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The article was titled *The Boy Who Loved* and Harry read it three times in the corridor outside the library because he kept hoping he’d misread it.
He hadn’t misread it.
Rita Skeeter had, in approximately eight hundred words, implied that Harry Potter and Hermione Granger were conducting a secret romance, that Hermione was his “source of comfort in these troubled times,” that their “whispered meetings in empty classrooms” were the talk of Hogwarts, and had described Hermione’s hair as “bushy” twice, which Harry suspected was a deliberate choice.
He folded the paper under his arm and went to find Hermione.
-----
She was in the back corner of the library with three books open simultaneously, her quill moving without her looking at it. Harry sat down across from her and put the Prophet on top of her middle book.
She moved it aside without looking up.
He moved it back.
She looked up.
“I’ve read it,” she said, before he could speak.
“She called you my *paramour,*” Harry hissed. “What is a *paramour*—”
“It means—”
“I know what it means.” He pointed at her, then at himself, then made a gesture that encompassed the general horror of the situation. “I know what it means, Hermione. I don’t *do* incest.”
Hermione stared at him.
“That’s—” She stopped. “That’s the most succinct summary of our relationship I’ve ever heard.”
“She’s implying that we—” He lowered his voice further, which meant he was now practically breathing the words. “That *we—*”
“I know what she’s implying.”
“And Ron *read* it.”
Something moved across Hermione’s face. Quick and complicated. She filed it away somewhere and moved on.
“He’s being weird,” Harry said. “Weirder. He was already being weird about you and now he’s being—”
“Weird,” Hermione said.
“Yes.”
She looked at the article. Then at Harry. Then at the article again, and he saw it happen — the moment where she stopped being angry and started being *interested.* It was a subtle shift, the kind he’d learned to recognise in four years of friendship, and it was one of the most alarming things she did.
“What,” Harry said.
“Nothing,” Hermione said.
“Hermione—”
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
She looked at him, and it was the specific look she had for him — fond and exasperated in equal measure, the one that said *you’re being an idiot* but also *I’m going to help you anyway,* and Harry had long since accepted that this was simply what it felt like to have a sister.
“Rita Skeeter,” she said slowly, “built her entire career on credibility. People believe her because she sounds authoritative. She sounds authoritative because no one has ever successfully made her look ridiculous.”
Harry waited.
“What if,” Hermione said, “we made her look ridiculous?”
“How?”
“Confirmations. From sources so strange, so numerous, so utterly insane—” she tapped the article with one finger— “that anyone who reads this looks like she’s lost her mind. The more unbelievable the confirmations, the faster the whole thing collapses.”
Harry looked at the article.
He thought about Ron’s face that morning. He thought about two fourth years giggling when he walked past. He thought about the word *paramour* and how he’d had to look it up in the library dictionary and Madam Pince had given him a look.
“What do we actually have to lose?” he said.
“Nothing,” Hermione said. “You’re already the lying, attention-seeking champion who nobody believes. Your reputation can’t get worse.”
“You’re very reassuring.”
“I’m practical.” She already had fresh parchment out. “We’ll need the twins.”
“Obviously.”
“And I have some ideas about Viktor—”
“He’s right *here—*”
“Which makes it better, not worse.” She was writing a list. “Cedric too I think.”
“Cedric’s a *Champion,* he won’t—”
“Cedric,” Hermione said, in the tone she used when she knew something Harry didn’t, “does not like to lie. That’s exactly why I want him.”
Harry did not understand this yet.
He would.
-----
Fred and George didn’t need convincing.
The word *campaign* had barely left Harry’s mouth before Fred held up a hand.
“Stop,” Fred said. “We’re in.”
“Completely,” George agreed.
“But we want to deliver our contribution together,” Fred said.
“At the same time,” George clarified.
“Obviously,” Fred said.
Harry looked at them. Something about the way they said *at the same time* made him feel that he was missing context. He decided, wisely, not to ask for it.
“Right,” he said. “Great.”
“This is the best day of fourth year,” George told Fred.
“Of *any* year,” Fred corrected.
Harry left them to it.
-----
Viktor said yes with the enthusiasm of a man who had been waiting for an excuse.
“This woman,” he said, with the quiet intensity of someone discussing a blood feud, “called my flying brutish.”
“That’s terrible,” Harry said.
Viktor looked at him. “I vill do this thing,” he said. “Vhatever you need. I vill say it with my whole chest.”
Harry had not actually used the phrase *whole chest* to Viktor, but somehow Viktor had understood the assignment perfectly.
-----
Fleur required a slightly different approach because Fleur required a slightly different approach to everything. Hermione handled her, which Harry was grateful for, because Fleur had a specific effect on Harry that he found profoundly irritating given that he was aware it was happening and still couldn’t stop it.
He didn’t ask what Hermione said.
He only found out later that Fleur had been given a copy of the article, had read it, had said *Skeeter,* the way one might say *rodent,* and had agreed immediately.
-----
Cedric listened to the whole plan with his hands folded and his expression thoughtful, like a prefect in a meeting.
“I’d want to mention the bath,” he said, when Hermione finished.
Harry had thought, going in, that he knew what Cedric would say. He had been wrong.
“The *egg,*” Harry said.
“The egg,” Cedric agreed. “The prefects’ bathroom. I showed you how to use it.”
“Right. Yes. The egg.”
“So if I say—” Cedric paused, choosing his words— “that I showed you some very nice things in the bath—”
“THAT’S NOT WHAT—”
“It’s technically accurate,” Cedric said patiently. “I don’t like to lie, Harry. You know that about me.”
“It sounds like you’re saying—”
“I know what it sounds like,” Cedric said, pleasantly. “That’s rather the point.”
Harry looked at him for a long moment.
Cedric looked back with the calm expression of a Hufflepuff who had made his decision and was comfortable with it.
“Fine,” Harry said. He rubbed his face. “Fine. The bath.”
“Wonderful,” Cedric said. “Happy to help.”
-----
Snape was not asked.
This point was important. No one recruited Snape. No one approached Snape. No one, in their wildest planning, had looked at their list and thought *and then Severus Snape.*
What happened was that Snape made a comment at breakfast — to Pansy Parkinson, in the hearing of the entire Slytherin table — that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy were, and these were his words, *often at each other.*
He said it in the flat, disdainful tone he used for everything, as though he were commenting on the weather or the quality of the toast.
The entire Slytherin table heard it.
By lunch, it was in the gossip sheet.
Hermione found out at noon and sat very still for thirty seconds processing the information.
“He’s doing it to be horrible,” she said finally.
“Obviously,” Harry said.
“He genuinely wants people to think—”
“Obviously.”
“He hates you so much,” Hermione said, with something approaching awe, “that he is accidentally helping us.”
“I want to be upset about this but I can’t figure out how,” Harry said.
“Count it and move on,” Hermione advised.
He counted it and moved on.
-----
Neville said yes because Neville always said yes and Harry knew this and loved him for it even when it complicated things.
“Luna will enjoy this,” Neville said, after the explanation.
“Probably,” Harry agreed.
Neville squared his shoulders with the look of a man walking calmly into something he already regretted. “I can’t control my face,” he said.
“I know,” Harry said. “That’s actually—”
“Ideal,” Hermione supplied, from behind her book.
“Right,” Harry said. “Ideal.”
Neville looked between them both with the expression of someone who had two people he trusted telling him something that still felt deeply suspicious.
“Fine,” he said. “But if Gran hears about this—”
“She won’t,” Harry said.
“She hears about *everything,*” Neville said darkly, and went to find Luna.
-----
Luna was, as everyone had predicted, delighted.
-----
Oliver’s contribution arrived by owl on a Tuesday morning.
Harry was at breakfast when it landed, and he didn’t recognise the handwriting at first. He opened it, read it, and then sat very still while the Great Hall carried on around him.
The note contained one sentence. It had no greeting and no signature, though it didn’t need one, because Harry knew Oliver’s handwriting from three years of annotated Quidditch diagrams.
The sentence was:
*I heard about the campaign. Let’s just say he can ride more than just a broom. — O.W.*
Harry turned the note over in case there was more context on the back.
There wasn’t.
He looked at Hermione. “Did you ask Oliver—”
“No,” Hermione said, reading her own post.
“Did anyone ask—”
“He’s at Puddlemere,” she said. “He heard through someone on the team, presumably. Harry.” She lowered her letter. “Are you going to turn down a contribution from a professional Quidditch player?”
“He means it about the *broom,*” Harry said, because he needed to say this aloud to someone.
“I know,” Hermione said.
“He’s talking about actual *broom riding—*”
“I know, Harry.”
“But everyone’s going to think—”
“That’s why it’s *perfect,*” Hermione said, and returned to her post.
Harry folded Oliver’s note very carefully and decided that this was Oliver Wood’s fault in its entirety.
-----
Ginny’s contribution arrived through the same gossip sheet, forty minutes after Oliver’s.
Harry was informed of this by Hermione, who found him outside Charms and handed him the sheet with an expression he couldn’t immediately read.
He read it.
He read it again.
*Let’s just say his ability to catch the Snitch with his mouth was not a coincidence. — G.W.*
“She’s thirteen,” Harry said.
“Yes,” Hermione said.
“She’s *thirteen,*” Harry said again, as though the number might mean something different if he emphasised it.
“She knows exactly what she wrote,” Hermione said, in the careful tone of someone being very precise.
“She’s—” Harry looked at the sheet. “She knows what this *implies?*”
“Harry.” Hermione put her hand briefly on his shoulder. “She’s known what it implies since she was eleven. You catch the Snitch with your hand.”
Harry thought about this.
“I catch it with my—” He stopped. “Yes. Obviously. My hand. Everyone knows I catch it with my—”
“Yes,” Hermione said.
“So she was *deliberately—*”
“Yes,” Hermione said.
Harry folded the gossip sheet into a very small square and placed it in his pocket and did not think about it for the rest of the afternoon.
-----
Seamus and Dean delivered their contribution side by side to the same gossip sheet reporter, which Harry only found out about from Lavender Brown, who had apparently been there.
“They looked very sincere,” Lavender reported.
“What did they say?” Harry asked, with the specific wariness of a person who had stopped being surprised but had not stopped being affected.
Lavender told him.
Harry stood in the corridor for a moment.
“Hm,” he said.
“Are you alright?” Lavender asked.
“I think,” Harry said slowly, “that Seamus and Dean might have been sincere.”
Lavender considered this. “Oh,” she said. Then: “Oh.”
“Good for them, though,” Harry said.
“Definitely,” Lavender agreed.
-----
The article ran the following Thursday.
-----
***DAILY PROPHET — PAGE 3***
**CHAOS, LIES AND THE BOY WHO — WHAT, EXACTLY?**
*By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent*
*In response to this reporter’s recent exclusive regarding Harry Potter (14) and his alleged romantic entanglement, an unprecedented number of so-called “confirmations” have flooded both this publication and the Hogwarts student press. While this reporter cannot speak to the mental stability of those involved, we present the following statements, received in the past week, so that our readers may draw their own conclusions.*
*“Yes, I did the Potter.” — Viktor Krum, Durmstrang Champion*
*“Of course. Harry is so lovely.” — Fleur Delacour, Beauxbatons Champion*
“I showed him some very nice things in the bath.” — Cedric Diggory, Hogwarts Champion, Hufflepuff*
*“He and Malfoy are often at each other.” — Professor Severus Snape, and the entire Slytherin house*
*“At the same time.” — Fred and George Weasley, Gryffindor*
*“Harry truly is amazing. He is always so gentle with us.” — Luna Lovegood, with Neville Longbottom, Ravenclaw and Gryffindor*
*“Let’s just say he can ride more than just a broom.” — Oliver Wood, Puddlemere United Reserves*
*“Let’s just say his ability to catch the Snitch with his mouth was not a coincidence.” — Ginevra Weasley, Gryffindor*
*“He made us gay.” — Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, in unison, Gryffindor*
*This reporter notes that the above statements are inconsistent, implausible, and in several cases physically impossible. We stand by our original reporting. We are fine. Everything is fine.*
-----
Harry and Hermione read the published article side by side on the sofa by the fire, the paper between them, and did not speak for almost a full minute.
Then Hermione made a sound.
It started small. It was clearly meant to stay small. She pressed her lips together and looked at the ceiling and held it in with the effort of someone trying to stop a dam with their hands, and then Harry made the mistake of saying “she said *everything is fine,*” and that was the end of Hermione’s composure entirely.
She laughed the way she only laughed when there was no one important watching — too loud, slightly undignified, completely real — and Harry folded the paper and put it on the table and laughed too, and the common room was warm and the fire was going and Ron’s chair across the room was empty and Harry didn’t think about that.
He didn’t think about it at all.
-----
Blaise Zabini found Harry two days later.
Harry was coming out of Charms, still thinking about something Flitwick had said about Summoning Charms, when Zabini stepped smoothly out of an alcove and fell into step beside him as though they did this every day.
“Potter,” Zabini said.
“Zabini,” Harry said, cautiously.
“I read the article.”
“Most people did.”
“I read all of the confirmations.” A pause. “Krum. Delacour. Diggory.” Another pause, weighted. “The *twins,* Potter. At the same *time.*”
“That was a—”
“Longbottom and Lovegood. Wood.” Zabini’s voice was impressively controlled for someone who was clearly working through something. “The Weasley girl. She’s *thirteen.*”
“I’m aware—”
“Finnigan and Thomas.” He stopped walking.
Harry stopped too, because it seemed like the thing to do.
Zabini turned to face him. He had the expression of a man who had a specific complaint and intended to lodge it with the appropriate authority.
“Everyone in this castle,” Zabini said, precisely, “has had Harry Potter.”
“That’s — no — it was a *campaign—*”
“And yet.” Zabini looked at him. “No one asked me.”
Harry looked back.
“You… wanted to be in the article?” he said.
Something moved through Zabini’s expression. He drew a slow breath through his nose.
“I want,” he said, “what Krum had.”
“…A Triwizard Tournament?”
“Potter.”
“Because the qualifying age is—”
“*Potter.*”
“—seventeen, so you’d need to wait three—”
“I want,” Zabini said, very slowly and clearly, as though speaking to someone who needed extra time, “what Krum *had.*”
Harry thought about this.
He genuinely tried.
“Krum had a very impressive Wronski Feint,” he offered. “I could — I don’t know if I could teach you that, it’s quite advanced—”
Zabini closed his eyes.
He stood in the middle of the corridor with his eyes closed for three full seconds, which was long enough for two Ravenclaws to walk around him with curious looks.
“You are,” he said, eyes still closed, “unbelievable.”
“What did I—”
“*Hermione,*” Zabini said.
This was the moment Hermione came around the corner.
She took one look at Blaise’s face — eyes still closed, jaw tight, the specific expression of a man at the absolute limit of his patience — and then at Harry’s face, which was open and genuinely baffled, and she stopped walking.
“What’s happening,” she said.
“Zabini wants to learn the Wronski Feint,” Harry said.
Hermione looked at Blaise.
Blaise opened his eyes and looked back at her with the silent, desperate expression of someone who needed an interpreter.
Hermione pressed her lips together.
She looked at Harry.
She looked back at Blaise.
And then — she lost it.
It was not a dignified laugh. It had no resemblance to the small, controlled sound she usually permitted herself in public. This was helpless and full and she had to grab the wall because her knees were doing something unreliable, and Blaise watched her with an expression that cycled rapidly through irritation, despair, and something that looked almost like reluctant solidarity.
“*Hermione,*” Blaise said, with great urgency.
“I’m—” She waved her free hand. “I’m fine—”
“I need you to—”
“You have to—” She dissolved again. “Give me a—”
“*Granger,*” Blaise said.
She straightened up. She wiped her eyes. She looked at Blaise with the careful expression of someone assembling their face from scattered components, and she managed — just barely — to make it stick.
“Wine and dine him,” she said.
Blaise stared at her. “I beg your—”
“Wine and dine him, Zabini. Ask him to dinner.” She glanced at Harry. “He won’t understand anything else, I’m telling you this as someone who has known him for four years, you need to be completely literal or you will stand in corridors forever.”
Blaise absorbed this.
He turned to Harry.
“Potter,” he said, with the dignity of a man who had decided that dignity was the only thing he had left. “Would you like to go to dinner with me. In Hogsmeade. On Saturday.”
Harry looked at him.
Something in his expression shifted, the specific shift of someone to whom information has just arrived from a very unexpected direction.
“Oh,” Harry said.
Blaise waited.
“Oh,” Harry said again, slightly differently. “You meant—”
“Yes,” Blaise said.
Harry thought about it for approximately three seconds.
“Cool,” he said. “Yeah, alright. Saturday.”
Blaise Zabini, who had never in his life looked anything other than composed, closed his eyes one more time and let out a very long and very quiet breath.
“*Saturday,*” he confirmed.
He walked away.
Hermione watched him go, and then turned to Harry, and the laughing had stopped but the smile hadn’t — the real one, the fond one, the one she saved.
“You’re impossible,” she said.
“I didn’t know what he *meant,*” Harry said.
“I know you didn’t.” She picked up her bag. “That’s the funniest part.”
Harry fell into step beside her, in the direction of the library, and thought that for someone in the middle of a tournament he hadn’t entered, in a year where his best friend hated him, with his name still on a noticeboard and a dragon to face in six weeks —
Things were, somehow, alright.