Harry Potter: The Wandmaker

"Harold Ollivander, can you describe what the creature that attacked you looked like?"

"No," Harold replied flatly, staring at the witch with glaringly red fingernails.

Rita Skeeter—one of the most notorious troublemakers in the wizarding world, and a name dreaded by most witches and wizards.

Harold hadn't expected news of his attack to reach The Daily Prophet, much less that she would somehow sneak into Hogwarts.

Rita Skeeter frowned, clearly dissatisfied with his answer. On a nearby stone ledge, her gaudy Quick-Quotes Quill was already scribbling away across a sheet of parchment.

The young Harold Ollivander, coerced by Hogwarts staff, refuses to admit he saw a monster inside the castle. His eyes glistened with unshed tears—eyes full of disappointment in Hogwarts.

Harold glanced at the writing and felt a vein in his forehead throb.

Unshed tears? He wasn't crying! Well, maybe he had been disappointed in Hogwarts… a bit. But how did she know that? Or rather—how did she come up with all this?

All he wanted now was to get as far away from her as possible. But Rita had planted herself squarely in the corridor, and Harold would have to physically squeeze past her to get through.

"Where do you think the monster that attacked you came from?"

"No idea," he answered vaguely.

Harold Ollivander confirms the attack, but refuses to identify the mastermind behind it. He subtly implies that Dumbledore may be training a secret army…

Nope. That was enough. If she kept writing like this, Dumbledore might storm the Ministry tomorrow and start playing headless hockey with Cornelius Fudge.

Harold turned to leave—but hesitated. If he left now, who knew what she'd write next?

And then, two grey blurs shot into the corridor.

Mrs. Norris came bolting through first, sprinting between their legs. Rita yelped and stumbled into the railing, nearly tumbling down the stairs.

Right behind her came Tom—Harold's cat.

In the blink of an eye, Tom seemed to assess the situation. He leapt with surprising grace, landing squarely on Rita Skeeter's unsteady face.

It's worth noting that thanks to the Forbidden Forest's generous "buffet," Tom now weighed quite a bit more than he used to. And he didn't land gently either—he made sure his claws were out.

"Aaagh!" Rita screamed as eight long red gashes appeared across her face. She staggered back, stunned.

Only when she reached up with trembling fingers and felt the blood did she really process what had happened—then she let out a shriek so piercing it echoed through the halls.

"Oh no, it's Mrs. Norris—Argus Filch's cat—charging through the corridors again!" Harold said loudly and clearly, voice dripping with fake concern.

He turned to Rita. "Ma'am, I suggest you go to the Hospital Wing immediately and ask Madam Pomfrey for some dittany. If you don't treat those cuts soon, they'll scar.

"One of my classmates has a scar on his forehead. It's been a nuisance ever since."

"Yes—yes! Dittany! I need dittany!" Rita gasped. At the mention of a scar, something in her brain snapped, and she shrieked again—then bolted toward the Hospital Wing like her life depended on it.

She had studied at Hogwarts once upon a time. She still remembered the way.

"Nice job, Tom," Harold said with a smile. He glanced down at the abandoned quill and parchment.

"And those—shred them, will you?"

Tom pounced gleefully, tearing the feathered monstrosity to pieces. The parchment followed, quickly reduced to tatters strewn across the corridor.

Harold picked up a few larger scraps—the ones that had writing on them—and tucked them away to burn later in the common room fireplace.

"Brilliant work," he said, giving Tom an approving pat. "You'll get a treat later. Ever heard of a basilisk?"

Tom tilted his head—clearly not.

"Never mind. Go play." Harold waved him off. "And take it easy on Mrs. Norris. Filch is starting to figure out you're my cat, and I really don't need him whining to Professor McGonagall again."

Tom meowed and darted off. Whether he understood was anyone's guess.

As for Mrs. Norris… she used to get the upper hand when Tom first arrived. But these days, Tom was practically the size of a Bludger. The fact that she was still getting outrun? Frankly embarrassing.

Harold shook his head and made his way up the stairs toward Professor McGonagall's office.

This was not the Ministry. Strangers couldn't just wander in and out of Hogwarts. If someone like Rita Skeeter could waltz in and accost students in broad daylight, what else could happen?

McGonagall's expression turned stormy when she heard the story. She rushed to the Hospital Wing at once.

But by the time she arrived, Rita Skeeter had already left.

She claimed she was "invited," grabbed half a bottle of dittany, and walked out the front gates.

"If you see her again," McGonagall said grimly, "don't say a word."

"Harold Ollivander expresses his resistance through silence…" Harold mimicked in a dramatic whisper. "Pointless. She can spin a quote out of anything."

"My grandfather was once accused by Rita Skeeter of being a conspirator," Harold continued. "Said he was making too many wands—planning to arm Muggles and lead a revolution against the Ministry."

"Garrick Ollivander? Trying to overthrow the wizarding world?" McGonagall's voice rose an octave. "That's preposterous! She knows Muggles can't use wands!"

"I'm sure she knows. But who cares? People like reading that stuff, so she'll keep writing it."

Harold shrugged. "Thankfully, she eventually realized people were more interested in calling Dumbledore a madman, so she moved on."

McGonagall gave him a long look. Do you even hear yourself right now?

"Mr. Ollivander, I'll find out how she got in. But next time—say nothing."

The enchanted boars on Hogwarts' front gate weren't just for show—they were enchanted to stop unauthorized entrants. How had Rita bypassed them?

Her Confundus Charms couldn't possibly outmatch Hogwarts' ancient magic.

Then again… she might not have used a Confundus Charm.

Whatever tricks she had—eavesdropping, Animagus abilities, secret contacts—they certainly worked. And that's how she wrote all those bestsellers.

After leaving the Hospital Wing, Harold hurried to the Great Hall—hopefully lunchtime wasn't over.

He'd meant to ask McGonagall who had tipped off The Daily Prophet, but figured there was no point.

Too many suspects.

Last weekend had been a Hogsmeade weekend. Everyone was buzzing about the attack. It wouldn't have taken much for word to spread.

Even Gilderoy Lockhart could've leaked it.

The man had gotten even more shameless lately. Not content with hinting about his "heroic rescue" during class, he now mentioned it constantly.

Like when he bragged about reforming a vampire and getting him to drink carrot juice.

Harold had no doubt that if Lockhart ever wrote Gilderoy Lockhart and the Curse of the DADA Position, this incident would feature heavily.

He could already picture it—"A brave professor saves a helpless young student from the clutches of a long-forgotten serpent…"

Hogwarts. Student attack. Basilisk.

It was front-page material.

No way Lockhart would pass up a headline like that.

Rita Skeeter had only been asking about the attack today. If Mrs. Norris and Tom hadn't interrupted, she probably would've moved on to asking about the rescue next.

As he thought about it, Harold finally arrived at the Great Hall.

Luckily, he wasn't too late. Students were still eating.

But just as he stepped inside, someone shouted—

"It's Harold Ollivander!"

A small, grey-haired boy came running over, nearly tripping, holding a plain Muggle camera.

"I'm Colin Creevey!" he said breathlessly. His face was flushed with excitement. "Did you really get petrified that night? What did the monster look like? Was it really as scary as Professor Lockhart said? Can I take your picture?"

Harold frowned.

Halloween had been almost two weeks ago. Surely the buzz should've died down by now.

Apparently not.

Rita Skeeter was one thing.

But Colin Creevey? Wasn't he Harry's number one fan?

"I'm taking them for Professor Lockhart!" Colin said quickly. "He said if they turn out well, he might use them for his next book!"

Perhaps too excited, Colin accidentally pressed the shutter.

The camera flashed.

But the shot captured nothing but a thick book—Advanced Transfiguration—held directly in front of Harold's face.

"No photos."

Harold lowered the book and deadpanned, "Shouldn't you be taking pictures of someone more important than me? If Professor Lockhart wants material for his book, I'd think he'd prefer Harry Potter."

(End of Chapter)