A/N: I'm not dead! YAY. Also, wonder of wonders, I've actually updated this silly thing. To all the absolutely lovely readers who've been waiting ages for this update? I am so incredibly sorry. I got distracted by my other fanfics and real life, so this fell to the side.

To catch you up? Rita Skeeter's writing a series of seven biographies on Head Auror Harry Potter. The public's fanatic, Harry's furious, Ginny's preggers, Hermione's about to murder the publishers, the covers are sentient, and the Weasleys are raging for Dursley blood (alongside a good portion of Magical Britain). Mixed in with Skeeter's lies are more than a few truths, and it's up for debate if the allegations of abuse, love affairs, or Dark Lordship that's going to make the situation explode. As only the first book's been published, there's plenty of scandals left to reveal.


"His dreams that summer weren't of a magical castle or of a man disintegrating under his touch. He dreamed, instead, of a broken promise and a shattered mirror.

As Harry Potter tossed and turned in his small bed in #4 Privet Drive, he found it ridiculous he used to think he knew about hatred. That had been dislike of a cupboard under the stairs. That had been fear of his drunk Uncle. That had been curiosity as to what small animals looked like pulled apart.

But this? This was true hatred. It burned and seeped within him, tumbling over everything in its path. He wanted to crush You Know Who. He wanted to hear the Dark Lord shriek in pain. He yearned to kneel over him, knife at his neck, and ask why he had lied. Except, that would be useless. Because he already knew the answer.

Harry was a good liar. People lapped up the falsehoods he whistled from a cheery smile. He understood lying and he understood manipulation, so what truly kept him up these nights was a pounding in his head. Hissed anger that he'd fallen for the trick. Pure, burning spite that he'd believed for even a moment that he could get his parents back. All for such a little thing as an alliance.

At the start of this nightmare—as Quirrel had crumbled and You Know Who had disappeared—Harry's attention had shifted. He'd walked to the Mirror of Erised, not taking his gaze off his family. Their smiles (usually so happy to see him) had sunk into concern. He'd kept his wand out and aimed at the glass. Aimed directly at his mother's head. She had looked from the wand, to him, and mouthed three words.

Harry had fired every exploding and burning spell he knew. The first few shattered the mirror into pieces, but he kept going, saying enchantment after enchantment in a stiff monotone. When Erised was hardly discernible from Quirrel's ashes, he at last slowed the assault.

For the next few months he had laid awake, struggling to forget the image of his family and cursing the Dark Lord for promising to bring them back. But most of all? He admonished himself for being so stupid as to have 'a heart's desire'.

Harry had thought he'd known better."

—From Chapter 1 of R. Skeeter's The Rise and Fall of Harry J. Potter: The Chamber of Secrets.


The Daily Prophet main office was a study of contradictions. The building had, in the 1990s, been painted a crisp egg-shell white from floor to ceiling. The desks, chairs, and main doors were black. This (as was assumed at the time) was a beautiful representation of ink on paper. Though few thought it would change anytime soon, even fewer imagined that almost all of upper management would be dead or imprisoned by the Second War's end.

Following a rapid recruitment drive to match the new Ministry's and public's views, the Prophet decided that maybe the building ought to go as well. The design, at least. But there remained a need for tradition, so there was a compromise. Entering the brand new millennium the lobby would stay grand, white/black, and majestic in its minimalism. As for the rest? It became a touch chaotic.

To say that the upper floors of the building were now colourful would be a drastic understatement. Resembling Jackson Pollock paintings with splattering colours, people's opinions concerning the design were mixed. Most who first saw the moving splotches and spirals of paint (over the walls, ceilings, desks, quills, and anybody who stood still long enough) were impressed. This feeling rapidly disappeared when one had to work there day in and out. Because of this, many reporters took to working in the lobby just to 'catch their breath' from the dizzying colours in their actual offices.

Yet today, there was a different reason the lobby was overflowing with reporters. Few were writing, most were whispering, and all were staring at the door (cameras pointed and ready). A rumour had rushed from Diagon Alley not half an hour ago that a wayward coworker of theirs had been spotted out and about. In nary more than a minute, ¾ of the Prophet had apparated to the Ministry Atrium. The other fourth had swept downstairs as quick as their high heels could go.

Aside from the clamouring reporters, the Prophet's lobby was rather nice. Painted in shifting hues of off-white, it was arranged around a stately ebony desk that rocketed out of the centre. The receptionist (a woman even more unflappable than St. Mungo's Welcome Witch) was rather unimpressed at her company this morning. But not a hair in her updo was out of place. Even when a boiling redhead bolted through the front doors to her (glaring at the surging reporters and snapping cameras as she went), only a single eyebrow was raised. She flicked a wand, creating a small barrier around her desk to keep out the sudden surge in noise. The new witch burst through in a huff.

"Your messages have been rerouted," Head Receptionist Daisy Dunbar intoned before the irritated new arrival could speak. Her violet fingernails were twirled in an almost apologetic shrug. "They're in Bay C. The really, really large storage vault, in case you've forgotten. Filled it right up!"

"Rivers," Ginny dismissed the statement, scowl prominent. "Now."

"In a meeting," Daisy countered, matching the tone. Both ignored the reporters and cameramen scrambling for quotes and pictures. Picking up a letter she held it out. "She guessed you'd be by in a huff, so left this. Summary? The Zacharias Smith matter is being retracted and an apology will be in the next issue. Unrelated, but she's also offering a generous advance for an exclusive with your husband."

Ginny's lips twitched as though biting back a hex. She took the letter, not opening it. "Not happening. Rivers thinks she can publish those lies and Harry will actually agree to an interview?"

"A very generous advance."

"Does it look like I care!" Ginny exclaimed before catching herself. The reporters were still staring; though they couldn't hear anything, the raised tone was clear. "Daisy, honestly. How big is this going to be?"

The other eyebrow went up. Daisy gave a surveying glance at the craning crowds before sending Ginny a, 'how-thick-are-you-to-be-missing-this' look.

"Right." Ginny fidgeted, not looking around. "Couldn't you have told me I'm overreacting?"

"Like you'd appreciate that. This is making Lynch's drunken referee tackle look positively sane, and that debacle killed his career," Daisy's voice was matter-of-fact. But her expression did soften. "Psychopathic, really?"

"Don't know what Skeeter was smoking." Ginny pushed the letter into her purse, groaning as she thought about having to wade through the hollering crowd to her office. "There's no meeting, is there. Rivers is working from home today?"

"All week. Your fiery and violent reputation precedes you," she paused. "Good job, though. She's terrified without you having to say a thing."

"Oh joy." Ginny reluctantly turned from the desk to the stairs. "Wish me luck?"

"You'll need more than luck, Potter."

"Cheers."


Things were hardly better at the Ministry. The reporters had more-or-less been corralled in the Atrium, but there were plenty of curious employees. Seeing as Magical Law Enforcement was made up of people whose job it was to go sniffing for a story, it wasn't any surprise that the Head Auror was hesitant to properly return to work. Especially as he'd announced a meeting so that he could clear the air with his coworkers concerning the recent gossip…a decision he was already regretting. Indeed, it took a persistent Senior Auror (and potentially ex best mate) to shove him into the department.

Even with that, Harry came to an abrupt stop in front of Auror Headquarters. Ron collided into him with a swear. But the latter stopped once he realised his friend remained halted.

"Harry?" Ron glanced from Harry to the door he was staring at. The problem was clear. Seeing as the older wizard was tired of dragging a reluctant 'Wizarding Saviour' around the Ministry, he fell back to persuasion. "Hey look, nobody cares. At least not here. We all already know you're barmy, we didn't need Skeeter's book to tell us that!"

Harry frowned. "They all think the book's nonsense?"

Ron hesitated, not able to claim that. "They know you," he answered instead, squeezing his shoulder. "Come on, there've been other biographies. Bad press usually rolls off you."

"Even you were questioning me," Harry replied, shrugging him off morosely. "Of course the other Aurors will."

"I was only questioning you about the Dursleys…okay, maybe also 'bout your sexuality, but…look!" Ron gave a miffed groan. "Anyone with half a brain knows you're not deranged or evil. Or taught Unforgivables, or whatever else Skeeter's claiming. At most, the department will gossip about your relatives. But guess what? This place is overflowing with bad childhoods. You're practically normal, congrats."

Harry made an annoyed face, spinning to look at him properly. "I wasn't abus—"

"Fine!" Ron tossed his hands up, sick of arguing about this. "That wasn't my point. Friendly reminder? A huge reason people get into law enforcement is because they had rubbish childhoods and don't want it to happen to others. Know what that means? Aurors aren't likely to gossip about whatever the Dursleys might or might not have done. How thick can you get? It won't be nearly as bad as you're imagining."

The Head Auror was silent for a moment. He let out a low exhale. "Thanks mate. Think I needed that."

"Anytime." Ron stepped forward, sending him a questioning glance. "You ready to stop brooding and staring at the door?"

"I like the design on the wood, actually, so—"

"Git." Ron took the sarcastic jab as proof that Harry was feeling better. Grabbing his friend's arm, he pulled his protesting form through the entrance.


It had been meant to be a meeting of all Senior Aurors and above. But that was before the rest of the Aurors, Junior Aurors, and secretaries crammed the door and windows to Harry's office with 'discreet' Extendable Ears and listening spells. Seeing the writing on the wall, the Head Auror had reluctantly moved it to the main conference room and expanded it to all Auror personnel.

As secrets didn't last long in the MLE, at the start of this meeting it was the hit-wizards' turn to blatantly eavesdrop. Gritting his teeth, Harry had put up every silencing and privacy charm under the sun (hoping that the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes products mixed with the hit-wizards' ingenuity wasn't yet at a level to break them). Only then did he reluctantly turn to his expectant audience: many sitting two to a seat, sitting on the wide table, or crammed around the wall and peering at him. There were too many people there to only be the Aurors. He'd felt like this before, but only when he'd faced a roaring Hungarian Horntail and a stadium filled with screaming students.

Ron muffled a laugh behind him, the sound jarring in the overpacked yet deathly silent room. Harry decided this was as good as it was going to get.

"As many of you know…" Harry stopped at the futility of this. He sighed and restarted. "Alright, hands up. Who's read the blasted thing?"

The room became a sea of hands. Some were nervously raised, others were waving enthusiastically. A select few were waving the biography itself, nearly hitting their neighbours. Ron choked on another laugh.

"Of course you have." Harry wished he was surprised, resisting the urge to put a silencing charm on his best mate. "I'm sure you have questions, plenty of them. I could just ignore them, but I want to get back to some peace and quiet. So, to sum up what are surely the main questions? Most of the book's rubbish, I'm not a psychopath, I'm straight, I never teamed up with Voldemort, and I'm not signing anything. Also, no, I'm not sure I can stop Skeeter from publishing the rest. As she says it's an unofficial biography 'based off of the truth', it's difficult to make a case for libel. Bloody idiotic excuse for privacy laws, if you ask me. Could take a leaf from muggle legislature," he muttered the last bit more to himself than to the audience, only getting back on track when Ron prodded him.

"Err, right. As for the content: like I said, it's nonsense," he dismissed with a confidence he didn't feel. "But hey, if you think I'm an psychopath who kills bunnies for fun? I'm taking job applications for henchmen and minions."

This elicited soft laughter and not a few snorts. Worryingly, some of the Junior Aurors eyed him with interest. Harry didn't dare look back at Ron, as he was sure the prat was miming encouragement.

He took on a more serious tone, partly because he was already regretting the joke. "I know there have been accusations against me. For the most current and atrocious one, I want to assure you that neither I nor the Director of MLE have ever taught anyone the Unforgivables—let alone teenagers! There are some in the force who were in the DA, the group in question. If you're uncertain about my honesty, I'd talk to them."

"It's true," Senior Auror Lisa Turpin spoke up, nodding at some other former members as she did so. "This was a DADA group, a way to study for exams as well as to prepare for what might come. Harry taught us spells like the disarming and Patronus charms, but never anything dark. Certainly none of the Unforgivables."

"Thanks." Harry nodded at her in appreciation, turning back to the group at large. "As for the other rumours, I could go on for ages disclaiming everything. But you lot know me and I don't see the point in wasting more time on this. The main reason I called this meeting, actually, was to apologise if this gets in the way of any cases—particularly with reporters trying their best to overrun the building. And…well, I suppose that's about it. Come on, get out! We still have jobs to do. At least try to leave in an orderly fashion, and do me a favour and tell the listening hit-wizards outside to piss off."

Most people were chuckling and getting out of their seats (before trying to climb out of the room). But there was a significant number who remained seated and were whispering to themselves. A disgruntled Harry saw that he was physically stuck until they got moving and cleared the area.

"What?" Harry asked with a note of impatience, cutting off the waves of whispers. There was an awkward silence.

"Um," there came a man's voice, face hidden in the crowd, "what about your relatives?"

"If you mean the vigilantes going after my relatives," Harry said drily, seeing Ron's nervous look in the corner of his eye, "a group is looking into it and heightened security has been arranged. It's an ongoing case and a personal matter, so I'm not commenting."

Another uncertain pause.

Next was a woman's voice—she'd already ducked beneath the table to hide her face. "He meant your childhood! Err, sir."

Harry heard Ron's sharp intake of breath behind him. He didn't know why: the question was unwelcome but far from surprising. "Frankly? It's none of your damn business. This meeting's over." But looking at the staring Aurors, it became clear he wasn't going to be able to exit without sending off hexes. He took a deep, calming breath. "I haven't spoken to my Aunt and Uncle in years and the estrangement is wonderful. Mutual dislike, I call it. Skeeter got at least that much correct."

"But what about the cupboard—"

"OI! That's enough," came Ron's irritated voice, his hand on Harry's tense shoulder. "Shove off, all of you. Don't you have jobs to get to? Harry didn't have to say any of this, yet you're still badgering him! The biography's nonsense and Skeeter's full of it, that's all there is to know. OUT!"

Harry fidgeted with his fringe as the chagrined people filtered out of the room (with more than a few curious looks back), feeling uncomfortable and exposed.

"Ruddy prats," Ron was scowling; the people unfortunate enough to make eye contact with him quickly looked away, "questioning you like that. You obviously don't want to talk about it! What're they on?"

"Funny," a bit of Harry's dry humour returned to him, "that's exactly what you lot have been questioning me on lately."

"We're your family, it's different," Ron dismissed, still glaring at the slow movement out of the room. His hold on his friend's shoulder tightened. "We're concerned. They want the latest gossip. This'll get leaked to the reporters, just you watch—blasted vultures."

"Uh huh." Harry watched the receding tide. "Ron, thanks for that."

"No problem, mate."


Ginny was having a horrid day. With all the articles, Harry and she had reluctantly decided to reenter the world. That had begun with her dropping the kids off at her mum's, as her husband was still avoiding his in-laws like the plague.

"Scaredy cat," Ginny mumbled to herself at the memory, staunchly not glancing at the usually noisy (yet now notoriously silent) offices and mad paint around her. "Leaving me to fare with mum's sobs and dad's 'understanding looks'. Git."

Still, plucking up the courage to face her parents' well-meaning concern was nothing compared to facing a return from her short vacation. Not for the first or last time, she wondered what had possessed her to join the Daily Prophet. There wasn't even a decent insider benefit, as all her protests about the Smith article had gotten her vague simpers and no answers.

Ginny's quill snapped in half. Giving a small curse (having not noticed she'd been holding it in a death grip), she tossed the remains in the bin. Reaching for another quill, she paused. Taking a sour glance around her at peeping heads and a low thrum of whispers from other reporters, she picked up a sturdier biro instead. It at least had a chance at surviving her temper. She couldn't say as much for her coworkers. She knew it would be bad, of course. But she hadn't expected the staring to be even worse than when she'd first started working here.

"Dearieee!" Linda gleefully skirted over, interrupting Ginny's return to her article before it'd begun. "Oh dearie, how are you holding up?"

Ginny reluctantly turned to the woman (a fashion editor who lived in pinstripes. On a less gossip-filled day the witch would surely click her tongue at the redhead's 'vintage bohemian' maxi dress, "Which really, Ginevra, isn't flattering in the least. Merely emphasises your lacking curves!"). "I'm peachy. A bit pissed off at the Falcon's win yesterday. You?"

Linda stared. "Pardon?"

"Quidditch," Ginny replied with a forced grin, tapping a finger against her not-started article. "Other than that, a relaxing and boring weekend with the family. Same old same old."

The braided brunette's eyes widened in pity. "You poor thing, trying to be strong. So you know, I have the number of a fantastic attorney from Albert's—"

"If you're referring to a certain rubbish biography," she gave up her stab at cheeriness, "I appreciate the thought. But the Ministry's lawyers are all over it."

"Oh! No, not that at all," Linda simpered. She moved forward, voice 'lowering' into a stage whisper that easily carried. "Albert. My ex-husband. My divorce attorney got me the most splendid alimony, you wouldn't imagine."

Ginny let out a low breath. So far today she'd mainly heard pity and gossipmongers, but no one had been so brash. "To be clear, you're suggesting I need a divorce attorney?"

"Of course!" she replied, not missing a beat. "With what Rita's revealed about that awful man, your case would be open and shut. I assure you: even with a horrid husband, his fortune can be a fantastic silver lining."

"You're suggesting," Ginny tried to keep ahold of her mounting anger (because her blowing up at a clueless woman in Prophet HQ was the last thing she needed), "that I divorce Harry because of a tabloid reporter's ridiculous claims. I should then try and steal his money? What, and keep the kids from him?"

Linda's pitying stare twitched uncertainly. Her voice truly lowered. "Dearie, I know it's hard to get out of this sort of relationship. But Potter is mentally deranged and violent—"

"The only reason I haven't hexed you," Ginny snipped at the woman as she decided to hell with caution, "is because you might be sincere and are genuinely worried about me. So I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you're a complete idiot! Harry is the love of my life, my best friend, and is a wonderful husband and father. Skeeter's spreading horrific lies about him, which this ungrateful country is somehow believing! But if you ever, ever say anything like this to me again, I won't be so nice."


If Harry had thought he'd manage to get any work done, he was sadly mistaken. The department meeting seemed to have done little good, as barely a minute passed between Aurors 'nonchalantly' walking past his office and 'subtly' taking a peak through the window. Then there was the ten people who'd asked him to sign the biography. Or the secretary who'd backed away from him with fear-filled eyes. Or the three reporters who'd snuck in through his window.

Harry was fairly proud of his restraint. In fact, his patience lasted a complete hour. Even after that, he was able to stop himself from declaring duels or outright firing half of the Aurors. He'd been incredibly fair, he felt, in only hexing the reporters' brooms and blasting their cameras. It was only natural, he thought, to prowl around Auror HQ and confiscate every one of the dratted books he came across.

Which was how he found himself back in his office: door locked, windows blacked out, and fifty copies of The Sorcerer's Stone on his desk (some of the Aurors had been hoarding them—he hadn't bothered to ask). His first reaction had been to burn the things. But he stopped just in time, remembering the scene a few days ago.

Sighing, Harry strode towards his desk. Ignoring the typical mess of paper, scrolls, and quills, he eyed the toppled-over piles of biographies. The covers stared back at him, half of them sheepishly, the other half waving frantically.

"Blasted photos," Harry grumbled, picking up a book and neatly snipping off the grateful cover. "You do realise you aren't sentient, yeah?"

In response, he got a lot of shrugs and a lot of rude hand gestures from the photos. Of himself. Not for the first time, he reevaluated a few life choices.

"Right. 'spect that'd be my answer too." Tossing aside the first book and laying the cover on the desk, Harry started on the next one. "But no, seriously, you're just photos. Sorry for the existential crisis."

As a whole, the photos didn't seem too bothered. They were rather more relieved that they weren't about to be destroyed.

"How messed up is this?" Harry sat on the desk, systematically cutting off the covers and talking to himself (or to them—he wasn't certain and didn't want to dwell on it). "I finally have an overbearing family, only to have this happen. Careful what I wish for, I guess. Still, they're the least of my worries! You should've seen everyone today. Whoever wasn't backing away in fear was screeching and taking photos. Not envious of Ginny right now, stuck in the lion's den. Bloody reporters." The next swipe was a particularly vicious one.

The photos all nodded in agreement. Though sympathetic, they were relieved they didn't have to deal with it.

"Blasted libel laws. Blasted biography," Harry scoffed, half-way done with tearing off the covers. "Blasted Skeeter and whoever her informant is! You know how many court cases this is going to be? Never mind about the bug and the publishers—people are after the Dursleys. Can you believe this? Of the public that doesn't think I should be tossed in Azkaban, they're forming a hate group against my relatives! Not like there's any love lost between us, but Christ.

"Then Smith. Smith! Saying I was teaching Unforgivables. Worst bit is I'm not shocked so many believe him," Harry let out a self-deprecating laugh. "I'm always the hero or villain, because Merlin forbid I be a normal person. Oh no, course not! Can't have the Prophet saying that. There always has to be some scandal. If I'm not being dosed with love potions by Ginny, I'm mad as a hatter! Obviously!"

The covers were now ignored (apart from the systematic cutting of the books). The photos themselves were exchanging nervous glances.

Harry, having finished tearing off the covers, turned to the main books. He found it therapeutic to rip into the pages and toss them to the floor. He thought a bonfire would feel even better. "This is only the first book, too. Hermione says she'll be able to stop the publications, but I doubt even she believes that. Free speech, yeah? Great, absolutely fantastic. One little disclaimer that it's an 'unofficial' biography and Skeeter can get away with any…blasted…thing!" The final words were emphasised by ragged cuts, ruining the binding and making the pages splay to the ground. He, unconcerned, grabbed another copy. The covers looked on with growing worry. Their silent mouthing and hand gestures weren't noticed.

"My first year at Hogwarts? That was nothing!" Harry growled. "The Dursley stuff continued for years, and aside from that the 'adventures' back then were tame. Imagine what Skeeter will make of the Chamber of Secrets! Never mind the Heir of Slytherin nonsense, what if her source knew about Ginny's involvement? Or us making the polyjuice potion? What about the dementors. There's no way Skeeter could know my worst memory, I barely told anyone. But she…she knew about the Mirror of Erised. How did she know that?"

"Then Sirius. What'll she make of that? Or Cedric's death and Voldemort coming back? But all of that isn't the worrying bit." Dropping the book he rested his head down on his hands, breathing in slowly. "Could she know about the horcruxes? About my scar? Am I imagining that she's already hinting that Voldemort and I were connected?"

"What about the Deathly Hallows? It…that can't end well. If people find out I'm the 'Master of Death' and used to have Voldemort in my head, they won't listen when I say it means nothing. That it's just a title and a myth." He'd squeezed his eyes shut, breathing ragged. "Forget about whether or not Skeeter gets to the seventh book. If she knows about this, she's smart enough to know blackmail when she sees it."

"On top of all that, I have fifty useless pictures of myself!" Harry sent a dark look at said photos. All of whom sheepishly exchanged glances. "Like this could get any stranger."

Still, there was one bright point. Although it wasn't quite allowed by the Ministry, Harry found that it was rather easy to contain a bonfire set off in the middle of his office. As he and the covers watched fifty books go up in smoke, he couldn't help but feel his mood lighten.

He also made a mental note to never, ever tell Hermione that he had burned the books. Horrid biographies or no, she'd crucify him.

Harry, watching the flicking embers, found that lighting the things ablaze had made him feel much better. His office lit by the curling pages, he thought he really ought to give another stab at actually doing his job.

Three report summaries and four Junior Auror evaluations later, the fire had burnt out and Harry was once again repressing a twitch. Because the photos were staring at him. They didn't mean to be rude (glancing away whenever the scowling wizard made eye contact), but with so many of them there were always at least a handful scrutinising their real self.

"That's it!" Harry cried out when he'd looked up from a robbery analysis to find near half the photos blinking at him and another dozen silently wolf whistling a preening poster of Ginny on the wall (who was gladly making a 'come-hither' pose, about ready to start peeling off her Harpy's uniform). The real wizard glared at the photos, made an exasperated face at the poster (who shrugged and blew a kiss). "I can't concentrate with you here!"

Drawing his wand and sweeping the protesting covers into conjured boxes he stormed off to the floo, pulling the containers behind him (ignoring the looks he garnered). With a dash of floo powder and a hurried shout, he was soon stepping back into his house.

Boxes were deposited on the kitchen table. Ready to immediately turn around and head back to the Ministry, Harry spotted his own copy of the biography where it sat on the counter. Staring at it for a long moment, he nodded and grabbed it, heading back into the living room. The coverless book was flung into the fireplace. Harry leisurely waited and watched as the pages curled and turned into ashes. It was only when the book had disintegrated into a molten mass that he once again picked up the floo powder.


When Harry returned to his office, it was only to find Hermione waiting at the door. Recognising the determined look in her eyes (and knowing the 'heinous crimes' he'd just committed), he tried to race off—only to be stopped by a death grip on the back of his robes. She summarily dragged the protesting wizard into his own office, sensing his guilt a mile off.

But once the door was slammed Hermione had paused, releasing Harry. She made an odd face, sniffing. "Is something burning?"

"Backfired product of George's," Harry supplied, having come up with an excuse. He gestured at the burn mark on the carpet. "Nasty prototype, s'all good. What are you here for?"

Hermione stared at the blackened floor before shaking her head, looking back up. "Our plan for dealing with Skeeter."

"Deny, sue for libel, deny, and deny?" Harry answered warily, making his way to his chair. He was relieved she wasn't looking into the large burn mark, but he wasn't happy at the changed topic.

"Which we need details for." Hermione also took a seat, crossing her legs and pulling out a massive piece of parchment and biro. "We've waited too late to get in front of this story, but we can refute it. That is, if we know exactly what we're refuting."

"Or, and here's a thought. We could stop the books and sue Skeeter," he repeated.

"I've tried. Still trying, but her publisher's lawyers are bloodthirsty," her tone peaked with annoyance. "As we're losing the PR battle, if it's all the same to you I'd like to focus on that."

"Alright, alright." Harry's wariness had hardly disappeared.

"I'll try to keep this short. Ron and I were able to correct most of the things about our first year at Hogwarts, so we can skip the public events and…"

"Move onto the personal questions," Harry said as dispassionately as he could. Even to his ears it sounded fake.

"Well, yes," the brunette said apologetically. "I really am sorry, but if we're going to protest we need to know how much Skeeter made up. Since we're still trying to discover how she got this information, everything is more complicated."

"I know. It's not like I want Skeeter's lies out there." Harry adjusted his glasses, wondering why he was squirming in his own office. He took a glance around to try and calm his nerves, and met Poster Ginny's sympathetic wave from her broom. "Let's get this over with."

"Right," said Hermione, lifting her quill. "Easy one to start with. Sorry for the personal question, but your sexual orientation—"

"I'm straight," Harry answered at once, tired of needing to repeat this. Poster Ginny's sympathy had turned into a snorted laugh. He sent her a quick glare, to which she cheekily grinned back. "Never been with a bloke. Not Malfoy, not Ron, not anyone." He eyed Hermione's expression, eyes narrowing. "Your idiot husband put you up to asking that one, didn't he?"

Hermione smiled sheepishly, not replying. "Next question. With the Durs—"

"Not talking about them," Harry interrupted. She sent him a peeved glance. "It's not a big deal, they weren't that bad. Say it's all lies and be done with it. They're my estranged family and that's all anyone needs to know. Including you lot!"

Hermione pursed her lips. "Fine, be stubborn. We can always came back to it. Do you know anything about how Dumbledore left you at your relatives?"

"No, course not," Harry said. "Though I doubt he left me on the doorstep with only a note. Of all the ridiculous…if you must, ask Hagrid or McGonagall about that one. Or question Dumbledore's portrait."

She seemed unimpressed at his non-answers so jumped forward a bit. Perhaps to put him off-balance. "What did you see in the Mirror of Erised?"

Harry sent her a look at the question. But he sighed and truly answered. "My parents, like Skeeter wrote. But she was only partly right. Though I got a bit obsessed with the thing, I didn't go mental. It didn't start some mad need to bring them back from the dead, or whatever nonsense she claimed. Dumbledore didn't have to pull me from the room and lock me out. He confronted me on the third night, told me that it 'did not do to dwell on dreams', and I never snuck back to the room. I also highly doubt he was spying on me or planted the mirror for me to find. My guess is that the first night I was there, Christmas, he was 'visiting his family' as well."

Hermione nodded, jotting down notes. "I've already corrected the troll and dragon events, so we can skip those. Don't ask me how the bug fit a chimera into that already convoluted mess, or why she added so many casualties! Sally-Anne Perks, Fay Dunbar…mmph. Like Dumbledore could have swept students' deaths under the rug. Also, doesn't she realise how big Hogwarts' dungeons are? Even if the troll was near the Slytherin Common Room the students would have been redirected to another passage," she tsked. "Let's move on before my headache worsens. You did see Quirrel/Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest drinking unicorn blood, yes?" Harry nodded. "But the centaurs didn't attack you, because you never tried to—ahem—'mate with their fowl'?" Another nod, plus two pairs of rolled eyes. "Was there anything wrong with Skeeter's portrayal of your confrontation with Voldemort at the end of the year?"

Harry snorted, some humour seeping through. "Hah, that was a joke. After we separated I entered a room with Quirrel and the Mirror of Erised in it. No crouched Hungarian Horntails anywhere in sight."

"So no flaming dragon-breath you had to valiantly avoid?" Hermione said good-naturedly. "You ruin the best stories."

"Shush," he tutted, smiling as well. "Quirrel's speech and the revealing of Voldemort under the turban was roughly accurate, though wrong in the details. I still can't believe that bug decided there was a 'risqué affair' going on between them! It's hilarious, but completely mental. Still, to be fair, Skeeter did have a grain of truth in one thing. Voldemort did ask me to turn to the dark side."

The quill stilled.

"Pardon?" Hermione clarified.

"I told him no, obviously," Harry said. "Even aside from being a Dark Lord, did he really expect me to join my parents' murderer? Apparently Skeeter thought so. Anyway, Voldemort wasn't pleased by my refusal and tied me up. With regular ropes, not snakes. So they didn't try to strangle me and I didn't have a lovely chat with them, thus revealing my 'secretly sinister Slytherin side' in the process," he grumbled the last. "Skeeter's too fond of alliteration."

"That reminds me," Hermione tapped her finger. "The snakes, I mean. Did you ever use your Parseltongue ability in everyday life?"

"Not really. Have to admit, Skeeter had an interesting idea there." Harry shrugged. "Not that I think I should have gone evil, but I'm almost sorry I didn't think to use snakes as my spies or personal army. Or to freak people out by randomly hissing," he stifled a laugh. "Imagine if I'd actually shouted out Parseltongue curse words in the middle of Transfiguration!"

"Minerva would have turned you into a honeybadger and given you to the Hufflepuffs as their mascot." Hermione was looking over her notes. "At least Skeeter didn't mention you were almost Sorted into Slytherin."

"Thank Merlin for small mercies," Harry said. "With linking Voldemort and me, there will be enough cries of 'Dark Lord Potter' as is."

"Which is why we're clearing this up," said Hermione. "We don't want Wizarding Britain to think the Head Auror sympathises with dark wizards."

"Or that I am one. Stupid blighters," Harry muttered.

"Focus," Hermione shifted them back on topic. "On the philosopher's stone. I've already corrected the spelling of that, by the by. Heaven knows why Skeeter thought it was named sorcerer's stone."

"Obsessed with alliteration, I'm telling you. Anyway," Harry ran his free hand through his hair, "let's see. No, I'm not Medusa, and Quirrel didn't turn into stone by looking at me. None of my 'secret powers' were unlocked during this confrontation. Which reminds me: I've never had any blocks on my magic and I'm not a minor metamorphmagus. My hair just has a mind of its own. Weird quirk, that's it." He paused. "I have to admit, the reality with Voldemort and the stone was almost as odd as what she claimed. When I grabbed Quirrel's skin he…well, he crumbled. It hurt me too. My scar felt like it was bursting out of my head."

"This was your mother's protection?" Hermione asked, quill whipping across the parchment. "Most definitely not from a goblin's pendant, your 'secret phoenix animagus form', or whatever other theories Skeeter droned on about?"

"Yep. Then everything went black. Next thing I knew, it was three days later and Dumbledore was waking me up in the Hospital Wing." Harry remembered something and his eyes went hard. "No, how could I forget? Yes, I was bloody well sad about Quirrel's death. He was an evil git, but I killed him and felt wretched afterwards. What Skeeter said about my lack of reaction was made up nonsense. It didn't sink in instantly, but I was eleven! Of course I was remorseful. I didn't want to believe that by touching him I'd—" he shook his head, trying to clear it. "Even with everything else, I can't believe she wrote that."

"No one believes her rubbish," Hermione said quietly, her quill having paused. "No one who matters, that is. We know it isn't true."

Harry pursed his mouth, not taking much from her words. "I shouldn't let this get to me. But it's not every day you're called a psychopath," he took a weighty exhale. "I know it doesn't matter. I'm not that bothered, I swear. Compared to the Dark Lord rumours this is nothing. It just…it caught me by surprise."

"Don't be ridiculous. It matters and it's perfectly natural for you to be hurt!" Hermione neatly retorted, albeit gently. She seemed a moment from jumping over the table and pulling him into a bone-crushing hug. "But you did nothing wrong: the exact opposite, in fact. Don't let Skeeter get under your skin. That's exactly what she wants!"

Harry wasn't wholly convinced.

"Really, don't be so thick," Hermione said. "You're an incredible person. Anyone who thinks you're a psychopath isn't worth your time! You wear your heart on your sleeve, for heaven's sake. Stop brooding or I'll force you out of it."

"Yeah. Yeah, sure," Harry cleared his sticky throat. "What's next?"

"We could stop early—"

"What's next?" he repeated, giving her an appeasing look. Though she hesitated she eventually gave in.

"That's first year mainly finished," Hermione relented. In response to Harry's incredulity she smiled. "It really is that short. Ron and I have already put in all the details we knew—mainly denying any affairs, murdered pets, missing people, and your attempts to create a student army—so there were only ever a few things I needed to ask you. Most of what's left is more curiosities than anything." When she looked up at Harry, academic fascination lit her eyes. "Could you really not tell Parseltongue apart from English? If that's the case, did all snakes sound the same? Did they have different personalities?"

"Every snake sounded different: with dialect, accent, whatever you call it. They also had unique personas…which has some weird implications about animals being intelligent? Huh, never thought about that. Anyway, as for the first question?" Harry half shrugged. "Back then I thought I couldn't hear a difference between Parseltongue and English. But since the horcrux has gone I've realised I was hearing the ordinary hissing in the background of understandable words. Still find it unsettling."

"That brings up another point," Hermione tapped the paper. "Do you have any latent Parseltongue abilities?"

Harry smiled wirily. "I haven't exactly experimented, but no. I might be able to make out one or two words from the hissing, but that's a stretch. I'm only even suggesting it because Ron managed to pick up a few words."

"Hmm, alright. Last question." She placed the quill down and met his gaze. "Have you seen Molly and Arthur yet?"

Harry froze. "That's, that's not a question."

"Of course it is. Just not about the book." Hermione leaned forward, mouth a small frown. "I'm not saying you go around to everyone. But they're worried about you and they know you're avoiding them."

Harry ran a hand through his hair. "I'll send Ginny an owl," he said before he could stop himself. "She dropped the kids off at the Burrow this morning. I'll, I can pick them up this evening."

Hermione's bright smile wasn't enough to dissolve his instant regret at this decision.


Molly was knitting.

Harry dawdled in the doorway out of her sight. Craning his head back at the hallway, he saw Arthur giving into a fit of laughter. He supposed he should be glad at least one of his in-laws was being…well, reasonable. The Weasley patriarch's reaction had been incredibly similar to Ginny's and had taken Harry's assurance that Skeeter flat-out lied at face value. Never had he been more appreciative of his accepting father-in-law.

Still, Harry was touched that Arthur had pulled him into a hug and made him swear that—if he needed help or a listening ear—he would floo straight to the Burrow (no ifs, ands, or buts about it).

As much of a relief as that had been, Harry was well aware that the toughest part was still ahead. Turning away from Arthur's chuckling, he drew in a deep breath and all of his Gryffindor courage. Stepping into the living room he soundlessly shut the door behind him. About to take a few more steps forward, he hesitated, having spotted something very ominous. Molly was knitting, yes. But the needles were winding the crimson scarf by themselves. They were also out of yarn. The woman hadn't noticed this, her full attention being on the book lying open on her lap.

Harry gave a small inhale, steeling his nerves. He had no doubt about what his mother-in-law was reading. The tear marks on her cheeks were evidence enough of that.

"It's all rubbish," Harry hadn't realised he'd spoken until he'd heard his own voice. Molly stilled, her finger frozen mid-page turn. He stood awkwardly, not in the doorway but not moving forward. "Please don't cry, I swear it's not the truth."

He wasn't sure how to go about this, having been convinced he'd be strangled into a bear-hug the moment he entered the Burrow. He shuffled towards her, sentences he was suddenly longing to say churning up from his throat.

"I wasn't abused, it didn't happen!" Harry knew his words were frantic, but was as powerless in altering its tone as he was to stop the outburst. Or to force his legs to stop moving towards the woman who was all but his mother. "I read the book and I know what Skeeter claimed. But I'm…it's not…Molly, it's not true. I'm not hiding things from any of you. I'm not messed up, at least not like that, and I'm not a sociopath!" The rush of words had turned to desperation. He hadn't realised how much he needed her to believe this. Now next to her, he could clearly see the tears on her face. "Mum, I promise! Nothing was that bad and I—"

His rambling was cut off by a warm embrace. His mind went blissfully blank, relief and love rushing through him.

"You silly boy," Molly tutted. Harry didn't say a word, too busy returning the strangling hug. He had no idea how long they stayed like this, but was keenly grateful for every wonderful moment. At last, she pulled away enough to look at him, lips pursed in concern. Her hands cupped his chin as she looked up at his taller frame. "What do you mean, 'sociopathic'? You think I'd believe that horrible nonsense?"

"I," Harry wasn't sure whether to be relieved at her reaction or embarrassed that a part of him had been worried. He settled for both, "with what Skeeter wrote…"

"I want to make two things clear," her voice was just as soft, but now held a steely determination that barred all argument. Her hands didn't move. "Firstly, no matter what happened, we all love you. I love you, and nothing under the sun is going to change that. Secondly? All of us know the book is rubbish."

He gave a hollow laugh, pulling back a bit more and letting her fingers fall from his face. He hurriedly swiped at his eyes. "Hah, sure. While questioning me about my childhood and dragging the Dursleys into this?"

"It's because we're concerned. Young man, look at me! We're concerned because parts of the text fill in answers to questions we've had for years. These answers aren't what we'd hoped to hear." Molly swept a searching gaze over his features. "Of course it's exaggerated, but even if a fraction of it is true?"

"It's not."

"You told the others that it was," there was a hitch in her voice that he'd rarely heard. "The cupboard? The snake at the zoo? Don't shake your head! But that's not the point. Don't think for a single moment that we believe you're like what Skeeter portrayed. The nerve of that woman! Horrible, just horrible. It's incredible that you climbed up from a dreadful situation to become the wonderful man you are today!"

Harry cleared his throat. He didn't dwell on why this was making him feel so much better. "I, I appreciate that. But really, my childhood wasn't that bad. It's all taken out of context."

Molly's stare verged on annoyance. "One thing I won't accept from any of my children is blind denial. You're Head Auror! Surely you've been trained on different forms of abuse?"

"Yes, of course. But I—"

"On how emotional and verbal attacks can be as scarring as physical ones?" her tone and gaze were becoming even tighter.

"I mean, sure. But that's—"

"Or how stuffing a child in a cupboard and calling it a 'bedroom' is physical vio—"

"I wasn't abused!" Harry burst out. Wrenching his eyes shut he took a few deep breaths. "Yes, I know all of that, and anyone who hurts a child should be tossed in gaol. But for me it was neglect! It's, it's different. Alright?"

"You mean it's different if the child isn't you. Oh no, don't even protest! That's exactly what you mean." Molly left her son-in-law grasping for words. "Let's say you were on a case where a little girl was only given scraps of food by her parents. Locked in a closet most of the time, whenever she was let out she was given dangerous chores far beyond her age. Even if her guardians never raised a hand to her, they bombarded her with screamed 'empty' threats and insults. Would you call that abuse?"

"That's…that's not what…"

"Would you?"

"Fine, yes! Of course I would. But that's completely beside the point!"

The argument was interrupted by a silver otter bursting through the wall. The Patronus was more jittery than normal, skittering around the apprehensive wizard before it opened its mouth:

"Just heard news from the American publishers," came Hermione's apologetic tone as Harry and Molly listened in. "Now Harry, don't get angry! Skeeter's announced that she's releasing the second biography at midnight. I thought I'd be able to stop it through libel laws, but I'd assumed they'd at least wait a month between the releases."

Harry felt a pit drop in his stomach. He wasn't aware that Molly was looking at him with worry, or that Arthur had stepped in when he'd heard the Patronus.

"There's, there's another thing," Hermione was even more hesitant, as though she was walking on egg shells. "The publishers, they're smart Harry. They knew we'd need time to counteract them. I also assume they guessed I'd try suing them for copyright infringement or the like, because they're doing something unprecedented. They're giving away this book for free. Since they aren't making a direct profit, I'm not sure we can touch them for this one. Even though it's an obvious attempt to drum up publicity! I haven't gotten my hands on it yet but it's—that is—they're calling it 'The Chamber of Secrets'."

The living room had become deathly silent.

"I don't know if you're with Ginny, but I'll send her a message as soon as I'm done with this. Harry, I'm so sorry. We'll get them, I promise."

The otter nibbled affectionately at Harry's frozen hand before skittering off again out of the wall. The three humans remained still, as though they'd been petrified.


A/N: About the psychopath thing. A problem I've always had with the books was Harry's relative lack of emotions or sensations, which I always cued up to an epic problem of repression. Lady Khali in her fic 'Shattered Fairy Tale' had a different and brilliant take on this: basically that Harry had Attachment Disorder and had always shown a lack of remorse. I sorta love this theory more than anything, but in keeping to canon I went in the completely opposite direction. A direction which has Harry being a normal, basically well-adjusted adult, who'd be justifiably hurt if Skeeter proclaimed he's a deranged sociopath who kills without hesitation. On top of that, he obviously has underlying trust and insecurity issues, and continued denial that abuse is abuse when it's applied to him.