“Director, regarding Allen Wayne…”
Weatherby’s voice grew smaller and smaller, and beads of sweat were visibly forming on his forehead.
“At present, we have no leads whatsoever.”
“No leads whatsoever?”
“Yes, Director.”
Weatherby flipped through the files in his hands.
“So you don’t know where this Allen Wayne lives, you don’t know what he looks like, and you don’t even know whether he’s male or female?”
“No, we know he’s male,” Weatherby added weakly.
“Because the name is clearly…”
Quilden took a deep breath, as if he would explode on the spot if he didn’t.
“So what you’re telling me is that we, the Ministry of Magic, a magical governing body with over seven hundred years of history, can’t even find an author who has published tens of thousands of books in the Muggle world?”
Weatherby didn’t have the balls to speak.
He could only nod.
In the silence, Quilden rose and began pacing back and forth across the office.
“Minister Fudge wants me to find that author in the shortest possible time,” Quilden said with his back to Weatherby.
“Make him stop writing and prevent the book from spreading any further.”
“But we don’t even know where he is.
As for stopping the spread of the book, that’s even more—”
“Then we change our approach.”
Quilden suddenly turned around, a flash of light in his eyes.
“If we can’t find the author, then we cut off the circulation of the book at its source.”
Weatherby froze.
“The… source?”
“The printing houses,” Quilden said.
“Those Muggle printing houses.
As long as they stop printing it, once the copies already on the market sell out, it’ll naturally disappear.”
“But, Director,” Weatherby said cautiously, “there isn’t just one printing house handling that book.
Apparently, because it’s selling so well, the publisher has already added several production lines…”
Quilden irritably ran his fingers through his hair, making his already untidy hair even messier.
“Then contact the Muggle Prime Minister!
Have the Prime Minister step in and use an administrative order to ban the printing and sale of this book!”
Weatherby opened his mouth.
“But… according to regulations, contact between the Ministry of Magic and the Muggle Prime Minister must be handled personally by the Minister.”
Quilden froze, and his expression stiffened at once.
Weatherby was right.
Communication between the Ministry of Magic and the Muggle Prime Minister had to be carried out personally by the Minister for Magic.
No one else was permitted to act beyond their authority.
Which meant that after only just returning from being scolded by Fudge, Quilden now had to go back and ask him again.
The office fell silent.
“Fine.
Get out.”
Weatherby looked as though he had been granted a royal pardon.
He hugged the files to his chest, turned, and hurried away.
Quilden stood alone in his office for a long time.
Finally, he sighed and, with grim resolve, turned once more toward the Minister’s office at the end of the corridor.
If one looked closely, there was even a faint trace of bleakness in his retreating back.
…
Inside the Minister’s office.
“You’re back again?” Fudge looked up, his brows twisted together.
“Have you found him?”
“No,” Quilden said honestly.
“The author has completely disappeared.
We can’t find any trace of him through any channel.”
“Then why have you come back?”
“I need you to contact the Muggle Prime Minister.”
Fudge frowned. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
“What did you say?”
“Minister, the only option now is to cut off the book’s circulation from within the Muggle world.”
Quilden tried to make his tone sound as organized as possible.
“Have the Prime Minister issue an order forbidding all printing houses from continuing to print this book and banning bookshops from selling it.
This is the fastest and most effective method.”
Fudge stared at him.
His gaze slowly shifted from anger to contemplation, then from contemplation to a rather displeased expression.
“You know how troublesome it is to deal with the Muggle Prime Minister,” Fudge said, putting down his quill.
“The man asks a pile of questions every time and always looks at me as if I’m some sort of lunatic.”
“But this is the only feasible option at present,” Quilden insisted.
“If we can’t find the author, we can’t stop him from continuing to write.”
“But if we can have the Muggle world legally ban this book, we can at least cut off its distribution channels.”
“There is some sense in that…”
Fudge leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach.
“All right.
I’ll handle the matter of the Muggle Prime Minister.”
He waved a hand irritably.
Quilden finally breathed a sigh of relief.
He gave a slight bow, then turned and left the Minister’s office.
The moment the door closed, he heard Fudge muttering to himself,
“Merlin above… why did this have to happen while I’m Minister…”
Meanwhile, far away in Muggle London.
Inside the offices of Bloomsbury Publishing, Barry had just hung up the telephone.
Christopher sat in the chair opposite him, holding a cup of coffee.
His eyelids were already close to drooping shut.
Over the past half month, he had practically soaked himself in the publishing house every day.
He had visibly lost weight, and his eyes were sunken, yet his spirit was unusually excited.
“Who called?” Christopher asked after taking a sip of coffee, his voice thick with obvious exhaustion.
“The printing house.”
Barry spun once in his office chair like a child who had just received a new toy.
“They said the fifth and sixth production lines have been installed.”
Christopher’s coffee cup paused in his hand.
“Six?
Didn’t we only have three originally?”
“Now we have six.” Barry grinned.
“And all of them are running twenty-four hours a day.
Starting today, we can fully meet domestic supply demand.”
“In other words…”
“That’s right.”
Barry stood up and walked to the window, pushing it open to let the cool evening breeze flow in.
“In other words, from this moment on, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone: Part One will be available in unlimited supply throughout Great Britain.”
Christopher set down his coffee cup and finally let out a long breath.
“Do you know, Barry,” he said, “if you add up all the sleep I’ve had over the past half month, it probably doesn’t even reach fifty hours.”
“Same here,” Barry said, turning back to him.
The two men looked at each other and laughed at the same time.
“There’s more good news.”
Barry opened a drawer and took out a document.
“The foreign publication rights have been settled.”
“Publishers from the United States, Canada, Australia, and Japan are all contacting us.
Publishers from other European countries have also sent letters of intent.”
“Within a month, at least six countries are expected to publish local editions of this book at the same time.”
Christopher blinked. This story is hosted at g.com.
“That’s even faster than I imagined.”
“The market demand is right there.”
Barry placed the documents back into the drawer.
“I’ve been in this industry for nearly thirty years, and this is the first time I’ve ever seen anything like it.
A book that hasn’t even been released in full yet has already attracted this much attention worldwide.”
“To be precise, it’s a book that hasn’t finished coming out,” Christopher corrected him.
“Right.
Only the first half of the two-part release is out.
If the second half comes out…”
Barry didn’t finish, but his expression had already made the rest of the sentence perfectly clear.
Christopher sank back into his chair and closed his eyes, feeling the exhaustion of the past half month finally begin to slowly loosen its grip.
“Barry,” he said with his eyes closed, “I think I need a holiday.”
“You really do need a holiday,” Barry said, pouring some hot water into his own cup.
“I need one too.”
“I’m thinking of going to the Scottish Highlands.”
Christopher opened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling, his face carrying a rare sense of ease and yearning.
“Rent a little cabin by a loch, bring a whole crate of books, fish, sleep, admire the scenery.”
“Sounds lovely.”
“Wake up every morning to birdsong.
No watches, no phone calls, no work correspondence…”
“Yes, that sounds rather wonderful.”
“I’ll bring my old fishing tackle too.
I’ve never caught anything bigger than my finger, but sitting beside a lake with the right posture—now that feels proper.”
“Maybe you can send back a photograph.”
“Exactly.
I’ll hang it over the fireplace with a line underneath—”
As he was speaking, his gaze drifted to a stack of manuscripts beside his foot.
Barry’s office was filled with all sorts of manuscripts and files.
Several piles of scattered papers lay on the floor, some packed in kraft-paper envelopes, others simply lying loose.
And right beside Christopher’s right foot, there was a manuscript on the floor.
“Hm?”
Christopher bent down.
“When did this fall?”
Barry glanced down.
“Probably when you were picking up your coat just now.
Your coat’s enormous.”
“Oh.”
Christopher thought he might indeed have accidentally knocked something down.
He bent over, reached out, and picked up the manuscript, apologizing casually.
“Sorry.
I’ve made a mess of your office.”
He flipped through the manuscript casually, intending to place it on the nearby table.
“It’s fine, Christopher.
You’re free to keep imagining your wonderful holiday.”
“Scotland really is a fine place.
The environment is beautiful, and I hear the natural scenery is wonderfully preserved… Christopher?
Why aren’t you saying anything?”
“Hello?”
Barry waved a hand in front of Christopher’s eyes.
“I may be about to lose my holiday,” Christopher said, his mouth full of bitterness.
“What?”
Barry instinctively leaned over to look at the manuscript clutched in Christopher’s hands.
The title at the top was particularly striking:
[Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone: Part Two.]