DISCLAIMER: I OWN NEITHER HARRY POTTER NOR FULLMETAL ALCHEMIST!

Chapter One

It was nearing midnight and the Prime Minister was sitting alone in his office, reading a long memo that was slipping through his brain without leaving the slightest trace of meaning behind. He was waiting for a call from the President of a far distant country, and between wondering when the wretched man would telephone, and trying to suppress unpleasant memories of what had been a very long, tiring, and difficult week, there was not much space in his head for anything else. The more he attempted to focus on the print on the page before him, the more clearly the Prime Minister could see the gloating face of one of his political opponents. This particular opponent had appeared on the news that very day, not only to enumerate all the terrible things that had happened in the last week (as though anyone needed reminding) but also to explain why each and every one of them was the government's fault.

The Prime Minister's pulse quickened at the very thought of these accusations, for there were neither fair nor true. How on earth was his government supposed to have stopped that bridge collapsing? It was outrageous for anybody to suggest that they were not spending enough on bridges. The bridge was fewer than ten years old, and the best experts were at a loss to explain why it had snapped cleanly in two, sending a dozen cars into the water depths of the river below. And how dare anyone suggest that it was lack of policemen that had resulted in those two very nasty and well-publicized murders? Or that the government should have somehow foreseen the freak hurricane in the West Country that had caused so much damage to both people and property? And was it his fault that one of his Junior Ministers, Herbert Chorley, had chosen this week to act so peculiarly that he was now going to be spending a lot more time with his family?

He thought about his opponent's remark and barely suppressed grin and the odd, chilly weather. The Prime Minister gave up on trying to read the memo and got up from his chair and moved over to the window, looking out at the thin mist that was pressing itself against the glass. It was then, as he stood with his back to the room, that he heard a soft cough behind him.

He froze, nose to nose with his own scared-looking reflection in the dark glass. He knew that cough. He had heard it before. He turned very slowly to face the empty room.

"Hello?" the Prime Minister asked, trying to sound braver than he felt.

For a brief moment, he allowed himself the impossible hope that nobody would answer him. 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 know at the first cough - from the froglike little man wearing a long silver wig who was depicted in a small, dirty oil painting in the far corner of the room.

"To the Prime Minister of Muggles," the painting announced. "Urgent we meet. Kindly respond immediately. Sincerely, Fudge."

The man in the painting looked inquiringly at the Prime Minister.

"Er," the Prime Minister replied, "listen…It's not a very good time for me…I'm waiting for a telephone call, you see…from the President of -"

"That can be rearranged," the portrait interrupted at once.

"But I really was rather hoping to speak -" the Minister started.

"We shall arrange for the President to forget to call," the portrait interrupted again. "He will telephone tomorrow night instead. Kindly respond immediately to Mr. Fudge."

"I…oh…very well," the Minister relented. "Yes, I'll see Fudge."

He went to his desk, straightening his tie as he did so, and sat down as bright green flames burst into life in the empty grate beneath his marble mantelpiece. A moment later, Fudge came out of the fireplace and came to the desk with his hand outstretched for a handshake.

"Ah…Prime Minister," Fudge greeted. "Good to see you again."

The Prime Minister didn't say anything as he shook Fudge's hand.

"How can I help you?" the Minister asked, motioning to the hardest chair in front of his desk.

Fudge sat down in the seat.

"Difficult to know where to begin," Fudge muttered, his bowler on his knees. "What a week, what a week…"

"Had a bad one too, have you?" the Minister asked stiffly.

"Yes, of course," Fudge answered, rubbing his eyes wearily and looking morosely at the Minister. "I've been having the same week you have, Prime Minister. The Brockdale Bridge…the Bones and Vance murders…not to mention the ruckus in the West Country…"

"You - er - your - I mean to say, some of your people were - were involved those - those things, were they?" the Minister asked.

Fudge fixed the Prime Minister with a rather stern look.

"Of course they were," Fudge replied. "Surely you've realized what's going on?'

"I…" hesitated the Prime Minister.

The Prime Minister thought back to when he first met Fudge after having won office after many years of dreaming and scheming. He thought he was going crazy when he saw and heard the portrait talking to him and even more so after seeing Fudge Floo into his office.

"Not to worry," Fudge had said, "it's odds-on you'll never see me again. I'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, I should say. Otherwise, it's live and let live. And I must say, you're taking it a lot better than your predecessor. He tried to throw me out the window, thought I was a hoax planned by the opposition."

"You're - you're not a hoax then?" the Minister had finally said.

"No," Fudge let down gently. "No, I'm afraid I'm not. Look."

He turned the Minister's teacup into a gerbil.

"But," the Minister protested, "but why - why has nobody told me -?"

"The Minister of Magic only reveals him- or herself to the Muggle Prime Minister of the day," Fudge answered, putting his wand away. "We find it the best way to maintain secrecy."

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

Fudge laughed and asked the Minister if he would tell anyone. Then Fudge had left. The Prime Minister had given the gerbil to his niece and tried to have the portrait removed to no avail. The Minister had just trained himself to ignore the portrait. Three years ago, Fudge had come to tell about Sirius Black's escape from Azkaban. Less than a year later, a harassed-looking Fudge had appeared out of thin air in the cabinet room to inform the Prime Minister that there had been a spot of bother at the Quidditch Cup but not to worry about it.

"Oh, and I almost forgot," Fudge added. "Professor Dumbledore of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is having two exchange students come to the school. And we're importing three foreign dragons and sphinx for the Triwizard Tournament, quite routine, but the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures tells me that it's down in the rule book that we have to notify you if we're bringing highly dangerous creatures into the country."

"I - what - dragons?" spluttered the Prime Minister.

"Yes, three," Fudge replied. "And a sphinx. Well, good day to you."

Fudge left and came back less than two years later, telling about a mass breakout from Azkaban.

"How should I know what's going on in the - er - Wizarding community?" the Prime Minister snapped now. "I have a country to run and quite enough concerns at the moment without -"

"We have the same concerns," Fudge interrupted. "The Brockdale Bridge didn't wear out. That wasn't really a hurricane. Those murders were not the work of Muggles. And Herbert Chortley's family would be safer without him. We are currently making arrangements to have him transferred to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. The move should be effected tonight."

Then Fudge told the Prime Minister about Voldemort coming back and Sirius not being involved with the Death Eaters after all. Fudge also told the Minister about the incidents that had happened were Voldemort's and the Death Eater's faults and about the dementors leaving Azkaban and breeding.

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

"My dear Prime Minister, you can't honestly think I'm still Minister of Magic after all this?" Fudge replied. "I was sacked three days ago! The whole Wizarding community has been screaming for my resignation for a fortnight. I've never known them so united in my whole term of office!"

"I'm very sorry," the Minister apologized. "If there's anything I can do?"

"It's very kind of you, Prime Minister, but there is nothing," Fudge said. "I was 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."

He looked at the portrait who had told them that the new Minister of Magic was writing to Dumbledore.

"I wish him luck," Fudge bitterly remarked. "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 boys, I might still be…Well, maybe Scrimgeour will have more success."

"Boys?" the Minister asked.

"Yes, one of the exchange students, who is also one of Harry Potter's friend, has been through a terrible ordeal," Fudge explained. "And he is a State Alchemist with the Military at his home country. Dumbledore does not want anyone to know exactly what had happened to Mr. Elric, I mean, Colonel Elric, since he was promoted. Not to mention Harry Potter's incident..."

Before the Minister could say anything else, the ugly portrait announce the new Minister of Magic's appearance. Fudge and the Prime Minister stood as Rufus Scrimgeour came through the fireplace. Scrimgeour looked 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.

"How do you do?" the Prime Minister greeted politely.

He and Scrimgeour briefly shook hands. Rufus locked the door, not wanting to be disturbed and shutting the curtains as well so as not to be watched.

"I'm a busy man, so let's get down to business," Rufus got to the point. "First of all, we need to discuss your security."

"I am perfectly happy with the security I've already got, thank you very -" the Minister started.

"Well, we're not," Rufus cut in. "It'll be a poor lookout for the Muggles if their Prime Minister gets put under the Imperius Curse. The new secretary in your outer office -"

They argued about Kingsley and then about the Junior Minister.

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

Rufus shrugged, moving back to the fireplace.

"Well, that's really all I had to say," Rufus said. "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, or Chocolate as Colonel Elric has dubbed him as. He has consented to stay on in an advisory capacity."

"How old is this 'Colonel Elric'?' the Minister asked.

"Colonel Edward Elric is seventeen," Fudge answered. "He is a special case with his military, and he has a tendency to mispronounce names on purpose."

"Why doesn't anyone correct him?" the Minister asked.

"Because he doesn't listen much to authority," Rufus answered. "So…it would be pointless to try to correct him. Anyway, we shall take our leave then…We have work to do…"

"You're wizards!" the Minister protested as Rufus and Fudge were about to leave. "You can do magic! Surely you can sort out - well - anything!"

Rufus and Fudge looked at each other. Fudge smiled and said kindly, "The trouble is, the other side can do magic too, Prime Minister."

And with that, the two wizards stepped one after the other into the bright green fire and vanished.