We Confirm, Tom Riddle

Rita stared blankly at Harry, utterly shaken.

She couldn't process this. It felt as though her throat had been filled with cement, the air around her thick and suffocating. She struggled for what seemed like an eternity before her voice finally broke free, hoarse and raspy, startling even herself. "Mr. Potter, you're joking… right?"

"I'm not." Harry shook his head expressionlessly. "Would you like me to repeat it?"

Rita was petrified. It felt as though someone had grabbed her by the hair and forced her to stand.

But her legs were weak, and without the support of the chair, she crumpled to the ground with a resounding thud.

Ron reacted swiftly, pulling out his wand, ready to cast a spell.

Flashes of The Daily Prophet headlines darted through his mind.

Hermione's expressionless face, so similar to Harry's, flashed before him.

Essays on potions, spells, and transfiguration swam through his head.

And then he froze, lowering his wand. He could only watch as Rita hit the ground with a loud, dull thump. It was a good head-first fall.

But Rita didn't feel any pain. The sharp, twisting sensation in her chest drowned out all other feelings.

She cursed herself furiously, wishing she could borrow a Time-Turner from Hermione, go back a minute, and knock herself unconscious.

Harry had warned her.

Warned her so clearly that Tom Riddle was a dangerous person best left alone.

And yet, she'd gone and pried. Why couldn't she keep her mouth shut?

For years, she'd thrived as a journalist, navigating the highs and lows of her career by knowing what to write, what not to write, and how to strike a balance. Sure, she sometimes stretched the truth for the sake of sales—like suggesting Dumbledore was senile and erratic—but she'd never faced retaliation.

Granted, that might have had something to do with her connections, like Cornelius Fudge.

But now? Now she'd forgotten all her instincts.

She'd trade her entire fortune for a fresh, uninformed brain that hadn't heard a word of this.

Rita painfully lifted her head and looked at Harry. "Mr. Potter, I… I…"

"You already know the truth," Harry said gently.

Rita clawed her way up, clinging to the chair, and collapsed back into it. "I… I'm not scared. The Dark Lord is dead. Yes, he was killed that night. By you, our world's savior!"

"Even if I know, it doesn't—"

"He's not dead," Harry interrupted, still speaking gently. "He's still alive. Just very weak."

Rita's hollow eyes met Harry's feline ones, and her voice trembled. "Mr. Potter, what… what are you saying?"

"For eleven years, everyone believed he was gone, that his Death Eaters were defeated…"

"He's not gone." Harry's tone remained calm. "He's alive, just hiding. Surely you've heard some of the rumors about Hogwarts? The things that happened after I enrolled?"

Rita nodded slowly.

Of course, she knew. As a journalist, she had a natural sensitivity to events. But she hadn't been able to piece everything together—only snippets from other students, mostly exaggerated or confused. The real facts were locked away in the minds of the professors and Harry himself.

Though she cared more about sales than accuracy—after all, rumors often sold better than facts—those stories couldn't make it to print.

Because Dumbledore didn't allow it.

Four simple words: Dumbledore didn't allow it.

Those words loomed over the press like an immovable mountain, crushing her chances at breaking major stories.

"In my first year, Voldemort possessed Professor Quirrell, our Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, and tried to steal something. I caught him in the act and stopped him," Harry said casually.

"In my second year, Voldemort struck again. He reopened the Chamber of Secrets." Harry paused, watching Rita's expression shift. He nodded. "Yes, he's the true Heir of Slytherin. I can't believe how foolish everyone was to pin that crime on Hagrid."

Rita's expression barely changed. The only emotion visible was her growing fear of Voldemort's name.

Compared to the venomous criticism she had for the Ministry, her reaction now was muted. There weren't even any "F" words.

"I've seen him with my own eyes and fought him multiple times," Harry concluded. "He's alive. I know it, and so does Professor Dumbledore."

Rita looked uneasy. "What about your third year? Was he behind that, too?"

"I heard you got into a fight with a professor—"

Harry shook his head. "No, he didn't appear in my third year. As for Professor Snape, that was a matter of old family grudges."

"You really attacked your professor!" Rita shrieked. She'd been convinced it was a rumor.

Harry waved dismissively. "That's not important."

Rita shook her head instinctively.

No, that's very important! At least to her, it was crucial.

Her estimation of Harry had always been confined to his role as a student—no matter how talented, he was still just a student. At most, she thought of him as someone at the level of an exceptional graduate, like Percy Weasley, who was barely making waves in the Ministry.

Now, she had to adjust her perspective.

He wasn't just a student—he'd defeated a Head of House.

Not just any Head of House, either. Snape was the youngest Potions Master in history and the Head of Slytherin.

If not for the terror paralyzing her, she might have slapped herself in frustration. She now wished she could rewind time further—maybe by six months instead of a mere ten minutes.

Oh, Rita, you fool.

How could you have dared provoke someone like him? Wouldn't it have been better to write a few more articles roasting the Ministry, mocking Fudge, or slyly criticizing Dumbledore?

"Voldemort isn't dead. He's likely plotting something big," Harry said softly.

The realization hit Rita like lightning. Her face turned pale, her body limp. "The Quidditch World Cup… was that his doing?"

Harry didn't answer. He wasn't sure.

To Rita, his silence was confirmation.

"The Triwizard Cup spitting out your name three times—that was also orchestrated by the Death Eaters?" she whispered, her throat dry and parched.

"Most likely," Harry said, nodding.

Then, after a pause, he added, "Here's an interesting tidbit for you. Do you know why I suspect Barty Crouch Jr. is still alive? Because at the start of the school year, I discovered that Professor Moody had been replaced by someone impersonating him—a man named Barty Crouch."

"And when Mr. Scrimgeour verified that the real Barty Crouch from the Department of International Magical Cooperation was still alive and well in the Ministry…"

"But when he came to Hogwarts to arrest the imposter, he found that the two Barty Crouches were one and the same. During the pursuit, there was a mishap, and Mr. Crouch was killed."

Rita froze, her mind racing.

Another bombshell.

So that's how Barty Crouch had died? If this went public, it would sell an unprecedented number of papers.

"But why suspect Barty Crouch Jr.?" Rita asked, frowning. "You haven't even seen the imposter, have you? What if the one in the Ministry used a spell or a house-elf to impersonate him?"

"While house-elves can't take Polyjuice Potion, other magic might work," she added.

Harry nodded. "That's possible."

"But during the Quidditch World Cup, the Death Eater leader could command Crouch's house-elf. He wasn't the elder Barty Crouch."

"And at the site of Barty Crouch's death, I found an Invisibility Cloak stained with the Death Eater leader's scent."

"Meaning the leader was likely there when Barty Crouch died."

Rita felt as though she were suffocating.

This tangled web of events was trapping her like a moth in a spider's web.

"Why are you telling me all this?" she finally asked, her voice trembling.

Harry smiled faintly. "Because you wanted to know, Miss Skeeter."

Rita clutched her chest, the pain twisting inside her.

"This bond is stronger than any Unbreakable Vow," Harry continued. "When faced with imminent danger, people often discover strength they never knew they had."

"I believe in your potential, Miss Skeeter."

Rita ground her teeth, lamenting her choices. She'd give anything to be less capable right now. But it was too late. She'd heard it all.

Taking a deep breath, she asked, "Will you protect me?"

"Professor Dumbledore and I both will," Harry assured her. "You're clever—Ravenclaw's brightest. I trust you know what to do and what not to do."

"Of course!" Rita exclaimed, her voice loud and firm. "I've already made one mistake. I won't make another."

Harry nodded. "Two tasks for you."

"One, investigate the Crouch household. Look for any trace of Barty Crouch Jr.," he said.

"What's the second?" Rita asked, frowning. Had she missed something?

"It's still about Tom Riddle," Harry explained. "He likely researched the Founders extensively, collecting their relics. He may have also sought items tied to the Gaunts or other legendary witches and wizards."

"I need you to figure out what he was interested in, what he collected, and where he might have hidden them."

Rita's newfound resolve crumbled instantly. "You want me to investigate the Dark Lord himself!"

"Are you trying to kill me, Mr. Potter?"

Harry shook his head. "Don't worry. He's so weak now that even you, or Ron, or Crookshanks could defeat him—if you don't fear him."

"Harry!" Ron hissed, scandalized. "I can definitely beat Crookshanks already!"

"Really?" Rita asked skeptically.

"Absolutely," Harry affirmed, pulling out a vial of shimmering gold potion from the Sorting Hat and placing it beside Rita. "This will protect you."

"Felix Felicis!" Rita gasped, her face lighting up with delight.

The potion wasn't from Snape's stock; Harry had brewed it himself during his studies.

"For me?" Rita asked, clutching the vial like a treasure.

Harry nodded. "You'll be facing Voldemort. Your Animagus form is rare and invaluable. You're a rare gem, Miss Skeeter."

Clutching the potion tightly, Rita said, "It might take me a while to gather information on the Dark Lord, but I'll have the Crouch report ready before Christmas!"

As a journalist, she'd never dreamed of possessing Felix Felicis. But now, holding it in her hands, she couldn't help but see Harry in a new light.

Before leaving, Rita handed Harry the notes she'd made and prepared to transform into her Animagus form.

Just as she was about to leave, Harry stopped her.

"Oh, Miss Skeeter," he called.

Rita turned back, confused.

"Professor Dumbledore and I have confirmed," Harry said, his tone calm but deliberate. "Back when Tom Riddle was a student, he had a peculiar habit of sneaking into the girls' bathroom."

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Powerstones?

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