Hermione was one of the first students in line to head over to Hogsmeade. Filch eyed her up and down before marking her name on his list of students permitted to go to the village.
The first thing Hermione noticed about the quaint little town was the multitude of posters in the windows of the shops. The posters, "By Order of the Ministry of Magic," offered a thousand-Galleon reward to any witch or wizard with information leading to the recapture of any of the convicts pictured. Hermione's eyes lingered on the image of Bellatrix Lestrange, who stared back at her with that unnerving, almost triumphant smile before she refocused on the rest of the village.
If you could ignore the posters reminding everyone of the dangers of the time, Hogsmeade was a picturesque vision of Valentine's Day cheer. The cobblestone streets were lined with twinkling fairy lights, their warm glow creating a romantic ambience as snow gently fell. Shop windows were adorned with heart-shaped garlands and enchanted displays: Honeydukes had a cascade of floating candy hearts that spelt out sweet messages, while Zonko's Joke Shop showcased Cupid-themed prank items. The Three Broomsticks featured wreaths of red roses and white lilies on its doors, with an inviting warmth emanating from within.
Posters advertising Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop promised a cosy, love-filled atmosphere, and the air was filled with the soft melodies of magical love songs. The small fountain in the village square had been enchanted to bubble with pink-tinted water, and couples strolled hand in hand, adding to the festive spirit. Even the normally imposing silhouette of the Shrieking Shack seemed to soften, the surrounding trees adorned with twinkling lights and heart-shaped lanterns. The entire village buzzed with the excitement and charm of Valentine's Day, making it a perfect setting for romance and celebration.
Hermione, however, was miserable.
Nonetheless, she persisted, treating herself to a new quill and ink set at Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop and a few sweets at Honeydukes before the crowds settled in. Even with the snow falling, the air temperature wasn't too bad, and there was little to no wind. Hermione could sit comfortably in the small square outside, watching the couples trickle in on their special days.
She did, in fact, see Harry and Cho on their way to Madam Puddifoot's. They didn't seem to be chatting much. Harry looked as awkward and clueless as ever, his shoulders tense and his hands shoved deep into his pockets. On the other hand, Cho seemed hopeful yet hesitant, glancing at Harry with an expectant look that he completely missed. Hermione couldn't help but shake her head.
"Honestly," she thought, "Harry and Ron are hopeless in the romance department."
Harry, for all his bravery and heroics, seemed utterly lost regarding matters of the heart. He was painfully oblivious to Cho's attempts at conversation, and Hermione could see the frustration slowly building on Cho's face. The poor girl had no idea that Harry, despite his good intentions, would likely end up making their date more awkward than enjoyable.
And then there was Ron. Hermione's thoughts flickered back to their conversation in the common room. Ron, with his endearing but infuriating cluelessness, had no idea how much his actions—or lack thereof—affected her. He didn't understand the significance of Valentine's Day to her or the courage it took for her to drop those hints. Despite everything, she still harboured a deep-seated hope that one day, he would notice her efforts and reciprocate her feelings.
She sighed, watching Harry and Cho disappear into Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop. It seemed that neither of the boys she cared about had any sense when it came to romance. Yet, she couldn't entirely fault them. They were both navigating a world filled with danger and uncertainty, just as she was.
Still, it didn't make the day any easier. She pulled her cloak tighter around her, trying to ward off the chill that was more from within than the cold air outside. As she nibbled on a piece of chocolate from Honeydukes, she resolved to make the best of the day. She had a mission to complete, and she would see it through, regardless of her personal disappointments.
With renewed determination, Hermione stood up and brushed the snow off her robes. She glanced one last time at the enchanted fountain, the pink-tinted water bubbling cheerfully, before making her way to the Three Broomsticks.
For better or for worse, Luna was already seated at a table in the pub and on the lookout for Hermione. As soon as Hermione's foot crossed the threshold, Luna stood up and waved her arms wildly in the air. Hermione walked over to her, and only when she sat down opposite the Ravenclaw did Luna stop waving her arms.
"I wasn't sure if you saw me," Luna said in all seriousness.
Hermione forced a smile. "Yep, I saw you," she said. "Do you want something to eat or drink? My treat."
Hermione approached the bar, giving Rosmerta their orders and grabbing a tankard of Butterbeer for herself and another of Gillywater for Luna. The pub was filling up quickly, with a new couple coming through the door every few minutes. Hermione angled her chair to see the entrance and catch Rita when she arrived.
"Luna, I think we should go over the plan again, just to be sure we're on the same page," Hermione said, trying to keep her tone patient and focused.
Luna looked up from her drink, her dreamy eyes twinkling. "Of course, Hermione. It's a very good plan, though the Nargles might interfere if we're not careful."
Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes and tried her best to ignore the voice in her head screaming at her that this whole plan rested on someone who spoke of Nargles like they were real. "Right. Well, let's hope they stay away," Hermione said. "Rita, however, should be here any minute."
Though Luna's attention was seemingly divided between Hermione and the floating lights overhead, she nodded. "Yes, Daddy is very excited to publish a Rita Skeeter exclusive interview in The Quibbler. He thinks it will be our best issue yet, even more popular than the one about the Crumple-Horned Snorkack."
"Er, right," Hermione said with a tight smile. "But you did explain to him how important it is that people believe this article, didn't you? That it's about real, concrete events?"
"Oh, yes," Luna replied earnestly. "I told him it's about Harry Potter and the return of You Know Who. He was very interested. He even said he'd print it on the front page with extra large font and a border of dancing Cornish pixies."
Hermione sighed inwardly. "That's... good. And he understands this could get us all into a lot of trouble, right? That we're going against the Ministry?"
"Daddy isn't afraid of the Ministry," Luna said lightly. "He's been wanting to expose their cover-ups for years. He thinks this is the perfect opportunity."
"Okay," Hermione said, feeling a bit more reassured. She glanced at the door and then back to Luna, another thought popping into her head. "Just to be clear, you did convince your dad that this isn't some wild conspiracy theory, right? That this is about real people and real dangers?"
Luna smiled. "Yes, Hermione. I told him everything you said. And I think he was convinced when I mentioned how passionate you were about it. He remembered me telling him how you made fun of The Quibbler at the start of term, but he knows you wouldn't be involved if it wasn't important."
Hermione felt a pang of guilt. "I'm sorry about that, by the way. I didn't mean to be… disrespectful."
Luna waved her hand dismissively. "It's all right, Hermione. People often doubt what they don't understand. But the truth always finds a way."
Hermione nodded, appreciating Luna's forgiveness. "Thank you, Luna. For everything. I really hope this works."
"It will," Luna said with certainty. "Daddy always says that the truth is like the moon in a stormy sky—it might be hidden behind clouds, but it's always there, waiting to shine through."
Just then, the door to the pub opened, and Rita Skeeter strutted in, her eyes scanning the room. Hermione straightened up, her heart pounding with a mix of anxiety and determination.
"Here we go," she whispered to Luna as she signalled to Rita. "Remember, we have to make her see the importance of this. No embellishments, just the facts."
Luna nodded, her expression serene as ever. "Don't worry, Hermione. The Nargles will stay away. Today is a good day for truth."
"Where's Potter?" Rita said as soon as she reached the table.
"Hello to you too," Hermione said.
"Oh, I think we are far beyond civility," Rita sneered. "So I will ask again: Where's Potter?"
"He'll be here soon," Hermione said. "We wanted to work out the details of publishing first."
"Who are you?" Rita looked Luna up and down.
"Luna."
Rita paused, waiting for more of an answer. When Luna didn't continue, she looked at Hermione with confusion. "Is she addled?"
"No, not in the least."
"Something smells fishy about all of this," Rita said, her eyes narrowing. "I don't like it one bit."
Rita pushed herself back from the table and started to leave.
"Rita, before you go, you might want to consider what would happen to you if the story about how you got your start in journalism got out… about how you fabricated that interview with a certain prominent Ministry official right before You Know Who's first rise to power? You never actually met him, did you? And yet you wrote a full article anyway. You made up quotes and invented all kinds of scandalous details to sell papers, even if it paved the way for You Know Who to rise," Luna said, her tone dreamily casual but her words razor-sharp.
Hermione's eyes widened. This was news to her, too. She knew Rita was unethical, but this was a new low even for her.
"My father has the proof," Luna continued, her voice still calm. "He kept the notes and drafts you discarded when you thought no one was looking. He's had them for years but didn't want to ruin your career. He thought everyone deserves a chance to change."
Rita's face turned pale, and her eyes darted around the room as if looking for an escape route. She knew the severity of being exposed as a fabricator, especially when she had built her career on supposed truth-telling.
Luna leaned forward, her gaze piercing in its unusual intensity. "Stay and listen to what we have to say, and perhaps this little secret can stay just that—a secret."
Rita's hand trembled slightly as she gripped the back of her chair, then slowly sat down, her defiance replaced by a wary curiosity. "Fine," she said, her voice strained. "You've got my attention. Let's hear what you have to say."
Hermione opened her mouth to begin, but a raven-haired student near the front of the pub caught her eye. "Harry! Harry, over here!"
Luna and Rita both turned around to watch Harry weave his way through the throngs of people towards their table.
"You're early!" said Hermione, moving along to give Harry room to sit down. "I thought you were with Cho. I wasn't expecting you for another hour, at least!"
"Cho?" said Rita at once, twisting around in her seat to stare avidly at Harry. "A girl?"
She snatched up her crocodile-skin handbag and began rummaging through it.
"It's none of your business if Harry's been with a hundred girls," Hermione told Rita coolly. "So you can put that away right now."
Rita had been on the verge of pulling out her acid-green quill. Looking like she had been forced to swallow something unpleasant, she snapped her bag shut again.
"What are you up to?" Harry asked, sitting down and glancing from Rita to Luna to Hermione.
"Little Miss Perfect was just about to tell me when you arrived," said Rita, taking a large slurp of her drink. "I suppose I'm allowed to talk to him, am I?" she shot at Hermione.
"Yes, I suppose you are," said Hermione coldly.
Rita took another gulp of her drink and said out of the corner of her mouth, "Pretty girl, is she, Harry?"
"One more word about Harry's love life, and the deal's off. That's a promise," Hermione snapped, her patience wearing thin.
"What deal?" said Rita, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. "You haven't mentioned a deal yet, Miss Perfect. You just told me to turn up. Oh, one of these days..." She took a deep, shuddering breath, clearly trying to regain her composure.
"Yes, yes, one of these days, you'll write more horrible stories about Harry and me," said Hermione indifferently. "Find someone who cares, why don't you?"
"They've run plenty of horrible stories about Harry this year without my help," said Rita, shooting a sideways look at Harry over the top of her glasses and adding in a rough whisper, "How has that made you feel, Harry? Betrayed? Distraught? Misunderstood?"
"He feels angry, of course," said Hermione in a hard, clear voice. "Because he's told the Minister of Magic the truth, and the Minister's too much of an idiot to believe him."
Hermione held her breath as she watched Rita's entire demeanour shift. This idea just might work.
"So you actually stick to it, do you? That He Who Must Not Be Named is back?" said Rita, lowering her glass and fixing Harry with a piercing stare while her fingers strayed longingly back to the clasp of her crocodile bag. "You stand by all this garbage Dumbledore's been telling everybody about You Know Who returning and you being the sole witness?"
"I wasn't the sole witness," snarled Harry. "There were a dozen-odd Death Eaters there as well. Want their names?"
Hermione could see the vein in Rita's neck bulging faster and faster. "I'd love them," breathed Rita, now fumbling in her bag once more and looking at Harry like he was a golden statue. "A great bold headline: 'Potter Accuses...' A subheading, 'Harry Potter Names Death Eaters Still Among Us.' And then, beneath a nice big photograph of you, 'Disturbed teenage survivor of You Know Who's attack, Harry Potter, 15, caused outrage yesterday by accusing respectable and prominent members of the wizarding community of being Death Eaters...'"
The Quick-Quotes Quill was in her hand and halfway to her mouth when the rapturous expression on her face died.
"But, of course," she said, lowering the quill and glaring at Hermione, "Little Miss Perfect wouldn't want that story out there, would she?"
"As a matter of fact," said Hermione as sweetly as possible, "that's exactly what Little Miss Perfect does want."
Rita stared at her, and so did Harry. Luna, however, dreamily sang, "Weasley is our King," under her breath and stirred her drink with a cocktail onion on a stick.
"You want me to report what he says about He Who Must Not Be Named?" Rita asked Hermione in a hushed voice.
"Yes, I do," said Hermione. "The true story. All the facts. Exactly as Harry reports them. He'll give you all the details. He'll tell you the names of the undiscovered Death Eaters he saw there. He'll tell you what Voldemort looks like now—oh, get a grip on yourself," she added contemptuously, throwing a napkin across the table at Rita. At the sound of Voldemort's name, Rita jumped so badly that she slopped half her glass of Firewhisky down herself.
Rita blotted the front of her grubby raincoat, still staring at Hermione. Then, she said baldly, "The Prophet wouldn't print it. In case you haven't noticed, nobody believes his cock-and-bull story. Everyone thinks he's delusional. Now, if you let me write the story from that angle—"
"We don't need another story about how Harry's lost his marbles," said Hermione angrily. "We've had plenty of those already, thank you! I want him given the opportunity to tell the truth."
"There's no market for a story like that," Rita said simply.
"You mean the Prophet won't print it because Fudge won't let them," said Hermione irritably.
Rita gave Hermione a long, hard look. Then, leaning forward across the table towards her, she said in a businesslike tone, "All right, Fudge is leaning on the Prophet, but it comes to the same thing. They won't print a story that shows Harry in a good light. Nobody wants to read it. It's against the public mood. This last Azkaban breakout has got people quite worried enough. People just don't want to believe You Know Who's back."
"So the Daily Prophet exists to tell people what they want to hear, does it?" said Hermione scathingly.
Rita sat up straight again, her eyebrows raised, and drained her glass of Firewhisky.
"The Prophet exists to sell itself, you silly girl," she said coldly.
"My dad thinks it's an awful paper," said Luna, unexpectedly chiming into the conversation. Sucking on her cocktail onion, she gazed at Rita. "He publishes important stories he thinks the public needs to know. He doesn't care about making money."
Rita's eyes shot daggers toward Luna. "I'm guessing your father runs some stupid little village newsletter?" she sneered. "Probably Twenty-Five Ways To Mingle with Muggles and the dates of the next Bring and Fly Sale?"
"No," said Luna, dipping her onion back into her Gillywater. "He's the editor of The Quibbler."
Rita snorted so loudly that people at a nearby table turned to stare. "Important stories he thinks the public needs to know, eh?" she said witheringly. "I could manure my garden with the contents of that rag."
"Well, this is your chance to raise the tone of it a bit, isn't it?" said Hermione, forcing a polite smile that she knew would irritate the journalist. "Luna says her father's quite happy to take Harry's interview. That's who'll be publishing it."
Rita stared at them momentarily, then let out a great whoop of laughter.
"The Quibbler!" she cackled. "You think people will take him seriously if he's published in The Quibbler?"
"Some people won't," Hermione said in a measured voice. "But the Daily Prophet's version of the Azkaban breakout had some gaping holes in it. I think a lot of people will be wondering if there isn't a better explanation of what happened and if there's an alternative story available, even if it is published in a—" she glanced sideways at Luna, "well, an unusual magazine—I think they might be rather keen to read it."
Rita didn't say anything for a while, just eyed Hermione shrewdly, her head tilted slightly to one side. Hermione held her breath.
"All right, let's say for a moment I'll do it," Rita said abruptly. "What kind of fee am I going to get?"
"I don't think Daddy exactly pays people to write for the magazine," said Luna dreamily. "They do it because it's an honour and, of course, to see their names in print."
Rita Skeeter looked as though she'd just swallowed something particularly foul. She turned to Hermione, her voice cold. "I'm supposed to do this for free?"
"Well, yes," said Hermione, maintaining a calm exterior despite the flutter of nerves in her chest. "Otherwise, as you know, I'll inform the authorities that you're an unregistered Animagus. Of course, the Prophet might give you rather a lot for an insider's account of life in Azkaban."
Rita looked as though she'd like nothing more than to grab the tiny paper umbrella sticking out of Hermione's drink and shove it up her nose.
"I don't suppose I've got any choice, have I?" said Rita, her voice trembling slightly. She opened her crocodile bag once more, withdrew a piece of parchment, and raised her Quick-Quotes Quill.
"Daddy will be pleased," said Luna brightly. A muscle twitched in Rita's jaw.
"Okay, Harry?" said Hermione, turning to him. "Ready to tell the public the truth?"
"I suppose," said Harry.
Hermione could barely contain her relief. "Fire away, then, Rita," she said, fishing a cherry out from the bottom of her glass.
"Can't wait to see what Umbridge thinks of you going public," said Dean, sounding awestruck at dinner on Monday night.
"It's the right thing to do, Harry," said Neville. "It must have been… tough… talking about it… was it?"
"Yeah," mumbled Harry, "but people have got to know what Voldemort's capable of, haven't they?"
"That's right," said Neville, nodding. "And his Death Eaters, too… people should know…"
Neville left his sentence hanging and returned to his baked potato, but Hermione was so proud of her friend for finally mentioning it in front of Harry. She knew how much courage it took for him to say what he did.
After a while, Dean, Seamus, and Neville left for the common room, leaving Harry and Hermione at the table waiting for Ron, who had not yet had dinner because of Quidditch practice.
Hermione noticed Harry staring at the Great Hall entrance and looked to see who he was looking at. Cho Chang and her friend, Marietta, had just entered the hall and sat with her back to the Gryffindor table.
"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed. "I forgot to ask you what happened on your date with Cho? How come you were back so early?"
"Er… well, it was…" stuttered Harry, pulling a dish of rhubarb crumble towards him, "a complete fiasco, now you mention it."
"What do you mean? What happened?" Hermione had suspected it wouldn't go well, but "fiasco" seemed a bit much.
"Well," Harry began, running a hand through his hair, "it started off all right. We went to Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop, and it was... well, very pink and frilly. Cho seemed to like it, though. But then, things went downhill fast."
He took a deep breath before continuing. "She started crying about Cedric. I tried to comfort her, but I didn't know what to say. Then she asked if I missed him too, and I said I did. But I think she got upset because she thought I was trying to change the subject."
Hermione listened intently, nodding at what she hoped were appropriate moments instead of rolling her eyes.
"Then," Harry went on, his voice growing more frustrated, "she asked me what my plans were for the rest of the day, and I told her I had to meet you later. She got really upset and accused me of being more interested in meeting you than spending time with her… and then randomly told me that Roger Davies asked her out right after I did."
Hermione couldn't help but roll her eyes this time. "And then?" Hermione prompted, though she probably knew the answer.
"Then she started talking about Cedric again and how they used to snog. I didn't know what to say to that, and it just made everything even more awkward," Harry said, his frustration evident. He groaned, rubbing his temples. "So then she jumps up, right, and says, 'I'll see you around, Harry,' and runs out of the place!" He put down his spoon and looked at Hermione. "I mean, what was all that about? What was going on?"
Hermione glanced over at the back of Cho's head and sighed.
"Oh, Harry," she said sadly. "Well, I'm sorry, but you were a bit tactless."
"Me, tactless?" said Harry, outraged (which Hermione almost laughed at). "One minute we were getting on fine; next minute she was telling me that Roger Davies asked her out and how she used to go and snog Cedric in that stupid teashop—how was I supposed to feel about that?"
"Well, you see," said Hermione, trying to simplify it as much as possible for the poor boy, "you shouldn't have told her that you wanted to meet me halfway through your date."
"But, but," spluttered Harry, "but—you told me to meet you at twelve and to bring her along; how was I supposed to do that without telling her?"
"You should have told her differently," said Hermione, like she was explaining to a stubborn toddler. "You should have said that it was really annoying, but I'd made you promise to come along to the Three Broomsticks, and you really didn't want to go; you'd much rather spend the whole day with her, but unfortunately, you thought you really ought to meet me and would she please, please come along with you and hopefully you'd be able to get away more quickly. And it might have been a good idea to mention how ugly you think I am, too," Hermione added as an afterthought.
"But I don't think you're ugly," Harry said with a confused look on his face.
Hermione laughed. She couldn't hold it in any longer. "Harry, you're worse than Ron," she said, but then she caught a glimpse of him as he stumped into the hall, splattered with mud and looking grumpy. "Well, no, you're not," she sighed. "Look—you upset Cho when you were going to meet me, so she tried to make you jealous. It was her way of trying to find out how much you liked her."
"Is that what she was doing?" asked Harry as Ron dropped onto the bench opposite them and pulled every dish within reach towards him. "Well, wouldn't it have been easier if she'd just asked me whether I liked her better than you?"
Hermione rolled her eyes yet again. They were getting a workout. "Girls don't often ask questions like that," said Hermione.
"Well, they should!" said Harry forcefully. "Then I could've just told her I fancy her, and she wouldn't have had to get herself all worked up again about Cedric dying!"
"I'm not saying what she did was sensible," said Hermione, as Ginny joined them, as muddy as Ron and looking equally disgruntled. "I'm just trying to make you see how she was feeling at the time."
"You should write a book," Ron said to Hermione as he cut up his potatoes. "Translating mad things, girls do so boys can understand them."
"Yeah!" said Harry fervently, interrupting Hermione just as she was about to tell Ron he should write the companion book. "So, how was Quidditch practice?"
"It was a nightmare," said Ron in a surly voice.
"Oh, come on," said Hermione, looking at Ginny, "I'm sure it wasn't that—"
"Yes, it was," said Ginny. "It was appalling. Angelina was nearly in tears by the end of it."
Hermione knew better than to ask for more details with just one look at Ginny's face.
Ron and Ginny went off for baths after dinner, leaving Hermione and Harry to retreat to the busy Gryffindor common room together and start on their usual pile of homework. After about a half hour of work, Fred and George interrupted them.
"Ron and Ginny not here?" asked Fred, looking around as he pulled up a chair. When Harry shook his head, he said, "Good. We were watching their practice. They're going to be slaughtered. They're complete rubbish without us."
"Come on, Ginny's not bad," said George fairly, sitting down next to Fred. "Actually, I dunno how she got so good, seeing how we never let her play with us."
"She's been breaking into your broom shed in the garden since the age of six and taking each of your brooms out in turn when you weren't looking," said Hermione from behind her tottering pile of Ancient Runes books.
"Oh," said George with amusement in his voice. "Well, that'd explain it."
"Has Ron saved a goal yet?" asked Hermione despite herself.
"Well, he can do it if he doesn't think anyone's watching him," said Fred, rolling his eyes. "So all we have to do is ask the crowd to turn their backs and talk among themselves every time the Quaffle goes up his end on Saturday."
He rose again and moved restlessly to the window, staring across the dark grounds. "You know, Quidditch was about the only thing in this place worth staying for."
Hermione cast him a stern look. "You've got exams coming!"
"Told you already, we're not fussed about NEWTs," said Fred. "The Snackboxes are ready to roll. We found out how to get rid of those boils; just a couple of drops of Murtlap essence sorts them. Lee put us on to it."
Hermione scowled. She had been the one to give the Murtlap essence to Lee after his detention.
George yawned widely and looked out disconsolately at the cloudy night sky. "I dunno if I even want to watch this match. If Zacharias Smith beats us, I might have to kill myself."
"Kill him, more like," said Fred firmly.
"That's the trouble with Quidditch," said Hermione absent-mindedly, once again bent over her Runes translation. "It creates all this bad feeling and tension between the houses."
She looked up to grab her copy of Spellman's Syllabary and caught Fred, George, and Harry staring at her with expressions of mingled disgust and disbelief.
"Well, it does!" she insisted. "It's only a game, isn't it?"
"Hermione," said Harry, shaking his head. "You're good on feelings and stuff, but you just don't understand about Quidditch."
"Maybe not," she said darkly, returning to her Ancient Runes translation, "but at least my happiness doesn't depend on Ron's goalkeeping ability."
The tension grew tenfold as the week progressed. Every conversation seemed to be about the upcoming Quidditch match. Ron and Ginny looked as though they were headed to their own funerals when they got up from breakfast to head down to the pitch. Harry didn't look much better as he and Hermione walked down to find seats in the stands.
The game was abysmal. Adding to the misery was Professor Umbridge, who was a few rows below them. She kept turning around and staring at Harry, seemingly mocking his lifetime ban. Thankfully, Ginny took a page out of Viktor's playbook and caught the Snitch to end the game, even though doing so caused the Gryffindors to lose.
Hermione kept her mouth shut, allowing her friends to mourn their sports-related loss without any of the sarcastic comments running through her head. Someday, she hoped it would dawn on them that there were things much more important than a game of flying broomsticks.
They entered the Great Hall for breakfast just as the post owls swooped in on Monday morning. Hermione could barely contain her excitement as she realised she wasn't the only one eagerly awaiting the Daily Prophet; nearly everyone seemed to be on edge for more news about the escaped Death Eaters, who remained uncaptured despite numerous reported sightings. The anticipation in the air boded well for when Harry's interview in The Quibbler would finally be published.
Hermione handed a Knut to the delivery owl and quickly unfolded her newspaper, but another owl swooped down in front of Harry before she could even glance at the headlines. "Who's this from?" he asked, surprised. Harry rarely received mail, so the sudden delivery was unusual.
Unless…
More owls began to arrive, one after another, each dropping a letter in front of Harry.
"What's going on?" Ron asked, bewildered, as the entire Gryffindor table leaned in, watching the growing pile of letters with curiosity.
"Harry!" said Hermione, breathless with anticipation as she reached into the mass of feathers and pulled out a screech owl bearing a long, cylindrical package. "I think I know what this means—open this one first!"
She held her breath as Harry tore off the brown packaging. A tightly rolled copy of the March edition of The Quibbler slid out. Hermione's instincts were right! The interview had been published! On the cover, Harry's face stared back at them, looking slightly sheepish under bold red letters that read:
HARRY POTTER SPEAKS OUT AT LAST:
THE TRUTH ABOUT HE WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED AND THE NIGHT I SAW HIM RETURN
"It's good, isn't it?" said Luna, who had drifted over to the Gryffindor table and squeezed herself in between Fred and Ron. "It came out yesterday. I asked Dad to send you a free copy. I expect all these," she added, gesturing to the flood of owls still clamouring for space on the table in front of Harry, "are letters from readers."
"That's what I thought!" said Hermione eagerly. "Harry, do you mind if we—"
"Help yourself," Harry said, still a bit dazed.
Hermione and Ron wasted no time ripping open the envelopes.
"This one's from a bloke who thinks you're off your rocker," Ron remarked, skimming a letter. "Ah well…"
"This woman recommends you try a good course of Shock Spells at St Mungo's," Hermione added, her initial excitement dimming slightly as she read through another.
"This one looks okay, though," Harry said slowly. Hermione glanced up, hopeful. "Hey, she says she believes me!"
Hermione's disappointment eased a little as she reached for another letter.
"This one's in two minds," said Fred, who had joined in the letter-opening enthusiastically. "Says you don't seem like a mad person, but he really doesn't want to believe You-Know-Who's back, so he doesn't know what to think now. Blimey, what a waste of parchment."
"Here's another one you've convinced, Harry!" said Hermione, her voice brightening again. "'Having read your side of the story, I am forced to conclude that the Daily Prophet has treated you very unfairly… Little though I want to believe that He Who Must Not Be Named has returned, I am forced to accept that you are telling the truth…' Oh, this is wonderful!"
"Another one who thinks you're barking," said Ron, tossing a crumpled letter over his shoulder. "But this one says you've got her converted, and now she thinks you're a real hero—she's even included a photograph, too—wow!"
"What is going on here?" asked a sickly, sweet, girlish voice.
Everyone looked up from the mountain of letters and owls to see Professor Umbridge standing behind Fred and Luna, her bulging toad-like eyes sweeping over the mass of correspondence on the table. Behind her, Hermione noticed the rest of the students had stopped eating to watch the scene unfold.
"Why have you got all these letters, Mr Potter?" she asked, her voice dripping with false innocence.
"Is that a crime now?" Fred shot back loudly. "Getting mail?"
"Be careful, Mr Weasley, or I shall have to put you in detention," Umbridge snapped. "Well, Mr Potter?"
"People have written to me because I gave an interview," said Harry evenly. "About what happened to me last June."
"An interview?" repeated Umbridge, her voice rising to an unnaturally high pitch. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, a reporter asked me questions, and I answered them," Harry replied coolly. "Here—"
Harry tossed the copy of The Quibbler to her. Professor Umbridge snatched it from the air, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the cover. Hermione watched as Umbridge's pale, doughy face turned an alarming shade of patchy violet.
"When did you do this?" she demanded, her voice trembling with rage.
"Last Hogsmeade weekend," Harry answered.
She glared up at him, her face contorted with fury, the magazine shaking in her stubby fingers. The entire Great Hall had gone silent, every eye fixed on the confrontation.
"There will be no more Hogsmeade trips for you, Mr Potter," she hissed, her voice echoing ominously. "How dare you… how could you…" She took a deep, shuddering breath. "I have tried again and again to teach you not to tell lies. The message, apparently, has still not sunk in. Fifty points from Gryffindor and another week's worth of detentions."
She turned on her heel and stormed away, still clutching The Quibbler to her chest, the eyes of nearly every student following her departure.
Hermione couldn't suppress the smile tugging at her lips—that was precisely the reaction they had hoped for. And, as if on cue, Umbridge's obsession with control would only make things worse for her. By mid-morning, enormous signs had been plastered all over the school, not just on house noticeboards but in corridors and classrooms, too.
BY ORDER OF THE HIGH INQUISITOR OF HOGWARTS
Any student found in possession of the magazine, The Quibbler, will be expelled.
The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-Seven.
Signed: Dolores Jane Umbridge, High Inquisitor
"What exactly are you so happy about?" Harry asked her.
"Oh, Harry, don't you see?" Hermione whispered, barely able to contain her excitement. "If there was one thing she could do to make sure every single person in this school read your interview, it was banning it!"
Hermione's prediction proved accurate. By the end of the day, the entire school seemed to be buzzing with quotes from the interview. Even when Hermione ducked into the girls' toilets before Ancient Runes, she overheard the other girls eagerly discussing it. "Then they spotted me," Hermione recounted to Harry later, "and since they know I'm friends with you, they bombarded me with questions. And Harry, I really think they believe you! I think you've finally convinced them!"
Meanwhile, Professor Umbridge prowled the school, randomly stopping students and demanding that they empty their books and pockets. Hermione knew she was hunting for copies of The Quibbler, but the students were always one step ahead. The pages carrying Harry's interview had been cleverly bewitched to appear as ordinary textbook extracts or were charmed to go blank until the reader wanted to see the interview again. Soon, it seemed every single person in the school had read it.
The teachers, of course, were forbidden by Educational Decree Number Twenty-Six from mentioning the interview, but they found subtle ways to show their support. Professor Sprout awarded Gryffindor twenty points when Harry handed her a watering can; a beaming Professor Flitwick showered Harry with boxes of squeaking sugar mice; Professor McGonagall not only awarded Harry ten points but also gave Hermione twenty-five points for "school-related duties."
The reaction from Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle was even more satisfying. Later that afternoon in the library, Hermione noticed them huddled together with a weedy-looking Theodore Nott. When they spotted Harry, Goyle cracked his knuckles threateningly while Malfoy leaned over to whisper something undoubtedly vile to Crabbe. Hermione knew precisely why they were so riled up: Harry had named all of their fathers as Death Eaters.
"And the best part," Hermione whispered gleefully as they left the library, "is that they can't contradict you because they can't admit they've read the article!"
Hermione hadn't felt this giddy in years.
To top it all off, Luna told them over dinner that no issue of The Quibbler had ever sold out faster.
"Dad's reprinting!" she said, her eyes wide with excitement. "He can't believe it! He says people seem even more interested in this than the Crumple-Horned Snorkacks!"
Hermione slept better that night than she had in a long time.
Unfortunately, while Hermione was enjoying a sound sleep, Harry experienced another nightmare.
The courtyard was bustling with students enjoying their break between classes, but Hermione, Ron, and Harry found a relatively quiet corner to talk. The crisp air and faint scent of pine made it a pleasant spot, though Hermione focused entirely on Harry as he recounted his latest dream.
"So, Harry had another dream," Ron stated, leaning against the stone wall with his arms crossed.
Harry nodded, looking slightly unnerved. "Yeah, it was about Voldemort again. I saw him punishing Avery."
Hermione's eyes widened, and she leaned in closer. "What happened?"
Harry took a deep breath, recalling the details. "Voldemort was furious because he still didn't have what he wanted. Avery mentioned that Rookwood had been feeding them false information about the weapon. Rookwood used to work for the Department of Mysteries, so Avery trusted him to know where it was. But apparently, he didn't get it right. Avery was begging for forgiveness. He was on the floor, writhing in pain. Voldemort was furious with him for failing to get information about this weapon. It was... it was awful, Hermione. He used the Cruciatus Curse on him."
Hermione's brows furrowed in thought. "We need to figure out what it is. It's something important to Voldemort, something he's desperate to get his hands on."
Harry nodded. "And Bode was trying to steal it, remember? That's why he ended up in St Mungo's."
Hermione fell silent for a few moments, her gaze fixed on Fred and George, who were both headless and selling their magical hats from under their cloaks on the other side of the yard. She could feel it—everything was connected somehow… but how?
Suddenly, Hermione's eyes lit up with realisation. "So that's why they killed him," she said quietly. "When Bode tried to steal this weapon, something must have happened—some sort of defensive spell, maybe, to stop anyone from touching it. That's why he was in St Mungo's; his mind was affected, and he couldn't speak. But remember what the Healer told us? He was recovering. They couldn't risk him getting better, could they? The shock of whatever happened when he touched that weapon probably broke the Imperius Curse. Once he'd regained his voice, he would have told them everything. They knew he'd been sent to steal the weapon. It would have been easy for Lucius Malfoy to put the curse on him—he's always hanging around the Ministry."
"He was even there the day I had my hearing," said Harry. "In the—wait…" He paused, realisation dawning. "He was in the Department of Mysteries corridor that day! Your dad said he was probably trying to sneak down and find out what happened at my hearing, but what if—"
"Sturgis!" gasped Hermione, the pieces falling into place.
"Sorry?" said Ron, looking bewildered.
"Sturgis Podmore," said Hermione breathlessly, "arrested for trying to get through a door! Lucius Malfoy must have gotten to him, too! I bet it happened the day you saw him there, Harry. Sturgis had Moody's Invisibility Cloak, right? What if he was standing guard by the door, invisible, and Malfoy somehow sensed him there—or guessed someone might be—and put him under the Imperius Curse? So, when Sturgis got the chance, he tried to get into the Department to steal the weapon for Voldemort—but got caught and sent to Azkaban…"
She gazed at Harry, hoping he was following along.
"And now Rookwood's told Voldemort how to get the weapon?"
"I didn't hear the whole conversation, but that's what it sounded like," said Harry. "Rookwood used to work there… maybe Voldemort'll send him to do it?"
Hermione nodded, lost in thought. It all connected somehow… but the implications were chilling. Just then, she realised why this was troubling her so much. "But you shouldn't have seen this at all, Harry."
"What?" he said, taken aback.
"You're supposed to be learning how to close your mind to this sort of thing," Hermione said sternly.
"I know I am," said Harry. "But—"
"Well, I think we should just try to forget what you saw," said Hermione firmly, though she really meant that Harry should try to forget it. She was certain that dwelling on it would only make him more prone to dream about it. "And you ought to put in a bit more effort on your Occlumency from now on."
Harry scowled at her but didn't argue, knowing she was right. On the other hand, Hermione felt the urgency of figuring it all out before it was too late.