Almost a week had passed since Harry had done what no Healer at St. Mungo's could. The storm of attention that followed—the letters, the desperate families, the endless questions—finally started to die down. The Daily Prophet, after nearly a week of daily articles demanding Harry reveal his "method," suddenly stopped writing about him altogether.
Hermione noticed first.
"Strange," she muttered at breakfast, flicking through the paper. "Not a word about you today. Not even a whisper about Neville's parents."
Neville, still glowing with pride whenever he thought of his parents being restored, looked up from his porridge. "I don't mind. Neither should you. Maybe they finally got bored."
Harry shrugged, buttering his toast with studied calm. "Let them. I've got better things to do than feed their gossip."
Hermione looked at him sharply. "You're not worried why they stopped?"
"No," Harry replied flatly. "The Prophet isn't worth my worry. They'll turn back to Quidditch scores or broom accidents soon enough. Meanwhile—" he lowered his voice, "—I've got training to keep up. I don't have time for quills and lies."
Later that evening, Harry and Neville sat near the fire in the Gryffindor common room. Neville was still carrying around the lake samples he'd collected and a handful of strange fungi from the forest, eager to brew something new. Harry, on the other hand, had spread out parchments—scribbled designs of runes, sigils, and calculations for the magical fuel he'd been working on for the ship hidden deep beneath Hogwarts.
"Do you ever stop?" Neville asked, shaking his head. "Everyone else is still whispering about what you did for my parents, and here you are… planning another impossible thing."
Harry gave a small smirk. "Impossible is just what no one's bothered to try yet. I can't waste time on what people think. My future's out there, not here."
Neville frowned. "Out there… in the stars, you mean?"
Harry nodded, leaning back. His green eyes glinted in the firelight. "Someday soon, I'll leave. This castle, this world. They'll only ever see me as a hero or a villain. But I'll be free."
Neville was quiet for a moment, then said softly, "Well, until then… you've still got me."
Hermione joined them, dropping heavily into the chair opposite. "You're being far too calm about all this, Harry. Don't you think it's odd? First, they smear you for refusing to help, then suddenly—silence. No retractions. No apologies. Just silence."
Harry tilted his head, watching her carefully. "And what do you think it means?"
Hermione bit her lip. "It means they're planning something. When the Prophet goes quiet, it's not because they've forgotten—it's because they're waiting. Preparing. I just don't want you blindsided."
Harry's smirk returned, colder this time. "If they're waiting for me to slip, they'll wait a very long time. I won't give them the chance."
That night, Harry slipped away under his cloak. The Marauder's Map clutched in his hand, he moved silently through the halls until he descended into the Chamber of Secrets.
Dobby was already waiting, bouncing nervously on his feet. Winky sat in the corner, practicing small spells.
"Master," Dobby squeaked, "the Prophet no longer speaks bad things about you. Dobby thinks this is good news."
Harry shook his head. "It's not good, Dobby. It's quiet. And quiet means something worse is coming."
The little elf blinked. "Then Dobby will fight with Harry Potter when it comes."
Harry gave him a small nod before raising his hands, force lightning sparking faintly between his fingers. "And that's why we keep training. If the Prophet, or the Ministry, or Voldemort himself comes—I'll be ready."
The week of silence gave Harry no peace, but he refused to let it slow him down. Where the rest of the castle whispered, speculated, or avoided him out of fear, Harry sharpened himself. Every duel with Dobby, every rune carved in the Chamber, every late-night watch of the Marauder's Map—it was all preparation.
It did not take Harry very long to discover why the Daily Prophet had gone silent.
It wasn't mercy. It wasn't forgetfulness.
It was because the storm had gone international.
The morning post arrived as usual, owls flooding through the enchanted ceiling. A massive brown owl dropped three foreign newspapers onto the Gryffindor table. Hermione, already frowning, pulled one close.
"Harry…" she whispered, eyes scanning the bold print. "This one's from La Gazette Magique in France. They're writing about you. They're saying—you're refusing to heal the sick."
Neville, peering over her shoulder, turned pale. "That's ridiculous. You healed my parents—how can they twist that?"
Hermione pushed another paper across the table. The Daily Rune from Scandinavia bore a picture of Harry, wand raised in a duel against Victor. The headline screamed:
"THE BOY WHO TURNED AWAY – Potter refuses desperate families."
Harry stared at it for a long moment, then tossed the paper into the butter dish. "Let them write."
Sirius's mirror shimmered in Harry's pocket. When Harry tapped it, Sirius's face appeared, red with anger.
"Harry, have you seen this filth? They've dragged Remus into it, too—calling him a dark creature corrupting you. They've dragged me, claiming I taught you to be violent."
Remus's calm voice joined from beside Sirius, though his expression was tight. "Harry, you must ignore them. They thrive on your reaction."
Harry's lips curled into something between a smirk and a sneer. "Then they'll get nothing."
By the afternoon, the owls were relentless. Dozens, then hundreds, delivering scrolls and packages. Some letters glowed with dangerous curses; one even burst into purple smoke when Neville opened it by mistake.
"Don't touch them," Harry said coldly, sweeping the pile into his arms. He carried the cursed letters to the Gryffindor fireplace and, without opening a single one, dropped them into the flames. The green fire flared, eating up the parchment until all that was left was smoke curling into the chimney.
Hermione watched, horrified. "Harry—you didn't even check if any were from your friends."
Harry's eyes narrowed. "Anyone who's truly my friend knows how to reach me. The rest—" he gestured at the ashes, "—don't matter."
Neville shifted uneasily. "But… Harry, some of them were begging you to help—"
Harry turned on him sharply. "I am not their savior. Not their healer. I'll choose who I help. No Prophet, no Minister, no foreign rag will decide that for me."
Neville fell silent, but Hermione reached out, touching Harry's arm. "I understand, Harry… but people are scared. They always look for someone to blame. And right now… it's you."
Harry pulled away. "Then let them be scared."
In the days that followed, the weight of suspicion grew heavier inside Hogwarts. Gryffindors who once cheered Harry now whispered behind his back. Even in the common room, eyes followed him sharply, as though expecting him to hex them at any moment.
Parvati whispered too loudly to Lavender one evening, "Would you trust him alone? He cured the Longbottoms, yes, but what if he could break a mind just as easily?"
Harry walked past without flinching, though inside, the dark side of the Force pulsed restlessly at the insult.
Neville sat beside him later and muttered, "I hate them. They don't know you. They don't know what you've done."
Harry smirked. "They don't need to. Fear is its own kind of shield."
A week later, Hermione slammed another foreign newspaper onto the library table. The front page showed Harry's face, drawn in dark ink lines, shadows around his eyes like a villain.
"They're not stopping," she said bitterly. "The New York Enchanter, the Rome Magical Herald, even the Icelandic Rune. All of them saying the same thing—that you're a selfish child who won't share your miracle."
Harry leaned back, folding his arms. "Good. The louder they scream, the less I hear."
Hermione snapped, "Harry! This isn't funny. They're building a picture of you—one you can't ignore forever."
But Harry only smirked again. "They can paint whatever picture they like. I know the truth. And the truth is—I don't answer to them."
Every letter burned, every headline twisted, every whisper behind his back pushed Harry further from the boy the world once adored. Where others might have faltered, Harry grew colder, sharper. He knew the Prophet's silence had only been a prelude to this international smear, but he refused to bend.
Because he had already chosen his path—and it did not include the approval of wizards and witches who would turn on him at the drop of ink.
The tension around Hogwarts had been suffocating for days. Every newspaper headline painted Harry darker, every whisper in the corridors made him more isolated.
It was then that Victor Krum approached him one evening, as Harry sat by the fire in the nearly empty Gryffindor common room. Hermione and Neville were nearby, quietly discussing something over a pile of books.
Victor sat across from Harry, his heavy accent low and direct.
"Harry," he said, folding his hands, "you cannot keep silent forever. People believe what they read. And right now… they only read lies."
Harry looked up, eyes cold. "Why should I care what they think? None of them lifted a finger for me when I needed them."
Victor leaned forward. "That is true. But if you never tell your side, they will only ever know one version. The Prophet's version. Let them hear yours. Then, at least, they can choose."
Hermione, seizing her chance, chimed in. "He's right, Harry. You never talk about your life—not even to me and Neville until very late. If people knew what you went through, they'd understand."
Harry scoffed. "Understand? Or pity? I don't need either."
But Neville added gently, "Harry… maybe it's not about pity. Maybe it's about making them see why you don't owe them anything. Why your choices are your own."
Victor gave a firm nod. "I know one reporter. She wrote about your friend's… club. The elves."
"SPEW," Hermione corrected with a faint smile.
"Yes. She is not like Skeeter. She will write fairly."
Harry let out a long breath, rubbing his forehead. "Fine. One interview. But I'll say what I want, and I won't let her twist it."
The meeting was arranged in the unused classroom where SPEW once held its gatherings. The reporter, a young witch with a kind face and ink-stained fingers, set her quill ready. Hermione, Neville, and Victor stood nearby for support.
"Mr. Potter," the reporter began carefully, "thank you for agreeing to this. You can tell me as much or as little as you like."
Harry folded his arms. "Then let's start from the beginning."
He spoke in a voice that was calm, but each word carried weight:
"I grew up in a place called Privet Drive. My aunt and uncle hated me for being a wizard. They locked me in a cupboard under the stairs for the first eleven years of my life. A cupboard—while my cousin had not one, but two bedrooms. I was given scraps to eat. Sometimes nothing at all. And when I slipped and did accidental magic, I was punished—badly."
Hermione's eyes were already wet. Neville clenched his fists, hearing again what he'd only known in pieces.
Harry continued, gaze hard as stone.
"And when I finally came to the wizarding world—the world that calls me 'The Boy Who Lived'—what did I get? Cheers, fame, and nothing real. When Voldemort fell, they sang songs about me, but not one of them cared that I was being beaten, starved, and locked away. They turned their backs. They lived their peace, and I lived their neglect."
The quill scratched furiously across the parchment.
Harry's voice lowered, but it was sharper than ever.
"Even at Hogwarts, I've been a target. In my second year, they called me the 'Heir of Slytherin.' Bullied me, shunned me. They only cheer when I fight their battles, when I bleed for them. And now they want me to heal everyone, as though I owe them my life. I don't."
The reporter swallowed nervously. "So… what do you owe them, Mr. Potter?"
Harry's eyes burned. "Nothing. I am my own person. I don't owe anyone anything. When I needed help, this world abandoned me. So I will never bend to their demands. Whoever I choose to help, it's my decision—and mine alone."
The interview ended in heavy silence. Hermione dabbed her eyes, Neville placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, and Victor gave him a firm nod of respect.
The reporter packed up slowly, her hands trembling. "Mr. Potter… thank you. The world will hear your truth."
Harry leaned back in his chair. "Whether they believe it or not doesn't matter. At least this time, they'll hear it from me."
Within days, Harry's words would spread like wildfire across the wizarding world. For some, it would be a revelation. For others, a scandal. But either way—it was the first time the boy who lived had spoken, and it would not be forgotten.