Ch 31
Edgarin Smeade
Winter was now in full swing as a blanket of snow covered the grounds of Hogwarts. The evergreens bowed under the weight of the snow, looking like fat, hunched over friars wearing white robes. The students spent most of their free time indoors, huddled around common room fires studying and doing their best to talk about something other than the war with Lord Voldemort. To a certain extent they were able to go about their lives at Hogwarts like normal, though it wasn’t easy with the threat of Voldemort and the Death Eaters constantly hovering over them.
Harry revisited the hidden tower room a few more times as the weeks passed. Ginny and Ron had been almost as disappointed as he had when they first learned it was a dead-end (Harry and Hermione had taken them to the room the next day), but were somehow able to get over it much quicker. For Harry it felt like nothing short of a direct punch to the stomach. To have come all that way, to have heard the legend of the Half-Blood Prince in its entirety and not be able to find the next diary was nothing short of torture. He reread the second diary (it was his last chance, as Dumbledore had requested it so he could return it to the Ravenclaw common room) and spent hours in the room just in case there were any clues he had overlooked, but to no avail. For him the trail of the Half-Blood Prince ended at a short, empty bookcase, just as it had for dozens of other people over the centuries.
Something soon happened, however, that took his focus at least partially off of finding Wulfric Gryffindor.
It was a Saturday evening. It had been a Hogsmeade weekend and, not feeling like going, Harry and Ginny had spent much of the day practicing spells that would be sure to come up on Ginny’s O.W.L.’s and helping Neville (whom they had run into in the Room of Requirement and whose grandma had forbidden him to go on any Hogsmeade trips since their fourth year) practice reflecting charms. They returned to the Gryffindor common room to find most of their house gathered together in small groups, each speaking in worried, anxious tones.
“What happened? What’s going on?” Harry asked a distraught looking Lavender Brown who was sitting alone on a couch next to them with her face buried in her hands.
She looked up slowly, her face wet with tears. When she spoke it was little more than a whimper. “The Death-Eaters…came into the Three Broomsticks…some man they were talking to…killed him! In front of everybody! They just killed him!”
She broke into tears and Parvati Patil walked over from small group of people to comfort her. She continued, her voice a high-pitched squeak.
“Madame Rosmerta got in the way, one of them pointed his wand at her… and…and…she had to be taken to St. Mungo’s!”
Lavender buried her head in Parvati’s shoulder and sobbed hysterically. Parvati did her best to console her, though she looked close to collapsing in a fit of tears herself.
Harry and Ginny exchanged a troubled look. He could tell what she was thinking. There had been dozens of attacks by Voldemort and the Death Eaters this year, but so far this was the closest one had ever come to Hogwarts. While he couldn’t say he hadn’t expected an attack at Hogsmeade, now that it had actually happened it made the war seem more real than it ever had before.
Later on Harry heard the entire story from Hermione and Ron, who had been in the Three Broomsticks when the attack had happened and had helped shepherd the younger students back to Hogwarts. Apparently the man who had been killed, a ministry worker named Dorian Sigwell, had been lured into a meeting with the two Death-Eaters (no one was sure of their identities) thinking he was meeting with a pair of affluent foreign businessmen to discuss possible aid arrangements (the goblins still retained their strangle hold on the wizard economy). The real purpose for the Death Eaters setting up the meeting, however, was to recruit him into Voldemort’s service. After bluntly refusing them they pulled their wands, he pulled his, and they dueled right in the middle of the crowded pub. Before anyone else could react one of the Death Eaters hit him with the killing curse which sent him flying into a nearby table and scattering drinks everywhere. Luckily Professor Gredellhall had been there. Quickly surmising what was going on (apparently she had been the only one) she had taken cover behind the bar and began firing off stunners at them (“Surprisingly quick for an old bat, that one,” Ron had said in admiration). She had almost succeeded in immobilizing one of them when the other cast a conflagration jinx at the bar, causing it to explode and filling the room with fire and smoke. In the ensuing chaos the Death-Eaters made their escape, one of them even laughing maniacally as they ran out the door.
“Madame Rosmerta was absolutely livid that the Death Eaters had come into her pub and tried to block the exit,” Hermione said heavily. “One of them pointed their wand at her, there was a strange orange light, and she fell to the floor. I think it must have been some sort of befuddlement curse. As far as we know she’s in St. Mungo’s.”
“I still can’t believe it,” Ron said in awed disbelief. “I mean, we’ve been reading about stuff like this the whole year, but in Hogsmeade? It just seems unreal.”
Harry noticed similar reactions from most of the students. For some reason they all seemed surprised that an attack would happen so close to home. He couldn’t help but feel slightly aggravated by this. What did they expect? That the war was going on in another country, to other people? Perhaps it was because he had been dealing with Voldemort ever since the end of his fourth year (first year, actually, he noted darkly to himself) that he had no patience for their naiveté. Now they had some taste of what he had been dealing with for years.
It came as no surprise to anyone, however, when Dumbledore announced that there would no longer be any more trips to Hogsmeade at breakfast the next day.
After a week or so the excitement died down and things had almost returned to normal when, one day, in the middle of Herbology, Harry received a summons to Professor McGonagall’s office. Feeling slightly alarmed (it was highly unusual to be taken out of class to visit the head of house) and trying desperately to think which rules he had broken lately, Harry made his way through the long corridor to her office. When he entered he was surprised to find McGonagall accompanied by a thin, wiry man with spectacles and a great, bald forehead. A worn, black carrying case sat on the floor next to the man’s feet.
“Take a seat, Potter,” said McGonagall in her usual, curt manner as he entered the room. Harry did as he was told, sitting in one of the uncomfortable, stiff-backed chairs in front of her desk. He was aware of the man with spectacles watching him curiously as he did so. What was this all about?
“This,” Professor McGonagall said, motioning to the man standing next to the desk, (Harry noticed that her mouth was a thin, disapproving line) “is Edgarin Smeade, Editor-in-Chief at the Daily Prophet. He is hoping to have a few words with you.”
Upon being introduced the man walked towards Harry with his hand outstretched. “Greetings, Mr. Potter. It is a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me. I assure you it will be worth the trouble.”
The man spoke in a dull, perfunctory tone that didn’t match the politeness of the words he was speaking, as though he were merely selecting words to place in a new article instead of talking to an actual person. He also had an enormous Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down every time he spoke, almost like a snake that had swallowed a rodent but couldn’t quite get it all the way down. It was very distracting. When Harry shook his hand he found it cold and clammy. All this, coupled with the fact that he was from the Daily Prophet, made Harry dislike him immediately.
“Er…no problem. What exactly do you want?” Harry asked abruptly.
Edgarin Smeade cocked his head slightly, as though surprised by Harry’s forwardness. “Well, straight to business then.” He walked to the front of McGonagall’s desk, leaned against it, and fixed a commanding, almost condescending gaze on Harry.
“I, that is, the Prophet, would like to do an interview with you. It has been some time since the wizarding public has heard from the Boy-Who-Lived, and we feel having your take on recent events would go a long way in improving general spirits and confidence of the public. I have been…”
“Is this about Hogsmeade?” Harry interrupted, “because I wasn’t even there. You should ask Hermione Granger or Lavender Brown. They could tell you better than I could. Well…”
Harry made as if to leave. Smeade held out his hand, motioning him to stay put.
“No, no, this isn’t about Hogsmeade, Mr. Potter. That was yesterday’s news. Something else has come up. Something much bigger than the Hogsmeade story ever could have been,” he said, an almost pleased tone to his mechanical voice.
Harry waited for Smeade to fill him in on what the ‘something’ was. Apparently he had no intention of doing so, however, as he just stared blankly back at him and said nothing.
“So…what happened?” Harry asked finally.
“It is not in the best interest of the Prophet, nor in your own, for me to disclose that to you. We anticipate this story will break in the weekend edition of the Prophet. You can read it then,” he said in a tone of superiority, then took his eyes from Harry and gazed at his sleeve, brushing a small speck of dirt from it.
“Oh, just show him the article, Smeade,” McGonagall snapped impatiently. It was obvious to Harry that she liked Smeade just as much as he did.
The Editor-in-Chief looked at her uncertainly, his short, black eyebrows rising into the vast, pale expanse of his forehead. “My dear Professor McGonagall, I do not think a boy of Mr. Potter’s age…”
“Merlin’s Beard, man!” McGonagall snapped. “The lad has dueled with You-Know-Who! You think he’s too young to handle this tripe?”
Smeade’s eyes narrowed and his Adam’s Apple bobbed convulsively, as though the rodent inside was making a desperate attempt to escape. Apparently he took offense to having one of the Daily Prophet’s articles referred to as ‘tripe’. He said nothing, however, but cast a calculating gaze back at Harry, then back at McGonagall as if he were trying to make up his mind. Finally he acquiesced, reaching around the corner of McGonagall’s desk and picking up the worn, black carrying case.
“Very well. But you must agree that, as this story has not yet been released, you will not share its contents with anyone.” Smeade looked beadily at him.
“Er, yeah, I agree,” Harry said, fairly sure he would tell Ron, Hermione, and Ginny as soon as he had the chance.
Smeade nodded then opened the front latch of the case. There was a small ‘click’ as he pulled back the cover. Inside was a collection of parchment and quills, neatly set into slots along the outside of the case. Harry thought he heard a small ‘hoot’ come from the bag and, tilting his head slightly, saw a small owl sitting sedately on a perch sticking out of the corner of the bag. What caught his attention, however, wasn’t the owl but a series of seven long, black, cylindrical containers set in a neat row along the back of the bag. Looking closer at them Harry could see the days of the week inscribed in each cylinder. Smeade reached straight for the one labeled ‘Saturday’ and pulled it out.
He unscrewed the lid and pulled out several pages of crisp, white parchment that looked like empty pages of the Daily Prophet. Noticing his gaze, Smeade hurriedly removed the top page and rolled the rest of the parchment up so he couldn’t see it. He shot him a dirty look, then reluctantly handed over the page he had removed.
Harry took the sheet. It was, indeed, the cover page of the Daily Prophet, though much of it was blank. Apparently Smeade entered in the most important stories first, then filled in the rest with lesser stories and advertisements. Although this particular sheet already had a headline, written in bold, abnormally large letters:
YOU-KNOW-WHO SPEAKS AT LAST
Notorious Dark Wizard Offers Truce, Ultimatum
In a message given through one of his servants, a Death Eater referring to himself only as ‘Rubicus’, the dark wizard commonly referred to as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named made his first public statement late yesterday evening.
“I have the privilege and extreme honor to be the one assigned by the Dark Lord to speak on his behalf to the wizarding public” said the masked Rubicus during an exclusive interview with the Daily Prophet. “He has instructed me to give both a message and a promise to you. I shall deliver the message first. It is this: the wizarding race has gone astray. Wizardkind has been blessed with the gift of magic, a gift that sets us apart from every other species. This gift is a mandate from creation itself to excel above the other races, to subjugate them and rule over them in order that we can lead them. This mandate cannot be taken lightly. Yet we as a race have perverted that gift by intermingling our blood with Muggles and neglecting our mandate to rule the other races and guide them where they need to be. This will not continue. We hereby request the Ministry to step down and relinquish its governing power. It should be given to those who have kept creation’s mandate alive, namely the heads of the pure-blooded families. My master has returned, not to destroy wizardkind, but to set it right again.”
After being asked, if He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was so concerned about the welfare of the wizarding race, then why had his previous campaign of terror cost the lives of so many of its citizens, Rubicus replied somewhat defensively, “We have been forced to resort to violence because it is the only way our voices can be heard. The Ministry has long deprived us of our rightful voice in governing matters, and we have used the means we have to rectify this injustice.”
Harry couldn’t believe what he was reading. Voldemort and the Death Eaters resorting to violence because they had been ‘deprived of their rightful voice in governing matters?’ The absurdity was overwhelming. He wondered that this ‘Rubicus’ was even able to keep a straight face to the reporter when he gave the interview. Would anyone actually believe this rubbish?
Frustratingly enough, Harry realized sullenly, some people would. He read on.
“We do not wish to resort to violence again, but we are willing to do whatever necessary to restore things back to the rightful order. We have assembled a vast army. The dementors do our bidding. The giants of the north obey our every command. We have magical creatures, the likes of which you couldn’t comprehend, at our beck and call. If the Dark Lord decided to move now there would be no hope for the Ministry. And that is why he has requested that I meet with you today. I have delivered the message, now it is time for my master’s promise to the wizarding public. It is this: those who do not fight against us will be spared. To those who embrace our cause we extend the hand of fellowship and welcome them to our quest of purifying the wizard race. To those who do not, to those who choose to fight us, know that you will be utterly destroyed. That is my master’s promise. We are done here.”
At this point the dark wizard Rubicus indicated that the interview was over and refused to answer any more questions. It is this reporter’s personal opinion…
Harry had had enough. There was more written on the piece of parchment but he threw it back at Smeade without reading it. It was simple enough to see what Voldemort was trying to do: buy more time to build up his army while instilling even more fear in the public. The sad thing was that it would probably work marvelously. What was more, the Prophet was playing right into his hands by publishing the rubbish in the first place. He thought briefly of trying to convince Smeade not to run the article, but he knew enough about the Prophet to know it would be futile. This story would undoubtedly sell a lot of newspapers. Forget the negative impact the story would have on the public, or the fact that they were helping Voldemort by publishing it, as long as they were able to line their pockets with a few extra Galleons, none of it mattered.
“So you can see why we consider it important for you to give an interview,” said Smeade in his monotone voice as he delicately placed the parchment back in its canister. He then pulled out the Sunday canister and removed the parchment inside. Harry was surprised to see its headline already printed: Exclusive Interview with Harry Potter How the Boy-Who-Lived plans to defeat his long-time nemesis.
Harry read it in slight astonishment. Apparently Smeade shared Rita Skeeter’s talent for reporting the news before it actually happened.
“I can give you front page in the Sunday edition. Biggest day of the week for us.”
Harry looked at Professor McGonagall.
“What does Professor Dumbledore think about this?”
“The headmaster didn’t think you would be interested in talking to this man, but realizes this is a special circumstance and said you should be able to choose for yourself. He fully supports whatever decision you make.”
“Yes. The headmaster,” Smeade said distastefully, and for the first time his face registered some sort of emotion, “has restricted our access to you this entire year, claiming you were not to be bothered. Otherwise we would have done multiple interviews before now…”
Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise. He had had no idea that Dumbledore had been keeping reporters away from him the entire year. He made a mental note to thank him later.
“…but even he realizes the importance of the situation we are in. A few encouraging statements about how you plan to stop You-Know-Who, something along the lines of ‘I did it once, and I will do it again’ would really solidify your standing as hero and help improve public sentiment.”
Harry got the distinct impression that Smeade didn’t care about ‘public sentiment’ nearly as much as he did selling newspapers. And where did they get off acting like they had always believed him, that they had never slandered and insulted him?
“Wait a second. I spent my entire fifth year reading about how I was a nutter and everyone who believed what Dumbledore and I said about Voldemort…” Smeade flinched horribly at the name, making it only the second time Harry had noticed any sort of emotion in his face, “…was mental too. And now you come to me saying I’m a hero and everyone needs to hear from me, like nothing ever happened? What are you playing at?”
By the end of the question Harry was in a slight rage. Apparently he still had some anger and bad feelings left over from the previous year. McGonagall snorted triumphantly and fixed Smeade with an accusatory stare, the same one she gave students who had been caught red-handed breaking the rules.
Smeade, however, smiled a smug, humorless smile and reached back into his black case. He fished around for a little bit, then pulled out a small, black felt bag that jingled as he moved it.
“Yes, I thought that might come up. On behalf of the Daily Prophet I would like to present you with this compensation for the unfortunate misunderstandings of a year ago. In fulfilling the duty to wizard society we are not always able to report with one-hundred percent accuracy, though I am confident we are typically very close to that mark. For your troubles.”
With that he held the bag out in his cold, clammy had. Harry realized it was filled with money. He blinked in amazement. Was that supposed to have been some sort of apology? Did they think they could wave a few Galleons in his face and he would suddenly forget everything that they had written about him, about Dumbledore? Harry got the sudden urge to punch Smeade right in the face.
Fortunately he was able to keep his anger under control, and merely replied coldly, “Keep it. Maybe you can use it on actually finding out the truth before you report something.”
Smeade’s eyes grew wide, as though he had been totally convinced the money would be enough to make Harry forget what had happened. He looked flustered for a moment, but quickly recovered.
“Look, Mr. Potter, I came here to offer you a chance to help the wizarding public. You have some very important things to say, things that they need to hear. You have a duty, nay, a moral obligation to…”
“Oh, you’re one to lecture someone on their ‘moral obligations’ Smeade. Half the rubbish you print is exaggerated or sensationalized just to sell papers. Moral obligations, indeed!” McGonagall snapped.
Edgarin Smeade shot a nasty look at McGonagall.
Thankful for the head of house’s support, Harry was about to tell Smeade to do something very rude and walk away, but something made him stop. He thought about the proposal. He hated giving interviews, he hated the attention, but maybe it was a good idea to speak to the public. He could tell them they were fools for cowering before Voldemort, that they needed to stand up and fight for themselves and not expect to be rescued by himself and Dumbledore.
As this thought ran through his mind, the idea of giving an interview suddenly became appealing. It would be a good way to vent his frustration, something that would allow him to, albeit feebly, strike back at Voldemort…
His mind made up, he rose from his chair. Smeade was just about to make a rebuttal to Professor McGonagall’s statement, but stopped once Harry started talking.
“You’re right. There are some things I need to say. I think I will give an interview...”
McGonagall lifted her eyebrows in surprise. Smeade looked confusedly at him for a moment, then nodded, as though he had expected it all along.
“Well then. Excellent. Let me just get my…”
“…with the Quibbler,” Harry finished.
Smeade’s mouth dropped open in a look of supreme disbelief. Harry savored it for a moment, knowing that being rejected for the Quibbler had to be the biggest slap in the face possible for the Editor-in-Chief of the Daily Prophet. After pausing a few seconds he turned his back on Smeade and walked out of the room.
Harry Potter and the Legacy of the Founders by VoldemortsPatronus
Chapter Notes: I'm back. Sorry for the delay, I've had a few adventures lately that have kept me from writing. I won't go into it here, but wrote about them in my blog: themickel.blogspot.com.