Hogwarts was just a little bit louder on weekend days. The students all talked and ate and lived with extra enthusiasm, something that blended into the atmosphere around them. As a professor now, Harry had mixed feelings about this. But as a person, it always brought a smile to his face.
Umbridge wasn't present, which also might've had something to do with the general good mood. She was away on 'important business'. Knowing her, that meant kissing Fudge's arse in his office, bragging about all the rebellions she had suppressed in the last week.
Harry had the day off. There were no lessons of course, he was caught up on grading homework, and his next meeting with Dumbledore wasn't for a couple of days. That made it perfect when a tawny owl swooped down among the crowd, dropping a letter into his lap.
He picked it up, smiling at its unadorned surface. He'd hoped they would get back to him sooner, but it was good to finally get the letter he'd been waiting on. Just like that, he had plans for the day.
Until they were put on hold by a second owl dropping a letter on top of him.
"You're popular today," said Septima.
"Apparently," Harry said, a touch bemused as he looked up.
The owl who dropped the second letter flew across the room immediately after, delivering a small parcel to the Gryffindor table. Harry watched Neville Longbottom catch it and open it without hesitation, smiling fondly at the owl who brought it. Looking down at the second letter, Harry realized he didn't need to investigate who'd sent it. They signed the outside of the envelope: Augusta Longbottom.
Interesting.
O-O-O
The letter from Neville's grandmother turned out to be an invitation— one for late that afternoon. He could work around that. But at the moment, something else needed his attention.
The letter that arrived first was the one he 'd been expecting. It was an invitation too, albeit one that felt much more hesitant. Equipped with his trusty coat, Harry turned off of a Muggle street and entered a pub that everyone around him looked straight past. It was a rainy day, so he'd brought an umbrella. Inside the door, Harry tapped the wet canvas with his wand, easily drying it.
"Afternoon," said Tom from behind the bar. "It's a wet one today."
"Sure is, Tom." Harry said. He scanned the room. There, in the corner. A blond girl hardly older than his N.E.W.T. students was sitting alone in the corner. Harry crossed the room and sat down opposite her.
"Penelope Clearwater?" he asked.
Even though she had been waiting for him, Penelope jumped.
"That's right," she said. "Are you the one who left…" she lowered her voice to a whisper, leaning across the table, "the note?"
"That was me," Harry confirmed. He held out his hand. "Professor Potter at your service. Muggle Studies."
Penelope shook it, giving him side-eye at the same time. "Are you sure you don't teach divination?"
"Pretty sure," Harry said cheerfully. "I've never had The Sight or whatever it is seers call their visions. Why? Did some of my predictions pan out?"
"Some?" Penelope said in a strangled voice.
She dug into her bag, pulling out a postcard-sized strip of paper. The edges were a bit torn and the corners were folded from wear, but the writing on it was still crystal clear.
"The Tutshill Tornados will win the league this season, bringing home their sixth ever trophy," Penelope read. "They were in second place when this was delivered, so it's possible to have guessed that. But! It then says that the Chudley Cannons will beat the Montrose Magpies in the away fixture, something that hasn't happened in a hundred-and-sixty-four years. I looked up the exact dates. They go and play each other and what happens?"
"I'd guess that the Cannons won," Harry said mildly. Ron hadn't shut up about that match for months when it happened, burning the match permanently into his memories.
Harry found a finger hovering in front of his eyes, pointing in a thoroughly accusatory manner.
"No," said Penelope. "You can't guess that. It defies logic. Somehow, you knew."
"Imagine that."
"It's not limited to Quidditch, either." Penelope pulled her finger back, using it to trace down the rest of the notes Harry left. "Dolores Umbridge to be appointed to Hogwarts as High Inquisitor. That one, your position might explain how you knew, but how about this? Dark Wizards to be arrested in Diagon Alley after the Dark Mark was sited. That really happened! How could you predict that?"
Because he was the one who cast it.
"Who knows?" Harry said. "I guess I'm just well connected."
"...Then why share it with me?" Penelope asked.
She was only a year out of Hogwarts at this time. Twenty at the oldest, she was working as a reporter at the Daily Prophet… barely. Her articles were frequently featured in the least glamorous parts of the paper, and despite working there for a whole year, that wasn't changing. Her confidence was on the floor.
"I read your piece about Hogwarts House dynamics affecting Ministry workplace relations," Harry said.
It wasn't quite an answer to her question, but Penelope jumped. "You did?"
"I thought it was brilliant," Harry said. "I can't think of another reporter working now who would even think to look for school stereotypes shaping ministry efficacy. It was something special."
Penelope beamed, but her excitement faded right after.
"It barely got published," she said quietly. "The Chief Editor called it a waste of ink."
"I'm not surprised," Harry said. "That doesn't mean you shouldn't be proud. The truth is, the Daily Prophet doesn't want good journalism. They only care about two things— scandals and gossip. If a story qualifies as both, even better."
Penelope looked torn between a desire to defend her workplace and the unavoidable knowledge that Harry was right.
"You never answered my question," she said. "Why did you want this meeting with me? You even gave those predictions to convince me. But your note didn't give any indication what you want from this meeting."
Harry summoned the note off of the table, allowing it to shoot into his hand. He turned it around so that the words were facing Penelope, smiling.
"I imagine each of these would've made a lovely article," he said. "In fact, they did. I've been reading the Prophet, and every one appeared close to the front page."
"So?" Penelope asked tentatively.
"Think about how much earlier you knew about these. You could've had an entire article ready to be printed the moment the news reached the Prophet office. If that Chief Editor of yours had to choose between articles from established writers releasing a day late, or yours that's ready to go ahead of time, who do you think he'd pick?"
Penelope gulped.
"Why go this far to help me?" she said. "If you know things — more predictions like the ones you wrote down — you could write about them yourself without getting me involved."
Harry placed his note on the table and slid it back to her.
"I'm a professor, not a reporter," he said. "I've never had the talent or the inclination to work as part of the press. Too many bad experiences when I was young. But you're different. You're a real reporter— even when you try to write about celebrity gossip, your articles fall flat because you try to figure out what really happened, instead of filling it with half-truths to add drama. The people deserve accurate information. I don't have the time or skill to provide it. But I can help you do what I can't."
"You— You think too highly of me," Penelope stammered. "I'm not all that."
"Then become all that, with my help," Harry said.
He pulled a folded paper out of his pocket and passed it across the table. When he placed it in front of her, Penelope could only look at it. It was quiet inside of the pub. The only customers were a handful of witches and wizards sheltering from the rain. Penelope was taking deep breaths, and Harry knew her mind was racing. He didn't know exactly what her life had been like since graduating from Hogwarts, but he got the feeling things hadn't gone as she hoped. He was offering the chance to change that… But it was one she would have to take for herself.
Harry didn't speak or rush her. This was Penelope's decision. She took a very long time. But when her hand rose and grabbed the offered paper, she did so decisively.
"If you're doing this because you think I'll lie for you down the road, then I'm telling you right now that I won't," she said, meeting his gaze unflinchingly.
"That's why I picked you," Harry said.
Penelope — or Penny, as she insisted he call her once their arrangement was finalized — left soon after. Harry couldn't help noticing that once she got past the wall of self-doubt, she carried herself much more brightly. She was excited about the opportunity that had fallen into her lap. Harry wouldn't be surprised if the first thing she did when she got home was start writing.
For his part, Harry was content to stay at the Leaky Cauldron for a while. The seat Penny had chosen for their meeting was next to a window. Harry looked out, watching rain pelt passing shoppers and form rivulets down the outside of the glass. Since he had a few hours before he was due at Longbottom Manor, he ordered a drink and settled in.
Rita Skeeter arguably did more damage to him than any other non Death Eater during his school years. She relentlessly tore down the reputation of him, his friends, and at times even his dead family. He still remembered the things she wrote about Albus after his demise. They might not have been lies, but that didn't make them the truth.
At this moment in time, Skeeter would be busy polluting people's minds with drivel about Neville, accusing him of anything she could make stick. Cornelius Fudge had probably given his go-ahead on the matter too, so even if Harry exposed her as an unregistered Animagus, the chances were high that it would be swept under the rug. On the off-chance that it stuck, whatever other senior reporters the Prophet had would be almost as bad. No, if Harry wanted to restore integrity to the press, it had to start with someone young— someone fresh to the Prophet who was still trying.
Penny was a genuinely good writer. Harry wasn't lying when he called some of her work brilliant. The fact that the Prophet kept her around despite her inability to be sensationalistic was a sign that her superiors knew it too, even if they hid that well.
With Harry providing information about things that hadn't happened yet, he had no doubt that Penny would shoot through the ranks. If everything went perfectly, the goal was to displace Rita Skeeter entirely. That should take some of the heat off of Neville's back. And once the war started in earnest, someone with Penny's level of insight would keep countless people informed and alive that never stood a chance the first time around.
He sensed someone behind him and pulled his eyes off of the scene outside. When he saw who it was, he allowed some of his surprise to show on his face.
Anastasia Greengrass inclined her head toward the empty seat across from him. "Is someone sitting here?"
"The Minister of Magic just went for a bathroom break," Harry said. "But go on and sit down. When he gets back, I'll tell him I've got important company."
After his first meeting with the woman, he fully expected to receive a comment like, "As you should." Anastasia was the one who ran that whole autograph joke into the ground. Today, however, she sat down without even acknowledging his quip.
"I expect you've seen a lot of my daughter recently," Anastasia said.
"Daphne's one of my best students," Harry said. "Bright, engaged, well-mannered. You should be proud."
"Indeed."
Harry lifted his drink, sipping the bitter beer inside. He watched Anastasia as he did. Her pale, pretty features were intrinsically aristocratic. She was her daughter's spitting image, merely older and aged like wine. Harry wondered what her age actually was. If she were Muggle he would've placed her somewhere in her early thirties, but with wizarding blood the answer could be much older.
"That's not what you're here to talk about, is it?" Harry said.
Anastasia inclined her head.
"Drop Daphne from your class," she said.
"Ah." Harry nodded thoughtfully. "I refuse."
"It is within the power of Hogwarts professors to remove students from elective courses. It has been done seven times since the ninety-thirties for a variety of reasons, both disciplinary and miscellaneous. Daphne has been perfectly fine without Muggle Studies these last two years. She need not start now."
"You've done your research. My answer is still no."
"Could you explain why?"
"Can you explain why you're so desperate to get her out of my class?"
Anastasia's lips pressed into a line. Harry sighed.
"Although it's not really my place to say, I doubt that Daphne told you about her change in curriculum so that you could track me down for a talk like this."
"I did not track you down," Anastasia said a tad tartly. "This was merely a fortuitous meeting. And Daphne did not tell me about her classes. She purchased her books with her own allowance. If her sister did not write to me expressing her own concerns, I would still be in the dark. I will ask again— remove her from your class before this situation grows any larger."
Harry sighed. He moved his wrist in slow circles, making the beer inside his glass swirl. "Blaise Zabini is in my class too. His family has not raised any issue with that."
"Blaise is a special case. His mother…" Anastasia pulled a peculiar face, as if she'd tasted something particularly tart but was doing her best to hide it "is a special case. And he has no father. None for very long, anyway."
"But Daphne is different."
"Daphne is different." Anastasia's face became resolved once more. "For better or worse, she must be treated as such."
"I won't do that."
"Then we are at an impasse."
They sat in silence. Harry took a sip of his drink, draining the last of it. When Anastasia stood up, she did so as a single brisk motion.
"Will you continue being stubborn when your choice brings repercussions down on Daphne's head?" she asked.
Harry sighed, setting aside his glass, and gave Anastasia his full attention.
"I don't see is as my choice," he said. "It was up to Daphne from the moment she picked my class. As you said, she bought her own books. She changed her schedule in secret. If she believes that my course will be valuable to her, only then do I have to make a choice. And my choice is to support her choice with everything I have."
"Even if what she's chosen is irresponsible?"
"Even if it's impossible."
"I see."
Anastasia turned her back on him, her slightly-damp dark green robes swishing. She wouldn't have looked back if Harry's voice didn't stop her.
"Anastasia."
She paused, tilting her head over her shoulder.
"Daphne isn't the only one who can make choices for herself."
His words drew the largest reaction yet. Anastacia flinched back, a frown forming.
"You know nothing about me," she said. "Where do you get off speaking like an expert?"
"I don't know your situation, that's true," Harry said. "But I've seen people with your expression before. Some I helped. Others, I should have. You're only alone if you choose to be."
He glanced at the pelting rain outside. It had gotten even stronger since Anastasia entered, rippling the surface of nearby puddles. Harry flicked his wand and his Umbrella flew across the room into Anastasia's hands.
She looked down at it, then up at him. "I do not need charity."
"Then consider it a bribe for dropping our disagreement peacefully," said Harry. "Stay dry."
He couldn't see her face when she turned away. However, when she reached the door, she paused to unfurl the umbrella. Anastacia Greengrass stepped out into the storm.
Harry's attention was drawn back to his table as his empty glass floated up and over to the bar it came from. Tom refilled the drink and sent it floating back with a toothless smile.
"Fine thing to do," said the bartender, "giving up your umbrella in a storm. Shows a lot of character. This one's on the house."
Harry inclined his now-full drink toward Tom, taking a long swig. As he looked back at the window, his smile fell.
Seeing Anastacia reminded him of his days as an Auror. He'd interviewed plenty of people who behaved like her. Some of them were witnesses of nasty crimes, while others committed the crimes themselves. But every time there was a unifying theme. They were people with someone controlling in their lives. Over time, that pressure built, until they snapped in one way or another.
He wasn't an Auror anymore. He left that job behind a long time ago, even before his unexpected trip through time. But he'd never been able to keep his nose out of things when someone was in trouble. That trait had been with him long before he ever signed up with the Ministry, and it was still a part of him now. If she summoned the strength to ask for help, he'd offer it. Until then, his hands were tied.
Harry savored his beer. A drink being free always added an extra layer to its flavor, in his opinion. When he was finally finished, he bid goodbye to Tom and stepped out back into the alleyway, Apparating through the storm to his second appointment of the day.