?"
"Most definitely," Fudge said. "Ah, my dear boy, I'm so sorry to have to tell you all of this."
The Prime Minister couldn't help but look into his shot glass. "And I'm so sorry I had to hear it," he said miserably.
Fudge clasped his hands and said, "Well, there's one other thing you need to know before I leave. It appears as though…well, my boy, I can no longer truly do anything about these attacks by the Dark Lord."
The Prime Minister once again turned a deep red. "What do you mean, you can't do anything? What about the Muggles? What about your own people? We can't do anything about it, what makes you think you can't?!" the Prime Minister shouted. Truthfully, he had had enough of bad news. And he was pretty sure this would send him over the edge.
"It seems," Fudge said. "As though I'm no longer Minister of Magic anymore."
The Prime Minister sat their stunned. "What?"
"I no longer hold that title. I believe that this dank weather and the Dementors had something to do with it, but I'm not sure. They no longer rely upon my counsel. I think they wanted someone better than me. Probably. They've elected a new Minister of Magic. Scrimgeour."
"Scrimgeour?" the Prime Minister repeated.
"Scimgeour. New blood. He'll be arriving-"
"In less than two minutes, sir," finished the portrait, who then 'harrumphed,' and walked out of it, leaving a muddy brown canvas background behind.
"Less than two minutes?!" the Prime Minister exclaimed. He quickly straightened his jacket and fixed his tie, then quickly grabbed a comb out of his pocket and went through what was left of his hair.
And, just like the portrait said, green flames erupted in the fire not two minutes later and out popped a weathered man who looked as if he had survived two wars. He had brown hair and then grey sideburns close to his ears. He looked lionish, in a sense, and he had a slight limp when he walked. He also had yellowish eyes behind dark wire-rimmed spectacles that made him seem…oddly comforting and intimidating at the same time.
"Now, now, I can only assume that perhaps Fudge has gone over who exactly I am. My name is Scrimgeour, new Minister of Magic in Great Britain. Now to a completely different matter of business not having to do with the Dark Lord rising again, I have to ask you to authorize the movement of the Goblet of Fire. You should be able to recall, two years back, whenever Fudge asked you the first time!"
"Ah yes, but why do you need my authorization?" the Prime Minister asked. "I thought you only came to ask me about importing dragons from Romania…and then there was the Sphinx! So, what, you need the Goblet of Fire for the Tri-what's its called Tournament again? And shall I brace myself for more authorization procedures on dangerous creatures entering the country?"
Scrimgeour smirked, revealed surprisingly sharp teeth underneath his lips, and then said, "Not this time. Actually, it's a bit different, and was apparently supposed to be activated within a 1000 year period. Dumbledore was quite surprised to get such a resounding set of yells from his office about it from the other portraits!"
"What was supposed to be activated within a 1000 year time period?" the Prime Minister asked.
Scrimgeour sighed. "Apparently, four house heirs are supposed to be born after a 1000 year period of the school's first creation. 4 worthy students will be picked for this task of providing the four house heirs for the school, all of which will be very powerful. The Goblet of Fire has the responsibility of picking these four students."
The Prime Minister's eyebrows went up. "How exactly will this happen?"
"Through magical uses of spells and potions, of course! The students must either be in their 6th or 7th year of school there to be eligible to be picked. And if the students' parents refuse, a generational curse shall be cast upon them and the rest of their family for as long as they live. The activation of these spells would be immediate if the parents forbid it."
The Prime Minister sighed. The last thing he wanted to know was about all this gobble-de-gook called magic. Spells and curses, blast them all to Davy Jones' locker. He didn't want to know about such things. He would let them handle it.
"Take the darned thing, I don't care, as long as it doesn't pose a threat to my people," the Prime Minister said tiredly. "Take it!"
Scrimgeour bowed his head simply and motioned for Fudge to follow him to the fireplace.
"Oh, and please, Prime Minister," Scrimgeour said after a few moments of preparing to leave, putting on coats and grabbing bowler hats, "Keep our backs covered, and keep coming up with excuses as to why these odd things our happening. We can't risk the magical world being uncovered."
And with that, Scrimgeour grabbed Fudge by the collar and dragged him into the fireplace. Scrimgeour reached into his pocket and pulled out a sand-like substance and cried, "Ministry of Magic!"
Before the Prime Minister could even register what had happened, the two men, Minister of Magic, and former Minister of Magic had left.
Author's Notes: For those of you just now reading, I give you thanks. But credit must go to my friend who's dropped out of fanficking for now due to her huge workload. As for me, who's just getting her Elementary Education major and minor in graphic arts, I can only say I don't have as heavy a workload. So yeah, I adopted this story. Enjoy, but please review. I'll make sure to give these to my friend.