Chapter 110: The Rita Skeeter in the Castle

“Silven Ollivander, can you describe the creature that attacked you?”

“No, it was too dark that night—I couldn’t see anything.” Silven stared coldly at the witch before him, her nails painted bright red.

Rita Skeeter, the most notorious troublemaker in the magical world, and one of the few wizards most wished to avoid.

Silven never imagined news of his attack had reached the Daily Prophet, let alone that this powerful troublemaker had slipped into Hogwarts.

Rita Skeeter frowned, clearly dissatisfied with Silven’s answer.

On a nearby stone table, a gaudy feather quill began scribbling furiously across parchment.

【Young Silven Ollivander, coerced by his professor, was forced to deny encountering a creature in the castle; his eyes glistened with tears, brimming with disappointment in Hogwarts.】

Silven glanced at it once, and his temples throbbed.

How had he ever been disappointed in Hogwarts… well, maybe a little—but how had she even seen his tears?

Silven only wanted to escape this woman, but Rita Skeeter blocked the entire corridor—he could only pass by squeezing past her.

“Where do you think the creature that attacked you came from?”

“I don’t know.” Silven replied offhandedly.

“Silven Ollivander admits he was attacked but refuses to name the mastermind behind it, subtly suggesting Dumbledore may be training a secret army…”

No—he couldn’t let her write another word. If she did, Dumbledore might storm the Ministry tomorrow and tie Fudge to a horse for a game of head-over-hockey-stick.

Silven considered retreating, but feared Rita would write even wilder lies if he did.

Just as Silven hesitated, two gray figures suddenly darted out—one in front, one behind.

Mrs. Norris rushed forward first, sprinting straight between their feet. Rita Skeeter stumbled back, crashing into the railing and nearly toppling over.

Then Tom came charging after her—in an instant, he seemed to grasp the situation, leapt high, and planted his hind paws squarely on Rita Skeeter’s face before she could steady herself.

Notably, the Forbidden Forest offered abundant food sources, and Tom’s weight had grown considerably.

Added to that, this was deliberate—he extended his claws as he landed.

“Ahh!”

Eight neat bloody scratches appeared on Rita Skeeter’s face. When she regained her balance, she still didn’t understand what had happened.

Only when she trembled and touched the wounds did she let out a piercing scream.

“Oh, this is Mrs. Norris, Argus Filch’s cat—how could she run around the corridors like this?” Silven said loudly and clearly.

“Madam,” he turned to Rita Skeeter, “I strongly advise you go to the hospital wing immediately. Madam Pomfrey should apply some Dittany—otherwise, these wounds may scar.”

“One of my classmates has a scar like that—he’s been tormented by it ever since.”

“Yes, yes, Dittany—I need Dittany!” At the word “scar,” something in Rita Skeeter snapped. She shrieked and bolted toward the hospital wing.

She had once attended Hogwarts herself—she knew exactly where it was.

“Well done, Tom,” Silven smiled, glancing at the abandoned quick-quote quill and parchment.

“And these—tear them up.”

Tom lunged, biting the gaudy quill into shreds in seconds.

The parchment was even easier—Tom had often used it to sharpen his claws, and soon fragments littered every corner of the corridor.

Silven picked up a few larger pieces covered in writing, planning to burn them in the fireplace later.

“Well done,” he patted Tom’s head again. “I’ll treat you to something good sometime. Have you heard of a Basilisk?”

Tom tilted his head—he clearly hadn’t.

“Never mind. Go play,” Silven waved him off. “Go easy on Mrs. Norris, or Filch will go running to Professor McGonagall again—he seems to know you’re my cat.”

Tom meowed and dashed off, whether he understood or not, no one could tell.

And Mrs. Norris too—when Tom first arrived, getting chased by her was understandable. But now that Tom was nearly as round as a Bludger, how could she still catch him? Clearly, she’d made zero progress.

Silven shook his head, found a staircase leading upward, and headed for Professor McGonagall’s office.

Hogwarts wasn’t the Ministry—no one could just come and go as they pleased. That would be chaos.

After hearing Silven’s account, Professor McGonagall’s face darkened instantly, and she rushed to the hospital wing.

But when she arrived, Rita Skeeter was already gone.

She claimed she’d been invited, took half a bottle of Dittany, and left.

“Next time you see her, say nothing,” Professor McGonagall warned.

“Silven Ollivander expresses his resistance through silence…” Silven mimicked the quill’s tone. “It’s useless—she always finds something to write about.”

“My grandfather was once called a conspirator by Rita Skeeter—she claimed he crafted so many wands to arm Muggles and lead them in overthrowing the Ministry.”

“Garrick Ollivander… overthrow the magical world?” Professor McGonagall’s voice rose sharply. “This is utter nonsense—doesn’t she know Muggles can’t use wands?”

“I suspect she knows. But what does it matter? People love reading this stuff—so she keeps writing it.”

Silven shrugged.

“Luckily, she later discovered people were more fascinated by the idea that Headmaster Dumbledore was an old lunatic—so she switched targets.”

Professor McGonagall shot Silven a look… Do you realize what you’re saying? Doesn’t the Headmaster’s reputation matter at all?

“Mr. Ollivander, I will investigate how she entered the school,” she said. “If you encounter Rita Skeeter again, say absolutely nothing to her.”

The two winged boars atop the school’s iron gates weren’t just decorations—they blocked every intruder attempting to enter Hogwarts.

Professor McGonagall couldn’t fathom how Rita Skeeter had gotten in. Surely not by outsmarting Hogwarts’ defenses with a Confundus Charm?

If Rita Skeeter possessed such skill… oh, she apparently did—but not necessarily through Confundus Charms. More likely, it was her uncanny ability to dig up secrets—that’s why she could write so many articles.

After leaving the hospital wing, Silven hurried toward the Great Hall… hopefully lunch hadn’t ended yet.

He’d considered asking Professor McGonagall to find out who had told Rita Skeeter about the attack—but decided against it.

Too many people could have done it… last weekend was Hogsmeade weekend, and his attack was the hottest topic in school. Any student who mentioned it in Hogsmeade might have been overheard.

And then there was the ever-desperate-for-fame Lockhart.

With no professor refuting him, Lockhart had grown even bolder—he no longer contented himself with dropping hints in class; now he blurted it out everywhere.

Like how he always bragged about taming a vampire into drinking only carrot juice.

Silven suspected that if Lockhart ever wrote another book, *How Gilderoy Lockhart Defeated the Curse of Defense Against the Dark Arts*, his own attack would appear in it.

How could a man so obsessed with fame be satisfied merely boasting among students?

A student attacked at Hogwarts—Professor Lockhart heroically arrives, rescues the innocent young wizard, then “accidentally” reveals the creature is the Basilisk, vanished for centuries.

Hogwarts, student attacked, Basilisk—this was perfect front-page material.

Given Lockhart’s obsession with headlines, would he pass up such an opportunity?

Silven didn’t think so.

And Rita Skeeter had only asked him about the attack—if Mrs. Norris and Tom hadn’t interrupted, she’d surely have moved on to the rescue.

As he thought this, Silven reached the Great Hall.

Good—he wasn’t late. Several students were still eating. But no sooner had he stepped inside than a cry rang out:

“It’s Silven Ollivander!”

A thin, gray-haired boy stumbled over, clutching a ordinary Muggle camera.

“I’m Colin Creevey—” he said, face flushed with excitement. “Were you really petrified that night… what did the creature look like? Was it as terrifying as Professor Lockhart described? Can I take your picture?”

Silven frowned.

It had been nearly half a month since Halloween. Normally, this topic would’ve died by now—why was it still going?

Meeting Rita Skeeter was one thing—but Colin Creevey? Wasn’t he Harry Potter’s fanatical admirer?

“I’m taking pictures for Professor Lockhart,” Colin said. “He said if the photos are good, he’ll use them in his next book.”

Too excited, Colin’s hand trembled—he instinctively pressed the shutter.

The camera flashed white—but nothing was captured. A book had blocked the lens entirely.

“No thanks.”

Silven held up his *Advanced Transfiguration Guide*. “Why not photograph someone more valuable? Compared to me, Professor Lockhart would much rather use Harry Potter as his subject.”

(End of Chapter)