The Newsroom

by ShowtimeMoore

Twenty years after Voldemort's defeat, Harry Potter has become a world-famous magical news reporter, spearheading the integration of Muggle-inspired broadcast technology into the wizarding world. But will a blast from his past shake his comfortable lifestyle and force him back to the man he once was? Non-epilogue compliant. Slow burn Harmony

2. We Just Decided To

Part 1

Chapter 1: We Just Decided To

The green flames of the Floo network roared to life in Diagon Alley, and Harry Potter stepped out into the bustling cobbled street. The warm, humid breeze of St. Lucia still clung to him, though the tropical serenity he'd escaped to felt like a distant memory now. Two weeks at a Potter family villa with a veela cheerleader from the Bulgarian Quidditch team—her name deliberately buried in the back of his mind—had done little to chase the storm of Hogwarts from his thoughts.

In front of him loomed the towering structure of the Daily Prophet headquarters, now unrecognizable from its modest origins. Gleaming glass and polished stone rose high above the other shops, reflecting the magical advertisements that flickered along its walls. The Daily Prophet was no longer just a newspaper—it was the nerve center of wizarding media, home to the sprawling Wizarding World News. Its broadcasts were the heartbeat of magical Britain, bringing news, entertainment, and politics into the homes of witches and wizards across the globe.

Harry sighed, adjusting the strap of his travel bag on his shoulder. The familiar guilt of responsibility settled over him as he pushed open the grand double doors and stepped into the atrium.

The inside was just as impressive—gleaming marble floors, enchanted banners that displayed breaking headlines, and the faint hum of magical cameras capturing footage for live broadcasts. A massive enchanted clock dominated the far wall, its golden hands pointing to various headlines rather than hours. He was immediately met with posters of the latest newspaper headlines and also promotional posters of his face, displaying the News Night logo underneath, advertising his show.

He approached the elevator, its bronze doors etched with intricate magical runes. With a quiet ding, they slid open, revealing a polished interior that smelled faintly of lavender. Harry stepped in, punched the button for the newsroom floor, and leaned back against the cool metal wall.

The ride up was quick, but it gave him just enough time to prepare for what waited. He'd been avoiding the fallout of his Hogwarts appearance, the words he'd spoken in a moment of anger and raw honesty still echoing in his head. A vacation had postponed the inevitable, but it was time to face it now.

The elevator dinged softly, and the doors opened to the sprawling newsroom floor. Rows of desks stretched out in perfect symmetry, enchanted quills floating above stacks of parchment, but the space was eerily quiet. Harry frowned as he stepped out, the sound of his footsteps unnervingly loud.

The newsroom was empty, save for a few scattered people here and there, a couple having a heated discussion on the other side of the room, and a few going through the magical inbox where the news reports came in.. The usual chaos of reporters shouting across desks, editors waving articles through the air, and enchanted cameras whirring had been replaced by an unsettling stillness.

Harry barely noticed. His focus was already on his office at the far end of the floor, its frosted glass door etched with his name. He pushed it open and stepped inside, the familiar sight of his cluttered desk and overflowing shelves greeting him. The faint scent of ink and parchment lingered, grounding him in a way St. Lucia never could.

Dropping his bag in the corner, he sank into the worn leather chair behind his desk and rubbed his temples. He wasn't ready to deal with whatever came next, but he'd learned long ago that the world rarely waited for him to be ready. He thought about staying in his office for a while longer, when everything suddenly hit him. They had a show tonight and the newsroom was empty. Where was his staff?

He got up and walked out of his office to see the few people around the room. His eyes fell on his executive producer, Dean Thomas, a good friend from school, walking away from a blonde haired girl. Ellen or whatever her name was.

"Where is everybody," Harry asked Dean, as the man moved across the other side of the room on his way out.

"Welcome back, man," Dean said, dodging the question.

"Thanks," Harry said, bluntly. "Where is everybody?"

"Oh," Dean said, turning around but still walking backwards. "You gotta go up to see McGonagall."

"Okay," Harry said, losing his patience. "Where is everybody?"

"I have strict orders from McGonagall to not say anything until she's talked to you first," Dean said, now at the doors headed out. "I've got a meeting."

Harry just watched him walk away, after getting completely brushed off, and turn back to the rest of the room. The few that were still there were just looking at him and his eyebrows raised as he just waited for an explanation, one that no one seemed to be giving.

"What's going on?" he finally asked.

"Okay," the blonde haired girl said, starting to rush over, the task difficult in heels. He waited a few moments as she jogged over and was standing in front of him.

"Couldn't say the answer from over there?" Harry asked and the girl moved right through that.

"Welcome back," she said, a huge smile on her face.

"Thank you," Harry said, tired of all the beating around the bush.

"Minerva McGonagall needs to see you in her office," she said.

"Now?" Harry asked, wanting answers and not wanting to deal with the run around from his former professor.

"She said as soon as you come in," the girl responded, quickly.

"What's-," Harry started, exasperated and then just shook his head and moved forward. "You're Ellen?"

"Maggie," Maggie corrected, and then shook her head to something more professional. "Maragaret."

Harry pushed open the frosted glass door to his office, the faint hum of emptiness from the newsroom still echoing behind him. He hadn't been seated for more than a moment when Maggie, his assistant, hurried in, her expression a mix of nervousness and exasperation.

"What's going on?" Harry asked, his tone sharp but not unkind, eyes narrowing at her.

Maggie shifted uneasily, brushing a strand of her frizzy blonde hair behind her ear. "We know as little as you do."

Harry raised an eyebrow, his skepticism evident. "Really?"

"Almost as little as you do," Maggie replied quickly, her voice edging on the defensive.

Harry's eyes fixed on her, unrelenting. "What's the part that you know that I don't?"

Maggie hesitated for a fraction of a second before blurting out, "You should talk to McGonagall."

"Where's Karen?" Harry asked abruptly, glancing toward the door as if expecting someone else to walk in.

Maggie blinked in confusion. "There's no one who works here named Karen."

Harry frowned, his patience thinning. "My assistant."

"I'm your assistant," Maggie shot back, but a smile still on her face.

"You're Ellen," Harry said firmly, gesturing toward her as if that settled the matter.

"Margaret," she corrected, her voice clipped.

Harry paused, clearly trying to process this. "Okay," he said finally, with a reluctant nod.

"I'll let her secretary know you're on your way," Maggie continued, already turning toward the door.

"Her name is Karen," Harry said again, his voice insistent.

"No one's named Karen. No one," Maggie replied over her shoulder, a trace of dry humor in her tone as she left the office.

"All right," Harry muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he stood up.

From just outside, Maggie's voice floated back in. "I'll call up for you."

Harry sighed, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. He had a feeling this wasn't going to be a normal day.

---

The long hallway leading to McGonagall's office was lined with enchanted portraits of famous reporters and editors, their figures moving slightly as Harry passed. He barely noticed the inquisitive glances they cast at him; his focus was on the polished oak door at the end of the corridor, memories being brought back of how he'd convinced McGonagall to take the position in the first place.

It was almost ten years ago. The Wizarding World News was a fledgling idea, little more than Harry's scribbled notes and half-formed plans. He'd seen how effective Muggle media could be in informing and uniting people and wanted to bring the same cohesion to the magical world. But he needed someone with the respect and authority to guide the project—and there was only one person he trusted enough to ask.

When Harry had arrived at Hogwarts that day, McGonagall had been in her office, as always, surrounded by stacks of parchment and a teacup perpetually warmed by a flick of her wand. She'd looked up over her spectacles when he entered, her sharp eyes softening slightly.

"Potter," she had said, her tone brisk but not unkind. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Or are you here to test my patience?"

Harry had launched into his pitch immediately. He told her about his vision for a unified magical news network, one that could broadcast to every witch and wizard, bridging the gaps that secrecy and tradition had left behind. He'd spoken about preventing another Voldemort, about keeping people informed so they could act instead of react.

At first, McGonagall had listened in silence, her expression unreadable. When he finally paused, she shook her head and stood, her robes rustling as she paced. "And you want me to leave Hogwarts for this," she had said, not a question but a statement. "To abandon the school and the students?"

"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important," Harry had pleaded. "I can't do this without you. People trust you, Minerva. They'll listen to you in a way they won't listen to me. You know how to lead."

"And you think I don't lead here?" she'd snapped, her tone icy.

Harry had taken a deep breath, his heart pounding. "You do. Better than anyone else could. But the world needs you, not just Hogwarts. We need someone who can bring order to this chaos, who can make sure the truth gets out. You've seen what happens when people don't know what's going on—they panic. They make bad decisions. Please."

For a long moment, she had stared at him, her gaze sharp and searching. Then, with a sigh, she'd sat back down, her hands clasped on the desk. "You're asking me to leave behind everything I've built here. My students. My legacy."

"I know," Harry had said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But you'd be building something just as important. Maybe even more so."

McGonagall had fallen silent, her lips pressed into a thin line. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer, though no less firm. "I'll consider it. But you'd better not make me regret this, Potter."

Harry smiled faintly at the memory as he stood outside her office now. Convincing McGonagall had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done, but she had taken to her role with the same precision and determination she had brought to Hogwarts. The Wizarding World News had thrived under her leadership, becoming the beacon Harry had envisioned.

"You can go on in," the secretary said, sitting at her desk. "She's waiting for you."

"Thank you," Harry said as he walked in the door.

McGonagall was sitting there on a floo call, fire flickering as the man on the other side talked to her.

"You own this now, my friend," he said. "You have bought it. You have paid for it and you have the receipt. I wanna be crystal clear. This is yours. You're wearing it. Henry wants to make sure you know that."

Minerva looked up as the man kept going on and just smiled as it seemed she now had an excuse to get off the call.

"Wait," she said. "Mr. Harry Potter has just stepped into my office, so I need to walk him through this."

"Shit," the man said. "How much does he know?"

"You are on speaker," McGonagall reminded him and Harry just raised his eyebrows.

"I don't know anything," Harry said. "Who is this?"

"Heh-hey, Harry!" the voice said, clearly embarrassed. "How was the vaca-"

McGonagall cut the man off by ending the floo call and turned back to him, swiveling in her chair and looking at him with a smile.

"Welcome back," Minerva said. "You look great."

Harry just stared at everything, and just trying to put everything together. "I don't know what just happened there."

"Two weeks in St. Lucia was just what the healer ordered," Minerva said, moving right along as she was always good at. "You've got pictures?"

"No," Harry responded briskly, not needing photos for this particular vacation.

"Don't worry about it, Witch Weekly does," Minerva said. "You were down there with Lina Ivanova."

That was the name of the cheerleader, and Harry cursed the tabloids. He thought everything was private.

"There's a picture?" he groaned, not wanting to deal with that.

'No, that was a trap," Minerva said, a cheeky smile on her face. "But I knew you were seeing her."

"All right, seriously," Harry said, wanting to get to the bottom of this. "What the hell is going on?"

"Something exciting," Minerva said, a mischievous smile on her face.

"Hardly anybody who works for me is where they usually are," Harry articulated, trying to pry the truth out of her.

"I was sitting in my little cottage in Scotland," Minerva started.

"Just now?" Harry replied, sarcastically, but Minerva blew right past it.

"This was many years ago," she began, her voice rich with memory. "It was the summer before my first term as a Transfiguration professor at Hogwarts. I had just returned from London, having spent a few years working at the Ministry. I was eager to settle into my new role, and I thought, perhaps foolishly, that I had a handle on everything I needed to prepare for the coming school year."

"One fine afternoon, I was sitting enjoying a well-earned cup of tea, when I heard a peculiar sound outside. At first, I ignored it—sheep can make quite the racket, you know—but then the noise grew louder. It was a thumping and a squawking, as if some poor creature was in distress."

"I went outside, expecting to find one of the neighbor's hens in some sort of trouble. Instead, what did I see, but a massive owl—likely from some wizard's menagerie—circling my garden with what looked like a small box clutched in its talons. It was flapping wildly, clearly unbalanced, and eventually it dropped the box directly onto my lap as I stood in the garden. The poor bird barely made it off without collapsing."

She paused, her tone becoming drier. "Now, you might expect that the box contained a letter or a parcel addressed to me. Instead, it contained… a cat."

Harry blinked. "A cat?"

"Not just any cat," McGonagall clarified, her smirk widening. "A scraggly, half-starved kitten, all legs and ears and very indignant at its situation. It hissed at me the moment I opened the box, as if the entire debacle were somehow my fault."

"Despite the creature's protests, I couldn't very well leave it. I took it in, nursed it back to health, and even considered keeping it. But as luck would have it, I later discovered it belonged to none other than Albus Dumbledore. He had been attempting to rescue it from Knockturn Alley—Merlin knows what it was doing there—and sent it to his brother Aberforth. Naturally, the owl took a wrong turn."

Her expression softened briefly. "Albus was apologetic, of course, but I think he was more amused by the whole affair than anything. He insisted I keep the kitten, claiming Aberforth wouldn't appreciate it. And so, for the better part of twenty years, that cat—Archie—was a constant companion in my quarters at Hogwarts."

Minerva's tone grew thoughtful. "You see, Harry, sometimes the unexpected things that fall into our laps turn out to be exactly what we need—even if we don't realize it at first."

Harry just blinked again, not at all understanding where this was going, and pushing forward. "Where's my staff?"

"The answer to that question has several parts," Minerva started, at least getting to the explanation now. "First, we're gonna try Neville out at 10 o'clock. He's starting in two weeks."

"Good," Harry said, not being bad news, sitting down on the other side of Minerva's desk. "Thank you. With the right EP, he'll do great at 10."

"I think so too," Minerva said with a smile. "And I know how much he appreciates your lobbying hard for him. He really looks up to you."

"What's this got to do with my staff?" Harry asked, his voice sharp with irritation.

Minerva raised an eyebrow, her tone measured but firm. "He's taking your staff."

Harry blinked, leaning forward in his chair. "What are you talking about?"

"Well," Minerva said, her Scottish brogue sharpening with emphasis, "strictly speaking, he's taking your executive producer, and your executive producer is taking your staff."

Harry's expression darkened as realization dawned. "Wait, Dean's going with Neville?"

"Listen—" Minerva began, but Harry cut her off.

"Where is he?"

"There's no need for—"

"Where is he, Minerva?" Harry repeated, standing now, his frustration bubbling over.

With a resigned sigh, she replied, "They're in one of the conference rooms. Dean brought in pizza for everyone."

Harry's jaw tightened as he moved past her toward the door. "I gave Neville his first job on the air," he said, his voice rising as he strode into the hallway. "His first job on a panel, his first job as a substitute anchor. I made it clear to anyone who mattered that I wanted to see him at the 10:00 slot, and he poaches Dean."

Minerva followed him, keeping pace despite his brisk strides. "Neville didn't poach him," she said firmly. "Dean asked to go."

Harry stopped abruptly, turning to face her. "He asked to go? He asked to go?"

"Yes," Minerva replied, her tone steady. "He asked to go."

Harry stared at her, incredulous. "Because of what happened?"

"Absolutely not," she said with a slight shake of her head. "That's over."

"It's not over," Harry snapped, starting to walk again. "The story won't end. Did anybody even hear the second half of what I said? I made a rousing call—"

"That's not why Dean's leaving," Minerva interrupted, her voice cutting through his tirade.

Harry's steps slowed, his voice quieter but no less intense. "Then why is he leaving?"

Minerva hesitated for a moment before sighing. "Oh, Harry."

Harry shook his head, his frustration mounting again. "Yeah, I get it. There are moments—small moments, infrequent moments—where I'm not the easiest person to work with. But who the hell is?"

"I am," Minerva said simply, with a hint of dry humor.

"Well, it helps that you're usually too busy judging everyone to notice," Harry shot back, his tone sharp.

"That it does," Minerva replied evenly, unruffled. "Now, do me a favor—"

"This is more than unprofessional, it's uncivilized," Harry said, cutting her off again. "But more than that, it's unprofessional."

Minerva stepped in front of him, her voice firm but calm. "Just do me a favor, will you?"

Harry exhaled heavily, running a hand through his hair. "Sure," he muttered, his frustration simmering but not entirely gone.

"Try not to make a scene-," Minerva started as they arrived at the conference room that had glass walls. You could see the room full with Harry's staff and he couldn't help it as he reached forward, knocking hard on the glass.

"Hey, dickless!" he shouted, getting the attention of everyone. Dean started to move but Harry stopped him.

"Not you," he said. "You're in a minute. You."

Harry pointed straight at Neville, who tentatively walked out as Harry paced around a bit.

"Hey, Harry," Neville said, not timidly, but certainly wary.

"Congratulations on the show," Harry started, at least going there. "You're gonna do great."

"I'd have called you," Neville began, his tone apologetic, "but I didn't know where you were staying. Every owl came back with an out-of-the-office reply—"

"You're taking my executive producer?" Harry interrupted, his voice sharp as he directed his glare at Neville.

Neville raised his hands defensively. "Before you go any further, I strongly objected."

"Did you?" Harry asked, crossing his arms and arching an eyebrow, his tone biting.

"For all the reasons you're about to say," Neville insisted, but before he could continue, Dean interjected.

"I think this conversation's about me," Dean said, coming out of the conference room, his eyes meeting Harry's evenly.

Harry tilted his head, his sarcasm cutting. "Ah, catlike instincts."

Dean sighed. "I tried to get in touch with you, but Minerva said—"

"You asked to leave?" Harry cut him off, his tone incredulous.

"I did," Dean admitted, holding up a hand. "But we've got two weeks before—"

"Because of what happened?" Harry demanded, stepping closer.

"No," Dean replied firmly, shaking his head.

"Because the second half was a rousing call to action—" Harry began, his voice rising.

"It has nothing to do with what happened," Dean interrupted, his tone steady but tinged with exasperation.

Harry's eyes narrowed. "The timing is curious."

Dean turned to Minerva and gestured toward Harry. "Didn't you tell him it doesn't have anything to do with what happened?"

Minerva sighed, looking between the two. "Yes, I did. And talk to him when you're talking to him."

Harry's gaze flicked back to Dean. "After all the time we spent working side by side?"

Dean blinked, confused. "Harry, I've been your EP for thirteen weeks."

"That's the longest I've ever worked with anybody!" Harry shot back, throwing his arms up. "I mean, you were the one. You were my guy. We were like—like the Weird Sisters!"

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "You'll interview some good candidates."

Harry stared at him for a long moment, then his tone shifted, dripping with forced indifference. "Dean, please. I'll replace you in fifteen minutes."

Dean's gaze hardened, as he clearly could see that the nice act wasn't going to work, so he gave it to Will straight.

"You know, it wasn't the anti-magic thing Harry," Dean started. "Or even that you aimed a profanity-laced tirade at a Ravenclaw sixth year, who you even got the house wrong. It's your personality."

That stopped Harry in his tracks, not expecting that answer. He knew that he had troubles recently, being a little harder on the staff, but he didn't expect them to leave on this. "What?" was all Harry could muster.

"The reason I'm leaving and the reason the others are," Dean reiterated.

Harry threw up his arms and just looked flabbergasted. "I'm affable!" he shouted.

"To strangers," Dean said. "To people who watch you on TV. You yelled at me in front of the crew."

Harry just rolled his eyes, now figuring out what was going on and just shaking his head.

"That's what this is about," Harry deadpanned.

"Yes," Dean asserted. "That's what this is about."

"Yeah, you know," Harry said. "I thought you were talking into my ear."

"That's what I'm supposed to do," Dean said, rolling his eyes now.

"I had Stanley McChrystal on a live floo call from Latvia," Harry said, wondering where Dean got off. "He's being cursed at by the fucking Death Eaters and you were yakking in my ear."

"I wasn't yakking," Dean said, voice hard. "I was telling you to not let him off the hook."

"Was that something that really needed to be said four times?" Harry asked.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Because you let him off the hook, as was pointed out by everyone who had access to any media this Wizarding World has created. You blew that interview and you took it out on me."

"It was two days after the thing with the student," Harry tried to defend himself. "I thought it would be a good idea to show deference to an acclaimed auror-"

"You took it out on me," Dean interrupted. "You did it in front of the staff, then you took it out on the staff the way you're doing right now.

"The staff isn't here!" Harry shouted. "You're taking the department heads. Who the hell knows who they're taking?"

"Maggie's standing right there," Dean said, gesturing back to Maggie who had entered with a piece of paper in her hands, looking like a deer in headlights.

"Her name happens to be Ellen!" Harry punctuated loudly, trying to get across the point that he was a good boss. They all looked back at her and she just shook her head softly, knowing that it was wrong.

"It's Margaret," Dean said. "And simply put, you are a smart, talented guy who isn't very nice and the countdown to your retirement from relevance…"

"All right," Minerva said, trying to end this conversation.

"Started the moment you call witches and wizards idiots and losers," Dean finished and Minerva had enough.

"That's enough Mr. Thomas," she said, stepping in front of him, her professor voice coming out. "I gave you detention once and I will certainly do it again, have your hands numb from the work you'll be getting!"

"Hey, hey, hey, hey," Harry said, pulling Minerva away to get her settled down. "All right."

The hallway relaxed a bit, everyone taking a deep breath and letting the emotions die down. Dean was the first to say something.

"All right, look," Dean said. "I'm sorry I said all that."

"No," Harry said, waving it off. "It's easier to say than the truth."

"What?" Dean asked, confused by how calm he was and that particular answer.

"You're jumping a sinking ship," Harry said, knowing it was true and his time was limited. "You've always been the smartest guy around here."

Dean just looked down and took another breath. "I appreciate you promoting me up as fast as you did. And I will work with whoever you hire to make it a smooth transition over the next two weeks."

Dean looked to Maggie then, hoping to relieve her of this, probably super uncomfortable conversation in front of her.

"Is that the afternoon brief?" Dean asked and Maggie nodded.

He took the paper and Harry just sighed, turning back to Neville who was still quiet and apologetic.

"I'm," Neville said, trying to find the right words. "I'm sorry about all this."

"No, no, no," Harry said, waving that off, never able to stay mad at Neville, the one constant friend he had these last three years. "Good luck with the show, man. I'm here for whatever you need."

Harry headed out at that point, followed by Minerva.

---

The VIP dining area of the Daily Prophet headquarters was as luxurious as it was secluded. High above the bustling newsroom floors, the space was walled with enchanted windows that showcased sweeping views of Diagon Alley. Elegant chandeliers floated overhead, their soft golden light glinting off polished tables set with fine china. The scent of fresh coffee and baked goods lingered in the air, while a discreet house-elf moved silently between tables, tending to the few privileged occupants.

At one of the tables near the corner, Harry sat across from Minerva McGonagall, who sipped her tea with her usual composed grace. Harry's coffee sat untouched, his attention fixed on the conversation at hand.

"You did let McChrystal off the hook because you were gun-shy after Hogwarts," Minerva said, her tone firm but not accusatory. "He was right about that."

Harry leaned back in his chair, exhaling sharply. "I didn't let him off the hook. He's an auror, Minerva. A professional strategist. He's schooled in evasive tactics."

"Against dark wizards, not journalists," Minerva countered, raising an eyebrow.

Harry smirked faintly, a flicker of humor breaking through his frustration. "Chief Brody, Hooper, and Captain Quint didn't let Jaws off the hook is what I'm saying."

Minerva just crocked an eyebrow at that, "You know I don't understand Muggle movie references."

Harry's expression turned serious again. "I didn't know."

Minerva paused mid-sip, setting her teacup down. "What?"

"I didn't know that people didn't like working for me," Harry admitted, his voice quieter now, tinged with something close to vulnerability.

Minerva studied him for a moment, her sharp gaze unreadable. "Do you care?"

Harry hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "No. Of course I care. Anybody would care. But honestly, I don't. I do. I am a perfectly nice guy, and I have the focus group data to prove it, so maybe the problem lies not with me—"

"I hired a new executive producer for you," Minerva interrupted, her tone calm but final.

Harry froze, his eyes narrowing. "What do you mean?"

"I hired you a new EP," she repeated, unflappable as ever.

Harry leaned forward, his voice rising slightly. "You hi—you— I'm never going on vacation again. You hired a new EP without my meeting him?"

"Her," Minerva corrected smoothly.

Harry blinked. "Without my meeting her?"

Minerva's lips twitched with the barest hint of a smile. "No, you've met her."

"Who?" Harry asked, and Minerva gave him that same mischievous look that only meant one thing. She communicated everything in that look, and Harry's heart dropped as he figured it out instantly. "Minerva, have you hired to run my show, without consulting me-,"

"You were unreachable," Minerva said, cutting him off. "Only one person knew how to get in touch with you."

"It was you!" Harry said, not believing what he was hearing.

"I had to right the ship," Minerva said. "You know that for this particular job, there's no one better."

"You're not talking about Hermione," Harry asked, hoping everything that what he was thinking was wrong.

"I had to right the ship," Minerva said, confirming his suspicions. "You're too big an asset to screw around with and your focus group data isn't saying what it said three weeks ago.

"Minerva-," Harry started but she just continued on.

"She was in Riga," Minerva started. "For four months. The Green Zone for a year before that. Her guys were filing stories from caves. She comes home, she wants to be an EP again, have a normal life, and there's nothing for her."

"I knew that," Harry said, hearing the struggles that Hermione had, finding work.

"She's exhausted," Minerva said. "Not like at the end of a long day. She's mentally and physically exhausted. She hasn't had four hours' sleep in two years. She's been cursed at in three different countries, and she's been to way too many funerals for a girl her age. She wants to come home."

"Yeah," Harry said, flippantly. "Look, I don't blame her."

"They don't have a job for her at Hogwarts, or Gringotts, or even the Ministry," Minerva said. "Hermione! You line up any ten people, eight of them will tell you she's the brightest witch of her age and the other two will be stupid!"

"I'm one of the eight," Harry said, not doubting that. "But it's not gonna happen."

"It's happened," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Harry frowned, shaking his head. "No."

"She's coming up from Crawley today with one of her people," Minerva continued, ignoring his protest.

"No," Harry repeated, his voice firm. "Listen to what I'm telling you—I can't give my approval."

Minerva just smiled a cheeky smile. "The deal's a day away from being signed—three years."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "I have approval over my executive producer."

"You would think so, wouldn't you?" Minerva replied, the same damn smile on her face..

"I would, yeah," Harry shot back, his frustration evident.

Minerva responded innocently. "Business Affairs went through your whole contract."

Harry's frown deepened. "I don't have contractual approval?"

"No," she said, grinning. "But you know what?"

Harry's voice rose slightly, his disbelief obvious. "I don't have contractual approval?"

Minerva's gaze softened slightly, though her tone remained playful. "You're up for renegotiation in 18 months. I'd suggest you have your agent put that clause in then."

Harry scoffed, getting up from his chair to take care of this. "No, I'm walking down the street to my agent. I'm renegotiating my contract right now."

Minerva raised an eyebrow, her expression faintly amused. "It's not going to go your way."

"I generate an annual profit of 210 million galleons on my own," Harry burst out in the middle of the restaurant. "That's not counting the lead-in freight I push to nine and ten o'clock. That may be tipping money for this company, but it's not nothing."

Minerva had it at this point, and raised her voice for the second time today. "Harry!"

"What?" Harry spat back.

"When was the last time you saw her?" Minerva asked.

"I don't know," Harry said. "About three years ago?"

"Coincidentally," Minerva snapped. "That's the last time you were a nice guy!"

Harry just gave her a glare, working through the emotions of everything that just went on, and stormed out of the room.

---

The glass doors of the Daily Prophet newsroom swung open, and Hermione Granger stepped inside, her heels clicking softly against the polished marble floor. She paused just past the threshold, taking a moment to absorb the sight before her. The expansive room buzzed with subdued energy, the hum of enchanted quills and the faint rustle of parchment filling the air. Rows of desks stretched out before her, dotted with magical typewriters and enchanted notice boards flickering with updates.

Hermione was dressed in a light blue collared shirt tucked neatly into a fitted business skirt, her sleeves rolled up just enough to suggest readiness for work but not informality. Her hair, always untamable, was pulled back into a loose chignon, a few stubborn curls framing her face. Over one shoulder hung a sleek black bag filled with parchment, quills, and a wand holster. In her other hand, she carried a smaller satchel, the faint scent of freshly brewed coffee wafting from it.

Setting her bags down at a pillar near the entrance, Hermione straightened and surveyed the room with a mixture of nostalgia and determination. The glass walls of the adjacent studio caught her attention, and through them, she could see Luna Lovegood, her blonde hair pinned up with a quill, gesturing animatedly as she spoke to the camera. The words "Wizarding Economics with Luna Lovegood" scrolled across the enchanted ticker below her in glowing letters.

Hermione smiled faintly. Luna, always unpredictable, had carved out a niche for herself in a world that once dismissed her as eccentric.

This place, however, wasn't new to Hermione. It had been a dream she and Harry once shared—an idea born out of a chaotic lunch in the aftermath of their respective breakups. Harry and Ginny had ended things quietly, amicably, but it had still hurt. Shortly after, Hermione and Ron had admitted that they, too, were holding on to something that no longer worked. The break had been harder for Ron, but Hermione knew it was the right choice.

She'd thrown herself into work, helping Harry build the foundation for the Wizarding World News network. It was exhilarating at first—planning broadcasts, drafting policies, and shaping the future of magical communication. But then it happened. It had been enough to drive her away, to make her pack her things and leave, leaving Harry and the newsroom behind.

For the last two and a half years, she'd been in the Baltics, reporting on the ongoing battles against the remnants of the Death Eater factions. The stories were grueling—families torn apart, communities still haunted by shadows of Voldemort's regime—but it gave her a sense of purpose. Colin Creevey had been her right hand through it all, his camera capturing the stark truths she chronicled, while also, under her tutelage, became a brilliant newsman himself. Together, they had sent dispatches back to Britain, ensuring the wizarding world didn't forget the price of its fragile peace.

Now, though, she was back.

Hermione took a deep breath and stepped farther into the room, her eyes flicking across the familiar desks and faces. A few people glanced up, whispering to one another—Hermione Granger's reputation preceded her—but she ignored them, focusing instead on the path ahead. She looked over and saw a young blonde woman sitting at one of the desks, only a few of them occupied, and figured this was a good place to start.

"Excuse me," Hermione asked.

Maggie was entranced in a report she was reading, so she didn't look up right away, "Yes?"

"I'm Hermione Granger," Hermione said, finding it amusing about how engrossed she was..

"How can I help you?" Maggie asked, still not looking up.

"I'm supposed to be meeting with Harry," Hermione said with another grin.

Maggie finally looked up and her eyes widened. "Oh, my God! I'm sorry. You're Hermione Granger."

"I am," Hermione replied with a faint smile. "And you are?"

"I'm Mag—" Maggie started, but she was interrupted by Dean, who had just walked over.

"Hermione," Dean said, his expression lighting up with a mix of surprise and respect.

"Hey, Dean," Hermione replied warmly.

Dean grinned, walking over to Maggie and introducing her to Hermione. "Hermione gave me my first summer internship. Don't tell me you're here to interview for my job."

Hermione shook her head, her voice light but matter-of-fact. "No, I'm here to do your job."

Dean froze, his smile faltering. "Are you serious?"

"Yes," Hermione said simply, her tone leaving no room for doubt.

"I… I don't understand," Dean stammered, his confidence visibly shaken.

Hermione tilted her head, her voice calm and measured. "I don't understand."

Dean looked around, as if seeking an explanation from the room itself. "When were you hired?"

Hermione didn't answer directly. Instead, she asked, "Is Harry in his office?"

The young woman at the desk hesitated before responding. "He's not, but his agent's office is just down the street. He should be back any minute."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "He's at his agent's office?"

"Yes…" the woman replied hesitantly, then blurted, "I'm sorry. I gave too much information."

Dean nodded knowingly. "Yep. Now I understand."

Hermione turned her attention back to the young woman. "What's your name?"

"Maggie," the woman replied nervously.

"Maggie," Hermione repeated, her voice soft but with a hint of amusement. "Let me try to guess at something, and you tell me how close I am to being right. This whole move was done behind Harry's back, and he just found out now. He stormed off to his agent's office to see why he doesn't have approval."

Maggie gave a small, apologetic smile. "Mm-hmm."

Hermione nodded, her tone shifting to something more matter-of-fact. "Okay. All right. You're going to see some things. I'm just going to sit here until he gets back."

With that, Hermione walked to a nearby chair, set her bag down, and sat, crossing one leg over the other. She folded her hands in her lap, looking utterly composed as if she were perfectly at home in the chaos she had just walked into. Dean and Maggie had a small conversation before he headed off and the two girls were practically alone.

Hermione sat calmly in her chair, her gaze sharp and focused on Maggie, who was nervously shuffling parchments at the front desk. After a moment of silence, Hermione spoke, her voice cutting through the tension like a charm.

"You said your name was Maggie?" Hermione asked, her tone polite but curious.

"Yes, ma'am," Maggie replied quickly, her words rushed and deferential.

Hermione raised an eyebrow, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Ma'am? How old do I look?"

Maggie's eyes widened in panic. "No! No, no, no. I just—I heard you were embedded for a while."

"Thirty months," Hermione replied, her voice even, though a flicker of memory crossed her face. "Anything happen while I was gone?"

"That's why I called you ma'am," Maggie said, her nervousness laced with admiration.

Hermione tilted her head slightly. "So did the Aurors."

Maggie stared at her, still flustered but clearly intrigued. "You sure don't look like you've been in a war."

Hermione's faint smile widened. "The first thing I did when I got back was buy women's clothes. You would not believe what they had over there, or the lack of it. I had to trade almost all of my socks just for a new bra.'"

"Oh, God," Maggie muttered, her face flushing red.

"I'm kidding," Hermione said smoothly, her expression softening with amusement.

Maggie let out a breath of relief, and then she got a floo call. She checked who it was and looked over to Hermione in apology. "Oh, excuse me."

"It's all right," Hermione said with a small chuckle, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs, as composed as ever.

Hermione Granger leaned against the edge of a desk in the bustling newsroom, her sharp eyes fixed on Maggie, who was hurriedly speaking into a Muggle-style enchanted floo phone, a decently new invention that the Wizarding World had adapted. It had the power to ring into any fireplace or other connected floo phone, just couldn't show picture unless it was from fireplace to fireplace.

"Hi, Dad. I'm fine," Maggie said, her tone overly cheerful. "I left a message for you and Mum at the hotel because I wanted to let you know it'll just be the three of us for dinner tonight….Dean can't make it….He has to work late….He just does….You know, with him running the 10:00 broadcast now, he's so—" Maggie faltered briefly but quickly recovered. "And he feels terrible about it. He was really looking forward to meeting you….I know, but in this case, it's true….So, great. I'll meet you guys in the lobby at 9:15….Okay. Bye, Dad."

As she hung up, Hermione spoke, her voice calm but cutting through the tension. "You okay?"

Maggie sniffed, rubbing her nose quickly. "Oh, I've just got an allergy."

"To what?" Hermione asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Oysters," Maggie replied, looking away.

Hermione studied her for a moment, then said, "I hate lying to my father."

"I wasn't lying," Maggie stammered, her voice defensive.

Hermione smiled faintly. "Yeah. Why won't Dean go to dinner? Thinks it's too early?"

Maggie flushed, her words tumbling out. "Dean's not my boyfriend."

Hermione tilted her head knowingly, glancing to her desk, "He's in a picture on your desk. It's with a couple of your friends, so it's not obvious, but it's a picture of your boyfriend."

Maggie looked embarrassed she was caught so easily but Hermione reassured her, "Don't worry—I'm not reporting you to HR."

"Thank you," Maggie said, her relief palpable.

"Does he want you to do things in the bedroom you're uncomfortable with?" Hermione asked bluntly.

"No!" Maggie replied, her voice rising in shock.

"Damn it," Hermione muttered with mock frustration. "These are just routine questions."

"You put that together really fast," Maggie said, still flustered.

"It's not an original story," Hermione replied dryly.

Maggie sighed, her voice softening. "My dad knew I was lying. Now he's going to hate Dean, and that's not what I wanted to happen."

Hermione reached into her pocket and handed Maggie a tissue. "Your eyes are red. Turn and face me."

Maggie obeyed, and Hermione continued, her tone firm but kind. "When he calls you tonight at 11:00 and wants to come by, don't lay on a tone of voice. Just tell him nicely that you're hanging with your roommates and you'll see him at work. Do that three times. He'll get the idea. Are you going with Dean to the 10:00 broadcast?"

Maggie shook her head. "No."

"Why not?" Hermione asked, crossing her arms.

"I… it's just that I was… Loyalty," Maggie stammered. "I'm Harry's assistant."

"No," Hermione corrected gently but firmly. "You're an associate producer now. I'm crazy about loyalty. You'll report to…"

At that moment, Colin Creevey burst into the newsroom, his bag slung over his shoulder and his expression flustered. "Hermione!"

"Him!" Hermione replied cheerfully, turning toward Colin.

"Did you know—did you know—" Colin stammered, clearly frazzled. So frazzled, that he tripped over one of Hermione's bags and fell to the ground hard, dropping his own things all around.

Maggie stepped forward, her concern evident. "Are you all right?"

Hermione, clearly unbothered by Colin's clumsiness having seen it before, just gestured at her bags, "Colin, that's Louis Vuitton luggage."

Colin popped up, looking at both of them, addressing Maggie first, "I'm fine, thank you." He then turned to Hermione, "Can I talk to you for a second?"

"Sure," Hermione said, but still choosing to make introductions. "Colin Creevy, this is Maggie-"

"Margaret," Maggie corrected, still trying to use something professional.

"This is Maggie Margaret," Hermione said, clearly thinking it was just the girl's last name.

"Margaret Jordan," Maggie corrected Hermione, reaching out a hand to Colin. "Maggie's fine."

"Nice to meet you," Colin said, taking her hand and then turning to Hermione. "Now, please."

Colin led Hermione away, while Hermione just looked him over, "Did you hurt anything?" she asked.

"Mm-hmmm, everything, I think, but please," Colin said, getting her to a secluded place.. "Did you know Harry didn't know you were hired as executive producer and that he's at his agent's office right now?"

Hermione sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I didn't know that when the day began, but I know it now."

"I quit my job for this, Hermione," Colin said, his voice rising. "And so did the three other people you told me to bring."

"Our show was canceled, Colin," Hermione replied with calm authority. "We were out of work anyway."

"I was offered any other show I wanted at the New York Ghost," Colin countered, his frustration boiling over.

"I know," Hermione said evenly, "but I wasn't."

"That's not the point," Colin snapped.

Hermione raised a hand to calm him. "It's aggravating when you rise to a certain position and—"

Colin interrupted her, his voice tight. "I put down first and last month's rent. Do I have a job in London?"

"Yes, of course you do," Hermione said, her voice softening slightly.

"You're sure?" Colin asked, clearly on edge.

"No," Hermione admitted with a small shrug, her honesty catching Colin off guard.

Colin threw his hands in the air. "I'm calling Tom Walton and begging for a job. I'll cover hurricanes."

"Colin," Hermione said pleadingly, stepping toward him. "Colin, Colin, Colin, Colin."

"Why didn't you tell me there's some kind of problem with you and Harry?" Colin demanded.

"Because that's personal," Hermione replied, her tone firm. "Do you see me asking personal questions? When was the last time you were in love with someone?"

Colin blinked, startled. "What?"

"When was the last time you had a passionate relationship?" Hermione pressed. "Like Hollywood love, high school love?"

Colin sighed, his voice resigned. "You know the only reason I'm still standing here is that I have nowhere else to go, right?"

Hermione nodded. "I do know that. When was the last time?"

"Never," Colin said flatly. "That's never happened."

"Right," Hermione replied. "And you know how you've always had a crush on me?"

"I have never had a crush on you," Colin replied, his voice firm.

Hermione smirked. "Yeah, it's been cute."

"Never had a crush on you," Colin repeated, but he gestured for her to continue.

"The girl you just met, Maggie—she's me before I grew into myself," Hermione said, her tone light but tinged with humor.

Colin threw up his hands. "I don't understand why you chose this moment to lose it!"

"Just—"

"Why are you afraid to see Harry?" Colin pressed. "You have to tell me."

"Hey, jughead, I'm not afraid of anything except jellyfish, which is completely normal," Hermione shot back. "Now look at Maggie. Not a big look, stupid."

"I didn't look at all," Colin said defensively.

"Right. Okay, just glance over," Hermione said, and Colin glanced over at Maggie who had gone back to work. "Cupid, bam!" Hermione said with a huge grin.

"Can we cut to the chase?" Colin said, exasperated. "What's in this for you?"

"Now why does it have to be like that?" Hermione asked, mock offended at the notion even though Colin knew her.

"It doesn't," Colin said, proving his point. "But it is."

Hermione sighed. "I need Dean to help me through this transition. It turns out Dean's dating Maggie, and I'm not sure he's right for her."

"Really? After knowing them as a couple for this long, you're not sure?" Colin replied sarcastically.

"He's going to be threatened by you, so he'll try to impress Maggie, who's staying with Harry," Hermione explained. "You understand?"

Colin groaned. "Yeah, I'm calling Walton."

"Colin, Colin, Colin, Colin," Hermione pleaded again, stopping him.

"What?" Colin asked, clearly looking for an explanation.

"You're right," Hermione said finally, shaking his head. "You've done everything I've ever asked you to do and a ton of stuff I'd never ask anyone to do. Tell me where you want to work, and I'll make the call."

"Look—"

"Fly away, little bird," Hermione said with a faint smile.

Colin threw up his hands in frustration. "Merlin! You know what—"

"Something great is about to happen here," Hermione interrupted, her voice softening. "And you're going to want to be a part of it."

"Tell me what the problem is with you and Harry," Colin said, his voice quieter now.

"I can't," Hermione said, shaking her head.

"I can't believe I'm believing you on this," Colin said, a bit in disbelief as he let himself get talked into this.

"This is a solid promise," Hermione said, her tone earnest. "We're going to do the best news in the wizarding world."

"Either that or…?" Colin prompted.

"Or we'll all be filling out job applications at Zonko's, but we'll be doing it together," Hermione said with a smile. "Now, just sit here a minute, all right?"

"Sure," Colin muttered, clearly exhausted.

Hermione gave him a brief, encouraging smile before turning her attention back to the newsroom. "We're going to be great!" she declared.

"Where's the rest of the staff?" Colin asked tiredly.

"They left," Hermione replied simply.

Hermione looked up from her conversation with Colin, her words trailing off mid-sentence as the world seemed to narrow. Harry was standing just inside the doorway of the newsroom, his familiar figure silhouetted against the glass wall behind him. He wasn't moving, not yet. He was just standing there, his green eyes staring right into hers, taking everything in with a quiet intensity she hadn't forgotten.

Three years.

Her chest tightened, an ache she couldn't quite name rising and falling as quickly as she caught it. He looked older—not dramatically so, but in the small ways that mattered. His hair was slightly shorter, though still just as untidy. There was a tiredness to his posture, a weight in the set of his shoulders that hadn't been there before. He was wearing his usual leather jacket over a button-down shirt, casual but intentional, like everything about him.

Hermione's hands curled into fists at her sides, her nails pressing lightly into her palms as she forced herself to breathe. A part of her—the part she hadn't allowed herself to indulge in years—wanted to smile, to cross the room, to say something that would undo the distance between them. But her feet stayed rooted, her heart pounding in her ears.

For a split second, the air between them seemed to hum with something unspoken. His expression didn't change—not really—but she saw the recognition, the brief flicker of something she couldn't quite name, flash across his face.

Hermione swallowed, her voice steady when she finally broke the silence. "Hi, Harry. It's good to see you."

Harry just looked back at her, not blinking or saying a word. Hermione quickly got Colin over and stood him in front.

"Harry, you remember Colin from school," Hermione said. "He's my senior producer. The others are coming up-"

"Let's go in my office," Harry finally said, breaking the silence.

"Sure," Hermione said, easily obeying this time as it was a chance to at least talk to him.

"Somebody wanna tell Dean the lunch party's over and I need someone on the assignment desk," Harry called out as he walked towards his office. "In case there happens to be, what do you call it, news?"

"Can I get you some coffee or anything?" Maggie asked, but Harry brushed her off.

"We're fine," he said, going into his office and closing the door.

They both walked into his office and Harry went over to sit down behind his desk. Hermione had a bunch of nervous energy building up inside of her, so she didn't sit, just stood in front of his desk, trying to find the words to start this.

"I tried to get in touch with you while you were on vacation," Hermione started. "Nobody seemed to know how to do that. Or at least, they weren't willing to say."

Still nothing from Harry, so Hermione continued on, just word blurting at this point.

"Actually, I've tried to get in touch with you a lot of times in the last three years," she said. "Did you get all those letters?"

"Yeah," Harry said, shortly and clipped.

"What did you think?" Hermione asked with a bit of hope.

"I didn't read them," Harry dismissed, leaning back in her chair.

"I understand," Hermione said, and then slipped back into a role she had in school and after with him, chiding him on his manners. "There's no need to apologize."

Harry, a bit in disbelief she slipped back into that persona, still managed to respond with a fair amount of sarcasm, "Thank you."

"You look good after your vacation," she said, her tone casual but with an edge of something unspoken. "You look rested. I've never been to St. Lucia. Is it great?"

"Yeah," Harry replied shortly, his expression unreadable.

Hermione hesitated for a fraction of a second before adding, "You were down there with Lina Ivanova? It's not my business. You can go anywhere with anyone."

Harry's gaze flicked to her briefly, but he said nothing about her comment. Instead, he nodded once and said, "Thank you again."

Hermione's lips pressed into a faint smile, though her eyes were serious. "Hey, this can work. In fact, it's gonna work great. I asked my agent to negotiate a three-year contract. You know me—I think that's the longest contract I've ever—"

"It's not a three-year contract anymore," Harry interrupted, his voice calm but firm.

Hermione blinked, her brows knitting together. "I'm sorry?"

"It's not a three-year contract anymore," Harry repeated, his tone unchanged. "It's a 156-week contract that gives me the opportunity to fire you 155 times at the end of each week."

Hermione's jaw tightened as she processed his words, but Harry continued, undeterred. "We'll wait a few months to make sure it's not a story Rita Skeeter can shove up my ass. Then we'll do it."

"How did you get my contract changed?" Hermione asked, her voice sharp now, a faint trace of disbelief creeping in.

"I gave the network back some money off my salary," Harry said matter-of-factly, his tone as casual as if they were discussing the weather.

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "How much money?"

"A million galleons a year," Harry replied, shrugging slightly.

Hermione stared at him, incredulous. "You gave back a million galleons a year?"

"Yeah," Harry said, his expression unmoved.

"You paid a million galleons to be able to fire me any time you want?" Hermione asked, her voice rising slightly.

"Three million," Harry corrected, his tone steady. "And not any time I want—just at the end of each week."

Hermione's frustration boiled over, her voice sharp and cutting, but also a bit of disbelief. "How the hell much money do you get paid?"

Hermione stepped forward, her voice low but laced with anger as she stared at Harry. "Hey, do this to me. Do this to me all you want, but you can't do it to them."

Harry raised an eyebrow, his tone indifferent. "Who?"

"People followed me here," Hermione snapped, her frustration boiling over. "Colin Creevey, my senior producer, bookers, the H producer, desk editors, field producers—"

"They can't possibly be my problem," Harry interrupted, his tone cutting.

"Harry, come on now," Hermione said, her voice sharpening as she glared at him.

Harry shrugged, his expression unmoved. "What do you want from me, Hermione?"

"They're in the process of moving!" she said, her voice rising. "They've put down security deposits. They found roommates. They're looking at preschools—"

"Yeah, they fucked up, Hermione!" Harry cut her off, his voice cold and biting. "They trusted you!"

Hermione's breath caught at his words, her anger flaring again as the weight of his accusation hit her. The bustling newsroom on the other side of Harry's office door seemed to fade as this conversation was front and center. Hermione stood in front of Harry's desk, her expression tense but determined. "If you had read any of my letters or answered my calls, you'd know that I take responsibility for everything and—"

"I already did know that," Harry interrupted, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. "And I already didn't care."

Hermione's jaw tightened, but she continued, her voice quieter now. "That I'm sorry."

Harry's eyes narrowed slightly, his tone laced with skepticism. "Are you?"

"Yes," Hermione said firmly, meeting his gaze without flinching.

Harry sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. "Hermione, I—I just—" He hesitated for a moment, his tone suddenly shifting into exaggerated earnestness. "You have no idea how I've longed to hear those words. I—I forgive you. Can you forgive—"

Hermione cut him off, her lips pressing into a thin line. "You're being sarcastic."

"Oh, how you know me," Harry replied, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Harry leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed, as Hermione stood in front of his desk, her tone sharp and resolute.

"For the moment," Harry said, his voice measured, "your people can keep their jobs. Like I said, I have to wait to make the move because there was a press release. But when I hire the new EP—and I will hire them myself—whoever it is will get to interview your team."

Hermione nodded curtly. "All right. Well, I appreciate that. They're really good, Harry. You're going to want to keep them. Don't just dump them because of—"

"They'll get a fair chance," Harry interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"Okay," Hermione said, her voice softening slightly.

Harry leaned forward, glancing at the clock. "I haven't started my script yet."

Hermione took the hint and stepped back. "I'll get out of your way. There's nothing more important in a democracy than a well-informed people."

Hermione started to head out, even got to the door and put her hand on the handle, but she stopped. She fought with herself, knowing the potential issues for keeping this conversation going, but she had to. She turned back around to look at Harry.

Harry gave her a look, his voice laced with sarcasm. "Just want to make sure you know you're still on this side of the door."

Hermione didn't miss a beat. "When there's no information—or worse, wrong information—it leads to calamitous decisions and clobbers any attempts at vigorous debate. That's why I produce the news."

"We're all grateful to you," Harry said dryly.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "You're spinning out of control."

"I'm not spinning out of control," Harry replied, his voice rising slightly.

"You're terrified you're going to lose your audience, and you'd do anything to get them back," Hermione countered. "You're one pitch meeting away from doing the news in your underwear."

Harry scoffed. "This isn't nonprofit theater, Hermione. It's advertiser-supported television. You know that, right?"

Hermione straightened, her tone unyielding. "I'd rather do a good show for 100 people than a bad one for a million if that's what you're saying."

Harry shook his head, clearly irritated. "What exactly are you talking to me about right now?"

Hermione leaned in, her voice calm but steely. "I've come here to produce a news broadcast that more closely resembles the one we did before you got popular by not bothering anyone. You're better than this, Harry."

"I think I would rather be employed, if it's all the same to you," Harry retorted.

"It's not all the same to me, you punk," Hermione snapped. "I've come here to take your IQ and your talent and put it to some patriotic fucking use. And where does it say that a good news show can't be popular?"

"Ratings," Harry shot back.

Hermione smirked, undeterred. "We're going to do a good news show and make it popular at the same time."

"That is impossible," Harry said flatly.

"Between your brains, charm, looks, and affability—and my—"

"Refusal to live in reality," Harry interrupted with a smirk.

"—expertise in producing you," Hermione continued firmly.

"It's impossible Hermione," Harry repeated, his voice rising.

"Ugh!" Hermione groaned, throwing up her hands in frustration.

Harry leaned forward, his tone now serious. "Social scientists have concluded that the country is more polarized than at any time since Voldemort. Voldemort, Hermione."

"Yes, people choose the news they want now," Hermione conceded. "But—"

"People choose the facts they want now," Harry cut in. "So what you've just described is impossible."

"Only if you think an overwhelming majority of witches and wizards are preternaturally stupid," Hermione shot back.

Harry's expression didn't change. "I do."

"Well, I don't," Hermione said firmly, taking a step closer to his desk. "And if you let me, I can prove it. You know what you left out of your sermon? That the Magical world is one of the only people on the planet that, since its birth, has said over and over that we can do better. It's part of who we are. People will want the news if you give it to them with integrity. Not everybody, not even a lot of people—5%. And 5% more of anything is what makes the difference in this world. So we can do better."

She exhaled sharply, folding her arms as the room fell silent.

Harry leaned back, watching her carefully. "I'm thinking," he said at last, before adding with a smirk, "Yeah, that whole speech did nothing for me."

Hermione glared at him, her frustration bubbling just beneath the surface, but she didn't waver. She wasn't done fighting—not yet. She stood in front of Harry's desk, her arms crossed and her expression determined. Her voice took on a theatrical tone as she began, "Now, I'd like you to listen to these words, written 500 years ago by Don Miguel de Cervantes: 'Hear me now, O thou bleak and unbearable world. Thou art base and debauched as can be. But a knight with his banners all bravely unfurled now hurls down his gauntlet to thee!'" She paused dramatically. "That was Don Quixote."

Harry didn't even look up from his desk, muttering, "Those words were written 45 years ago by the lyricist for Man of La Mancha."

Hermione blinked, momentarily thrown off, but recovered quickly. "Didn't think you'd know that," she admitted, "but the point's still the same—it's time for Don Quixote!"

Harry finally looked up, arching an eyebrow. "You think I'm him?"

"No," Hermione replied, her voice laced with mock seriousness. "I think I'm him. You're his horse."

"He rode a donkey," Harry corrected dryly.

"Well," Hermione said with a shrug, "I can't help you there."

Harry exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. "I have to write my script."

"I'll write it for you," Hermione offered, her tone breezy. "'The floo powder mining facility delay is believed to have started on March 20th and has led to a worldwide transportation disaster. The suspension of some floo travel was in no way caused by the Ministry of Magic, which I love. You have to believe me.'"

Harry shot her a look. "You want me in the same shouting match as everybody else?"

"I want you to not apologize for saying something—" Hermione began, her voice rising.

"All right!" Harry cut her off, holding up a hand.

"You got yourself in the shouting match when you finally grew some balls," Hermione pressed, "and I'd have you winning it."

Harry frowned. "And what does winning look like to you?"

Hermione stepped closer, her tone intensifying. "Reclaiming the Fourth Estate. Reclaiming journalism as an honorable profession. A nightly newscast that informs a debate worthy of a great nation. Civility, respect, and a return to what's important. The death of bitchiness, the death of gossip and voyeurism. Speaking truth to stupidity. No demographic sweet spot. A place where we all come together."

She leaned forward slightly, her gaze piercing. "We're coming to a tipping point, Harry. I know you know that. There's going to be a huge conversation. Is magic an instrument of good, or is it every man for himself? Is there something bigger we want to reach for, or is self-interest our basic resting pulse? You and I have a chance to be among the few people who can frame that debate."

Harry stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "That's—it's…" He trailed off.

"Quixotic?" Hermione supplied with a faint smile.

Harry was about to respond when Colin burst into his office, looking frantic with a big notepad. Dean wasn't long after him, looking extremely pissed.

"What?" Harry asked, not wanting to be disturbed.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Colin said. "Can I talk to Hermione for just a second?"

"Your guy here is a pain in the ass," Dean complained, but Colin fought through it.

"A potion refinery exploded in the North Sea," Colin said, getting the news out there.

"The Department of Magical Catastrophes is searching for missing crew members," Dean said, not believing it's a big deal. "I'll fill you in at the six o'clock rundown."

"There's more," Colin insisted.

"He doesn't need to hear this right now," Dean pushed, obviously upset by all of this.

"Let's go outside," Hermione suggested, wanting to at least hear all of this, even if Harry didn't.

"No," Harry said, looking at all of them. "If Dean doesn't want me to hear it, I'd like to hear it."

"Oh, blow me," Dean said, exasperated.

"I want you to not use that language in front of women and to forever not suggest that image to me," Harry said sharply, not appreciative of that, which made Hermione internally smile a bit at Harry's unwavering protection of her, even in times like this. "What happened Colin?"

"Two calls within five minutes of each other," Colin said. "The first one was from a friend of mine at Alchemical Enterprises in London, saying he's sitting in meetings where they don't know how to cap the well."

"Merlin," Hermione commented, knowing the implications of this.

"The potion concentrate is still spilling?" Harry asked, also starting to see the issue in this.

"Yeah, at a pretty alarming rate," Colin said. "The first estimate was about 3,000 liters per hour. My guy says it's closer to 30,000 and could get as high as 80,000."

"Why is this well different from other potion concentrate wells?" Harry asked.

"The depth," Colin said. "I need one of your staffers. I don't know his name, he sits in the back. He's-he's the one with-"

"Are you trying to not say anything about the color of his skin so you don't seem racist trying to describe him?" Harry asked, getting up.

"Yes," Colin said, following him out.

"NEAL!" Harry called out, getting the man's attention as they walked over.

"Tell him about the pressure," Colin said, approaching Neal Sampat, an Indian producer that had been there for a long time, handling a lot of the technical aspects of what they did.

"Abyssal Cauldron Platform," Neal started. "Is aptly named. They're refining the potion concentrate at 5,500 meters below sea level."

"Is that dangerous?" Harry asked, not knowing the mechanics behind collecting basic potion concentrate.

"Take the Grand Canyon," Neal started. "Make it three times deeper, fill it with water, and poke a hole in the bottom. You can't just yank the pin out of the planet, and that's what's happened."

"How do you know this stuff?" Hermione asked.

"I made a volcano in primary school," Neal said simply, almost like it was basic knowledge.

"So did I," Hermione said, coming from a muggle background. "I didn't know I was supposed to learn something from it."

Hermione turned back to Colin then, remembering he had a second person, "What was the second call?"

"My guy at Aegis Arcana Warding Company," Colin said.

"What the hell is going on?" McGonagall asked, showing up at this point, obviously getting some news herself. "A rig exploded in the North sea?"

"The rig was due to be moved to its next role as a semipermanent production platform at a new location," Colin said. "And Aegis was hired to seal the well with a permanent rune ward. Both of my guys are identifying the failure of the runes composition as the cause of the explosion. But here's the thing, Aegis performed tests on the runes, and the tests showed it was gonna fail."

"Merlin's beard," Hermione said, agape at this.

"Yeah, hang on Merlin," Harry said to Hermione and turned to Colin. "I need to know who your sources are."

Colin hesitated hard at this. Journalistic integrity had always taught him to never give up his sources, it was a sacred bond that allowed sources to be able to come forward freely without having to deal with backlash.

"Look," Colin said. "You don't have to trust me. Hermione trusts me. You just have to trust her."

"Ha, try another strategy," Harry said, knowing that Hermione and trust weren't really close to each other at the moment. "How high up is the guy at Alchemical?"

"High enough to be in on the meetings," Colin said, and quickly tried to correct. "And I never said it was a guy."

"Actually, you did," Harry said, but quickly moving on. "Does he have an axe to grind?"

"No," Colin said, resolute on that.

"What about the guy at Aegis?" McGonagall pushed.

"I didn't say he was a guy," Colin said, but relented a bit. "But we'll call him that. And he is solid. You guys have to follow up on this, all right. You're gonna wanna open with the Department of Magical Catastrophes search and then pivot to this because Neal says…"

"It's gonna be the biggest magical environmental disaster in history," Neal said and everyone was stunned by that statement.

Dean, quickly annoyed by whatever they were making out of this, knowing that there hadn't been any breaking alerts from the desk specifically set up to alert them for these stories, tried to brush it away.

"Can we please get back to work and send the Hardy Boys to their room?" Dean asked.

"Neal, tell them," Colin pushed, knowing how important this was.

"After an explosion like that," Neal started. "The first thing that's supposed to happen is the underwater blowout preventer should automatically trigger and magically seal."

"The flames are still 50 meters high, so that obviously didn't happen," Colin said. "Now when they get the fire out, they're gonna send a team of warders down there to try and fix the runes manually, but my source says "at that depth, with that much pressure, it has to be the composition that failed and not the runes." In other words, trying it manually isn't gonna work either."

"So they're gonna have to build relief wells and that's gonna take months," Neal said.

"Months of potion concentrate spilling into the North Sea at a rate of 15 million liters a day," Colin said.

"And the North Sea has 54,000 cubic kilometers of water, with one cubic kilometer equaling a billion liters," Dean said, checking the fact on that one. "I think you may be overreacting."

"You are dramatically underreacting," Colin shot back.

"I'm the only one who's not dramatically doing anything," Dean defended, still believing he was in the right.

"In four days, it'll have spilled as much concentrate as the muggle Exxon Valdez spilled oil in 1989," Colin said, knowing that even in the magical world, oil spills still were trouble. "It's a week before the oil reaches UK shores, three days if the wind shifts."

"Is the wind gonna shift?" Hermione asked.

"Only if the magical world's luck stays exactly the same," Colin said, and Hermione nodded and got close to him.

"You've gotta tell him your sources," Hermione prodded gently.

"I can't," Colin said, knowing Hermione herself taught him not to do this.

"He can't trust you unless you trust him," Hermione said again and Colin just looked at Harry.

After a few moments, Harry relented and sighed. "All right, the necessary people go into my office, close the door."

The small group went back into Harry's office, consisting of him, Hermione, McGonagall, Colin, and Dean. Harry sat back down at his desk and McGonagall just leaned on a bookshelf on the other side of the room as they waited for Colin to start.

"The Alchemical worker is my Hogwarts dorm mate," Colin began. "He's a junior VP. He's been there a year."

Harry leaned back in his chair, his sharp gaze fixed on Colin. "And how do I know you're not being fed misinformation by someone hoping I run with it and make their day? Who's your Aegis contact?"

"My sister in law," Colin replied confidently. "She's got an O in her Ancient Runes NEWT, and she was in Hufflepuff."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "You're telling me you got not one but two people to roll over on their employers in five minutes?"

"I know, it's just luck," Colin said, trying not to grin.

Harry stared at him, unimpressed. "How often do you get this lucky?"

"This is my first time," Colin admitted.

Dean entered the conversation, his tone skeptical. "Um, it's a search and rescue operation in which no one is going to be rescued because a rabid mermaid couldn't outswim that fire. And now you're letting a guy you haven't seen since Hogwarts and a woman—I don't even know what your deal with her is—spin this into the end of the world. But forget that for a second. If you're wrong about Aegis, that's the first line of your bio forever: 'Isn't this the same guy who said Aegis caused that spill?' And if you publicly accuse them of negligent homicide and you're wrong, they will take you to court. They will win. They will own this network. They'll start their own record label. They'll open theme parks."

Harry just turned to McGonagall while Dean was talking to see what she was thinking. She just gave him that smile, that same smile she gave him this morning when she was talking to him about things just falling into his lap.

Harry just returned the smile, and turned to the rest of the room. "Let's throw out the rundown."

Minerva, standing nearby, nodded approvingly. "Attaboy," she said.

Dean threw up his hands. "This is out of control."

Dean walked out of the office and announced to the rest of the staff. "We're throwing out the rundown. Get me a spokesman from Alchemical on the phone. Get me anyone—"

Harry followed him out, a small smile on his face.. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Where are you going?"

"I was told to put together a new show," Dean replied curtly.

Harry turned to the room, raising his voice to address the team. "Guys, can I have your attention? I'm sorry if I've been a little inaccessible or terse lately—or for several years—but if I could just see a show of hands… who's going with Dean to the 10:00 broadcast?"

There was a pause, and about three quarters of the room raised their hands.

"All right," Harry said. "I appreciate all the hard work. And as a token of that appreciation, I'm giving you guys two weeks' paid vacation starting right now."

Dean's eyes widened. "Hold on. You're going to let her run the show?"

"Yeah," Harry replied without hesitation.

"Don't do this, Harry," Dean warned.

Harry smirked. "I just offered her the most humiliating contract since Antonio borrowed money from Shylock. She took it. I don't even know what that means, but I like it."

Dean shook his head. "You're going to do a full hour on an environmental story, and you don't even want to wait for film of an oil-covered pelican?"

"It's not just an environmental story," Harry countered. "Everywhere I look, people are dressed up in costumes, screaming about how bad the Ministry is."

Dean crossed his arms. "What's your position?"

"That people should know what they're screaming about," Harry said firmly.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Are you ready to go on television and say this well wouldn't have blown up if there had been more Ministry oversight?"

"I'll give you my next paycheck if it doesn't turn out some department was defunded or some industry was deregulated," Harry said, his voice steady.

Hermione stepped in with a smirk. "He'll do it, too."

Harry turned to her. "I didn't buy any of that nonsense you said in my office, but can you start two weeks early?"

"You plainly bought it a lot," Hermione replied, very smug. "And yes."

"I didn't buy it at all," Harry shot back. "And go."

Hermione smiled knowingly. "It's obvious you ate it up with a soup ladle."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Just go."

Hermione turned to the team. "Who's my booker?"

Kendra raised her hand. "Right here."

"Colin will tell you who to line up," Hermione said. "Everybody out who doesn't need to be here."

"Wait!" Harry called after her, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Seriously, though. Did I know a book better than you earlier?"

Hermione grinned. "Now!" she called back as the team began to disperse, readying for the chaos ahead.

---

As the afternoon wore on, the rhythm of the newsroom became synchronized, each person falling into their role with precision. A glowing enchanted clock above the central desk ticked closer to airtime, its soft chimes marking each hour as a reminder of how little time remained.

Hermione moved through the room with purposeful strides, her sharp eyes scanning every detail. She stopped occasionally to redirect efforts, ask pointed questions, or encourage her team. When Colin handed her an updated brief, she skimmed it quickly, her mind already working through the gaps.

Finally, as the enchanted clock chimed once more, Hermione stepped into the control room. The space was smaller and more focused, lined with rows of glowing monitors showing different camera feeds, each one enchanted to adjust in real time. Producers and technicians sat at their stations, adjusting audio levels and preparing for the evening broadcast.

A technician turned toward Hermione, holding out a headset. "Here you go," he said with a grin. "Straight into Harry's ear."

"Thank you," Hermione said, slipping it on and setting her notes and a bottle of water on a table where she had easy access to it. As she stood in the middle of the control room, she surveyed everything and got ready to do the show. Harry walked into the studio at that point, going over to the anchor desk to sit down and prepare to speak.

"Two minutes," Herb, the control room supervisor, called out.

"Who's our wardrobe supervisor?" Hermione asked, allowing anyone to answer.

"We don't have one," Kendra responded, being a person on the team that moved from the newsroom to the control room when it was time for broadcasts.

"Get one," Hermione said, observing Harry's suit. "Charcoal gray, navy blue, and black. Zegna, Armani, Hugo Boss."

"People are gonna say he's gonna look like an elite Muggle prick," Kendra said.

"He is," Hermione said, with a smile. "Let's make that sexy again."

Hermione saw that Harry put in his earpiece and she slipped her headset on.

"Harry," she said, getting his attention.

"Don't talk to me unless you absolutely have to," Harry said. "All right?"

"I absolutely have to," Hermione said. "I thought this would be a good time to get a couple of things straight."

"I'm on TV in 90 seconds," Harry said. "I don't think this is a good time to get a couple of things straight.

Hermione spoke calmly into Harry's earpiece. "That's funny, because I think now is the perfect time to get a couple of things straight."

Harry glanced toward the control room, his face tense. "Can people hear me in there?"

"Not yet," Hermione replied. Then, with a flick of her wand, she added, "Now they can."

Harry frowned. "Take me off."

Hermione ignored him, her tone steady. "So, I did a terrible thing, and I don't expect you to forgive me."

"Take me off," Harry repeated, more forcefully this time.

"You've got my contract," Hermione continued, unfazed, "but the thing you need to know is that between 8:00 and 9:00, you are completely mine. For one hour, five times a week, I own you. But in my case, it's for your own good and the good of everyone watching. Now, say 'I understand' so I can get the sound team a level."

Harry leaned forward, his voice low and biting. "I don't see it working that way."

Hermione arched an eyebrow. "You don't?"

"No," Harry said firmly.

Hermione turned to the control room staff. "Where's my graphics producer?"

Joey, a young technician, raised his hand nervously. "Right here."

Hermione smiled briefly. "I'm Hermione. What's your name?"

"Jo-Joey," he stammered.

Herb, the floor director, called out, "60 seconds!"

Harry raised his voice, irritation evident. "Can I get some quiet?"

"Joey," Hermione said smoothly, "could I borrow your seat for a moment?"

Joey nodded quickly, standing up. "Yes, ma'am."

Hermione sat at the console, her fingers moving deftly over the controls. "There you go. Show that to Harry, please."

Herb glanced over, his voice incredulous. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah," Hermione said, her eyes locked on Harry's feed. "Harry, check your preview screen."

Harry's eyes widened in alarm as he saw the title card, now reading 'POTTER STINKS', in the same font as those dumb badges in fourth year. "Get it off there!"

"Say you understand," Hermione countered calmly.

Herb's voice cut in. "30 seconds!"

Harry gestured toward the screen. "Someone's going to spill coffee on a button and broadcast that thing. Get it off!"

Hermione leaned back, unfazed. "I've got a one-week contract. I don't have a lot to lose."

"Oh, Merlin," Harry muttered, exasperated.

"Say you understand," Hermione pressed.

"I understand!" Harry snapped.

"Good!" Hermione said brightly. "You warmed up? Or do you want to screw around some more?"

"I'm good!" Harry shot back.

"10 seconds!" Herb called out.

Joey looked over nervously. "There's no script. Nothing on the prompter."

Hermione smiled confidently. "Nothing on the prompter is exactly where this man shines."

"Rolling!" Herb shouted as the music began to play.

"Stand by, Joey. Stand by, Camera 1," Herb instructed as the newsroom prepared to go live. Hermione leaned back, a satisfied expression on her face. Harry might resist, but she knew exactly how to guide him where he needed to be.

The opening credits rolled and the sound came through as the lights came up in the studio and Harry looked right into the camera, slipping into the charming newsman persona.

"Good evening, I'm Harry Potter," Harry started and began the broadcast. "Breaking news tonight in what could be the biggest environmental catastrophe to ever stain the shores of the magical community. A potions rig in the North Sea, Alchemical Enterprise's Abyssal Cauldron Platform, exploded into flames shortly after 2:00 PM local time. Seven crew members have been evacuated to an area hospital where they remain in critical condition, and the Department of Magical Catastrophes is in the fifth hour of a search and rescue mission, in the hope of finding 11 crew members still unaccounted for. Our coverage begins with Sherrie Stone at the Ministry of Magic Coastal Station in the Eastern UK. Sherrie?"

As Harry kicked it away, thus began the incredible newscast that Hermione crafted together. They brought on numerous spokespersons from various companies, Harry grilling them completely to get the answers, and Hermione coaching when needed. Hermione couldn't help herself but smile, as she saw Harry transform back to the anchor he was those long years ago. They were getting to the end of the show, when Maggie burst in, followed by Colin.

"It's about time," Hermione said, knowing she asked about a branch in the Magical Catastrophes that dealt with this situation forever ago. "What is the Potions Management Agency."

"It's the Potions Management Service, the PMS," Maggie started and Hermione just raised an eyebrow.

"Seriously?" she asked, knowing the Ministry could be out of touch, but surely not that out of touch.

"Yeah I know," Maggie said, then charging forward. "They have 56 inspectors overseeing 3,500 production facilities that operate 35,591 wells in the North Sea region. That's according to the Ministry of Magic official statements."

"56 inspectors for 35,000 wells?" Hermione asked, genuinely shocked.

"It gets better," Colin said, urging Maggie to go on.

"We're out," Herb said, announcing the commercial break. "Back in 90 seconds."

"Alchemical statement?" Harry asked through the radio, something he had been asking for all night that they didn't have.

"Hang on," Hermione answered, trying to get this information.

"Inspections for these rigs are required monthly, but Abyssal Cauldron was only inspected nine times this year and six times last year.

"What's coming?" Harry asked, trying to figure out what was next.

"Hang on," Hermione said, trying to keep him at bay.

"The last inspection was done 19 days ago by Eric Neal, who was sent by himself even though he only just started his training as a Ministry inspector of potion rigs," Maggie continued.

"Are you kidding me?" Hermione asked.

"No," Maggie affirmed.

"Is it the Alchemical statement?" Harry asked again and Hermione's frustration boiled over.

"Oh my Merlin," Hermione shouted, turning around. "Would somebody stun him please?"

"30 seconds," Herb said.

"What I wouldn't give to have a floo hook up with this guy," Hermione said.

"You do," Maggie said, and Hermione's eyes widened.

"What?" Hermione asked.

"He's on hold," Maggie said, pointing to the channel. "It's this line.

"Maggie," Hermione said, a surge of sheer happiness. "I am taking you shopping."

Hermione turned around and got serious, knowing they needed to get the numbers in quick.

"Harry listen up," Hermione said. "Potions Management is wildly understaffed. We've got the guy-"

"Give me all the numbers," Harry said, grabbing his paper and pen, knowing they didn't have a lot of time.

"Give him the numbers," Hermione instructed Maggie, who fed Harry all of the information.

When she was done, they left the control room just as the program was going to come back.

"Take it easy with him," Hermione cautioned in the interview. "He's gonna be scared to death."

"In three, two…" Herb started and the music came in, with the studio lights up.

"Welcome back to breaking news," Harry said. "The potions rig, Alchemical Abyssal Cauldron has exploded into flames in the North sea, leaving 11 crew members missing and feared dead. We're on the floo call with Eric Neal of the Ministry Potions Management Service. Thank you for joining us, Mr. Neal."

"It's good to," Eric's voice came in timidly. "Thank you."

"Mr. Neal," Harry began, his green eyes fixed on the camera, "can you confirm that the Potions Management Service employs only 56 inspectors in the North Sea region?"

"I believe that's correct," Eric replied, his voice hesitant.

"And those 56 inspectors oversee 35,591 wells, is that right?" Harry continued, his tone gentle.

"Yes, that's correct," Eric answered.

"That's 635 wells for each inspector," Harry said, his voice rising slightly to emphasize the enormity of the task. "The wells are required to be inspected once a month. Is that correct?"

"The drilling wells, yes," Eric confirmed.

"Is it possible?" Harry asked, leaning forward slightly, "with so few inspectors and so many wells, to properly inspect each platform as scheduled?"

"Our–our budget is very limited," Eric stammered.

Harry didn't miss a beat. "A single inspector would have to thoroughly review two wells a day, six days a week for a year," he said, his voice tinged with incredulity.

"I know," Eric admitted, his tone subdued.

Harry pressed on. "Would an easy solution be to have the potion companies themselves pay for the cost of proper inspections?"

"Well, that isn't my field of expertise," Eric replied nervously.

"Mr. Neal, you were sent to inspect Deepwater Horizon 19 days ago, ss that correct?" Harry asked, moving forward to get the answers he needed.

"I was, yes," Eric answered.

Harry's tone grew sharper. "Were you aware that, dating back ten years ago, Deepwater Horizon had shown five red flags or incidents of noncompliance?"

Eric shifted uncomfortably. "Um, I'm not sure I'm authorized to speak about that."

Harry nodded, his demeanor professional but relentless. "I understand. I only have two more questions. Prior to your inspection of the rig 19 days ago, how many inspections had you done of offshore oil drilling rigs?"

Eric hesitated before answering. "None."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "None?"

"Except in training," Eric clarified quickly.

Harry's voice turned soft and curious, to coax the answer out of him and paint the Ministry as the foolish ones, and not Neal. "And how long have you been in training?"

"Four months," Eric admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry nodded, leaning back slightly. "Thank you very much, Mr. Neal. That was Eric Neal with the Potions Management Service.."

Hermione's voice came through Harry's earpiece as the interview ended. "We have the Alchemical statement."

Harry nodded and transitioned into it. "We now have a statement from Alchemical. Let's put it up on the screen for you." The words appeared in glowing letters behind him as he read aloud.

"'The thoughts and prayers of everyone at Alchemical Enterprises are with the missing crew members of the Abyssal Cauldron and their families. We are looking at every possible solution to the problem of sealing the well and will, of course, offer our complete assistance to the various Ministry departments involved in repairing and cleaning up the damage done by this terrible accident.'"

Harry paused, chuckling dryly. "So, glass half-full. They're offering to help clean up."

He straightened in his chair, his voice shifting to a more somber tone. "This is obviously just the beginning. We'll be bringing you more as this story develops. I'm Harry Potter. Good night."

As the broadcast transitioned out, Harry removed his earpiece, the weight of the story still lingering in his eyes. The studio was quiet now, the hum of the earlier broadcast fading into the background as the team wrapped up their tasks. Harry sat at the anchor desk, his tie loosened and his expression drawn with the weight of the day's events. He ran a hand through his unruly hair, lost in thought, when the door to the studio opened.

Minerva McGonagall strode in, her sharp features softened only slightly by the bottle of firewhiskey she carried in one hand and two glasses in the other. Her robes were slightly more formal than usual, a deep emerald that shimmered faintly under the studio lights. She set the bottle and glasses on the desk in front of Harry with a resolute clink.

"Figured you could use this," she said simply, pouring two generous servings of the amber liquid.

Harry took one of the glasses but didn't drink, his eyes on her. "Did the Ministry call?"

Minerva sat down across from him, taking a sip of her own drink before replying. "Penelope Clearwater wants to know what we know and how we know it."

Harry exhaled sharply. "We're not giving up Colin."

"Good," Minerva said, her tone firm. "We got it right."

Harry shook his head, swirling the firewhisky in his glass. "We got the spill right. We don't know what we're doing with Aegis yet. We don't know what's going to happen—"

Minerva's lips curled into a faint smirk. "Merlin's beard, you're being a coward."

Harry looked up at her, his frustration evident. "I'm just being—"

"A coward," she interrupted, her tone leaving no room for argument. "And it's not like you said the boy from Ravenclaw was responsible for setting the hemisphere on fire."

Harry groaned. "Give the tabloids an hour. That's exactly what it'll say we said."

"I'm too old to be governed by fear of dumb people," Minerva said sharply, taking another sip of her drink.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "I'm not."

"You're older than you think," Minerva replied, her voice softening slightly. "Don't learn that the hard way."

Harry leaned back in his chair, the glass still in his hand. "You didn't bring her in to right the ship. You brought her in to build a new one. You knew Dean would go with Neville. You orchestrated the whole thing."

Minerva's smirk returned, her eyes glinting with something close to amusement. "Yes. For a long time now, I've badly wanted to watch the news on my new magical television at night. Then it occurred to me—I run a news division."

Harry chuckled dryly. "Hermione's indifferent to ratings, competition, corporate concerns, and, generally speaking, consequences."

"Good," Minerva said, raising her glass slightly. "Because you just described my job. I'm Don Quixote, you can be Sancho, she'll be Dulcinea, and everyone out there is the horse."

Harry gave her a look. "Donkey. How did you know about that conversation?"

"I know everything," Minerva replied with a knowing smile. "Anchors having an opinion isn't a new phenomenon. Many have throughout history, and it's all been impactful in shaping the world."

Harry shook his head. "I'm not those guys."

Minerva's expression softened, just for a moment. "I'm betting all my galleons on you're wrong. You know what, kiddo? In the old days—about ten minutes ago—we did the news well. Do you know how? We just decided to." She leaned forward, her voice quiet but firm. "Harry… I bloody loved what you said at Hogwarts. And that's why I brought her here."

Harry sat in silence for a moment, the weight of her words settling over him. He raised his glass, meeting her gaze, and took a long drink. Whatever came next, he knew he wasn't facing it alone.

---

The newsroom had finally quieted, the frenetic energy of the evening broadcast dissipating into a calm hum. Harry walked into his office, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He loosened his tie as he made his way to the coat rack, slipping out of his broadcast suit jacket and unbuttoning the top of his shirt.

The anchor desk felt miles away now, and the tension from hours of live reporting lingered in his shoulders. He shrugged off the rest of the suit, hanging it neatly before pulling on a comfortable jacket. The studio lights might have dimmed, but his mind was still racing with the details of the story and what tomorrow might bring.

Gathering his bag from the chair, Harry glanced around his office, his eyes lingering briefly on the scattered papers and notes. He made a mental note to sort through them in the morning. Slinging the strap of the bag over his shoulder, he headed toward the door, ready to finally call it a night.

As he stepped out into the hallway, he almost collided with Hermione, who was walking briskly in his direction.

"Harry," she said, stopping just short of running into him.

He paused, his hand tightening slightly on the strap of his bag. "Hermione," he replied, his tone neutral but tinged with curiosity.

Her expression was unreadable, a mix of determination and something softer he couldn't quite place. Whatever she wanted to say, Harry had the sense it wouldn't be quick—or easy.

"I was hoping to catch you before you left," Hermione began, her voice steady but low, as if she were measuring every word.

Harry just looked at her, hoping the world could go back to where it was three years ago. But it couldn't and he had to try and come to terms with that more than ever.

"8:00 to 9:00 is over," he said softly, turning to head out.

Hermione however, wasn't dismayed, and followed him out.

"I understand," Hermione said, as they got to the area with the elevators. "I just wanted to mention something."

Harry was about to hit the button to call one, but he stopped and turned so Hermione could say her piece. Hermione got the message and composed herself, hugging the binder with all of her notes to her chest.

"Harry, you probably don't remember this, but the first time you met my parents, you brought flowers for my mother. You took my father to a Puddlemere United match, and then you joined us for dinner. I just wanted to tell you… you were perfect. Like I said, you probably wouldn't remember, but I wanted to thank you."

Harry looked at her, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Puddlemere won 210 to 190 on a spectacular Snitch catch by Kael Swiftwing, after a fierce chase that nearly collided with the stands. Your father ordered a beer, and I ordered a pumpkin juice. Then he looked me dead in the eye and said, 'Potter, you're a Gryffindor nitwit, and every word you've ever said about any politics absolute drivel. But for reasons I'll never understand, my Hermione seems to be in love with you. So, you can have a pint on a hot summer's day without earning my disapproval.' We ended up having three."

Hermione stared at him, her eyes widening. "You two idiots were drunk when you met us for dinner?"

Harry chuckled, leaning back against the edge of the desk. "Yeah. Your dad's doing all right? Minerva says you're physically and mentally exhausted."

"I've been exhausted since I was 30," Hermione replied with a faint smile. "Everyone's exhausted. I just wanted to come back and be in a newsroom again."

"Well," Harry said, his voice softer now, and calling the elevator, "this one's yours for the week. Good show tonight."

"You too," Hermione replied. The elevator arrived and Harry got in, but before Hermione could walk away, he stopped her..

"I got flustered," he said, meeting her gaze. "At Hogwarts. I thought I saw you in the audience. That's what threw me off. I thought it was you, but it turned out to be someone else."

Hermione froze, her breath catching. "No, wait—" she began, but the door was already closed and Harry was riding down.

Hermione frantically opened her binder and flipped open the notebook, searching and finally finding the page where she had written "IT'S NOT" in big bold letters so that Harry could see her from the back of the Great Hall. She pressed the call button so she could go down and tell Harry, and when the car arrived, she almost went in, but she paused.

Things had gone well tonight, and while this would be an uphill battle going forward, she had a shot at it. She just peered down at the piece of paper and closed her binder, turning to walk back to the newsroom. She would tell him eventually.

Perhaps another day.