The Russians

The Prime Minister straightened his tie and arranged his expression into the relaxed, composed look he wanted just as emerald-green flames suddenly sprang up in the empty grate beneath the marble fireplace. He did his best to hide the shock and panic inside him, staring as a very fat man appeared in the middle of the fire, spinning rapidly like a top. A few seconds later, the fat man stepped over the grate, holding a lime-green bowler hat, and stood on a fine antique rug, brushing soot from the sleeves of his pinstriped cloak.

"Heh... Prime Minister," Cornelius Fudge said, striding over and holding out a hand. "Good to see you again."

The Prime Minister had no desire at all to return the pleasantry, so he said nothing. He had not the slightest wish to see Fudge. Fudge's previous appearances, apart from being particularly alarming, generally meant he was about to hear some particularly dreadful news. Besides, as he looked Fudge over, he felt the man before him was not in good shape, and that was not a good sign.

"He said you could help me understand what caused that hurricane in Lancashire." The Prime Minister pointed at the portrait on the wall.

"Oh, that is Ulick Gamp, our first Minister." Fudge raised his hat toward the portrait. "That wind was actually a magically formed hurricane. Do you understand what happened?"

"What was it?" The Prime Minister leaned forward, a bad feeling rising in his heart.

Fudge took a deep breath and said, "Prime Minister, I am very sorry to tell you that he is back. The one whose name must not be spoken has returned."

It was precisely this sort of thing that made him dislike Fudge's visits. He was, after all, the Prime Minister, and he did not