The morning after the trial, Hogwarts woke to a headline that felt like a hex.
HARRY POTTER: DANGEROUS AND DERANGED?
Boy-Who-Lived attempts to kill a Daily Prophet reporter—what is Hogwarts hiding?
Hermione slammed the paper down. "Of course. They're circling the wagons. You nearly killed their reporter and then she was arrested. Now they're protecting their brand."
Harry skimmed, jaw tight. The article did two things at once: painted him as violent and painted the Prophet as a noble victim, "courageous truth-tellers" menaced by a celebrity bully. It never mentioned Skeeter's illegal Animagus or trespassing; it called her "gravely injured in the line of duty, even after everyone witnessed the whole trial through Wizaring Wireless Network."
"They're not just angry," Harry said. "They're scared. If Skeeter's exposed for illegal tactics, everyone wonders how many stories they stole. They need a villain."
"Meaning you," Hermione said.
"Meaning me."
By lunch, students were whispering "mad Potter." Harry tossed the paper into the fire and went to train.
Day Two arrived with a headline that bared its teeth:
POTTER—FRIEND TO CRIMINALS
Sources: Close ties to a fugitive and a werewolf raise safety concerns at Hogwarts.
"They're doubling down," Hermione muttered. "If they can't erase Skeeter's crimes, they'll bury them under yours."
Neville's hands balled into fists. "It calls Professor Lupin a monster. And Sirius Black … they say you are learning dark magic from him!"
"I don't care," Harry said. "They're patching the hole Rita tore in their ship. Make the Prophet the victim. Make me the storm."
Across the hall, Ron guffawed with Dean and Seamus, Honeydukes bags heaped around him like trophies. Hermione followed Harry's stare.
"He was seen loaded with sweets in Hogsmeade," she said quietly. "They never print any name, but… who else knows everything?"
Harry didn't reply. He didn't need to.
On Day Three, the Prophet came back with a "deep dive":
THE YEARS OF HARRY POTTER
A comprehensive study of Hogwarts disruption since his return.
It read like a ledger of sins:
— "Professor Quirrell perished after a confrontation with Potter."
— "Gilderoy Lockhart's mind destroyed during a reckless escapade."
— "Attacks at Hogwarts mysteriously orbiting the boy."
— "A pattern of chaos, tantrums, and 'rule-breaking heroics.'"
Just a neat narrative: wherever Harry goes, ruin follows.
Hermione exhaled through her nose. "They're rebuilding their credibility by pretending to investigate you. 'Look! We report hard truths!'"
"They also need to prove they didn't rely on illegal methods," Harry said. "So they say they've 'spoken to multiple student sources.'" His eyes slid to Ron's table. "Anonymous, of course."
Neville's voice was small but hot. "It's not fair."
"It's business," Harry said flatly. "They're a wounded animal. It bites."
Day Four's headline tried to shame the castle itself:
IS HOGWARTS SAFE UNDER DUMBLEDORE?
Ministry insiders question why a violent boy remains unchecked.
Hermione read the subhead aloud, bitter: "After Potter's 'attack' on a journalist, parents ask if standards have slipped."
"It's retaliation," Harry said. "And politics. I refused the Tournament circus. Fudge hates that. Pure-blood donors hate that. The Prophet's advertisers hate scandal that hurts them, not scandal they control."
Neville glanced at the staff table. McGonagall's mouth was a hard line. Snape looked satisfied. Dumbledore's eyes were unreadable, but Fawkes watched Harry for a long time.
By Day Five, the Prophet aimed at Hermione to isolate Harry:
HIS ENCHANTRESS?
Has Hermione Granger fallen under Potter's sway?
Hermione's hands shook. "They're calling me complicit. They say I am under love potion!"
Harry turned the page, bored. "They need to discredit you because you keep standing next to me. That's the tactic: isolate, defame, repeat."
"Why aren't you angrier?" she burst out.
"I'm saving it."
Day Six: a smear wrapped as concern.
WHO WILL BE POTTER'S NEXT VICTIM?
Staff sources fear escalation after 'beetle incident'.
"They call it the 'Skeeter incident' now," Neville said, incredulous. "As if Rita wasn't a beetle."
"It's language," Harry said. "Rename the crime, rename the truth. They can't print 'illegal Animagus trespasses, gets broken.' So they frame it as 'journalist hurt by dangerous boy.'"
A short, quiet rustle reached him from the Hufflepuff table. Susan folded her Prophet away without a word. When she looked up, she met Harry's gaze and gave the smallest nod. No apology. No betrayal. Just a promise to keep her head.
Day Seven was a rerun dressed in fresh ink. Reheated accusations. A pull-quote that sounded exactly like Ron, scrubbed of his name and slotted beneath a dramatic photo.
That evening, in the Room of Requirement, Dobby hurled crackling lightning at the moving targets; Harry slipped through the bolts, illusions skating off the floor, mind sharp and cold.
"They attack every day," Dobby said, breathless, eyes bright with worry. "Master Harry is not what they say."
"I know what I am," Harry said. "And I know why they're doing it."
He could hear Salazar's lesson inside the hum of the ship, inside the quiet of his own breath: If you cannot be loved, be inevitable. If they cannot trust you, make them fear the cost of crossing you.
Harry didn't need the Prophet to like him. He needed it to stop mattering.
And day by day, as the castle flinched at headlines and then forgot them by supper, the paper's poison lost a little of its sting. What lasted wasn't ink. It was who stood with him when the owls came—Hermione with her chin high, Neville with his steady loyalty, Susan with her small, stubborn nod.
The rest? They could keep buying sweets on Hogsmeade weekends and selling stories in the dark.
Harry would keep building something stronger than gossip.
The following morning owls swooped into the Great Hall carrying papers heavier than usual. The air felt tense even before parchment hit the tables. Harry reached for the Prophet and froze at the headline sprawled across the front page.
RITA SKEETER DEAD
Daily Prophet journalist succumbs to injuries from the Potter attack.
The Hall erupted in a storm of whispers. Every eye flicked toward the Gryffindor table, then quickly away.
Hermione's hand slammed over the page before Harry could read further.
"They're lying," she hissed, voice shaking. "I saw her leaving the infirmary. She was almost fully recovered. She wasn't going to die anytime soon."
Harry calmly slid the paper back, eyes scanning line after poisonous line. The article detailed her "tragic decline," painting Harry as the direct cause, the boy whose temper finally killed a respected reporter.
Respected, Harry thought with bitter amusement. They've forgotten the beetle already. Forgotten she was caught breaking laws. All that's left is the corpse and the blame.
Across the table, Neville leaned in, his voice low.
"Harry… we were there. We saw Skeeter walking, talking. Something doesn't add up."
Harry nodded slowly. "No. She didn't die because of me. She died because she went somewhere she shouldn't."
At the Slytherin table, Malfoy's voice cut above the din.
"Told you, didn't I? Potter's dangerous. First professors, now journalists. Who's next?"
Snape's dark eyes flicked from the staff table, sharp as daggers, but he didn't intervene.
Hermione clenched her fists. "This is ridiculous. You can't crush a beetle once and have her die days later from all her bones broken. Someone killed her, Harry. And now you're the scapegoat."
Harry's gaze stayed fixed on the paper. He didn't argue. She was right.
Inside, Harry wasn't shaken by the accusation—it was expected. The Prophet had been hounding him for over a week. What rattled him was the clarity of it all: Skeeter knew too much. She had slithered into corners meant to stay in shadow. The Ministry, maybe even members of the Wizengamot, couldn't risk her testimony.
They silenced her. And they used his boot as the perfect alibi.
Salazar's voice from the holocron whispered in memory:
Better to be feared as dangerous than pitied as weak.
For a moment Harry wondered if that was happening already. Students didn't just avoid him now—they shrank when he passed, eyes lowered, as though he might snap at any moment.
That evening in the staffroom, whispers carried.
"Surely the boy can't be responsible for Skeeter's death," McGonagall said sharply.
Snape sneered. "You saw his temper in the trophy room. Potter has more power than he can control. Perhaps this is the natural result."
Dumbledore remained silent, fingers steepled, gaze distant. Fawkes trilled softly, but the phoenix's song did little to ease the heaviness in the room.
Back in the Gryffindor dormitory, Harry sat awake while others whispered about him in their beds. He stared at the Prophet folded at his feet.
They killed her to keep their secrets. And I'll take the blame because it's convenient. Fine. Let them paint me a monster. Better a monster they fear than a pawn they control.
Harry decided that Hogwarts, its politics, and the endless gossip of witches and wizards no longer deserved his attention. The Prophet's poison, the whispers in the corridors, even Susan's betrayal—none of it mattered anymore. He wasn't going to live his life shackled to this world. His eyes were set on the stars.
They think I'm dangerous? Let them. Soon enough, I won't even be here.
The Chamber of Secrets became his sanctuary. Its massive stone walls, carved serpents, and the echo of dripping water were no longer foreboding but familiar—like home. By torchlight and conjured glow, Harry and Dobby worked tirelessly on the wreckage of Salazar's starship.
"Master Haraldin" Dobby said one evening, sparks flickering from his fingertips as he fused a cracked conduit. "Dobby thinks this wire is not Muggle metal. It fights back. It remembers old Force."
Harry crouched beside him, sweat clinging to his brow. He pressed his palm against the panel and reached out with the Force. The ship groaned, like a slumbering beast disturbed.
"It's not any metal," Harry murmured. "It's part of the ship's living core. Salazar told me some Sith used alchemy to bind their vessels to the Force itself. That's why we need fuel strong enough to wake it again."
He set aside his wand and dipped his quill into a notebook filled with formulas, runes, and scribbled diagrams. The alchemic fuel—Salazar's unfinished work—demanded his every thought.
When they weren't repairing, they trained. The duels with Dobby grew more brutal each day. Force pushes rattled the stone pillars, spells cracked against conjured shields, and the air often sizzled with arcs of lightning hurled by them.
Harry danced between them, weaving illusions into Dobby's mind, twisting the elf's perceptions until the chamber floor seemed to vanish beneath him. But Dobby had learned discipline. Rage no longer ruled him. He fought with clarity now.
"You're learning," Harry grunted, deflecting another bolt of lightning with a shimmering Force shield. "Not letting anger blind you."
Dobby's eyes gleamed. "Dobby remembers pain, Master Harry. But Dobby controls it now. Dobby fights smart."
Harry smirked. Good. Because if I ever face another Sith, or a Jedi, they'll come for me with everything.
Even when Susan Bones tried to approach him in the library, Harry didn't spare her more than a glance.
"Harry—please," Susan whispered, guilt heavy in her voice. "I didn't want to testify, but my aunt—"
"You already made your choice," Harry cut her off, eyes never leaving the tome on Sith alchemy in front of him. His tone was flat, merciless. "You betrayed me in front of the Wizengamot. Doesn't matter why. Don't expect me to forget it."
Susan flinched, tears stinging her eyes. "I—I only wanted to help."
Harry shut the book with a snap. "Then don't. Go back to your friends, Susan. From now on, I walk my own path."
She lingered for a moment, but Harry's expression, cold and unyielding, left no room for hope. She turned and left, shoulders trembling.
Dobby appeared at his side moments later, carrying a bundle of salvaged wires. "Master Haraldin is strong. Master doesn't need them."
Harry's gaze softened just slightly at his friend. "I only need allies I can trust, Dobby. That means you."
Nights blurred into days. Rumors thickened in the castle, but Harry paid them no mind. While others gossiped about the Triwizard Tournament, or plotted their next newspaper scandal, Harry Potter forged himself into something else entirely—something greater.
Every hour spent repairing the ship, every scar earned sparring with Dobby, every ounce of control over the Force—it all brought him closer to his goal.
The galaxy was waiting.
And when he left this narrow-minded world behind, Harry swore, he would be ready to face it.