"Whose life are you looking to destroy this time?" Harry interrupted loudly.
Rita Skeeter turned to see who was speaking, her jewel-encrusted spectacles magnifying eyes that suddenly widened in recognition.
"Harry!" she exclaimed, her face lighting up with artificial warmth. "How marvelous! Why don't you all come over and join—"
"I wouldn't go near you if I were riding a ten-foot broomstick!" Harry snapped furiously. "What did you have to go and treat Hagrid like that for?"
Rita Skeeter arched her heavily penciled eyebrows.
"Our readers have a right to the truth, Harry. I'm simply fulfilling my—"
"Who bloody cares if he's half-giant?" Harry shouted. "There's absolutely nothing wrong with him!"
The entire pub fell dead silent. Madam Rosmerta glanced over from behind the bar—she'd been pouring mead into a large flagon that was now overflowing unnoticed.
Rita Skeeter's smile flickered momentarily before she plastered it back into place. She opened her crocodile-skin handbag, withdrew her Quick-Quotes Quill, and purred:
"Care to share what you know about Hagrid, Harry? The man behind all those muscles? Your... intriguing friendship and what drives it. Do you perhaps see him as a father figure?"
Hermione shot to her feet, gripping her butterbeer as if it were a grenade about to explode.
"You horrible woman," she hissed through clenched teeth. "You don't give a damn about anything except your precious stories. You'll tear apart anyone for a headline, won't you?"
"Sit down, you foolish little girl. Don't speak about matters beyond your comprehension," Rita Skeeter replied coldly, her gaze turning contemptuous as it settled on Hermione—all traces of her fawning demeanor toward Harry evaporating.
"If she's a foolish little girl, then what exactly does that make you, Rita Skeeter?" Orli couldn't contain herself any longer. "A pathological liar masquerading as a journalist? A social-climbing parasite? Or perhaps just an aesthetically challenged old bat—"
"Ah. Orli Waters." Rita Skeeter's expression turned predatory, her eyes glittering with malice.
"You think I've genuinely lost interest in you, don't you?" She adjusted her spectacles with one manicured claw, studying Orli like a butcher appraising prime cuts.
"Yes, you might prove... troublesome. But what of it..." Her voice carried the calculating tone of someone weighing potential profit against risk.
"Let's go," Hermione said urgently, seizing Orli's hand. "Come on, Harry—Ron..."
They departed under the watchful eyes of half the pub's patrons. As they reached the door, Orli glanced back to see Rita Skeeter's Quick-Quotes Quill already dancing frantically across a sheet of parchment.
"She's coming for you next, Orli," Harry murmured with concern as they hurried onto the street.
"So what can she possibly expose? That I'm Harry's most treasured companion, or that I slaughtered something in the Black Lake?" Orli sneered, though her entire body trembled with rage.
"You really shouldn't antagonize Rita Skeeter," Ron said nervously. "I'm serious—she'll dig up everything about you. The prophecy, for instance—think about it, the whole business with You-Know-Who's return!"
"Even if people swallowed that rubbish, Dumbledore would never expel me." Orli ground her teeth. "First Harry, then Hagrid... I almost hope she does believe that bloody prophecy. Maybe then she'll tuck her tail between her legs and leave us the hell alone!"
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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