Chapter 1: Intel? No, a Prophecy!
Hogwarts Castle.
In a quiet corner of the Ravenclaw common room, Ryan Welles was slouched on a sofa upholstered in soft, blue velvet. He'd pulled an all-nighter in the library, and a bone-deep weariness clung to him. His first thought was to find a Pepper-Up Potion to clear his head.
He was also gathering a few things for a trip he planned to take later, sorting through a small collection of useful potions.
It was currently the summer holidays. As a student with nowhere else to go, the Headmaster had granted him special permission to remain at Hogwarts. This meant he could forego his formal school robes for something more comfortable. His plan was simple: pop down to the kitchens for some sizzling lamb chops and toast, then head out for a bit of adventure. He'd learned the secret entrance to the kitchens from a kind Hufflepuff he'd met during one of his late-night strolls.
Half an hour later, with his supplies packed, Ryan returned from the kitchens carrying a large plate of lamb and toast.
Another half-hour passed. After a house-elf had whisked away his clean plate, Ryan found himself sitting back on the same sofa, a stiff, forced smile plastered on his face. Opposite him sat a young man who claimed to be a reporter for the Daily Prophet.
The Daily Prophet. The official mouthpiece of the Ministry of Magic. For a student like him, it was a behemoth that had to be treated with caution.
Of course, Ryan's strained smile wasn't due to interview jitters. It was because of the reporter's odd expression. He wasn't looking at Ryan like an interview subject; he was looking at him like a walking, talking, headline-exploding scoop.
And to make matters worse, the reporter had cornered him in the Ravenclaw common room without any warning.
A reporter inside Hogwarts had to have been granted permission, a fact that both puzzled and alarmed Ryan. He knew he had to tread carefully.
The reporter's eyes gleamed with the unmistakable glint of a promotion and a pay raise. Beside him, a Quick-Quotes Quill trembled slightly, eager to begin.
"Mr. Welles," the man began, his voice sharp and probing, "as the most renowned Seer in the wizarding world today, what is your opinion of the other diviners and so-called prophets?"
It was a loaded question right from the start, a perfectly crafted trap. No matter what Ryan said, he knew that quill would record it in the most sensational way possible.
And what a sensational way it was. Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan's brain, now running at top speed, caught a glimpse of what the quill was already scratching onto the parchment:
Ryan Welles holds nothing but contempt for his so-called peers, refusing to even grace them with a comment. In his eyes, the other wizards who dabble in Divination are nothing more than flashy frauds…
I didn't even imply that!
Ryan's mind buzzed as if a Bludger had just skimmed past his ear. He could practically feel the weight of a cauldron of lies about to be dumped on his head.
"Excuse me, Mr. Reporter," he said, cutting him off. "Your Quick-Quotes Quill doesn't seem to be recording accurately."
He raised a hand, and with a simple, deliberate gesture, the quill lifted into the air. It began to struggle violently, as if caught in an invisible net.
"Not at all, not at all, Mr. Welles!" the reporter insisted, his tone full of false sincerity. "The public has a right to the truth, and I am merely recording the facts!"
"These are the facts?"
The parchment also broke free from the reporter's grasp, floating gently in the air. Ryan pointed a finger at the slanted, venomous script.
"It's a bit of artistic license," the reporter said, puffing out his chest. "It's the truth our readers care about."
"The truth?"
"Of course! Whatever the reader wants, that's the truth. And our readers love conflict. It's best to create some friction with other famous figures. It strengthens both your images, creates a rivalry, and generates buzz..." The reporter's eyes glazed over as he pictured his grand vision. "Think of the Galleons!"
Ryan, who had been tense and rigid, couldn't help but let out a small laugh. He truly couldn't fathom how this buffoon had managed to get an interview pass for Hogwarts.
As he chuckled, the floating parchment ignited without a flame, burning to ashes in an instant. The faint embers drifted out of a nearby open window.
"Mr. Welles, you are infringing upon the public's right to know the truth!" the reporter shrieked, leaping to his feet. It was a line that had always worked for him in the past.
Then he noticed that the Quick-Quotes Quill, still suspended in mid-air, was slowly dissolving into fine dust.
His head snapped back toward Ryan, his face a mask of outrage. He felt deeply offended. A mere student, daring to use such tactics to intimidate him! To warn him!
His voice seethed with anger. "You're threatening a journalist! This is Hogwarts! What do you think you're doing?!"
"Yes, this is Hogwarts," Ryan replied calmly, rising to his feet and stepping in front of the frozen reporter. "So what are you doing here?"
The reporter's eyes bulged with fury. He tried to draw his wand, but found he was completely paralyzed, bound by an invisible force. He couldn't move a single muscle, let alone reach for his wand.
This is impossible… he thought, pure terror flooding his mind.
Ryan stepped closer, patted the reporter on his stiff shoulder, and the spell broke. He leaned in and whispered, "I have things to do, Mr. Reporter, so I won't waste any more time here. Oh, and by the way, you should be very glad this is Hogwarts."
With that, he turned and strode out of the common room, heading for the castle entrance.
Left behind, trembling with a mixture of fear and rage, the reporter frantically pulled out a new quill and a fresh sheet of parchment. He began to write by hand, his strokes so heavy and furious that they tore through the parchment in several places. As he wrote, he muttered a stream of vicious curses, using every foul word he knew to slander Ryan.
"A fourth-year!" he spat to himself. "Just because he can see a few things, he thinks he's somebody! How dare he threaten me! A reporter for the Daily Prophet! A pure-blood wizard! I'll make him pay! I will ruin his reputation!"
"Just you wait for the Howlers, Ryan Welles! You will pay the price for your arrogance!"
"The public loves to see a celebrity fall from grace, and you will be no exception!"
"A mere fourth-year!"
"A mere fourth-year..."
The thought of his custom-made, one-hundred-Galleon quill turning to dust made his heart ache and his fury boil over. Although he was a pure-blood, his family was not wealthy or influential. Having graduated only recently, he didn't have much of a personal fortune.
That hundred-Galleon quill was an entire month's salary.
Suddenly, the reporter froze. He, too, had been a Hogwarts student once. What could he do when he was in his fourth year?
He remembered himself at that age, more interested in popular jinxes than serious spell-work, dozing off in Charms class. His magical power was average at best, and his knowledge of magical theory was patchy.
That's what a normal Hogwarts student is like! he realized.
The magical mastery that Ryan Welles—a fourth-year—had just displayed... As a Slytherin graduate, the reporter was nothing if not cunning and ambitious. In that moment, he already knew how he was going to spin this disastrous interview.
He just hadn't yet grasped why Ryan had told him to be grateful he was at Hogwarts.
........
On the path toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest, Ryan glanced back at the castle's high towers before pushing the incident from his mind.
He was a well-liked student with a good reputation, and he maintained friendly relationships with his professors and many of his classmates. It was unlikely anyone had set him up. It was probably just an ambitious reporter trying to make a name for himself. He shook his head. The wizarding world was, for the most part, a straightforward place. The kind of person who would think, 'You're better than me, so I must destroy your reputation by any means necessary,' was still a rarity.
Besides, the reporter's sensationalist style was clearly learned from Rita Skeeter's playbook. No one in their right mind would plot anything serious with one of her disciples; they were infamous for doing anything for a big story.
And more importantly, who would dare to make an enemy of a Seer who produced a new, accurate "prophecy" every few days?
No one could be certain that their schemes wouldn't be immediately foreseen by the master prophet himself, their plans exposed and their persons delivered to him as a peace offering by wizards desperate for his favor.
After all, prophecy had always been an unreasonable, almost cheat-code-like form of magic.
He thought back to the image that had appeared in his mind when he woke up that morning. It was a desolate marshland, where the skeletal branches of dead trees shivered in the mud under the mournful cry of a crow.
It was accompanied by a line of text:
[In three days, a lost traveler will wander into this place. Thus begins an epic journey. At the end of a road paved with countless alchemical arts lies a glorious future.]
The intel also included precise coordinates, a location he could reach by Apparition.
This was the secret power he'd gained after being reborn into this world: a piece of intel, once a day. A vision and a line of text, refreshed every morning at eight o'clock sharp. It was the tool he used to masquerade as a Seer. He kept the intel about magical ruins and powerful artifacts for himself, while sharing the less critical information as "prophecies" to build his fame and influence.
Over the past four years, many people inside and outside the school had benefited from his guidance, allowing him to build a vast network of contacts.
The only downside was that intel directly beneficial to him was rare. The result was that he had become a master prophet capable of making a major prediction every few days, widely acknowledged as the number one Seer in the wizarding world.
His output was enough to drive his competitors into an early retirement.
For instance, a certain Professor Sybill, who preferred not to be named.