Chapter 597: What Are You Going to Write?!
Unemployment clearly did not suit Rita Skeeter.
Her once carefully styled curls were now a mess. The red nail polish on her long, pointed nails was peeling, and two of the jewels on her glasses were close to falling off.
Yet the look in her eyes when she stared at Darren had not changed at all.
It was still flattering—and fearful.
"So," Rita said in a low, complaining voice while looking at Hermione, "what exactly do you want me to write? You wouldn't have Darren Potter break my quill again, would you?"
"Just write about what happened to Harry and Darren," Hermione said through clenched teeth.
Rita's eyes lit up with interest. She put the quill into her mouth to moisten it, then looked at Harry excitedly.
"You mean… what you and Darren showed last year was all true?"
"Of course it was," Harry snapped angrily. "There were so many Death Eaters there. One of them even died. Do you really think it was fake?"
Rita's quill immediately scratched across the parchment.
Harry Potter angrily accuses the Ministry of Magic…
On the night of the Triwizard Tournament, two innocent boys went through—
Halfway through writing, she suddenly felt something was wrong.
She glanced up at Darren. Her face twitched.
"…You don't want me to write this? Fine, I'll erase it."
Darren remained silent.
He looked at Hermione, then at Luna, and spoke slowly, thoughtfully.
"Hermione, have you considered letting my brother and me recount everything about that night again—and publishing it in The Quibbler?"
"I remember Luna's father runs that paper. Since you came to Luna, I assume that was your plan from the start, wasn't it?"
"Yes, but…" Hermione hesitated. "If you don't want to talk about it, then forget it. We could also rely on the photo balls—but you know most of them were almost completely destroyed later."
Darren noticed that Luna and Harry were both watching him.
He sighed softly.
"But have you thought about this?" he continued.
"If The Quibbler publishes something like that, the Ministry will definitely try to ban it. Luna… your father—"
[Ding, Father +100]
[Ding, Father +100]
[Ding, Father +100]
[Ding…]
"Oh, Darren," Luna said dreamily, her eyes drifting away from his face. "Dad loves publishing things like that. He's always been against the Ministry."
"If you've read his earlier articles, you'd know this is nothing special for him."
She winked at Darren.
"There are a lot of strange creatures around you. I like them very much. What about you?"
"I haven't seen them," Darren replied honestly. "So I don't know whether I like them or not."
Hermione was left completely speechless.
She shot Luna a glare.
"Stop talking nonsense."
Then she turned back to Darren.
After hesitating for a moment, she said quietly, "It's still up to you and Harry. Whether you want to tell the truth… that's your decision."
Darren looked at her.
"And you?" he asked. "Do you want us to tell the truth?"
"Yes… no. I mean—if you want to say it, then say it. If not, then don't."
Darren smiled faintly.
"Thank you, Hermione, for thinking so much about us."
"Of course we'll say it. Even if it forces me to relive every painful detail of that night."
"I won't back down anymore. People need to know he's back. They need to be vigilant—not like the Ministry."
[Ding, Father +100]
[Ding, Father +100]
[Ding, Father +100]
[Ding…]
That entire day, Harry and Darren kept recounting what had happened that night.
The projections and photo balls were gone—the Ministry of Magic had destroyed them and made sure they could never be restored.
So if anyone wanted to know what truly happened, there was only one way.
Harry and Darren had to tell it themselves.
Each retelling was heartbreaking.
Hermione, Harry, and even Luna found it difficult to listen.
They could only watch Darren speak again and again—then fall silent, letting Harry finish the rest.
Those memories were brutal. Listening to them felt cruel.
But Harry and Darren persisted.
They insisted on describing everything.
Darren said he simply wanted more people to know.
A warning—for those who had once seen the projections.
Proof that everything was real.
Rita Skeeter told them coldly before leaving that The Quibbler had very little circulation, and that the article might not be read by many people when it was published the following week.
Still, that did nothing to dampen their spirits.
"I'd really love to see Umbridge's face after that interview," Neville whispered excitedly during dinner on Monday.
Ron looked equally pleased.
"Umbridge is definitely going to explode. Maybe she'll even be kicked out of the school!"
That was the one thing he was looking forward to.
After all, if Umbridge left, Harry might be able to play Quidditch again.
There was another reason, though—one Ron didn't say out loud.
Their Quidditch training had been terrible.
Fred and George quietly told Harry and Darren that Ron's performance was disastrous.
They didn't even have the heart to laugh at him anymore.
If Angelina hadn't insisted that Ron stay on the team, he might have quit on his own.
Everything came to a head on Saturday—the day of the match.
Fifteen shots.
Ron failed to stop a single one.
Gryffindor lost, as expected.
When Ron returned to the common room, his face was filled with despair.
Harry felt just as miserable.
He remembered Umbridge's smug expression while Ron was playing.
He knew she had done it on purpose—deliberately provoking him, deliberately crushing Ron.
Harry went up to the dormitory late.
As soon as he entered, he heard Ron's forced sobbing.
He lay silently on his bed, thinking about what his life would be like if Umbridge finally expelled him.
When Ron's sobbing faded into snores, Harry remembered what he was supposed to do.
Clear his mind.
Learn Occlumency.
But it was impossible.
His head was full of hatred—for Umbridge, for Snape. The more he tried to forget, the clearer everything became.
Eventually, he fell asleep.
And once again, he dreamed.
He saw the door.
His hand was already on it.
It felt as if he could push it open with the slightest effort.
He was about to—
Ron's loud snoring jolted him awake.
Harry stared silently into the darkness, his hand still raised in the air.