"Good lord, Dumbledore's lost it! He actually wants to kick the professors out of Hogwarts?"
"What? Show me!"
"Right here! Sybill Trelawney, the Divination professor—a direct descendant of the great prophet Cassandra, the one who foresaw Harry Potter as the Chosen One. And Dumbledore's plotting to sack her!"
"It also claims the Hogwarts staff have been under Dumbledore's thumb for years, bending to his whims thanks to his power!"
"I never thought Hogwarts would sink this low just a few years after I left."
Rita Skeeter had a knack for twisting facts into scandals. Her latest hit piece had turned Dumbledore into public enemy number one.
In the old days, most British wizards would have dismissed it with a chuckle or a muttered grumble. But after the chaos at Hogwarts—the scandals, the attacks, and the mounting evidence—Dumbledore's untouchable aura had shattered. People were listening now.
Trelawney snatched up that morning's Daily Prophet the second it hit the stands, hoping the interview would finally legitimize her as a true seer and shake off her fraud label. Instead, Rita had painted her as a victim of Dumbledore's tyranny.
"That's my boss! If I cross him, I'm done for!"
Tears pricking her eyes, Trelawney bolted for the headmaster's office—only to freeze at the gargoyle statue, passwordless and unyielding. After pacing in frustration, she sought out Professor McGonagall for backup.
McGonagall escorted her inside, where Dumbledore blinked in mild surprise over his half-moon spectacles. "Minerva? Sybill? To what do I owe this early visit? No breakfast first?"
McGonagall sighed, sliding the crumpled newspaper across his desk. "Read this, Albus."
Trelawney shrank behind McGonagall like a scolded schoolgirl, head bowed.
Dumbledore's expression darkened as he spotted the byline: Rita Skeeter, his perennial thorn. Anything she wrote about him was poison. Flipping through, he skimmed the venomous quotes attributed to Trelawney—none of which rang true.
"Headmaster, I swear, I never said those things!" Trelawney blurted, voice quivering. "It was just about that prophecy session yesterday. She's making it all up!"
"Easy, Sybill," Dumbledore said calmly, his eyes twinkling faintly despite the headache brewing. He knew Skeeter's game: innocent words spun into outrage, especially where he was concerned. "This is Rita's doing, not yours."
McGonagall frowned. "It's already wildfire in the wizarding world, Albus. The staff's murmuring—some might demand answers. You should address them before it festers."
Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. His once-ironclad reputation had eroded over the past two years, hammered by betrayal after betrayal. Jokes that would have been laughed off now took root. And it all traced back to Harry's arrival—had he meddled too much in the boy's life, leaving the rest to unravel?
"I'll handle it," he replied. But deep down, he knew the damage was done. The path ahead looked grim.
...
Dumbledore's measured explanation quelled the unrest among the staff. Filch, ever the worrier about his precarious job, grumbled but settled. Hogwarts resumed its rhythm.
Yet the incident left scars—Dumbledore's authority felt frailer than ever.
A few days later, Argus emerged from the Slytherin common room, bound for the library. Creaks echoed from the staircase above. A stone gargoyle toppled from the wall, clattering to the floor. Faint footsteps followed, but no one was visible.
"Footsteps, but invisible? Harry under his cloak? What's he up to?"
The steps faded. Argus drew his wand. "Homenum Revelio!"
Pale blue waves rippled from the tip, brushing the ground and revealing a trail of footprints. With a quick Disillusionment Charm cloaking him, Argus trailed silently.
Harry, oblivious, kept his eyes locked on Lupin ahead. He'd struck out in the library—no books on Time-Turners. Desperate, he'd donned the Invisibility Cloak to raid the Restricted Section. But en route from the dormitory, he spotted Lupin slipping through an unfamiliar passage, glancing over his shoulder like a fugitive.
Curiosity burned hotter than caution. Harry followed.
Another shadow lurked farther back—Argus, unwittingly part of this chain of pursuit, like dolls within dolls.
Lupin led them to the Shrieking Shack, its boards groaning in the wind. He whispered through a loose plank: "Padfoot, it's me. Brought you some grub—stay put for a few days."
Panting, Lupin climbed to the second floor. There, sprawled in exhausted slumber as a shaggy black dog, lay Sirius. A nudge from Lupin's boot roused him.
"Wake up, Moony!"
Sirius shifted to human form, shaking off the daze at the sight of his old friend. "Finally! I'm famished. Hogwarts is a madhouse these days—not like our time."
They slumped against the dusty wall, Sirius tearing into the bread like a man possessed. Lupin watched with a nostalgic smile, lost in memories.
Harry, hidden nearby, couldn't catch their words but saw enough: the easy camaraderie, the shared glances.
"Lupin's been lying to me all this time."
He'd trusted the professor implicitly, even after Lupin spoke warmly of his parents. Now, facing a man whose face matched the wanted posters—the traitor who betrayed his family—rage boiled over.
Blind with fury, Harry burst through the door. "Expelliarmus!"
The wand flew from Sirius's grip, clattering across the floor. Shock rippled through the room—Lupin's eyes widened in betrayal, Sirius scrambled back, and Argus, still cloaked in the shadows, froze, wand at the ready. The air crackled with unspoken secrets, ready to explode.
---
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