"This is BBC Radio, bringing you the latest report!
"At 21:22 GMT last night, Hurricane Goliath made landfall in Blackpool, Lancashire, and rapidly swept across parts of Lancashire, Cheshire, and Merseyside. Formed over the Atlantic, Hurricane Goliath reached winds close to Category Five, with peak speeds of up to 150 miles per hour. It is currently moving toward East Yorkshire.
"In Blackpool, the storm's epicenter, violent winds tore the roofs off numerous seaside homes, many buildings collapsed entirely, trees were snapped in half, and debris filled the air… casualties are severe.
"The Prime Minister has declared a state of emergency in ten northern English counties, including Lancashire, Cheshire, and North Yorkshire. London has also announced that disaster relief assistance will be dispatched within twelve hours at the request of local authorities.
"The UK Met Office has issued a red alert—'a severe threat to life'—for northern England, southwestern Scotland, and the Isle of Man, warning residents to prepare for disaster and cautioning that the hurricane may cause widespread power, transport, and communication disruptions.
"Chris Hartkins, a special correspondent for the Daily Express, claims that Hurricane Goliath is the strongest storm to hit mainland Britain in nearly twenty years.
"According to The Times, the hurricane has already caused 49 deaths and 127 injuries in Blackpool alone, with 62 in serious condition. Liverpool, Lancaster, and Greater Manchester have also reported between one and ten casualties each.
"The Sun's headline declares, 'The darkest day the British Isles have seen in years,' sharply condemning the Met Office and the Prime Minister for 'failing to do what they should have done.'
"More updates will follow shortly."
...
On the streets of London, while Muggles were abuzz with discussion about the so-called "West Coast Hurricane," there was a bleak little side street where only a few rundown offices, a small pub, and an overfilled dump truck could be seen.
And, of course, a battered red telephone booth.
The reason the booth stood out was the strange group of people gathered around it.
There were about a dozen of them, most dressed in bizarre fashion. Some wore odd cloaks draped over their shoulders; others had their shirts on backwards, with their underwear pulled over their trousers; and one balding wizard in his fifties was wearing a girlish dress.
At the very back of the group stood a young man who looked relatively normal. He held a radio in his hand, earphones plugged in, listening intently.
"What's that you're holding there, David?" Amos Diggory leaned over curiously to ask one of his colleagues.
Mr. Amos Diggory had worked on the Pest Advisory Committee of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures for nearly twenty years. He was warm-hearted and good-humored, and was very well liked within the Ministry.
The man called David removed his earphones, glanced up, smiled, and shook his head. "Amos, it's a radio—a rather interesting little Muggle gadget."
Diggory clearly wasn't interested in Muggle technology. He picked up the odd device, examined it briefly, then handed it back.
David put the earphones back on and continued listening to the Muggle news.
"Why haven't the Aurors arrived yet?" Cuthbert Mortridge complained irritably. He was the bald wizard in the girlish dress.
"They should be here soon—no need to rush, Cuthbert," Dirk Cresswell said kindly. As Head of the Goblin Liaison Office, he seemed to hold the highest rank among them. "Also, that outfit you're wearing is women's clothing… to avoid arousing Muggle suspicion, I suggest you change into something—"
"No chance!" Mortridge said warily. "I like this Muggle dress very much. Don't even think about taking it from me, Dirk!"
Dirk Cresswell could only smile helplessly.
Meanwhile, the young man called David continued listening to the radio, head lowered.
...
In truth, they didn't have to wait long.
In the distance, a massive silhouette with faintly glowing eyes rushed toward them at astonishing speed.
A second later, enormous wheels and headlights loomed into view. They belonged to a triple-decker bus, with golden letters on the windshield spelling out: "Knight Bus."
"Welcome aboard the Knight Bus! I'm Stan Shunpike, your conductor—"
His voice was rudely cut off.
"That's quite enough, Shunpike. I don't think you need to explain this to them… Temporary members of the Misinformation Office, get on the bus!"
The witches and wizards gathered around the battered telephone booth boarded one by one. Inside the bus, a similar number of witches and wizards were already waiting.
Those already on board looked far more "proper." Even a woman with short, pink hair wore a stern expression. At the very least, their Muggle clothes were worn correctly.
At the front stood a man who looked like an aging lion. His tawny hair and thick eyebrows were streaked with gray, and sharp eyes glinted behind gold-rimmed glasses. Though he walked with a slight limp, his long, confident strides radiated reliability.
It was his voice that had cut off Stan Shunpike.
"You're Greengrass's people?" Rufus Scrimgeour asked grimly. "Why didn't she come herself?"
"Lady Greengrass has other matters to attend to," Dirk Cresswell stepped forward to explain. "But she has dispatched all of the department's elite to form the full temporary staff of the Misinformation Office."
" 'Elite?' Scrimgeour swept a cold gaze over the group, lingering on Cuthbert Mortridge's dress and then on the underwear Walden Macnair wore over his trousers.
He didn't comment further, but issued a curt order instead.
"Before we head to the West Coast… to prevent Death Eaters disguised with Polyjuice Potion from infiltrating us, we'll conduct one-on-one interrogations."
"No problem. That's standard procedure—for dealing with You-Know-Who," Dirk Cresswell said easily, waving a hand.
"Cresswell, with me," Scrimgeour said, grabbing his sleeve.
At once, a dozen narrow compartments popped into existence inside the Knight Bus, and Scrimgeour shoved him into one.
"Robards, check Mortridge."
"Tonks, you're in charge of Diggory."
Amos Diggory smiled casually at Nymphadora Tonks and lowered his voice. "Miss Tonks, I hear my son is undergoing special Auror training under you. How's he doing?"
"You mean Cedric?" Tonks nodded enthusiastically. "He's absolutely brilliant. I'd say the Ministry hasn't seen a trainee that outstanding in at least ten years—"
"Focus!" Rufus Scrimgeour barked from behind them.
Startled, Tonks stuck out her tongue and quickly ushered Diggory into one of the compartments.
Scrimgeour continued scanning the group, his gaze settling on the young man called "David."
"He is…?"
"He's David Jorman," Dirk Cresswell said, poking his head out of a compartment. "Graduated from Hogwarts less than two years ago. A very capable young man."
"Let me question him," came a deep, slow, yet remarkably magnetic voice from behind Scrimgeour.
It belonged to a tall, bald, dark-skinned wizard with a gold earring in one ear—someone who inspired confidence at first glance.
"Alright, he's yours, Kingsley," Scrimgeour said without hesitation.
...
Inside the compartment, Kingsley Shacklebolt carefully shut the door.
"Muffliato," the man before him—David Jorman—said softly, drawing his wand.
"I didn't expect you to really come," Kingsley said seriously. "I thought Dumbledore was joking. Getting past Scrimgeour isn't easy."
"That's why I asked Professor Dumbledore for help, isn't it?" Jorman smiled faintly and extended his hand. "Hello, Mr. Shacklebolt. I'm Jon Hart. It's an honor to meet you."
"The honor's mine," Kingsley said with a smile, shaking his hand. "Remus has told me about you. In Romania, you took down Fenrir Greyback and his werewolf followers—that's no small feat."
"Just luck," Jon replied modestly.
"And the real David Jorman?" Kingsley asked, a hint of concern in his voice.
"Still asleep at his home in Diagon Alley," Jon explained. "Five full ounces of the Draught of the Living Dead should keep him out for days."
"Then that's not much of a risk," Kingsley said, clearly relieved. But his expression soon turned serious again. "Be careful out there. I have a feeling this operation will be dangerous."
Jon Hart nodded solemnly.
"All done here," Kingsley said a moment later, opening the compartment door. His voice turned cool once more. "Jorman checks out."