December first seemed to appear from nowhere. His plans were still growing, still changing, still trying desperately to react to both what he knew and what he was learning.

He spent his days at school or in practice, spent his afternoons studying over the extended Hogwarts: A History (which contained both too much and too few information) with Hermione, or reading books alone in a desperate attempt to catch up with what he thought he should know, spent his evenings spending time with his classmates, playing stupid games and trying to get them to think, to wonder why and consider bias and not (hopefully, ideally) think he was Voldemort in disguise if and when it eventually came out that he could speak to snakes.

His nights were spent wandering the castle.

This, by far, was the most wasteful part of his day, and yet it was something he couldn't help but do.

Nonetheless, as time continued he still felt... good, almost. Still felt like he was far, far further ahead than he was in his last life, still felt like he was gathering the information he needed to accomplish his goals and spending his time relatively wisely, all things considered.

So December 1st dawned, and he was feeling good, and he went to breakfast, and he opened the Daily Prophet, and.

Well.

All good things must come to an end, and all that.

"What are you reading?" Ron said, leaning over Harry's shoulder.

"Apparently I'm a lying liar who lies on a bed of lies."

"What?"

Harry tilted the paper towards him.

There, splayed across the page: Boy Who Lives, or Boy Who Lies?

By Rita Skeeter.

The article more or less claimed that Harry's September editorial, wherein he had apologized for not responding and explained he'd had no choice, was untrue.

Rita, her very first paragraph proclaimed, had found a source.

The source was unnamed.

The source claimed, with equally little evidence in support, that they had known Harry growing up, had been one of the lucky few who'd been allowed to meet the boy. The source claimed that Harry had two bedrooms all to himself, three playrooms, a study room, a den, a living room, a kitchen...

Four paragraphs were devoted solely to the description of Harry's imaginary mansion.

Beyond that the article also asserted that Harry had frequent tantrums, that everyone was explicitly banned from telling him no, that he'd had to be bribed with the promise of a spot on the Quidditch team to even agree to go to Hogwarts.

Harry, Rita (and her supposed source) claimed, spat on House elves.

Harry was given his wand at two.

Harry had already spent most of his father's hard earned (hard earned? The man hadn't even made it to thirty, and spent his entire adulthood at war! Harry loved his dad, and everything, but the man wasn't exactly a self-made entrepreneur) wealth and that was the only reason he was behaving now; he was setting up a good image so that it would be easier for him to mooch.

Harry, the article wrapped up, was exactly what happened when you overspoilt your children. Don't let your toddlers turn out like him, the article warned—the Boy Who Lived had been destroyed by Dumbledore's (the first time that particular name appeared, by the way) actions, and you shouldn't make the same mistake.

"My mom likes her." Ron said, thumbing over the paragraph that went into great detail about Harry's purported entrance hall and the ten-foot chandelier it was said to contain.

"That's nice." Harry said.

"I think this is the longest news article I've ever read!" Joshua said, turning the page over to read about Harry's private tutors.

"It is a long one." Harry said.

"They really went all out, didn't they?" Seamus said. "I mean, I know there's no libel laws—you mentioned that, actually, when you were talking about those books—but this seems... severe."

Harry laughed. It wasn't a particularly happy laugh.

Then, "So, you guys going to ditch me?"

As one every first year Gryffindor glared at him.

"We're not idiots, Harry." Parvati said. "We've known you for months now, and you haven't had a single tantrum or worn a single gold lined robe or anything."

"Not to mention you were very, very oblivious to a lot of the wizarding world." Ron said.

"Spoiled brats don't generally get along with other people." Dean said.

"Not to mention Rita calls the source a he here and here, but then later on she called the source a she here, and then he, and then she again here." Hermione said.

Everyone turned back to the paper.

Seamus laughed. "She misspelled wealthy too! Look, in the third paragraph—she forgot the a."

"That's nothing!" Neville said. "Look at the fifth to last. That's all one sentence."

"All of it?" Lavender said, flipping the page over.

Down the table the other Gryffindors seemed to find the article similarly laughable. Even as the first years began to point out their favorite portions of the article—Parvati and Lavender, at least, thought his imaginary wardrobe was quite well described—Fred and George has stood up and begun a dramatic rendition of the piece, splitting the portions between each other and gesturing wildly at Harry for emphasis at certain points.

"Our Boy Who Lived!" George gasped out.

"Ruined!" Fred finished.

"However will I recover." Harry said. "Now you know all my secrets. Oh no."

Hermione grimaced. "You're going to need a barrister or someone to fight this, aren't you?"

"Yep." Harry said, turning to her. "At least I can afford it."

"I can write my gran?" Neville said.

Harry grinned. "That'd be great, thank you."

Thankfully, gratefully, completely unexpectedly, it looked like none of the students actually believed what was written—not even the kids at other tables.

They seemed to find it funny, at least, but none were eying Harry, expecting an explanation for how he could have hid this obviously completely accurate account from them.

Still, they didn't make up a majority of the wizarding world, or even a significant portion of it, and they certainly weren't the decision makers. This, Harry decided, was more than sufficient cause to put Rita Skeeter right at the top of his list.

"You know," Harry said, "I've been looking at libel laws ever since I found out about those books written about me, and they're absolutely nothing like muggle laws."

"Okay, pretending I know something about muggle laws, what's the difference?" Dean said.

"For one, none of this is libel."

Everyone blinked, then looked back at the paragraph claiming, among other things, that Harry wasn't potty trained until he was six.

"None of it?" Seamus said.

"Nope. See, she's very careful to write like she's just reporting what her source says. She's not saying that she has indisputable proof, only that she has a source."

"But... but... I mean, this is... how can this not be libel?" Hermione said.

"It just isn't." Harry said. "Or at least, I don't think so. Maybe Neville's gran's lawyer knows better."

"Well, that's fun." Ron said. "I'm totally keeping this article, by the way. It's the funniest thing I've ever read."

Harry rolled his eyes. "You need better reading material."

"Well, you know what to get me for Christmas then. Until then I'm going to keep on reading about your ten-foot chandeliers."

"I'm supposed to have multiple chandeliers?" Harry said.

"Well, technically Rita Skeeter only gave the height of one of the chandeliers. She also mentioned that all three of your dining halls contained chandeliers, but she didn't give any of their heights or explain how any of the other rooms were lit."

Harry blinked at Parvati. "You just... remembered all of that? Off the top of your head?"

"I liked the design of your imaginary mansion." She huffed. "There's nothing wrong with that. Anyway, I'm very good at visualizations."

"Well, just so long as all of you are having fun." Harry said.

"Great!"

"Great!"

"Great!"

"Well, I'm glad that's settled."

"Yes," Ron said. "We all now know exactly how many chandeliers your imaginary mansion has, and I'm sure we're all the better for it. Praise be to the chandeliers."

"Praise be." Joshua, Dean, and Seamus echoed.

Harry rolled his eyes. Still, he couldn't deny that the longer their complete refusal to listen to Skeeter went the happier he was.

Everything about the Goblet of Fire and what had resulted had been hell for him to go through once. By the time his name had come out most had forgotten about the whole 'heir of Slytherin' thing, and some had even apologized.

And then his name had come out.

And then people had begun looking at him side-eyed, people begun talking about him behind his back.

And then Skeeter stepped in.

By the end of the year Harry had firsthand knowledge that spitballs were possible with parchment paper.

He had firsthand knowledge that being constantly told how awful you were did, in fact, make you feel awful; firsthand knowledge that friendships once thought steadfast could disappear under the weight of accusations, jealousy, and peer pressure.

And he had never quite recovered from it.

Oh, some people did end up apologizing to him, same as the heir of Slytherin schtick. But fewer bothered, fewer actually changed their minds, and often Harry thought the only reason some had actually managed it was because while they had already seen him as a fame-seeking maniac even before the goblet (having an epithet before one's second birthday does that), they hadn't been able to see him as a murderer.

Cedric Diggory's body, more than anything else, had convinced them that something else was going on.

He dreaded to know what their reactions would have been if they'd known Professor Quirrell had died by his hands his first first year.

He dreaded the thought that he might have to do that again this year.

He dreaded the thought of having to repeat nearly every aspect of his previous life, every fight for survival, every desperate attempt to be understood, every false trial and false imprisonment and every other event which he'd been forced to go through once already.

But now he was sitting in the Great Hall, and in a mere three months—not even a full semester of school—Harry had managed to demonstrate to every student in the hall that he wasn't a spoiled brat well enough that, when Skeeter decided to go on the offensive for reasons Harry could only begin to guess at, none believed her.

He still had his goals, and he still had vague ideas how to accomplish them, but this was the first time he actually felt like doing so might go well for him.

Killing the basilisk was obviously the more important of his already accomplished tasks, but then he'd only had to deal with that in his second year—it still felt in the future, still felt like it wasn't something he was seeing the results of in the present.

The price of his unwanted fame, on the other hand, was a cost he'd been paying since his first foray back into the world of magic. Knowing that he'd managed to alter other people's perceptions of him so much—so much that they were laughing at the idea of him throwing tantrums, at the idea that (as the fourth paragraph began) he demanded all of his servants to call him "Sir Boy Who Lived"…

Harry smiled.

And hoped desperately that the other 25 were having at least as much luck.