Aurelius exited the building with the sign 'Daily Prophet' hanging above the door, the letters gleaming in the midday sun as if mocking the nervousness bubbling inside him. He wobbled slightly as he made his way towards Bramble, who was waiting with the patience only a loyal house-elf could muster. Diagon Alley was, as always, a chaotic dance of wizards and witches, bustling about with a mix of urgency and leisure. The place was more crowded than usual, and Aurelius knew they needed to get out of there fast. Still, he couldn't help but flash a triumphant grin at Bramble; the plan had been a roaring success. Honestly, though, it had been nerve-wracking enough to make even a troll sweat.
He had chosen this day with the meticulous precision of a Potions Master brewing Felix Felicis, and for three very specific reasons.
First, there was absolutely no chance of Aurors storming in while he was talking. Not today, thank you very much. Second, Dumbledore wasn't secretly lurking around like some benevolent bat. Yes, *that* Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore—the wizard whose name was longer than the list of times he had sneakily spied on Mr. Sallow without the poor bloke even noticing. Aurelius had spent three whole months just trying to land a job that could keep him fed, and he often wondered if the universe was playing a particularly unkind joke on him. And third, Mr. Sallow was in that rare, magical state of mind known as "acceptance." Had Aurelius shown up yesterday, Sallow would have strangled him on sight—his face practically screamed "victim in waiting" on a bad day.
Tomorrow, the Aurors would return to investigate whether or not the supposed Weaver had made an appearance—a mission destined for failure, by the way. Mr. Sallow and his secretary were both Occlumency experts; even Voldemort himself would have trouble gleaning anything from their surface thoughts without setting off alarm bells. Of course, the secretary was still a loose end—a pesky detail that gnawed at Aurelius like a particularly persistent garden gnome. Unfortunately, he didn't yet have the power to deal with her. Besides, it would be quite some time before she spilled the beans—if she even had any to spill.
Just as he was lost in his thoughts, a loud, obnoxious voice shattered the relative peace. "What is this smelly house-elf doing in front of my apothecary? Heyyy... watch where you're standing, you filthy creature! Get away from my place!" A rotund man, so large he could be mistaken for a human-sized pudding, stormed out of the shop, his face as red as a cursed tomato. Bramble shrank back, visibly trembling. Aurelius felt his vision narrow, his boiling rage sharpening into a dagger of intent. He reached into his robes, pulling out his old wand, and discreetly aimed it at the man. He was going to hex that pig so thoroughly that he'd wish he'd never been born—maybe make him snort like a real pig for good measure.
But Bramble, ever the voice of reason (and restraint), quickly tugged Aurelius away from the scene. "Master Aurelius, we must not cause trouble. Let's just go."
As they made their hasty retreat, a newlywed couple strolled past, their noses held so high in the air you'd think they were trying to catch a glimpse of the stars. "What sort of wretches are they? Has Godino Apothecary and Brews really fallen so low as to let such riffraff mess around?"
The fat man, having heard this, suddenly switched his tune. "Sorry, Lord Shafiq. Forgive this old man for the late congratulations on your wedding," he said, groveling with the enthusiasm of a man who'd just realized he might lose his best customer.
As they walked away, Aurelius couldn't help but grin coldly, the wheels in his mind already spinning with new ideas.
They arrived home after a ten-minute ride via the Floo Network, Bramble still casting wary glances at his master. "Master Aurelius, do you want to rest? Or perhaps you'd like some snacks? Bramble will make them delicious," the house-elf offered, his voice tinged with concern.
Aurelius couldn't help but smile at Bramble's worried face. He's probably afraid I'll blow something up, Aurelius mused. "Don't worry, Bramble. I'm just going to take a picture of them leaving the shop."
Bramble eyed him with the suspicion of someone who had seen one too many plans go awry. "And nothing else?"
Aurelius nodded with a mild expression that could have fooled anyone but Bramble. "Of course, Bramble. No jinxes, no physical harm—Scout's honor! Could you fetch me the camera we bought last month? I need to gather my thoughts."
"As you wish, Master Aurelius. Bramble will also bring some snacks." The house-elf scurried off, his small feet barely making a sound on the floor.
Aurelius lounged on the couch, his mind replaying the hefty costs he had endured to ensure today's plan was a success. When he chose journalism as his path, the Daily Prophet was his ultimate goal; not only was it a prestigious paper, but it also led the industry and offered substantial pay—perfect for someone who had a talent for sticking his nose where it didn't belong. For three long months, he had waited patiently, investing in an enchanted magical camera that cost two thousand galleons and purchasing new robes that wouldn't make him look like a pauper. He even ventured to Gringotts, clinging to the slim hope of finding a fortune left by Voyantil in one of the vaults. But alas, there was nothing. It turned out Voyantil hailed from Germany, and the German branch of Gringotts confirmed that Alaric Voyantil had withdrawn all their assets. "Father, why?" Aurelius lamented, his voice dripping with melodrama. If only he could peer into the past. He was convinced the money and treasures were stashed away somewhere, even poring over the *History of the Voyantil Family* for any hidden clues. The book, however, had been about as helpful as a chocolate cauldron.
"Master Aurelius, here's the camera and the sweets from Honeydukes," Bramble said, appearing with a tray that boasted an assortment of sweets and one very expensive magical camera.
Aurelius grinned wickedly as the marking on his forehead sparkled with anticipation. "Excellent, Bramble. Let's see if we can capture some memories that will last a lifetime—or at least until the next hex."
---
The morning sunbathed the towers of Hogwarts in a warm, golden light, casting long shadows across the castle grounds. Inside the Great Hall, the Gryffindor table buzzed with the jubilant energy of a victorious house. Charles Weasley, his red hair still windswept from the Quidditch match, was basking in the afterglow of Gryffindor's narrow win over Slytherin. The victory was sweet, made even sweeter by the fact that it had come at the expense of their most hated rivals.
He sat comfortably between his friends, Aidan McMillan, a lanky boy with a perpetual smirk, and Bethany Finch, who was trying—and failing—to maintain a dignified air as she teased Charles over breakfast.
"Honestly, Charles," Bethany said, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she buttered a slice of toast, "I thought you were going to let that Quaffle slip right through your fingers!"
Charles threw up his hands in mock offense. "Oi, you saw the spin on that thing! I swear the Bludger was aiming for me—again! What does Flint feed those Slytherin Beaters, anyway? Dragon dung?"
Aidan snorted, nearly choking on his pumpkin juice. "Would explain the smell, wouldn't it?"
"Or maybe it's just that they've got too much dung between the ears," added Jamie Travers, another Gryffindor who had just joined them at the table, earning a round of laughter from the group.
Paige Rosier, seated across from Charles, rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Well, you were brilliant out there, Charles. But if you don't want to repeat that near-miss, you might consider asking Professor McGonagall for some extra practice."
"Or a protective charm," Aidan quipped, earning a playful shove from Charles.
As they laughed and joked, the usual flurry of morning activity filled the hall. Students chattered over their meals, and the clinking of cutlery was punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter. As they laughed and plotted their culinary heist, the flurry of wings signaled the arrival of the morning owls. Dozens of them swooped into the common room, delivering letters, packages, and copies of the Daily Prophet to eager hands.
### The Daily Prophet Article
Noble Shop or Nefarious Den? Godino Apothecary and Brews Caught in Scandal!
By **Loudmouth**
In a shocking turn of events, the esteemed establishment Godino Apothecary and Brews, a shop once known for its high-class clientele and impeccable reputation, has been thrust into the center of a scandal that could shake the foundations of the wizarding world. The shop, located in the heart of Diagon Alley, was raided by Aurors from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement late last night, following allegations of illegal activities.
According to sources within the DMLE, the shop is suspected of selling Peyotium, an addictive and highly dangerous substance that was banned by the International Confederation of Wizards (ICW) decades ago due to its mind-altering effects. The discovery has sent shockwaves through the community, especially considering the shop's long-standing association with some of the most prominent pure-blood families.
But here's where things get interesting. The head of the DMLE has categorically denied any implication of pure-blood involvement in this scandal. "I don't know what you are implying," he said in an official statement, "but the sales records do not contain anything related to famous wizarding families."
However, a picture included in this very article seems to suggest otherwise. The photograph, taken by a keen-eyed trainee reporter from the Daily Prophet, shows the shop's owner, Mr. Gulo Bulstrode, a man whose physical appearance can only be described as, well, immense, emerging from the shop. And who should be accompanying him but the newlywed couple from the Shafiq family, a name that resonates with ancient wizarding lineage and untainted bloodlines.
Now, if there's no record of the Shafiq couple purchasing anything from this disreputable establishment, what, pray tell, were they doing there? Were they merely passing by, caught by the camera at an inopportune moment? Or is there something more sinister at play? Are we, the Daily Prophet, jumping to conclusions? Or is the Ministry, in its ever-transparent wisdom, sweeping the involvement of its most noble houses under the rug?
This reporter would like to ask: "Is the Ministry compromised? Who can we trust in these turbulent times?"
One thing is clear—the wizarding world will be watching closely as this story unfolds. Stay tuned for more updates on this scandal that threatens to expose the dark underbelly of our most revered institutions.
---
Charles stared at the article, his mind racing. The implications were staggering. He glanced up at his friends, who were still laughing and joking, unaware of the storm brewing in the pages of the Prophet.
"Well, this is going to be interesting," he muttered under his breath.
---
In the heart of the Ministry of Magic, within the grand confines of his opulent office, Minister Cornelius Fudge paced nervously behind his massive oak desk. His plush chair remained unoccupied as he wrung his hands together, his brow furrowed with concern. The walls, adorned with portraits of previous Ministers, seemed to watch him intently, their expressions inscrutable.
Across from him, seated with perfect poise in a high-backed chair, was Undersecretary Dolores Umbridge. Her pink cardigan and matching bow added a false air of sweetness to her demeanor, which was anything but gentle. A clipboard rested on her lap, her quill poised and ready to take notes. She watched Fudge with a calculating gaze, her lips curved into a small, knowing smile.
"Minister," Dolores began, her voice oozing with a syrupy smoothness, "I understand that you're concerned about the article in today's Prophet. However, I must say, this situation presents us with a rather... convenient opportunity."
Fudge stopped pacing and turned to face her, his face etched with worry. "Convenient? Dolores, this article is a scandal waiting to explode! The Shafiqs are a prominent family, well-connected. If we don't handle this delicately, it could unravel everything. The Prophet is practically accusing us of protecting pure-bloods—again!"
Umbridge tilted her head slightly, as if considering his words carefully. "Oh, I wouldn't worry too much about that, Minister. You see, the key here is not to suppress the story but rather to... redirect it. Allow the public to focus on this scandal, to feed on the idea that the Ministry is actively addressing the problem. We can issue a statement, condemning the actions of Mr. Bulstrode and expressing our commitment to a full investigation."
Fudge's expression remained skeptical. "And what of the Shafiqs? They were caught in the picture. Their involvement could drag this out into a full-blown trial. That's the last thing we need—public trials of high-profile families. It would be a disaster!"
Dolores smiled wider, her eyes narrowing with a hint of malice. "Precisely, Minister. A disaster that we can control. By allowing this story to grow, we can shift the public's attention away from more... troubling matters. For instance, the Weaver of Strings prophecy has caused quite a stir. People are talking, speculating about what it means. That's dangerous territory—prophecies have a way of inciting fear and rebellion, as you know."
Fudge's frown deepened, his mind turning over her words. The Weaver of Strings prophecy had indeed been a thorn in his side. Whispers about the prophecy had spread like wildfire through the wizarding world, igniting fears of a dark force rising once again. It was exactly the kind of thing he wanted to avoid—a panic that could destabilize the delicate balance of power he so carefully maintained.
"But," Fudge said slowly, "if we push this scandal into the limelight, won't that just fuel more speculation? People will think we're trying to cover something up."
Umbridge's smile never wavered. "Let them think that, Minister. A little public outrage, a show of justice—perhaps a light penalty for the Shafiq couple, just enough to appease the masses—will give them something to latch onto. The story of a noble family caught in a scandal is far more palatable than the ominous predictions of a prophecy. The public needs a villain they can understand, and who better than a wealthy, seemingly untouchable family?"
Fudge hesitated, his indecision clear on his face. He had built his career on maintaining order, on presenting an image of a stable, secure Ministry. The idea of fanning the flames of a scandal made him uneasy. Yet, the alternative—letting the prophecy take root in the minds of the people, stirring fear and unrest—was far worse.
"And what if this backfires?" Fudge asked, his voice tinged with anxiety. "What if the Shafiqs fight back? They have the resources to make this very difficult for us."
Dolores waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, Minister, we will be careful. We will ensure that the penalties are just severe enough to show that we are doing our duty, but not so harsh that they feel the need to retaliate. We'll remind them of the precarious position they're in—of how much worse it could be if this situation escalates. They'll fall in line, as they always do."
Fudge stared at her, weighing his options. The idea of using the scandal to divert attention from the prophecy was tempting. It would allow him to maintain control, to manage the narrative. And if it meant sacrificing a bit of the Shafiq family's reputation to preserve the greater good, well... perhaps that was a necessary evil.
Finally, with a heavy sigh, Fudge nodded. "Very well, Dolores. We'll allow the story to run its course. But I want you to handle it personally—make sure that everything goes smoothly. We can't afford any missteps."
Umbridge's smile grew even more pronounced, a glint of satisfaction in her eyes. "Of course, Minister. You can trust me to manage this... delicately."
As Fudge resumed his pacing, Dolores scribbled a few notes on her clipboard, her mind already working through the next steps. The scandal would spread, the public would rage, and the Ministry would come out on top, appearing both vigilant and just. And as for the Weaver of Strings prophecy, it would soon be relegated to the shadows, just another forgotten tale.
For now, the Minister's indecision had been swayed, and Dolores Umbridge was more than willing to guide the situation to its inevitable conclusion. The pieces were falling into place, and she intended to ensure they stayed that way.