6 Chapter 1: Football, Kwidditch, and Scotch

Super sorry for the delay! The Alexis Lestrange series shall now officially continue. Unfortunately, this chapter is a great deal like the original with a few added characters and dialogue as I found the whole chapter quite important. This will not be the case for the majority of the rest of the book which will likely follow loosely along with the original sixth until the end. With that being said, this is the sixth book in the Alexis Lestrange series. I would recommend going back and reading the first five. However, as my writing is quite heinous in them, especially early on, I will try to make that not necessary.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the OCs!

6 Chapter 1: Football, Kwidditch, and Scotch

The Prime Minister of England and the Leader of the Free World did not have much in common, a fact that was quite evident to both men as they lounged around the Prime Minister's office one late afternoon. The Prime Minister was a taller, more strung out kind of man, who was quite proud of his gentleman elegance and action-before-words method of work. The President, on the other hand, was shorter, more brawny with the wider width a man gains naturally with age - or so the President would say - though not at all the personality of one as old as he. He was much louder, rambunctious even, with a hearty laugh the Prime Minister thought he heard far too many times but not quite as much as the man's uncouth wit.

Nonetheless, both men were the leaders of their countries and were, supposedly, the best each had to offer.

"I don't suppose ya'll have considered starting a football team anytime soon?" asked the President with his deep, slow drawl in his latest attempt to start idle conversation. The two were both waiting on a call from a foreign president in a country far away and unlike the Prime Minister, the President could not do so in silence.

"We have several football teams, already, Mister President," said the Prime Minister coolly. However, if he had hoped for the President to catch his desire not to banter with him, he was sorely disappointed.

"Football, Prime Minister!" chuckled the President, as if he had thought the Prime Minister was simply jesting him. "Football! A real man's sport, you know? Now don't get me wrong, pal. Your little soccer league here seems great and all, but if you really want to start a national sport, football is what you need!"

"It's not soccer," grumbled the Prime Minister, testily. "It's football."

"Right, right," said the President, still chuckling. "Just like they're chips instead of fries, good ol' chap?"

Having just heard the President just make his eighth horrendous attempt at an English accent, the Prime Minister wisely squeezed the edge of his desk instead of the President's large throat.

"Can't believe my term is almost up," sighed the President, sinking into his armchair by the fire.

"Me either," sighed the Prime Minister for a completely different reason. Of course, as it were the Prime Minister's luck, the President didn't see it as so.

"Don't be too sad, pal," laughed the President in good nature. "You can always trust in my successor to help you with these troubling times. He may be a bit of a... Left Wing, but, well, he's still my successor. And there ain't a dang thing my country wouldn't be willing to do to help your troubled country in its time of need."

The Prime Minister's eye twitched. He was quickly growing annoyed of the President's repetitive offer to help him run his country. He was quite capable of running it himself despite what the President and the papers might think. Times had just been... unlucky.

"While I appreciate the offer, Mister President, England is quite capable of taking care of herself. A mysterious bridge collapsing and a freak hurricane -"

"Don't forget those two unexplained murders and your aid going bananas," added the President in a helpful tone. The Prime Minister found it anything but.

"I did not," said the Prime Minister, close to the edge. "Nonetheless, a series of unfortunate events no one could have foreseen does not mean that we need outside help."

"Yes, but even still," argued the President without any malice. "Events like that would never had happened in -"

The Prime Minister had been about to tell the President just how much he really didn't give a flying flamingo what he thought when a loud cough sounded in the room. It came from the picture hand on the wall behind the desk.

"Did your picture just cough?" asked the President curiously.

"Err..."

For a brief moment, the Prime Minister allowed himself the impossible hope that he and the President had just been hearing things. 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 the moment he had heard the cough — from the frog-like little man wearing a long silver wig who was depicted in a small, dirty oil painting behind him.

"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. However, the Prime Minister had his eyes locked on the President. Having never been one to panic or stammer when caught in a sticky situation, the Prime Minister tried his best to prepare himself for whatever reaction his foreign counterpart was about to display. He had expected panic, hysteria, a grand chuckle and the dismissive belief that the talking painting behind the two of them was just a ruse. The Prime Minister, however, had not been expecting -

"Aren't you going to reply?" asked the President before returning to his glass of scotch.

The Prime Minister blinked owlishly. The man in the painting simply looked inquiringly at the Prime Minister.

"Err," said the Prime Minister, glancing warily at the jolly American hogging all of his scotch before finally answering the painting, "listen... Now isn't a very good time... I'm with the President, you see... We're waiting on a call 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."

"But, but I have a guest!" exclaimed the Prime Minister. He knew he was getting desperate now if he'd rather spend time with the verbose President and apparently so did the man in the painting as he sent the Prime Minister a narrow look.

"I... oh... very well," said the Prime Minister weakly. "Yes, I'll see Fudge."

He took his seat behind his desk, straightening his tie as he did so. The President simply sipped on his scotch nonchalantly in his chair, his face completely at ease when compared to the Prime Minister, when bright green flames burst into life in the empty grate beneath his marble mantelpiece. Both world leaders watched, the Prime Minister trying his best not to flinch instinctively, 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 past the President without a glance, his hand outstretched. "Good to see you again."

The Prime Minister could not honestly return the compliment. 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 nor was it ever a face easy to figure out what to say to. Luckily, the Prime Minister did not have to say anything, for it was at that moment the President decided to insert his foot in his mouth.

"Jeez, buddy," he chuckled startling Fudge who had failed to see him. "You get in a fight with your lady friend?"

"I beg your pardon?" asked Fudge.

"You look like you've been through the mill, pal," said the President, still chuckling as Fudge straightened himself up indignantly.

"Who in Merlin's name are you?"

At that moment, the fire lit up once more and a second man was sent spinning out of it. A taller, much younger, and far more familiar man stepped out onto the rug, wordlessly cleaning the ash from himself and the rug with a single flick of a strange wooden stick protruding from his sleeve.

"Another Muggle world leader," snipped the man towards Fudge before changing his rather harsh persona to a more amicable one while smiling to the President. "Or as you say, No-Maj. Correct, Mister President?"

The President let out another one of his barking laughs.

"Quite right!" he chuckled, raising his scotch to the man before taking another generous sip. "And you are, sir?"

"Carter," answered the Prime Minister, unable to help himself. Out of the two, he had always very much preferred Carter Van Swine over Cornelius Fudge - or as he liked to call Fudge, the other Minister.

The brown haired, young wizard's smile was friendly though undeniably smug as he flicked his wand wordlessly at the windows and door in the office.

"Evening, Rick," he said, offering the Prime Minister his hand in greeting once his wand was put away. "How's the little niece?"

The Prime Minister muttered a response as dread slowly began settling in. Although he found Carter, despite his ability to make morbid and sarcastic comments at the worst of times, an amicable person to be around, he rarely had the pleasure of enjoying his company without Fudge being involved and if Fudge was involved the feeling of dread was inevitable.

"What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?" the Prime Minister asked, gesturing for the two to join the President in the seating area by the fire. He always found it best to skip the formalities with Fudge and to get straight to the point in a manner much like removing a band-aid in one swift motion. It might sting but at least he got it over with.

"Difficult to know where to begin," muttered Fudge, taking his seat awkwardly across from the President and placing his green bowler upon his knees.

"Not really," said Carter, who, unlike Fudge, had always been at ease in the Prime Minister's office and very casually seated himself next to the President. "You could begin anywhere and get to the point. The Brockdale Bridge, Amelia Bones and Vance's murders, the Giants in West Country -"

"You — er — your — I mean to say, some of your people were — were involved in those — those things, were they?"

The President shook his finger in a grandfather manner.

"The Congress would never let such things -"

"Now see here!" interrupted Fudge sternly.

"Shut up, Fudge, you idiot," snapped Carter harshly. Immediately, Fudge shrunk in on himself.

Despite appreciating Carter reprimanding Fudge's rude attitude, the action did not fail in taking the Prime Minister by surprise. Carter had always been more passive (and on some occasions, passive aggressive, the Prime Minister remembered) towards Fudge's rather uncouth and sometimes downright rude attitude. At least, that had been the case when he first met the two, which was an experience the Prime Minister was quite sure he would never forget 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 Carter had climbed out of the green flames that magically appeared in his fireplace and introduced himself.

A first, the Prime Minister had mistaken Carter for the Minister of Magic. Although he was younger than most politicians, he had been very well spoken and confident in his explanation of 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. He had even been kind enough to wait until the Prime Minister had finished opening and closing his mouth in disbelief to continue on explaining the Minister of Magic's job criteria that encompassed everything from regulations on the responsible use of broomsticks to keeping the dragon population under control. When the Prime Minister had looked all but ready to faint, he remembered Carter patting his shoulder reassuringly.

"It's a lot to take in, believe me," he had said with a chuckle. "But you won't have to deal with any of it and odds are you'll never see me or the Minister again. In fact, we'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, remember? And if it helps, you're taking this a lot better than you predecessor. He tried throwing Fudge out the window."

At this, the Prime Minister had found his voice at last. "Fudge?"

"The Minister of Magic," said Carter before reiterating. "My boss, Cornelius Fudge. He sent me over first to lessen the blow of surprise. Thought it be a good idea due to my... family history."

"Family history?" repeated the Prime Minister.

"Yes," said Carter. "Another piece of politics you need not worry over, Minister. Merlin knows, I wish I didn't have to."

Not having a remote idea what to say to that, the Prime Minister opt to ignore it. Collapsing in his desk chair, he gave Carter one last desperate look.

"You're - you're not a hoax, then?"

"Afraid not, Minister," said Carter. "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 Wizarding World is only revealed to the Muggle Prime Minister of the day," said Carter, returning his wand back up his sleeve. "The Ministry finds it the best way to maintain secrecy."

"But then," bleated the Prime Minister, "why hasn't a former Prime Minister warned me -?"

Carter simply raised an eyebrow.

"Prime Minister, are you ever going to tell anybody?"

That, the Prime Minister had found to be a very fair point.

Fudge arrived later and Carter introduced the two of them. The Prime Minister couldn't deny he had slightly been disappointed to how normal, though oddly dressed, Fudge had been. He had not been nearly as impressive as Carter, but the younger wizard had shown his utmost respect to the man so the Prime Minister had tried to as well.

Of course, that had all begun to change as the years passed and the two wizards' visits became more and more frequent.

The next time he saw them was three years ago after he had finally convinced himself that his meeting with the two self-proclaimed wizards had all been a figment of his imagination. It had been on a night ever much like tonight, the Prime Minister had been on the phone with his distraught little niece who's gerbil, (the same gerbil he had given her that had once been his teacup), had gone missing and all that remained was a teacup - his teacup. That alone had already put his nerves on edge when the portrait behind his desk had once again announced the imminent arrival of Fudge. Carter, however, had once again arrived first, drenched in rainwater.

Unable to help himself, the Prime Minister had asked if their visit was about the gerbil-teacup.

"Err, no," Carter had said questionably before remembering their first encounter. "Did something happen to it?"

"Well, it turned back to a teacup."

"And?"

"I gave it to my niece as a pet but now it's a teacup."

Carter had actually given the Prime Minister, who had just realized how insane this conversation sounded, a sheepish look.

"Sorry about that," he apologized. "Despite what some people think, I don't enjoy upsetting little girls. Occupational hazard."

"Yes, well now I have to go to her Shakespeare play to make up for it -"

"Oh, which one?" Carter had cut in eagerly.

The Prime Minister had been startled by Carter's interest in a mundane children's reenactment of Shakespeare but had opted to ignore it when Fudge had arrived, sopping wet and in a state of considerable panic. He was quite glad when the Other Minister finally left so that Carter could explain to him what Fudge had meant in his rabid spew of words about a place called Azkaban, an escaped prisoner, a boy called Harry Potter, and something called Hogwarts.

Of course, after Carter did explain everything, the Prime Minister really wished he could have remained ignorant of it all, especially when Carter decided it would just be best to give him a break down the magical world's history of the last twenty years. He could have spent his whole life not knowing what a Dementor was or who Voldemort (or rather, You-Know-Who as Fudge only referred to him as) was.

To top it off, Carter had somehow tricked him into giving him tickets to his niece's play. He had even shown up, although they never spoke, along with a little girl around his niece's age that had seemed absolutely awestruck by the entirety of the play. The Prime Minister hadn't even found it that well done but the girl had been completely fascinated.

However, that had been the last time he had seen either Carter or Fudge and he had hoped it would remain that way but he knew his luck wasn't that great.

The next time the two arrived - unannounced, the Prime Minister might add - they were both arguing rather adamantly over a girl, the Potter boy, and a supposed sport called Kwidditch (or that was what it had sounded like).

"For the last time, sir," groaned Carter as the two spun into the room from the fireplace. "There is no evidence to say Lestrange cast the Dark Mark with Potter's wand."

"It had to have been her!" huffed Fudge, haphazardly dusting the soot onto the Prime Minister's fancy rug again. Unconsciously, Carter waved his wand and cleaned it seconds later.

"You're being bias, sir."

It had been the first time he had ever heard Carter say anything other than praise to Fudge. It was also the first time the two mentioned this Lestrange girl but most certainly not the last. Following the night of what he concluded to be a disastrous Kwidditch World Cup (if the use of phrases like Death Eaters rallying and Dark Marks scarring the sky were anything to go off of) and Fudge informing him of magical creatures being imported for a tournament (three of which being dragons of all things), the slowly becoming fainted hearted Prime Minister found himself seeing the two wizards far too often.

Early morning last Christmas, the Prime Minister found himself being the unwilling ear to a panicking Fudge as he explained, rather wildly, that a mass breakout from Azkaban had taken place the night before. Names such as Dolohov, Rookwood, and Lestrange - Lestrange most of all to the point the Prime Minister was sure there was more than one of them - were thrown about clumsily as Fudge rambled on about some grand scheme planned by Black and a man called Dumbledore to discredit him. Looking down at the all but whining Minister of Magic, the Prime Minister would say it was working.

"And there's no way Lestrange wasn't involved this time!" exclaimed Fudge as he finished his rant. "The girl disappears from Hogwarts days before the breakout of her own relatives led by her cousin -"

"The same cousin that killed one of her close friends right in front of her, sir?" pointed out Carter. "Lestrange doesn't even know her parents, Minister. Not to mention, she's best friends with Harry Potter-"

"Do not mention that lying boy's name in my presence!" hissed Fudge.

Trying to redirect the conversation back to the more important topic at hand, the Prime Minister cleared his throat.

"You mentioned a mass breakout?" he said, ignoring the rude look Fudge shot his way.

"Yes, yes," said Fudge waving the Prime Minister off. "Not to worry, though, not to worry." The look Carter gave him told the Prime Minister that worry was exactly what he should do. "We'll have them all rounded up in no time - hopefully with their fellow conspirators as well."

Fudge was already one foot in the flames when he added, "And perhaps, when it's over I'll be kind enough to make a family cell. Bloody Lestranges."

His disappearance in a wave of green fire was followed immediately by Carter muttering under his breath.

"Wanker."

Now, months later, the two wizards once more stood in front of the Prime Minister. This time, however, dislike was evident between the two and perhaps an inkling of fear on Fudge's part.

"So these disasters," began the President far too pleasantly for the topic at hand. "Y'all magic folk had a hand in it?" He let out a booming chuckle before patting the Prime Minister a bit to harshly on the back in what he was sure was an amicable manner. "See, I told you that you were more competent than everyone else in the world thinks. Shame none of them can know all this nonsense isn't your fault."

The President laughed again. The Prime Minister's eye twitched.

"Right then," said Carter. "Apologies, Mr. President, but this is government affairs - our government affairs."

"Quite right," agreed the President, rising to his feet and grabbing what remained of the Prime Minister's scotch bottle. "I'll just stand in the hall, shan't I? A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Minister."

Shaking Carter's hand much to his and the Prime Minister's amusement (and Fudge's annoyance), the President waddled out of the office. He would no doubt go bother Kingsley Shacklebolt, the only member of the Prime Minister's staff still here at this late hour.

As soon as the door closed behind the President, Carter waved his wand at the door causing it to lock soundly.

"He handles his alcohol a great deal better than the last American I drank with," he said nonchalantly.

"What other American's have you shared a drink with?" asked Fudge rudely.

Carter simply chuckled to himself making Fudge grow nervous again and the Prime Minister curious.

"Prime Minister," said Carter, suddenly become quite serious. "I have the unfortunate job of informing you that Voldemort -" Fudge let out a yelp "- is back."

"Back? When you say 'back'... he's alive? I mean -"

"Yes, alive," said Fudge impatient once more. "That is — I don't know — is a man alive if he can't be killed? I don't really understand it, and Dumbledore won't explain properly — but anyway, he's certainly got a body and is walking and talking and killing, so I suppose, for the purposes of our discussion, yes, he's alive."

The Prime Minister did not know what to say to this, but a persistent habit of wishing to appear well-informed on any subject that came up made him cast around for any details he could remember of their previous conversations.

"Is Serious Black with Vol—" Fudge flinched "er — He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

"No," said Carter, suddenly becoming quite grim in the face. "No Sirius Black is not with the Dark Lord. He died protecting... He was killed by the Dark Lord's men. But Sirius Black, as it turns out was never in leagues He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. He was a good man."

Fudge snorted only to yelp again as Carter's wand found itself digging into the man's meaty throat.

"Not a good idea, Fudge," hissed Carter before removing his wand from the terrified man's throat. He turned back to the Prime Minister as if nothing had happened.

"Rick, at this point of the war, steps need to be taken."

"The war?" repeated the Prime Minister nervously. "Surely that's a little bit of an overstatement?"

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has now been joined by those of his followers who broke out of Azkaban last Christmas," said Carter, occasionally glaring at a fearful Fudge whenever he dared to move. "Since they have moved into the open, they have been wreaking havoc. The Brockdale Bridge — he did it, Prime Minister, he threatened a mass Muggle killing unless Fudge stood aside for him and —"

"Good grief, so it's your fault those people were killed and I'm having to answer questions about rusted rigging and corroded expansion joints and I don't know what else!" said the Prime Minister furiously, glaring at Fudge almost as harshly as Carter was.

"My fault!" said Fudge, coloring up. "Are you saying you would have caved in to blackmail like that?"

"Maybe not," said the Prime Minister, standing up and striding about the room, "but I would have put all my efforts into catching the blackmailer before he committed any such atrocity!"

"Do you really think I wasn't already making every effort?" demanded Fudge heatedly. "Every Auror in the Ministry was — and is — trying to find him and round up his followers, but we happen to be talking about one of the most powerful wizards of all time, a wizard who has eluded capture for almost three decades!"

"So I suppose you're going to tell me he caused the hurricane in the West Country too?" said the Prime Minister, his temper rising with every pace he took. It was infuriating to discover the reason for all these terrible disasters and not to be able to tell the public, almost worse than it being the government's fault after all.

"No, that was Death Eaters and perhaps giants as well," said Carter calmly.

The Prime Minister stopped in his tracks as though he had hit an invisible wall. "What involvement?"

Fudge grimaced. "He used giants last time when he wanted to go for the grand effect," he said. "The Office of Misinformation has been working around the clock, we've had teams of Obliviators out trying to modify the memories of all the Muggles who saw what really happened, we've got most of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures running around Somerset, but we can't find the giant — it's been a disaster."

"You don't say!" said the Prime Minister furiously.

"I understand the frustration," said Carter. "But unlike Fudge, the rest of the Ministry is trying to all of Great Britain safe. Unfortunately, with so many of our leaders being murdered, like Amelia Bones and Emmeline Vance -"

"But both of those murders made the newspapers," said the Prime Minister, momentarily diverted from his anger. "Our newspapers."

"Some of us do live in Muggle communities, you know," said Carter. "After all, there's only oh so many flats in Diagon Alley and they're not cheap."

"Not that anyone would want to live there," said Fudge darkly. "What, with all the Dementors swarming all over the place, attacking people left, right, and center..."

Once upon a happier time, this sentence would have been unintelligible to the Prime Minister, but he was wiser now.

"I thought Dementors guard the prisoners in Azkaban," he said cautiously.

"They did," said Carter. "But not anymore. They've deserted the prison and joined Dark Lord. I won't pretend that some of us saw that coming. Unfortunately, others don't like hearing the truth all that much."

Another pointed look was sent Fudge's way. The man had the decency of looking ashamed.

"But," said the Prime Minister, with a sense of dawning horror, "didn't you tell me they're the creatures that drain hope and happiness out of people?"

"Yes," said Carter grimly. "And they're breeding. That's what's causing all this mist."

The Prime Minister sank, weak-kneed, into the nearest chair. The idea of invisible creatures swooping through the towns and countryside, spreading despair and hopelessness in his voters, made him feel quite faint.

"Now see here, Fudge — you've got to do something! It's your responsibility as Minister of Magic!"

"Fudge is no longer the Minister of Magic," said Carter, smug once again. "He was sacked three days ago, what, with the whole Wizarding community has been screaming for his resignation for a fortnight. I don't think I've ever seen them so united in his entire term of office."

The Prime Minister was momentarily lost for words.

"I'm very sorry," he said finally, though he could exactly say he meant it. He really didn't like Fudge. "If there's anything I can do?"

"It's very kind of you, Prime Minister, but there is nothing," said Fudge. "Carter and I were sent here tonight to bring you up to date on recent events and to introduce you to my successor. I rather thought he'd be here by now, but of course, he's very busy at the moment, with so much going on."

Fudge looked around at the portrait of the ugly little man wearing the long curly silver wig, who was digging in his ear with the point of a quill. Catching Fudge's eye, the portrait said, "He'll be here in a moment, he's just finishing a letter to Dumbledore."

"I wish him luck," said Fudge, sounding bitter. "I've been writing to Dumbledore twice a day for the past fortnight, but he won't budge. If he'd just been prepared to persuade the boy, I might still be-"

"You wouldn't be," cut in Carter. "And not even Dumbledore could persuade Potter to help you, not with what you did to his girl."

Fudge cringed.

"Well, maybe Scrimgeour will have more success."

"Also doubtful," muttered Carter just as the flames in the grate turned emerald green again, rose up, and revealed a third spinning wizard in their heart, disgorging him moments later onto the antique rug.

Fudge and Carter both got to their feet and, after a moment's hesitation, the Prime Minister did the same, watching the new arrival straighten up, dust down his long black robes, and look around.

The Prime Minister's first, foolish thought was that Rufus Scrimgeour looked rather like an old lion. There were streaks of gray in his mane of tawny hair and his bushy eyebrows; he had keen yellowish eyes behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and a certain rangy, loping grace even though he walked with a slight limp. There was an immediate impression of shrewdness and toughness; the Prime Minister thought he understood why the Wizarding community preferred Scrimgeour to Fudge as a leader in these dangerous times.

"How do you do?" said the Prime Minister politely, holding out his hand.

Scrimgeour grasped it briefly, his eyes scanning the room, then looked directly at Carter.

"Is the room secured?"

"Yes, Minister," said Carter in the same respectful tone the Prime Minister remembered him using for Fudge what seemed like a long time ago. "Kingsley is outside supervising the President."

"President?" repeated Scrimgeour, his eyes still scanning the room like a predator.

"The Prime Minister had a meeting with him tonight," said Carter. "They were going to call another Muggle World Leader on the telephone."

Scrimgeour sniffed at this.

"Muggle technology," he huffed. Finally finding the room satisfying, he turned back to the Prime Minister. "Now, about Herbert Chorley, your Junior Minister, the one who has been entertaining the public by impersonating a duck.

"He has clearly reacted to a poorly-performed Imperius Curse," said Scrimgeour. "It's addled his brains, but he could still be dangerous."

"He's only quacking!" said the Prime Minister weakly. "Surely a bit of a rest... Maybe go easy on the drink..."

"A team of Healers from St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries are examining him as we speak. So far he has attempted to strangle three of them," said Scrimgeour. "I think it best that we remove him from Muggle society for a while."

"I... well... He'll be all right, won't he?" said the Prime Minister anxiously.

When Scrimgeour merely shrugged and started moving back toward the fireplace, Carter added, "We're doing our best for him."

"Well, that's really all I had to say," said Scrimgeour. "I will keep you posted of developments, Prime Minister — or, at least, I shall probably be too busy to come personally, in which case I shall send Fudge here. He has consented to stay on in an advisory capacity."

Fudge attempted to smile, but was unsuccessful; he merely looked as though he had a toothache. Scrimgeour was already rummaging in his pocket for the mysterious powder that turned the fire green. The Prime Minister gazed hopelessly at the pair of them for a moment, then the words he had fought to suppress all evening burst from him at last.

"But for heaven's sake — you're wizards! You can do magic! Surely you can sort out — well — anything!"

Scrimgeour turned slowly on the spot and exchanged an incredulous look with Carter, who winced, and Fudge, who really did manage a smile this time as he said kindly, "The trouble is, the other side can do magic too, Prime Minister."

And with that, the Fudge and Scrimgeour stepped one after the other into the bright green fire and vanished, leaving Carter and the Prime Minister behind.

"Well," said Carter. "On a happier note, I've got a wedding to attend between a werewolf and a pink haired, shapeshifter."

The Prime Minister buried his head in his hand, wishing with all his might that President hadn't finished all his scotch. Merlin knew he needed now more than ever.

Two months late but here it is! The Sixth book to the Alexis Lestrange series! It took forever to start but hopefully, updates will be faster as I've finally gotten past the boring beginning. The President used as a very loose base towards the fictional President is Bush, who was President at the time. I'm pretty sure the Prime Minister at the time of the sixth book was a woman so clearly this Prime Minister is OC and may also make a reappearance later. Because, well, why not? Next chapter is the wedding!

Request:

With elections happening this year, I'm very curious to see what people outside of the U.S. Think of our candidates. Please mention in your reviews who you like or dislike and why. If you're from the U.S. like me feel free to give your opinion as well. I'm quite interested in knowing everyone's thoughts!

Please Review!

DCF