Chapter 38: The Beetle at Bay

January 14, 2003 – Tuesday

Great Hall

As Hermione's copy of the Daily Prophet arrived one frosty morning after the Christmas holidays, she skimmed the front page, and her eyes suddenly widened in alarm. A sharp yelp tore from her lips, echoing around the room and snapping everyone in the vicinity to attention. The clatter of cutlery stilled as heads turned toward her, curiosity mingled with concern.

"What?" said Harry, Dawn, and Ron together, their voices overlapping in anxious unison.

For an answer, Hermione's hands trembled slightly as she spread the newspaper across the table, the rustling pages crackling like distant thunder. Her finger jabbed at the headline on the front page, eyes blazing with urgency.

MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN
MINISTRY FEARS BLACK IS 'RALLYING POINT' FOR OLD DEATH EATERS

"Black?" said Harry loudly, his voice spiking with disbelief. "Not—?"

"Shhh!" Hermione hissed, her face flushing with a mix of panic and irritation. She leaned in closer, lowering her voice to a harsh whisper. "Not so loud — just read it!"

The four of them huddled over the paper, their heads nearly touching as they absorbed the grim news. The article's details painted a chilling picture: notorious Death Eaters had escaped Azkaban en masse, and the Ministry was pinning the blame squarely on Sirius. The words felt heavy, like icy drops sinking into their stomachs.

"There you are, Harry," said Ron, his voice tinged with awe. "That's why he was happy last night."

Harry's fists clenched, his knuckles whitening as anger surged through him like wildfire. "I don't believe this," he snarled, his voice low and furious. "Fudge is blaming the breakout on Sirius?"

Dawn exhaled, her tone edged with weary frustration as she broke the tense silence. "What other options does he have? He can hardly say, 'Sorry, everyone, Dumbledore warned me this might happen, the Azkaban guards have joined Lord Voldemort'—" she paused as Ron flinched at the name, "—'and now Voldemort's worst supporters have broken out, too.' I mean, he's spent a good six months telling everyone you, me, and Dumbledore are liars, hasn't he?"

Hermione tore into the newspaper with a fierce determination, her fingers moving rapidly as she scanned the article inside. Harry leaned closer, his eyes darting over the lines of text, his brow furrowing with each word.

Dawn sighed heavily, a sound tinged with both frustration and exhaustion. "As if my being 'delusional' wasn't bad enough." Her voice was laced with a bitter edge, the weight of months of disbelief and dismissal pressing down on her. She cast a quick glance toward the staff table, where Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall were locked in a hushed, intense conversation. Their faces, usually calm and composed, were drawn tight with worry, their expressions reflecting the gravity of the situation. A knot formed in Dawn's stomach, the sight of the two most powerful figures at Hogwarts looking so troubled only adding to her unease.

Meanwhile, Professor Umbridge, oblivious to the tension that hung in the air, was cheerfully spooning porridge into her mouth, her saccharine smile fixed in place as she chattered away at Buffy. Dawn's eyes flicked to her sister, who was nodding along absentmindedly, though her expression betrayed that her thoughts were elsewhere.

"Oh my—" Hermione's voice broke through the heavy atmosphere, a tone of wonderment tinged with horror. She was still staring at the newspaper, her eyes wide with disbelief.

Dawn turned sharply toward her twin, her concern deepening. "What now, 'Mione?"

"It's... horrible," Hermione replied, her voice quivering slightly. She looked as though the blood had drained from her face, leaving her pale and shaken. With a trembling hand, she folded back the page and pushed it across the table to Dawn, Harry, and Ron. The headline on page ten seemed to scream up at them, the words sharp and unforgiving.

TRAGIC DEMISE OF MINISTRY OF MAGIC WORKER

They read in silence, the description of Broderick Bode's death sending a chill down their spines. Strangled by a pot plant—a macabre, almost surreal end to a life. It was the kind of thing that should have been impossible, yet there it was, inked in black and white.

"Bode..." Ron muttered, his brow furrowing in concentration. "Bode. It rings a bell..."

"We saw him," Dawn whispered, the memory surfacing like a dark shadow. "In St. Mungo's, remember? He was in the bed opposite Lockhart's, just lying there, staring at the ceiling."

Hermione nodded slowly, her expression grave. "And we saw the Devil's Snare arrive. She—the Healer—said it was a Christmas present."

Harry's eyes remained glued to the article, guilt gnawing at him as he reread the tragic details. "How come we didn't recognize Devil's Snare? We've seen it before… we could've stopped this from happening." His voice was tinged with a bitter frustration, the weight of what they had missed pressing heavily on his conscience.

Ron, however, was quick to jump in, his tone defensive and sharp. "Who expects Devil's Snare to turn up in a hospital disguised as a pot plant?" He leaned forward, his expression indignant. "It's not our fault—whoever sent it to the bloke is to blame! They must be a real prat, why didn't they check what they were buying?"

"Oh, come on, Ron!" Hermione's voice wavered, her usual steadiness replaced by a tremor of unease. "I don't think anyone could put Devil's Snare in a pot and not realize it tries to kill whoever touches it? This—this was murder… a clever murder, as well… if the plant was sent anonymously, how's anyone ever going to find out who did it?" Her eyes were wide with fear as she grappled with the implications, her mind racing through the possibilities.

Dawn, who had been silently absorbing the conversation, exhaled deeply and turned to her twin. There was a calmness in her voice, though her eyes mirrored Hermione's anxiety. "It'll be alright, 'Mione," she said softly, trying to offer reassurance even as her own thoughts churned with doubt.

Harry's expression hardened with a grim realization. "We met Bode, Hermione," he said slowly, piecing together the fragments of memory. "You, Buffy, Dawn, and I saw him at the Ministry with your dad."

The mention of that encounter seemed to send a jolt through both Dawn and Hermione. They exchanged startled looks, their eyes wide as the recollection flooded back. Now that Harry had mentioned it, the memory crystallized—Bode, that quiet, unassuming man at the Ministry, someone they hadn't given a second thought at the time, now reduced to a name in a grim headline.

Ron's mouth fell open in shock. "I've heard Dad talk about him at home! He was an Unspeakable—he worked in the Department of Mysteries!" The revelation hung in the air, thick with the tension of secrets and hidden dangers.

Hermione's gaze flicked back to the newspaper, her expression turning resolute. With a swift motion, she pulled the paper towards her, her eyes lingering briefly on the moving photographs of the ten escaped Death Eaters on the front page. A fire seemed to ignite within her, and before anyone could react, she was on her feet, determination etched into every line of her face.

"Where are you going?" Ron asked, his voice startled as he watched her hurriedly swing her bag onto her shoulder.

"To send a letter," Hermione replied, her tone brisk but laden with urgency. She hesitated for just a moment, uncertainty flickering across her face. "It… well, I don't know whether… but it's worth trying… and I'm the only one who can."

Dawn's gaze lingered on her sister's retreating figure, a puzzled furrow creasing her brow. It was a familiar sight—Hermione rushing off with that determined glint in her eye, leaving everyone else in the dark. But this time, something about it left a deeper gnawing in Dawn's gut.

"I hate it when she does that," Ron muttered, his voice tinged with frustration as he, Dawn, and Harry slowly pushed themselves up from the table. They began making their own, more reluctant way out of the Great Hall, their footsteps echoing faintly in the near-empty space.

Dawn sighed, her thoughts still turning over in her mind. "I know what you mean. Sometimes I just don't get Hermione. And you'd think I would, seeing how I'm not only her sister but her twin." Her voice was laced with a mix of affection and exasperation, the bond between them undeniable, yet there were always parts of Hermione that remained an enigma, even to Dawn.

Ron nodded with a rueful grin, glancing sideways at Dawn. "Would it kill her to tell us what she's up to for once? It'd take her about ten more seconds—" His words trailed off as his attention shifted. "Hey, Hagrid!"

They spotted the towering figure of Hagrid near the doors into the Entrance Hall, his shaggy hair and beard catching the glimmers of morning light filtering through the high windows. He was waiting patiently, hands stuffed in his moleskin coat pockets, while a group of chattering Ravenclaws streamed past him like a river parting around a boulder.

"All righ', you three?" Hagrid's voice boomed in its usual warm, gruff tone, though there was a hint of weariness around his eyes as he greeted them.

"Are you OK, Hagrid?" asked Harry, his concern showing as he noticed the way Hagrid shifted his weight uneasily.

"Fine, fine," said Hagrid, though his response was less convincing than usual. "Jus' busy, yeh know, usual stuff—lessons ter prepare—couple o' salamanders got scale rot—an' I'm on probation." He tried to sound casual, but there was an edge of resignation beneath his words.

Dawn's expression softened with a mixture of sympathy and frustration. "Hermione and I warned you, Hagrid." There was a gentle reproach in her tone, the kind of concern that comes from caring too much about someone's well-being.

Ron's eyes went wide, his voice rising louder than intended. "You're on probation?" he blurted out, then quickly lowered his tone. "Sorry—I mean—you're on probation?"

"Yeah," Hagrid admitted, his shoulders sagging slightly. "'S'no more'n I expected, ter tell yeh the truth. Yeh migh' not've picked up on it, but that inspection didn' go too well, yeh know…" He scratched his beard thoughtfully, then shook his head as if trying to brush off the weight of it all. "Anyway, bes' go an' rub a bit more chilli powder on them salamanders or their tails'll be hangin' off 'em next."

The Corridors of Hogwarrts

The news that Hagrid was now on probation spread through the castle like wildfire. By the end of the day, every student seemed to be whispering about it in corners of the common rooms or during hurried conversations between classes. It was the sort of gossip that was impossible to contain. The students who relished in rumors pounced on it, adding embellishments that made Hagrid's predicament sound even worse than it was. Yet, as widespread as that news became, hardly anyone took notice of the death of an obscure Ministry employee in St. Mungo's. It seemed that only Harry, Ron, Dawn, and Hermione carried the grim knowledge of Broderick Bode's tragic fate, a secret burden they alone bore.

Instead, the escape of the ten Death Eaters dominated every conversation in the corridors. The tension at Hogwarts grew thicker with each passing hour as rumors ran rampant. Whispers of sightings in Hogsmeade spread like poison—some said they'd been hiding in the Shrieking Shack, plotting their next move. The idea that they might try to infiltrate Hogwarts, just as Sirius Black once had, sent shivers down spines, and the atmosphere in the castle was tinged with fear and unease. The older students, especially those from wizarding families, understood all too well the significance of these names. They'd grown up hearing stories of these Death Eaters, whispered by parents and relatives as though invoking their names could summon nightmares. The tales of their brutal deeds during Voldemort's first rise were seared into the memories of those who had lived through it.

For some students, the threat was deeply personal. Susan Bones, who had lost so many members of her family to one of the escaped Death Eaters, found herself suddenly thrust into an unwelcome spotlight. During Herbology, she spoke with a haunted look in her eyes, her voice laced with bitterness. "And I don't know how you stand it—it's horrible," she said bluntly to Harry, drawing comparisons between her newfound infamy and the constant attention Harry endured.

It was true that Harry and Dawn found themselves once again at the center of renewed stares and hushed whispers as they walked through the school's corridors. The looks they received were different now, less hostile than before, but tinged with uncertainty, fear, and a kind of reluctant awe. The students seemed torn between regarding them as brave or reckless, heroes or harbingers of doom. Dawn, usually more reserved when it came to public attention, couldn't help but notice how the atmosphere had shifted—there was a growing sense that something was on the horizon, something dark.

But it wasn't just the students whose attitudes had changed. The staff, too, were acting differently. Teachers were frequently seen gathered in tight, hushed circles in the corridors, their faces drawn with concern. Their conversations would abruptly cease the moment a student came into view, their voices dropping to barely audible murmurs until the coast was clear.

"They obviously can't talk freely in the staff room anymore," Hermione whispered as she, Harry, and Ron passed by Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout huddled together outside the Charms classroom. The professors looked serious, their eyes shadowed with worry, and they broke apart quickly as the trio of students walked past. "Not with Umbridge there."

"Reckon they know anything new?" Ron asked, craning his neck to glance back at the teachers, curiosity sparking in his eyes.

"If they do, we're not going to hear about it, are we?" Harry snapped, his frustration spilling over. "Not after Decree… what number are we on now?" His voice was thick with anger as he recalled the endless stream of new rules imposed by Umbridge. It felt as if every day brought another restriction, tightening the grip of her control on the school.

January 15, 2003 – Wednesday

Buffy and Umbridge's Office

BY ORDER OF THE HIGH INQUISITOR OF HOGWARTS

Teachers are hereby banned from giving students any information that is not strictly related to the subjects they are paid to teach.

The above is in accordance with Educational Decree

Number Twenty-six.

Signed: Dolores Jane Umbridge, High Inquisitor

When Buffy first caught sight of the new decree, her anger was instant and fierce, a hot surge that burned in her chest. She didn't waste any time; with the notice crumpled in one hand, she stormed straight to the office she now begrudgingly shared with Umbridge. The corridors blurred past her as her thoughts raced—this was a step too far. She was livid by the time she burst through the door.

"Delores, tell me this is a joke." Her voice was low and dangerous as she slapped the decree down on Umbridge's desk, the paper unfurling to reveal the condescending signature of the High Inquisitor herself.

Umbridge, perched primly behind her desk with a teacup in hand, didn't even flinch. She set the cup down with a dainty clink and gave Buffy a saccharine smile that was more a mockery than anything sincere. "I am afraid it is not a joke, Buffy," she simpered, her tone dripping with that sickeningly sweet falseness that Buffy despised. "This applies to you as well, I'm afraid. You, unlike most of the other Professors, have relations at Hogwarts. I know you talk to Hermione and Dawn and discuss matters they have no business knowing."

Buffy's expression darkened, her eyes narrowing into a deadly glare. "Delores, don't make me choose between the Ministry and my family, because I will always choose Hermione and Dawn. You really don't want to make an enemy of the Slayer." Her voice was edged with steel, a reminder of just how dangerous she could be. The room seemed to chill, the air thick with tension as Buffy's Slayer instincts rippled just beneath the surface, ready to strike if necessary.

For a brief moment, Umbridge's eyes flickered with genuine fear, her false bravado faltering. The message was crystal clear—Buffy was not to be trifled with. One of the few direct orders from Fudge echoed in Umbridge's mind: Don't antagonize the Slayer. She swallowed, quickly pasting on a strained smile. "Of course, Buffy. I would never ask you to do such a thing. All I ask is that you be careful about what you share with them." Her voice had a slight tremor as she tried to regain control of the conversation, but it was clear who had the upper hand.

Buffy's jaw clenched as she considered giving Umbridge a piece of her mind—something about sticking her decrees where the sun didn't shine—but she held back. She knew better than to give in to that impulse without thinking it through first. Instead, she gave a curt nod, her eyes still blazing with barely contained fury.

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

After the decree came out, every single Divination and Care of Magical Creatures lesson was now conducted under the sharp, beady-eyed scrutiny of Umbridge and her ever-present clipboard. Her presence was suffocating, like a shadow looming over every interaction, every word spoken by the professors she oversaw. Her quill scratched incessantly as she took notes, the sound grating on nerves and adding an extra layer of tension to every lesson. For Buffy, there was a small silver lining—at least she didn't have to endure Umbridge's company every single day. The thought of teaching side by side with that woman was enough to make her fists clench, so she took what small mercies she could find.

Hagrid, on the other hand, seemed to be taking Dawn and Hermione's advice seriously. His once adventurous and wild lessons had been reduced to introducing creatures as harmless as a Crup—a creature indistinguishable from a Jack Russell terrier except for its forked tail. It was a significant step down from the more dangerous creatures he usually reveled in showing them. Yet even with such benign lessons, Hagrid was visibly on edge. He flinched at the slightest noise, his eyes constantly flicking toward Umbridge with anxious glances. His usual boisterous demeanor had dulled, replaced by a distracted, almost jittery air that put everyone on edge.

It wasn't just during lessons that Hagrid seemed different. He had grown distant from Harry, Dawn, Ron, and Hermione, the warmth and camaraderie that once marked their interactions now replaced by caution. His warnings were stern, almost pleading when he told them not to visit him after dark. "If she catches yeh, it'll be all of our necks on the line," he said flatly, his voice strained with genuine concern. The unspoken fear hung heavy in the air—Umbridge was watching, waiting for any excuse to get rid of him.

Dumbledore's Office

Buffy, unwilling to sit quietly under Umbridge's oppressive rules, had taken matters into her own hands and gone to Dumbledore in secret. The late-night meeting was tense, with the two of them standing in the dim light of his office, voices hushed. Dumbledore admitted his dislike for the decree, his normally serene face shadowed with worry. Yet even as he shared her frustrations, he was insistent that it wasn't time to confront Umbridge openly. There was too much at stake, too many other pieces on the board that needed to be accounted for. He urged patience, something Buffy found increasingly difficult to accept.

Reluctantly, Buffy had agreed to hold off, though she made it clear that her patience was wearing thin. "She's edging real close to my tolerance level," Buffy warned, her voice low and taut with barely restrained anger. "And if she pushes me over the line, I won't be responsible for what happens next." Her eyes flashed with a deadly seriousness that left no doubt in Dumbledore's mind—Buffy was a force that even he couldn't fully contain if she decided enough was enough.

Dumbledore's expression softened, understanding the tightrope Buffy was walking. He nodded, his gaze steady. "I trust you to make the right decisions when the time comes," he said quietly, though both of them knew that trust was a fragile thing, stretched thin under the weight of Umbridge's tyranny. Buffy left the office, still simmering with frustration, knowing full well that the line she had drawn in her mind was dangerously close to being crossed. For now, she'd keep her cool, but everyone had their breaking point—Umbridge would do well not to find hers.

January 22, 2003 – Wednesday

Buffy's Suite

One evening, in the warm, fire-lit comfort of Buffy's suite, Harry decided to confide in Ron, Dawn, Hermione, and Buffy about the recurring dreams that had been haunting him night after night. The atmosphere in the room, once light with casual chatter, grew heavier as Harry described the unsettling familiarity of the dream—the way he would walk down the long, shadowy corridor toward the entrance of the Department of Mysteries. His voice was tense as he explained how, almost every night, the dream ended the same way: with him standing in front of a plain, black door, a door that seemed to call to him with a strange, inexplicable longing.

Hermione, ever the practical thinker, leaned forward, her brow furrowed in concern. "Maybe it's a bit like an illness," she suggested, trying to find logic in something that defied it. "A fever or something. It has to get worse before it gets better." Her voice held a note of uncertainty, as if even she wasn't fully convinced of her own theory. Dawn bit her lip and cast a worried glance at Harry, hoping deep down that Hermione was wrong. The last thing Harry needed was for this to escalate any further.

Harry's expression darkened as he leaned back in his chair, frustration etched into every line of his face. "The lessons with Snape are making it worse," he said flatly, his voice heavy with resentment. "I'm getting sick of my scar hurting, and I'm getting bored with walking down that corridor every night." He rubbed his forehead, his fingers pressing into the spot where his scar throbbed, as though trying to physically push away the pain and confusion. "I just wish the door would open," he muttered bitterly. "I'm sick of standing there staring at it—"

"That's not funny," Dawn cut in sharply, her eyes narrowing. The undercurrent of anxiety in her voice betrayed how much Harry's words were affecting her. She knew, deep down, that there was something more sinister at play, something that went beyond just dreams.

Buffy's gaze was steady as she nodded in agreement. "Dumbledore doesn't want you to have dreams about that corridor at all, or he wouldn't have asked Snape to teach you Occlumency," she pointed out, her tone a careful mix of concern and warning. She wasn't one to mince words when it came to matters this serious, and the fact that Dumbledore was worried enough to involve Snape spoke volumes.

Hermione, her face pinched with worry, chimed in, "You're just going to have to work a bit harder in your lessons." There was no accusation in her voice, only a desperate hope that Harry could somehow improve, that he could learn to shield himself from whatever dark forces were pulling at him.

Harry's temper flared at that, his frustration boiling over. "I am working!" he snapped, feeling cornered. "You try it some time—Snape trying to get inside your head—it's not a bundle of laughs, you know!" His eyes blazed with indignation, as if daring them to understand the sheer intensity of what he was going through. The lessons were a mental and emotional grind, and the added pressure was only feeding into the constant tension in his life.

The room fell silent for a moment, the air thick with unresolved tension. Ron, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, finally spoke up, his voice slow and thoughtful. "Maybe..." He trailed off, hesitant, as if weighing whether to continue.

"Maybe what?" Dawn pressed, her voice snapping with a mix of impatience and worry. She hated the ambiguity, the way Ron's unfinished thought hung in the air like an ominous cloud.

"Maybe it's not Harry's fault he can't close his mind," Ron said darkly, his expression grim.

"What do you mean?" asked Hermione, her brow furrowing as she leaned in, searching Ron's face for an explanation.

Ron hesitated, his eyes flickering with uncertainty before he finally voiced the dark thought that had been gnawing at him. "Well, maybe Snape isn't really trying to help Harry…" He spoke slowly, his voice low and cautious, as if afraid of the weight of his own words. Buffy, Dawn, Harry, and Hermione all stared at him, their expressions a mixture of shock and curiosity. The atmosphere grew thick with tension as Ron glanced meaningfully from one to the other, his unease palpable. "Maybe he's actually trying to open Harry's mind a bit wider… make it easier for You-Know—"

Before Ron could finish the unsettling idea, Buffy cut him off sharply, her voice taking on an authoritative edge. "Mr. Weasley." Her tone was firm, almost commanding, reminding them all that despite the informal setting, she was still a figure of authority. "Professor Snape is a teacher. Until you have proof to the contrary, I would highly suggest you keep opinions like that to yourself." Her eyes held a steely resolve as she locked her gaze on Ron, her words leaving little room for argument. "Besides, Dumbledore trusts him, and he works for the Order."

Hermione, always quick to defend logic and trust in authority, nodded vigorously in agreement with her sister. "That ought to be enough," she said, her voice carrying a note of finality. To her, Dumbledore's trust was an unshakeable foundation—one they all needed to rely on, especially now when everything felt so uncertain.

Ron, however, wasn't ready to back down. The skepticism in his eyes deepened as he crossed his arms stubbornly. "He used to be a Death Eater," he pointed out, his tone tinged with a bitterness that hinted at the distrust he'd harbored for Snape all along. "And we've never seen proof that he really swapped sides." His words hung in the air like a shadow, casting doubt over the trust they all desperately clung to. There was an edge of fear in Ron's voice, the kind that comes from knowing the stakes were life and death, and that trust could be as dangerous as betrayal.

Buffy shook her head, her expression hardening. She wasn't about to let them be swept away by baseless doubts. "Dumbledore trusts him," she repeated firmly, her voice brokering no argument. Her unwavering belief in Dumbledore was clear, as if she was drawing a line in the sand that none of them were allowed to cross.

Hermione nodded again, this time more resolutely, as if her sister's conviction had only reinforced her own. "And if we can't trust Dumbledore," she added quietly, "we can't trust anyone."

February 15, 2003 – Saturday

Great Hall

Hermione and Dawn made their way down to breakfast in the soft morning light, the halls of Hogwarts still echoing with the distant chatter of students just beginning to stir. The Great Hall was only half full when they arrived, taking seats at the Gryffindor table where the air was alive with the smell of bacon and the warm scent of toast. Dawn poured herself some pumpkin juice, glancing around at the sleepy faces of other early risers as they enjoyed the relative quiet before the day's bustle began.

A few moments later, Harry and Ron shuffled in, still bleary-eyed but clearly trying to shake off their sleepiness. They slid into their seats just as a flurry of wings filled the air overhead. The post owls had arrived, swooping down like a living wave of feathers and delivering parcels and letters with practiced precision.

Hermione reached up, her face tightening with expectation, and tugged a letter from the beak of an unfamiliar brown owl just as it landed beside her. The tension in her expression melted into relief the moment her fingers touched the envelope. "And about time!" she muttered, tearing it open with eager hands. "If it hadn't come today..." She trailed off as she unfolded the small piece of parchment, her eyes scanning the page quickly. The more she read, the more her face shifted into an expression of grim satisfaction, like someone who had just confirmed an important hunch.

Dawn noticed her sister's change in demeanor and leaned in, curiosity pricking at her. "What?" she asked, trying to get a glimpse of the letter.

Hermione barely looked up, her focus still on the contents of the parchment. "Listen, Dawn, Harry," she said, urgency creeping into her voice as she folded the letter back up. "This is really important. Do you think you could meet me in the Three Broomsticks around midday? And, Dawn, can you get Buffy to come too?"

Dawn nodded, sensing the seriousness in her sister's tone. "Sure, 'Mione," she said, her eyes flicking between Hermione and Harry, who still looked half-confused.

Harry hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty passing over his face. "Well... I dunno," he said slowly. "Cho might be expecting me to spend the whole day with her. We never said what we were going to do."

Dawn's expression darkened slightly at Harry's mention of Cho. A subtle frown creased her brow as she fought to push down the complicated swirl of emotions his words triggered. She had spent enough time trying to sort out her feelings for Harry and now, faced with this dilemma, she felt a prick of irritation she hadn't quite expected.

"Well, bring her along if you must," Hermione said, clearly feeling the urgency of the situation. Her eyes were intense, her voice tinged with a slight edge. "But will you come?"

Harry still looked uncertain, but seeing Hermione's expression made him relent. "Well… all right, but why?" he asked, still puzzled.

"I haven't got time to tell you now, I've got to answer this quickly," Hermione said hurriedly. She grabbed a piece of toast, more out of habit than hunger, before rushing out of the Great Hall with the letter clutched tightly in one hand.

"Are you coming?" Harry asked Ron, but Ron only shook his head, looking glum as he stared at his half-eaten breakfast.

"I can't come into Hogsmeade at all, and Dawn, neither can you," Ron said miserably. "Angelina wants a full day's training. Like it's going to help; we're the worst team I've ever seen. You should see Sloper and Kirke—they're pathetic, even worse than I am." He let out a heavy sigh, slumping forward as if the weight of his own frustration was too much to bear. "I dunno why Angelina won't just let me resign."

Dawn frowned, her mind quickly switching gears as she realized she'd completely forgotten about practice. "Dang, I forgot that we had practice today. I'll get Buffy and have her tell Hermione I can't come."

"It's because you're good when you're on form, that's why," Harry said irritably, a slight edge to his voice. The pressure of everything weighing on him was making his temper shorter than usual, and it showed.

Buffy's Suite

Without wasting another second, Dawn sped up the stairs, weaving through groups of students heading for the common room, her mind racing. She reached Buffy's suite, muttered the password under her breath, and dashed inside. The room was dimly lit, with only a few rays of morning light peeking through the heavy curtains. She found Buffy still buried beneath the covers, clearly not yet risen for the day.

"Dawn, I had a late night," Buffy grumbled groggily, blinking blearily as she sat up in bed. "What is it?" There was a hint of annoyance in her voice, though it softened when she saw the urgency on Dawn's face.

Dawn couldn't help but smile at her sister's disheveled state. "Hermione wants to see both of us at the Three Broomsticks for lunch, along with Harry. She wouldn't say why. I said I would go, but that was before I remembered Angelina had us scheduled all day today for Quidditch practice." She sighed, feeling torn between wanting to be there for whatever Hermione was planning and knowing she had a commitment to the team.

Buffy let out a long, resigned sigh and rubbed her temples. "Alright, I'll see what's going on and let Hermione know where you are," she said, her voice still thick with sleep. She pushed her hair back from her face, already mentally preparing herself for whatever scheme or mission might be brewing.

Dawn gave a quick nod, grateful for Buffy's willingness to step in, and dashed out of the suite. Her thoughts were now firmly on practice as she made her way back toward Gryffindor Tower to change into her Quidditch uniform.

Three Broomsticks, Hogsmeade

About an hour before lunch, Buffy strode into the Three Broomsticks, her sharp gaze sweeping the crowded room until she spotted Harry seated at a table with Hermione, Luna, and—Buffy's expression darkened immediately—Rita Skeeter. The familiar sight of the notorious journalist, with her acid-green quill tucked behind one ear and a smug smirk playing on her lips, sent a surge of irritation through Buffy.

Her voice was a low, dangerous growl as she approached the group. "Hermione Joyce Summers, why is she here?" Buffy's eyes narrowed as she fixed her glare on Rita, her stance tense and ready, as if preparing to fend off an attack.

"Little Miss Perfect was just about to tell me when you arrived," Rita interjected smoothly, leaning back in her chair with an infuriatingly casual air. She took a large, exaggerated slurp of her drink, clearly savoring the attention. "I suppose I'm allowed to talk to him, am I?" she added, her tone dripping with sarcasm as she flicked a glance at Hermione.

"Yes, I suppose you are," Hermione replied coldly, her voice like ice as she barely spared Rita a glance before turning to Buffy. "Where's Dawn?"

Buffy slid into the empty seat beside her sister, still simmering with irritation. "All-day Quidditch practice," she answered briskly, though her mind was already piecing together why they were here. Her gaze flicked meaningfully between Hermione and Rita. "I gather the reason you wanted Dawn and me here is because you want Dawn to give her story?"

Hermione nodded, the determined set of her jaw speaking volumes. "Yes."

Rita, who had been eyeing Harry with thinly veiled interest, took another hearty gulp of her drink and leaned in conspiratorially, speaking out of the corner of her mouth. "Pretty girl, is she, Harry? And if I may enquire, who dumped whom? You or Little Miss Perfect's sister?"

Buffy's eyes blazed with anger, a biting retort forming on her lips, but Hermione swiftly cut in before things could escalate. "One more word about Harry's or my sister's love lives and the deal's off, and that's a promise," Hermione said firmly, her tone brooking no argument.

Rita's smirk faltered slightly, but she quickly recovered, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand with a flourish. "What deal?" she scoffed, though the brief flash of unease in her eyes didn't go unnoticed. "You haven't mentioned a deal yet, Miss Prissy—you just told me to turn up. Oh, one of these days..."

"Yes, yes, one of these days you'll write more horrible stories about Harry and Dawn," Hermione said dismissively, her voice laced with boredom as if Rita's threats were nothing more than an irritating hum. "Find someone who cares, why don't you?"

"They've run plenty of horrible stories about Harry and Dawn this year without my help," said Rita, her voice laced with false sympathy as she leaned forward. Her quill poised, she watched Harry like a predator eyeing prey. "How has that made you feel, Harry? Betrayed? Distraught? Misunderstood?"

"He and Dawn feel angry, of course," said Hermione, her tone sharpened with an edge that matched the clear resolve in her eyes. "Because he and Dawn told the Minister for Magic the truth, and the Minister's too much of an idiot to believe them."

Rita's lip curled into a smirk as she set down her glass. "So you actually stick to it, do you? That He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back? And that nonsense about Glorificus?" she said, the skepticism dripping from her words. Her eyes narrowed as she leaned closer, clearly enjoying the confrontation. "You stand by all this garbage Dumbledore's been telling everybody about You-Know-Who returning and you two being among the only witnesses?"

"Dawn and I weren't the only witnesses," snarled Harry, a dangerous glint in his eyes as he clenched his fists. "There were a dozen-odd Death Eaters there as well. Want their names?"

Rita's eyes gleamed with a predatory excitement as she quickly fumbled in her bag, her quill twitching in anticipation. She gazed at Harry as though he were the most tantalizing scoop she'd ever encountered. "I'd love them," she breathed, already mentally drafting the headline. "A great, bold headline: 'Potter Accuses...' A sub-heading, '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...'" Her eyes flicked to Hermione with a smug, taunting look. "But of course," she added with a sneer, "Little Miss Perfect wouldn't want that story out there, would she?"

"As a matter of fact," said Hermione sweetly, her smile deceptively warm, "that's exactly what Little Miss Perfect does want."

Buffy blinked in disbelief, her expression shifting into a mix of concern and surprise. "You really want this woman writing anything after the damage she's done to both Harry and Dawn?" Buffy's voice was laced with warning, her protective instincts kicking in as she looked at her sister. She couldn't fathom trusting Rita Skeeter with a story as crucial as this.

"You want me to report what he said about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" Rita asked Hermione, her voice hushed with a mix of shock and curiosity, as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"Yes, I do," said Hermione firmly, her eyes locking onto Rita's with steely determination. "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." Hermione shot Rita an exasperated look as the journalist flinched at the name. "And I'll make sure you get an interview with Dawn at our next Hogsmeade weekend," she added smoothly. "She'll back up everything Harry says up until the point where she was taken by Glorificus to Sunnydale. She'll even tell you about her ordeal with Glorificus as well."

Rita blotted at a stain on her grubby raincoat, her eyes never leaving Hermione, her calculating gaze narrowing as she absorbed the challenge before her. Then, bluntly and with a touch of derision, she said, "The Prophet wouldn't print it. In case you haven't noticed, nobody believes either his or your sister's cock-and-bull story. Everyone thinks they're delusional. Now, if you let me write the story from that angle—"

Before she could finish, Buffy's growl rumbled low in her throat, a warning like that of a lioness protecting her cubs. "And you lost your job for printing garbage like that. Or do I need to remind you of the lawsuit I won on behalf of Dawn?" Buffy's eyes flashed dangerously, her tone brooking no argument. The memory of that victory over Rita's twisted words was still fresh, a testament to just how far Buffy would go to protect her family.

Rita flinched, though she quickly masked it with a dismissive toss of her head. But Hermione's patience was wearing thin, her own voice rising with indignation. "We don't need another story about how Harry or Dawn's lost their marbles!" she snapped, her frustration sharpening each word. "We've had plenty of that already, thank you! I want them given the opportunity to tell the truth!"

"There's no market for a story like that," Rita replied coolly, her tone dripping with disdain.

"You mean the Prophet won't print it because Fudge won't let them," Hermione retorted, her irritation clear as she crossed her arms. The truth hung between them like a tangible barrier, one that even someone as sly as Rita couldn't deny.

"And which I intend to rectify as soon as possible," Buffy added, her voice calm but edged with determination, as if she was already strategizing her next move. Her eyes bored into Rita's with a silent but unmistakable message: I'm not done fighting.

Rita held Hermione's gaze for a long moment, the tension crackling between them like an invisible current. Then, with a calculated shift in demeanor, she leaned forward across the table, her expression hardening into one of reluctant concession. "All right, Fudge is leaning on the Prophet," she admitted in a businesslike tone. "But it comes to the same thing. They won't print a story that shows Harry or Dawn 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, her voice dripping with disdain. Her eyes locked onto Rita's, challenging her with the raw truth of that statement.

Rita straightened up, a smirk curling at the corners of her mouth as she raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. She casually drained her glass of Firewhisky, the coldness in her tone sharpening like a blade as she replied, "The Prophet exists to sell itself, you silly girl." Her words were laced with condescension, as if she was explaining a simple fact to a child who just couldn't grasp the obvious.

Buffy's expression darkened as her frown deepened. Her eyes were flinty, a storm gathering behind them. "No, the Prophet exists to report the news," she countered, her voice low but brimming with quiet power. "Which is why I'll be suing a second time, and this time, when I'm done, I'll own the Prophet. And I'll make sure they report real news."

Luna, who had been quietly observing, chimed in with her usual serene conviction. "My dad thinks it's an awful paper," she said dreamily. "He publishes important stories he thinks the public needs to know. He doesn't care about making money." She then turned her gaze to Buffy, her large eyes full of belief. "I hope your lawsuit works, Professor. I think with someone like you running it, the Prophet could become a reputable news source."

Buffy's stern expression softened into a warm smile at Luna's words. "Thank you, Luna," she said sincerely, appreciating the unexpected support from the eccentric but insightful girl.

Rita's lip curled in disdain as she looked Luna up and down, her sneer practically dripping with scorn. "I'm guessing your father runs some stupid little village newsletter?" she drawled nastily. "Probably, Twenty-five Ways to Mingle with Muggles and the dates of the next Bring and Fly Sale?"

Luna, unperturbed by Rita's venom, met her gaze with calm defiance. "No," she said simply, "he's the editor of The Quibbler."

Rita's reaction was instantaneous. She snorted so loudly that several people at nearby tables glanced over, startled. Her laughter was harsh, filled with mockery as she leaned back in her chair. "Important stories he thinks the public needs to know, eh?" she said derisively. "I could manure my garden with the contents of that rag."

Hermione, unruffled, smiled pleasantly as she delivered her next line with the subtle precision of a well-aimed curse. "Well, this is your chance to raise the tone of it a bit, isn't it?" she said. "Luna said her father's quite happy to take Harry and Dawn's interview. That's who'll be publishing it."

Rita's laughter died in her throat, replaced by an incredulous stare. Her eyes flicked between Hermione and Luna, as if trying to gauge whether they were serious. Then, with a sharp bark of laughter that was almost hysterical, she threw her head back. "The Quibbler!" she cackled, shaking her head in disbelief. "You think people will take him or your sister seriously if they're published in The Quibbler?" She was laughing so hard that tears welled up in her eyes, her disbelief palpable.

"Some people won't," said Hermione in a steady, measured tone, her eyes never leaving Rita's. "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 whether 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 hesitated briefly, casting a quick sideways glance at Luna, "in a — well, an unusual magazine — I think they might be rather keen to read it." She then turned to Buffy, her expression serious. "Even if your lawsuit works, Buffy. It will be a while before the Prophet is considered trustworthy."

Rita was silent for a moment, narrowing her eyes at Hermione with a calculating expression. Her lips pursed slightly as she tilted her head, clearly weighing the situation in her mind. The prospect of being outmaneuvered by a group of teenagers, especially Hermione, seemed to irk her deeply. "All right, let's say for a moment I'll do it," she said abruptly, her tone edged with irritation. "What kind of fee am I going to get?"

Luna responded dreamily, as if she hadn't noticed the tension in the room. "I don't think Daddy exactly pays people to write for the magazine," she said airily. "They do it because it's an honor and, of course, to see their names in print."

Rita's expression turned sour, as if she had just bitten into something rancid. Her eyes flashed with barely concealed disdain as she rounded on Hermione. "I'm supposed to do this for free?"

"Well, yes," said Hermione coolly, taking a deliberate sip of her drink. "Otherwise, as you very well know, I will inform the authorities that you are an unregistered Animagus. Of course, the Prophet might give you rather a lot for an insider's account of life in Azkaban. You're lucky you weren't there to begin with after Buffy got done with you."

Buffy's eyes narrowed slightly, her expression hardening as she pieced something together. "You're the anonymous source."

Hermione nodded curtly. "Yes, she was the anonymous source. She overheard us talking."

Rita's eyes blazed with fury, and for a brief moment, it looked as though she might actually snap. Her hand twitched toward the paper umbrella sticking out of Hermione's drink, as if she was seriously contemplating jamming it up her nose. "I don't suppose I've got any choice, have I?" she hissed through gritted teeth. With a sharp, jerky movement, she opened her bag, pulled out a piece of parchment, and raised her Quick-Quotes Quill, which hovered eagerly, ready to record.

"Daddy will be pleased," said Luna brightly, her voice filled with genuine delight. A muscle twitched dangerously in Rita's jaw, as though Luna's cheerful remark was the final insult in an already unbearable situation.

"Okay, Harry?" said Hermione, turning to him with a reassuring smile. "Ready to tell the public the truth?"

Harry shrugged, his face a mix of resignation and determination. "I suppose," he said quietly, glancing at Buffy, who gave him a supportive nod.

Buffy let out a soft sigh. "I'll go get Dawn. If she wants to tell her story, I don't think this is something that should wait."

Hermione nodded, her expression calm and composed. "Fire away, then, Rita," she said serenely, her tone tinged with satisfaction at having gotten exactly what she wanted.

Quidditch Pitch

Buffy's strides were purposeful as she made her way back up to the castle, her eyes narrowing with determination as she approached the Quidditch pitch. The sound of brooms slicing through the air echoed around the field, and she quickly spotted Angelina soaring above with the rest of the team. Raising her voice, she called out sharply, "Angelina!"

Angelina spun in mid-air and dove down towards Buffy, landing lightly on the grass beside her. There was a wary look in her eyes, tinged with annoyance. "Professor? Surely you're not revoking—"

Buffy cut her off with a quick shake of her head. "No, nothing like that. I'm here for your Seeker. There's a family emergency, and I need Dawn to come with me."

"Professor, I need her here for practice," Angelina protested, her tone firm, though there was a hint of pleading beneath it. "The match is coming up, and we're already struggling—"

Buffy's expression hardened, her voice low and commanding. "I said I need Dawn for a family emergency. You can train her another day." Her gaze was unyielding, brooking no argument.

Angelina's shoulders sagged slightly under the weight of Buffy's stare. She nodded reluctantly and took off again, flying up to where Dawn was hovering. "Dawn! Professor Summers says there's a family emergency and she needs you to go with her. But I expect to see you out here tomorrow for some extra practice, got it?"

Dawn, concern creasing her brow, nodded quickly. "Okay, Angelina." She descended from the sky, her broom gliding smoothly down next to Buffy. Hopping off, she immediately fell in step with her sister, a touch of anxiety in her voice. "What's going on? What's the family emergency? It's not Hermione, is it?"

Buffy shook her head as they began walking back toward Hogsmeade, her expression softening just a fraction. "No, it's not Hermione. How would you feel about telling your story?"

Dawn's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "My story?" she repeated, glancing at Buffy with wide eyes.

"Yeah," Buffy confirmed, her tone carrying a mix of seriousness and encouragement. "Thanks to Hermione and Luna, yours and Harry's story is being published in The Quibbler by the one person who nearly destroyed your reputation."

Dawn's jaw dropped. "What?" she sputtered. "That Skeeter woman is writing a story—and Hermione's okay with it?"

Buffy nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "It was actually Hermione's idea. And Rita doesn't have much of a choice in the matter. If she doesn't cooperate, Hermione's going to report her for being an unlicensed Animagus."

Dawn's expression slowly morphed from shock to delight as the implications sank in. "Oh, this is fantastic! Of course I'll do it. Though… how much should I tell? Do I mention I was the Key?"

Buffy's face grew thoughtful as they continued their walk through the shaded paths toward Hogsmeade. "That's really up to you, Dawnie. Personally, I'd be careful with that detail. But it's not exactly a secret anymore—Rita splashed it all over last year."

Dawn nodded, her mind churning over how she would approach the interview. The excitement in her eyes was tempered by the seriousness of the task at hand.

Three Broomsticks

By the time they reached the door of the Three Broomsticks, she seemed deep in thought, rehearsing in her mind how she'd tell her side of the story. Together, they pushed open the door, the warmth and chatter of the pub spilling out to greet them.

Harry and Dawn sat across from Rita Skeeter, their expressions tense as they prepared to recount the harrowing night when Voldemort had returned to power. The small, cozy room of the Three Broomsticks, usually so comforting, felt stifling under the weight of the memories they were about to unearth. Harry's fingers tapped nervously against the table, and Dawn's eyes flickered with the intensity of someone bracing for an emotional storm.

Rita's eyes gleamed with a predatory sharpness as she leaned forward, her Quick-Quotes Quill poised to capture every word. "Start from the beginning," she urged, her voice smooth but insistent. "I need every little detail."

Harry took a deep breath, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders. He knew that this was his one big chance to set the record straight, to cut through the lies and misinformation that had plagued him since that dreadful night. His voice was steady but laced with an undercurrent of pain as he began to recount the events—the cold, eerie silence of the graveyard, the sickening sight of Voldemort's rebirth, the terror of watching Cedric die before his eyes.

Dawn sat beside him, her face pale as she listened, her own memories flooding back. When Harry's voice faltered, she picked up the narrative, describing the scene with a clarity that belied the fear she had felt. Every detail mattered—every glance, every movement, every chilling word Voldemort had uttered. They laid it all bare, no matter how much it hurt, because the truth needed to be told.

As they spoke, Dawn's mind kept drifting back to her own secret, the one that had hung over her like a dark cloud since she had learned the truth about herself. She had wrestled with the decision, weighing the consequences of revealing her identity as the Key. But deep down, she knew that hiding the truth would only fuel more lies, more misunderstandings.

So when the time came, she took a deep breath and began to speak about Glory. She told Rita about the hell-goddess who had hunted her relentlessly, the terror of knowing that her very existence could unravel the fabric of reality. The words felt heavy in her mouth, like stones being pulled from a deep well. She described the desperation, the fear, and the overwhelming sense of responsibility that had come with being the Key. She could see Harry's eyes on her, a mix of support and shared pain, as she recounted how Glory had nearly succeeded in her quest.

Rita listened intently, her quill scratching feverishly across the parchment as she absorbed every word. Dawn could see the calculations behind Rita's eyes, the way she was piecing together the story in her mind, preparing to unleash it on the wizarding world. But this time, it wasn't just a story—it was the truth, raw and unfiltered.

By the time they finished, both Harry and Dawn were drained, their emotions laid bare for the world to see. They had done what they needed to do, and now all that was left was to wait and see how the wizarding world would respond.