A certain Hogwarts professor of runes.

"...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. Sunlight-drenched dust particles floated beside the white mistletoe berries, a beautiful sight, perhaps even to the goblins in the garden. Goblins weren't very good at talking, except for spitting and making faces.

Their greatest joy is bringing 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 houses 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 the gnarled vine was a fragile yet kind plant; its presence could sweep away any bad mood in the vicinity, the secret being its grapefruit-sized fruits.

Those bad emotions were hidden inside Yingguo, growing bigger and bigger until they couldn't contain them anymore and burst. 'Dad said.'

We observed the scene of the English fruit splitting open with awe.

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 horseflies 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 horsefly siphon to deal with them, but the gnarled vines produce 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 continuously spinning in place—as if trying to shoo away mosquitoes. The purpose of this is to tell the gnats that your mind is already 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 dad is an expert in many recipes, while I help him catch fish in the stream. There are many kinds of ball puffs, some of which are dangerous, such as the bigmouth ball puff.

If someone overfishes their kind, they will rush out of the water with their mouths wide open and attack them. Therefore, I always carry some gerdigan with me when I'm fishing to prevent such accidents (I also keep some sage and mallow on hand 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 horsefly,” 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, "Currently, the entire country—no, I should say the entire world—is in chaos. Many newspapers are condemning yesterday's atrocities, and of course, we 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, preparing to create 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, leaving ourselves out of it?" the chubby manager tentatively suggested.

The serious-looking woman looked at him.

"Perhaps a more tactful criticism?" the portly manager said uncertainly. "There's too little useful information right now, just a few letters with no 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 possibility cannot be ruled out." But then she countered, "But is it important to us?"

The stern-faced woman gave her a warning look. "Tell me your thoughts."

"Regardless of whether magical institutions are involved—oh, from these letters, you should be able to see that wizards are an organized little society, not a disorganized bunch. They have schools, hospitals, law enforcement agencies, communities…" Skeeter said, pointing to the letters, "Leaving aside these specific details…"

These letters, in themselves, are equally significant: while other newspapers are still floundering aimlessly, we've already made contact with the mysterious wizard—well, even if it's just a one-way connection, it's an excellent start.

The others weren't unaware of these things, but the weight of the responsibility made them 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, involving 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, or 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 came not from analysis, but from last night’s conversation. Knowing the conclusion made the process of working backwards exceptionally easy.

"Think about it, after these articles are sent out, regardless of whether it's just a few students' impulsive act, as long as even one piece of content in the letter is true..."

—That is, wizards have their own law enforcement agencies, and they will definitely find out about this. There are only two possible outcomes:

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

"The first outcome is that law enforcement comes to our door and orders the students to stop writing to us, but this approach..."

“It’s pointless,” the serious woman replied, “because the wizard has already revealed his presence; doing this is just playing 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 stories!”

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 mind-control potions, and only burning crosses can subdue them..."

"Are you an idiot?" the Prime Minister said angrily. "Or are you planning to launch a modern witch hunt? But your opponents are not unarmed women from centuries ago, but real magicians, the strongest of whom can destroy a city by themselves, and damn it, yes, that person uses the very 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?

"Such exceptional individuals are few and far between, practically rare," the Prime Minister said with a strange expression. "According to the data I've seen, only four have emerged in the last two hundred years, and three of them are in Britain. I don't know whether to be proud or not—"

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

“Two have died,” 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, and he single-handedly fought against two generations of Dark Lords. Unfortunately, he passed away recently. If it weren’t for him, the wizards and we might have already gone to war.”

He genuinely felt it was a pity. Although the Prime Minister had never met Dumbledore, he could 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.

"Wasn't I 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—not to mention they now have two archmages who can command palaces at will, one restricted 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 these 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; only we 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 false, I'm not sure either, which is why I consulted you."

"What abilities do they, well, wizards, possess? 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 wouldn't cast spells in front of me casually, but it was only one I personally witnessed." His expression suddenly became serious and solemn.

"Wizards can stick things to walls, making them impossible to remove by conventional means; their portraits possess intelligence and can communicate with people—I'm not sure if all of them are like that; they can also transform objects into small animals, indistinguishable to the naked eye, a technique called transfiguration; 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 and disappear out of thin air, 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 startled.

"What?" the Prime Minister asked, puzzled.

"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 tries its best to provide people with increasingly cleaner fireplace coals. Think about how many scenes of warmth, intrigue, or family reunions appear in British literature.

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 someone harbors hostility towards the witch doctor, the first thing they do is call on the public to demolish tens of millions of fireplaces.

The Prime Minister couldn't help but shudder.

His already wavering resolve trembled even more now. 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 meeting room fell silent again, and everyone looked at each other in bewilderment. The Prime Minister looked around, and finally, feeling pressured, asked:

"So—does everyone agree to tentatively make contact with the wizard?"

No one spoke.

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

Outside the meeting room, Kingsley, the Prime Minister's aide, 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 let out a series of rapid coughs.

"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 all 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? I think that Ministry of Magic employee was acting suspiciously and didn't 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 cried out, 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's all that freak's fault," he suddenly snapped, "completely lacking in manners, just like his father, sending back a message 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.