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

arrival of Fudge, who had burst out of the fireplace, sopping wet and in a state
of considerable panic. Before the Prime Minister could ask why he was dripping
all over the Axminster, Fudge had started ranting about a prison the Prime Min-
ister had never heard of, a man named "Serious" Black, something that
sounded like "Hogwarts," and a boy called Harry Potter, none of which made
the remotest sense to the Prime Minister.
"...I've just come from Azkaban," Fudge had panted, tipping a large amount of
water out of the rim of his bowler hat into his pocket. "Middle of the North Sea,
you know, nasty flight... the dementors are in uproar" тАФ he shuddered тАФ
"they've never had a breakout before. Anyway, I had to come to you, Prime
Minister. Black's a known Muggle killer and may be planning to rejoin You-
Know-Who.... But of course, you don't even know who You-Know-Who is!" He
had gazed hopelessly at the Prime Minister for a moment, then said, "Well, sit
down, sit down, I'd better fill you in... Have a whiskey..."
The Prime Minister rather resented being told to sit down in his own office, let
alone offered his own whiskey, but he sat nevertheless. Fudge pulled out his
wand, conjured two large glasses full of amber liquid out of thin air, pushed
one of them into the Prime Minister's hand, and drew up a chair.
Fudge had talked for more than an hour. At one point, he had refused to say a
certain name aloud and wrote it instead on a piece of parchment, which he had
thrust into the Prime Minister's whiskey-free hand. When at last Fudge had
stood up to leave, the Prime Minister had stood up too.
"So you think that..." He had squinted down at the name in his left hand. "Lord

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"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!" snarled Fudge.
"I'm sorry... You think that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is still alive, then?"
"Well, Dumbledore says he is," said Fudge, as he had fastened his pin-striped
cloak under his chin, "but we've never found him. If you ask me, he's not dan-
gerous unless he's got support, so it's Black we ought to be worrying about.
You'll put out that warning, then? Excellent. Well, I hope we don't see each
other again, Prime Minister! Good night."
But they had seen each other again. Less than a year later a harassed-looking
Fudge had appeared out of thin air in the cabinet room to inform the Prime
Minister that there had been a spot of bother at the Kwidditch (or that was
what it had sounded like) World Cup and that several Muggles had been "in-
volved," but that the Prime Minister was not to worry, the fact that You-Know-
Who's Mark had been seen again meant nothing; Fudge was sure it was an iso-
lated incident, and the Muggle Liaison Office was dealing with all memory modi-
fications as they spoke.
"Oh, and I almost forgot," Fudge had added. "We're importing three foreign
dragons and a sphinx for the Triwizard Tournament, quite routine, but the De-
partment for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures tells me that its
down in the rule book that we have to notify you if we're bringing highly dan-
gerous creatures into the country."
"I тАФ what тАФ dragons?" spluttered the Prime Minister.
"Yes, three," said Fudge. "And a sphinx. Well, good day to you."
The Prime Minister had hoped beyond hope that dragons and sphinxes would
be the worst of it, but no. Less than two years later, Fudge had erupted out of