Before the sun rose on the next day, Professor Trelawney's chilling prophecy from class had ignited a wildfire of rumors across Hogwarts. Panic seized the castle like a storm.
The students might puzzle over the cryptic visions, but that final warning—"the blood of the innocent will flow"—hit like a Bludger to the gut. Even the dimmest first-year grasped it: a massacre loomed at Hogwarts. It could be a full-blown terrorist strike, with kids caught in the crossfire—wounded, even killed.
These wide-eyed preteens and teens, fresh to the wizarding world's dangers, swarmed their headmaster with demands. Some clamored to flee home and hunker down until the threat passed. Letters from frantic parents piled up, echoing the outcry.
Dumbledore stood at the eye of the chaos, his usual calm fraying. He soothed and explained, but his once-unshakable authority had worn thin after years of crises. The old days of blind trust were gone.
A few students backed off at his words, but most dug in their heels. They wanted answers—now. Calls rang out for permanent Auror guards to shield the school. Cheers erupted in support. Parents bombarded the headmaster with owls, railing about the troll two years back, last year's basilisk and Slytherin heir madness, and now Sirius Black on the loose.
Every blasted year, some catastrophe! How could the greatest white wizard of the age let this slide? If not for the prophecy's unproven status, another Howler would have scorched Dumbledore's ears.
...
"Got all that straight?" Argus asked, his tone cool.
"Crystal clear, Mr. Grindelwald. Don't worry—my story will blow the lid off," Rita Skeeter assured him, her crocodile-skin handbag clutched tight, a sly grin splitting her face.
She'd seen cozying up to the acolytes and Argus as a desperate play. But it had unlocked scoops no ordinary hack could touch—insider intel, razor-sharp photos, the works. Her bylines had rocketed her toward editor-in-chief at the Daily Prophet. Without her knack for headlines, she'd have been relegated to obituaries ages ago.
If she'd known the acolytes treated their assets like gold, she'd have jumped ship from her rainy stakeouts long before Azkaban. Why chase leads in the mud when you could sip tea in a plush office like the top brass?
Still, Rita figured a little more elbow grease, and Argus would hand her the Prophet's helm.
"Write it in your usual flair—no need to hold back," Argus said.
"Got it!" she simpered, all traces of her old swagger vanished.
He didn't spell it out, but she caught the drift. Her "style" meant twisting the knife into Dumbledore. And this tied straight to Hogwarts—perfect fodder for a takedown.
"How's the Prophet's circulation? Any big assignments brewing?"
Argus never dismissed the paper as fluff. In the wizarding world's info drought, it was the ultimate megaphone for shaping opinion. Whatever it amplified spread like Fiendfyre. He intended to steer it—away from Dumbledore's grip, at minimum.
"Slow going lately. Mostly Black chase updates," Rita replied. "What you just fed me? That's front-page gold for days. They'll dispatch a team to dog the story."
"You included?"
"If you say the word, I'll pitch it. Should sail through."
She couldn't pin his angle, but her gut screamed big moves ahead. He'd dropped hints like this before, sparking wizarding Britain into frenzy. Now? Perhaps he had Black's trail.
Eyeing her hard-won editor spot and recalling Black's street-bombing rampage, Rita hesitated. "Mr. Grindelwald, Sirius Black's no easy mark. He torched a Muggle block to slip the net. Corner him, and he might lash out wild."
She paused, then added, "He's Black family blood... ties to the other pure-bloods..."
A warning to avoid burning bridges with the old families died on her lips. Months back, Argus had dismantled two Sacred Twenty-Eight houses without a blink. No backlash. No please.
Others might tread light. Argus? Cross him, and you'd wake up toothless.
"Just handle your beat," he cut in. "I've got the rest covered."
...
"Professor Trelawney, walk us through that prophecy—how'd it come to you?"
"Oh, darling, it's ever so intricate," Sybill Trelawney drawled, her scarf-draped shoulders quivering with drama. "That afternoon, Mr. Grindelwald swept past with his crystal ball. Gazing into it unlocked my Inner Eye's whisper. A gift, you see, for one as gifted as I..."
"Brilliant!" Rita scribbled like mad, her Quick-Quotes Quill scratching away.
She leaned in, voice honeyed. "Under Dumbledore's thumb, you've had to dim your light, hide your talents to dodge his wrath. But Mr. Grindelwald's spark ignited you—unleashing visions of Sirius Black's doom and Hogwarts' peril."
The quill danced on, weaving Trelawney's ramblings into gold.
Rita pressed: "And the famous prophecy about our Chosen One, Harry Potter—that was yours too, yes?"
"Indeed! Though I wasn't on staff then... it flowed from my ancestor, Cassandra Trelawney..."
Trelawney, interview virgin, melted under Rita's flattery. She spilled like a tipped inkwell—boasting of her lineage, her overlooked genius. For years, they'd sneered, called her a fraud. Now? Her moment to shine. The Trelawney renaissance began!
"One more, Professor—if you please."
"Ask away!"
"Dumbledore's take on Divination? On you, specifically?"
Rita steered toward the thorns. A sharper prof might bolt, but Trelawney? Green as a first-year, no match for Rita's wiles.
Then Agoth's prophecy flickered in her mind's eye. She shuddered, eyes welling. "He... he'll sack me! Cast me out!"
The words hung, ripe for Rita's quill.
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