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 ofThe Quibblersold outentirelyon 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 practicallysleepingwith 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 atThe 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 mostcriticalpart 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 articleabruptlyended.

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

Instead, she simply publishedtwelvephotographs—grim images ofmutilated corpses.

And every single one had something in common:

Each body had aDark Markburned into the left forearm—clear, distinct, and undeniable.

Twelve photographs took uptwofull pages.

Ritadidn'texplain them.

But shedidn't need to.

BecauseThe Daily Prophethad already reported on it—how twelve people had diedthat rainy night in Little Hangleton.

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

What did that mean?

The Ministry kneweverything.

So why hadn't they arrested Harry?

Because they knewperfectly wellthat he was innocent.

The Boy Who Lived, the one who had survivedtwiceagainst Voldemort, had beenforcedthere 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 didthatmean?

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.Thisis myprofession."

"Readers needinformation—butnotallthe information," she continued.

"They like tobelievethey're clever, that they havekeenminds. But not everyone is as truly intelligent as you and Mr. Potter. As long as you give themjust enoughclues—let them 'think' their way to a conclusion—"

"—then they willbelievethat the answertheycame up withmustbe the truth."

She placed extra emphasis on the wordthink.

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

"And if the truth theythinkthey discovered just so happens toalignwith 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. Itriedto twist the truth, but Mr. Potter caught me.Fortunately, he and thegreatProfessor 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. "Thenyoucan look forward to my next article onthatday."

Harry didn't comment further.

He might involve himself inothermatters, but when it came to journalism, Rita Skeeter hadfullcreative 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 anew house," Rita stammered. "Some of myoldreaders weren't happy about my articles. I keep receivingdangerouspackages at my doorstep."

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

"Plus... writing that new articlewas exhausting—"

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

Rita quickly defended herself. "Miss Granger, youcan'tmeasureeffortby word count. The article may have beenshort, but it waseffective! There are journalists who ramble on forthousandsof words and never achieve the impact I did witha few hundredand 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 usuallyeasyto track.

Especially Fenrir Greyback.

He wasn't exactlysubtle.

During a full moon, all he cared about was attackingwizard children—hisfavoriteprey. And even though people had become more vigilant over the years, he stillrelentlesslysearched for opportunities.

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

But now...

There wasnothing.

Not a single trace of werewolves.

Greyback hadn't caused anytroublefor months.

It was as if he hadvanished—ordied.

Knockturn Alley had no news of him.

Even theinfamouswerewolf dens had nothing.

This eeriesilenceunsettled the Order of the Phoenix.

WhenDarkcreatures and rebellious goblinsallseemed to vanish at once, it only meant one thing—

Somethingbigwas 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. "Iusedto despise her, but now Iratherlike her."

"She'll bedelightedto 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.

Theheadlineof Rita's new piece read:

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

It was a long article.

But the veryfirstsentence 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 loudcrack, 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 foryourfirst visit, I thought we'd go through theproperprocess. Itismoreformal."

"To show respect forthem?" Harry scoffed.

Dumbledore shook his head again. "To showrespect 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 spelledmagicon 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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