London, the capital of Britain, was once known the world over as the "Fog Capital."
There were three main reasons behind this name.
The first was the influence of natural conditions:
In terms of climate, London has a temperate maritime climate, bathed year-round by westerly winds and the warm currents of the North Atlantic, and the air is so humid it seems as though water could be wrung right out of it.
On top of that, winter air convection is weak, making it very easy for thick fog to form. Add to this the frequent meeting of warm, moist air currents with cold air from the land, and the frequency of foggy days remains stubbornly high.
As for terrain, London sits on the plain of the Thames River valley, with no mountain ranges around it to block the air—it is, in effect, a natural container for air.
Under these conditions, water vapor and pollutants gather with ease and struggle to disperse outward, which also provided uniquely favourable topographical conditions for fog to form and linger for long stretches of time.
The second was the push of human factors:
After the Industrial Revolution, London rapidly rose to become a global industrial centre, and factories sprang up everywhere like bamboo shoots after rain.
Coal, the main energy source of the time, was widely used in industrial production and for heating homes. The vast quantities of soot, sulphur dioxide, and other pollutants produced by its burning were released into the air without restraint, intertwining with the natural fog to form a thick, sticky smog that was hard to disperse.
Compounding this, the narrow streets and densely packed old buildings of London's old town hindered the flow of air, causing pollutants to linger for long periods and further worsening both the density and duration of the smog.
The third was the boost from cultural dissemination and major events:
Dickens's novel Oliver Twist vividly depicted the social scene of London shrouded in thick fog at the time, spreading the image of the "Fog Capital" far and wide across the globe and lodging it deep in people's minds.
The 1952 Great Smog of London was, moreover, one of the most severe environmental pollution incidents in the world during the 20th century. This intensely toxic fog, which lasted for several days, caused approximately 4,000 direct deaths, with tens of thousands more suffering permanent damage to their health.
It bound London's nickname "Fog Capital" tightly together with the issue of severe environmental pollution.
But it was also this disaster that finally compelled the British government to confront the issue of environmental protection, driving forward a series of tough measures to tackle the smog.
In 1956, Britain enacted the Clean Air Act. This was the world's first air pollution prevention and control legislation, and through a series of measures—designating smoke-control areas, retrofitting household stoves, promoting smokeless fuels, and relocating heavy industrial facilities to the outskirts—it reduced the soot and pollutant emissions from coal burning at their source.
After the Act took effect, London's coal-smoke pollution was gradually brought under effective control.
By 1968, a new Clean Air Act further strengthened controls on industrial pollution, requiring companies to build tall chimneys to help disperse pollutants.
In 1974, the Control of Pollution Act laid down strict regulations on the composition of motor vehicle fuel, among other things.
After the 1980s, in response to increasingly severe traffic pollution, the government rolled out further measures such as prioritizing the development of public transportation and curbing the excessive growth of private cars.
At last, after half a century of relentless, unyielding governance, by the end of the 20th century London had finally shed the less-than-flattering title of "Fog Capital."
But!
As time rolled into the latter half of 1996, with only a few short years left before the new century arrived, the fog, it seemed, was making a comeback in this city that had long since bid farewell to its troubles with thick mist.
It was only mid-July, a time when the summer heat should have been building, and yet the streets and alleys of London were already thick with a strange fog that carried a distinct chill.
This fog wasn't the pale grey of days past, but a dark, almost congealed shade of grey; it felt icy to the touch, and breathing it into one's nose brought with it an inexplicable sense of oppression.
This was, naturally, deeply wrong.
"It isn't just a weather problem."
In the office of the British Prime Minister, a tall man paced back and forth, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing at the button on his suit cuff, as he analysed the situation in a tone so composed it was almost rigid.
"Lately, the people of London really have seemed more anxious and fearful than usual. Their eyes are full of a blank, dazed anxiety, as though something has been sucking away their happiness and hope.
And then there's Brockdale Bridge—built less than ten years ago—which, with no quality issues at all and no external impact, snapped clean in two. More than a dozen cars that were driving across it at the time plunged straight down into the deep waters of the Thames below. The casualties were severe.
The countryside in the west was struck by a sudden, bizarre hurricane, with wind strength unlike anything seen before. It uprooted entire stretches of trees, tore the roofs off farmhouses, and twisted roadside signs into corkscrews. It, too, caused a great many casualties.
And stranger still, our Junior Minister, Herbert Chorley, suddenly began acting bizarrely this week—crowing like a rooster and hopping around in public. It's had the public in stitches, but it's also left the government's dignity in tatters."
"That's right!"
The other man abruptly rose from behind his large desk, planting both hands on its surface, his face flushed red with agitation.
"The things that have happened lately are simply too bizarre! How on earth could our government have stopped that bridge from collapsing out of nowhere? And yet the media has actually suggested that the accident happened because the government underinvested in bridge construction—it's simply unbearable.
Just as you said, that bridge was built less than ten years ago. Even the top engineering experts, after repeated inspections, couldn't explain how it suddenly snapped clean in two!
On top of that, there are people accusing the police of being understaffed, and saying that's what led to that vicious murder case everyone's been talking about.
And there are even people saying the government should have foreseen that bizarre hurricane in the west and taken precautions in advance to reduce the loss of life and property—and then there's Herbert Chorley, who had to go and lose his mind at exactly this critical moment, doing something so foolish and claiming he just wanted to spend more time with his family. Is that supposed to be my fault too?"
His tone grew even more heated, giving the impression that he meant to pour out every grievance he'd suffered over this whole period.
"Of course it isn't!"
The tall man stopped pacing and turned around:
"My dear Prime Minister, I can tell you with complete responsibility that none of this has anything to do with you."
"Mycroft, you believe me?"
"Of course."
Mycroft Holmes looked steadily at the somewhat agitated British Prime Minister before him and repeated, enunciating each word:
"I believe that everything that has happened during this period has nothing whatsoever to do with Her Majesty's Government."
Hearing the unwavering certainty in Mycroft's voice, the Prime Minister's tense shoulders instantly relaxed. He let out a long breath and raised a hand to wipe away the sweat that had formed on his forehead.
"Er, Mycroft, I truly am glad to hear you say that—unfortunately, the public won't believe it, and neither will the press.
"Whether they believe it or not doesn't actually matter—because even if they knew the truth, you could never make it public anyway."
Mycroft said mildly, his tone carrying composure in full control of the situation: "I imagine someone from over there will be sending word to you shortly."
"Sorry, Mycroft, you just mentioned... 'over there'?"
The Prime Minister paused for a moment, a look of confusion on his face as he pressed for an answer.
"Over there. The magical world."
Mycroft said, his gaze shifting toward the corner of the room.
Hanging there was a small oil painting, coated in a thin layer of dust, its frame old and worn. It depicted a short man wearing a long silver wig, with a shrivelled face that made him look rather like a frog.
Judging purely by the craftsmanship, the brushwork was actually rather fine and delicate.
But the crux of the matter was that this was no ordinary portrait.
Or rather, it wasn't merely a portrait.
He had first taken notice of this portrait after starting the job, when he heard about a certain matter.
The Prime Minister had once tried to have the portrait taken down. But despite enlisting several carpenters, a couple of construction workers, an art history expert, and even a Chancellor of the Exchequer, and expending a herculean amount of effort, they hadn't managed to succeed.
This matter was, naturally, kept confidential.
But given Mycroft's abilities, figuring it out had been almost absurdly simple. Through his observation, he further discovered that the man in the portrait would yawn or scratch his nose, and occasionally would even step right out of the frame, leaving behind nothing but an empty stretch of dull grey canvas.
Other people might have assumed their eyes were playing tricks on them.
But not Mycroft.
After proactively opening up a dialogue with the Prime Minister, he had successfully won the man's trust and learned the truth of the matter.
It had actually turned out to be simpler than one might imagine. In the Prime Minister's own words, keeping this bottled up inside without telling a single soul had simply been unbearable. The reason his predecessor hadn't warned him about it beforehand was, naturally, rooted in this same difficulty.
As for the portrait's purpose, that too was simple enough. Whenever the Minister for Magic wanted to get in touch with the Muggle Prime Minister, the little man in the painting would come "alive" and initiate a conversation of his own accord.
Hearing what Mycroft said, the Prime Minister's expression immediately turned grave, a flicker of wariness and barely perceptible fear passing through his eyes. Toward that mysterious magical world, he had always harboured an instinctive resistance and unease.
"Mycroft, are you saying that all these bizarre events are... caused by magic?"
"Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth, Prime Minister."
Mycroft's tone was cold and certain. "As of now, that Minister for Magic named Cornelius Fudge has come to see you four times already, hasn't he?"
Hearing this, the Prime Minister couldn't help furrowing his brow deeply, an expression of discomfort crossing his face. He was truly reluctant to revisit those bizarre experiences connected to magic. But out of absolute trust in Mycroft's abilities, he nodded anyway and said slowly.
"The first time was right after I'd just taken office as Prime Minister. He suddenly appeared in my office and carried out what he called a 'friendly cross-world communication' with me.
The second time was when a wizard named Greyback escaped from prison. He came to inform us so that the Muggle police could help circulate the wanted notice.
The third time was when something went wrong at the Quidditch World Cup and some Muggles got dragged into it. They also needed to import three dragons and a sphinx from abroad for some sort of tournament.
"And the fourth time was two months ago."
The Prime Minister's face turned stern, his tone edged with impatience.
"Yes, Prime Minister."
Mycroft gave a slight nod.
"Although that Minister for Magic did say, right from the start, that you likely wouldn't see him again. It's only when something serious goes wrong on the magical side, something that might affect those of us who are 'Muggles,' that he'll break that rule. But—"
He gave a shrug with a slight note of mockery in his voice.
"—you've already noticed it yourself: ever since your second meeting with him, the frequency of his visits has been climbing.
That mass breakout happened two months ago. At the time, he swore up and down that they'd round up every last one of those dangerous criminals in short order. But do you honestly think, given how efficient they've proven themselves before, that they've actually managed it?"
"Mycroft, are you saying... that all these strange events are the work of the wizards who escaped?"
The Prime Minister's voice trembled slightly, and he glanced instinctively toward the oil painting.
"My deduction is that everything happening right now is closely tied to the turmoil in the magical world."
Mycroft said, his tone calm.
"The instability of the magical world has already begun seeping into the Muggle world. This abnormal fog, these bizarre accidents, the public's inexplicable panic—they're all the best proof of it."
"Hssss—"
The Prime Minister couldn't help sucking in a sharp breath, his brow knotting into a tight furrow.
Well, say what you will—but he actually had a point!
Once he accepted this premise, every strange thing that had happened recently suddenly started to make sense. That's right—the government under his own leadership couldn't possibly be this incompetent and inept. It was all the wizards' fault!
As this thought crossed his mind, a flash of resolve passed through the Prime Minister's eyes, and a bold idea suddenly occurred to him.
"Mycroft, the next time that 'unconventional minister' comes by, I want you to be here at my side. Having you here would put my mind at ease."
Mycroft wasn't the least bit surprised to hear the Prime Minister say this. He nodded slightly and said, his tone even.
"But Prime Minister, that Minister for Magic once said he would only reveal his identity and the existence of the magical world to the sitting Prime Minister himself. That's their so-called 'rule'—if I were present, I'm afraid it wouldn't be proper."
"Rule?"
The Prime Minister's voice suddenly rose, a long-suppressed fury creeping into his tone:
"To hell with that! This is 10 Downing Street! This is the office of the Prime Minister of Britain—me! On my own turf, he's the one who ought to be following the rules! I don't care what rules the magical world has—all I need is someone to help me get to the bottom of the truth and sort out this mess!"
Faced with a Prime Minister who was clearly starting to lose his composure, Mycroft gave a shrug.
"As you wish, my Prime Minister."
He looked as though he were merely humouring a difficult request, but in truth, he already had a plan well in hand. After all, his dear younger brother, Sherlock Holmes, happened to be a genuine, bona fide wizard!
"Wizards can't solve every problem, you know."
Sherlock, the very brother Mycroft had just been thinking of, sat on the sofa by the window, a copy of the Daily Prophet in hand. He leafed through it with an air of indifference as he spoke to the father seated across from him.
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