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

everything from regulations on responsible use of broomsticks to keeping the
dragon population under control (the Prime Minister remembered clutching the
desk for support at this point). Fudge had then patted the shoulder of the sLill-
dumbstruck Prime Minister in a fatherly sort of way.
"Not to worry," he had said, "it's odds-on you'll never see me again. I'll only
bother you if there's something really serious going on our end, something
that's likely to affect the Muggles тАФ the non-magical population, I should say.
Otherwise, it's live and let live. And I must say, you're taking it a lot better than
your predecessor. He tried to throw me out the window, thought I was a hoax
planned by the opposition."
At this, the Prime Minister had found his voice at last. "You're тАФ you're not a
hoax, then?"
It had been his last, desperate hope.
"No," said Fudge gently. "No, I'm afraid I'm not. Look."
And he had turned the Prime Minister's teacup into a gerbil.
"But," said the Prime Minister breathlessly, watching his teacup chewing on the
corner of his next speech, "but why тАФ why has nobody told me тАФ ?"
"The Minister of Magic only reveals him тАФ or herself to the Muggle Prime Minis-
ter of the day," said Fudge, poking his wand back inside his jacket. "We find it
the best way to maintain secrecy."
"But then," bleated the Prime Minister, "why hasn't a former Prime Minister
warned me тАФ ?"
At this, Fudge had actually laughed.

5
"My dear Prime Minister, are you ever going to tell anybody?"
Still chortling, Fudge had thrown some powder into the fireplace, stepped into
the emerald flames, and vanished with a whooshing sound. The Prime Minister
had stood there, quite motionless, and realized that he would never, as long as
he lived, dare mention this encounter to a living soul, for who in the wide world
would believe him?
The shock had taken a little while to wear off. For a time, he had tried to con-
vince himself that Fudge had indeed been a hallucination brought on by lack of
sleep during his grueling election campaign. In a vain attempt to rid himself of
all reminders of this uncomfortable encounter, he had given the gerbil to his
delighted niece and instructed his private secretary to take down the portrait of
the ugly little man who had announced Fudge's arrival. To the Prime Minister's
dismay, however, the portrait had proved impossible to remove. When several
carpenters, a builder or two, an art historian, and the Chancellor of the Excheq-
uer had all tried unsuccessfully to prise it from the wall, the Prime Minister had
abandoned the attempt and simply resolved to hope that the thing remained
motionless and silent for the rest of his term in office. Occasionally he could
have sworn he saw out of the corner of his eye the occupant of the painting
yawning, or else scratching his nose; even, once or twice, simply walking out of
his frame and leaving nothing but a stretch of muddy-brown canvas behind.
However, he had trained himself not to look at the picture very much, and al-
ways to tell himself firmly that his eyes were playing tricks on him when any-
thing like this happened.
Then, three years ago, on a night very like tonight, the Prime Minister had been
alone in his office when the portrait had once again announced the imminent