Chapter 152: Biased Reporting
December 21, 1992, winter solstice.
Thestral Carriages waited below the foyer steps, their hooves leaving prints in the snow, as little wizards queued up to board.
Melvin and several professors stood in the foyer, wrapped in black and green winter clothes, watching the carriages head toward Hogsmeade Station, where a bright red Express Train loomed overhead amid swirling steam; today was the day students left for the Christmas holiday.
“Goodbye, professors!”
“Merry Christmas in advance.”
“Merry Christmas…”
Students carrying suitcases passed by continuously, greeting and bidding farewell to the professors, their voices light and cheerful, faces beaming with radiant smiles full of anticipation for the holiday.
Even the usually stern Professor McGonagall had a faint curve at the corners of her mouth, reminding students of holiday precautions as she said goodbye: no casting spells outside school, no dangerous activities.
“What lucky little ones, getting to go home for Christmas.” Professor Flitwick’s voice was high-pitched. “Those kids in the Hospital Wing are still lying in their beds; they can only stay at school for Christmas. This year’s banquet will be lively!”
The Magic Mirror Club’s trade route went smoothly; Old Will cooperated with Borgin, delivering Mandrake from Budapest to the school in just two days.
Raw materials were available, but potion making took time.
Professor Snape, Madam Pomfrey, and Sprout assisting from the side—three people brewing antidote for over thirty—couldn’t keep up even without eating or drinking; they were still working overtime in the Hospital Wing.
The students hadn’t been unpetrified yet.
Professor McGonagall’s faint smile faded, her expression turning serious as she pondered briefly: “They should all be unpetrified before Christmas Eve. For any students who don’t want to stay at school, we’ll escort them home individually.”
“This will be quite a lot of work.” Flitwick muttered softly.
“I’ll have the headmaster open the school’s fireplaces; it won’t be too much trouble. Accidents happening to students at school—we professors must take responsibility.”
“Alright, alright, who can argue when you’re the deputy headmaster!”
“…”
Melvin bid farewell to a few fourth-year students nearby, nodding slightly with a gentle smile, casually pressing the emerging young snake back into his coat pocket, as if he hadn’t heard Professor McGonagall’s words.
Responsibility?
What responsibility?
What did it have to do with him? It was all Lockhart’s responsibility.
Chatting and laughing as they saw off the students heading home, a few minutes later, Melvin hadn’t spotted any figures when he heard a few crisp voices.
“Good morning, Professor McGonagall, Professor Flitwick, and Professor Levent…”
Hermione, Marietta, and Cho Chang approached, wearing their house wizard robes of similar style, differing only slightly in crest, trim, and scarf colors. Gryffindor was red and gold, Ravenclaw blue and bronze.
Right at the age of thirteen or fourteen, not to mention young and pretty, they truly brimmed with vibrant youthful vitality.
After the Chamber of Secrets incident, the three seemed to have become friends, getting along very well.
Melvin noticed they had no suitcases and was slightly surprised: “You’re not going home for Christmas?”
“We originally planned to, but we asked Professor McGonagall to change it to staying at school.” Hermione smiled, revealing her two front teeth. “We heard Harry and Neville will wake up before Christmas; we plan to wait for them to be discharged and spend this Christmas together.”
“I see…”
Melvin habitually slipped his hand into his pocket, paused, then casually pulled it out: “Professor Snape and the others are rushing the antidote; it should be ready in the next couple of days, not too long.”
“…”
Hermione noticed the professor’s movement, thinking he was about to pull out candy or something, but nothing came out; finding it a bit odd, she couldn’t help glancing at his pocket a few more times.
Mid-length cashmere trench coat, specially thickened, styled similarly to an ordinary wizard robe, with slanted pockets convenient for hands or small objects like keys.
From her previous observations, Professor Levent had a small Undetectable Extension Charm container, likely a pouch or wallet, very convenient.
Usually kept in his pocket, it looked unremarkable, but actually filled with candy.
Normally, due to the Undetectable Extension Charm, the professor’s coat pockets looked flat and smooth, but today’s pocket was different—slightly bulging, clearly containing something.
What needed to be carried but couldn’t be put in the Extension Charm space?
As the little witch eyed it suspiciously, a head poked out—tiny, no bigger than a thumb, with bright black eyes and a short horn on its forehead.
Human and snake locked eyes, staring blankly.
The young snake panicked a bit and silently retreated into the pocket.
Hermione’s eyes widened, her face full of disbelief.
“If staying at school feels boring, you can help Professor Flitwick decorate the Great Hall or help Hagrid with the Christmas tree.” Melvin smoothly covered it up and changed the subject. “I have a meeting at The Three Broomsticks; see you later.”
Watching the professor leave the castle, Cho Chang and Marietta were puzzled; why did his steps seem hurried?
Hermione opened her mouth but said nothing.
……
With Christmas still a few days away, the village was already thick with festival atmosphere.
Except for the Hog’s Head Inn still sporting its ugly pig’s head signboard, other shops were adorned with red ribbons, star- and moon-shaped decorations, holly and mistletoe branches in the shop windows, their vivid colors contrasting beautifully with the white snow on roads and rooftops.
Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop had a huge bow on its signboard, and Honeydukes’ half-street wafted sweet scents.
Melvin pushed open the door to The Three Broomsticks; a wave of heat mixed with alcohol aroma hit him, his coat pocket jiggling slightly as the temperature changed—Yurm seemed unaccustomed.
Snowy winds still swirled outside, but the shop’s fireplace blazed brightly.
A few people chatted at the first-floor bar; near Christmas, many wizards were on holiday at home with nothing to do, so they came to The Three Broomsticks in the morning to liven things up.
On the second floor, a Projection Mirror screened an England national team training match, with occasional cheers at goals.
The Projection Mirror had been around for a year and a half; wizards had grown accustomed, the initial novelty fading. Though still drawing customers to the tavern, without new programs to replace it, only fans remained enthusiastic—other wizards had lost their former fervor.
“Honey Mead and Flame Whiskey…”
Madam Rosmerta handed two glasses to customers, chatted briefly, then looked up and smiled at the young professor entering:
“Professor Levent, what will you have?”
“Honey Mead is fine.”
“You’re here for Mr. Guffey, right?”
“Has he arrived?”
“Early this morning; he’s waiting on the third floor.” Rosmerta placed the Honey Mead on a tray and led Melvin upstairs—not because she doubted his sense of direction, but to chat and fish for news. “I heard Slytherin’s Chamber of Secrets opened again at school, with heavy student casualties—is that true?”
“Where’d you hear that rumor? How is it heavy casualties?”
Melvin chuckled helplessly and shook his head in denial. “They’ll recover in a couple of days and have a safe, happy Christmas.”
“So the Chamber really opened!” Rosmerta’s eyes widened excitedly.
“Yes, Mr. Guffey and I are here to discuss it; it could be in the papers tonight.”
“Must have been a thrilling adventure!”
“Something like that.”
“Will it be on the Projection Mirror this holiday?”
“No plans for that yet.” Melvin doused her hopes. “Not enough time, and some matters aren’t settled.”
Rosmerta felt disappointed; the previous film’s release had been too memorable, earning a holiday’s profit worth years prior.
She wanted to probe more, but they had reached the third floor, where the publisher’s Mr. Guffey waited in the room; she couldn’t press and handed over the glass rather flatly before heading back to the counter.
Melvin turned to the middle-aged wizard who had been waiting in the room, offering a polite smile: “Mr. Guffey, long time no see.”
Barnabas Guffey, this Daily Prophet editor looked as he had at their last meeting: pale brown eyes set deep in sockets giving any gaze a profound, mysterious air, prominent hooked nose, his peaked lapel robe impeccably pressed, collar crisp as new, accented with subtle quill patterns.
With magic nurturing the body, wizards’ average lifespan far exceeded Muggles’; powerful wizards could live two or three hundred years, ordinary wizards over a hundred barring dragon pox, aging slowly.
Only a bit more gray in his beard and hair.
Barnabas stood to shake hands: “Professor Levent, long time no see.”
“Mr. Guffey looks a bit tired?”
“It’s a long story…”
Barnabas sat back down with a sigh: “One of our star reporters at the paper has gone missing; months without word, special features delayed, and she’s one of our publisher’s contracted authors—no follow-up manuscript.”
“…”
Melvin sipped his Honey Mead—quite good.
“If it were just breach of contract, fine; we’re worried she’s met with an accident.”
“Maybe she’s off seeking inspiration, cut off from the world—like that Lockhart delving into remote places. Don’t writers do that?” Melvin comforted sincerely. “Don’t worry too much; she might return soon.”
“Merlin protect her; hope she’s lucky.”
Barnabas sighed, shelved his low mood, and got to business: “Speaking of Lockhart, I got word he’s in a sealed ward at St Mungo’s. You mentioned in your letter Slytherin’s Chamber reopening—what exactly happened at school?”
Melvin began recounting the edited, obscured events.
The story started with the case from fifty years ago: the Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter, friends with the gamekeeper, who learned the case details by chance. Though all evidence pointed against Hagrid, he believed his friend and roped in a few young companions to investigate the truth.
After twists and obstacles, aided midway by ghosts and Acromantulas, they found Slytherin’s Chamber of Secrets.
“They all knew telling professors the truth would end the adventure perfectly: Hagrid cleared, a happy Christmas for them…
“But no one expected their first find to be the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor—this famed legendary adventurer actually a fraud stealing memories and claiming credit.
“Professor Lockhart wanted sole credit but feared the Basilisk, so he tricked dozens of little wizards into the Chamber as bait.”
With embellishments and omissions, Melvin hid his own guidance and the Parseltongue, pinning it all on Lockhart.
“The students showed great courage and wisdom; through teamwork, they defeated the Basilisk and Lockhart.”
“…”
Barnabas listened quietly, his expression growing serious as he extracted key info: Slytherin’s Chamber, millennium-old monster, fifty-year-old case, Drama Club students vanquishing the Basilisk.
Each a headline-grabber.
As a series, the Daily Prophet’s sales would be secure for a year.
As editor-in-chief of the Daily Prophet, Barnabas was seasoned, sorting news while listening, quickly noting Melvin’s account had many vague spots.
Though knowing it was deliberate, he still wanted to probe.
“Professor Levent, I have some questions.”
“Go ahead.”
Barnabas paused, choosing words: “What was Salazar Slytherin’s purpose in building the Chamber?”
“He’s been gone nearly a millennium; no one knows.” Melvin shook his head, reusing his headmaster line. “No casualties in the past millennium; Moaning Myrtle’s death was an accident.”
“How was the Chamber opened?”
“That… can’t be revealed yet.”
“Who opened the Chamber fifty years ago?”
“Can’t say that either.”
“Was the Basilisk killed in the end?”
“…”
Barnabas got an answer, yet none.
A shrewd old editor versed in media, once a Ministry mouthpiece, he knew this signaled the paper’s reporting slant.
Barnabas asked directly: “Professor Levent, how do you want us to report this?”
“First, no negative impact on the school; don’t let parents blame Hogwarts. It was just an accident—no students died.”
Melvin had planned ahead: “Second, founder Slytherin’s image. The Chamber and Basilisk exist, but targeting Muggle-born students is baseless rumor. They’re the founder’s precious legacy to posterity, twisted fifty years ago by ill-intentioned Dark Wizards.
“Report objectively and rigorously, without prejudice; don’t let wizards misunderstand the founder.
“Finally, Gilderoy Lockhart: he stole other wizards’ adventure memories with vile deceit for fame, fortune, wealth—primarily responsible for this.”
“…”
Melvin looked serious at the editor: “This isn’t just my view; it’s Hogwarts School’s stance.”
