A certain Hogwarts professor of runes

Chapter 690 Fireplace (Seeking double monthly votes!)

Rita Skeeter walked into the meeting room, half nervous and half excited. She looked around and saw several important figures and well-known writers from the newspaper—the fat manager, the serious old woman who had her eye on her, her rival Melissa, and two or three other top writers on their respective topics. She knew one of them was very good at writing obituaries.

Their faces were grave, as if something big had happened.

"Rita, you've arrived," the stern woman said kindly, several letters laid out before her, one of which had already been opened. "How was your rest? No lasting effects, were there? After all, it was those strange magics, wasn't it?"

"Much better," Skeeter mumbled. "I slept and feel much better. Oh, by the way," she took two manuscripts out of her crocodile bag, "these are what I wrote."

The woman took it with considerable surprise.

"This is my recounting of yesterday's events. Because I was unsure of the newspaper's stance, I chose to narrate from two different angles," Skeeter said calmly.

"I'm satisfied." The serious woman nodded, glanced at the manuscript casually without looking at it closely, and then put it down. She placed her hands on the table and leaned forward. "But now the situation has changed. We received this." She tapped the envelope on the table with one of her ringed hands. "And it happens to be related to you."

"What does this have to do with me?" Skeeter repeated doubtfully.

The serious woman picked up the opened letter and poured out a stack of folded letters and a small card. She pushed the card towards Rita Skeeter.

"Read it."

Rita Skeeter used her long pinky fingernail to scrape up the card and carefully examined the handwriting. She immediately noticed the messy, unprofessional handwriting, and recalling what Hyp had said the night before, guessed it might have been copied by a student. She cleared her throat:

"The wizarding world has been exposed. The adults are busy discussing countermeasures, and Mother is worried; she doesn't want conflict. A few friends and I decided to write to you—hoping you will realize that, apart from magic, our feelings are the same."

P.S.: A Muggle-born friend of mine recognized the female reporter in the news; she's probably the first person to interview a wizard, right? So we sent it to you. That's all for now.

Rita Skeeter looked up and found the reporters staring at her with envy. She instantly realized that her title as "the first journalist to interview a wizard" had played a role. The serious woman said nothing and pushed the opened letter towards her again.

Skeeter unfolded the letter and began to read it aloud. "I have a friend..." She only read half of it before she recognized the sender. The famous Harry Potter was known to everyone in the wizarding world, and with the reappearance of the Dark Lord Voldemort, his two friends had also become somewhat famous. They had been honored with the Order of Merlin for their unwavering loyalty in the face of the Dark Lord.

Through various clues, she deduced that the letter came from Ron Weasley, the youngest son of the Weasley family.

"Is it over?" the chubby manager said, still savoring the moment. "It was quite interesting, though some parts didn't quite make sense." The other reporters nodded in agreement.

"It's over," Skeeter said dryly. She couldn't see anything interesting about it. If she had known earlier, she would have definitely produced a series of controversial articles, whether they were praise or criticism was still debatable.

A reporter was about to express his opinion, but the stern woman stopped him.

"Read the whole letter first, then we'll discuss it."

Rita Skeeter looked around, grabbed the second letter, tore it open, and read it aloud in front of everyone, "I have a friend..." Well, she thought, she had just been thinking about the Savior, and now the Savior's letter had appeared. If it wasn't arranged by Hyp, she would have eaten the parchment.

Then came the third—and final—letter. Rita Skeeter read it for a while, but couldn't guess who wrote it.

"...When the weather is hot and humid, I like to lie in the small garden."

The mistletoe branches divided the sky into small squares, the sky flowing between them. Dust particles in the sunlight floated beside the white mistletoe berries, a beautiful sight, perhaps even to the garden gnomes. Gnomes weren't very good at talking; besides spitting and making faces, their greatest pleasure was carrying the white berries home. When I was little, I left a boot in the garden, hoping they would move in someday. Later, my dad and I built a house for them.

There were also gnarled vines growing in the garden. They usually looked like dead tree stumps, and these fascinating plants had a bumpy surface, with occasional exceptions showing colorful scars (some say it's because of pests). My father wouldn't let me touch them because gnarled vines are fragile yet kind plants; their presence can sweep away any bad mood in the vicinity, the secret being their grapefruit-sized pods.

"Those bad emotions are hidden inside the pod, growing bigger and bigger until they can't hold them anymore and burst," Dad said.

We watched with awe as the pods split open.

Under the blazing sun, my dad and I held up a lotus leaf umbrella to keep from sweating profusely. We usually had to wait several hours, when suddenly we'd hear a loud pop, and the green skin would crack open, releasing pale green, wriggling, earthworm-like things. They'd wriggle at first, but gradually quiet down, making us wonder if they were dead. But my dad said they were just their bad emotions molting, turning into annoying horseflies.

Annoying flies are harmful creatures that drift into people's ears and mess with their minds. They can become invisible, and when you hear a buzzing sound followed by irritation, that's proof they're there. Dad developed an annoying fly siphon to deal with them, but the gnarled vine produces too many, so we have to find another way.

The method involves holding a special ceremony that resembles some kind of dance.

First, fill your mind with happy emotions; this can temporarily ward off the gnats. Then, wave your arms around your head while spinning in place—like trying to shoo away mosquitoes. The purpose of this is to tell the gnats that your mind is occupied by other emotions and you don't need them, so they fly away.

The ceremony was tiring but also very joyful. To reward himself, Dad would usually cook a pot of colorful fish soup.

My father was an expert in many recipes, while I helped catch fish in the stream. There were many kinds of ballfish, some of which were dangerous, such as the bigmouth ballfish. If someone overfished their kind, they would rush out of the water with their mouths wide open and attack them. Therefore, I always carried some gerdigan with me when I was catching fish to prevent such accidents (I also kept some sage and mallow for fire divination, or other useful things, such as spotted umbrella mushrooms)...”

Rita Skeeter stared at the bizarre text, which seemed so out of place. Was something wrong?

"A harassing fly," the chubby manager mused.

"A plant that absorbs bad moods," Melissa murmured.

"Does practicing dances to drive away harassing horseflies work for ordinary people?" another reporter asked.

Rita Skeeter stared in disbelief. After a long pause, the stern-faced woman coughed twice, bringing everyone back to their senses, before lighting a cigarette. The smoke curled upwards.

"Alright, so this is what I meant by the situation changing." The serious woman sat up straight and said, "Right now, the whole country—no, the whole world—is in chaos. Many newspapers are condemning yesterday's atrocities, and of course, we've also published a lukewarm critique... The reason we're not in a hurry to express our stance is because we're special. Rita was fortunate enough to have contact with the wizard, and even she herself has become excellent material, so I'm waiting for her return to prepare a series of news stories around her."

Skeeter glanced at her secretly, knowing that this woman had tasted the benefits of the last gun control incident.

"...Differences are important; the news industry can't just parrot others' opinions, it must have its own thinking. But this matter is unusual. If wizards are defined as terrorists, speaking up for them would probably get us into trouble. Just when I was in a dilemma, I received these letters. What do you think the newspaper should do? Hand it over to the authorities, or—"

"We absolutely cannot hand it over!" everyone shouted in unison.

A smile broke through the serious woman's tense expression. "Very well, if anyone thinks that way, I'll tell them to pack their things and get out of here immediately. The question now is, what attitude should we take, and is the content of these letters credible?"

Everyone lowered their heads in thought, realizing that this was an interview, and whoever spoke more pleasingly would have all the newspaper's resources revolve around that person.

"Why don't we take a neutral stance and simply forward these letters as they are, thus remaining uninvolved?" the chubby manager tentatively suggested.

The serious-looking woman looked at him.

"Perhaps we could offer a tactful critique?" the portly manager said uncertainly. "We have too little useful information right now, just a few letters with no clear beginning or end. What if it's a conspiracy by those wizards..."

Just as the serious woman was about to speak, Rita Skeeter interjected, "That's a possibility, but then she countered, 'But does it matter to us?'"

The serious-looking woman glanced at her. "Tell me your thoughts."

"Regardless of whether magical institutions are involved—oh, you should be able to see from these letters that wizards are an organized little society, not a bunch of lone wolves. They have schools, hospitals, law enforcement agencies, communities…" Skeeter said, pointing to the letters, "Leaving aside the specific content, the letters themselves are equally significant: while other newspapers are still running around like headless flies, we've already made contact with mysterious wizards, well, it's just a one-way connection, but it's an excellent start."

The others weren't unaware of these things, but the weight of the responsibility made them all hesitate. Rita Skeeter, however, seemed to have no such burden, appearing remarkably decisive to the others.

The portly supervisor frowned and said, "What if these letters are just isolated incidents, or what if it's just a few—well, a few school wizards? Good heavens! Wizards going to school? That sounds so strange—cough, I mean, what if it's just a whim of a few school wizard students?"

"I do have this concern," the serious woman said. She fears that by speaking up for wizards, or by not being sharp or comprehensive enough in her criticisms and analyses, and by not making full use of the material, she might be overtaken by other media outlets.

"I don't think so," Skeeter said confidently. Her confidence didn't come from analysis, but from last night's conversation. Knowing the conclusion made the process of working backwards exceptionally easy.

"Think about it, once these articles are published, regardless of whether it's just a few students' impulsive act, as long as even one point in the letter is true—that wizards have their own law enforcement agencies—they will definitely find out. There will only be two possible outcomes then:"

Rita Skeeter grew more confident as she spoke, raising two thick fingers:

"The first outcome is that law enforcement comes knocking and orders those students to stop writing to us, but this approach—"

"It's not very meaningful," the serious woman replied, "because the wizard has already revealed his existence, so doing this is just pretending to be deaf and dumb."

“Exactly,” Skeeter exclaimed. “The second possibility is that the wizarding world’s law enforcement condones these students’ actions, at most offering subtle guidance to prevent leaks of secrets; or, as we just feared, that it was all orchestrated by wizards… Either way, it means a constant stream of exclusive reports!”

The breathing in the conference room became heavy.

Rita Skeeter glanced at the others without batting an eye; she had just come up with a perfect title for herself: the Uncrowned Queen.

……

Meanwhile, some of the most powerful people in the British government are participating in cabinet meetings, each of whom is carefully selected, including even the leader of the opposition party.

"Could we send troops...?" the Defense Minister tentatively asked midway through the meeting.

"I disagree!" the Prime Minister slammed his fist on the table.

"Mr. Prime Minister, don't forget you are our Prime Minister," the opposition leader warned the prime minister, adding maliciously, "I suspect you've been bewitched by those sorcerers... In fact, it's quite possible. Legend has it that sorcerers can summon demons and brew potions to bewitch people, and only a burning cross can subdue them..."

"Are you an idiot?" the Prime Minister snapped. "Or are you planning a modern witch hunt? But your opponents aren't unarmed women from centuries ago; they're real magicians, the strongest of whom could destroy a city single-handedly, and—damn it, yes, that person uses none other than the fire you're so proud of!"

"This is impossible! How can they be so strong?" the Home Secretary exclaimed.

What he really wanted to say was, why would a wizard, who is so powerful, willingly hide himself?

"Those who are that strong are few and far between, practically phoenix feathers and unicorn horns," the Prime Minister said with a strange expression. "According to the data I've seen, only four have appeared in the last two hundred years, and three of them are in Britain. I don't know whether to be proud or—"

"Are they all still alive?" the Chancellor of the Exchequer asked cautiously.

"Two are dead," the Prime Minister said. "In terms we can understand, one was good and one was bad. The good one was highly respected; he was the headmaster of the wizarding school. He single-handedly fought against two generations of Dark Lords, but unfortunately, he passed away recently. If it weren't for him, the wizards and we might have already gone to war."

He did feel it was a pity. Although the Prime Minister had never met Dumbledore, he could still conjure up an image of someone with unparalleled political prestige in his mind based solely on the attitudes of the two Ministers of Magic.

The opposition leader asked coldly, "Even if war breaks out, will we lose?"

The prime minister looked at him strangely.

"Haven't I made myself clear enough? Or are you determined to fight a street battle on British soil against tens of thousands of people with strange and wonderful abilities? They're organized, they have a regime similar to ours, which means they're even harder to deal with than terrorists. I remember last time we sent hundreds of police officers to deal with a dozen or so rioters, and they wrecked an entire block! Even if we win in the end, what will we gain—oh, not to mention they now have two archmages capable of destroying cities at will, one bound by a magical oath, and the other intending to negotiate the integration of wizards into society. Are you planning to ruin this situation and have two human nuclear bombs team up against us?"

"Do your words represent your party's stance?" the Prime Minister pressed aggressively, not forgetting to set a trap for his opponent.

The opposition leader was speechless for a moment, then posed a pointed question:

"Are you sure this information is all true? I've never heard of any city being destroyed by wizards; it's only us who have done it—" He stopped awkwardly.

"The answer you're looking for is in the documents," the Prime Minister said, deflecting responsibility. "As for whether it's true or not, I'm not sure either, which is why I consulted you."

"What abilities do they, well, wizards, have? I mean, have you seen them with your own eyes?" The Defense Minister asked a plausible question.

The Prime Minister thought for a moment and said, "I have only dealt with two Ministers of Magic. They would not cast spells in front of me casually, but only those I have personally witnessed—" His expression suddenly became serious and solemn.

"Wizards can stick things to the wall, making them impossible to remove by conventional means; wizard portraits are intelligent and can communicate with people—I'm not sure if all of them are like that; they can also turn objects into small animals, indistinguishable to the naked eye, a technique called transfiguration, and they have a whole range of magical disciplines—"

"Can a wizard transform into another person?" the Defense Secretary asked, holding his breath.

"I don't know." The Prime Minister shook his head. He continued, "They can appear out of thin air and disappear just as suddenly, but I've only seen it once. Most of the time they appear through the fireplace—"

"The fireplace!" the Defense Secretary and the Home Secretary exclaimed in unison, seemingly terrified.

"What?" the Prime Minister asked curiously.

"Have you ever counted how many fireplaces there are in all of Britain?" the Home Secretary asked, his face grim.

The prime minister was taken aback at first, then the rest of his expression disappeared, and fear slowly surfaced.

Needless to say, the British have a deep-seated love for fireplaces. Almost every household has a beautiful fireplace, even if they only light it a few times a year, they still have to have one!

The government also regards fireplaces as an important part of British traditional culture. In today's technologically advanced world, people no longer need fireplaces for heating, but the government still strives to provide people with increasingly cleaner fireplace coals.

Think about how many scenes in British literature, whether heartwarming, politically charged, or depicting family reunions, feature fireplaces.

In the roaring flames, fireplaces have witnessed the warmth and happiness of countless families, the beautiful vows between lovers, and the laughter of friends... But now, if one harbors hostility towards a wizard, the first thing to do is to call on the public to demolish tens of millions of fireplaces.

The Prime Minister couldn't help but shudder.

His already wavering resolve wavered even further. The connection between wizards and ordinary people was far stronger than he had imagined. To deal with wizards, he would first have to wage a war without gunpowder—a war of attrition! If all the influence of wizards were eliminated, what would be left of this land?

"Those wizards are awful!"

"Rats in the sewers!"

"That's outrageous!"

After a heated exchange of accusations, the conference room fell silent again, and everyone looked at each other in bewilderment. The Prime Minister looked around, and finally, forced by circumstances, asked, "So—does everyone agree to tentatively make contact with the wizards?"

No one spoke.

"I understand. I hope everyone will continue to uphold this resolution in the upcoming parliamentary sessions."

Outside the meeting room, Kingsley, an aide to the Prime Minister, pricked up his ears. A fireplace? He hadn't considered that a small fireplace could be so crucial; perhaps it was too commonplace. He quietly slipped away. The discussion inside the meeting room continued, but it was no longer relevant to the bigger picture—

"Should we seek help from the church? They are the professionals," someone suggested.

"Idiot, haven't you dealt with them? If they could really spread miracles, would they be like that? They themselves are blasphemers!"

"Cough cough cough!" The Prime Minister coughed rapidly.

"Well, at least they might have kept some records."

"Speaking of which—it suddenly occurred to me that the Queen is nominally the supreme leader of the Church..."

"You want the royal family involved?"

"Such a big matter, why not share some of the burden..."

……

The Dursleys.

"I knew it! Just watch!" Finnon pointed at the television, beaming with pride. "Those bastards can't hide anymore. Someone will stop them. I really hope the government arrests them one by one—"

He suddenly sat up, his small eyes darting around warily. "If that's the case, what if they use our house as a refuge and forcibly requisition it? That Ministry of Magic employee seemed suspicious and didn't seem to have any good intentions."

Dali stared at his father.

"Sigh, not everyone associated with Dudley is as good as you," Vernon quickly added, turning to Penny, "Should we secretly call the police—while that kid's not around?"

"No!" Aunt Penny exclaimed, her tone vehement. "Absolutely no one can know!"

Fernon's fat jiggled, and he muttered under his breath, "Fine, fine... I was just saying it offhand. It's all that freak's fault," he suddenly snapped, "He has no manners whatsoever, just like his father, sending a message back through a messenger—"

He swore and ranted for ten minutes straight, then leaned back on the sofa, panting, and turned to look at the photo on the mantelpiece—although they used an electric stove for heating in the winter, they still maintained this tradition, otherwise people would gossip.

The neighbors all knew that the Dursleys were a very, very law-abiding family.

(End of this chapter)