This week had dragged like a wounded dragon, making Saturday morning feel like a precious gift wrapped in golden sunlight.
Orli was the first to wake in the dormitory, watching dust motes dance through the amber light filtering between her four-poster's curtains. She lay still for several minutes, letting her mind drift like morning mist.
She no longer needed to report to the dungeon office. Her weekends stretched before her with blessed freedom for homework, yet as she sprawled across her bed with books spread around her like fallen leaves, her quill twirled idly between her fingers.
What is Snape doing right now? The thought bloomed unbidden in her mind.
Though they had "reconciled" that night, reality remained unchanged—nothing could happen between them. But beneath their careful facade of indifference, the tension had transformed from dangerous undercurrents into something warmer: mutual understanding. The knowledge that he was somewhere in the castle, perhaps thinking of her as she thought of him, brought unexpected comfort.
When she'd submitted her last essay, she'd woven a subtle charm into the parchment. Had he noticed it yet? The possibility sent warmth creeping up her neck.
Dawn's aftermath tasted of sunlight and wild mint. She slipped from bed with practiced silence, dressing while her roommates' breathing remained deep and steady. Distant birdsong drifted through the windows, but the Forbidden Forest lay shrouded in mist. Hagrid's hut was barely visible through the haze, its windows dark and chimney cold—lifeless as an abandoned shell.
The common room stretched empty and peaceful around her as she descended the stairs. Dryncorpse swooped through an open window, dropping a magazine and newspaper into her waiting arms with his usual efficiency.
She rewarded him with almonds from her pocket, then unfolded The Daily Prophet, turning directly to the literary fiction section.
Rita Skeeter had outdone herself with remarkable speed. A serialized novel titled "The Pink Lady's Rise to High Society" dominated the page—already on its second chapter. The byline read simply: "Miss Beetle."
The protagonist, "Pink Lady," was the daughter of a wizard and Muggle woman—a heritage that filled her with burning shame. After her parents' divorce, she'd severed all contact with her mother and Squib brother, weaving elaborate lies about her pure-blood status.
Today's installment revealed delicious details:
"Pink Lady" had excelled at Hogwarts before joining the Ministry as a lowly intern. Despite her nitpicking nature, deep-seated prejudices, and insufferable pretensions, she'd climbed the ranks through shameless flattery and ruthless credit-stealing from colleagues.
Rita's trademark embellishments transformed these simple facts into scandalous entertainment that left readers hungry for more. Following Orli's careful instructions, The Quibbler published the same story with weekly ten-chapter updates—staying ahead of The Daily Prophet while including even more explosive details. For instance, "Pink Lady's" desperate attempts to seduce her superiors into romantic entanglements. She cared nothing for the men themselves—only the power and security a well-positioned husband could provide. Yet despite her relentless efforts, she remained frustratingly unsuccessful...
The real identity of "Pink Lady" needed no explanation. Rita Skeeter had finally found her true calling. The growing readership following Pink Lady's adventures in The Daily Prophet would inevitably boost The Quibbler's circulation—and by extension, Rita's reports about Voldemort's return would reach more eyes.
Meanwhile, as the novel's plot unraveled thread by scandalous thread, what would happen when gossip-hungry parents realized "Pink Lady" had become their children's professor?
Orli flipped through The Quibbler with a decidedly satisfied smile playing at her lips.
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