Harry Potter and the Secret Treasures-Chapter 1172: A New Journey
Since there was still half an hour until dinner time, the classes for other grades were not over yet.
Soon, the fifth-years, who had just finished their exams, all went outside the castle to breathe some fresh air or to prepare for tonight’s celebration.
Unlike the excitement of the fifth-years, the seventh-years were somewhat melancholic. The air was filled with the atmosphere of reluctance to leave. They used the last time to leave souvenirs everywhere in Hogwarts. After all, after graduation, many people might never have the chance to return to the school in this life.
Several first-years hurried past Evan and Hermione, feeling happy about the upcoming celebration.
Anyway, during the past year, because of Umbridge’s interference, there weren’t many happy moments at Hogwarts and for Gryffindor. Everyone had been too tense and needed a good relaxation.
When Evan and Hermione were the only two people around, Hermione stopped the tidying up work at hand.
“When are you leaving?” she couldn’t help asking.
“Probably the day after tomorrow morning. Dumbledore has arranged a special Floo Network for me. I can go directly to Cairo Explorer Hotel through the school fireplace,” said Evan, arranging his exam materials by category. “I’ve booked a room there.”
“I want to go with you!”
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“We talked about this before, Hermione. There’s only one invitation. Don’t worry!”
“But, just you alone, I’m still a bit worried…”
“It’s not like I haven’t been to Egypt before,” said Evan softly. “Voldemort is not there either, it will be fine!”
He hugged Hermione in his arms and whispered to her. He promised her that he would go to find her after he came back.
Like last year, after Harry left his aunt and uncle’s house, they would spend their summer at the Order of the Phoenix headquarters at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place.
At that time, everyone would gather there, including Elaine.
Under the current circumstances, Harry’s safety was still the top priority.
After Dumbledore had an open conversation with them, Harry also understood why he had to return to the Dursleys.
He was not so resentful now, and Voldemort no longer invaded his mind.
Sirius had no tasks for this holiday and did not have to accompany Evan around. He said a few days ago that he would talk to the Dursleys about Harry, and if possible, stay in that Muggle house.
Although Dumbledore disagreed with him, it seemed that Harry wouldn’t have too hard a time this summer.
After all, until now, the Dursleys still believed that Sirius was a murderous escaped convict.
Speaking of fugitives, the panic in the Wizarding world quickly spread to the Muggle world.
This summer was destined not to be peaceful!
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Just as Evan finished his exams and was preparing to go to Egypt to attend the International Alchemical Conference, a group of unwelcome guests arrived in the British Prime Minister’s office. Ṝá₦ọβÊ𝐬
It was nearing midnight, and the Prime Minister was sitting alone in his office, reading a long memo that was slipping through his brain without leaving the slightest trace of meaning behind.
He was waiting for a call from the President of a far distant Eastern country, and between wondering when the wretched man would telephone, and trying to suppress unpleasant memories of what had been a very long, tiring, and difficult week, there was not much space in his head for anything else.
The world was really getting more and more chaotic now, and Britain was facing unprecedented challenges.
The more the Prime Minister attempted to focus on the print on the page before him; the more clearly he could see the gloating face of one of his political opponents. This particular opponent had appeared on the news that very day, not only to enumerate all the terrible things that had happened in the last week but also to explain why each and every one of them was the government’s fault.
The Prime Minister probably couldn’t find any other words to describe his current situation except bad luck.
The economy continued to slump, terrorist attacks occurred frequently, and there were terrible natural disasters. It was said that larger-scale demonstrations were brewing.
If things continued like this, he might not even last until the end of this holiday before his political career came to an end…
But facing the current situation, the Prime Minister had no idea what to do.
His pulse quickened at the very thought of these accusations, for they were so unfair and untrue.
How on earth was his government supposed to have stopped that bridge collapsing?
It was outrageous for anybody to suggest that they were not spending enough on bridges. The bridge was fewer than ten years old, and the best experts were at a loss to explain why it had snapped cleanly in two, sending a dozen cars into the watery depths of the river below.
And how dare anyone suggest that it was the 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 did really seem more miserable than usual.
Even the weather was dismal; all this chilly mist, with no sunlight in sight in the middle of June. … It was not right, it was not 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 fireplace 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 window, 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 this cough, he had heard it before. He turned very slowly to face the empty room.
“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 — as the Prime Minister had known at the first cough — 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 immediately. Sincerely, Fudge.” The man in the painting looked inquiringly at the Prime Minister.
“Er,” said the Prime Minister, trying to sound even, “listen. … It’s not a very good time for me. … I’m waiting for a telephone call, you see … from the President of —”
“That can be rearranged,” said the portrait without hesitation.
The Prime Minister’s heart sank. He had been afraid of that.
“But I really was rather hoping to speak —”
“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 to make himself look more formal. He had barely resumed 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.
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