No journalist in Britain compared to Rita Skeeter. She was a household name. The Prophet's shining beacon of journalism. If any reporter could be considered a celebrity, it was her without a doubt, and she had done anything necessary in order to get herself there.
Her less savory exposes ruffled a few feathers in their time, but so what? Other people's reputations were just fuel to the fire of Rita's greatness. At first editors tried to curtail her 'less-polite' pieces. Rita outlasted all of them. When it became clear how well her work sold, the higher-ups tossed those editors out on their arses and let Rita hire the new ones. Profit was the bottom line of everything in the wizarding world. So long as Rita brought in the Galleons she was free to do what she wished. These days, no one even read her stories before the Prophet published them. They just saw her name and stamped it as a masterpiece, scared for their job if they disagreed with her in the slightest way. Even her office was avoided like the plague in fear of accidentally getting on her hitlist.
Which meant no one was around to see her thrashing against ropes and a gag, tied to a chair in the corner of her own office.
"What do you think?" Harry asked— or Tom, given his mask was on. "You're the one who writes for a living. Can I get away with using 'esteemed' twice in the same paragraph, or would that be laying it on too thick?"
"Mmmm mm mmmm mm mm!" said Rita.
"You're right!" Harry said. "I should add a third one. There's no such thing as overkill when it comes to a story like this. See, this is why you're the professional."
"MMMMM!"
"Finished!"
Harry lifted the paper he'd been working on and held it in front of himself. Under his ski mask he wore a huge grin. As his eyes skimmed his own work checking for typos, he was unable to help a small tear coming to his eye.
"It's beautiful," he said. "Your best work yet, Rita. It's so good that your life will never be the same again.
This time, Rita didn't even manage to whimper.
O-O-O
"Have you heard the news?"
The question came from Parvati, asked urgently as she sat down at the Gryffindor table the following morning, but the same words had been heard hundreds of times around the Great Hall in the preceding hour. It was an even bigger commotion than after Harry's Witch Weekly photoshoot was published.
"That Skeeter article?" Hermione asked.
"What else?" Parvati said. "Harry, is it true?"
Only Harry seemed immune to the chaos going on everywhere. He looked up from stuffing his mouth with pancakes. He held up a hand, asking everyone to wait patiently for a moment. With a bit of effort, he swallowed the mouthful. On command, he forced a tear to fall from his right eye.
"My uncle has indeed passed from this world."
There was a collection of gasps. Parvati hugged him. Getting embraced by a beautiful Indian witch was probably the best thing Vernon had ever done for Harry, and he only had to die to do it. That was a small sacrifice in Harry's book.
"Then did you know that witch too?" Lavender asked. "What was her name again… Umbridge?"
"If we ever met, it was a long time ago," Harry said.
"What's everyone on about?" Ron asked, arriving at the table with bleary eyes. He sat down between Harry and Parvati, who both scooched aside to make room. Instead of answering him out loud, his sister Ginny passed a copy of the Daily Prophet to him.
The first page was covered by a Rita Skeeter article. It was one of the longest stories the Prophet had ever run, almost as long as the piece Rita once wrote about a fellow reporter who had the gall to call out her journalism, in which she insinuated he did the deed with male goblins and had a fetish for female centaurs.
This time, Rita laid out a tragic tale of failed love. A Muggle man and a half-blood witch, star-crossed and sent to an early grave! Great attention was brought to Dolores Umbridge. Particularly her heritage. The daughter of a lowly janitor and a Muggle woman, but capable of climbing the corporate ladder with the best of them! Details on Vernon Dursley were sparse by contrast. But he was the Boy Who Lived's uncle, and that fact alone was enough to make him noteworthy.
"It's just so heartbreaking," Parvati said, crying much harder than the fake tear Harry offered. "I can't get the words out of my head!"
"It was really well written, too," Harry said.
"No, it was pretty bad on that front by Rita's standards" Parvati said.
"Definitely sloppy," Ginny agreed.
"Even when she's being a bitch, Rita usually writes better than this," Lavender said. "She used esteemed three times in the same paragraph! But this story is so heart wrenching, even middling prose can't hold it bad."
"Why are you guys getting more eloquent? I didn't realize I was eating with literary critics," Harry grumbled.
"Why do you seem offended?" Lavender wondered.
"It's probably because of his uncle," Parvati said. "This must be such a difficult time for him. It's alright Harry. We're here for you."
"However you need," Lavender said, waggling her eyebrows.
"Thanks everyone," Harry said. "Somehow, I think I'll get through this."
By which he meant…
The show is only getting started.
O-O-O
For the first time in the history of the paper, the Daily Prophet made an effort to remove one of its issues from circulation. Unfortunately for them, it was too late
The tear-jerking story of a witch and Muggle who couldn't be together set off a powder keg that many in the wizarding world hadn't been aware existed. Suddenly, almost inexplicably, half-bloods were rising up. It was a reminder of something few people had realized. There were a lot of half-bloods.
By the loosest definition, a pureblood was a wizard or witch whose grandparents were both magical. Among the old families the criteria was much stricter— the great grandparents had to be magical at minimum, while many Death Eaters thought a family had to go back at least seven generations before it could be considered worth anything.
A Muggle-born was a magical child born to Muggle parents. A pureblood, as designated above, was from a magical family. But a half-blood could be born to one magical parent and a Muggle. They could have one pureblood parent and one Muggle-born parent. Two Muggle-born parents also made a half-blood— and if you asked less open-minded purebloods, a single drop of Muggle blood could be enough to water down an entire lineage.
When you're that selective, you set yourself against a lot of people. And once those people get sick of it you're going to notice.
"They're still filling the Atrium, sir. In fact, I think their numbers have risen."
Cornelius Fudge pulled on his hair. That wasn't smart; it was already thinning, and he risked doing irreparable damage to his already middling appearance. That's why it was a move he reserved to show his frustration only on especially dreadful days… such as this one.
"Can't they just go home already?" he complained. "It's not like anyone likes them."
It had been three days since pro-half-blood protestors had taken up residency in the Ministry's main entrance. They had enchanted signs and witty chants and wouldn't give the minister a moment of peace. This was terrible for his image— as bad as going bald would be!
"No offense, Kingsley," Fudge said.
The dark skinned Auror stationed as a guard behind his desk looked at Fudge. "You haven't said anything, Minister."
"Well, yes. But in the spirit of things." Fudge stood up, smacking his hands on his desk. He liked to do that. He thought it made him look intimidating. "I've had just about enough of this!"
He put on his coat, which had been hung behind his desk, and added a hat on top of his head, hiding the way his hair was sticking up from all that pulling.
"What do you plan to do, Minister?" Kingsley asked while Fudge pushed past the worker who brought the latest report.
"What do you think? I'm going to put a stop to them," Fudge said. "This is completely improper! If they have any complaints about how the Ministry is running, they ought to file them through proper channels. Like making a donation to my campaign!"
Kingsley looked at the Minister very closely, trying to discern if he was being sarcastic. Kingsley ultimately deemed that he wasn't. Fudge was just that shameless.
They took a lift down to the Atrium. Fudge brought four Aurors with him as security. When they exited onto Level Eight, the noise hit them. A raucous crowd was almost completely blocking the Floo entrances chanting about lack of government representation. Fudge nearly covered his ears because of the volume.
He marched up to the edge of the crowd where a line of nervous DMLE workers were acting as the border of the crowd. The protestors hadn't made any move to force their way further into the Ministry. They only wanted to be noticeable and irritating, two things they were definitely nailing when it came to the Minister.
"Quiet already! Leave!" Fudge shouted, waving his hand in their general direction. "This isn't the place for you!"
Probably not the wisest choice of words to defuse a group chanting for more government representation. Noticing the Minister, the crowd's chant turned to one that went, "Half of this, half of that, still twice as much wizard as you, twat."
"Can't you just curse them?" Fudge asked his Aurors.
"Are you willing to throw away any chance you had in the next election?" Kingsly asked.
"Lucius would support me," Fudge said. "It's not like I need this… rabble."
"From what I've heard, he's having issues of his own," Kingsley said. "You might want to appeal to this group a bit harder."
"What kind of trouble— ouch!" Fudge whipped around, glaring murderously at the crowd. "They just cursed me! Cursed me! Arrest them!"
"...I didn't see anything, Minister," one of the Aurors spoke up tentatively. "I've been keeping track. They don't even have their wands out."
"But I felt something!" Fudge said. "They hit my scalp with a stinging charm!"
Both of them were somewhat right. Fudge had been hit by magic, but no one had drawn their wand. Shielded by the bodies in front of him, Harry held a single hair between his fingers, summoned by extending his hand and muttering the incantation. It had been that easy to pluck it off of Fudge's head. He carefully placed it in a small bag, put the bag beside an almost identical one in his pocket, and skulked deeper into the crowd.
Before he left, Harry did a quick check on the work his minions were doing. What he found made him proud.
"Seventy-percent of professional Quidditch players are half-bloods," Seamus Finnegan told the men around him. "But all but one of the team captains are pureblood. Ireland hasn't had a half-blood captain on the national team for thirty years. England's never had one. Doesn't seem right, does it?"
"S'not right!" was the cry from the riled-up men he'd been talking to. Harry slipped by and took Seamus along with him. The two of them searched through the crowd and discovered Tracey Davis speaking to twice as many people as Seamus had been.
"The Minister is technically an elected position, but they've only ever been purebloods," she was saying. "It's too expensive to campaign unless you have enough donations. And who has the money to throw it around like that? The purebloods! They're hogging all the best jobs. They don't let anyone get a foot in the door. They think they can push us around forever, and that we'll quietly take it."
"Screw that!" exclaimed one of the listeners.
"Don't tell me. Tell him," Tracey said, pointing at Fudge yelling at protestors near the front of the crowd.
The protestors around her did exactly that, fighting their way forward to chant with renewed enthusiasm. Tracey turned to Seamus and Harry and bowed.
"Did I put on a good show?" she asked.
"Couldn't have been better," Harry said. "Both of you did great. It's getting late now, and we've got what we came for, so let's get back to Hogwarts."
He removed a glove from his pocket, holding it out so that all three could touch it.
"After the professor ordered us to let you go, I thought you were ignorant to the cause," Seamus said. "Good to see that you came around, Harry. The day of the half-blood is coming."
His tone was mildly concerning, but zeal was a positive trait in henchman so Harry didn't correct him. He activated their portkey, returning them to Hogwarts, where they landed in Professor Vector's private quarters. Septima Vector was there with her robes ruffled and pulled suspiciously low over her cleavage. When she saw them, she smiled.
"Did it go well?" she asked.
"Perfectly," Harry said. "And your job?"
Professor Vector pointed to the table. Two servings of Polyjuice Potion sat there. Harry grinned.
"I know I'm the one who asked, but how'd you manage to get them?" he asked. "It can be difficult to find two servings to buy even if you have a fortune to spend."
"Who said that I bought them?" Professor Vector said. "It was simple, really…"
Approximately one hour earlier.
Professor Snape was grading papers from his students' latest assignment, taking great pleasure from squeezing as many red Xs in as possible, when the door opened. He was ready to chew out whatever foolish student was dim enough to enter his office, no doubt arriving to ask for help. His scathing insults died on the tip of his tongue. It was professor Vector, looking not quite like he'd ever seen her.
"Septima," Snape said. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I was… looking for you, Severus," Professor Vector said.
Her voice was heavy and her words slightly halting. Her robe was loose and open enough to show her cleavage, yet she'd done her makeup precisely. Snape liked this development.
He'd long wondered when it would happen. He was so talented, at some point witches were bound to notice. Frankly, he thought at least one of his coworkers would have fallen for him within his first year working. Instead, it had taken this long.
He wouldn't let the opportunity slip away.
"Talk we shall," Snape said, standing up from his desk. "Come right this way."
His office was sparsely decorated. Other than his desk, he had two more comfortable chairs in the corner, right underneath the wall-mounted storage box where he kept his expensive personal collection of potions. Snape sat down in one of the seats, Professor Vector sitting in the other. Now that they were closer to each other, Snape noticed her cheeks had a blush to them.
"What did you want to say to me?" Snape asked, though he already knew the answer truly.
"I just… wanted to see your face…"
Professor Vector rubbed her sides and shifted in her seat. If her robes went any lower, Snape would be able to see her bra. He smiled beneath his protruding nose.
"I know that we're colleagues, but do we talk frequently enough for such a reaction?"
"Maybe I don't want to talk," Professor Vector said.
Snape finally allowed himself to smirk. It was a wonderful feeling to have life finally reward him for how great he was. He reached over to put his hand on Professor Vector's knee.
"Wait!" Professor Vector said. "I'd like a little bit of assurance. That it will be safe."
"A good idea." Snape stood up, pulling a key from the bowels of his pocket. "The last thing we want is to conjure a foul snot-gremlin. Fortunately, you've sought out the most resourceful man in this castle."
He unlocked his potion's cabinet, bypassing the defensive enchantments. There were all kinds of valuable potions inside, everything from a Bravery Broth to Felix Felicis— but who needs that when you can get lucky without borrowing a potion's power?
Snape lifted a Contraceptive Potion from among the supply, handing it over to Professor Vector. She accepted it quickly, stepping closer to him before he could close the cabinet.
"I just have to drink it, right?"
"That's correct." Snape tried to shut his potion supply; there were some among them that didn't handle external temperatures well. Unfortunately, Professor Vector was in the way. "Please, give me space to shut this—"
He forgot all about his potions as Professor Vector guzzled the potion he'd handed her. When she lifted her arms, he was finally blessed with a view of her bra. Snape swallowed. Professor Vector gave him a gentle push and his legs gave out, collapsing back into his chair.
"Shut your eyes," she whispered, resting a finger underneath Snape's jaw.
He did as command, his heart beating in his throat. He'd heard that virgins were bad at sex, but he was Severus Snape. He was sure his natural talents would shine through. Especially since his luck was really starting to turn. Not only had he been sought out by one of the faculty, it was one of the two most beautiful ones. Not a troll like Sprout. The only way this situation could be better was if it was Professor Sinistra… but she'd likely seek him out soon enough now that it had come to this.
Something slipped around his chest and tightened. "Unusual tastes," Snape said. "However, if tying me up is what it takes for you to be comfortable, I've put up with worse."
She must be stripping at that very moment. He could hear her clothes rustling as she moved around. So Snape waited.
And waited…
The door slammed shut.
"Septima?"
Snape opened his eyes. He was alone in the room, ropes tied around him. He'd left his wand on his desk in his hurry to seat Professor Vector. At the moment he was no more able than a skinny, arrogant Muggle man. He tested the ropes binding him and found them chafingly tight.
"Nerves must have gotten to her," Snape said with a rueful, cocky smile that would've made his students vomit. "I am a lot to handle."
The only thing Severus Snape was better at than being everyone's second choice was indulging his own delusions.
Approximately one-third of his private collection was irrevocably damaged that day.