Collecting a Debt

According to the letter Luna sent Hermione, this was the first time she had ever seen her father so genuinely happy—so much so that he laughed until his jaw dislocated, and even several spells couldn't fix it.

That issue of The Quibbler sold out entirely on the first day—though that was only five hundred copies, simply because Lovegood had only printed five hundred.

Orders flooded in like a tidal wave.

Lovegood was now practically sleeping with the magical printing press in his arms.

All this because Rita Skeeter had published a short article, barely four hundred words long:

"Who's Lying? The Deceptive Potter or the Honest Fudge?"

In the article, Rita objectively described the "fair treatment" she had received at The Daily Prophet, which had ultimately forced her resignation. She pointed out that no other publication in the wizarding world had dared to hire her—except for this foolish, eccentric magazine.

But the most critical part was a single question:

"I've always believed the Ministry is hiding something. They accuse Mr. Potter of murder, yet they haven't sent a single Auror to arrest him—only issued some hollow condemnations."

"If Mr. Potter truly is a murderer, then why is the Ministry allowing a criminal to roam free? Can they still protect us, the ordinary citizens, as they claim?"

"But let's set aside The Daily Prophet's manipulation for a moment and rethink this. Based on certain evidence shared with me by friends, I have come to a terrifying, unsettling conclusion."

"During my time unemployed, the thought of this truth shook me so badly that I nearly abandoned journalism entirely. I even considered taking a safe, quiet job—perhaps as a castle caretaker at Hogwarts, just to live out my days in peace."

"But my journalistic integrity tormented me. In the end, with encouragement from my friends, I had to stand up again."

At that point, the article abruptly ended.

Rita never explicitly stated what her terrifying theory was. She didn't spell out the facts.

Instead, she simply published twelve photographs—grim images of mutilated corpses.

And every single one had something in common:

Each body had a Dark Mark burned into the left forearm—clear, distinct, and undeniable.

Twelve photographs took up two full pages.

Rita didn't explain them.

But she didn't need to.

Because The Daily Prophet had already reported on it—how twelve people had died that rainy night in Little Hangleton.

And now, here were twelve severed arms, each marked with the Dark Lord's symbol.

What did that mean?

The Ministry knew everything.

So why hadn't they arrested Harry?

Because they knew perfectly well that he was innocent.

The Boy Who Lived, the one who had survived twice against Voldemort, had been forced there by a Portkey that night—only to find himself surrounded by Death Eaters.

What else could have happened?

There was no doubt.

Harry Potter was the innocent one.

And what did that mean?

The Ministry was covering up the identities of those Death Eaters.

Inside Grimmauld Place, Hermione set the magazine down and glanced at Rita. "Miss Skeeter, you're quite impressive."

Rita pursed her lips in a proud smile. "Of course, Miss Granger. This is my profession."

"Readers need information—but not all the information," she continued.

"They like to believe they're clever, that they have keen minds. But not everyone is as truly intelligent as you and Mr. Potter. As long as you give them just enough clues—let them 'think' their way to a conclusion—"

"—then they will believe that the answer they came up with must be the truth."

She placed extra emphasis on the word think.

Then, with perfect composure, she picked up her teacup and took a sip.

"And if the truth they think they discovered just so happens to align with reality, they'll lash out. They'll despise those who deceived them—those who misled them in the first place."

"Lies always come back to haunt the liar."

Harry shot her a glance.

Rita immediately put on a sincere expression. "Just like me. I tried to twist the truth, but Mr. Potter caught me. Fortunately, he and the great Professor Dumbledore enlightened me—saving me from a path of continued mistakes."

Hermione let out a cold, mocking laugh.

"What's your plan for the next article?" Harry asked.

Rita didn't answer right away. Instead, she tested the waters. "Mr. Potter, when do you plan to visit the Ministry?"

"Dumbledore said the day before school starts," Harry replied.

Rita puffed up with pride. "Then you can look forward to my next article on that day."

Harry didn't comment further.

He might involve himself in other matters, but when it came to journalism, Rita Skeeter had full creative control.

"By the way," Harry continued, setting his fork down. "How's the search for Ragnok and Fenrir Greyback coming along?"

Rita froze.

"…You haven't found anything?" Harry's tone remained neutral.

"Mr. Potter, I've been… preoccupied… searching for a new house," Rita stammered. "Some of my old readers weren't happy about my articles. I keep receiving dangerous packages at my doorstep."

"A few days ago, someone even broke into my home! If I hadn't transformed into my Animagus form in time, I wouldn't have escaped."

"Plus… writing that new article was exhausting—"

"It was three hundred and twenty-eight words," Hermione cut her off.

Rita quickly defended herself. "Miss Granger, you can't measure effort by word count. The article may have been short, but it was effective! There are journalists who ramble on for thousands of words and never achieve the impact I did with a few hundred and a dozen photos!"

Harry nodded. "You've worked hard, Miss Skeeter."

Rita relaxed slightly.

"But Ragnok and Fenrir Greyback are just as important," he added.

Rita shrank back. "Yes, Mr. Potter. I'll… I'll try my best."

Werewolf movements were usually easy to track.

Especially Fenrir Greyback.

He wasn't exactly subtle.

During a full moon, all he cared about was attacking wizard children—his favorite prey. And even though people had become more vigilant over the years, he still relentlessly searched for opportunities.

Six months ago, there had still been regular reports of Greyback appearing somewhere in Britain, leaving a bloody trail in his wake.

But now…

There was nothing.

Not a single trace of werewolves.

Greyback hadn't caused any trouble for months.

It was as if he had vanished—or died.

Knockturn Alley had no news of him.

Even the infamous werewolf dens had nothing.

This eerie silence unsettled the Order of the Phoenix.

When Dark creatures and rebellious goblins all seemed to vanish at once, it only meant one thing—

Something big was brewing beneath this illusion of peace.

—

On the last day of August, Dumbledore finally arrived at Grimmauld Place.

"Harry, let's go," he said, standing in the entrance hall, holding a magazine.

Harry walked over and took it. "Rita's new article?"

Dumbledore smiled. "I used to despise her, but now I rather like her."

"She'll be delighted to hear that," Harry said expressionlessly, stepping out the door with him.

Dumbledore shook his head. "I'm simply pleased she has found her way back to honest journalism."

Harry flipped open the magazine.

The headline of Rita's new piece read:

"Exclusive Interview with Walton McNeill—A Hangman's Life"

It was a long article.

But the very first sentence gripped every reader:

"Walton McNeill, an executioner for the Ministry's Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures, lived an unremarkable life—until he became one of the victims of the Little Hangleton massacre."

Harry finished the article.

Dumbledore took his wrist, waved his wand, and with a loud crack, they Apparated—

To a desolate street lined with crumbling buildings.

In the distance, Big Ben loomed.

"Even the Ministry of Magic allows Apparition?" Harry asked.

Dumbledore shook his head. "Of course—but for your first visit, I thought we'd go through the proper process. It is more formal."

"To show respect for them?" Harry scoffed.

Dumbledore shook his head again. "To show respect for yourself, Harry."

He led Harry to a rusty, peeling red telephone booth and pulled the door open.

Harry stepped inside, followed by Dumbledore, who shut the door behind them.

Dumbledore picked up the receiver, frowning in thought. "Now, what was the number again?"

"62442?" Harry raised an eyebrow.

Those digits spelled magic on a Muggle phone.

The dial spun back with a soft whirr.

A cool, ethereal voice filled the booth—eerily similar to Luna's, but colder:

"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business."

Dumbledore spoke into the receiver. "Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, accompanying Harry Potter, Gryffindor student, regarding the events of June twenty-fourth."

Harry added, "And Harry Potter—here to collect a debt."

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Powerstones?

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