Harry walked quickly through the cold corridors, wand raised, maintaining the magical stretcher that floated gently beside him. Rita Skeeter's body lay upon it, limp and battered, her breaths shallow. Her face was pale and streaked with blood.
Hermione kept looking at Harry, torn between anger and fear. "You didn't have to hurt her like that, Harry. She's awful, yes—but this…" Her voice cracked.
Harry didn't answer. He just kept walking, his eyes fixed forward. Susan walked close by, wringing her hands, while Viktor's heavy steps echoed behind them.
When they burst into the Hospital Wing, Madam Pomfrey gasped.
"Sweet heavens! What happened to her?"
"She—she fell," Hermione blurted quickly, her voice trembling. "Please, help her!"
Madam Pomfrey's sharp eyes scanned the four of them but didn't press further. With a flick of her wand, she levitated Skeeter from Harry's conjured stretcher onto a hospital bed. She waved her wand in complex arcs, diagnostic charms spilling into the air like streams of silver light.
Her face grew grim.
"She's in critical condition. Multiple fractures—arms, ribs, legs. Internal bleeding. I can stabilize her, but this… this is far beyond me alone."
She summoned her patronus instantly, a glowing swan. It soared out of the infirmary window with her message.
"Healers from St. Mungo's will arrive shortly. And I will notify the Headmaster as well."
Pomfrey shooed the students toward the door.
"You four—out. You've done your part. Now let professionals work."
Hermione lingered at the door, watching Skeeter's battered body. Her voice dropped to a whisper, almost to herself.
"I didn't want this. I only wanted her to stop writing lies."
Harry looked at her, his voice steady and cold.
"Now she will."
Susan shivered at his tone, and Viktor said nothing, though his eyes never left Harry's face.
Back in the corridor, silence pressed on them like heavy stone. Finally Susan broke it.
"Harry… don't you feel guilty? At all?"
Harry paused, considering. Do I? He searched within himself. The boy who once would have been horrified at hurting another human being seemed… quieter now. Distant. What pulsed instead was a cold, calculating certainty.
"I don't," Harry said simply. "She made herself my enemy. And enemies… are to be dealt with."
Hermione stopped walking, staring at him with wide eyes.
"That's not you, Harry. That's—"
Harry cut her off. "That's survival, Hermione. If I hadn't done it, she'd be writing her poison tomorrow. About you. About me. About all of us."
It was Viktor who finally rumbled his opinion, his voice thick with accent.
"In Durmstrang, ve are taught—power must be respected. She vould have destroyed reputations, perhaps futures. You crushed her instead. Brutal… but effective."
Harry glanced at Viktor, noting the faint glimmer of respect in the Quidditch star's dark eyes.
Hermione, however, shook her head in despair.
"You sound like… like Slytherins."
Harry almost smirked at that. Inside, though, he felt the echo of Salazar Slytherin's teachings through the holocron. The Sith Lord's voice seemed to whisper in the back of his mind: Mercy is weakness. Fear is power.
That night, lying awake in his four-poster bed, Harry replayed the scene over and over. The crack of beetle shell beneath his boot, the shocking transformation into bloodied human flesh, the gasps of his friends.
But no guilt weighed him down. Only clarity.
So this is what I am becoming, he thought. Not a Gryffindor golden boy. Not Dumbledore's pawn. Something else. Someone who won't hesitate.
And as the moonlight fell across his scar, Harry whispered into the silence:
"I won't feel remorse. I can't afford to."
The serpent's whisper from the holocron echoed in his mind, approving.
Harry climbed the spiral staircase to the Headmaster's office, already knowing what awaited him. He already expected this, so his palms didn't sweat—he was calm. Almost too calm.
When the griffin knocker swung open, Harry stepped into a crowded office.
Cornelius Fudge sat behind the desk, tapping his bowler hat impatiently against his knee. His jowls quivered with each puff of breath. Amelia Bones stood tall and stern beside him, monocle glinting. Susan sat at the side, face pale, eyes downcast. Two grim-looking Aurors flanked the fireplace.
Dumbledore sat in his high-backed chair, hands folded, his expression heavy with disappointment.
Harry smiled politely.
"Why did you call me here, Headmaster?"
It was Dumbledore who spoke first, his tone soft but firm.
"Harry… Ms. Skeeter woke up this morning. She has given the Aurors her statement. She claims you attacked her. Susan, too, has testified to being present."
Harry's gaze flicked to Susan. She couldn't meet his eyes. He wasn't angry with her—she was caught in something far bigger than herself.
Fudge snorted.
"The boy's been a menace since he set foot in Hogwarts. Attacking reporters now? Disgraceful!"
The Aurors shifted, clearly eager to restrain him.
Harry kept his voice calm, steady.
"It was an accident. I swear."
Inside, though, he felt the whisper of Slytherin in his thoughts: Never admit weakness. Control the narrative.
Amelia Bones adjusted her monocle, her sharp eyes narrowing. "An accident? Skeeter's bones were shattered in multiple places, Potter. Do you expect us to believe she simply tripped and fell?"
Amelia studied him, her face unreadable.
Dumbledore leaned forward, tone weary.
"Harry, you must understand—this is very serious. The Ministry intends to place you in custody until a trial can be arranged."
Harry inclined his head.
"Fine. I'll go."
Dumbledore blinked in surprise.
"…You will?"
Harry's eyes hardened.
"Why wouldn't I? I've done nothing wrong. And I hope I am getting a fair trial, unlike my Godfather, Sirius Black, whom you all send to Azkaban without any trial?"
At the mention of Sirius, Dumbledore's face tightened. Harry pressed on.
"And don't trouble yourself, Headmaster. I don't need your help."
Snape would have sneered at that. Fudge blinked, momentarily disarmed. Amelia's eyebrow arched, clearly noting the defiance.
Harry was taken down a long corridor lined with glowing blue wards before being pushed into a room that was so white it almost hurt his eyes. The walls, the ceiling, even the floor seemed polished to an unnatural shine. There was a narrow cot fixed into one wall, and a table with a plate of food.
At first glance, it looked harmless, but after the first hour Harry realized how wrong it felt. The white was oppressive, suffocating, leaving him restless. Sleep was near impossible.
Still, the food was surprisingly good. Better than Hogwarts feasts? Not quite. But certainly far better than the stale scraps the Dursleys used to toss him.
And the company… oh, there was plenty of that.
Every day, Ministry officials came to see him. Some with fake smiles plastered on their faces, offering him "help," talking about deals, even dangling promises of influence and power—if only he agreed to cooperate with them against Dumbledore, or against other factions. Others came to sneer, to threaten, whispering of Azkaban and Dementors.
Harry, however, greeted them all the same way: calm, unbothered, smiling faintly as if they were the ones locked in a cell.
One official, a pompous wizard with a walrus mustache, had brought in a copy of the Daily Prophet. On the front page:
"BOY-WHO-LIVED OR DARK WIZARD? POTTER ACCUSED OF ATTEMPTED MURDER"
The article painted him as reckless, unstable—dangerous. Harry read it without a flicker of fear, then folded the paper neatly and handed it back.
"Good picture of me," he said with a smirk. The official looked unsettled.
Two days later, the Aurors arrived to take him to trial.
One of them, a young witch with bubblegum-pink hair, gave him a cheeky grin.
"You must be Harry Potter. I'm Nymphadora Tonks. Don't call me Nymphadora unless you want me hexing your ears off."
Despite himself, Harry chuckled. "Noted."
The other, John Dawlish, was far less warm, his expression severe and watchful. "Keep your hands where I can see them, boy."
Harry raised his bound wrists mockingly. "Not much choice, is there?"
They led him up spiraling staircases and through enchanted lifts until they reached the high double doors of the Wizengamot trial chamber.
The doors swung open with a heavy groan. Harry stepped inside, his boots clicking against stone, the sound echoing across the cavernous semi-circular room.
Rows upon rows of witches and wizards sat above him, all in plum-colored robes with silver W badges glinting in the firelight. Their expressions ranged from curious to outright hostile. Harry could feel their eyes on him—judging, whispering, waiting.
At the very top sat Cornelius Fudge, puffed up with importance, bowler hat spinning nervously in his hands. To his right was a squat, toad-like witch with a simpering smile and bulging eyes, shuffling parchments. Harry had never seen her before, but something about her voice when she called the court to order made his skin crawl.
Harry's sharp gaze swept the gallery. He saw journalists scribbling frantically, photographers flashing pictures, and to his shock, a full Wizarding Wireless Network team setting up enchanted microphones. The trial was going to be broadcast live.
They're not here for justice, Harry thought bitterly. They're here for a show. A circus with me as the main act.
Tonks gave his shoulder a quick, reassuring squeeze before the runes on the central chair flared. Magic chains tightened around his wrists and ankles—not harshly, but firmly enough that there was no doubt he was a prisoner.
The toad-like witch stood, her voice syrupy sweet but carrying unnaturally across the chamber.
"This trial convenes today, under the authority of the Wizengamot, to determine the guilt of Harry James Potter."
Gasps fluttered from the gallery at the sound of his name.
"The accused is charged with the attempted murder of Rita Skeeter, a witch of pureblood lineage and long service to the magical community. The penalty for such a crime, should guilt be proven… is imprisonment in Azkaban."
A hush fell over the chamber. Every eye turned to Harry, waiting for his reaction.
Harry leaned back in the chair, chains glinting in torchlight. His green eyes burned, unafraid.
"How do you plead against the accusation, Mr. Potter?" Cornelius Fudge asked, his tone sharp, bowler hat tilted as though he already knew the answer.
"I didn't attempt to murder Rita Skeeter," Harry replied firmly. "Not once. Not ever."
A wave of murmurs filled the chamber. Fudge raised his hand to silence them.
"Very well. Let us hear from our witness. Susan Bones, step forward."
Susan walked slowly to the witness stand. She looked nervous but nodded when Fudge reminded her, "You are a member of an ancient and noble family, niece to one of the most trusted Ministry officials. The Wizengamot expects you to testify truthfully."
"Yes, Minister," Susan said softly.
"Did you witness Harry Potter attacking Rita Skeeter?"
"Yes."
The word echoed in the chamber like a hammer blow. Reporters' quills scratched furiously, and the crowd erupted in whispers until Fudge's voice boomed again.
"That will be all. You may step down."
"Wait," Harry said suddenly, his voice clear and strong. Everyone turned back to him.
"Since I don't have anyone representing me, I should be allowed to ask her a few questions."
The Chief Warlock gave a slow nod. "Proceed."
Harry turned toward Susan. "You said you saw me attack Rita Skeeter. Tell everyone here—what spell did I use to attack her?"
Susan hesitated, her eyes flicking nervously to her aunt. Finally she whispered, "You didn't use any spell… you kicked her."
Harry tilted his head. "Once, right?"
"Yes," Susan admitted.
"And how can I kick someone just once," Harry pressed, "and somehow break nearly every bone in their body?"
Susan's face went pale. "Because… because when you kicked her, she was in her Animagus form. A beetle."
Harry narrowed his eyes. "And how do I know that beetle was Rita Skeeter? How do any of us know? As far as I'm concerned, I kicked a random beetle crawling on the wall. If this trial should exist, it should be about me stepping on an insect—not attempting to murder a witch."
The Wizengamot chamber erupted in a storm of whispers, many nodding at Harry's logic, others scandalized at the thought. Harry leaned back in his chair, eyes never leaving Susan.
"It's not my fault," he said coolly, "that the beetle was an unregistered Animagus."
The chamber was still buzzing when Harry leaned forward in his chair, his voice calm but carrying across the Wizengamot.
"And there's another thing," he said. "Miss Skeeter had no permission to enter Hogwarts grounds during the Triwizard Tournament. If anyone doubts that, you can ask the Chief Warlock himself—Headmaster Dumbledore. Did Rita Skeeter have authorization to be inside the castle, Headmaster?"
All eyes turned to Dumbledore. He rose slowly, beard trailing over his robes, and with a grave look said, "No. She did not. Permission was not granted at any time."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Amelia Bones adjusted her monocle sharply.
Harry nodded as if he expected that answer all along. "So there it is. She was trespassing. Using an illegal Animagus form to sneak into places she had no right to be. If she was spying on me, who's to say she hasn't been sneaking into your homes, your private meetings, your offices?"
A few Wizengamot members stiffened visibly, whispering uneasily to one another.
"She's been feeding gossip to the Prophet for years," Harry continued casually, "and now we all know how she got it. Not interviews. Not sources. Just illegal spying. You should all check your own affairs—maybe you'll find she was buzzing on your walls too."
Laughter broke out among some of the younger members in the gallery, though many of the older witches and wizards looked scandalized.
Cornelius Fudge spluttered, "Be that as it may, Potter—"
Harry cut him off sharply. "And let's not pretend I could be legally arrested or imprisoned for crushing a beetle. If you can jail me for that, then half of you should be locked up for eating chicken, fish, or any other living thing. Some of you have exterminated pests or hunted magical beasts for sport. How is stepping on a beetle any different?"
A low hum of agreement swept through the chamber. Even a few Wizengamot members chuckled at Harry's boldness.
"This so-called trial," Harry said, eyes sweeping the crowd, "isn't about justice. It's about politics. It's about punishing me because I won't play along in your little tournament or your games. Well, I won't apologize for stepping on an insect."
The silence that followed was deafening.
The Chief Warlock banged his gavel. "Enough. The Wizengamot has heard the defense. We will cast our votes."
Purple-robed witches and wizards raised their wands, and the silver sparks showed the decision. The tally was overwhelming.
Harry Potter—innocent.
The courtroom erupted in noise. Reporters jotted furiously, quills scratching as Wizarding Wireless announced the verdict live.
Amelia Bones stood, her voice crisp. "In addition, Rita Skeeter will be arrested for being an unregistered Animagus, for trespassing on Hogwarts grounds, and for entering restricted areas illegally. The Ministry will investigate what other secrets she has gathered by unlawful means."
Aurors moved to escort the still-injured Rita Skeeter away.
Harry rose from his chair, his face calm. Many members of the public crowded close, some to congratulate him, others to stare at him in awe or fear. The boy who lived had just dismantled the Ministry's case like it was nothing.
When he left the chamber, reporters shouted questions and cameras flashed, but Harry ignored them all, a small smile playing on his lips. He was free. And Rita Skeeter was finished.