"J .K. Rowling - Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rowling J. K)

river below. And how dare anyone suggest that it was lack of policemen that
had resulted in those two very nasty and well-publicized murders? Or that the
government should have somehow foreseen the freak hurricane in the West
Country that had caused so much damage to both people and property? And
was it his fault that one of his Junior Ministers, Herbert Chorley, had chosen this
week to act so peculiarly that he was now going to be spending a lot more time
with his family?
"A grim mood has gripped the country," the opponent had concluded, barely
concealing his own broad grin.
And unfortunately, this was perfectly true. The Prime Minister felt it himself;
people really did seem more miserable than usual. Even the weather was dis-
mal; all this chilly mist in the middle of July... It wasn't right, it wasn't normal...
He turned over the second page of the memo, saw how much longer it went
on, and gave it up as a bad job. Stretching his arms above his head he looked
around his office mournfully. It was a handsome room, with a fine marble fire-
place facing the long sash windows, firmly closed against the unseasonable
chill. With a slight shiver, the Prime Minister got up and moved over to the win-
dow, looking out at the thin mist that was pressing itself against the glass. It
was then, as he stood with his back to the room, that he heard a soft cough
behind him.
He froze, nose to nose with his own scared-looking reflection in the dark glass.
He knew that cough. He had heard it before. He turned very slowly to face the
empty room. : ┬ж
"Hello?" he said, trying to sound braver than he felt.
For a brief moment he allowed himself the impossible hope that nobody would
answer him. However, a voice responded at once, a crisp, decisive voice that
sounded as though it were reading a prepared statement. It was coming тАФ as

3
the Prime Minister had known at the first cough тАФ from the froglike little man
wearing a long silver wig who was depicted in a small, dirty oil painting in the
far corner of the room.
"To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Urgent we meet. Kindly respond immedi-
ately. Sincerely, Fudge."
The man in the painting looked inquiringly at the Prime Minister.
"Er," said the Prime Minister, "listen... Its not a very good time for me... I'm
waiting for a telephone call, you see... from the President of тАФ "
"That can be rearranged," said the portrait at once. The Prime Minister's heart
sank. He had been afraid of that.
"But I really was rather hoping to speak тАФ "
"We shall arrange for the President to forget to call. He will telephone tomorrow
night instead," said the little man. "Kindly respond immediately to Mr. Fudge."
"I... oh ... very well," said the Prime Minister weakly. "Yes, I'll see Fudge."
He hurried back to his desk, straightening his tie as he went. He had barely re-
sumed his seat, and arranged his face into what he hoped was a relaxed and
unfazed expression, when bright green flames burst into life in the empty grate
beneath his marble mantelpiece. He watched, trying not to betray a flicker of
surprise or alarm, as a portly man appeared within the flames, spinning as fast
as a top. Seconds later, he had climbed out onto a rather fine antique rug,
brushing ash from the sleeves of his long pin-striped cloak, a lime-green bowler