Rita Skeeter emerged from the darkness, her eyes dry and aching.
When her pupils finally focused, she found herself staring at her photography partner's round, worried face.
"Rita, are you all right?" The faint light of dawn filtered through the grimy window, illuminating Bozo's unconcealed concern. "Where have you been these past four or five days? I was frantic! Your column from last week was nearly blank... Barnabas Gough — the editor on duty — was furious. He was stomping round the office all morning, cursing your name..."
"Oh, don't even mention it, Bozo," Rita said weakly, sprawled across the greasy sofa in her partner's sitting room — having abandoned, for once, her habitual complaints about his standards of cleanliness. "I'm absolutely starving. Please. Something to eat..."
"Did you just crawl out of a catastrophe?" Bozo asked, frowning.
He waved his wand, and the oven behind him clicked on. A frying pan sailed onto the hob and began to sizzle as it warmed itself.
A knob of butter leapt into the pan, rolled about excitedly, and then sprang out again — scalded by the heat — losing a thin layer of itself in the process.
Two eggs gloated over the butter's misfortune, bouncing smugly on the rim of the pan until they rather stupidly cracked themselves open. The eggshells, horrified by the sudden gaps in their own bellies, immediately fainted. One lost its footing entirely and tumbled from the rim into the rubbish bin beneath the hob. The two golden rounds of yolk, cloaked in trembling egg white, slid down into the hot butter and were promptly transformed into two neat sunny-side-up eggs.
The pepper shaker on the shelf couldn't resist leaning over to watch. It sneezed, scattering a dusting of black pepper across the still-runny yolks.
Rita Skeeter, however, was in no state to appreciate the charming scene on the hob — much less reach for her newly bought Quick-Quotes Quill.
She craned her neck from the sofa, squinted at her breakfast, and shouted in a hoarse voice, "Not enough! Two more eggs! And bacon! Lots of bacon!"
"I thought you were on a diet!" Bozo shook his head and sent more dizzy eggs and rashers of bacon flying from the counter into the pan with a wave of his wand.
"Don't even mention it — I never want to hear the word 'diet' again!" Rita seized the sunny-side-up egg from her plate and stuffed it whole into her mouth, letting out a blissful sigh — the last time Bozo had heard her make such a sound was during an interview with a chef in Brittany, when they'd had the extraordinary luck of tasting fresh blue lobster.
"Is it really that good?" Bozo asked, somewhat flattered.
Merlin, he'd never considered himself much of a cook.
Rita chewed rapidly, mumbling, "It's all that Draco Malfoy's fault — that little devil — he starved me for days!"
"What?" Bozo recoiled, and in his alarm knocked a metal spoon from the table onto the dusty carpet. "He caught you? He locked you up?"
"More or less..." Rita glanced away guiltily and moved on to the next egg. "I truly didn't expect him to be so ruthless."
"But Mrs. Malfoy is on good terms with you! Why would her son come after you? And weren't you meant to be digging up material on Harry Potter? How did you end up tangled with the Malfoy family?" Bozo asked, while his wand continued ferrying food from the pan to Rita's plate.
"I'm not covering Harry Potter anymore," Rita said, wolfing down her breakfast.
There was a shadow of resentment in her eyes — but more than that, exhaustion, and something very close to fear.
"I'm taking a break. In fact, I intend to stop writing for a full year."
"Why?" Bozo asked, baffled. "Only a few days ago you were practically dancing in the office, telling me that Cornelius Fudge himself was counting on your 'unparalleled talent.' You said this was going to be the year that made your career. What happened?"
Rita's expression was extraordinarily complicated.
She wanted to write. She simply couldn't.
If she wrote about Harry Potter — if she wrote a single word of slander about any of them — she would die.
She tore into a rasher of greasy bacon with vicious satisfaction, replaying the events of the past few days:
It had started simply enough — she'd only meant to slip into the Gryffindor common room as a beetle and gather a little information. Then that infernal cat had pounced on her with its claws. Then she'd discovered, with mounting horror, that she — a fully trained witch — could not break free from what appeared to be a perfectly ordinary ugly cat. Then that insufferable Hermione Granger had sealed her inside a glass jar with a reinforced containment charm, and she had ended up in Draco Malfoy's hands.
Draco Malfoy. A living nightmare.
He had sealed her hearing, clouded her sight, and bound her voice — reducing her to a pitiful beetle that could neither speak, nor see, nor hear — then had the audacity to place her in a sealed, dark, airless environment where silence pressed in from every side.
Bozo said only four or five days had passed. To Rita, it had felt like four or five winters.
In complete silence and total darkness, time becomes impossible to gauge — every second stretches like a lifetime.
She had been in that glass prison for a very, very long time. Long enough to eat every leaf that had been placed at the bottom of the jar. Long enough that hunger drove her to beat her wings against the glass in desperation.
At first, Rita had cursed Draco Malfoy through gritted teeth. This fifteen-year-old with no manners whatsoever had managed to reduce her — Rita Skeeter — to such a pitiful state.
And that hateful Hermione Granger! The shameless girl who had actually thought to imprison her — the root of all this misery.
And that meddlesome, strange cat — if it hadn't swatted her and subdued her, none of this would have happened. Rita had cursed that ugly ginger creature in her mind more times than she could count.
But in the terrifying silence, wracked by hunger, she found she could no longer summon the energy to hate anyone.
She lay weakly at the bottom of the jar, too exhausted even for bitterness.
She drifted in and out of desperate, fractured dreams, unable to distinguish illusion from reality, since both were swallowed in the same darkness.
She began to weep silently, crying out in her heart: Please — just let me out. I'll do anything. Merlin, please...
No one answered.
She was like a grain of sand forgotten by the world, sinking through the heart of despair.
And then — mercifully — Merlin had not abandoned her entirely.
Just when she was on the very edge of giving out, just as despair was about to swallow her whole, she was released.
"Dobby, well done. I didn't realise you knew Animagus reversal charms—" a boy's lazy voice drifted from somewhere nearby. "Go on, then."
The sound of a human voice struck her eardrums like a thunderclap. Her ears rang.
She felt a strange, sharp sensation across her scalp, as if someone were pulling her hair.
She tried to open her eyes. It took several attempts.
Blinding light blazed overhead. Rita recoiled, curling like a salted snail, squeezing her eyes shut before daring to open them again and take in her surroundings.
It was an extraordinary place — something like a dungeon, windowless. But not dark: strange lines stretched across the walls, ending at bright Muggle lights. The floor was covered in dark green cushions, and the space stretched out far larger than it had any right to be.
Rita lay on the soft floor, disoriented.
Suddenly transformed from a tiny beetle back into herself, she was covered in dust, dishevelled, and completely without any sense of how much time had passed.
The boy was seated in a high-backed Victorian armchair not far away — entirely out of keeping with the strange room — and said slowly, "Forgive me, Rita Skeeter. I nearly forgot about you."
And yet when Rita looked up at him, there was not a flicker of apology on his impassive face.
"What are you going to do?" Rita asked weakly, trembling on the floor.
She looked at the platinum-haired boy — Draco Malfoy — with considerable wariness. She would not underestimate him again.
"I'm going to let you go." He toyed idly with the glass jar in his hand and gave a small smile. "I can hardly keep you locked up forever, can I? That would rather go against the humanitarian principles she tends to go on about."
"Do you have any idea that I've been starving to death—" Rita whispered, outraged. At that moment she realised that even the small movement of speaking caused the dry skin of her lips to split painfully.
"Dobby—" The boy addressed the brightly dressed house-elf standing quietly beside the armchair, entirely ignoring Rita's faint complaint. "Do you know what an Unbreakable Vow is? I've always wanted to try it—"
The little elf puffed out its chest, eyes wide with eagerness. "Dobby knows! Dobby knows this charm!"
"Excellent." The boy's cool tone warmed by a degree. "Help me and this woman cast it."
"No!" Rita stared up at the boy in horror, complaints forgotten.
She forced herself upright, stumbled back two steps, and said quickly, "That isn't some party trick — you can't simply—"
"It'll only take a few minutes of your time. A handshake. A few words," Draco said pleasantly. "I'll let you go as soon as it's done."
Rita took a sharp step back, her gaze going distant for a moment — concentrating.
"You can't Apparate from here," the boy said, watching her with a hint of amusement. "And even if you have some wandless magic, it won't be enough. Save your strength."
Rita gave up, bristling. "What is it you want that's so important you need to make such a production of it..."
In that moment, she understood something she hadn't before: this arrogant boy, whom she had initially dismissed as somewhat foolish, knew far more than she had imagined. He was not naive about the power of certain profound spells. On the contrary — he seemed quite comfortable with their consequences.
She drew back, her signature confident smile nowhere to be found, and said haltingly, "I... I won't go near your... your girlfriend. I won't pass information about her to Mrs. Malfoy. Isn't that — isn't that all you want?"
"Very good — it seems you do know how to be sensible when it suits you." Draco studied her. "And Harry Potter. He's not someone you can write about freely either."
The house-elf nodded vigorously beside him, enormous ears flapping.
"I promise. I absolutely promise—" Rita said at once.
Something like distaste crossed Draco's face.
"Rita Skeeter, I find I rather prefer your defiant side. Your agreeableness is making me uncomfortable." He glanced at her coolly. "I have absolutely no faith in your character. Co-operate with me now, and you'll be free immediately. Otherwise, I'll find a way to keep you confined until that's no longer a concern."
Draco hadn't originally intended to involve himself on Harry's behalf.
But he found he couldn't help it.
On one hand, there was Harry — poor Harry, with a sliver of the Dark Lord's soul lodged in his forehead, a friend Draco worried about constantly. On the other, if anything happened to Harry, Hermione would be distraught — and he would worry alongside her.
Better to handle it now. Hermione could spend less time anxiously poring over the Daily Prophet and more time with him.
A win-win, he thought, the faintest smile touching his lips.
"It's not as though I'm the only one reporting on him," Rita said indignantly. "You can't silence everyone."
"I know." Draco waved a hand. "But who was it who spread the worst of the rumours and ended up in my hands again? You're simply unlucky enough to have crossed my path. Twice."
"This is my profession — you're being completely unreasonable!" Rita said, trembling with incredulous fury.
"As an enthusiastic reader, allow me to offer one small piece of professional advice," Draco said, without mercy. "You would benefit enormously from examining your work ethic."
He was well aware that there were genuine journalists at the Daily Prophet.
But those serious, truth-seeking writers had been driven out by the sensationalists — as had always been the case in the wizarding press. A shocking exclusive grabbed the front page; a rigorously verified piece was deemed "dull" and buried somewhere in the back.
"And as a parting thought — pass the lesson on to your colleagues." He looked down at her. "Remember: a Malfoy is not someone to be trifled with."
"I've always been on perfectly good terms with your mother. I never intended to offend the family—" Rita began resentfully.
"I'm afraid you've forgotten who the future heir of the Malfoy family is." Draco's lip curled. "Now. Let's not waste any more time."
He rose from the armchair with unhurried elegance and approached her, his tone brooking no argument: "Don't make this harder than it needs to be. This is an Unbreakable Vow — not the Killing Curse. Not the Cruciatus."
He was remarkably handsome, and his expression was perfectly pleasant, and he was saying absolutely terrifying things as though they were the most ordinary remarks in the world.
Was he threatening her with the Killing Curse? The Cruciatus? Rita thought, shaking, a chill running the length of her spine. He speaks of them as casually as the weather.
And so, there in the flickering light of the Bonding Flame, witnessed by that outlandishly dressed house-elf, Rita Skeeter made her Unbreakable Vow.
She could never write a single word of slander, defamation, or fabrication about Hermione Granger. Never spy on her. Never instruct or assist anyone else to do so either. Or she would die.
And Harry Potter — the terms were the same.
He had even insisted she never reveal the existence of the Vow itself. Or she would die.
When it was over, the boy wiped the hand that had touched hers with a handkerchief, and said, almost as an afterthought, "Oh — and you'll stop writing entirely for a year, to reflect on yourself. Unless you'd like me to catch you again."
That was despicable.
Draco Malfoy had gone too far. Rita was shaking with fury.
"Rita? Rita!" Bozo's voice pulled her back from her grim recollections. "What are you daydreaming about? I was about to ask — if he locked you up, how did you end up on my doorstep?"
"Oh. He let me go eventually, and asked me where I wanted to be taken," Rita said awkwardly.
After she had promised not to publish for a year, the horrible boy had fixed her with a condescending look and asked, "Where do you want to go?" When she answered, he had raised his wand and knocked her unconscious without further ceremony.
When she woke, she was at Bozo's house.
"And then you gave him this address?" Bozo said flatly, his sarcasm impeccable. "Perfectly reasonable."
"I was desperate. I have no wand, no home, no money. You were the only person I could think of." Rita took a long gulp of the hot coffee Bozo pressed into her hands, then sniffed. "Thank you, Bozo."
She had always treated Bozo poorly. And yet, in her worst moment, he was the only person she trusted not to turn her away.
"You're welcome," Bozo said. "If you truly want to thank me, stop slapping me in front of people. A little dignity for both of us, yes?"
"Of course — so long as you help me find my wand," Rita said.
She had hidden it in Hogsmeade before transforming to slip into Hogwarts.
"Deal." Bozo rolled his eyes. "For what it's worth, I think a rest might do you good. The editor-in-chief's already handed the Potter coverage to someone else — Diggory and Dumbledore too. Even if you wanted back in, there'd be precious little room for you now."
"Fine," Rita said, without energy.
Bozo stared at her.
Her tone suggested that losing the Potter coverage was a minor inconvenience — not the crowning ambition she had recently been willing to argue the entire office into the ground over. Not the story she had spoken of breathlessly as "the turning point of my career." Not the platform she had hoped to use to secure the deputy editor's position at the Prophet.
A few days. That was all it had taken to reverse her entirely.
Bozo shook his head, astonished.
"It seems the Malfoys are all remarkably persuasive," he thought to himself.
He glanced at Rita's haggard face — the crow's feet deeper than he remembered, the magnificent hair in considerable disarray — and felt a private surge of relief that he had never caught the eye of a single member of that family.
That kind of family was not for small-time reporters like him. One teenage boy had managed to dismantle Rita Skeeter — the terror of the interviewing world — and flatten her carefully constructed career ambitions, all in the space of a week.
Bozo sighed, fished out a reasonably clean plate from the cupboard, helped himself to fried eggs and bacon, and glanced at the row of trembling tins of baked beans on the windowsill. "Want some hot baked beans as well, Rita?"
"Yes, please," Rita said, looking up from her plate with an expression of genuine hope, rattling the empty dish in her short, stubby fingers. "I wouldn't mind at all."
Just as Rita Skeeter was devouring this extraordinarily simple and extraordinarily satisfying breakfast, four or five house-elves were busy around the dining table at Malfoy Manor — setting out bowls, plates, cutlery and knives engraved with the Malfoy crest, meticulously measuring the distances between chairs, plates, and glasses.
It was time for breakfast at Malfoy Manor.
The lady of the manor, Narcissa, was keeping things simple today — she had forgone the usual elaborate international spread in favour of a traditional English breakfast.
"Mia, before you bring anything to the table, do one final check of every dish on the tray..." In the kitchen, the senior house-elf Ina stood with her hands on her hips, hollering at her daughter.
"Bacon, sausage, eggs, roasted tomatoes, fried mushrooms, toast, baked beans, potato wedges, and black pudding..." Mia recited shrilly, her slender fingers ticking off each item in the air. "And separately prepared haggis, spinach, endive, muffins, and bagels..."
"Bobby! Add the white pudding, Irish soda bread, and potato cakes, just in case — oh, and Fran, bring me the lamb offal! Don't forget the condiments — black pepper, butter, and freshly made apricot jam... Mia, how much longer on the coffee and tea? Make sure they're perfect!" Ina yelled, pacing back and forth in front of the kitchen counter.
"Just now!" Mia heaved a large kettle off the hob, stood on tiptoe, and carefully poured the water into the silver teapot on its silver tray. She said quietly, "Mum, why are you so anxious today?"
"Bobby — change the young master's over-easy egg to sunny-side-up! You almost got it wrong! I knew one of you would make a mess of this!" Ina snapped at the wide-eyed elf cowering nearby, then leaned toward her daughter, checked the colour of the tea, and finally allowed herself a small breath.
She lowered her voice patiently: "The mistress seems to be in a difficult mood today. I don't want to give her any reason to take it out on our kitchen."
"I understand, Mum," the young elf murmured, closing the teapot lid with lingering care. "Last night, when we brought up the tea and biscuits, the masters all seemed... off. The atmosphere in that dining room gave me chills."
"What 'clever' nonsense — you're always too curious for your own good! Masters don't appreciate nosy little elves. When you go up to serve, keep your eyes forward, don't chatter, keep smiling, and be respectful. Do you hear me?" Ina smacked her daughter lightly on the head, as if hoping to knock out the inappropriate curiosity. "That sort of thing will get you into trouble one day."
Mia glanced at her defiantly, but dutifully lowered her head.
Ina had no time to continue the lecture. She checked the consistency of the freshly cooked tomato sauce one last time and clapped her hands. "Right — while it's all still hot! Line up!" The young house-elves fell into an obedient queue, each carrying a tray, and proceeded upstairs to the dining room.
Mia followed at the very back.
As she moved through the corridor and past the rows of closed doors, she couldn't help stealing small glances about her.
She rarely came upstairs — only when delivering meals or tea.
The world above stairs was entirely different from the perpetually hot kitchen below.
In summer, a cool breeze always drifted through the corridor. Luxurious, elegant furniture stood everywhere. Beautiful patterns covered the purple-toned wallpaper. The marble floor had a tendency to clatter underfoot, which was why the mistress had covered it with a thick carpet — she could not abide anything disturbing her nerves.
Here and there along the walls, gilded mirrors appeared, and the passing elves would occasionally glance up to make sure they looked presentable.
Mia checked her reflection and quickly tucked away the curiosity in her expression, composing her face into something suitably restrained.
She took a breath, and followed the line of elves through the heavy, ancient carved doors that a male elf was holding open, and into the dining room.
The imposing family of Malfoy Manor sat waiting at the table.
Lucius Malfoy — the most feared of all their masters — was seated at the head, picking up the freshly ironed newspaper the elves had just laid beside him.
And yet clearly, his mind was elsewhere. Even the front-page coverage about Harry Potter could not hold his attention.
Lucius turned the pages distractedly and, most unusually, spoke first: "Draco — did you sleep well last night?"
To take the initiative and enquire after someone's wellbeing — that was Lucius Malfoy's rather clumsy attempt at an apology.
"Well enough," Draco replied briefly, acknowledging the gesture.
What else was he to do?
The proud head of the Malfoy family simply could not bring himself to say "I'm sorry" honestly.
And so even a boy as proud as Draco Malfoy had to swallow his residual resentment and give his even prouder father a means of saving face.
Narcissa watched her son.
He said the right things, but the exhaustion in his face gave him away. Her Little Dragon had not slept well at all. She could see it plainly.
He must have been in considerable pain last night, Narcissa thought.
She was deeply worried, but she held her tongue, deciding to let Lucius test the waters first.
In truth, Draco had not slept at all.
After Hermione's ring had gone still, he had showered, lain in bed, and waited — until past midnight, when her "goodnight" had finally come through. He'd wondered what had kept her.
After that, insomnia had returned to claim him.
The argument with his parents had left him unsettled, and beyond that, he was burdened with worry about the Malfoy family's future.
He had lain there staring at the intricate patterns of his bed curtains for a long time, turning things over in his mind.
Given the current balance of power between the light and dark factions, what could reliably shift his parents' loyalties and secure the Malfoy family's survival on the right side?
Then, amidst the tangle of his thoughts, he had found himself thinking of the Astronomy Tower from his previous life — of Snape and Dumbledore, of the final moment.
Snape had appeared so unwavering that night that everyone had believed him loyal to the Dark Lord.
In his previous life, during the summer before sixth year, Snape had even made an Unbreakable Vow with his mother — vowing to carry out the task if Draco could not.
If Draco's suspicion was correct — that Snape and Dumbledore had been playing a long game together — did that mean Snape had discussed the plan with Dumbledore before the Vow was ever made?
An Unbreakable Vow was not a thing to be broken lightly. If Snape had broken it, he would have died—
From there, the thought had leapt, almost of its own accord, to Rita Skeeter's problem. A solution had presented itself with elegant simplicity. Before dawn, he had sent Dobby to deliver the troublesome journalist safely home.
Keeping a lurking, spying reporter in the Manor for any length of time was far too great a risk.
Satisfied that he had handled everything and left nothing unattended, Draco turned his attention back to the sunny-side-up egg on his plate.
Then, unexpectedly, he heard his father's voice again.
Lucius was not finished. He coughed and continued, his tone shifting to something more pointed: "I happened to see your end-of-year results from last term. Second in your year?"
Of course. Results were everything to Lucius — this outcome must have been maddening.
Draco glanced at his father, then at his mother, who was absorbed in examining her mushrooms and carefully pretending not to hear anything. "Yes," he said evenly.
"You don't seem the least bit troubled... I find myself wondering whether your foolish little romance has affected your concentration." Lucius set down the newspaper to allow a house-elf to pour his tea, his tone turning sharp. "That Granger girl — she's been taking up your time, I imagine."
"On that point," Draco said, finishing the last of his sunny-side-up egg and setting his napkin aside with unhurried precision, "Father, allow me to remind you — she is first in our year. Her most irresponsible habit is dragging me to the library every single day."
A profound silence.
The silence made Lucius's sudden cough — tea going down the wrong way — sound particularly abrupt. It made the faint, undignified scrape of Narcissa's fork against her plate all the more distinct.
Husband and wife looked at one another, and saw the same quiet earthquake reflected in each other's eyes.
Their carefully prepared morning strategy — the one assembled just hours ago over plans and hushed discussion — had crumbled entirely.
This composed couple, whose intentions were anything but gentle, had planned to approach the subject of the relationship from an academic angle — to demonstrate its damaging effect on Draco's studies.
The house-elf Mia, standing to one side, was in such agony trying not to laugh that she was fairly certain at least two of her ribs had cracked.
So even our most dignified masters have their moments, she thought, with quiet delight.
"Hermione Granger—" Lucius said, pronouncing the full name for the first time ever, as he recovered his breath.
"She placed first?" His tone was one of complete disbelief.
"Yes. Rather impressive, isn't it?" Draco said pleasantly, and something very like pride flickered across his face.
That expression struck Narcissa directly in her already fragile maternal heart.
"So my Little Dragon has a weakness for the bookworm type who practically lives in the library?" Narcissa said, with a hint of something sharp in her voice, abandoning any hope of a rational conversation.
"I prefer 'studious.' And it's rather like you, isn't it, Mother? You've always loved the library here. Book clubs, reading afternoons — I always thought you genuinely enjoyed it." Draco looked at her with a perfectly pleasant smile, which earned him a look of existential crisis, self-recrimination, and absolute stiffness from Narcissa.
"I wouldn't dare make such a claim," Narcissa said tightly.
"Oh? I thought Father had been adding to the library all these years to please you."
"It was for your grandmother!" Narcissa said, before she could stop herself. "She was the one who loved it most—" She fell abruptly silent.
(Was. A past tense. The word settled between them quietly.)
Adding to the Malfoy library had been a small, quiet, persistent habit of Lucius's for years — a private way of honouring a mother who had died too young, and who had spent her happiest hours surrounded by those shelves.
Narcissa glanced at her husband — a shadow of old grief crossed his face — and decided not to press that particular grief into the light just now.
She laid her hand gently over his, and said in a softer voice, "Of course. I love those books dearly as well."
Lucius closed his eyes for a moment and said nothing. He reminded himself: Don't lose your temper. Don't get distracted. Don't go off course.
He drew a breath, collected himself, and looked back at his son. "What — are you proud of yourself for failing to surpass a Muggle-born?"
Draco did not answer directly.
He picked up a slice of toast and said pleasantly, "You know, Father — for a girl who had no formal magical education before Hogwarts, achieving results like hers is quite remarkable. Even the most arrogant Slytherins have been forced to acknowledge her ability."
Under his father's withering stare, Draco buttered his toast without any apparent concern and added lightly, "I think it would be rather foolish to dismiss someone's talent simply because of a passing prejudice."
"Are you calling your father a fool?" Lucius said coldly.
"Certainly not. You count Professor Snape, who is of mixed blood, among your close acquaintances — which shows you are quite capable of judging on merit when you choose to be." Draco's tone was smooth as polished marble. "I'm simply following your example, Father. Learning to appreciate talent wherever it appears."
And so Draco Malfoy had the considerable satisfaction of watching his father's expression at the breakfast table become even more spectacularly distorted than before.