Hogwarts: My Grandmother is the Queen

Chapter 339 Rita's Failure

"You mentioned the public's interest in my social circle, which is a topic that is very worthwhile to explore in depth. From a macro perspective, the formation of a person's social circle involves multiple factors, including but not limited to educational background, shared activities, and the foundation of trust built through long-term interactions."

Henry paused for a moment, glancing up at Rita's slightly swollen eyes: "Specifically regarding my acquaintance with Miss Farley—we gradually built a connection through the daily activities of Slytherin House, a connection based on mutual respect and shared participation in certain activities. I believe that the essence of any social relationship between two people is based on a certain degree of mutual recognition, and the process of forming this recognition is often more meaningful than the result itself. If the public is interested in social circles, what they should really care about is the process of building those circles, not a specific name."

Has Rita stopped writing with her quill? Her smile is still there, but it has become stiff, as if it has been frozen by some invisible force.

She looked at Henry as if reassessing whether the young man in front of her was really only fourteen years old.

"Your Highness," a hint of almost imperceptible weariness appeared in her voice for the first time, "then let me ask a simpler question—what do you think the second event of the Triwizard Tournament will be? The public is very curious."

Henry thought for a moment: "I don't have firsthand information about the specifics of the second project. As a Hogwarts student, my sources of information are roughly the same as other students'—mainly from public channels and classroom discussions. Looking at the history of the Triwizard Tournament, the project setup usually follows a certain logical structure. This structure might be related to the participants' abilities, the audience experience, or the tournament's traditions. Regarding the specific project details, I advise the public to be patient, as the organizers usually release relevant information according to a set schedule. While premature speculation is interesting, any conclusions drawn without sufficient information are merely temporary assumptions."

Rita stood there, her quill still held up, the words on the parchment sparse and scattered, like a draft that had been repeatedly revised.

Her lips moved for a long time, as if she couldn't squeeze out a single word.

"Your Highness," she finally said, "your answers were all very—very comprehensive."

"Comprehensive is my way of speaking," Henry said. "If you're expecting an incomplete answer, you've come to the wrong person."

Rita stared at him for a while, as if trying to confirm whether she really hadn't collected any valuable information.

She glanced down at the sentences written on the parchment, which could probably be pieced together into three lines, but not a single one could be directly quoted.

"Alright then," she said. "I'll contact your advisor through the office to schedule a formal interview."

"Okay," Henry said. "They'll handle it."

Rita nodded and turned to leave.

Miss Farley stood beside Henry and watched her walk away.

After the green figure had completely disappeared into the crowd, she spoke in a low voice: "Your Highness, I heard you speak just now—you said a lot, but it seemed like you didn't say anything at all."

"That's the effect I wanted," Henry said with a smile.

"Where did you learn this way of speaking?" Miss Farley asked. "Before I came back from Oxford, I read some materials on how Muggle politicians deal with the media, but they didn't speak as fluently as you. You sound like you've practiced a lot."

Henry led her a few steps toward the window, away from the crowd, before saying, "My grandmother arranged a private consultant for me named Arnold Robinson. He was a cabinet secretary and worked in government for decades. He taught me a complete set of methods for dealing with the media."

Miss Farley asked in surprise, "Sir Arnold? I vaguely recall you had him tutor Percy Weasley, didn't you?"

“Yes,” Henry said. “He worked in Whitehall for forty years, serving under six prime ministers, but his most famous period of service was during the tenure of his predecessor. During that time, he handled countless media crises and learned how to make journalists unsure of what they had written after they finished their articles.”

"What did he teach you?"

"The first lesson he taught me was that when a reporter asks a question, don't answer the question itself, but answer about the context of the question. That way, the reporter will get a statement, but there won't be anything in that statement that can be quoted."

Miss Farley thought for a moment: "Like how you dealt with Rita Skeeter just now?"

“Yes,” Henry said. “She asked me about Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory, and instead of sharing my opinions, I told her about the diversity of the competition and the dimensions for evaluating athlete performance. She asked me about the second event, and instead of the specifics, I told her about the logical structure of the event design and the information dissemination process.”

She got nothing.

“She got a passage,” Henry said, “but not a single sentence in it could be quoted directly. She couldn’t write that His Highness Henry thought Potter would win,” because I never said Potter would win. Nor could she write that His Highness Henry revealed anything about the second project, because I revealed nothing.”

Miss Farley stood there, silent for a moment, as if reassessing the man before her: "Sir Arnold—"

Did he teach you personally?

“One-on-one,” Henry said. “Once a week, for two years. Every time he came to Kensington Palace, he would bring several old documents from the Prime Minister’s office. The contents of those documents weren’t important; what mattered were the notes on them suggesting how to respond to the media. He would show me those notes and then ask me, ‘If you were the official being asked, how would you answer?’ Then I would answer, he would correct me, and then I would repeat myself.”

"It sounds like a training exercise."

"It's a kind of training," Henry said. "He calls it verbal softball, which means not directly blocking reporters' questions, but letting the questions glide by on their own, drifting in another direction."

Have you ever made a mistake?

“Yes,” Henry said. “Before I even enrolled, a reporter asked me about my mother, Princess Diana. I wasn’t prepared and said, ‘She was a very good person.’—and the next day, the Daily Prophet’s headline was, ‘His Highness Henry: My Mother Was a Very Good Person.’ The statement itself wasn’t problematic, but on the front page, it looked like a response. Sir Arnold used that article as a cautionary tale in the next class, teaching me how to avoid saying things that could be singled out and amplified.”

Miss Farley looked at him, a slight smile playing on her lips. "So you haven't missed a shot since?"

"Since then, I've learned how to prevent reporters from getting anything that can be amplified," Henry said. "Including just now."

Miss Farley's gaze lingered on his face for a moment, then she nodded slightly: "Is Sir Arnold still teaching you?"

""

“He’s still here,” Henry said. “He comes to Kensington Palace once a month with the latest media responses. Some are from previous prime ministers, some are from recent events. He likes to say something like, ‘The most dangerous time for a politician is not when he doesn’t know what to say, but when he thinks he knows what to say.’”

"That doesn't sound like something a cabinet secretary would say," Miss Farley said, tilting her head.

“It certainly wasn’t his original statement,” Henry said. “He said it was Mr. Harker who said it. At that time, Mr. Harker was the Shadow Secretary of Agriculture and had just gone through a media storm. Afterwards, he summarized that I had made two mistakes—the first was that I answered the question, and the second was that I thought I knew what I was saying.”

Miss Farley chuckled softly: "Then I guess Prime Minister Harker later learned how to deal with the media."

"He did learn it," Henry said. "Sir Arnold said that in the later years of Prime Minister Harker's career, he was able to speak a lot of complete sentences in a fifteen-minute interview, but none of them could be directly quoted."

That's the highest level—making the reporter feel like you've said a whole paragraph, but there isn't a single word in that paragraph that can be picked up on its own.

"Have you reached that level yet?" Miss Farley asked with great interest.

Henry thought for a moment: "I'm getting close."

The two stood by the window, outside which lay the night view of the Black Lake and the faint lights of the Durmstrang ship in the distance.

The music in the lobby was still playing, but the volume had been reduced, as if preparing for the end of the night.

"Your Highness," Miss Farley said, "did you use the same method Sir Arnold taught you when you were dealing with Rita Skeeter?"

"right."

"What if you encountered a persistent journalist? Someone who would keep asking the same question?"

"Then try a different approach," Henry said. "If you steer the conversation away from the question and she keeps asking, then she's not asking a question; she's insisting on a specific answer. In that case, what you need to do isn't answer the question, but make her realize that she's sticking to her guns."

"How do I make her realize it?"

"For example, I could say to her, 'Ms. Skeeter, you've already asked me the same question. This shows you're not satisfied with my previous answer. Can you tell me what kind of answer you'd like to hear?'"

Miss Farley thought for a moment: "Then she would say, 'I don't want to hear a specific answer; I just want to know your opinion.'"

"Then you can say that you've got my opinion. If you feel that's not what you want, it's probably because you want to ask a different question. You can ask a different question."

""

"and then?"

"Then she'll either change the subject, which would put us back in the same cycle, or she'll realize she can't get anything of value from you and walk away. Rita Skeeter just chose the latter."

Miss Farley stood there looking at him: "Your Highness, there was a crucial part in what you just said, that line about 'if you feel that's not what you want, it's probably because you want to ask a different question.' Was that your own version, or did he teach you?"

Henry glanced at her slightly. "That line was something I came up with myself. Sir Arnold taught me how to evade questions," but he didn't teach me how to make the reporter realize she should change the subject. "That's something I figured out myself later."

"You summarized it very well."

"Thanks."

The two stood quietly by the window for a while, and the music in the distance changed to a more soothing tune, like a piece written for the end of the night.

Some people were hugging and saying goodbye at the edge of the dance floor, while others were packing up to leave. Filch appeared in the corner of the hall with a long broom and began cleaning up the scraps of paper and fallen decorations on the floor, as if he was already preparing for the cleanup the next morning.

"Your Highness," Miss Farley broke the silence, "when you were dealing with Rita Skeeter, did you ever consider that she might write something about us in her writings?"

"Of course I thought about it," Henry said. "So when she asked you about it, I answered almost explicitly."

Miss Farley paused for a moment: "You said you don't know much because you haven't asked," was that an implication that she shouldn't make things up?

"It's a reminder to her," Henry said. "She's a professional journalist; she knows the consequences of fabricating information about people close to the royal family. She won't take that risk lightly unless she's certain it won't be discovered."

"Do you think she'll take the risk?"

"No," Henry said, "because she got nothing tonight, and an article without substance isn't worth the risk."

Miss Farley breathed a slight sigh of relief: "That's good."

The people in the hall began to disperse. Midnight had passed for some time, and Christmas Eve was slowly turning into the early hours of Christmas Day.

Some people were walking towards the foyer, some were saying goodbye to their dance partners, and some had already left the hall and were walking back along the corridor.

Dumbledore was standing in front of the faculty seating area, talking to Madam Maxim. Both of them were holding wine glasses and speaking in low voices, as if it were a private conversation.

"Your Highness," said Miss Farley, "shouldn't we be heading back?"

"Hmm." Henry glanced towards the hall. "There's one last thing."

"What is it?"

"I need to confirm, Rita Skeeter has already left the hall."

Miss Farley glanced in the direction of his self-illumination toward the hall, but the green figure was no longer there: "She's gone. I just saw her head toward the foyer."

"That's good," Henry said. "Then we can go."

The two walked down the corridor toward the Slytherin common room. The corridor was much quieter than when they came, with only a few students passing by occasionally, their steps hurried, as if they were in a great hurry to get back to rest.

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