"Director, about Allen Vane..." Weatherby's voice grew quieter and quieter, beads of sweat plainly visible on his forehead. "We currently have no leads."
"No leads?"
"Yes, Director." Weatherby flipped through the documents in his hands.
"So you don't know where this Allen Vane lives, you don't know what he looks like, and you don't even know whether he's a man or a woman?"
"No, we know he's male," Weatherby added weakly, "because his name is clearly..."
Quildon took a deep breath, as though he would explode on the spot if he did not.
"In other words, our Ministry of Magic, a magical administrative body with over seven hundred years of history, now can't even find an author who has published tens of thousands of copies of a book in the Muggle world?"
Weatherby did not dare speak. He merely nodded.
In the silence, Quildon rose and began pacing back and forth across his office.
"Minister Fudge told me I had to find that author as quickly as possible." Quildon stood with his back to Weatherby. "Make him stop writing and prevent the books from spreading any further."
"But we don't even know where he is, let alone stop the books from spreading..."
"Then let's try another approach." Quildon abruptly turned around, a glint flashing through his eyes.
"Since we can't find the author, we'll cut off the circulation of this book at the source."
Weatherby froze for a moment. "The... source?"
"The printing plants," Quildon said. "Those Muggle printing plants. As long as they stop printing it, once the books already on the market sell out, it'll naturally disappear."
"But Director," Weatherby said cautiously, "more than one plant prints that book. Apparently, because it's selling so well, the publisher has already added several production lines..."
Quildon scratched his head irritably, making his already untidy hair even messier.
"Then contact the prime minister of the Muggle world! Have the prime minister issue an executive order banning the printing and sale of this book!"
Weatherby opened his mouth. "But... under the rules, contact between the Ministry of Magic and the Muggle Prime Minister must be handled by the minister himself."
Quildon faltered, his expression instantly stiffening.
Weatherby was stating a fact. Communication between the Ministry of Magic and the prime minister of the Muggle world had to be carried out personally by the Minister for Magic. No one could overstep their authority and act in his place.
In other words, he had only just returned from being told off by Fudge, and now he had to go back to him.
Quildon fell quiet, and silence settled over the office.
"All right, you can go."
As though granted a pardon, Weatherby clutched his documents, turned, and left at once.
Quildon stood in his office for a long time. Finally, he sighed, turned resolutely, and headed once more toward the Minister's Office at the end of the corridor.
If one looked closely, one could even detect a trace of desolation in his retreating figure.
Inside the Minister's Office.
"You're back?" Fudge looked up, his brows tightly knitted. "Found him?"
"No," Quildon answered truthfully. "The author has vanished completely. None of our channels can find any trace of him."
"Then what have you come back for?"
"I need you to contact the prime minister of the Muggle world."
Fudge frowned. "What did you say?"
"Minister, our only option now is to cut off this book's distribution channels from within the Muggle world."
Quildon tried to keep his tone as methodical as possible.
"Have the prime minister order all printing plants to stop printing this book and ban bookshops from selling it. This is the fastest and most effective method."
Fudge stared at him, his gaze slowly shifting from anger to contemplation, then from contemplation to a rather unhappy expression.
"You know how much trouble dealing with the Muggle Prime Minister is." Fudge put down his quill. "That fellow asks a whole pile of questions every time, and he's always looking at me as though I'm mad."
"But this is the only viable approach at present," Quildon insisted. "If we can't find the author, we can't stop him from continuing to write."
"But if the Muggle world legally bans this book, we can at least cut off its distribution channels."
"That does make some sense..."
Fudge leaned back in his chair, his hands folded over his stomach.
"Very well, I'll deal with the Muggle Prime Minister." He waved irritably.
Quildon finally breathed a sigh of relief, bowed slightly, then turned and left the Minister's Office.
The instant the door closed, he heard Fudge muttering to himself, "Merlin above... why did something like this have to happen while I was minister..."
Meanwhile, far away in London in the Muggle world.
In the offices of Bloomsbury Publishing, Barry had just hung up the telephone.
Christopher sat in the chair opposite him, a cup of coffee in his hands, his eyelids already threatening to droop shut.
For the past fortnight, he had spent almost every day at the publishing house. He had lost weight, and his eyes were sunken, yet he was unusually keyed up.
"Who called?" Christopher took a sip of coffee, unmistakable exhaustion in his voice.
"The printers." Barry spun around in his office chair like a child who had just received a new toy. "They said the fifth and sixth production lines have been installed."
The coffee cup in Christopher's hand paused. "Six? Didn't we only have three before?"
"Now we have six." Barry grinned. "And they're all running twenty-four hours a day. Starting today, we can fully meet domestic demand."
"Which means..."
"Exactly." Barry stood, walked to the window, and pushed it open, letting in the cool evening breeze.
"Which means that from now on, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Part One, is available in unlimited quantities throughout Great Britain."
Christopher set down his coffee cup and finally let out a long breath.
"You know, Barry," he said, "all the sleep I've had over the past fortnight probably adds up to less than fifty hours."
"Same here," Barry said, turning around.
The two exchanged a glance and laughed together.
"There's more good news." Barry opened a drawer and took out a document. "The overseas publishing arrangements have been finalized."
"Publishers in Bald Eagle Country, Maple Leaf Country, Kangaroo Country, and Cherry Blossom Country are all contacting us, and publishers in other European countries have sent letters of intent too."
"Within a month, at least six countries are expected to release local editions of this book simultaneously."
Christopher blinked. "That's even faster than I imagined."
"The market demand is there." Barry put the stack of documents back in the drawer. "I've been in this business for almost thirty years, and this is the first time I've seen anything like it. A book that hasn't even been released in full has already attracted this much attention worldwide."
"To be precise, it's a book that hasn't finished coming out yet," Christopher corrected.
"Right, only the first of its two parts is out. Once the second half comes out..."
Barry did not finish, but his expression conveyed the rest quite clearly.
Christopher sank a little deeper into his chair and closed his eyes, feeling the exhaustion of the past fortnight finally begin to ebb.
"Barry," he said with his eyes closed, "I think I need a holiday."
"You certainly do." Barry poured some hot water into his own cup. "I need a holiday too."
"I'm planning to go to the Scotland Highlands." Christopher opened his eyes and gazed at the ceiling, a rare look of relaxation and longing on his face.
"Rent a little cabin by a lake, take a whole box of books, fish, sleep, and enjoy the scenery."
"Sounds good."
"Wake up to birdsong every morning, without having to check my watch, return calls, or deal with any work emails..."
"Yes, quite lovely."
"I'm also planning to take my old fishing gear. I've never caught a fish bigger than my finger, but just sitting by the lake and going through the motions feels right."
"Perhaps you could take a photograph and send it back."
"Right, then I'll hang it above the fireplace with a caption-"
As he spoke, his gaze caught a stack of manuscript pages beside his feet.
Barry's office was piled with all sorts of manuscripts and documents. Several stacks of loose papers lay scattered on the floor, some in kraft paper envelopes, others simply loose.
And right beside Christopher's right foot, a manuscript lay on the floor.
"Huh?" Christopher bent down. "When did this fall down?"
Barry glanced down. "Perhaps you knocked it off when you picked up your coat just now. Your coat is rather bulky."
"Oh." Christopher thought he might indeed have knocked something down by accident.
He bent over, reached out, and picked up the manuscript, offering a casual apology. "Sorry for messing up your office."
He idly flipped through the manuscript, intending to put it on the table beside him.
"It's all right, Christopher. Feel free to imagine your wonderful upcoming holiday."
"Scotland really is a lovely place. The surroundings are beautiful, and I've heard the natural scenery has been preserved remarkably well... Christopher? Why aren't you saying anything?"
"Hello?" Barry waved a hand in front of Christopher's eyes.
"I might be about to lose my holiday," Christopher said bitterly.
"What?" Barry instinctively leaned over to look at the manuscript clutched in Christopher's hands. Its title stood out clearly:
Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Part Two