The Prime Minister reluctantly picked up the receiver again.
A voice, almost screaming, came from the other end of the phone. "Prime Minister! Did you hear that?! That sound! The whole of London can hear it! Saying something about International Auror invasion—"
It was the duty officer from the Ministry of the Home Office, his voice filled with obvious panic, as if he had been dragged out of bed and thrown into a nightmare.
The Prime Minister closed his eyes and pressed his brow with the knuckles of his other hand.
"I heard you," he said, trying to make each word fall smoothly into the microphone.
"Contact the media immediately, all major newspapers and radio stations, and have them issue a statement right away."
"What statement?"
"Just say... just say it was a broadcast line malfunction, a frequency crosstalk, or signal interference. Any technical explanation is acceptable, as long as the public believes it was just a mechanical failure."
There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone. Then, the voice asked hesitantly, "A broadcast malfunction? Prime Minister, that voice—"
"Just say it's a broadcast malfunction," the Prime Minister interrupted him, his voice even deeper than before. "Get it done now. Immediately."
"Yes, Prime Minister."
He hung up the phone, and as soon as he put the receiver back on the stand, it rang again.
This call came from the duty officer at the Ministry of Ministry of Defence; the caller's voice was more urgent than the first one.
"Prime Minister, that voice said the International Auror have invaded London. We don't know what that is, but the word 'invasion' is enough to cause a stir—"
"I know," the Prime Minister interrupted him. "It was a broadcast malfunction; I've already sent a statement. You're responsible for confirming that there's no actual security threat."
"But that voice—"
"There is no real threat," the Prime Minister repeated, each word seemingly squeezed out from between clenched teeth, "Go do what you're supposed to do."
He hung up the phone immediately after saying that.
The next call came from the Downing Street press office, followed by a call from the London Metropolitan Police, then another from MI5, and finally from the Cabinet Office's night duty secretary.
The phone rang and stopped, stopped and rang again, like a tireless hunter chasing a prey that was already out of breath.
The prime minister received one call after another.
His voice went from calm at first, to steady later, and then to a kind of impatient irritation.
In every phone call, he repeated the same thing:
Broadcast malfunction. Signal interference. No actual threat. A statement was issued to reassure the public.
But not everyone on the other end of the phone was as calm as he was.
Some people's voices trembled, some were incoherent, some repeatedly asked "what exactly does International Auror mean?", and some even asked if an emergency evacuation procedure should be initiated.
The Prime Minister managed to suppress them all.
After the 10th or so phone call ended, the office finally fell into a brief silence.
Only the sound of rain still pouring down outside the window, like a nightmare that never ends.
The Prime Minister sat in his chair, his hands flat on the table, his eyes fixed on the telephone.
The old-fashioned black telephone with its brass bell sat quietly on the corner of the table, like a wild beast that had eaten its prey and finally put away its claws for the time being.
He could feel his heart still racing and his throat feeling dry.
His mind was racing with all the sounds, all the words, all the "broadcast malfunctions" of the past hour.
Broadcast malfunction.
He's actually lying for the Wizarding World.
The country's prime minister is fabricating a clearly obvious excuse for a trouble from another world that he can't explain to anyone.
As for those on the other end of the phone—cabinet secretaries, defense officials, police chiefs—they may have already believed it, or they may not have believed it at all, but no one dared to ask further questions.
Since even the Prime Minister said there is "no real threat," then there is no threat.
This is how power operates; he knows it.
But he also knew they would gossip behind his back, harbor doubts, and look at him differently at the next meeting.
And the source of all this, those thirty " International Auror " who appeared out of nowhere, are probably walking around brazenly in some corner of London right now.
In his city.
On the territory under his jurisdiction.
No one notified him, no one asked for his opinion, and they didn't even give him a heads-up.
They are wizards; they have magic; they can do whatever they want.
They could traverse his city, lay a trap, and then leave him with a mess to clean up.
And he couldn't even tell the truth to anyone.
His fingers slowly tightened, and the anger in his heart grew stronger.
He suddenly stood up, looked down at the telephone on the table, and the pent-up emotion in his chest finally broke through all his restraints.
He grabbed the microphone, ripped it off the base along with the entire telephone line, and smashed it against the wall.
"Bang!"
The black plastic casing hit the brick wall and shattered into several pieces.
The copper bell bounced off the carpet, rolled twice, and then emitted a final, dull tinkling sound.
The telephone line was still clutched in his hand, swaying slightly in the air like a severed tail.
He stood there, breathing heavily, his fingers still trembling.
A mess he couldn't control, yet he was forced to clean it up.
He turned his head sharply, his gaze fixed on the oil painting in the corner.
The short man in the painting was dozing by the fireplace when he was startled by the noise and opened his eyes, looking at him blankly.
The Prime Minister strode over, each step heavy, his leather shoes making a dull thud on the carpet.
He stopped in front of the painting, looking down at the small man huddled up in it, his voice squeezed out from between his teeth, each word filled with barely suppressed anger.
"You! Get that Fudge guy over here right now!"
The short man in the oil painting blinked, as if he wasn't fully awake yet.
He slowly straightened up and said in a deliberate tone, "Very well, sir, now I will find Minister Fudge for you—"
The prime minister slammed his fist against the wall next to the picture frame.
"Call him here right now!"
The short man jerked his neck in and let out a short, sharp scream, "Yes, yes! Coming right away!"
Then his figure disappeared from the picture frame, leaving only an empty wall.
The prime minister stood alone at the corner of the corridor, his chest heaving violently, his fist still pressed against the cold wall.
The sound of rain poured in from outside the window, drowning out his heavy breathing.
He slowly lowered his fist, feeling a sharp pain in his knuckles, but he didn't bother with such a trivial matter.
He turned around and walked back to the table, sitting down amidst the scattered pieces of the telephone on the floor. He clasped his hands together on the table and stared at the empty space opposite him.
The anger in his heart gradually subsided under the stinging pain in his hand, and the Prime Minister's eyes gradually calmed down.
He needs to consider how to navigate this political crisis smoothly, or even turn it into an opportunity, before Fudge arrives.
The prime minister had a far-sighted vision; as a shrewd politician, he was constantly calculating how to use this incident to enhance his political prestige.
Maybe...