Harry followed Dumbledore up to the castle and into his office, where they sat either side of Dumbledore's desk.

"Harry," said Dumbledore, peering down at Harry from behind his half-moon glasses, "why did you not think to tell me that Sirius was in Hogsmeade?"

Harry felt as if a weight had been lifted from his chest. So that was all Dumbledore wanted to know. "I – I assumed you knew, sir. Don't you know everything that goes on around here? I mean, Hagrid's always got the local gossip."

"Hagrid does not know of Sirius' innocence," Dumbledore pointed out. "It was very foolish of you to visit Sirius out in the open like that. What if you had been stumbled on by someone less easily dissuaded than Rita Skeeter?"

Harry stared. "Rita Skeeter told you?"

"Why, yes," said Dumbledore. "She thought I might wish to know. After all, if Sirius was sighted in the area and the sighting made it back to the Ministry, the Minister might decide to allow the Dementors to return. Rita Skeeter has a nephew at the school and a healthy fear of Dementors. She sat in on a number of Death Eater trials back in the early eighties; in those days, her quill was not quite so … sharp. Might I ask what the agreement is between you and Miss Skeeter?"

"It's nothing formal," Harry said hastily. "It's just – I give her interviews, and I've given her a lead or two as well, and she doesn't write rubbish about me – well, not anywhere anyone would believe it. She said the best way to discredit people who said I'd cheated was to stick an article with that premise in the Quibbler."

Dumbledore regarded him with grave disappointment. "I hope you do not repeat those sentiments in front of Miss Lovegood. She admires her father very much, you know, and unlike many children at the school who admire their parents, that admiration is a sign of excellent character. She is a wonderful girl. Most charming. While we are on the subject, what, precisely, were you discussing with Michael Corner this morning?"

"He wanted to know where Ginny was," said Harry. "I told him she was in the lake. It was a pretty obvious deduction."

"Yes, you are very good at making those," said Dumbledore ruefully. "What, if I may be so bold, is your opinion of Mr Corner and Miss Weasley's little romance?"

Harry gripped the sides of his chair hard. "I don't really have an opinion, sir. I don't think he'd hurt her on purpose, if that's what you mean."

"Then I trust your judgement, Harry," Dumbledore said. "Now, I have not been quite honest with you. I summoned you up here for another reason." He got up, crossed the office, and produced a stone basin from a black cabinet. "Do you know what this is?"

Harry squinted down at the basin, which was full of a silvery substance that reminded Harry of the non-corporeal form of the Patronus charm. The outside of the basin was carved with runes, which Harry suspected Hermione would have been able to read. "No, sir."

"This is a Pensieve," said Dumbledore, setting it reverently on the desk. "It allows one to view one's memories, and to take another with you. Sadly, since memories can be altered, they are not used in trials, but they are still extremely valuable devices, as you will appreciate should you grow as old as I am."

"Right," Harry said, not much enlightened. "What're we going to do?"

"We are going to view some of my memories, which I took the liberty of placing in here earlier," Dumbledore said, poking at the silvery substance with his wand. "Come. You simply stick your head into the basin. Shall we do it together?"

Harry shrugged. He wasn't sure this was how he wanted to spend the day; he wanted to debrief with Ginny, and perhaps ask Moody if he knew what the third task was going to be. Then again, neither of these excuses would work on Dumbledore, who Harry was almost certain disapproved thoroughly of cheating in all its forms. "Alright."

"In we go," said Dumbledore, and stuck his head in the basin. Harry copied him, and found himself falling forward, down into a circular room full of crowded benches which rose in levels from a flat circle at the centre. In the very middle of the flat circle was an empty chair, with chains encircling its arms.

"Where are we?" Harry asked.

"These are the chambers of the Wizengamot," said Dumbledore. "Those witches and wizards over there –" he indicated a large group of people in plum-coloured robes, "are the members of the Wizengamot. Everyone else is spectating. Including myself." He gestured to another, differently dressed Dumbledore who sat nearby. "We are waiting for … I do not think it is the reason why I brought you here, but other than that I am uncertain."

A door in the corner of the room opened, and a man entered, flanked by two Dementors.

"No, this is the wrong memory," Dumbledore said, frowning. "I put three memories in, and I have a terrible feeling we shall be forced to watch all of them. Since we are here, Harry, this is the trial of Igor Karkaroff."

Harry stared at Karkaroff, who was being forced into the chair by the Dementors. He looked much younger than he did in Harry's own time.

"Igor Karkaroff," said a curt voice to Harry's left. It was Mr Crouch, looking younger and more well than Harry had ever seen him. "You have been brought from Azkaban to give evidence to the Ministry of Magic. You have given us to understand that you have important information for us."

"I have, sir," said Karkaroff, his voice trembling. "I wish to be of use to the Ministry. I wish to help. I – I know that the Ministry is trying to – to round up the last of the Dark Lord's supporters. I am eager to assist in any way I can …"

Nobody seemed to think this very convincing.

"Filth," said Mad-Eye Moody, from memory-Dumbledore's far side. He, too, looked younger, and he didn't seem to have his magical eye yet; both his eyes were small and dark and beady, and both were focused on Karkaroff. "Crouch is going to let him out. He's done a deal with him. Took me six months to track him down, and Crouch is going to let him go if he's got enough new names. Let's hear his information, I say, and throw him straight back to the Dementors."

Memory-Dumbledore and the real Dumbledore both made protesting noises.

"Ah, I was forgetting … you don't like the Dementors, do you, Albus?"

"You must understand," said Dumbledore, over memory-Dumbledore's calm retort, "that Professor Moody has never been the most mentally sound of men."

Harry reckoned this went without saying; he liked Moody, but even Snape never went so far as to turn pupils into animals. "How can anyone like Dementors?"

"They are useful beasts," Dumbledore said, sighing, "and I admit there are some people I would like to throw to them … still, they are a cruel punishment. That may be the attraction. Professor Moody lost many friends and colleagues during the war, as did we all. Many Death Eaters were never brought to trial, for one reason or another. Those we did punish … I'm sure you understand, Harry. Now, let us listen."

Karkaroff recited a litany of names, most of which seemed to be worthless; the Death Eaters in question, it seemed, were either dead, already in Azkaban, or cleared of suspicion. This last set of Death Eaters included Professor Snape.

"Was he a Death Eater?" Harry asked.

"He was," said Dumbledore regretfully, "but he has changed, Harry. He was a spy, as I'm sure the memory of me is telling the court … ah, but now we are moving on to the second trial. And … no, alas, we shall have to watch all three memories. We are now in the trial of Ludo Bagman."

Harry stared. "Ludo Bagman? What for? Smuggling cursed Bludgers? Taking bribes?"

"For passing information to the Death Eaters," Dumbledore said, grimacing. "It was an easy thing to do in those days. There were never that many of them, but we are a very close-knit lot here in wizarding Britain, and if by some miracle you were neither a Death Eater nor related to one, you were sure to know someone who at least sympathised with some of Voldemort's less abhorrent ideas. It was a dark, dark time, and I am glad we have had a reprieve."

"How can you not know you're passing information to the Death Eaters?" Harry asked.

Dumbledore glared. "I assure you, Harry, Augustus Rookwood was the last person anyone would ever suspect of being a Death Eater. That was half the reason Lord Voldemort recruited him. He likes his agents to be beneath suspicion, as you saw last year with Peter Pettigrew, and the year before that with Miss Weasley, and in your first year with Professor Quirrell – about time."

The dungeon had dissolved and reformed again. There was total silence, except for the sobs of a frail witch who sat beside Mr Crouch. Mr Crouch looked like he might vomit. "Bring them in," he said.

This time, there were six Dementors, flanking a group of four people. Each of the four people was forced down into one of the chairs with chained arms, and the Dementors left.

"Who are they?" Harry asked.

"That is Bellatrix Lestrange," said Dumbledore, indicating the lone witch, who had thick black hair and looked like she hadn't slept in weeks. "And that is her husband, Rodolphus." He pointed to the thin, nervous-looking black man at Bellatrix's side. "Rabastan Lestrange, Rodolphus' elder brother." Rodolphus Lestrange was thick-set and rather stupid-looking; he reminded Harry of Crabbe and Goyle. "And Barty Crouch Junior."

Harry glanced from Dumbledore to Barty Crouch Junior – he was pale and blond and scared-looking, and couldn't have been older than Percy – to Barty Crouch Senior and back to Barty Crouch Junior again. "I – so it's true, then? Barty Crouch's son died in Azkaban?"

"Mm," said Dumbledore. "I want you to listen, Harry. Be quiet, please."

Crouch stood up, staring down at the four accused with obvious hatred. "You have been brought here before the Council of Magical Law so that we may pass judgement on you, for a crime so heinous –"

"Father," said Barty. "Father … please …"

" – that we have rarely heard the like of it in this court," Crouch bulled on. "We have heard the evidence against you. The four of you stand accused of capturing an Auror – Frank Longbottom – and subjecting him to the Cruciatus Curse, believing him to have knowledge of the present whereabouts of your exiled master, He Who Must Not Be Named –"

Barty protested his innocence, loudly and to Harry's mind rather convincingly.

"You are further accused," bellowed Crouch, "of using the Cruciatus Curse on Frank Longbottom's wife, when he would not give you information. You planned to restore He Who Must Not Be Named to power, and to resume the lives of violence you presumably led while he was strong. I now ask the jury –"

"I think we've seen enough, don't you?" Dumbledore said gently, taking Harry by the elbow. "Come, I will not ask you to tarry longer – do ignore Bellatrix, she does go on rather."

And then they were back in Dumbledore's office again.

"Did they really do all that?" Harry asked.

"Yes," said Dumbledore frankly. "Or, at any rate, Bellatrix and Rabastan did. They were a matched pair of brutes; Bellatrix was, I think, somewhat cleverer, and I have long suspected she did not work as hard in school as she could have. I would say I had no idea why she married the younger brother, if I did not know that they were friends at school … when I say friends, of course, I mean that they sat together in lessons and at meals, and did homework together, and if they fought, they did it in private. Some people have very shallow friendships, Harry."

"What about Barty Crouch?" Harry pressed, ignoring how very like his own friendship with Ginny this sounded; after all, he wasn't sure he'd mind being married to Ginny. "He seemed very insistent he didn't do it."

Dumbledore sighed, took off his glasses, and rubbed his nose, right above the break. "Many people are insistent they did not do things they did in fact do. Now, Harry, I must ask you: is this the first time you have seen Barty Crouch Junior?"

"Yeah," Harry said, confused. "Why?"

"I was wondering," said Dumbledore, "but … it is of no matter. Harry, my boy, I fear I have made a grave mistake … you may go."

The next morning, the school was full of whispers and giggles. Harry gathered there was some sort of scandal going on, to do with one of the many periodicals which were taken by various small groups of the student body; since the only periodical he took was the Daily Prophet, he was forced to resort to asking Colin Creevey, who seemed to receive a different magazine every day of the week.

"Rita Skeeter's put an article in Witch Weekly," said Colin unhappily. "She's saying Hermione Granger's leading Ron Weasley and Viktor Krum on."

Harry stared. "Hermione? You certain? What's Madam Skeeter playing at? I didn't know Ron and Hermione were –"

"She's lying because it makes good news, silly," Ginny said, pouring herself a second gobletful of pumpkin juice. "There's no truth in it. Witch Weekly thrives on gossip and insinuation, and, well, Ron and Hermione hang around together and Hermione was Krum's hostage. If Rita Skeeter couldn't spin together a thousand words of copy from that, she wouldn't still be in news."

Harry admitted she had a point. "Couldn't she just do a piece about Krum, Fleur and Cedric? They're always hanging about together, whispering away in French, and there's some nice scandal there with there being three of them, and Krum's all famous and Fleur's at least a quarter Veela and Cedric's got a girlfriend …"

"Hermione's Muggle-born, though," Ginny said. "It's a bit of a controversial issue at the moment, what with Dad's Muggle Protection Act and the Muggle-baiting at the World Cup – sorry, Colin, I always forget you're Muggle-born. And, well, controversy sells papers. That's why she's always saying rubbish about Dad. He's really popular."

"Ah, yes, Ginny Weasley, so very modest," said Colin, looking amused.

"Excusing me."

Harry forced himself to smile. "Morning, Krum."

Krum slammed a copy of Witch Weekly down on the table in front of Harry. "Vot is zis?"

"Viktor," Hermione said, appearing from nowhere, "don't, please. Harry didn't have anything to do with it – Viktor –" she switched to French, babbling earnestly away and waving her hands about. Harry, watching, felt a sudden pang; it had now been nearly over four months since Hermione or Ron had spoken to him, not counting Ron's cold little remarks in their dormitory and the few words Harry and Hermione had exchanged while trying to comfort Hagrid in January.

"Well, we might as well have a look, if it's here," Ginny said, faking a yawn. "Oh, for Merlin's sake, a bon-bon, him, really? She's losing her touch."

The next Hogsmeade weekend marked Ginny's second official date with Michael Corner. This time, Harry tagged along; the last thing he wanted was to see Ginny being snogged by Michael, but he also didn't want to leave Ginny alone with him.

"You don't have to follow us around, you know," said Ginny, as the three of them headed down the drive. "We won't be upset."

"I said I'd come," Harry insisted. "I might not actually sit with you – I'm meeting Rita Skeeter in the Three Broomsticks in half an hour for an interview – but I'm not going to let you go off on your own. Last time you went off on your own, well, it was the second task."

Ginny glared. "I won't be on my own. I'll be with Michael."

"He's worried about you, pretty girl," Michael cooed, kissing Ginny on the forehead. "Aren't you pleased? He's your best friend. He doesn't want you to get hurt."

Harry swallowed. "Yeah. Yeah, that's all."

Ginny cast him a sceptical look and snuggled into Michael's side. "Alright."

They walked the rest of the way to the village in silence and made their way to the Three Broomsticks. As usual, the pub was very crowded; Harry spotted Rita Skeeter in the corner and pushed through the throng towards her.

"Hello, Harry," said Rita, Quick-Quotes Quill already out, shoving an opened Butterbeer at him with one hand and flicking through her notebook with the other. "Let's talk."

Half an hour and three Butterbeers later, Rita put the Quick-Quotes Quill away and got out a normal quill. It was made from an eagle's feather, and had no doubt been hideously expensive, but at this point Harry was just surprised it wasn't green. "Well, Harry, I've been doing some research and I've managed to trace your Mr Riddle. He lived in an orphanage, you know, terribly sad. Mother died in childbirth. It wouldn't have taken so long, but the Muggles knocked the place down, so I had to get creative. So far as I can tell, he vanishes around '47, after a few years working for Borgin and Burke – have you heard of them?"

"If you mean the shop in Knockturn Alley, yeah," Harry said. If Voldemort was going to lower himself to getting a job, Borgin and Burke's seemed like just the sort of place he would choose; all the merchandise seemed to be cursed, jinxed or just plain creepy. "Great. Vanishes … where?"

"If I knew that, I'd be following the lead, dear," said Rita. "Do you have any ideas?"

"I heard a rumour he went to Albania," Harry tried. "Theo Nott said he died out there – he didn't, but … you could always try there."

Rita blinked, shrugged, and wrote something down. "I am overdue a holiday, I suppose. Well, wonderful talking to you, as always. If you need me, I shall probably be in Albania. Enjoy watching Miss Weasley's date."

"How's that going, by the way?" Harry asked.

"I've got nothing," said Rita, almost kindly. "Ginny Weasley and Michael Corner may well be important to you, but they're not news. I've got an article on the back burner about what happened to Luna Lovegood, because it'd embarrass Dumbledore, but I'm afraid it's a bit embarrassing for you as well and in the current climate, well, I'm sure you understand."

Harry swallowed. "Yeah. I get it. Thanks." He glanced over his shoulder. Ginny and Michael were sitting at a table for two, which left Harry at a loose end rather. "I – how is Mr Crouch, by the way? Is he feeling better? Only I know he was in Snape's office back in January, but everyone still seems to think …"

"Hang on a second," Rita said, grinning like a shark. "Let me get my other quill." She produced her Quick-Quotes Quill from her bag, waved Madam Rosmerta over, ordered more drinks for both of them, and leant towards Harry, eyes wide behind her bejewelled glasses. "You were saying?"

Over the next few days, Ron and Hermione began acting very oddly. Ron was alternately inundated by owls at breakfast and brought nothing at all; Hermione kept disappearing into gangs of interested-seeming Hufflepuffs; and, most odd of all, Hermione stayed after Defence Against the Dark Arts on Thursday. This was so unusual that Harry, too, loitered, and once Hermione had left, he went in.

"Evening, Potter," said Moody, not looking very pleased. "Miss Granger was just telling me she's concerned about those Weasley twins. They're getting very secretive."

Harry had to admit this was true; the Weasley twins had even stopped talking to Lee Jordan, the only person who could hang out with them without getting pranked sooner or later. "Do you know what the third task is yet, sir?"

"No," Moody said. "Now, I hear you've been talking to Rita Skeeter about Mr Crouch."

"Yeah," said Harry. "Why, am I not allowed to? He shouldn't be creeping around the school if he's as ill as all that."

Moody, for some reason, looked relieved. "I'm glad you've got his best interests in mind, but perhaps lay off talking to her, eh? People will start thinking she's your pet reporter."

"Cho Chang said that the other month," Harry said. "Is it bad to have a pet reporter? She's really nice to me, and it's useful to know I'll always have my voice heard."

"You're Harry Potter," Moody pointed out. "You'll always have your voice heard. But you'll hear whispers, too. If people get the idea she's a pet of yours, they'll not believe a word she writes about you, good or bad."

Harry stared. "Why would I get her to write bad things about me?"

"Well, if they're obviously a pile of rubbish, you'll get sympathy," said Moody.

"I'm not sure about that," Harry said; Hermione had been getting nasty letters ever since Rita's article about her and Krum had come out. "Haven't you heard all those Howlers Hermione Granger's been getting?"

Moody made a face. "I've not been coming to meals lately. Haven't you noticed?"

"No," Harry admitted shamefacedly. "I've been …"

"Jealous," Moody said. "No shame in it. I was in love once. Terrible. Don't recommend it in the slightest. Well, off you trot – if you're that worried, I reckon we'll know by the end of May."

That was three months away. "Alright," Harry said, not much comforted. "And, um, I probably won't be talking to Madam Skeeter anyway. She's heading off to Albania on her holidays, last I heard."

Moody looked alarmed. "Albania? Rita Skeeter? Just when I thought the tone of the place couldn't get any lower."

"What's wrong with Albania?" Harry asked; wizards did seem to like going there.

"Bunch of hippy Grindelwald-obsessed loons," said Moody shortly. "All Deathly Hallows this and greater good that and let's break the Statute of Secrecy the other. Don't ever go there, Potter."

Harry promised he wouldn't and headed off to the library to find out exactly what had been so bad about Grindelwald; the Dark wizard Grindelwald, being quite recent by wizarding standards, was not in A History of Magic and therefore did not feature in their lessons.

Dear Madam Skeeter, he wrote, when he was quite sure he understood, please be careful while you're in Albania. I don't want you to get in with anything criminal. HP.

True to Moody's word, at the end of May Professor McGonagall kept Harry back in Transfiguration.

"What is it, professor?" Harry asked; he'd got the sense McGonagall had rather gone off him. He wasn't entirely sure she'd ever liked him in the first place, considering how much of a talent for trouble he'd had in his first year.

"You are to be at the Quidditch pitch at nine o'clock tonight," said McGonagall sternly. "Mr Bagman will tell you about the third task."

Harry retreated to the Gryffindor common room and told Ginny, who didn't seem awfully surprised; apparently, the agitation evident in Percy's weekly letters increased in direct proportion to the approach of the Triwizard tasks.

"I didn't know he wrote to you," Harry said. "I wouldn't have thought he'd have time."

Ginny made a face. "He's my brother, Harry. He'll always have time for me. He'd have time for you, if you wrote to him. He always has time for everyone."

"Really?" Harry said sceptically. In his experience, all Percy Weasley had time for was being officious and getting in the way.

"Really," said Ginny. "He's been giving Michael advice. Michael wants to go into politics – not the Ministry, he can't abide people telling him what to do, but he's really interested in making changes. He wants to bring back all the traditions and stuff."

"What traditions?" Harry asked.

Ginny proceeded to give him a very long lecture about various pagan festivals wizards had celebrated back in the days of Merlin. "But nobody celebrates them now," she added. "It's all a bit old hat, to be honest, but it's that or listen to him go on about politics. Michael has the strangest ideas about that sort of thing. He's practically a Grindelwald supporter – and, I mean, he's got Muggle grandparents, so you'd think he wouldn't go along with stuff like 'the beast of burden will always be needed'. I think he actually said that once."

"He did?" Harry said, appalled. "But – but Muggles are people too. That's something I'd expect off Malfoy."

"Yes, but we aren't the same as Muggles," Ginny pointed out. "We're better, Harry. We've got magic. Magic is the natural state of humankind, don't you see? Hermione and Colin and all the rest, they're signs that Muggles are evolving. That's why there's more Muggle-borns than there used to be."

Harry had no idea if this was true or not. "Then how do you explain Squibs?"

"I can't remember," said Ginny, scowling. "I don't really understand it yet. But I'm going to. I have to. Michael says that when we're grown up, he's going to run everything and I'm going to stand at his side and we're going to get married and everything's going to be glorious."

"He sounds like Voldemort," Harry said unthinkingly.

Ginny paled. "He's – it's not like that. I remember Tom's tricks. I'd know if he was trying to trick me like that."

Harry admitted that Voldemort didn't seem particularly capable of learning from his mistakes. "Just – don't let him get ahead of himself, alright? Let's go and do some homework."

At half-past eight, Harry abandoned Ginny to the tender mercies of her friends and took himself down to the Quidditch pitch. When he got there, the other three champions were already on the pitch, talking to Ludo Bagman. The pitch itself looked as though someone had started building a maze, then got bored and gone home.

"Evening, Harry," said Ludo happily. "Good to see you here – nice, aren't they? They'll be twenty foot high by the task – you'll have your pitch back once the task is over, don't worry. Now, the task's very simple. You go through the maze. At the centre of the maze is the Triwizard Cup. There'll be obstacles, of course … spells, magical creatures, all of that fun stuff. Now, Mr Diggory, you're first on points, so you'll be in first, then Mr Krum, then Mr Potter, then Miss Delacour."

Harry felt sick. He was almost certain that the murder attempt this time would be on Krum; Cedric had nearly been killed by the Hungarian Horntail in the first task, and the second task had been set up to put Fleur at a disadvantage. How were they meant to stop the third murder attempt if they were all going to be alone?

"I'm telling you, Harry, the twins are up to something," said Ginny, doling gravy over her roast beef with one hand and turning the page in Protective Spells for the Paranoid with the other. "They aren't talking to anyone, haven't been for weeks."

Harry couldn't bring himself to care; he was engrossed in his usual lunch-time entertainment of leafing through the Daily Prophet, looking for Rita Skeeter's by-line. "They'll still be up to something after dinner."

"Yeah, but I'm worried," Ginny said. "Have you heard what the Hufflepuffs are saying about Mr Crouch?"

Harry turned the page, found himself in the sports section, and settled down to read the dissection of Puddlemere United's starting team, which, due to some nasty injuries earlier in the season, contained Harry's old Quidditch captain, Oliver Wood. "No. What're they saying? Is he any better? Have they found out what's wrong with him?"

"I heard a rumour he got Spattergroit, but I mean, you'd think even Percy would be able to spot Spattergroit pus," said Ginny, spearing a roast potato. "And it makes your hands all shaky, too, Percy would definitely notice that. I think the Hufflepuffs are saying dragon pox, that was doing the rounds two years ago, it got my Great-Aunt Lucretia. No, they're saying they saw him on the grounds last night."

Harry stared. "What, all of them?"

"No, not all of them, you idiot," Ginny said, rolling her eyes. "Well, strictly speaking, the Hufflepuffs are saying Cedric and Fleur think they saw him on their way back from your meeting with Mr Bagman last night. Apparently Cho Chang's pissed as fuck."

"Why?" Harry asked, taking some more peas. "I thought the Ravenclaws were saying Fleur's going out with Krum."

Ginny snorted, closed her book, and got out Protective Charms and You. "Well, yeah, I reckon they'll change their tune now. Even they can't miss juicy evidence like Fleur and Cedric all alone … yeah, anyway, they were wandering about on the grounds last night, for some reason, and they thought they saw him thrashing about near the Forbidden Forest, but by the time they got there he was gone, and it was basically curfew, so they gave up. Anyway, I bet Rita Skeeter would have a field day."

"She's still in Albania," Harry said, closing the paper; as usual, there was nothing. "Or if she isn't, she's not working. She's not had a by-line in months." A horrible thought came to him. "D'you think something's happened to her?"

"Rita Skeeter?" Ginny said, laughing. "She's done interviews with people in Azkaban. Not like she's interviewed people and they're in Azkaban now, I mean she actually physically went out to Azkaban and did interviews. There's nobody she won't be rude about – well, except maybe you. I heard a rumour she's the one doing the research for all those Rotfang Conspiracy articles."

Harry took yet more peas. "If anyone could, it'd be her. I'll see if I can divine anything."

Ginny giggled. "Good luck with that."

And indeed, Harry didn't manage to divine anything during Divination that afternoon. It was swelteringly hot in Trelawney's classroom up at the top of North Tower, and the room was full of fumes from the fire Trelawney always had burning even in high summer, and Trelawney had, not very sensibly, decided to dim the lights and give a presentation about the effects of Mars. Harry took gleeful advantage of the opportunity to catch up on sleep. He dreamt, perhaps worryingly, of Voldemort.

"You've got to tell Dumbledore," Ginny insisted, at breakfast the next morning; Harry had only just got around to telling her. "This is bad, Harry. This is really dangerous. What if it wasn't just a dream?"

"I think it was just a dream," Harry said; he didn't exactly fancy admitting he'd fallen asleep in lessons, nor that this wasn't the first dream of the sort he'd had. "Oh, hello, boy."

The barn owl which had landed beside his plate gave an indignant chirrup.

"It's a girl, Harry," said Ginny, all smiles again. "C'mon, let's see who it's from."

Harry had been hoping it was from Sirius, but he didn't recognise the handwriting on the envelope. Harry Potter, it read, in shining acid-green ink. "I – I think it might be from Rita Skeeter."

"Ooh, goody," Ginny said. "Go on, then, open it."

Harry slit the envelope open. The letter inside was short and to the point:

Dear Harry, the person who informed you of Mr Riddle's death was almost certainly correct. Tom Riddle entered an Albanian forest (now part of the Muggles' Dajti National Park) in March 1948 and never left it again. I remain confused by your interest in Mr Riddle; before his disappearance, he was an upstanding member of society. (If your worry was that he was involved in the conviction of your friend Mr Hagrid for keeping an Acromantula in the school, I understand your irritation, but we must all do our duty, no matter how unpleasant.) If you are really insistent, local rumour has it that Mr Riddle was searching for the Elder Wand; I could do you a scare piece about Hallows questers and the possibility of a Grindelwald connection, but raking up dirt over a wizard who has been dead nearly half a century might be considered somewhat bad taste. I am returning to Britain and work, and will see you for an interview after the third task, if you are amenable; of course, if you wish to speak to me earlier, you need only say so. Yours, Madam Armand Skeeter.

"Armand Skeeter," Ginny said, peering over Harry's shoulder. "That's a bit unfortunate, isn't it?"

"Why doesn't she just put Madam Rita Skeeter?" Harry asked, to distract himself from Ginny's warm breath, inches from his ear.

Ginny shrugged. "You're not allowed to. The rule is that once you get married, you're, say, Mrs Septimus Weasley – that was my grandma – and you stay that way until your husband dies, at which point you become a madam. I think you get to be a madam if you're really old, too, but mostly it's for widows. Madam Skeeter's husband worked for the Apparition Office in the war, so he was one of the first to go."

"What if you get divorced?" Harry said, staring; he'd never realised there were rules. What if he'd broken them by accident?

"Divorced," Ginny repeated, for all the world as if she'd never heard the term. "That's when you stop being married even though neither of you is dead, right? We don't really do divorce that much. Not in my family, anyway, we're Roman Catholic."

"The Dursleys are Church of England," said Harry, somewhat confused; the Weasleys had never seemed particularly religious. Then again, the Dursleys weren't exactly keen on church either.

Ginny frowned. "I think if you were divorced, you'd be, say, Mrs Black Weasley. I don't really know, though. We'd have to ask the Slytherins. Or Percy."

Harry snorted. "I don't care that much. Do you think we should tell her?"

"Tell her what?" Ginny asked.

Harry wrote down Voldemort's real name on a napkin, and then, pointedly, wrote I am Lord Voldemort beneath it.

"She won't believe us," said Ginny, at once. "I didn't believe it, at first."

"It's worth a try," Harry said. "Worst comes to worst, she thinks it's a really inappropriate joke." Dear Madam Skeeter, he wrote, thanks for trying, but I think your sources may be misinformed. Try rearranging Tom Marvolo Riddle. (Hint: I am lord …) HP.

Rita Skeeter's reply came the very next morning. Dear Harry, you are playing a very dangerous game. Considering that you obviously don't believe You-Know-Who is dead, I do not plan to go about revealing his embarrassing family skeletons in the national paper. I enjoy living, thank you. Yours, Madam Armand Skeeter. PS: Sorry about today's Quibbler. I swear I didn't tell.

"What's Loony done now?" Harry asked, stomach sinking.

Ginny shrugged and turned to Colin Creevey, who was engrossed in Challenges in Charming. "Has your Quibbler come yet?"

"It's coming now," said Colin, pointing. "See? Thank you, Arcus. Oh, um, I'm not sure you want to read this, Ginny. It's –"

"What's the headline?" Harry craned his neck.

Colin wordlessly passed him the magazine. The front of the magazine was, as was distressingly common these days, emblazoned with a very bad caricature of Harry. This time, though, there was also a caricature of Ginny, and someone who Harry supposed was meant to be Michael Corner. And above the picture, in smugly flashing red letters, was the headline: The Boy Who Lived to be Jealous?

AN: The dialogue of the memory-characters is taken from the fourth book.