Chapter 166: Media Offensive
The sky gradually darkened.
The firelight shining from the window of the Forbidden Forest Hut was still warm and bright, and the gurgling sound of soup bubbling in the pot continued endlessly.
The little wizards’ stomachs still had some room, but they could no longer eat the stewed tender lamb, finding the stew too greasy, and preferred things roasted over the fire, like bread flatbreads, mushrooms, potatoes, or even apple pie.
There were also sweet potatoes that Melvin had buried in the embers in advance; their skins were baked black and charred like burnt coal slag, and with a slight pull, they revealed the golden, soft, glutinous flesh inside, fragrant enough that their sweet smell could be sniffed out by the nose.
Ron couldn’t resist the temptation and took a piece first, stuffing it into his mouth after peeling it, scalding him so much that he wailed chaotically.
Harry and Hermione weren’t as gluttonous; they skewered two mushrooms on a roasting fork and squatted nearby to observe Fang and Yurm, the dog and snake in a strange mode of interaction.
There was still some bewilderment in Fang’s eyes, his expression different from usual, with a cool, slithery thing wrapped around him, making the steak he was gnawing unappetizing; this slender white snake could even bark like a dog, leaving the worldly hound somewhat doubting its dog life.
Harry’s eyes were full of curiosity; his lips moved as he used Parseltongue, hissing, “Who are you?”
The young snake seemed startled: “Woof?”
“I said, who are you?”
“Woof~”
Those snake eyes seemed bewildered, apparently unable to understand Harry’s Parseltongue.
Hearing the faint dog bark from the snake’s mouth again, Harry and Hermione both fell somewhat silent.
“How could that be? Parseltongue is the natural language of snakes; even the non-magical snakes in the zoo can understand it…” Harry scratched his head.
“Maybe Parseltongue has dialects, and snakes from different regions don’t speak the same way.” Hermione offered a guess. “Whether it’s the London Zoo, you, or the basilisk, you’re all local British Parseltongue speakers, so you can communicate with each other, but Yurm is from Ilvermorny, so it’s a different dialect?”
Harry accepted this judgment without much thought; after all, Americans were like that. Professor Levent had a strange accent when he first arrived at Hogwarts.
The two leaned in front of the two animals, muttering, trying to feed the young snake with food on the roasting fork, but unfortunately Yurm wasn’t interested.
The young snake’s gaze flickered, its eyes darting around; its head portion maneuvered on the dog, sizing up the dog and the two little wizards, as well as the wooden house, full of curiosity about new things.
Melvin bit into a roasted potato, with a faint smoky aroma; the cooked potato had a soft, glutinous texture that melted in the mouth with a sandy crispness. Without seasonings, the flavor was very light, carrying the unique fresh scent of potatoes.
Noticing the interaction between the students and the animals, Melvin worried again about the young snake’s intelligence quotient; with a glance from the corner of his eye, he saw an owl flash past the window, flapping its wings in a circle before darting back in through the window.
It perched on the chair nearby.
It was probably mail meant for the school auditorium, but since he hadn’t attended dinner tonight, it was delivered here instead.
Melvin took the letter from the owl’s claws, casually feeding it a piece of roasted steak, then opened this letter from afar and quietly read it by the firelight.
Hermione tried for a while but couldn’t get the young snake to eat anything; her roasting fork was almost slipping from her hand, so she simply fed it all to Fang, freeing her hands, and saw the professor nearby reading a letter.
His expression was somewhat complex, like an expected mockery tinged with barely perceptible sarcasm.
The little witch put the roasting fork back in the wooden bucket and sat over, asking in a lowered voice:
“Professor, has something happened?”
“The submitted application was rejected. Minister Fudge is unwilling to cooperate with the Magic Mirror Club using the Floo Network, even when Mrs. Ekko from the Department of Magical Transportation personally explained the pros and cons…”
“This is clearly beneficial to everyone; why did Fudge refuse?”
“Who knows?”
Melvin gave a faint smile: “Perhaps the analysis in the application wasn’t comprehensive or profound enough; he needs to hear more voices.”
Hermione tilted her head, somewhat puzzled.
……
In the blink of an eye, it was mid-January; the students’ holidays were nearing their end, Diagon Alley shops resumed business, publishers restarted operations, and reporters and editors returned to their posts from vacation, carrying resentment comparable to dementors, resuming work.
After weeks of overtime, The Daily Prophet comprehensively showcased the Chamber of Secrets incident from Hogwarts’ previous term with ten consecutive special reports: tracing the disputes between Slytherin and Godric Gryffindor in History of Magic, examining the Gaunt Family heritage, breeding and hatching of the basilisk in Magical Creatures, and exposing Gilderoy Lockhart’s fraud in Charms.
Experts from various disciplines and fields took turns appearing; star reporters interviewed relevant staff, and even photographers traveled to remote villages for photos—all controversial content, with topics and gimmicks maxed out.
The Daily Prophet’s sales doubled over the holiday, with morning and evening editions daily, plus weekend specials delivered by owl to homes; wizards could gossip without leaving home, and family dinners were full of discussions probing the truth.
Pubs everywhere buzzed with related topics; quick-reacting newspapers and magazines immediately gathered staff for overtime. Though lacking intelligence or truth, they referenced The Daily Prophet’s articles to piggyback on the buzz.
《The Quibbler》 magazine was one of them, already biased toward bizarre animals and wild speculations; it rode the Chamber of Secrets traffic and saw some sales growth.
Meanwhile, Obscurus Books and Wizengamot Publishing were among the slow ones; with the holiday over and the hype gone, they sluggishly issued stale clichés, watching enviously as the Daily Prophet Publisher’s business boomed.
Inside the Daily Prophet office, star reporter Rita flipped through various letters while a green quill beside her scribbled rapidly, mind and pen in sync, thoughts flowing like a spring; a manuscript was soon completed.
The special reports were nearly done; this was a regular article, mainly a holiday news roundup.
After all, it was peacetime; Christmas holiday news was sparse, mostly tales of fools setting off fireworks that ignited kitchens, unfortunates pranked into the hospital by trick items, idiots casting spells on themselves they couldn’t undo—things like that.
The wizarding media industry was rough; borrowing from other papers, piecing together, blending in some unique insights, and another news piece was done, earning a bit of manuscript fee.
“Star Reporter Rita Skeeter reporting…”
Once the manuscript was written, no proofreading was needed; her magical quill auto-corrected. The parchment was folded into a paper airplane and tossed out the window, wobbling toward the editor-in-chief’s office.
Today’s work was nearly done; Rita stretched lazily, preparing to stroll Diagon Alley for any news.
Before she could grab her handbag, Editor-in-Chief Barnabas Guffey knocked and entered, holding a letter: “Rita, there’s a news item for you to write—quickly, it’s an urgent report for the evening newspaper.”
“What’s so urgent?”
“See for yourself; as a star reporter, you should know how to write it.”
Guffey placed the letter on the desk, turning back before leaving to warn: “Watch the tone; I need to review it when done.”
Rita frowned, puzzled, and picked up the letter paper; it was a photocopy of an application, with Minister Cornelius Fudge’s handwritten approval below.
「Department of Magical Transportation’s suggestions for Floo Network improvements…」
Rita sat at her desk, reading about the projection mirrors and Floo Network content, involving cooperation between the Department of Magical Transportation and the Magic Mirror Club, inevitably mentioning that young professor, Melvin Levent.
The name flashed in her mind, and the snake mark on her inner arm seemed to grow slightly warm.
……
Dusk in Hogsmeade.
As usual, Tucklot went for a stroll after dinner; even wind and snow couldn’t stop his steps, and soon he arrived at the door of The Three Broomsticks Inn.
This tavern was originally a place for locals to drink and chat; he often came in his free time to pass the hours. After installing the projection mirror, it became a regular gathering spot—watching Quidditch matches in winter weather, having a few drinks, picking a fight to curse at someone, utterly refreshing.
Unfortunately, no films were released over this Christmas holiday, a slight regret.
Tucklot pushed open the tavern door and found the bar rather quiet. Madam Rosmerta was wiping wine glasses low-headedly; a few patrons sat nearby flipping through today’s newspaper, all slightly frowning, hesitant to speak.
Malcolm had a constipated expression too.
Tucklot plopped into his seat and snatched Malcolm’s newspaper: “What’re you looking at? Face so sour—did the Scotland team announce disbanding?”
His friend nearby rolled his eyes, giving him a disdainful look.
Tucklot pretended not to notice, and while flipping, he saw today’s front-page headline by star reporter Rita Skeeter: revealing the truth behind the Magic Mirror Club’s development setback…
“No way, rejecting this? Has Fudge got dragon pox in his brain?”
No sooner had he spoken than Tucklot felt the tavern’s candlelight flicker; the patrons’ gazes fell on him, even old rival Malcolm nodding in agreement.
“I think so too—Fudge’s brain is definitely sick!”
“It’s not some big project; why reject it?”
“It’s good for the Floo Network, good for the Magic Mirror Club; we locals want to watch projection mirrors at home, and he’s the only one opposing!”
“Who voted him Minister anyway—eyesight problems?”
“…”
Just one report had the patrons riled up, collectively cursing that idiot Minister.
Madam Rosmerta stood behind the bar, silently wiping her wine glasses; if she remembered right, the one who had pushed Cornelius Fudge was Dumbledore.
“Damn it! I’ll send a Howler to the Ministry when I get home!”
“I’ll stuff stinky socks in mine!”
“Dungbombs!”
With a common topic and shared curse target, the tavern’s atmosphere quickly heated up; in this riled scene, beer sold well, nearly matching a thrilling Quidditch match.
They stayed busy until late night, finally ushering the patrons out.
Worried some might collapse drunk on the roadside, Madam Rosmerta instructed the server to escort them home—all nearby residents, just a few steps away, not too far.
After cleaning the room, night was deep.
Freshened up, Rosmerta returned to her bedroom to rest, but with eyes closed, she couldn’t sleep; her mind kept replaying the newspaper content and the patrons’ curses.
Per the plan disclosed in the paper, linking the Floo Network to small projection mirrors so wizards could watch various moving pictures at home—this wasn’t actually a good idea for tavern owners.
It would reduce the tavern’s appeal to patrons.
But thinking it over, even these spectators supported Professor Levent; surely his Magic Mirror Club wouldn’t back down?
With that thought, Rosmerta sat up, took materials for making a Howler from the drawer, and got busy.
……
The next morning, Ministry of Magic Atrium.
Cornelius Fudge stepped out of the fireplace, looked down at the gleaming floor, admired his outfit, straightened his dark green top hat, adjusted his bright red tie, gave his pinstripe suit a shake, and felt utterly handsome.
If only a few years younger, he wouldn’t pale against that foreign professor at Hogwarts.
Green flames flared in other fireplaces as staff arrived at the Ministry, pausing to greet him as they passed.
Fudge nodded amiably to them with a smile.
It was morning rush hour, dense with people; the constant greetings sounded especially pleasant, like a power symphony to Fudge.
He passed the fountain, took the lift to his office.
Soon, documents from various departments arrived; before he could start work, his Ministerial assistant knocked hurriedly, looking troubled: “Minister, you have mail.”
“Hm?” Fudge frowned. “Which day doesn’t bring letters? You’re not a new intern—can’t you handle it? Or did the holiday shake your brain loose?”
As Minister overseeing the entire Ministry of Magic, which managed the entire British Wizarding World, thousands of wizards naturally wrote to him; usually, his assistant screened them.
If from famous wizards, pure-blood family heads, or foreign Ministries, he’d open them.
If from unknown residents, straight into the fireplace to burn.
“But…” The assistant lowered his voice, placing a stack of red envelopes on the desk. “These are Howlers.”
“Howlers!”
Fudge’s eyes widened in horror, his upper body leaning back to distance himself from the envelopes.
“Minister, only the recipient can handle Howlers—better open them, or they’ll explode…”
Corners of some envelopes were already smoking, trembling slightly on the desk.
Fudge’s lips and eye corners twitched nonstop, but he had to extend his trembling hand and tear open a red envelope.
“Why? Why! Why reject the Magic Mirror Club’s proposal! Why veto the Floo Network upgrade!”
Deafening roars instantly filled the office, shaking dust from the ceiling, the floor quaking.
“The Wizengamot should impeach you! If you dare walk the streets and they throw dragon dung in your face, I wouldn’t be surprised at all!
“You probably never even considered us ordinary wizards’ thoughts! Who do you think you are, Cornelius Fudge…”
Fudge’s ears buzzed, tinnitus drowning the later words; dazed, he saw the assistant’s mouth moving but heard nothing, mind blank.
And such Howlers—there were dozens more on the desk.
