Hedwig let out two soft hoots, proudly raising her neck.
"Good girl, it's up to you now," Harry said, securing the letter to the owl's talons. He stroked Hedwig's wings, then opened the car window to release her—prompting a startled yell from Uncle Vernon.
"You let an owl out of my car, boy?!" Vernon's face flushed red, his anger palpable. "We'll be seen as freaks! Merlin's beard, you must be mad! I must be mad!"
"No, Uncle," Harry replied, turning with a grin. "We're still far from Privet Drive. No one knows who's in the car."
The redness in Vernon's face faded almost instantly.
"Fair point."
Shrugging, Vernon honked the horn twice, and the car sped toward Privet Drive as if fleeing the scene.
Harry's summer holiday had begun.
…
On a sunny afternoon, in a café far from Number 4 Privet Drive, Harry sat alone at a corner table by the window.
He was waiting for someone.
Suddenly, he spotted a figure materialize in the shadowed corner of a nearby street—clearly arriving by Apparition, as the spot had been empty moments before.
A witch in a burgundy robe strode quickly toward the café. Her sharp eyes locked onto Harry through the glass, and she waved briefly. In no time, she was seated across from him.
"Harry Potter?" the woman asked.
Her hair was meticulously styled, each strand perfectly in place, and she wore jeweled spectacles. Her plump fingers clutched a crocodile-skin handbag—Harry noticed her long nails nearly grazed the coffee cup in front of her.
"Ms. Skeeter?" Harry offered a shy smile, inspired by Neville's demeanor, though he meant no offense. "It's nice to meet you. I—I just don't know what to do anymore."
If Hermione or the others saw Harry now, their jaws would drop. Their eyes might even pop out from sheer shock.
Because Harry, at this moment, looked… utterly innocent. Simple, shy, pure, harmless—like a child untouched by the ways of the world. His movements and expressions radiated a kind of guileless charm.
This wasn't unfamiliar territory for Harry. During his time as an adventurer, survival often meant deception—whether outwitting enemies or squeezing extra coin from employers. His acting skills had sharpened rapidly back then, though he'd had little use for them since. Harry always maintained that deceiving enemies wasn't truly lying, so he hadn't broken his own code… though Jaina Proudmoore, for some reason, kept calling him a paranoid lunatic. For a while, she'd even dubbed him "Mad Cow."
"Of course! You were right to come to me!" Rita Skeeter pulled a parchment and quill from her crocodile-skin bag. "So, what's this… secret you've been hiding, ready to spill?"
As she spoke, Harry watched her quill leap from the table. Without being held, it began scribbling furiously on the parchment.
At first glance, he struck me as—forgive me, I shouldn't say this, but I can't help myself—the hero of the wizarding world, our Savior, the Boy Who Lived, looked like a stray dog abandoned by the roadside.
Thin, timid, his hair a messy tangle plastered to his head, as if…
The quill hadn't finished, but Harry caught those lines. He subtly touched his arm, reassuring himself it was muscle, not cotton.
…Clearly, Dumbledore hasn't cared for him properly. He's deceived us, deceived everyone…
Dumbledore, Dumbledore, always Dumbledore!
Harry sighed inwardly. Since the end of his first year, Skeeter's articles in the Daily Prophet had subtly—and sometimes not so subtly—attacked Albus Dumbledore. As the summer began and stretched to today, her veiled hints had grown into overt accusations.
Skeeter hadn't targeted Harry directly—well, not unless you counted portraying him as a dim-witted, handicapped pawn manipulated by Dumbledore as an attack.
As a result, Harry had received piles of sympathetic letters and sweets from well-meaning witches and wizards. Even his joining the Kenmare Kestrels fan club went unmocked. The letters overflowed with encouragement and praise, all from his "loyal supporters."
Those kind, gullible wizards who took the Daily Prophet as gospel… Harry couldn't help but sigh whenever he thought of them.
Oddly, though, the letters from strangers had stopped in recent days. While Uncle Vernon grumbled about owls constantly swooping in and out, Harry noticed he and Dudley happily devoured the treats sent by his fans. Why, just today, Vernon had asked why no food had arrived.
Snapping his wandering thoughts back, Harry continued his performance.
"Secrets?" He furrowed his brow in confusion—another trick borrowed from Neville Longbottom. "I just… I need your help, Ms. Skeeter. I'm sorry, I don't know who else to turn to."
"My friends say if anyone in the wizarding world dares to speak the truth, dares to say what cowards won't, it's you." Harry's eyes shone with admiration. "I think only you, Ms. Skeeter, can help me get justice, so I can… so I can…"
Harry Potter admits his own cowardice, his weakness, his timidity…
A glance at the quill nearly broke Harry's composure. His fist clenched instinctively.
No offense, but it was a reflex—back in the Horde, if someone questioned your strength, you struck back hard and fast, or you lost all respect.
"Exactly, that's right!" Rita Skeeter nodded eagerly, showing no shame. "Rita, who dares to speak the truth—that's what they call me, and I never disappoint."
Her interest deepened, her eyes gleaming.
"Speak freely, Harry," she said, pushing her glasses up and leaning closer, her voice low. "What darkness have you faced? Is someone pulling your strings, trapping you with no escape? Shout their name! Don't be afraid—Rita's here!"
As she moved, a wave of overpowering perfume hit Harry, making his stomach churn.
This reporter clearly didn't take him seriously. And why would she? To her, an eleven-year-old wizard raised by Muggle relatives was just a pitiful puppet propped up by Dumbledore.
But now, that puppet would be her spear to pierce Dumbledore's dark facade.
"I need your help to reclaim the Potter family deed," Harry said.
"Huh?"
Rita's glasses nearly slid off her nose. She sat up, stunned.
"Not Dumbledore?"
"Why would it be Headmaster Dumbledore?" Harry asked, feigning surprise. "Eleven years ago, after Voldemort killed my parents, our house was destroyed. The deed was sent to the Ministry of Magic."
"I don't want to live with my aunt and uncle anymore," Harry said, letting out a heavy sigh. "I want to live in my own home, where I don't have to wake up early to do chores or get scolded."
"…Alright," Rita sighed. "Not what I expected, but… it's something. Have you been to the Ministry?"
"Yes, but they refused me," Harry said, shaking his head slightly. "They said I'm too young, that I can't claim the deed until I'm of age. But Ms. Skeeter, how can that be fair?"
"Just because I'm young, I can't inherit what my parents left me? Just because I'm young, I can't go home? Can't a child have a home?"
"That's it, that's exactly it!" Rita's disappointment at the lack of Dumbledore gossip vanished. She nodded vigorously, grabbing the quill to write herself, though Harry couldn't see what from his angle.
Her eyes gleamed with the same predatory glint Harry had seen countless times in wolves stalking prey. This wasn't a lie—Harry had indeed visited the Ministry and faced their refusal. After some thought, he'd decided to leverage Rita Skeeter's restless ambition to his advantage.
He'd already planned to meet her about the strange incidents Argus Filch had mentioned last term; this was just an extra task.
"I have no other options," Harry said, his voice heavy with feigned despair. "I'm pinning my hopes on you, Ms. Skeeter. If even you won't help, I'll have to try other papers… maybe The Quibbler."
Scrrrtch.
Rita's quill scratched a deep mark across the parchment. Her eyebrows shot up as if she'd heard of some unspeakable horror.
"The Quibbler? That rubbish?" Rita declared with absolute certainty. "Don't worry, Harry. I'll make sure everyone hears about this."
Inspiration clearly struck her. She solemnly promised Harry her support, her quill never pausing, her lips muttering fragments like "big scoop," "Ministry stealing property," "Boy Who Lived homeless." None of it sounded particularly peaceful.
In the end, Rita Skeeter rushed off, barely saying goodbye. She even paid the bill at the counter, clearly eager to polish her article for tomorrow's Daily Prophet.
It was, by all accounts, a pleasant meeting.
Rita Skeeter was practically in love with the Boy Who Lived. He was a bottomless well of scoops, fueling her reputation as the fearless truth-teller. Just think of the headlines he'd generated since before he even started at Hogwarts.
As long as Harry Potter was around, she'd never run out of stories—or attention. That meant more Galleons, and she, Rita Skeeter, would remain the wizarding world's top journalist, never forgotten by the readers of the Daily Prophet or magical Britain.
Harry watched her skip out of the café with a spring in her step. Since Dumbledore, her constant target, seemed unbothered by her attacks, Harry had no plans to intervene until she'd served her purpose and shifted her focus.
Truth be told, he suspected that if he taught Skeeter what to say and what not to, Dumbledore might actually be displeased. That paranoid old wizard might ride his phoenix to Privet Drive in the dead of night to lecture Harry about "controlling his power."
That could strain his relationship with Dumbledore.
But Harry hadn't done nothing. Last term, Filch had nearly sworn a blood oath to prove his loyalty, insisting he hadn't leaked Harry's secrets to Skeeter. Using his Astral Vision, Harry had memorized the essence of Skeeter's soul—unmistakable and unchangeable. If she approached Hogwarts with any tricks, he'd know.
Everything was going according to plan. Barring surprises, tomorrow's Daily Prophet front page would carry the story he wanted, and the Ministry's response would take time.
For now, Harry needed to address something… unusual.
He hadn't received a letter from Hermione Granger in three days.
Since the holiday began, Hermione had written regularly—about delicious food she'd eaten, complaints about the Ministry's ban on underage magic, or questions about how Harry endured the boredom. Her letters were steady.
But three days ago, they stopped. Not just hers—letters from other friends and even his "supporters" across the wizarding world had ceased, save for the daily Daily Prophet owl.
It wasn't that Harry craved the fan mail, but he was still a regular on the Prophet's front page. For the letters to stop abruptly while his fame held strong was highly suspicious.
Today's meeting with Skeeter had partly been a trap to flush out the culprit. A sudden instinct stirred, and Harry felt he'd caught the letter thief.
Deliberately strolling into a deserted alley, he spun around, a deep blue arc of electricity crackling from his hand—Chain Lightning!
Crack!
A sound like Apparition rang out, but his lightning chain struck nothing.
"A house-elf?" Harry raised an eyebrow, spotting the creature lurking in the shadows. "Who sent you?"
It was small, barely reaching Harry's waist, with rough brown skin and an overlarge head. Its huge, bulging eyes glinted oddly, its nose small and pointed, and its bat-like ears flared wide. Thin limbs ended in long fingers and toes. It crouched in the corner, panting from Harry's sudden attack.
House-elves were a race domesticated by wizards, serving magical families for generations with pride. Enslaved in both mind and magic, they couldn't disobey their masters or cast spells without permission. Without service, they'd punish or even kill themselves.
Given the state of the wizarding world and the nature of house-elves, if one was stealing Harry's letters, someone was pulling the strings.
"Harry Potter found Dobby!" the elf squeaked, its eyes wide. "He even used magic outside school! Merlin's beard! No wonder he defeated You-Know-Who eleven years ago! Harry Potter! Harry Potter!"
Harry: "…"
Something was off.
He'd spoken with Hogwarts' kitchen elves before, but none were as… unhinged as this one.
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