The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of the Wright Estate, gilding the elegant breakfast table in a quiet gold. Outside, the summer breeze rustled through the trees, swaying the ivy that curled up the brick walls. Birds chirped lazily in the hedges. It was the kind of day meant for stillness, meant for tea, cool air, and calm thoughts.
Ethan, curled up in one of the deep-cushioned armchairs beside the window, didn't feel calm.
A half-finished cup of tea sat cooling beside him, untouched for several minutes now. His eyes flicked back and forth across the wide pages of the Daily Prophet in his lap, his brow drawn slightly. The paper crackled in the silence.
LOCKHART TRIAL: FORMER CELEBRITY SENTENCED TO AZKABAN
That was the headline, printed in bold, triumphant type across the front page. A photograph of Lockhart, tear-streaked and wide-eyed, sat just below it, animatedly shaking his head and mouthing protests as if someone, anyone, might still believe him. The image looped every few seconds.
Ethan's expression didn't change.
He wasn't surprised. He wasn't even particularly interested in the main story, he'd lived through it, after all, seated in the courtroom beside his mother, watching Lockhart's veneer peel away layer by layer. Justice had been done. But despite that small satisfaction, something itched in the back of his mind, an irritant he couldn't shake.
He flipped the page.
Then another.
And another.
Buried near the back, tucked between an article on Ministry regulation changes and a review of a new enchanted teapot,
"A Heroine in Blue: The Untold Drive Behind the Lockhart Exposure"
By Rita Skeeter.
He didn't sigh, exactly. But his lips thinned.
The piece started innocently enough, sickeningly so. Rita's style was polished and dripping with what she clearly thought was charm. She described his mother as a "sharp and tireless bastion of truth, cutting through the webs of celebrity lies with elegant precision." The words should have been praise.
In between the honeyed adjectives, there was always a blade.
"...a women known more for silence than statements, who broke her reserve in what some are calling an ambitious attempt to clean the Ministry's social conscience…"
And there it was. A whisper of ulterior motive. A hint that his mother had acted not out of duty, but ambition. And it didn't stop there.
Further down the article, nearly at the end, just where a tired reader might glance, skim, and subconsciously absorb,
"…accompanied by her son, the young Mr. Wright, whose presence in the courtroom raised several eyebrows. Sources wonder if such exposure to high-profile cases at his age is either healthy or intentional grooming."
Ethan folded the paper closed with deliberate care.
She hadn't lied outright. That was the worst part. She'd done what Rita Skeeter did best, twist the truth just enough to poison it.
He leaned his head back against the armchair, staring up at the high ceiling above. The chandelier hanging there caught the light like a web of diamonds. Elegant. Beautiful. Sharp enough to kill if it fell.
He hated her.
That wasn't a word he used lightly. But with Rita Skeeter, it wasn't about a single offense, it was a pattern. The way she wrote others into corners. The way she grinned while doing it. Like Lockhart, she had built her career on bending truth, but unlike Lockhart, she didn't need memory charms or grand performances. Just a quill, a parchment, and the public's willingness to believe what sounded most dramatic.
Part of him wanted to be petty. No, cruel. He knew from the books, knew what she really was. An unregistered Animagus, a beetle. Small, insignificant, and dangerously invasive. He could just… trap her. Find a little jar, maybe one of the crystal ones with an airtight lid, and wait. Seal her inside and forget about her existence.
She'd die, of course.
But he wouldn't have to see it.
He'd just tell himself she was locked away somewhere. Tucked in a drawer. Forgotten like a bad memory. No mess. No consequences, at least, not for him.
Hermione had done it, hadn't she?
Locked her up. A perfectly moral girl had done just that. And Skeeter had kept quiet afterward. It had worked.
And if not that, he could expose her. Take a photograph. Reveal her Animagus form to the entire magical world. But even that felt… incomplete. She would spin it, twist it into a tale of unjust persecution, of being hunted by the very people she reported on. He imagined the headline now, "Reporter or Target? Ministry Tries to Silence Truth-Teller Skeeter!"
It would do nothing.
He rubbed his temples slowly.
Because the truth was, Rita Skeeter had never needed to be right. She only needed to be believed. That was what made her dangerous.
She was a fire that fed on attention, not facts.
To lash out at her directly, especially in a way that left evidence, would be like throwing oil on the flame. He would be painted as the villain. A "rich pure-blood heir," abusing his influence to silence a humble journalist. She would be lauded, pitied, defended.
And he would lose.
Not just reputation, but the moral high ground. He hadn't gotten his mother to investigate Lockhart out of cruelty. It had been about justice. About the truth. And to make sure his second year at hofwarts wouldnt be wasted. Letting Skeeter drag them into her games would make it seem like everything they'd done had been personal.
And maybe she knew that.
Maybe that was the real reason behind the hidden jabs.
She wasn't attacking.
She was baiting.
She wanted a reaction.
Ethan looked down at the folded paper in his lap, then toward the open window where sunlight bathed the garden beyond. The breeze carried in the faint scent of lavender. Somewhere below, Noctis was likely prowling the hedges for butterflies or dozing in a patch of sun.
He wouldn't fight her. Not yet. If she became a persistent thorn in his side, then he might be willing to engage.
Because that was what she wanted, drama. Headlines. A story.
No, when the right time came, when she stepped too far or slipped just once, then he would do something. The kind that couldn't be spun into a sob story.
She would fall, just like Lockhart had.
Just like all the liars eventually did.
He reached for his tea again. It had gone cold A quick re-heat with a charm, and he drank his fill.