Harry Potter: Returning from Hogwarts Legacy-Chapter 300

It was only at this moment that Rita finally grasped the essence of Veratia’s spirit.

As a tabloid journalist, reading people’s expressions and intentions was her bread and butter.

No one knew exactly what Rita and Veratia had discussed inside the room, but the look of profound relief on Rita’s face as she emerged gave everyone a rough idea.

"So, how did it go?" Harry asked Veratia as he stepped into the room. "Did she agree?"

"I gave her a reason she couldn’t refuse," Veratia said with a sly smile. "Don’t worry, I didn’t force her. You all know the Daily Prophet doesn’t bow to anyone."

"But they’re awfully flexible when it suits them," Sirius quipped from behind.

"Indeed," Veratia repeated, "the Daily Prophet doesn’t bow to anyone."

Back at the newsroom, Rita let out a long, relieved sigh.

She was terrified—utterly, bone-deep terrified.

And perhaps a little regretful.

"I’m such a fool, truly," she muttered, pacing back and forth in her office. "I only knew that woman was a Grindelwald, prime material for a sensational scoop, but I forgot she’s a Grindelwald—a born-to-be-evil, cold-blooded Dark witch who wouldn’t blink at murder..."

But regret was useless now. Veratia had her by the throat, and Rita had no choice but to follow orders.

She had to obey—not just because Veratia had leverage over her, but because the moment she muttered that Veratia was a "born-to-be-evil Dark witch," a searing, burning pain shot through her back.

"Arghhh!"

Her scream echoed through the entire newsroom.

"Are you alright, Ms. Skeeter?" someone called, knocking on her door with concern.

"I’m fine! I’m fine!" Rita shouted back. "I just stubbed my toe on the desk! I’m fine!"

The person outside seemed skeptical but didn’t press further when Rita insisted nothing was wrong.

Rita knew exactly what had happened. A curse had been placed on her back...

If she dared defy that woman, she’d suffer that soul-scorching pain again. She had no doubt that if she betrayed Veratia Grindelwald in any way, the curse’s flames would burn her soul to ashes.

She worked frantically through the night in the newsroom, revising draft after draft until the article was finalized.

The next morning, a copy of the Daily Prophet arrived at Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

This time, Rita hadn’t spun wild gossip or fabricated scandals. Instead, she wrote a serious, detailed account of Regulus Black’s heroic deeds.

Under her pen, Regulus Black became a tragic hero who endured humiliation and hardship, joining Voldemort only to strike a fatal blow at the critical moment.

Attached to the article was a photograph of Regulus Black—a frail, almost delicate young man who looked like he could barely withstand a breeze, stirring sympathy in the hearts of many witches.

As a journalist, Rita knew exactly how to tug at her readers’ heartstrings.

"Well, it seems Rita isn’t entirely beyond redemption," Sirius said, chuckling as he held the newspaper. "Looks like she can speak like a human when she wants to."

"She’s probably terrified," Dumbledore remarked. Though his tone was calm, Sirius caught the faint glimmer of schadenfreude in his eyes.

And who could blame Dumbledore? Rita had smeared his name plenty of times in the past.

As an upright white wizard and Headmaster of Hogwarts, Dumbledore couldn’t exactly pay Rita Skeeter a visit and give her an "offer she couldn’t refuse."

Rita, of course, knew this, which was why her quill practically sparked with venom when she wrote gossip about Dumbledore.

The effect was immediate. The new issue of the Daily Prophet caused a sensation in the wizarding world the moment it hit the stands.

A tragic hero like Regulus was tailor-made for sympathy.

Many witches, upon seeing Regulus’s photo, were instantly moved to tears.

"Regulus Black is a hero!"

Letters like these flooded the Ministry of Magic like a snowstorm.

The Ministry was overwhelmed but had no way to stem the tide.

Even Fudge, during a speech somewhere, was asked when the Ministry would "clear Regulus Black’s name."

"We assure you, we will clear his name once the truth is fully investigated!" Fudge replied.

As a seasoned politician, Fudge was adept at vague answers. He promised to clear Regulus’s name if the truth was uncovered—but if it wasn’t, or if the investigation dragged on indefinitely, well, that was in his control.

Politicians, after all, crave control. It’s how they stay untouchable.

But here’s the problem: you win and win and win, until you lose everything.

The Daily Prophet wasn’t stopping at just one article. In fact, Rita had prepared a full campaign to rehabilitate Regulus Black—or rather, to curry favor with Veratia Grindelwald.

As a journalist with a nose for opportunity, Rita knew the news of Gellert Grindelwald’s escape from prison had spread across Europe. This Veratia Grindelwald, hailing from Austria, was clearly a descendant of that Grindelwald.

Investing in her early was a safe bet.

Rita’s life philosophy was simple: you might make a small profit, but I never lose.

For days, the Daily Prophet’s front pages were dominated by the Black family’s heroic struggle—specifically, their fight against the Dark Lord.

It began with Sirius Black, who defied his family to join the noble Gryffindor house, and continued with Regulus Black, who bore the heavy burden of upholding the family’s "pure-blood honor."

In Rita’s narrative, Regulus didn’t want to join Voldemort but was forced to by his parents’ expectations, as the Black family—a proud, ancient Slytherin line—couldn’t afford to be seen as outsiders in the Death Eater ranks.

After joining, Regulus gradually saw Voldemort’s true, vile nature and resolved to bide his time, earning the Dark Lord’s trust to deliver a fatal strike when the moment came.

Sirius’s story, meanwhile, was old news but spiced up with a touch of swashbuckling adventure. The Black brothers became the talk of the wizarding world, their names on every witch and wizard’s lips.

With Rita’s masterful quill, she even subtly steered public opinion.

Some readers, after devouring the Daily Prophet’s articles, began to think, "If only the Blacks worked at the Ministry!"

Sure, everyone knew the Daily Prophet loved to exaggerate and fabricate, but that didn’t stop people from eating it up.

Besides, Sirius Black’s wrongful imprisonment by the Ministry was already public knowledge, no longer a secret.

Coupled with the lack of an official Ministry rebuttal, the Daily Prophet’s coverage of the Black family started to seem credible.

At the Black family’s ancestral home, Sirius was busy in the study, both pained and delighted.

The days after Christmas coincided with the full moon, so Professor Lupin was preoccupied with taking Wolfsbane Potion and staying out of sight, leaving Sirius to handle things alone.

Otherwise, Sirius would’ve dragged Lupin into the chaos.

What was Sirius so busy with? Replying to letters from a sudden wave of ardent fans.

Yes, ever since the Daily Prophet published the Black brothers’ stirring heroics, a significant number of witches and wizards had become their devotees.

The biggest reason? Rita had plastered Sirius’s youthful photos—and a recent one—on the front page.

For that recent photo, Sirius had even taken the time to spruce himself up.

"Your looks are an asset, Sirius," Harry said as he helped style Sirius’s hair. "Right now, we need to leverage every advantage you have to build momentum among ordinary witches and wizards."

Sirius blinked, a bit stunned.

Veratia, however, gave Harry an approving look. "Getting into politics now, are we?"

Harry flashed her a smug grin.

"Where’d you learn all this?" Sirius asked, curious.

"Oh, from Mr. Septimus," Harry replied, then added after a moment’s thought, "Septimus Malfoy. You’ve probably heard of him."

Sirius counted on his fingers and looked up. "Lucius Malfoy’s great-grandfather, right?"

"Exactly, and Cassandra’s father," Harry said with a chuckle.

Sirius’s mouth twitched. He’d overlooked one detail—his godson’s... rather lofty connections.

If not for their godfather-godson bond, Sirius might’ve had to call Harry something like "great-great-uncle" or worse.

When it came to politics, Septimus Malfoy had spared no effort in teaching Harry, breaking down every concept and drilling it into him with relentless, almost force-fed lessons.

Harry hadn’t dared resist or refuse back then, and through osmosis and direct instruction, he’d picked up quite a bit—maybe not all of Septimus’s expertise, but enough.

A century ago, the "Minister of Darkness" had taught him well...

Back then, Harry hadn’t dared ask why he needed to learn these things. He just studied whatever was taught, accepting it all without question.

But Harry wasn’t dim by any means.

"Fame is a fickle friend," Sirius said seriously as he wrote his replies. "One moment, witches and wizards might lift me to the skies, but the next, I could be dashed into the dust for some misstep. The higher they raise you, the harder you fall."

"Planning ahead is wise," Veratia said, arms crossed. "But the one who’ll end up face-down in the mud is definitely Fudge."

Her disdain for Fudge was palpable, though Harry wasn’t sure why.

"Is it?"

Ron looked up as an owl swooped in from outside.

The owl moved like a missile, arcing through the sky with uncanny precision before diving straight into Ron’s arms.

"Oh, it’s Errol."

Ron grabbed the letter from Errol’s beak, muttering, "I don’t know why Mum keeps sending Errol. We’ve got younger owls at home—Errol’s so old, he should be resting, not dive-bombing me to deliver letters."

As if understanding, Errol nuzzled Ron’s hand.

"What’s the letter say?" Hermione asked from the side.

Ron opened it, glanced at the contents, and turned to Sirius. "Oh, it’s from Dad. He sends his regards to you, Sirius. Apparently, they sent this from Romania to our house, and poor Errol had to fly it here... Dad says he’ll visit Number 12 Grimmauld Place at the end of the Christmas holidays to see you."

"I look forward to their visit," Sirius said warmly.

He’d always been on good terms with the Weasley family, partly because a Black ancestor had married Septimus Weasley, and partly because Sirius, the Gryffindor rebel who’d defied his family, was naturally a favorite of theirs.

Truth be told, aside from pure-blood Slytherin families, most wizarding households adored Sirius.

In his youth, the handsome, charming, and courteous young man had won over plenty of parents.

Harry’s grandparents, in fact, had liked Sirius even more than James, much to James’s jealous chagrin for days.

"By the way," Veratia asked again, "any plans, godfather? I mean, which department at the Ministry are you aiming for?"

"That’s Harry’s godfather, not hers," Cassandra muttered to Poppy at the doorway.

Poppy wrinkled her nose, picking at her fingers, her lips pursed so tightly she could’ve pinched three licorice wands between them.

"The Auror Office," Sirius replied, carefully sealing a letter. "I’ve always wanted to be an Auror."

"The current head of the Auror Office..." Veratia paused, thinking. "Rufus Scrimgeour, right? I remember him—looks like an old lion, with a temper to match. Maybe we could find a way to... shuffle his position a bit."

"Shuffle it where?"

Harry looked at Veratia, baffled. Why was she talking so casually, like she was the Minister of Magic?

Of course, Harry wasn’t tactless enough to say that out loud.

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