I
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Chapter 207 — This Quill Is Poisonous
The woman muttered to herself as she worked.
She plucked a few strands of hair from Rita Skeeter's head and dropped them into a small vial of thick, yellow Polyjuice Potion, grimacing.
"Let's hope this goes down quickly."
She lifted the bottle and swallowed it in one breath.
Her form began to shift—shrinking a little, softening around the edges. She had been taller and sharper than Rita; now her build rounded, her features rearranging until she matched the unconscious journalist perfectly.
"Tch. What a nuisance. If only I could replace this woman permanently…"
A faint smile touched her new lips. "Imagine Dumbledore's face when he discovers the Saints have gained influence inside Britain."
She glanced at the real Rita Skeeter.
With casual efficiency, she dragged Rita's limp body into the cupboard and shut the door.
"I'm Rita Skeeter now," she said, amused.
She tapped the Quick-Quotes Quill, which had stopped writing after its owner fainted.
The quill sprang back to life—instantly dramatic, overly embellished, and completely slanderous.
"…Dumbledore, ever the shameless deceiver, hides behind his twinkling eyes while concealing dark ambitions…"
"…The admirable Lord Grindelwald, whose brilliance once lit the world like dawn—perhaps wizarding society needs his guidance once more…"
The woman—now Rita Skeeter—stared.
"What in Merlin's name—this quill is poisonous!"
---
5:00 a.m.
Darren was shaken awake by Paige.
He thought it was far too early, but after struggling into the formal dress Paige brought him, he realized it was already eight.
The outfit was a nightmare. Layers, clasps, enchanted stitching. It took him ages to get it all right—every accoutrement had to be positioned perfectly.
According to Paige, old wizarding families were particular about appearance, and nobles who dressed poorly would be mocked.
Darren wanted to protest. He wasn't some aristocrat, and he didn't care for all this fuss.
But Paige insisted this was a request from the Potter family portraits at the old manor.
They believed the trial would draw attention, and as the second heir of the Potter line, Darren could not appear plain or sloppy.
Even if the Potters never joined the Sacred Twenty-Eight because they treated Muggles as equals, they were still an ancient, noble house.
James too had always dressed impeccably for major events.
Pagie had explained all this in one breath.
Darren swallowed his complaints.
Saintly persona or not, he was trapped.
Once he finally finished, he stood before the mirror.
He had always been good-looking, but in this dark, understated formal dress—with his calm, gentle expression—he looked like a young noble straight out of a portrait.
"Master Darren has grown so quickly…" Pagie's voice trembled. "In the blink of an eye, you've become a proper young lord. You're the finest beauty in the Potter family—even lovelier than Mrs. Lily…"
Darren flushed.
"Let's go, Pagie. I can't keep my brother waiting."
[Ding. Father +100]
"Master Darren is always so considerate!" Paige sniffled happily.
Darren hurried away before the elf could get emotional.
---
The moment he entered the Slytherin common room, every student turned.
They all knew Darren had his hearing today and had gathered awkwardly to send him off.
None of them expected… this.
"Darren? Darren—are you really Darren?"
Pansy shrieked.
Darren tilted his head slightly, feigning confusion.
"It's me. What's wrong?"
Pansy immediately covered her face and spun around, flustered.
She had long known Darren Potter was handsome—but this was unreasonable.
"Ugh… scratch your head already…"
A low female voice muttered irritably.
Darren suspected it was Cassandra. She looked furious, though he had no idea why.
"You're going to a trial. Do you really need to dress like you're attending a coronation?"
Becky muttered, clearly annoyed.
Darren ran a hand through his hair, bewildered.
Every girl except Pansy looked upset.
Anyone who didn't know better might assume he'd broken their hearts.
Forget it. Better not dwell on whatever was going on in their heads.
He forced a gentle smile.
"Thank you for worrying about me. But it's still early—you should all go rest."
[Ding. Father +60]
[Ding. Father +50]
[Ding. Father +70]
A chorus of murmured notifications followed.
"Hmph—who said we were waiting for you?"
"Exactly! We're waiting for breakfast!"
"We're all organized—unlike someone."
"Some people should focus on preparing for their trial instead of worrying about us."
The Slytherins stiffened as they spoke, as though terrified of being caught caring.
Even Malfoy rolled his eyes.
"Potter, don't flatter yourself. I'd sooner see Scarhead off than you!"
Darren resisted the urge to point out Harry hadn't come to escort him.
Little Saint routine activated—he simply smiled.
"I understand. But thank you."
[Ding. Father +80]
[Ding. Father +60]
[Ding. Father +70]
"Oh for—if you're forcing yourself to smile, don't!"
"We're not here for you!"
"Just go already. Merlin forbid you embarrass yourself at the trial."
"Honestly, if the second heir of the Potter family helps Death Eaters and get into Azkaban, You-Know-Who might wake up from dead laughing!"
"The prisoners might even toast—'a Potter boy delivering himself to our doorstep!'"
"Move along! What are you doing standing there? Waiting for us to comfort you?"
"This is Slytherin. We don't comfort people. Hurry up! And don't miss breakfast."
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