"They want what?" I asked.
"The Daily Prophet wants to interview you," Dumbledore said. "The Cruciatus Cure is an amazing breakthrough, and the idea that an eleven year old girl was the one to inspire it has inflamed the imaginations of the readership."
I stared at him. I understood what his motive was behind all of this; by reminding the world that a muggleborn had handed a cure to them, he hoped to change hearts and minds. However, the last place I needed to be was in the forefront of everyone's minds.
As far as I could tell, I was being targeted by a single Death Eater. Avery had reason to hate me, considering my blood status and the fact that I'd harmed his nephew. But the other Death Eaters didn't seem to be targeting me specifically; they were simply after all muggleborn and I'd been caught up in their net.
Putting myself out in the public eye might change that. Avery had presumably seen me when he'd attacked me invisibly, but it was possible that he'd just sent a proxy. Even if that was so, the proxy had to know what I looked like. Did he know that I was an imposer already, or would having a picture in front of him jog his memory?
His partner might see it too, and then they'd see that I was a liability. That might make the attacks on me more desperate, and more likely to succeed.
After all, how many resources had Avery really expended on me? He'd cast a few spells on a helpless squib, and he'd taken some potshots at me when the opportunity had presented itself. The polyjuice potion had presumably been to get him up the stairs, in case invisibility and Filch's status as caretaker wasn't enough. He'd whispered in some auror's ears.
Blank polyjuice potions were available for sale in Knockturn Alley. I'd heard some of the upperclassmen sniggering about it. Adding a person's hair at the end, and there was an instant change. As to why they were sold so casually, I couldn't be sure.
I chose not to think about the perversions of adult Wizards.
If the Protectorate had been running the Wizarding world, Polyjuice would have been illegal, or maybe restricted to aurors. Here it was taught to everyone as part of their core classes, essentially giving every Wizard a stranger rating.
It was grueling to make, but I suspected that I'd be able to make it in a couple of years. Most likely I'd buy some if I ever found a dealer; I wasn't sure how expensive it was. Knowing that would help me to understand how much Avery wanted me dead.
"Do you think that flaunting my presence is going to help my position any?" I asked. "It's going to be hard enough to escape once the summer comes without them all knowing what I look like. Also, the last thing I need is anything that will make the rest of the kids jealous of me."
"You? Afraid of bullies?" Dumbledore asked, one eyebrow raised. "I'd have thought you cherished the challenge."
"Not being afraid of them doesn't mean that I enjoy being taunted behind my back, when they know that I can hear them," I said. "And I can tell that it bothers Hermione to hear them say things too."
"And yet if no one does anything to change hearts and minds, it will always be like this," he said gently. "The world is full of injustice, and most people learn to live with it. It's not until that first brave person steps forward that anything changes. Wasn't it only recently that a young woman refused to give up her seat on a bus in your nation simply because of the color of her skin?"
Even here in the past, it had been something like thirty six years since Rosa Parks had been thrown off the bus. Dumbledore considered that recent?
It was like the Wizarding World was a fly trapped in amber, stuck in time. Wizards tended to remember the parts of the muggle world that had existed the last time they'd interacted with it; for most that was when they had been in school. Given the fact that Wizards tended to live twice as long as muggles, and that meant that to someone like Dumbledore, horseless carriages were probably still astonishing.
"You aren't seriously comparing me to Rosa Parks," I said. "Posing for some pictures isn't like starting a movement."
"She likely didn't think she was starting a movement either," he said. "She simply stood up for what is right. Despite your rather... complicated history, I believe that you too have a strong sense of how the world should be."
He didn't say I had a strong sense of right and wrong. Was that a subtle insult?
"It just seems like it's asking for trouble, just when things are starting to die down," I said. "Why would I want to do this?"
"I could appeal toward your more mercenary side," Dumbledore said. "There are people who this cure will help that will be grateful to you if you let them know who you are."
"How many people could there possibly be that this happened to?" I asked. "Didn't the Death Eaters kill the people they tortured when they were done?"
Dumbledore shook his head. "They made examples of some people; it was part of their campaign to spread fear in the last war. Death is simple, but being forced to care for an ailing relative for the rest of your life; that is fearful. Given the way our community is so closely related, that means that almost everyone has a relative who is affected, however distant."
"I haven't heard about a lot of families dealing with something like that," I said slowly.
"How long did it take young Mr. Longbottom to share what had happened with you?" he asked. "Most families prefer to take care of their invalids in-house, hiding them away from the world as though it is shameful what they have become."
Would it really earn me that much political goodwill? What Dumbledore wasn't saying was that if I ever had to go to trial, having people on my side might make the difference between freedom and Azkaban... or even being Kissed.
I couldn't keep coasting on my being a child forever; in just a few years I'd be old enough that I'd be just another adult, and if I didn't make friends with those in power I'd be screwed.
The thought of getting some political backing was attractive, but was it worth the risk of inflaming Avery and his partner?
Screw them. I couldn't keep living my life on the defensive. I needed to go on the attack, and this might be something constructive that I could do.
"Fine," I said. "But I'd prefer not to have any pictures."
"I am sure they will press for them," Dumbledore said. "But we will try to keep your picture off the front page at least."
"I don't like being manipulated," I said, grimacing as I rose to my feet. "When is this going to happen?"
"Within the hour,' Dumbledore said.
"And if I'd said no?" I asked. He'd simply assumed that I'd agree, which was more than irritating. It was almost enough to put him on my to-do list.
The list was fairly short at the moment. Avery, the Death Eaters, Voldemort and the Hat.
I turned to glare at the hat, which simply sat there as though it was a simple piece of felt. I hadn't forgotten what it had done, but figuring out an appropriate response was difficult.
I could destroy the hat easily enough; there were more than enough cloth eating bugs in the castle that I could probably take care of it in a single night, assuming that it wasn't somehow magically protected.
But the hat served an important purpose in the school, and destroying the hat would probably make everyone who'd ever gone to school angry. I couldn't afford that, not right now.
Yet there wasn't any other leverage to deal with the hat. As far as I could tell it didn't have friends. It didn't eat, or drink, or do much of anything. It didn't have knees you could break, and the thought of torturing a hat was ludicrous.
Dropping it in the sewer might work, but would a hat even care about getting dirty? It didn't have human fears, which made judging what it would find unpleasant difficult. It didn't seem to want anything at all other than to shove kids into Houses. It was like trying to intimidate a laptop.
Getting it to speak about the others who had been reincarnated was on my list too. I didn't have anything to offer the hat... maybe a cleaning?
"How do I know this isn't going to be an excuse to attack me?" I asked. "Physically or to my reputation?"
"I think it would be best if Miss Skeeter survived her encounter with you," Dumbledore said.
I forced myself not to stiffen, and I carefully kept my eyes averted from him. I pushed my emotions into my bugs, and I hoped that no one would notice how agitated they were. Did he know what I had done? What did he plan to do about it?
"She is not a troll, although some people might disagree."
"Fine," I said. "Where do I meet her?"
"I've arranged for you to meet her in the charms classroom," he said. "In light of previous difficulties, I think having a teacher present would be prudent."
"Who are you trying to protect? Her or me?"
"The welfare of everyone on the premises is my responsibility," he said smoothly. "Now perhaps you would like to freshen up."
I scowled, then nodded. First impressions were important.
I'd had the classes with Glenn Chambers, even though I hadn't really bothered to pay that much attention. At the time I'd been worried about saving the universe; making a good impression with the press hadn't been high on my list.
Still, some of the pieces of advice had stuck with me. Being prepared was important. Thinking before you spoke was important; ums and uhs made you sound stupid. Avoiding jargon was important; you were speaking to the general public, not members of the Protectorate.
Keeping answers simple and succinct. The press tended to prefer sound bites anyway, and they were likely to cut what you said down into something the audience could understand anyway.
I found my best robe, and I made an effort to make my hair look presentable. Tracey had shown me a spell that made that easy, and I saw no reason not to use it, even though part of me wondered whether I was going to end up bald when I was older because of overusing it.
Finding my way to the classroom before the reporter wasn't that difficult. I was following her progress through the castle, after all.
She had blonde hair set in elaborate curls. Her spectacles were set with rhinestones. Her jaw was thick and her fingers were even thicker, and the long, red painted nails on them looked a little like claws. She had a handbag that looked like it was made of crocodile skin.
There was something about her that tickled at the back of my mind. Did I recognize her from somewhere? It made me a little uneasy, so I resolved to be on my guard.
She was being escorted by Professor Flitwick.
"She's been one of my best students," he was saying in his squeaky voice. He was moving quickly to keep up with her. "Both of my best students this year are muggleborns."
"That's unusual, isn't it?" she asked.
"The muggleborn lack some of the advantages pureblood children have," he said. "Including the ability to practice magic during the summers."
"You aren't criticizing that policy, are you?" she asked. Her head snapped toward him. "The Ministry thinks that children can't be trusted not to use magic around muggles, and that it would be a nightmare for the obliviators."
"Ahh...no," Flitwick said hurriedly. "I was just saying that the common refrain that muggleborn aren't good at magic isn't true at all in my experience."
"A couple of magical prodigies isn't indicative of a trend," she said reprovingly. "Perhaps if you had some proof, the Prophet might be interested in looking over your findings."
Her tone suggested that she was just being polite, and that they weren't likely to print anything of the sort.
I waited calmly until they entered the room.
"Hello! You must be Taylor!"
Her voice was higher in pitch, the sound sweet and cloying. It was the kind of speech used to speak to a small child.
I nodded, and she reached out to shake my hand. I twisted my wrist slightly so that my hand was on top, and I squeezed tightly. It was a domination display, and I could see in her eyes that she knew it.
Without blinking I stared at her. It was also dominant body language, and I'd found that it unnerved people coming from a girl my age. Girls were socialized to be more submissive, even in Wizarding culture, especially in their body language. Going against that was sending a message.
She pulled her hand away.
"What do you want to know?" I asked.
"You don't mind if I use my magical quill," she asked. She pulled it out of her bag and set it on one of the tables. I used my bugs to keep an eye on what it was writing.
I was standing with my legs slightly spread. I watched her quietly and didn't say anything. Often people would feel compelled to fill the silence and they'd say a lot more than they meant to.
Staring at me for a moment, she said, "How did you come up with the idea for the Cruciatus Cure?"
"It seemed obvious to me," I said. "When I researched what pen sieves did, it seemed like it would be better at thinning memories that obliviation, which just covers them up. That's not the only part of the process; the rest was the result of efforts by a team of gifted and dedicated mediwizards, starting with Hogwarts own Madam Pomfrey."
"They used the results of your own brain scans, didn't they?" she asked. "Which means that you've been through something unspeakable."
"You can understand why I wouldn't want to talk about that," I said. "And why I'm determined that something like that isn't going to happen to me again, or to anyone else."
"Is that why you have a certain... reputation?"
"Reputation?" I asked. I knew what she was going for, but I was going to make her say it.
"For violence, dear," she said. "It's said that you've murdered at least one troll, and that you have injured several of your classmates. There are people who are questioning why you are even allowed to continue at this school."
"Surely you don't believe that," I said. "Look at me; do I look like I could kill a troll?"
She faltered; it was as though she was seeing me for the first time.
"And besides, if you really believed that I was some kind of psychopath, someone who killed anyone who caused her pain, you doubtlessly wouldn't have your quill writing what's going on that paper over there."
I hadn't even looked at it, but I could see what it was writing, and it wasn't flattering.
"What do you mean, dear?" she asked.
"You aren't afraid of me at all," I said. "Which means you don't believe any of that claptrap you are writing. Is this supposed to be a piece about a new medical technique, or are you just trying to write another piece talking about how dangerous the muggleborn are?"
"It doesn't matter what I believe," she said. "What matters is what the readers will believe."
"I think it would be better if you wrote something a little more balanced," I said. I took a small step toward her.
"Are you threatening me?" she asked, sounding almost delighted.
"Certainly not!" I said, making an effort to sound shocked. "I was just wondering if...certain people had sympathies with enemies of the Ministry. You know who I'm talking about, of course."
For the first time, she looked actually startled.
"What are you talking about?"
"Everyone knows what his agenda is," I said. "And there may come a point where people are going to have to choose sides. If you choose too soon, it might be something you regret."
"I'm not on You-Know-Who's side," she said quickly.
Strangely enough, I believed her.
"Didn't you just say that it didn't matter what the truth is?" I asked. "It's what people perceive it to be. If people think that you are on the side of Vold-"
"Don't say it!" she said.
"Of him, aren't you going to lose half your readers?"
"But people aren't really interested in this," she said, gesturing around us. "They want to know the real scoop, about the dangerous muggleborn."
"If I'm dangerous now, how much more dangerous am I going to be in the future?"
"I deal with dangerous people all the time," she said dismissively. She stood up, seemingly regaining her composure. "So you don't want to talk about being Cruciated. What about the mystery of your background? No one seems to know anything about you?"
"I'm an orphan," I said. "What else is there to know?"
"Oh, why there is no record of your parents being murdered," she said. "And why there are no muggle records of a Hebert family emigrating to Britain over the past year. Where did you come from, and who are you, really? I'm going to publish something, so wouldn't it be better to give us your side of the story?"
I glanced back at Flitwick, and I felt like grimacing. The last thing I needed was for staff members to be asking those questions. If she put them in the papers, I was in deep trouble.