The Daily Prophet
McGonagall had removed her glasses and set them on a book on her desk. Harry finished up his tale. He’d cut the bit about Lucius Malfoy’s diary - from what he knew of Hogwarts’ new headmistress, she wouldn’t appreciate him stealing personal belongings from his friend’s father. Especially not a father who was currently sitting outside her office, fuming like a blond volcano. There was a heavy moment of silence when Harry had finished the account.
“Harry,” said McGonagall. “You understand I’m not slighting your honesty, but is that the truth?”
“Yes professor.”
“The whole truth?”
“Close enough, professor.”
“Nothing but the truth?”
“Well, I didn’t make any of it up.”
“That’s what that means, Mr Potter.” His teacher sighed again. “Mr Potter, help me see something here. Do you really expect me to go and tell Mr Malfoy everything you have just told me here?”
“Well, it’s the truth,” Harry argued. “Like you just said. So probably, you should.”
McGonagall chuckled sadly. “I’m in a difficult position here.”
“Professor, his father was going to lock him up at home!” Harry snapped, his ire provoked. “You can’t stop your son going to school, can you? It’s illegal.”
“It’s against Muggle law,” she corrected. “Mr Malfoy would have been fully within his rights to-”
“No, because he-” Harry broke off. He glared out of the window. The Quidditch pitch was barely visible, just a few pale outlines of goal hoops. Behind that, the treeline of the Forbidden Forest etched a broken line against the darkening sky. Harry remembered racing his friends around the pitch last year, the ultimate freedom. He imagined himself in Draco’s shoes, faced with the real possibility of never seeing this beloved place again.
“Look, Harry,” McGonagall was saying. “I-”
“Are you going to punish me, professor?” he asked in a small voice.
“For what?”
“For breaking the rules.”
“What rules?”
“Underage wizards can’t do magic. I did the Apparate-thing with Dobby the house-elf.”
“That doesn’t count as underage magic, Harry. Here’s what I’m going to do,” she said. “You can go down to the feast now, and let me deal with Mr Malfoy. I won’t let him place the blame on either of you boys. You’re just boys.” Her lined face looked forlorn.
Harry stood up to go but turned back with one more thought. “Professor? I think Draco might need some extra help this year…”
That got a twisted smile from the headmistress. “I agree, Mr Potter. After all, we can’t have you doing all his homework again, can we?” At Harry’s surprised expression, she added, “Your friend young Mr Malfoy may have told me about that. You’re a good friend to him.”
“Hm,” said Harry and escaped the room quickly. He left with his head down firmly, avoiding the icy glare that Lucius Malfoy was sure to be directing at him. He fled up the stairs with the gryphon statue, through the arches and halls back to the inhabited parts of the castle. The noise of student chatter grew louder and louder as he went, until he was finally in front of the doors to the Great Hall. Harry stared up at them, imagining how they would swing conspicuously, how every head in the room would turn and stare at him. He imagined the smug Gryffindors seeing another Slytherin in trouble on the first day of term. His stomach growled but he blocked it out. It wasn’t worth the trouble. He turned instead down the hall towards the dungeons. As he went, the stone walls and floors grew colder. Harry drew his cloak tighter around himself.
At the bottom of all the stairs, Harry stood in front of the Slytherin tapestry. A cross-stitched snake unfurled itself from the pictured tree and flicked its tongue at Harry.
“Passssword?” it asked.
Harry shrugged. “I don’t know, I just got here...”
The tapestry snake rolled its eyes. The tapestry swung aside, revealing Draco in the doorway, holding it with an outstretched hand. “I heard your voice,” he said blankly. “Come in?”
Hurrying inside the common room, Harry guided his friend to a sofa and they sat.
“Tell me what you told her,” Draco ordered.
Harry exhaled and told his story for the second time that afternoon, albeit a very abridged version, because Draco had been there for most of it. All Draco had to say at the end was,
“Did you see my father?”
“He was there,” Harry admitted. “I didn’t want to look at him. His general aura was quite mad, though.”
“Yes,” Draco mused, his scrunched eyebrows dipping below the line of his blindfold. “That sounds usual for him. But he didn’t say anything to you?”
Harry shook his head.
“Good. He’s a prat.”
Harry huffed a disbelieving laugh. “You can’t say that!”
“Well, why not?”
“He’s your father!”
“Yes. That’s part of why he’s such a prat. Because I can’t get away from him!” Draco crossed his arms. Harry cracked a smile and Draco snapped back with, “Don’t laugh at me.”
“Wasn’t.”
“Good.”
At that moment, the common room tapestry swung open and the clamour of a hundred Slytherins entered all at once. Chattering, bubbling students poured into the room and filled up every corner. Harry spotted some small first-years - Sweet Merlin, had he really been that tiny himself last year? They looked fairly shell-shocked as this year’s prefects explained something to them.
“Harrykins!” boomed Blaise’s voice. He headed the group of their friends, the now-second-year Slytherins, and spread his arms out in embrace. “Little Draco-baco!”
“Blaise, shut up,” Draco bit out. He hadn’t uncrossed his arms yet; in fact, he seemed to be squeezing himself tighter than ever.
Unphased, Blaise flopped onto the sofa next to Harry.
“Boys, you missed dinner,” Tracey scolded. “And the welcome speech from the new Headmaster.”
Harry’s mouth dropped open. “We have a new Headmaster?” he exclaimed.
Blaise lifted an eyebrow. “Well, you did sort of get rid of the old one, Potter.”
“No, I know…” Harry felt a bit foolish.
“Lots of new professors,” Crabbe grunted, sitting himself down. “Defence, Potions…”
That all made sense, now that Harry thought about it. He’d been trying to block out the memories of the end of last year, but of course, if both Quirrell and Snape had been arrested, there was no way they could continue taking their classes at Hogwarts. Quite right, too.
“I think it’s a shame,” said Goyle. He was picking his teeth with the nail of his pinky finger. “That Quirrell was a not-bad teacher. He gave me a level 5 on my end-of-term tests.”
The other Slytherin second-years stared at him and he stared back, nonplussed. “What?”
“Goyle,” said Harry. “We can’t be taught by Quirrell, because he was possessed by Voldemort!”
He’d said the last bit rather too loud. All around him in the common room, heads turned. The expressions of his fellow Slytherins were mostly not hospitable or friendly - if not curiosity, they were regarding him with incredulity, disgust, or even fear.
“I’d watch myself if I was you, Potter,” an older student projected. He had quiffed brown hair and a sharp profile, through which he was expressing deep scorn. “Throwing that name around all the time, people might get the wrong idea.”
“The wrong…. idea…?”” Harry became aware that all eyes in the room were on him. He could hear his heart pounding. His hair was dishevelled and his glasses were smudged but worst of all, he felt like his personal diary was open on his face for all to read. All the panic and trauma of the end of last year came rushing back, with the extra added shame of ohhhhhh, maybe I shouldn’t have done that…
“What’s the matter?” sneered a seventh-year (who probably should have known better, for someone ten months away from graduated adulthood). “Didn’t the Mudbloods tell you about the Dark Lord for your bedtime story?”
“All right, that’s enough,” rumbled a new voice. From a circle of chairs at the other side of the room, the enormous bulk of Marcus Flint stood up. Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team, Flint was now a seventh-year, and carried himself like a mediaeval prince. He squared his shoulders back, looking individually at the older students who’d spoken up, then around the whole room. “None of us here should have an issue with Harry. Merlin knows none of this is his fault, so let him be.”
“It is his fault,” the other seventh-year argued back. “He got three professors sacked in one night.”
Flint summoned his wand into his hand out of his sleeve. “Do you want to fight?” he demanded with a flick of the eyebrows. “Because you won’t be facing off against a second-year, you’ll be facing me. So think twice.”
There was a wavering breath where the whole room seemed to expect the duel, right there and then. Then the other seventh year sneered again.
“We’ll see what you think after a few months of Professor Rodley,” she spat.
Flint shrugged. “Yeah. We’ll see.”
The other seventh year turned back to her knot of friends and after a second, Flint sat back down. It became clear that there would be no duel in the common room that night. Harry glanced around him, as the conversation level crept back up to normal levels. Millicent and Tracey were still standing in front of him but looking around, like bodyguards, or maybe meerkats. Blaise cleared his throat theatrically.
“Well! Isn’t it nice to have friends? Speaking of, Merlin’s posterior, is that Daphne Greengrass in the flesh?”
Daphne, who had just now entered through the tapestry, bounced over. Her platinum-blonde hair was in two French braids; she was carrying a covered plate and wearing a big smile. “Hi!”
“And just where have you been?” Blaise asked. “Your mother and I were worried sick.” He nudged Millicent with his elbow.
“Hey!” protested Millie. “Why do I have to be Daphne’s mother?”
“Hmm? You have the same eyes,” said Blaise.
“What?!”
“ANYWAY,” Daphne interjected. She leaned over and placed the plate down on Harry’s lap. “Brought you dinner. There’s enough for Draco too.”
“Thanks, Daph,” said Harry with a grateful smile. He pulled off the plate covering and began beef stew onto a scone-half with a spoon from Daphne’s robe pocket.
Draco sniffed. “That smells good,” he said quietly.
“Here.” Harry handed it to him. “Don’t tip it over, it’ll get messy. It’s stew.”
“Stew?” Draco complained but took a bite anyway.
Harry turned back to the other Slytherins and turned his face to the stony expression he’d perfected in primary school. “All right, it’s September,” he said frankly. “Someone had better tell me what’s been going on this summer, and they’d better do it quickly.”
Daphne’s fingers twitched as they lay on the coffee table between her and Harry’s sofa. His friends looked between each other uncomfortably.
“It is September,” Blaise agreed. “But wasn’t the deal that McG wanted to tell you hersel-”
“Don’t switch the rules up on me now, Zabini,” Harry warned. “Daphne, you have it, don’t you?”
She looked a bit scared.
“Give me that newspaper!” He held out his hand.
“Harry-” but she handed her folded copy of the Daily Prophet over anyway.
On the front page, dominating the spread, was a black and beige photo of Albus Dumbledore. Instead of his usual tasselled hat, the brim of a traditional wizard’s hat cast a shadow over his piercing eyes. In bold typeface, the headline over his face screamed, “HUNT GOES ON”. Forgetting to breathe, Harry’s eyes flicked down to the main text. The article went like this:
HUNT GOES ON
MINISTER CALLS WIXEN TO BE ON GUARD
September 1, 1992 2 Sickles
Four months after the initial scandalous revelation of Albus Dumbledore’s treason, the search continues for Hogwart’s previous headmaster’s whereabouts. Head of Auror Office, Rufus Scrimgeour, declined a comment when approached this weekend. According to insider reports, the Auror Office is working night and day on this case, the magnitude of which hasn’t been seen in at least a decade.
Dumbledore’s conspiring with Death Eater sympathisers was revealed by Hogwarts personnel in early June of this year, after which he was taken in for questioning and trial before the WIzengamot. This would mark only the fourth case in Wizengamot history when a member of the council was called before them. However, Dumbledore’s subsequent escape from Auror holding only days into his incarceration has delayed the trial as a nationwide manhunt commenced.
Members of the public are once again being called to remain vigilant, in the words of Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge in his Minister’s Question Time yesterday. The Ministry hotline remains open for any and all reports of sightings or intelligence. Some members of the cabinet, who would prefer to go unnamed, have expressed scepticism over the value of calling for reports, as we are now four months into Dumbledore’s disappearance. But, really, what did we expect from the most powerful wizard in history? More on page 7.
ASPARAMANCY? IT’S MORE LIKELY THAN YOU’D THINK
Lower Beanswell resident, Ms Annibell Soundpost, has reported a new form of Divination, as she claims that her home-grown asparagus has predicted the last three elections. Vegetable lovers and farmers alike will be relieved to know that Soundpost’s greens have correctly predicted not only the latest Muggle police and crime commissioner election, but also the….
Harry realised he’d read down onto the next article by mistake. Mouth dry, he scanned over the article about Dumbledore several times before looking up. His friends, gathered around, all bore concerned expressions.
“So, what?” Harry shot. “He’s - he’s -”
He was finding it hard to find the words to properly express his absolute disgust. He passed the newspaper over onto Draco’s lap and leaned into his circle of friends.
“Has there really been no news? Since June?”
Solemnly, they shook their heads.
“They’ve been trying,” said Pansy from her seat in the enormous armchair. Over the summer, she’d cut her dark hair into a bob and pierced both earlobes, from which dangled pointed silver ornaments that flickered in the firelight. She’d been acting weirdly since they all met up on the Hogwarts Express earlier that day, jumping at every knock on the carriage door or tap on the shoulder. Couched under the high back of the chair, she looked like a child queen in black and silver. Her tone was grave. “There’s been an article to this effect every week in the Prophet, but nothing new.”
“I suppose they’re keeping the details hush-hush in the Ministry,” Daphne guessed. “My uncle works in… anyway, of course they’re keeping it under wraps. It’s a very high-profile case.”
“Yes, but…” Harry groaned and massaged his eyes behind his glasses. “Why hasn’t anyone done something? I told McGonagall everything in the summer! Surely, she knows how important it is.”
“McGonagall?” Blaise’s eyes darted to Pansy as if for backup. “Harry, she’s been off-grid this summer too. I heard from a friend of Mother’s, none of the professors have been able to get ahold of her. She only re-emerged about two weeks ago, with the new Potions master, I think. By that time, the Ministry had already appointed a new Headmaster instead of her, and…” He spread his hands. “Here we are?”
“Did you hear about this?” Harry asked Draco - Mr Malfoy had connections, maybe he had known more.
Draco scowled. “No. And take this back – I can’t read it.” He threw the newspaper at Harry, who took it like a punch to the stomach.
“Ah… sorry, Draco…” He’d completely forgotten that.
Draco sunk deeper into his scowl as the awkward silence spread around the circle. The fact of his blindness had been revealed on the train that morning and the English awkwardness still lingered in the group; no-one really knew what to say in front of their previous, cocky mainplayer, now brought so apparently low.
At a loss, Harry picked up the paper and flipped through the pages until he found the continuation of the story. Right underneath was the announcement of Hogwart’s new Headmaster.
The post of Hogwarts Headmaster has been generously accepted by previous Minister for Education Grant Rodley. With his ten years of experience in the field of education, Rodley’s statement on accepting this role reflected his passion for teaching.
“The opportunity to serve as a leader in such a conflicted time is a heavy burden, but one I am willing and able to take on. I want to express my thanks to the community who-
Harry gave up. “He sounds dry.”
“Ugh, you should have heard his speech,” Pansy griped, slapping her palm for emphasis. “One quarter of an hour. I’m not joking. It’s a good thing they serve the meal after the speech - that food would have been stone cold.”
“EW,” said Daphne, wrinkling her nose. “Imagine cold roast dinner!”
Harry, who had spent the most of his life eating cold leftovers of the Dursleys’ roast dinners, could imagine it quite well but chose not to say anything. Instead, he turned to Draco and, in a low voice, recounted everything he’d learned that evening about Dumbledore. Apparently, Malfoy Manor had kept just as much of a lock on the news as McGonagall had for Harry because by the end, Draco was looking very alarmed.
“He escaped from Auror captivity? That should be impossible.”
“I don’t know,” said Harry tiredly; he’d only just learned what an Auror was that evening. It was all too exhausting; he’d told McGonagall the whole story so that she could fix everything. Now, everything seemed to have gotten worse somehow, and Harry was stuck worrying about it again! He flopped back into the sofa, his stomach rumbling loudly, and realised he hadn’t eaten any of the food Daphne had brought. He began to tuck in. “Do the other new teachers look OK at least?” he asked through a large bite of beef stew.
“Oh…” Blaise flopped against his pillow with a sigh. “Defence looks decent. Some Ministry hire who looks about sixteen, and uses they-them pronouns like a cousin of mine.”
“I’ve never heard of that,” said Pansy, picking her nails.
“Purebloods,” said Tracey in disgust. “You believe in magic, but not queer people?”
Pansy blinked at Tracey with a blank expression. “What’s gay, I have no idea what that is. This is my first time hearing about nonbinary gender.”
“Oh, stop, you,” Daphne scolded, leaning over to swat her arm. “You literally have two dads.”
Blaise finished his thought. “And the Potions master looks just like a slightly pointier version of Snape, if I’m honest.”
“Pointier?” Harry snickered, glancing at Draco.
“Yeah,” Goyle grunted. He’d been following the conversation mutely, like an observer of a six-way badminton match. Next to him, Crabbe seemed deep in rumination. “Maybe he’s your cousin, Malfoy.”
“Unlikely.” Draco was frowning. “I don’t have any cousins. My mother did, but they’re both dead.”
“Well damn,” said Blaise with a heavy exhale. “On that note, I’m going to bed. See you fine folks tomorrow.”