J. K. Rowling - 06 Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince-(2005

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Table of Contents:

1. The Other Minister

2. Spinner's End

3. Will and Won't

4. Horace Slughorn

5. An Excess of Phlegm

6. Draco's Detour

7. The Slug Club

8. Snape Victorious

9. The Half-Blood Prince

10. The Hour of Gaunt

11. Hermioine's Helping Hand

12. Silver & Opals

13. The Secret Riddle

14. Felix Felicis

15. The Unbreakable Vow

16. A Very Frosty Christmas

17. A Sluggish Memory

18. Birthday Surprises

19. Elf Trails

20. Lord Coldemort's Request

21. The Unknowable Room

22. After Burial

23. Horcruxes

24. Sectumsempra

25. The Seer Overheard

26. The Cave

27. The Lightning-Struck Towel

28. Flight of the Prince

29. The Phoenix Lament

30. The White Tomb

Chapter 1: The Other Minister

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 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 more he attempted to focus on the

print on the page before him, the more clearly the Prime Minister 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 (as though anyone needed

reminding) but also to explain why each and every one of them was the

government's fault.

The Prime Minister's pulse quickened at the very thought of these

accusations, for they were neither fair nor true. 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 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 dismal; 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 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 that 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, "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 at once. 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. 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. 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 hat in his hand.

"Ah... Prime Minister," said Cornelius Fudge, striding forward with his

hand outstretched. "Good to see you again."

The Prime Minister could not honestly return this compliment, so said

nothing at all. He was not remotely pleased to see Fudge, whose occasional

appearances, apart from being downright alarming in themselves, generally

meant that he was about to hear some very bad news. Furthermore, Fudge

was looking distinctly careworn. He was thinner, balder, and grayer, and his

face had a crumpled look. The Prime Minister had seen that kind of look in

politicians before, and it never boded well.

"How can I help you?" he said, shaking Fudge's hand very briefly and

gesturing toward the hardest of the chairs in front of the desk.

"Difficult to know where to begin," muttered Fudge, pulling up the chair,

sitting down, and placing his green bowler upon his knees. "What a week,

what a week..."

"Had a bad one too, have you?" asked the Prime Minister stiffly, hoping

to convey by this that he had quite enough on his plate already without any

extra helpings from Fudge.

"Yes, of course," said Fudge, rubbing his eyes wearily and looking

morosely at the Prime Minister. "I've been having the same week you have,

Prime Minister. The Brockdale Bridge... the Bones and Vance murders... not

to mention the ruckus in the West Country..."

"You--er--your--I mean to say, some of your people were--were involved

in those--those things, were they?"

Fudge fixed the Prime Minister with a rather stern look. "Of course they

were," he said, "Surely you've realized what's going on?"

"I..." hesitated the Prime Minister.

It was precisely this sort of behavior that made him dislike Fudge's visits

so much. He was, after all, the Prime Minister and did not appreciate being

made to feel like an ignorant schoolboy. But of course, it had been like this

from his very first meeting with Fudge on his very first evening as Prime

Minister. He remembered it as though it were yesterday and knew it would

haunt him until his dying day.

He had been standing alone in this very office, savoring the triumph that

was his after so many years of dreaming and scheming, when he had heard a

cough behind him, just like tonight, and turned to find that ugly little portrait

talking to him, announcing that the Minister of Magic was about to arrive

and introduce himself

Naturally, he had thought that the long campaign and the strain of the

election had caused him to go mad. He had been utterly terrified to find a

portrait talking to him, though this had been nothing to how he felt when a

self-proclaimed wizard had bounced out of the fireplace and shaken his

hand. He had remained speechless throughout Fudge's kindly explanation

that there were witches and wizards still living in secret all over the world

and his reassurances that he was not to bother his head about them as the

Ministry of Magic took responsibility for the whole Wizarding community

and prevented the non-magical population from getting wind of them. It was,

said Fudge, a difficult job that encompassed 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 still-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--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--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--why has nobody told me--?"

"The Minister of Magic only reveals him--or herself to the Muggle Prime

Minister 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--?"

At this, Fudge had actually laughed.

"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

convince 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 Exchequer had all tried unsuccessfully to pry 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 always to tell himself firmly that his eyes were

playing tricks on him when anything 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 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 Minister 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.

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TableofContents:1.TheOtherMinister2.Spinner'sEnd3.WillandWon't4.HoraceSlughorn5.AnExcessofPhlegm6.Draco'sDetour7.TheSlugClub8.SnapeVictorious9.TheHalf-BloodPrince10.TheHourofGaunt11.Hermioine'sHelpingHand12.Silver&Opals13.TheSecretRiddle14.FelixFelicis15.TheUnbreakableVow16.AVeryFrostyChristmas17.AS...

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J. K. Rowling - 06 Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince-(2005

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