HP: The Wizard Who Paints with Magic

Chapter 302 303: From This Day On, Reporter Rita Never Opened Her Rumour-Mongering Mouth Again

The next day.

The Daily Prophet ran a bombshell.

— "Shocking! Our own reporter Rita Skeeter found in the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts! Mind shattered, presumed attacked!"

The moving photograph showed Rita looking like a beggar.

Her blonde hair was a bird's nest.

Her elegant dark green silk suit was in tatters, and the frame of her glasses hung askew and broken.

Her eyes were stretched impossibly wide, packed full of real, solid terror.

In the animated picture, she knelt on the ground, clutching her head with both hands, curling in on herself and shaking all over as if trying to hide from some monstrous thing.

Her expression was vacant and witless, lips moving constantly, muttering who‑knew‑what.

Just looking at her sent a chill down the spine.

The article read:

"Discovered by: Hogwarts professor Rubeus Hagrid and Beauxbatons Headmistress Madame Maxime (we still have no idea what the two of them were doing in the Forbidden Forest so late at night)."

"Upon examination, no obvious external injuries were found on Rita Skeeter's body. However, she is suffering severe mental trauma and memory confusion, symptoms similar to those displayed by Gilderoy Lockhart two years ago."

"She also shows strong hysterical and panic reactions."

"It is impossible to imagine what horrors she must have witnessed."

"She is believed to have been struck by the All‑Is‑Forgotten Curse."

"She has been transferred to St Mungo's for treatment. We will continue to follow this story."

"Next, we will take a closer look at safety issues at Hogwarts and surrounding this year's Tournament…"

"Merlin, what happened to her?" Michael gasped. "She… she looks like she has been scared out of her mind."

"She was fine yesterday. Still baring that great bloody maw and digging for stories everywhere."

"Terrifying. Who on earth did this? Ethan, any ideas?"

He turned.

Ethan, perfectly calm, was enjoying his breakfast.

He took a sip of hot coffee. "The attacker might be far away," he said mildly, "or very close."

Michael laughed. "You and your jokes."

Ethan only smiled.

"…You are joking, right?" Michael said.

Ethan cut into his egg.

The golden yolk flooded out under the knife.

"At least Rita has got her wish," he said lazily. "She has become the juiciest front page story of all."

She would be thrilled.

Remembering the way her face had twisted the moment the spell hit, Ethan nodded to himself.

"Yes," Michael muttered. "Quite a tale."

For some reason, talking to Ethan always made his skin crawl.

It was like sharing a table with someone at lunch, then looking up and seeing their face on a Wanted poster.

The Great Hall doors banged open.

Professor Snape swept in like a black whirlwind.

One look at his thunderous face and his "Gryffindor loses one hundred points" posture, and the Hall fell into instant silence.

Only his hard, echoing footsteps remained.

He stopped in front of Ethan and looked down at him.

"Professor Dumbledore wants to see you," he said, lips barely moving.

A ripple went through the students.

They stared at one another, eyes bright with excitement.

Only when Ethan obediently rose and followed Snape out did they let out the breath they had been holding.

"It has to be about last night, about the reporter who was attacked."

"I heard the Minister for Magic is here."

"Whoever that Dark wizard was, they were practically being kind. They only drove her mad instead of killing her."

"Whoever did it is terrifying. Thank goodness we have Ethan."

"Same year as us, and while we are cramming for exams, his future is already set."

"Are we sure 'future set' does not mean a one‑way trip to Azkaban…?"

One way or another, they all looked on with envy and respect.

"This is wrong," Hermione said anxiously. "Ethan is still a child. They cannot really drag him into something this dangerous."

"What if the Dark wizard turns him to stone? What if he ends up with horrible mushrooms growing all over him?"

"That sounds awfully specific," Ron said. "You really should have taken Divination."

Harry looked just as worried, though for a different reason.

"I am more concerned about the Tournament being cancelled," he said. "Even more than Ethan."

The last task was set.

He and Cedric were both going in.

Harry still hoped they would walk back out together, holding that gleaming golden cup.

While the students argued and speculated, Ethan followed Professor Snape's long strides toward the Headmaster's office.

"Soft‑Centred Strawberry Beetle Pile," Snape said hoarsely to the gargoyle, glaring at it as it slid aside.

You could tell just saying that password made his mouth feel unclean.

The spiral staircase rumbled into motion beneath their feet.

Partway up, Snape broke the silence.

"Perhaps," he said, "you have not been sneaking into my Potions stores to help yourself to ingredients we do not use in class."

"Say, lacewing flies, dried African tree‑snake skins… a remarkable coincidence, given that those are precisely the ingredients needed for Polyjuice Potion."

He turned his sharp, hawk‑like gaze on Ethan.

Ethan's mind wandered.

Professor Snape would be an excellent listening exercise in an English class.

The man spoke in nothing but long, barbed sentences.

He knew exactly what Snape was suspicious of.

That he had been brewing Polyjuice in secret for some shady task.

"Please do not worry," Ethan said politely. "I have not taken your ingredients, nor have I used Polyjuice to do anything bad."

He had used Ageing Potion, kindly supplied by the Malfoy family.

And what he had done was not "bad" at all, but a great service to world peace.

"Hmph."

Snape answered through his nose.

He still looked doubtful, but at least somewhat reassured.

If Ethan said he had not done something, then he had not.

On that point, he was annoyingly honest.

Snape had no idea how quickly he was going to regret relaxing.

They reached the landing.

Voices crashed out of the Headmaster's office before they even knocked.

"The Tournament must be terminated."

"But Minister, the magic contract of the Goblet of Fire is clear. Once champions are chosen, they must see the Tournament through. To break that contract would have consequences we cannot predict."

"Dark wizards are practically dancing on the Ministry's head. Who has time for games?"

"Ahem."

Snape coughed deliberately.

He rapped on the door, and Dumbledore's tired "Come in" sounded from within.

Ethan stepped in with him and saw Minister Scrimgeour and Mr Bartemius Crouch.

The man who should, by rights, have died in the Forbidden Forest by his own son's hand looked grey and exhausted, sweat beading on his brow.

Minister Scrimgeour's face was set in a scowl.

"Do you need me to remind you, Mr Crouch," he said heavily, "that during the Quidditch World Cup your behaviour was witnessed to be extremely strange. Your house‑elf also disappeared."

"Right when the Dark Mark appeared in the sky."

Crouch went white.

He was clearly thinking of his missing Death Eater son.

He clenched his fists. "I do not know what you are talking about," he rasped.

"My meaning is that the Triwizard Tournament must be stopped," Scrimgeour said.

"Anyone who argues otherwise will be presumed to have ties to the forces of evil."