Inside the Prime Minister’s office at Number 10 Downing Street, the Prime Minister sat behind his desk, a thick stack of economic reports spread out before him.
Dusk had already fallen outside the window, and the London sky had turned a hazy shade of blue-grey.
He had been working for nearly twelve hours straight, but his efficiency was pitifully low.
The numbers on the reports only made him more irritated.
Unemployment was still rising.
Inflation had eased somewhat, but it was still far from the expected level.
Manufacturing continued to shrink, and revenue from the North Sea oilfields had also begun to decline.
Meanwhile, over in the European Community, the French and the Germans were pushing for deeper monetary integration, while this former empire on which the sun had never set was still hovering awkwardly on the margins.
He rubbed his temples, feeling a deep wave of exhaustion.
Just then, a soft cough suddenly came from the portrait in the corner of the room.
“To the Muggle Prime Minister.
Urgent meeting requested.
Please respond at once.
Yours faithfully, Fudge,” said the little man in the portrait.
“All right.
Send him through.”
The Prime Minister tiredly pinched the bridge of his nose.
The flames in the fireplace flickered, then suddenly turned green.
Fire rolled and swelled in the grate, forming a swirling green passage.
The next second, a short, stout man in plum-coloured robes and a bowler hat stepped out of the flames, brushing a little soot from his cuffs.
“Good evening, Prime Minister.”
Fudge wore a formal smile as he walked up to the desk.
Then, as if they were old friends, he pulled out a chair and sat down.
The Prime Minister took a deep breath and closed the documents in front of him.
“Mr.
Fudge,” he said, “this is hardly a suitable time.”
“I know, I know.” Fudge waved a hand.
“I do apologise for disturbing you so late, but there is an important matter I need to discuss with you.”
“What matter?”
Fudge took a book from his pocket and placed it on the desk.
On the cover, a little boy wore round glasses, with a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.
The Prime Minister glanced at the cover, then looked up at Fudge.
“Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone,” he said.
“I’ve heard of this book.
My secretary’s daughter is particularly fond of it.”
“That is precisely the problem,” Fudge said, his tone becoming serious.
“This book involves secrets of our wizarding world.
A great many secrets.”
The Prime Minister raised an eyebrow.
“You mean the things written in this book… are true?”
“I don’t know much about your… wizarding world.
I assumed it was fiction.”
Fudge’s expression stiffened, and he gave a cough.
“That is not the point.” He avoided the question.
“The point is that this book is spreading on a massive scale throughout the Muggle world.
Tens of thousands of Muggles are reading it, discussing it, even—”
“Even what?”
“Even beginning to believe that magic truly exists,” Fudge said.
“This violates the International Statute of Secrecy.
We must take action.”
The Prime Minister fell silent for a moment before slowly asking,
“What do you want me to do?”
“Very simple.”
Fudge leaned forward.
“In the name of the government, ban the printing and sale of this book.
Classify it as prohibited material.”
“Then seize all existing stock and make this book disappear from the market entirely.”
The Prime Minister lowered his eyes and looked at the book’s cover on the desk.
“Mr.
Fudge,” the Prime Minister said slowly, “do you know how many copies this book has sold over the past two weeks?”
Fudge froze.
“I don’t care about that—”
“More than five hundred thousand copies,” the Prime Minister interrupted.
“And that number is still growing.”
“This book is driving a whole chain of related industries: printing, logistics, retail, toy manufacturing.”
“My people told me that the indirect economic benefits generated by this book alone may reach tens of millions of pounds.”
He paused, looking straight into Fudge’s eyes.
“We are in a recession, Mr.
Fudge.
Unemployment is high, industrial output is falling, and public confidence has sunk to the bottom.”
“And this book is making people walk back into bookshops.
It is making them spend again.
It is making them excited about something again.”
“I don’t care about any of that,” Fudge said, impatience creeping into his voice.
“The secrets of the wizarding world are more important than your economy.”
“Are they?” the Prime Minister’s tone turned cold.
“Then what alternative can your wizarding world provide for my country?”
“Can you create jobs?
Can you stimulate consumption?
Can you increase tax revenue?”
Can you make us the centre of the world again?, The Prime Minister added coldly in his heart.
Fudge opened his mouth, but for a moment, he could not speak.
“You cannot,” the Prime Minister answered for him.
“So I will not ban this book.”
Fudge’s face turned ugly.
“Prime Minister, I must remind you—”
“Mr.
Fudge,” the Prime Minister interrupted him again, “I respect the rules of your wizarding world.”
“But my duty is to govern this country and protect its interests.
This book is helping me do that.”
“I will not strangle a thriving industry for a reason I cannot possibly explain to Parliament.”
He stood and walked to the window, turning his back on Fudge.
“I understand your concerns.
But my answer is no.”
The office fell into silence.
Fudge sat in his chair, his expression shifting between dark and stormy.
He stared at the Prime Minister’s back for a long while before finally standing.
“There will be great trouble because of this book in the future,” he said.
“You will regret this.”
“Perhaps,” the Prime Minister said without turning around.
“But that is my affair.”
Fudge snorted coldly and turned toward the fireplace.
He grabbed a handful of Floo powder and threw it into the flames.
Green fire rose once more.
“The Ministry of Magic will not tolerate the existence of this book.”
After saying those words, he vanished into the flames.
The green flames in the fireplace slowly died away, returning to ordinary orange and gold.
The Prime Minister remained standing by the window, gazing at the night scene of London outside.
He felt a deep weariness from the bottom of his heart.
He thought back on everything that had happened since he had taken office.
Great Britain had once ruled a quarter of the world’s land.
Now, it was like an old man in his twilight years, struggling to survive one crisis after another.
The bipolar confrontation between the superpowers had left Britain in an awkward position.
The Americans and the Soviets were both trying to draw Europe to their side, but Britain was neither the core of continental Europe nor America’s closest ally.
Instead, it was caught awkwardly in the middle, pleasing neither side.
Economically, things were even more of a mess.
The legacy left behind by the previous Prime Minister was a double-edged sword.
She had indeed revitalised Britain’s economy, but she had also torn society apart.
The miners’ strike, the wave of unemployment, the widening gap between rich and poor… none of these problems had truly been resolved.
The faction loyal to his predecessor firmly opposed any surrender of sovereignty and insisted that Britain should maintain its independence.
The other faction believed that Britain had to integrate more deeply into Europe if it wanted a place in the world of the future.
He had tried to take a middle path, only to end up satisfying neither side.
The former Prime Minister’s faction criticised him as weak, saying he had betrayed her legacy.
The other side said he was indecisive and lacked leadership.
The media showed him no mercy either.
They mocked him as a “mediocre Prime Minister,” a “coward,” and “a man forever living in the shadow of his predecessor.”
As a Prime Minister who had inherited a tangled mess, he longed to prove himself.
He longed to step out from under that woman’s shadow and build a political legacy of his own.
He wanted to establish a more compassionate conservatism, a society that could maintain economic vitality while also caring for the vulnerable.
He wanted Britain to play a central role in Europe, rather than standing hesitantly at the door as it was now.
He wanted to become a respected leader, not a transitional figure mocked by the press.
But in the face of reality, these wishes seemed so pale and powerless.
He turned and walked back to his desk, lowering his gaze to the copy of [Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone].
Still, the appearance of this book was an unexpected gift to him.
It hadn’t only brought economic benefits; more importantly, it had given Britain signs of becoming a centre of cultural export once again.
For a declining country, that was an intangible asset.
And for him, it was undoubtedly a straw to cling to.
Whether or not it could reverse the current situation, he could not afford to give up such an asset.
He picked up the telephone and dialled a number.
“This is the Prime Minister,” he said.
“Put me through to the communications office.”
There was a flurry of transfers on the other end of the line.
A few seconds later, a voice sounded.
“Prime Minister, this is the duty secretary from the communications office.”
“I need you to do something for me,” the Prime Minister said.
“That book, [Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone].
You know it?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Good,” the Prime Minister said.
“Once the complete edition of this book is published, I want all major newspapers to give it detailed, positive coverage.
Not just a few lines of commentary.
I mean full-page features.”
“Sir… are you certain?
After all, this book is a children’s book—”
“I am certain,” the Prime Minister interrupted.
“And not only domestically.
I want you to contact the Foreign Office and have them use every cultural promotion channel available to export this book overseas as much as possible.”
“The United States, Canada, Australia, France… all English-speaking countries must be covered.”
“But, sir, we know virtually nothing about the author of this book—”
“That does not matter,” the Prime Minister said.
“What matters is that this book is making the world pay attention to Britain’s cultural exports again.
We cannot miss this opportunity.”
“Understood, sir.
I’ll arrange it as soon as possible.”
“Good,” the Prime Minister said.
“One more thing.”
“Please give your instructions.”
“Have the BBC produce a special programme.
About this book’s phenomenal success and what it means for Britain’s cultural industry.”
“Understood.”
The Prime Minister hung up and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes wearily.
He didn’t know whether what he was doing was right.
But he knew that, for now, he had no other choice.
Like a drowning man seeing a single straw, he would grasp it without hesitation, whether it proved useful or not.
He opened the copy of [Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone] on his desk.
Although he was not someone who enjoyed fantasy novels, he sincerely hoped this book would become a tremendous success.
“I hope you don’t disappoint me,” he whispered, his gaze falling on the open book.