The blood-stained banquet came to its end at dusk.

Only when Dumbledore reappeared in the hall and assured everyone that the Dark Mark had merely been a misunderstanding did the guests finally relax.

They trickled out in small groups, whispering to one another.

Now that they were no longer fearing for their lives, they had the leisure to gossip about what had happened to old Avery.

Their expressions, however, held more curiosity than concern.

Dawn Richter had committed a brutal attack during the banquet and kidnapped Master Slughorn.

But the shadow of Voldemort still ran deeper in their bones.

Most of the guests had survived that terrifying era. Whenever the skull and serpent rose into the sky, it meant someone would die—sometimes someone they knew.

Compared to that, Dawn’s violence felt… minor.

Only Rita Skeeter stood stiffly among the dispersing guests, her face pale.

She clutched her quill.

She had taken explosive photographs, gathered enough material for several sensational stories.

Normally this would thrill her—but she felt no joy.

Dawn Richter had come back for revenge. That thought echoed in her skull again and again.

She remembered the way that purple fat man had looked at her outside the banquet hall. She glanced at the floor where the blood still hadn’t been cleaned away, and a chill crawled over her.

What should she do?

Look for Avery? Ask him what to do? Rita frowned.

But even if they were in the same danger, their status was far too different. Avery would never cooperate with her.

Besides— From the look in his eyes earlier, he no longer trusted the Aurors surrounding him.

Rita felt that in two or three days, she might hear that Avery Manor had been abandoned and the old man had fled overseas.

Then should she flee too?

It was a tempting thought. But Rita was unwilling.

In Britain, she was a famous journalist. Abroad, she would be nobody.

“No. I’m only a reporter,” she muttered to herself. “I only wrote some things. I didn’t actually do anything. That boy won’t come after me.”

She repeated this over and over to calm herself.

“And he’s just an eleven-year-old. Even if he’s violent, could he really be scarier than those deranged Dark wizards?”

Little by little, her heartbeat steadied.

She took a deep breath, asked a nearby house-elf for directions to the fireplace, grabbed a pinch of Floo powder, and prepared to leave.

She couldn’t Apparate.

She clearly spoke her home address, tossed the powder, and stepped into the green flames.

A burst of fire— And she emerged into a wizarding district near London.

Rita dusted off her clothes, changed out of her banquet gown into something comfortable, and glanced at the stack of photographs in her hand.

Time to get her article written.

Ethics aside—she was diligent. Even her fabricated stories were crafted with care.

She walked toward her study, sifting through her photographs, choosing which one would make the best front-page image.

Her home was large. From the fireplace to her study took quite a walk—wealth funded by her occasional blackmail ventures.

She reached the study door— And froze.

Did she just hear… pages turning inside?

A window left open?

Without thinking further, she pushed the door open. Light spilled into the room—

And her face went rigid.

Dawn sat in her chair, flipping through a magically-concealed notebook as casually as if he lived there. He slouched, legs crossed.

“So,” he said without turning around, “is this information reliable?”

He tapped a line on her notes. “Myron Wagtail, lead singer of the Weird Sisters, is gay.

And the band received early resources because he was sleeping with someone in the Broadcasting Regulation Office?”

“You—”

Rita could only force out a single strangled syllable.

Dawn turned another page.

“Oh, this is good.”

He grinned with genuine amusement.

“So Minister Fudge, despite being married, has been secretly keeping a lover thirty years younger? If this got out, he’d be in a panic.”

The pages rustled loudly as he continued reading, utterly entertained.

Only after satisfying his curiosity did he finally turn around.

And the moment those crimson eyes landed on her, Rita’s mind shattered. Her throat locked. No sound came out.

Dawn Richter. In her house.

He really had come to kill her.

Two thoughts stabbed through her brain like lightning.

She snapped out of her shock and stumbled backward, reaching for the door to slam it shut and run.

“Planning to transform into a beetle Animagus the second I lose sight of you?” Dawn asked calmly. “I advise you not to make that poor decision.”

Her hand froze on the doorknob.

How— How did he know?

Her greatest secret laid bare. Terror strangled her heart.

“Relax,” Dawn said, sighing. He closed her notebook and slipped it into his sleeve. “I didn’t come to kill you, Rita Skeeter. I’m here because I need your help.”

Help?

Rita’s eyes flickered with sudden, desperate understanding. Of course. He wanted her to clear his name.

She seized the opportunity at once. “You need me to write a correction, yes? I always suspected the Halloween case wasn’t what it seemed!

Fudge forced me to print what damaged Dumbledore’s reputation—I never wanted—”

“Stop talking.”

Dawn raised a hand.

“I don’t need you to clear my name. What I need is simple: tomorrow morning’s Daily Prophet must publish a message for me.”

“No problem! Tell me what to write!”

Rita responded instantly. Inside, she’d already decided who she’d blame if this went wrong.

Dawn opened his mouth to speak—but paused.

“Wait. First tell me today’s date.”

“January fourteenth.”

Dawn repeated the date under his breath.

A strange sense of wrongness pricked him—like a tiny thorn under the skin, impossible to see but definitely there.

Something was… off.

But what?

He frowned, thinking, but the fleeting sensation had already slipped away.

Never mind.

He dismissed the thought.

“January seventeenth,” Dawn said. “I will kill Murphy Avery. I want that message printed in tomorrow’s paper.”

Rita froze.

A murder announcement?

Was this boy treating reality like a storybook? Publish a killing in advance—wouldn’t the Ministry and Dumbledore intervene immediately?

But Dawn continued without pause:

“And contact Murphy Avery. Tell him what I said. Agitate him. Ideally get him to respond with similar words. Then print that too.”

What absurd demands were these? Rita couldn’t fathom the logic.

But she wanted him gone—so she agreed instantly. “I’ll do it. Exactly as you say.”

“Good.”

Dawn smiled.

He extended his left hand.

“Now, for mutual assurance—let’s seal it with an Unbreakable Vow.”

“…All right.”

Rita lifted her trembling hand. His smile made her feel as though she were stepping into a carefully dug pit.

The next morning, with dawn breaking and owls delivering newspapers across Britain—

The Prophet’s headline screamed:

[Banquet Bloodshed! A Brazen Fugitive on the Loose! Is Britain About to Welcome a Third Dark Lord?

Is Dumbledore Truly the Greatest Headmaster?]

People devoured the story.

Then they saw the photograph.

Old Avery—fork embedded in his eye socket, blood streaking down half his face, the eyeball twisted and half-displaced.

His hands pierced and pinned to the table. The photo was so vivid that readers flinched.

They were stunned by Dawn’s brazen savagery.

In the eleven years since Voldemort’s fall, dark wizards still existed, but such blatant violence had grown rare.

Readers flipped pages eagerly, ignoring the tiny article about the Dark Mark—especially since Dumbledore had declared it a false alarm.

Fudge didn’t want Voldemort-related panic. His instructions were clear: minimize the Dark Mark, maximize Dawn Richter.

Dawn’s deeds created noise— But not instability.

And best of all, he came from Hogwarts—a perfect way to damage Dumbledore’s standing while strengthening Fudge’s.

Thus Rita had no difficulty placing Dawn’s announcement.

[Dawn Richter publicly challenges Murphy Avery, vowing to kill him on January 17! Avery responds: “Come if you dare—I won’t spare you either!”]

At Hogwarts, students were reading the paper over breakfast.

“That guy’s awful,” Ron muttered. “I thought only Slytherin produced bad seeds, but looks like Ravenclaw has one too.”

He closed the paper quickly, face scrunched in disgust. “But Dad says the Averys aren’t much better. Dogs biting dogs.”

Hermione shot him a glare.

“Ron! Swallow before you speak! You’re spraying food everywhere!”

Ron apologized, and Hermione, still annoyed, turned to Harry. “Harry… about Halloween night—”

“Oh come on, Hermione!” Ron interrupted. “Harry told you a hundred times! He saw Richter on the stairs!”

“That doesn’t make it true!” Hermione protested. “I just learned about Polyjuice Potion—it lets you turn into anyone!”

She tapped the newspaper. “And look—this report says no one at the banquet actually saw Dawn. It’s only Avery’s claim!”

“Are you saying Dumbledore was wrong?”

Ron countered. “We saw him chase Richter in Potions! And loads of people say the boy’s dangerous!”

Hermione had no answer.

Harry wasn’t listening to their argument—he was absently rubbing his neck. He could still feel, sometimes, the phantom ache of being strangled.

But another thought distracted him.

“Look at Malfoy,” Harry whispered.

Across the hall, at the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy sat stiffly pale, gripping the newspaper with shaking fingers.

“He’s terrified,” Ron declared. “Told you he’s a coward.”

Had Malfoy been frightened?

He would deny it furiously if asked.

He’d summon his goons to prove otherwise.

But inside… yes.

Draco was scared.

At first, after being stripped and hung on the wall, he’d felt more anger than fear.

But as report after report came out, his mindset changed.

His father’s public remarks hadn’t helped. And seeing the photo of old Avery—Draco felt a sickening sense of identification.

“Damn Dawn Richter,” Draco muttered through clenched teeth.

___________

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