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Bernard isn’t really very surprised when, only a month after Hacker’s inauguration, he feels the wards in the Prime Minister’s office flare up like a plume of fuel igniting. The Prophet has been increasingly filled with stories of unrest in the magical community, of violence against Muggles and Muggle-born witches and wizards, and of deepening fissures in wizarding society fueled by disagreement over the appropriate response to this violence.
He is surprised, though, when the phone reserved for the Prime Minister’s private line rings before the blaze of magic has died back to the usual background prickling present in all of Number 10. He picks up the receiver somewhat hesitantly, resisting the urge to fiddle with his pencil.
“Yes, Prime Minister?”
“Ah, Bernard, could you come in here for a minute?” Hacker sounds perplexed, but not alarmed.
“Of course, Prime Minister.” Bernard hangs up, while simultaneously unlocking the slim drawer beneath the surface of his desk. He draws his wand out of it and slips it into his trousers pocket. He enters the Prime Minister’s private office unobtrusively, expecting to find his political master in the company of the Minister of Magic.
The Prime Minister, however, is alone. He is standing in front of the fireplace, staring into the green flames flickering in the grate. When Bernard enters he looks up, and indicates the fireplace in wordless confusion. Bernard steps over, and sees the letter sitting neatly in the middle of the flames which are burning without any apparent fuel. He kneels and puts his hand out, glancing up when he hears Hacker take a quick breath.
“It’s alright, Prime Minister. The flames are safe as long as they’re green. You could stand in them without harm.” He picks up the letter and hands it to Hacker, who takes it gingerly. In the fireplace the fire dies down to ashes, which crumble to nothing and leave the grate spotlessly clean. But the Prime Minister is too busy inspecting the letter to notice.
The envelope is thick parchment, addressed simply to The Right Honourable James Hacker, and shut at the back with a red wax seal. Bernard stands as the Prime Minister rips it open and pulls out the letter within. He holds it at arms’ length and scans it through narrowed eyes, then puts on his reading glasses and examines it again more closely. His expression grows increasingly alarmed as his eyes progress down the page. Finally he looks up, expression settling into one of poorly disguised mistrust – the sort he’s come to assume around Sir Humphrey, almost by default.
“I would like your opinion on this, Bernard,” he says darkly, handing over the epistle. Bernard scans it quickly, filing away the details carefully nonetheless.
The Right Honourable James Hacker,
As per the memorandum of understanding between our two governments, it is my duty to inform you that there has been an increase in violent incidents targeting the Muggle (non-wizarding) population of Great Britain, as well as witches and wizards of Muggle heritage. The Ministry of Magic has determined the origin of these attacks, and is taking immediate steps to deal with the miscreants.
I wish to assure you that the general public is not in danger. However, there may be a slightly increased risk to those Muggles with wizarding relatives. Those in the greatest danger are the parents of students currently enrolled in the wizarding school, as their children are likely to have revealed their Muggle heritage but are not of age and therefore not able to take measures to ensure the protection of their relatives.
I have determined it would be advisable to hold an information session for these families to appraise them of the situation and inform them of appropriate security precautions. As they are not members of wizarding society, however, it is my duty both to inform you of this event and to invite you to attend. I am sure that the display of our two governments acting in partnership on this issue would be beneficial to these disoriented families in this difficult time.
The information session will be held in the Kings Cross Commercial Centre Yew Room on Tuesday, January 29th at 7:00pm. Please respond by Floo directly to: Millicent Bugnold, Minister for Magic, Ministry of Magic Whitehall Office.
Sincere regards,
Millicent Bugnold,
Minister for Magic
Bernard finishes reading the letter, realises that his eyebrows are nearing his hairline, and lowers them. He looks around for the Prime Minister; he is across the room pouring out two glasses of sherry from the inconspicuous liquor cabinet.
“Very… understated, Prime Minister,” he concludes, handing it back.
“Understated? What the devil does it mean? ‘Not members of wizarding society’? And why on earth are they inviting the Prime Minister to intend some information session for a few families – a junior back-bencher would be more along the lines, I should think.” Hacker hands Bernard a glass and takes a sip from his own, pacing back and forth before the now-cold fireplace. Bernard stands with his back against the sideboard, well out of the way.
“Well, to answer your second question first, Prime Minister, you are the only man in government who they know is already aware of the existence of the wizarding world. I agree that it’s a somewhat disproportionate response, however by their own laws they have no other choice.”
The Prime Minister waves away his statement, looking at him over the top of his glasses. “Nonsense – you know all about it.”
“Yes, sir, but that’s an unofficial kind of knowing.” Hacker gives him an unimpressed look, and he continues hastily, “And anyway, they could hardly ask a private secretary to perform an MP’s job.”
The Prime Minister considers the second unabashed appeal to status, and nods slowly. “That may be true. It makes some kind of sense, I suppose. Unlike the rest of this madness. Why can’t they just put out an advisory, or phone these people?”
“Well, wizards have never been at home with technology, or for that matter electricity. I’m afraid the telephone system is nothing but a source of bafflement for many of them. And on the other side, quite a few non-wizards object to magical delivery methods. Owls, sir,” he adds, at Hacker’s confused look. And then, when it only intensifies, “As in, the bird. They’re very intelligent; they carry letters, and post. One delivers my paper.” He sighs. “I know it sounds mad.”
“You really expect me to believe your morning paper is delivered by an owl? In the face of overwhelming evidence, Bernard, I am willing to concede the existence of magic, and even a whole hidden wizarding society. But I draw the line at an advanced group of people using messenger pigeons to communicate!” he puts his empty glass down with a thump on his desk.
“That’s exactly what they say about us using wires with little streams of invisible particles flowing through them to transmit sound, Prime Minister.” He gives an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid I can’t prove it – I don’t have an owl. And I don’t think it would be a good idea to stop by a wizarding post office these days. That’s the important part of this letter, Prime Minister. The Minister says there’s nothing to worry about, but the Ministry never gets involved with non-wizarding families. If they’re getting them together, there is a serious threat.” It’s a disturbing corroboration of what he’s already begun to conclude from the recent editions of The Prophet.
The Prime Minister stops pacing and looks at the letter, unimpressed. “That, I spotted. Humphrey could make a fortune working for them. Her half-truths leap out like whole brood of snakes in the grass.”
“Um, snakes don’t leap, Prime Minister. They slither, or strike…” Bernard, caught in the middle of imitating a striking motion by the Prime Minister’s withering expression, deflates. “Sorry.”
“What does she mean by the business about not being members of wizarding society? They don’t pay taxes?” continues Hacker, ignoring the interruption.
“It’s to do with mindset more than legality, Prime Minister. There is no income or property tax in the wizarding world – many wizards and witches have no wage-earning profession – and there’s no way to determine who ought to pay property taxes to the Ministry. The Ministry’s tax revenue come entirely from sales taxes on items sold in magical shops. It means anyone living in a wizarding lifestyle will contribute, and anyone who doesn’t won’t.”
“But then why don’t they just buy what they need at our – non-magical – shops?” interrupts the Prime Minister.
“It wouldn’t occur to them,” answers Bernard, simply. “Most wizards and witches avoid the non-wizarding world. It confuses them, and they think our products are inferior. And anyway the sales tax isn’t very high. The Ministry provides far fewer services than our government, and it also has other methods of revenue generation.” Bernard shifts awkwardly. “When she talks about not being members of non-magical society it’s not to do with their contributions to the state, or lack thereof. It’s about mindset. Non-magical individuals almost never really become comfortable in magical society, even if they have wizarding siblings or children. And wizarding society on the whole can’t figure out how to view them as equals rather than… quaint underprivileged provincials.”
Hacker blinks. “That’s a bit harsh.”
“Probably less harsh than the reality, Prime Minister. On the whole, the two just don’t mix well. And that’s why they want you there at this information session. They aren’t comfortable dealing with these families – probably because they’ve never had to, and they’ve suddenly realised that erasing memories isn’t going to deal with the problem.” Hearing his own tone, Bernard coughs self-consciously, and releases his unconscious grip on the wand in his pocket, smoothing his hand over his hip.
“Surely it couldn’t really be that bad,” protests the Prime Minister. And then, at Bernard’s bland look, “…Could it be?”
Bernard sighs. “Wizarding society is almost totally separated from ours, Prime Minister. As you’re aware, wizards and witches aren’t even allowed to tell non-wizards about their existence without special permission. They rarely associate, so they don’t understand each other. That, I can understand. But that there is no effort made to countermand the rift I find unacceptable, and also highly dangerous. Hogwarts – the wizarding school – doesn’t have mandatory education regarding non-wizarding society, nor does the Ministry. Most wizards and witches – even highly educated and liberal ones – live their entire lives believing we are only one step up from some sort of primitive cave dwellers. Ultimately, that ignorance is what’s at the back of this violence. That the Ministry can hardly figure out how to meet for a simple discussion with the non-magical parents of witches and wizards is just another indication of it.”
The Prime Minister frowns and removes his glasses to look across at Bernard. “Given that, how confident can we be in their assessment of the danger to regular citizens, associated with wizards or not?”
“Honestly, sir? Not very. But… I’m afraid there aren’t many options open to us. We can take no action, either preventive or reactive, since we can’t do anything without explaining the necessity of it, and we can’t do that.”
“We can’t, in fact, do anything at all without breaking their damned laws. We’re being endangered by their insularism, and that same insularism prevents us from raising a finger to protect ourselves,” steams Hacker.
“I’m afraid so, Prime Minister.”
“Just say, Bernard, that I was to come out on public television and announce – all of this. What would happen? Surely they couldn’t wipe the minds of the entire populace – not even just those who watch the BBC,” he adds, as an afterthought.
“Probably not, Prime Minister, but they wouldn’t need to. I imagine you would be admitted to a psychiatric institution within the hour, and any proof you produced explained away as a television gimmick. And, incidentally, the Ministry for Magic would have an international incident on their hands which, while perhaps temporarily gratifying, wouldn’t achieve much for either of our citizens in the long run.”
The Prime Minister deflates slightly. “It did seem rather too easy to be true. But then what can we do?”
Bernard considers the problem. It’s not a new one, at least not recently. “Well, it might be possible to enlarge the various disaster contingency funds, and to strengthen emergency response capabilities. And perhaps some sort of tax credits for victims – although it would be difficult to define the qualifications…” he trails off, considering the intricacies of such a policy. He’s interrupted before he can get very far down that path, though.
“I was really thinking of something a bit more definite. Decisive.” The Prime Minister takes his lapel in hand, straightening unconsciously, “‘If nothing is neglected, and if the best arrangements are made, as they are being made, we shall prove ourselves once more able to defend our island home, to ride out the storm of war, and to outlive the menace of tyranny.’” He finishes the Churchillian digression, and then coughs self-consciously and fiddles with his glasses. “Yes, well. Something of that sort.”
“Until we have something to react to, Prime Minister, our hands are effectively tied. You yourself have very limited power to enact policies without going through Cabinet. If one of the ministers were initiated – or one of the permanent secretaries – things might be different. Of course, the ideal would be if the Cabinet Secretary were aware of the situation.”
Hacker gives a bark of laugher. “Humphrey? That’s the last thing we need! Thank God he, at least, is in the dark. I don’t need anyone else trying to tie my hands.”
“Um, that may be, Prime Minister, but Sir Humphrey has the largest sphere of control in Whitehall.” At the Prime Minister’s withering look, Bernard hurries on. “However, that’s a moot point. Regarding what actions you can take, apart from a general strengthening of the emergency services and disaster planning, I can think of only one thing.”
“Yes, Bernard?”
“That you, personally, consider preparing for a catastrophic event. Regardless of the Ministry’s assurances, it’s quite possible that something really dire will occur. I think it would be best if you were prepared for it.”
Hacker looks alarmed. “What could they do? Blow up Parliament?”
It’s a predictable suggestion, although not necessarily a poor one. Bernard spreads his hands in a gesture of uncertainty. “Well, possibly, Prime Minister. Something with a large toll of human lives – the destruction of a tube station, or a University campus, or a village. It could be anything. I just think it would be a good idea to be prepared, in a general sort of way, for the worst.”
The Prime Minister nods, looking rather shell shocked, and Bernard stops there. Because the man can’t imagine what the worst a wizarding Dark Lord could do would look like, and because Bernard can but would rather admit a mistake to Sir Humphrey than do so.
“Very well. I will take your suggestion to heart. And now, what are we to do about this letter?” Hacker waves the missive rather petulantly.
“I would suggest you go, Prime Minister, if only to get a better sense of what the Ministry’s story is. I could draw up a brief on some possible precautions you might want to ensure the Ministry is taking.”
“And if these parents ask me what action I’m taking?” asks Hacker, sharply.
Bernard smiles nervously. “I suggest you tell them, um, whatever you think best, Prime Minister.”
“In other words, stonewall them,” mutters Hacker darkly. Bernard doesn’t disagree.
***
They apparate to the meeting for greater security, the Minister bringing the Prime Minister by side-along apparition and Bernard going on his own – he barely has the power to manage just himself. As it is he arrives in the Kings Cross conference centre with a throbbing headache, which doesn’t improve his mood. Even Hacker, who he knows would otherwise be thrilled at having been magically transported two miles in the blink of an eye, looks depressed and nervous. He has learned something in the years since his ministerial appointment about disguising his apprehension, but not all that much – the anxiety pouring off him now is nearly palpable.
The Minister for Magic, on the other hand, looks cool and composed in an utterly no-nonsense type of way. She would have made an excellent school-master; no pupil would ever have dared be late with his homework. The only thing slightly off about her is her suit, which is a very stylish cut applied to what appears to be bombazine. Still, it’s far less out of place than that of her aide, who chose to combine a fashion magazine from the 1970s and his grandmother’s curtains when transfiguring his clothes.
“Are you ready, Prime Minister?” She stares at him in cold calculation, eyes narrowed. Hacker stiffens spasmodically under her critical eye, hands twitching as they straighten his collar, tie, lapels.
“What? Oh, yes, no, yes – er I think so.” He gives an awkward half-smile; it makes him look as though he has a toothache. The Minister does not return it; instead she turns and leads the way into the room. It’s the standard beige-walled, carpeted conference room. Chairs have been set out theatre-style with an aisle down the middle, while a foot-high platform has been laid down in front of them. Four chairs have been put out at the back, and Bernard takes a seat on the end beside Hacker.
The audience seats are perhaps three-quarters full; Bernard does a quick estimation and comes up with 50. He starts counting in earnest as the Minister steps forward to begin her welcome; he gets to 22, and then his brain stalls abruptly.
Sitting in the third row of the audience in the aisle seat is a middle-aged man in an expensive suit slightly rumpled by a day’s wear, staring in a kind of stultified horror at the Prime Minister.
Sir Humphrey Appleby.
For several seconds, Bernard stares at him, slack-jawed. Then, as the Minister finishes greeting the assembled parents and begins a brisk introduction, Bernard leans over to the Prime Minister and speaks out of the corner of his mouth. In the audience, Sir Humphrey’s eyes widen into horrified soup plates and he shakes his head frantically.
“Prime Minister?”
Hacker glances at him. Bernard opens his mouth, but instead simply twitches his head towards Sir Humphrey’s seat. And then again, more pointedly, when the Prime Minister just stares at him in confusion. Slowly, Hacker turns and glances out over the closely-set chairs. His gaze sweeps halfway over them, and then stops.
“And I am also joined this evening by the Prime Minister, James Hacker,” finishes the Minister. Hacker, staring into the seats with his mouth half-open, doesn’t notice. Bernard elbows him in the side.
“Eh? What? Oh, yes. Yes, good evening.” He switches almost seamlessly from deer in headlights to smiling vapidly at the assembled faces; the expression falls from his face like a mask as soon as the Minister begins speaking again and the room’s attention shifts back to her.
“What’s Humphrey doing here?” hisses Hacker out of the side of his mouth, without turning his head.
“I don’t know, Prime Minister.”
“Don’t know? What d’you mean, don’t know?”
“Just that: I don’t know, Prime Minister,” repeats Bernard, giving him a bewildered look. Hacker shoots him a quick glare in return before turning back to stare in puzzlement at his Cabinet Secretary. Sir Humphrey is now ignoring them both, watching the Minister with the expression of polite attention that indicates he is in the process of mercilessly deconstructing her arguments. Bernard decides to follow suit, abandoning the Prime Minister to his confusion. If Sir Humphrey is here there can really be only one reason why, but there won’t be any way to confirm that until after the meeting.
“You may have heard rumours,” the Minister is saying in a flat, business-like tone while facing the audience squarely, “of a small faction of wizards and witches who have recently been demonstrating against those of Muggle birth, or Muggles associated with the wizarding world. I am here to assure you that the Ministry is aware of this group, and that we do not and will not stand for any targeting or persecution of the citizens of this country, regardless of their magical abilities. We are investigating all potentially related incidents, and pursuing all leads which are linked to this group, and we are confident that we will soon be apprehending those responsible.
“I do not wish to raise alarm or to create undue levels of concern: The Ministry has this affair well in hand and our defense operatives are working ceaselessly to ensure the safety of both wizards and Muggles alike. I am simply here to suggest to you a few simple precautions to ensure that we are best able to protect you in the very unlikely event of an incident.”
The audience stirs a little at this, whispered conversations breaking out, but the Minister does not give them time to gather strength. She draws her wand from a pocket and waves it smoothly; beside her words appear in the air, floating blue text that solidifies from smoke. Beside Bernard Hacker stiffens, then slowly tilts his head in an attempt to read the words that are for them back-to-front.
Establish an Exit: Connect your home to the floo network. “Floo is a safe, easy and effective way to leave a dwelling quickly. It transports the user from their home or other approved location to their destination almost instantaneously. Usually the floo network cannot be connected to Muggle households, however we will be making a temporary exception. We have also set up a safe location for you to use should you need to evacuate your home. You can register for this service, free of charge, by using the green forms by the door.”
Another wave of the Minister’s wand brings a cloud of smoke to hover under the first line; it solidifies into: Prevent Unwanted Visitors: Block Apparation. “Apparation, as those of you with older children will be aware, is the ability to transport oneself instantaneously, thus.” With a bang, the Minister apparates two feet to her left, startling most of the audience and the Prime Minister. “We are able to put a spell on small areas, such as flats or houses, which blocks witches or wizards from entering that area via apparition. If you do not have any relatives who may be using apparition to visit you, this is a sensible precaution. Again, we are currently offering this service free of charge; you can register by using the blue forms by the door.”
Finally, Be Aware of Potential Threats is added to the list. “The group we are currently investigating dresses in long, black robes with white death-skull masks. Should you see anyone dressed in this manner, do not draw attention to yourself, and do not engage them. Leave the area immediately. They have been using a green skull with a snake for a tongue as a sort of symbol – if you see such a sign, leave the area immediately. I also encourage you to be aware of unusual phenomena – loud lights or noises, rapid and strange changes in weather, and so on.”
The Minister gives a final wave of her wand, and the smoke words disperse slowly. “In conclusion, I ask you to be vigilant, but want to emphasize that we are taking action and expect this issue to be dealt with soon. We have your safety as our top priority.”
There is no applause; the group of parents sit in an awkward, shifting silence for several seconds before one stands slowly. The Minister turns to stare at him expressionlessly, hands held stiffly behind her back with her wand clenched between them.
Sir Humphrey’s face splits into a wide, charming smile.
“Minister, Sir Humphrey Appleby. I have a few brief questions, if I may?” he purrs, in his most ingratiating tone. He doesn’t wait for her permission, but moves right on. “First: What is the name of this group, and how many members have been documented?”
The Minister stiffens slightly. “They call themselves the Death Eaters. We are currently investigating their numbers; owing to their masks we cannot confirm –”
Sir Humphrey interrupts her smoothly, voice sympathetic. “Of course, Minister, but how many unique individuals have you documented?”
“More than twenty,” answers the Minister, after a moment.
“Thank you. Now, you said that there have been incidents. How many, and of what scale was the damage in casualties and pounds? Roughly,” he allows, still with his winning smile.
“I don’t have those numbers to hand, Mr…”
“Sir Humphrey,” says Sir Humphrey smoothly, and goes on without pause: “And a rough estimate would be adequate. Ten incidents? Twenty? Forty?” He continues to raise the figure as she stares, offering them with the air of one giving a rope to a falling man; Bernard sees only a noose. The Minister finally grasps at one, calm expression cracking slightly at the edges.
“Fifty. Perhaps.”
“And casualties? The precautions you are offering insinuate that you expect us to be attacked in our homes, Minister. How many people have already been attacked?”
“I don’t –”
“You don’t know? Don’t know how many people have already been attacked by this group? How many have been killed by these Death Eaters?” The smile is suddenly gone, vanished as though it had never been there. Sir Humphrey’s face is hard and angry, his tone sharp as a razor.
The Minister doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look down, but her shoulders drop. Sir Humphrey drives right on in for the kill, merciless. “You expect us to believe you aren’t receiving daily reports on casualties? How many have been killed?”
“Fifty-six,” she answers, quietly. “Forty wizards; sixteen Muggles.”
There are gasps from around the room. “What are you going to do about it?” shouts someone. “Are our children safe?” demands someone else. The room descends into shouting: “Let them come home!” “How could you not tell us about this?” “Why do they want to kill us?” “Why is this happening?”
The Minister looks over at Hacker, face calm but eyes wide. It’s not lost on the audience. Almost as one, the parents shift their attacks to him. “What’s the Prime Minister going to do about it?” “Where’s the government?” “You have to help us!” Unnoticed, Sir Humphrey retakes his seat, crossing his legs and leaning back watchfully.
Hacker stands, clearing his throat awkwardly. Sitting beside him, Bernard can see that his carefully unclenched hands are trembling. “Yes. Yes, alright. Yes, ahem.” He waits for the shouting to die down; the audience falls into a restless, resentful silence. “Ahem, I would like to thank the Minister for arranging tonight’s gathering – I think we can all agree that this is very important information. Critical, even, to our interests and, um, the interests of our children and families. And, ahem, I would like to thank Sir Humphrey for his very perceptive questions; without a doubt he has brought some very helpful illumination to this discussion.”
Sir Humphrey’s lips twitch upwards into a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. Bernard resists the urge to cover his face.
“Now, I think what I heard you wondering was what’s being done about all this. And I can reassure you that the Ministry of Magic is leading the charge on this issue with extreme dedication and energy. You heard tonight about just some of the steps they are taking, both to deal with this, this gang violence and to safeguard yourselves and your families. You may also infer from my presence that awareness of this issue goes right to the very top of the Government and is the subject of intense scrutiny and deliberation.”
“But what are you actually doing?” shouts a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair partially hidden under an ugly hat.
“Ah, well, yes, as to action, that is the explicit purview of the Ministry of Magic, as well it should be; fight poison with poison, after all.” He gives a quick grin and looked around for reciprocation; there isn’t any. “But, ahem, I can also assure you that as a result of tonight’s conversation that my Government will be implementing integrated response planning. But I really should let the Minister answer the rest of your questions. Minister?”
Hacker smiles suavely and gestures her to the front of the floor before retaking his seat.
The evening goes rapidly downhill from there. The Minister takes a few more overtly-hostile questions, then draws the meeting to a close with the promise of an information sheet to be distributed to all attending, with more detailed information and an address to contact for ongoing inquiries. It’s frankly more than Bernard expected they would wring out of the Ministry, but nowhere near the information they actually need.
The Prime Minister makes an early exit while the parents are trying to press issues with the Minister. Bernard follows him out, and a moment later Sir Humphrey emerges looking wrathful. Bernard, survival instincts kicking in quickly, immediately puts himself on the PM’s far side.
“Humphrey!” exclaims Hacker with false enthusiasm as he catches sight of the Cabinet Secretary, backing up abruptly into Bernard. “We should really talk about this evening – at a later date. You see, we’re leaving with the Minister and I suspect she’ll be wanting to go quite soon, really.”
Even as he is finishing his sentence, two nearly simultaneous cracks sound from inside the meeting room. Sir Humphrey gives the Prime Minister a very dry look. “I believe she just did.”
On the other side of the closed door, the low murmur of the crowd increases abruptly to muffled shouting. Hacker swivels to stare at it. “My God, the parents!” He turns to Bernard, desperate and pleading for an escape route. “Bernard – where –”
“This way.” Sir Humphrey strides past them without waiting, moving quickly down the corridor. Hacker looks to Bernard, panicked; Bernard shakes his head helplessly. Inside, someone jostles the door, and in silent agreement they both hurry down the hall after Sir Humphrey, like a pair of remoras hoping for mercy from a shark.
They follow the Cabinet Secretary to the front entrance of the conference centre; outside the night is dark and wet, Londoners hurrying back and forth under umbrellas. Bernard, without a coat, hunches inwards and buries his hands in his pockets against the biting cold. A car is sitting by the kerb; as they approach the driver emerges and opens the back door: Sir Humphrey’s car. Hacker and Sir Humphrey hurry into the back seat, while Bernard takes the passenger.
The ten minute drive back to Downing Street is conducted entirely in terse, acrimonious silence.
***
“I would like to know what in the world you feel you were doing in that meeting, Prime Minister,” demands Sir Humphrey, striding angrily across the room and turning sharply to face down Hacker. “If I have ever seen a more obvious display of ignorance and incompetence, I would be hard-pressed to bring it to mind. If your intention was to convince those people that there is nothing in place to protect their lives from a very real threat, well done: mission accomplished.” His voice is shaking, usual eloquence replaced with acidic sarcasm.
“And you, Bernard,” he continues, rounding on Bernard like a predator seeking its next kill, “your presence is entire inexplicable, although I hope you are ashamed at taking part in such an ill-prepared and advised event.”
Hacker, already stiffening with affront, launches in on Sir Humphrey while he’s still addressing Bernard. “That’s going too far, Humphrey – it’s not your place to twit me on public speaking. And what the hell were you doing there, anyway – you’re not cleared for that information. Isn’t it enough for you to block me at every turn in Whitehall business, now you’re following me to meetings? How did you get the address?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” spits out Sir Humphrey, throwing up his hands. His face is white with anger, and even swaddled in his own shroud of righteous indignation Hacker edges away slightly in the face of it. “I was invited. As a parent.” He pulls a piece of parchment from his breast pocket with such forcefulness that he rips it, and holds it up in a quivering hand.
Hacker opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it again, and then frowns in confusion. “But – you – your daughter’s at Roedean. I’ve seen a picture.”
Sir Humphrey hardens, like liquid metal cooling into its final, razor-edged form. “That was taken on a summer vacation. Jill is a 6th form student at Hogwarts.”
Hacker’s brows furrow even further, and he looks up from under them with the beginnings of indignation. “I – but – you’ve been lying about her all this time? Fake pictures, fake grades, fake achievements? You’ve made your daughter into an entirely different person? The picture of upper-middle-class normality? Tell me, Humphrey, will she go to ‘Oxford’ as well?” he asks, voice heavy with sarcasm.
Sir Humphrey cuts across the room in sharp, violent strides, hands fisted tight at his side and mouth drawn in a very thin line. Hacker backs up but the Cabinet Secretary follows him, slamming the ripped invitation down on Hacker’s desk as he passes with a heavy thump. “Oh – and what would you have me do?” he snarls, stopping a foot from Hacker and staring him unblinkingly in the eye. “Break their Ministry’s laws and have my memory erased? Tell everyone, and be committed to a psychiatric institution? Yes, Prime Minister, please, do tell me how I should be honest with my colleagues around the water cooler about the fact that my daughter is a witch studying magic at an invisible castle!”
Bernard, hiding behind the Prime Minister’s desk with his hands gripping the back of the PM’s chair white-knuckled, bites his tongue to prevent himself from pointing out that they don’t have a water cooler and that Hogwarts is not invisible, just bespelled to appear abandoned to Muggles.
Hacker leans backwards away from the furious Cabinet Secretary, mouth opening and shutting like a goldfish. “I – I’m sorry, Humphrey,” he manages, perfunctorily. And then as he takes several breathes and the alarm recedes, repeats himself more calmly and with sincerity, “I’m sorry. That was unfair and thoughtless of me. It’s just – it came as rather a shock.” His lips twist upwards in a quick, awkward, self-ridiculing smile. Sir Humphrey backs away, deflating as his anger drains away. He looks down, pulling self-consciously at his jacket cuffs.
“No. No, that’s alright. My apologies, Prime Minister. I must confess that I had never engaged with or even offered opportunity to consider the seemingly utterly remote contingency that your humble addressee would be called upon to engage in interlocution upon this fraught province,” he says, sounding more like himself.
Hacker just stares. “Eh?”
“I was not prepared for the eventuality of this discussion,” translates Sir Humphrey, rubbing tiredly at his forehead.
Bernard, who has been keeping quiet until now in the relative safety of the lee of the Prime Minister’s desk, clears his throat quietly. Both men turn to look at him with a jarring movement that suggests they had forgotten his presence. Bernard winces apologetically, but then steps forward. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I think we may need to start considering how to address this issue, in light of the Minister’s revelations,” he says, looking more to the Prime Minister than Sir Humphrey. Hacker frowns at him.
“But you said there was nothing we could do.”
“Nothing substantive,” clarifies Bernard, seeing Sir Humphrey’s raised eyebrow, and then continues, “but that was before we knew that Sir Humphrey is aware of the wizarding world. With the assistance of the Cabinet Secretary, the opportunities for action are greatly expanded. Which is just as well, because the statistics Sir Humphrey was able to wring out of the Minister, coupled with the fact that the Ministry is offering to block apparition and connect non-wizarding homes to the floo network, means that things really are quite dire, Prime Minister.”
“How dire?”
Bernard runs a hand through his hair, searching for a relatable example. “Well, I suppose if you imagined the popular opinion of the nuclear situation if the government started offering to come to peoples’ homes and dig them back-yard bunkers, you would have an idea.”
“Unfortunately, those don’t work,” comments Sir Humphrey flippantly, while Hacker stares.
“No, they don’t,” agrees Bernard, significantly.
“Bernard, are you saying these precautions won’t work?” demands the Prime Minister, somewhere between shocked and confused. He steps forward, almost beseechingly, looking for reassurance. Bernard shakes his head slowly.
“They might have some effect, but they are all burdened with major drawbacks – the apparition barrier is easy to circumvent; floo traffic is easily traced. They’re also cumbersome and difficult to implement, which is why I’m worried. If the Ministry is in so much trouble that these are the best solutions they can offer, then the situation really is extremely serious.”
“And may we inquire as to the origin of your expertise, Bernard?” asks Sir Humphrey, with a smoothness that almost conceals the alarm in his voice.
Bernard pulls his wand from his pocket and places it on the Prime Minister’s desk. It is Sir Humphrey’s turn to stare; his eyes dart from the wand to Bernard, wide and disbelieving.
“You …?”
Bernard speaks quickly, eager to cut off misunderstandings before they begin. “My mother was a witch. I attended Hogwarts. When I graduated, I left the wizarding world, and didn’t look back. Until now, until all this started happening. I don’t want to alarm you, Sir Humphrey, but your family really is in danger. As are all those people we saw this evening. As is every wizard and witch in this country. And the Ministry doesn’t have a clue how to help them.” He looks slowly from Sir Humphrey to the Prime Minister, who looks back at him almost helplessly.
“But is there – I mean, is it – that is – it all seems so desperate, and so confused,” says the Prime Minister fretfully, his eyes dropping to the torn piece of parchment on his desk and then to the empty fireplace. “Can we do something about it?” he asks, looking to them pleadingly.
Sir Humphrey and Bernard glance at each other, Sir Humphrey with firm resolution, Bernard with a quieter certainty, before turning back to Hacker simultaneously.
“Yes, Prime Minister.”