Inside the Prime Minister's office at 10 Downing Street, torrential rain pounded against the windows, and the wind howled like an enraged wild beast rampaging between buildings.
Inside, the Prime Minister sat behind his large oak desk, a thick stack of economic reports spread out in front of him.
The scratching of the pen on the paper, along with the sound of rain, became the only two sounds in the office late at night.
He had spent far too many nights like this in this office.
The mess left by the previous administration is difficult to clean up; economic data is declining month by month; strikes have spread from the mining areas to the ports; and the cabinet members each have their own agendas.
But no matter what, sitting in this position means you have to read all the documents you need to read, sign all the documents you need to sign, and shoulder all the responsibilities you need to shoulder.
As he turned to the next page, another clap of thunder sounded outside the window, and the rain intensified, pelting the windowpane almost horizontally.
He subconsciously looked up at the window, frowned, and then continued looking down at the documents.
Just then, the phone on the table suddenly rang.
The shrill ringing of the bell shattered the quiet office like a pebble suddenly thrown into still water.
The Prime Minister's left hand instinctively reached for the telephone on the corner of the table. Just as his fingers were about to touch the receiver, a sound deeper than thunder roared in from outside the window, pinning his fingers in mid-air.
Thirty International Auror have invaded London!
The sound seemed to come down from the clouds, as thick as an invisible wall, crashing in through the window and making the entire window vibrate and hum.
The Prime Minister's hand hovered above the telephone, as if someone had pressed the pause button on his entire being.
He slowly turned his head to look at the window, his mouth slightly open, the curve of his eyebrows changing from tiredness to confusion, and then from confusion to a stiff, frozen expression.
He was certain he hadn't misheard what he'd just heard.
The sound echoed in the wind, growing clearer and louder with each passing moment, as if the entire city had been turned into a single drum.
Thirty International Auror have invaded London!
Thirty International Auror have invaded London!
The Prime Minister felt as if something was stuck in his head, and his thoughts suddenly became difficult to process.
Auror.
Intrusion.
London.
He could understand each of the three words individually, but when put together in this sentence, he couldn't find a single coherent meaning.
What is International Auror?!
They even invaded London?!
He didn't try to figure out what made the sound, nor did he try to guess whether it was some kind of weapon he had never seen before, some kind of supernatural phenomenon, or something else he couldn't understand.
The moment he heard that sentence, his brain automatically skipped the "what is this?" stage and went straight to the "what will this cause?" level.
Because he was the Prime Minister, even though his abilities were mediocre, he was still the Prime Minister of Great Britain and a capable politician, so he subconsciously began to consider what the sound would cause.
This is the reason he was chosen for this position, and the whole meaning of his daily routine sitting behind this table.
The sound was so loud that it drowned out the rain; it was safe to say that all of London heard it.
Millions of people across London heard the same sentence at the same time.
He could almost picture what would happen next: tomorrow morning's front pages of newspapers would be filled with all sorts of speculation, and television news would replay the recording of that voice over and over again.
The opposition in parliament will question the government for not giving any prior warning, and the public will be panicked and angry, questioning whether the country can still protect them.
Public concerns about national defense and security, and distrust of the government, once ignited, are harder to extinguish than any economic report on his desk.
Poor economic data can be adjusted, and wrong policies can be corrected, but trust, once lost, is very difficult to rebuild.
His political enemies will seize this opportunity to put him in a very difficult position, roasting him until he is completely overwhelmed.
The problem is, he doesn't even know who said that, why they said it, or whether it's true.
He took a deep breath, trying to force himself to calm down.
But his chest heaved more violently than usual, and the breath he took did not make him feel any better.
The phone kept ringing, one ring after another, like a death knell.
He picked up the receiver and tried to calm his voice as much as possible.
"Hello?"
His voice was calmer than he had expected, but he could feel the warmth and dampness of his palm as he held the microphone.
The voice on the other end of the phone was that of his chief private secretary, sharp and urgent, as if forced to speak by something, not even bothering to catch her breath.
"Mr. Prime Minister! Did you hear that? That sound just now! It came from outside—"
"I heard you," the Prime Minister interrupted him.
"The phones are ringing off the hook. The Home Office is asking if it's a terrorist attack, the Ministry of Defence says there are no missile or aircraft signals, and the London Metropolitan Police's duty room has received hundreds of emergency calls—"
"Wait a minute." The Prime Minister pressed his thumb to his temple. "Listen to me, now do three things."
"First, immediately contact the BBC and Independent Television and have them broadcast an emergency announcement saying that the sound was due to a broadcast signal malfunction, that the technical department is investigating, and that the public need not panic."
There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone.
"A broadcast malfunction?" The secretary's voice held a clear hesitation. "Mr. Prime Minister, that sound can be heard throughout London; it's hard to deny it's a broadcast malfunction—"
"Just say it's a technical malfunction." The Prime Minister's tone was flat, but he emphasized each word more forcefully than usual.
"If that's not enough, add 'due to signal interference.' The wording should be as scientifically rigorous as possible, leaving no room for reporters to press for answers. First, reassure the public; I'll handle the rest."
When he said this, he knew perfectly well that all the talk about broadcast malfunctions and signal interference was nonsense.
That sound was definitely not something any broadcasting equipment he knew could produce, and he knew in his heart that it was most likely related to Fudge, that guy who always hid behind the fireplace and talked to him.
But he couldn't say that. He couldn't very well tell his secretary, "Oh, that might be someone from the Wizarding World making a message, don't worry."
He could only grit his teeth and swallow his anger, then clean up the mess left by those who yelled at him without even a word.
"Okay, sure. I'll get right on it."
"The second thing," the Prime Minister continued, his voice even lower than before.
"Have the Home Office's duty office compile all alarm records related to this sound, but do not release them to the public for the time being."
"Third, notify the Ministry of Defence and instruct them to maintain a consistent internal stance of 'currently verifying,' and refrain from making any speculative judgments. Do you understand?"
"Clear."
"Go."
He had just put the receiver back on the landline when the phone started ringing again.