Chapter Text
In some other world, Harry Potter’s fourth year was a disaster, characterized by a golden cup, a dragon, and a grotesque rebirth ritual in a graveyard. In the world beyond that, there was no Triwizard Tournament, and Harriet Potter had an entirely unremarkable schoolyear free of anxiety beyond the usual torments of a teenager.
And in this world, the 1994 – 1995 schoolyear was very different again.
The first thing you need to know is that none of it would have happened if it hadn’t been for a minor potions mishap on an average Tuesday in Peru.
A hapless student at a lesser-known school of witchcraft and wizardry was brewing a potion. He was talking, as students do, to his best friend, and laughing just a bit too much, and not paying enough attention to the instructions on the board in front of him. He added just a shade too much bulbadox powder and a few too many valerian sprigs, and instead of creating a simple cure for boils, managed to create a large thundercloud, that quickly rose out of his cauldron, escaped the potions classroom and took the professors six hours to fix.
The thundercloud was an angry black cloud that seemed to swell and bubble and hiss, and it quickly became a full-blown thunderstorm that spread all over South America, changed the direction of the wind to the east, and sent a stream of hot air across the Atlantic Ocean, up the backbone of Africa, across Europe and up and through the UK.
If that student had paid a bit more attention, or the professors had been able to contain the thundercloud, or if the wind had changed to the west, perhaps that summer would have been a cooler one. Perhaps this would be a different story.
But it didn’t.
And so, the second thing you need to know is that this potions accident brought more consequences than just the worst heatwave in two centuries. It brought a dry spell for the Daily Prophet.
The Wizengamot was in summer recess. It was swelteringly hot, the hottest summer on record, in fact, and every witch and wizard in the country from Lands’ End to John O’Groats was lethargic, languishing lazily in their gardens under thick layers of cooling charms that seemed to bend and break under the weight of the humidity.
Everyone was so focused on staying cool, that nothing was happening, and that meant no news.
Barnabus Cuffe, highly experienced journalist and editor of The Daily Prophet prided himself on knowing what sold newspapers. But recent headlines – well...
HOGWARTS EXPRESS ARRIVES ON TIME
EEYLOPS OWL EMPORIUM STILL SELLING OWLS
...they weren’t really selling newspapers.
Feeling oppressed by the stuffy air in his office, Barnabus heaved himself out of his chair and went to stand in the doorway, looking out over the newsroom. Rita Skeeter hadn’t bothered to come in that day. Zamira Poinse, Chief Culture Correspondent, was slouched in her chair over at the music desk. Her feet were propped up on a stack of old concert programmes, and she was absent mindedly playing with a yo-yo that had been in the range of fan merchandise on Celestina Warbeck’s latest tour. Celestina’s face was emblazoned on the side, and as she was currently spinning up and down, she looked rather sick. Opposite her, political editor Henry Loud-Haylark was asleep at his desk, the newspaper covering his face floating gently up and down with each snore. The Quidditch correspondent Peter Undermanager had abandoned his chair entirely and was sat on top of the sports desk, throwing spare quills into the ceiling like they were darts.
Barnabus sighed. He’d take them all to task for it, but what was the point? They’d all submitted what little news they had to write up already. Turning to go back into his office, he caught sight of the Prophet’s newest recruit out of the corner of his eye.
Anna Mattock, Muggleborn witch and recent graduate of Ravenclaw House was sat at the announcements desk with her chin in her hands. Barnabus hadn’t been looking to take on a new journalist when her owl had delivered her application, but when she’d followed it up the day after the Hogwarts Express arrived back in London with a look of determination on her face and a stack of Ravenclaw Newsletters in her satchel, he’d seen a little of himself in her, and decided to give her a chance.
Unfortunately, nothing newsworthy had really happened since she had started, and he was afraid the gloss of her shiny new job in journalism was starting to wear off. His brain froze on that thought for a minute, and he probed at it a little before hitting on an idea that should, at least, liven up her day and keep her keen.
She flushed as he caught her eye and beckoned her into his office, waving off her apologies for having been caught idling.
“Nonsense!” he said jovially, “we’re all of us a little at a loose end at the moment! I called you in here because it seems to me that we might as well use this quiet period to give you some training!”
She sat up a little straighter in her chair at that, the Ravenclaw unable to resist the idea of learning some new skills.
“Why don’t you go out and write a story – perhaps based on something you’ve heard at school – and I can go through it with you and show you how we’d edit it for the paper?” he said, leaning back in his chair and feeling quite pleased with himself.
“Oh – oh, yes!” she said, eagerly. “I heard a rumour at the end of term about Harry Potter that – ”
“Excellent!” cried Barnabus, unwittingly cutting off a story about Sirius Black and a werewolf that he’d have been very interested in indeed. Schoolyard rumours about Harry Potter were ten a penny, after all. “Do you think you can have something for me by Friday lunchtime?”
“Yes, Sir!” said Anna, practically vibrating in her seat.
“Off you go, then!” Barnabus waved her off, chuckling to himself. “Ravenclaws!”
Back at her desk, Anna wondered where to start. Quill poised, she watched as a drop of ink pooled and dropped with a splash onto the parchment. Slowly, hesitantly, a plan of action started to form, and she wrote down everything she could remember about the rumours that had been flying around the school.
And then she started at the beginning.