Chapter 690: Fireplace

Chapter 690: Fireplace (Double the Monthly Votes!)

Rita Skeeter walked into the meeting room with a mix of trepidation and excitement. She glanced around the room, noting the presence of several key figures from the newspaper and well-known journalists—among them, the fat manager, the stern old woman who had been supportive of her, her rival Melissa, and a couple of other top writers in their respective fields. She knew one of them was particularly skilled at writing obituaries.

Their faces were grave, suggesting something significant had happened.

"Rita, you're here", the stern woman said warmly, a few letters laid out in front of her, one of which was already opened. "How was your rest? Did you have any lingering effects from those strange spells?"

"Much better", Skeeter said vaguely. "I slept well and feel fine. Oh, by the way", she pulled out two manuscripts from her crocodile bag, "here are my pieces."

The woman took them with a look of surprise.

"These are my reflections on yesterday's events. I wrote two versions because I wasn't sure about the newspaper's stance", Skeeter explained calmly.

"I'm very pleased", the stern woman nodded, flipping through the pages briefly before setting them aside. She leaned forward, placing her hands on the table. "But the situation has changed. We received this", she tapped a letter on the table with her ringed finger, "and it happens to involve you."

"Involve me?" Skeeter repeated, puzzled.

The stern woman picked up the opened letter and poured out a stack of folded papers and a small card. She pushed the card toward Rita Skeeter.

"Read it."

Rita Skeeter used her long thumbnail to lift the card and examined the messy handwriting. Recalling what Hep had said the night before, she guessed it might have been transcribed by a student. She cleared her throat:

"The Wizarding world has been exposed. The adults are busy discussing what to do, and Mom is worried; she doesn't want any conflict. My friends and I decided to write to you—hoping you'll understand that, apart from magic, our emotions are the same.

P.S.: A Muggle-born friend of mine recognized the journalist in the news. She might be the first to interview a Wizard, so we sent it to you. That's all it says."

Rita Skeeter looked up to see the other journalists staring at her enviously. She realized that the title "first journalist to interview a Wizard" had made an impact. The stern woman said nothing and pushed the opened letter back toward her.

Skeeter unfolded the letter and began reading aloud. "I have a friend..." Midway through, she identified the sender. Harry Potter, the famous figure in the Wizarding world, was well-known to everyone, especially after the reappearance of the Dark Lord Voldemort. His two friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, had also gained some fame for their steadfastness in the face of the Dark Lord, earning them the Order of Merlin.

From various clues, she deduced that the letter was written by Ron Weasley, the youngest son of the Weasley family.

"Finished?" the fat manager asked, still intrigued. "It was quite interesting, though a bit disjointed." The other journalists nodded in agreement.

"Finished", Skeeter said dryly. She saw nothing particularly interesting, and if she had received the information earlier, she would have churned out a series of controversial articles, though whether they would be positive or negative was still up in the air.

Another journalist was about to comment, but the stern woman stopped him.

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

Rita Skeeter glanced around, grabbed the second letter, tore it open, and read it aloud. "I have a friend..." She thought to herself, having just been thinking about the Chosen One, and now his letter had appeared. If it wasn't arranged by Hep, she'd eat the parchment.

Next, she read the third and final letter. After a while, she still couldn't guess who had written it.

"During hot weather, I like to lie in the small garden.

The mistletoe branches divide the sky into small squares, and the sky in between the squares seems to flow, with dust particles floating beside the mistletoe's white berries, making a beautiful sight. I think the gnomes in the garden might agree. Gnomes aren't very good at speaking; besides spitting and making faces, their greatest joy is bringing the white berries home. When I was little, I left a boot in the garden, hoping they would move in one day. Later, my father and I built a house for them.

The garden also has knobbly vines. They usually look like dead stumps, but this charming plant is occasionally marked with colorful scars (some say it's due to insect infestations). My father doesn't let me touch it because the knobbly vine is a fragile and kind plant. It can cleanse bad moods from the surrounding area, thanks to the grapefruit-sized pods it produces."

"The bad feelings hide inside the pods, growing larger and larger until they can no longer contain themselves and burst open", Dad said.

We watched the pods split open with a sense of awe.

Under the scorching sun, Dad and I held lotus leaf umbrellas to keep from sweating. Usually, it took several hours, but suddenly, there would be a loud pop as the green skin split open, and out would come pale green, worm-like creatures. They would wriggle at first, but gradually calm down, making one wonder if they had died. But Dad said these were the bad feelings shedding their shells, transforming into annoying pest flies.

Pest flies are harmful creatures that float into people's ears and muddle their minds. They can turn invisible, and when you hear a buzzing sound followed by a sense of irritability, that’s proof of their presence. Dad had developed a pest fly siphon to deal with them, but the knobbly vines produced too many pest flies, so we had to use another method.

The method involved a special ritual that looked like a dance.

First, fill your mind with happy thoughts to temporarily ward off the pest flies. Then, dance by waving your arms around your head while spinning in place, as if trying to shoo away mosquitoes. The purpose was to tell the pest flies that your mind was already occupied by other emotions, so they would fly away.

The ritual was tiring but joyful. To reward ourselves, Dad would usually cook a pot of globe fish soup.

Dad was skilled at many recipes, and I would help by catching fish in the stream. There were many types of globe fish, some of which were dangerous. For instance, the big-mouthed globe fish would lunge out of the water to attack anyone who overfished their kind. So when I went fishing, I always carried some gurdy roots to prevent such incidents (I also brought sage and mallowsweet for fire divination, or other useful items like speckled umbrella mushrooms)...

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

"Pest flies", the fat manager mused.

"Plants that absorb bad feelings", Melissa muttered.

"Would the dance to drive away pest flies work for ordinary people?" another reporter asked.

Rita Skeeter was speechless. After a long pause, the stern old woman cleared her throat, bringing everyone back to reality. She then lit a lady's cigarette, the smoke curling up.

"Alright, that's the situation", the stern old woman said, sitting up straight. "Currently, the entire country—no, the entire world is in chaos. Many newspapers have condemned yesterday's violence, and we've published a tepid criticism. We didn't rush to take a stance because we are special. Rita has had contact with Wizards, and she herself has become a great source of material. I've been waiting for her to return so we can build a series of news stories around her."

Skeeter rolled her eyes inwardly, knowing this woman had benefited from the last gun ban incident.

"Difference, the news industry can't just parrot others; it must have its own thinking. But this situation is unusual. If Wizards are labeled as terrorists, speaking up for them might bring trouble. I was at a loss when I received these letters. What do you think we should do? Should we hand them over to the authorities, or—"

"Absolutely not!" everyone shouted in unison.

The stern old woman's tense face broke into a smile. "Very well. If anyone thinks otherwise, I'll have them pack up and leave immediately. The question now is, what stance should we take, and are the contents of these letters credible?"

Everyone lowered their heads in thought, realizing this was an interview. Whoever spoke the most to her liking would become the focus of the entire newspaper's resources.

"What about a neutral stance, simply forwarding these letters while staying out of it?" the fat manager suggested tentatively.

The stern old woman looked at him.

"Or perhaps a gentle criticism?" the fat manager said uncertainly. "We have very little useful information, just a few letters without context. What if it's a conspiracy by the Wizards?"

The stern old woman was about to speak when Rita Skeeter interjected, "That's a possibility." But then she asked, "But is it important to us?"

The stern old woman glanced at her. "Tell me your thoughts."

"Whether or not a magical institution is involved—oh, from these letters, everyone can see that Wizards form an organized society, not a bunch of scattered individuals. They have schools, hospitals, law enforcement, and communities", Skeeter pointed at the letters. "Putting aside the specific content, the mere existence of these letters is significant: while other newspapers are floundering like headless flies, we have already established a line of communication with the mysterious Wizards, even if it's just a single line. This is a great start."

Others weren't unaware of this, but the responsibility was heavy, and they hesitated. Rita Skeeter, however, had no such qualms and seemed decisively clear to the others.

The fat manager frowned. "What if these letters are isolated incidents, from a few—um, a few school Wizards, heavens! Wizards actually go to school, sounds so strange—ahem, I mean, what if this is just a whim of a few school Wizards?"

"I do have that concern", the stern woman said. She was afraid that if she didn't fully exploit the material by speaking up for Wizard or criticizing and analyzing it thoroughly, she might be outpaced by other media.

"I don't think so", Skeeter said confidently. Her assurance didn't come from analysis but from last night's conversation, which made deducing the process from the conclusion much easier.

"Think about it. Once these articles are published, regardless of whether they were a momentary impulse by a few students, if even one detail in the letters is true—namely, that Wizard has its own law enforcement agency—they will certainly discover it. At that point, there are only two possible outcomes:"

Rita Skeeter's confidence grew as she spoke, and she raised two thick fingers.

"The first outcome is that the enforcers come knocking and order the students to stop writing to us. But that approach—"

"Would be pointless", the stern woman interjected. "Because Wizard's existence would already be exposed, and this would just be a show of pretending not to hear or see anything."

"Exactly", Skeeter said loudly. "The second outcome is that the law enforcers of the magical world tacitly allow these students to continue, perhaps guiding them in secret to prevent leaks of sensitive information. Or, as we just discussed, all of this could be a scheme by Wizard... Regardless, it means a steady stream of exclusive reports!"

The breathing in the meeting room grew heavy.

Rita Skeeter glanced at the others without showing any emotion. She had just come up with a perfect title for herself: the King Without a Crown.

...

Meanwhile, the most powerful figures in the British government were attending a cabinet meeting. Every participant had been carefully selected, even including the leader of the opposition.

"Can we dispatch the military...?" the Defense Secretary tentatively suggested halfway through the meeting.

"I disagree!" the Prime Minister slapped the table.

"Prime Minister, don't forget that you are our Prime Minister", the opposition leader warned, his tone tinged with malice. "I suspect you've been bewitched by those Wizards... It's quite possible, you know. According to legend, Wizards can summon demons and brew potions that cloud the mind, and only a burning cross can subdue them..."

"Are you an idiot?" the Prime Minister angrily retorted. "Or are you planning to launch a modern witch hunt? But your opponents aren't defenseless women from centuries ago; they are people who truly wield magic. The strongest among them can destroy a city single-handedly, and—dammit, yes, that person uses fire, which you so proudly claim as your own!"

"That's impossible! How can they be so powerful?" the Home Secretary exclaimed.

What he really wanted to ask was, why would such powerful beings willingly hide themselves?

"Only a few are that strong, they are rare as phoenix feathers", the Prime Minister said, his expression odd. "According to the information I've seen, only four such individuals have appeared in the last two hundred years, and three of them are in Britain. I'm not sure whether to be proud or—"

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

"Two are dead", the Prime Minister said. "To put it in terms we can understand, one was good and one was bad. The good one was highly respected and served as the Headmaster of Wizard's school. He fought against two generations of Dark Lords and passed away recently. If not for him, a war between Wizards and us might have already erupted."

He truly felt regret. Although the Prime Minister had never met Dumbledore, from the attitudes of two consecutive Ministers of Magic, he could form a mental image of a political figure with unparalleled prestige.

The opposition leader coldly asked, "Even if a war breaks out, would 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 bizarre powers? They are organized and have a government similar to ours, which means they are even harder to deal with than terrorists. I remember the last time we sent a few hundred police officers to deal with a dozen violent criminals, they ended up wrecking an entire neighborhood! Even if we win in the end, what do we gain—let alone the fact that they have two city-destroying wizards, one bound by a magical oath, and the other willing to negotiate to integrate Wizards into society. Do you plan to ruin this situation and have two human nuclear bombs team up against us?"

"Are these statements representative of your party's stance?" the Prime Minister pressed, not missing an opportunity to trap his opponent.

The opposition leader was speechless. After a moment, he posed a pointed question:

"Are you certain this information is true? I've never heard of a city being destroyed by Wizards, only by us—"

"The information provides the answers you seek", the Prime Minister deflected. "As for its authenticity, I'm not sure either, which is why I sought your counsel."

"What can they do, these Wizards? I mean, what have you seen with your own eyes?" the Defense Secretary asked a practical question.

The Prime Minister thought for a moment before saying, "I've only dealt with two Ministers of Magic. They wouldn't casually cast spells in front of me, but just what I've seen with my own eyes—" His expression suddenly became serious and solemn.

"Wizards can stick things to walls, and they can't be removed by conventional means; their portraits are intelligent and can communicate with people—though I'm not sure if all of them can; they can also turn objects into creatures that are indistinguishable from the real thing, a process they call Transfiguration, and they have a whole range of magical disciplines—"

"Can wizards transform into other people?" the Defense Secretary asked, holding his breath.

"I don't know", the Prime Minister shook his head and continued, "They can also appear and disappear out of thin air, but I've only seen it once. Most of the time, they arrive through fireplaces—"

"Fireplaces!" the Defense Secretary and the Home Secretary exclaimed in unison, looking visibly startled.

"What?" the Prime Minister asked, puzzled.

"Have you ever considered", the Home Secretary said with a grim expression, "how many fireplaces there are in the entire country?"

The Prime Minister was taken aback, and then the rest of his expression faded, replaced by a growing sense of fear.

No need to elaborate—fireplaces held a special place in British hearts. Almost every household had a beautiful fireplace, even if it was rarely used, but it was a must-have!

The government also viewed fireplaces as a crucial part of British cultural heritage. In an era of advancing technology, people no longer needed fireplaces for heating, but the government still made efforts to provide cleaner fireplace coal to the public.

Think about how many scenes in British literature feature warm, conspiratorial, or family reunion moments centered around a fireplace?

In the roaring fires, fireplaces have witnessed countless moments of family warmth and happiness, lovers' sweet vows, and friends' laughter and joy... Now, if there was hostility toward wizards, the first step would be to call on people to tear down millions of fireplaces?

The Prime Minister shuddered involuntarily.

His already wavering resolve was now even more shaken. The connection between wizards and ordinary people was far tighter than he had imagined. To deal with the wizards would mean waging a silent war on fireplaces, a war that would feel like cutting one's own flesh. If all the wizards' influence were eliminated, what would be left of this land?

"These wizards are despicable!"

"Rats in the sewers!"

"Utterly shameless!"

After a heated denunciation, the meeting room fell silent again. The participants exchanged glances. The Prime Minister looked around, and finally, out of desperation, asked, "So—everyone agrees to tentatively engage with the wizards?"

No one responded.

"I understand. I hope everyone will continue to support this resolution in the upcoming parliamentary meeting."

Outside the meeting room, Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Prime Minister's assistant, perked up his ears. Fireplaces? He had never considered that a simple fireplace could be so crucial, perhaps because they were so commonplace. He quietly walked away, the discussion inside the room continuing, but it was no longer relevant—

"Should we seek the help of the Church? They are the experts", someone suggested.

"Idiot, have you ever dealt with them? If they could truly perform miracles, would they be in their current state? They are the ones who desecrate the divine!"

"Ahem, ahem, ahem!" The Prime Minister let out a series of hurried coughs.

"Alas, they might at least have some records."

"Speaking of which—I suddenly remembered, the Queen is the nominal head of the Church—"

"You want to involve the royal family?"

"Given the magnitude of this, it might be better to share the burden—"

...

The Dursleys.

"I knew it, just you wait!" Vernon pointed at the TV, smugly saying, "Those gutter rats can't hide anymore. Someone will stop them. I hope the government catches them all—"

He suddenly straightened up, his small eyes darting around warily. "If that's the case, might they use our house as a refuge, forcibly requisitioning our home? I think that Ministry of Magic worker was acting suspiciously, with ill intentions."

Dudley stared at his father.

"Ah, not everyone associated with Dudley is as good as you", Vernon quickly added, turning to Petunia. "Should we call the police in secret—while that boy is away?"

"No!" Petunia exclaimed, her tone fierce. "Absolutely not!"

Vernon's jowls trembled as he muttered, "Alright, alright... I was just saying. It's all that freak's fault." He suddenly grew angry, "He has no manners, just like his father. Just a message, sent through someone else—"

He spat out his words, ranting for ten minutes before collapsing on the sofa, panting heavily. He turned to look at the photo on the mantelpiece—though they used an electric heater in winter, they still maintained this tradition, otherwise, they would be the subject of gossip.

Their neighbors knew that the Dursleys were a very, very rule-abiding family.

(End of Chapter)

Chapter end