Harry Potter: outlier

Rita Skeeter leaned back in her chair, lips curled in satisfaction as her latest column rolled itself neatly across her desk. "It's almost elegant, don't you think?" she mused, watching the enchanted parchment settle. "A single article, and suddenly the nation loves a villain and hates a hero. Like flipping a coin."

Across from her, Edmund, once a journalist, now just a man with ink-stained hands and nothing left to prove, stared down at his untouched cup of tea. His shoulders sagged beneath a weather-beaten coat that smelled faintly of mildew and old parchment.

"I've seen it before," he muttered, voice low and dry. "A dozen times. A hundred. They cheer, they hiss, they forget. Not because you convinced them, but because they wanted to be convinced."

Rita tilted her head, amused. "And what's wrong with that?"

Edmund gave a brittle laugh, the sound of something broken rattling in his throat. "You write the lie. They swallow it whole. Then you write the opposite, and they swallow that too. No outrage. No memory. Just… noise. You erase it. The truth."

"Oh, Edmund," she purred, her quill spinning lazily between her fingers. "You've always had such a flair for tragedy. But really, the public doesn't want truth. It wants comfort. Certainty. Entertainment. A nice, tidy villain with a name they can spit."

He didn't meet her eyes. "Sigh. You're right. You're giving them sedation. You're part of the machine now. Feeding it. Keeping them docile, distracted, afraid of shadows you made up."

Rita's smile didn't falter. "And yet, they read every word."

"That's the worst part," he whispered. "They'll believe you tomorrow even if you contradict yourself today. They don't care. They can't care. You've burned out the part of them that used to question anything."

Rita stood, smoothing the folds of her emerald-green robes. "You always were too sentimental for this business."

Edmund looked up at her, eyes hollow. "No. I was just too human."

She paused, just for a moment, before stepping toward the door. "You really should learn to enjoy the pageantry. It's the only thing left they truly believe in."

He didn't respond. He just watched her go, a man long since drowned in a sea of forgotten headlines.

----

The Daily Prophet — Special Feature"The Boy Who Lied?"

By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent

"A phoenix may rise from ashes—but what if all that's left is smoke and mirrors?"

In the enchanted halls of Hogwarts, students whisper the same question louder each year: What, exactly, has Harry Potter ever done?

For someone lauded as The Boy Who Lived, one might expect remarkable magical aptitude or even just a passing sense of decorum. Instead, Hogwarts' most famous student seems content to ride the coattails of an infant's misfortune—his own—while contributing little more than scandal and spectacle.

And now, as the Triwizard Tournament unfolds, Britain is forced to ask: Is Harry Potter truly a hero? Or just a headline?

SMOKESCREENS AND SYMPATHY SPELLS

In his second year, Potter was mysteriously hospitalized for days, surrounded by speculation. Some say he was cursed. Others whisper darker theories — that he had a "breakdown" after tampering with spells far beyond his skill level. One former hospital matron, speaking under the condition of anonymity, revealed that the boy was found clutching an "incomplete transfiguration" that had rebounded violently.

"A danger to himself, let alone others," she noted grimly.

Sources suggest Potter may have tried to prove himself through dangerous solo experimentation, resulting in catastrophic backlash. A case of ambition outpacing talent? Perhaps. But the silence around the incident is deafening.

And yet—no consequences. No inquiry. Just more headlines, more hush-hush from the Headmaster.

The strangest part? His twin sister was at school that year too.

While Harry was nursing half-baked spells and wandering into trouble, his sister—Holly Potter—was earning top marks in nearly every subject. Professors have described her as "focused," "diligent," and "a natural talent with wandwork and theory alike."

One staff member even remarked: "If she weren't overshadowed by her brother's messes, Holly would be the most impressive young witch Hogwarts has seen in years."

FROM FAVORITE TO FRAUD?

Now, amid the prestigious Triwizard Tournament, the "Boy Who Lived" has once again taken center stage—but not through merit. Eyewitnesses confirm Potter did not even submit his own name into the Goblet of Fire, and yet, there he stands, a fourth champion.

An unqualified champion.

While champions like Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum trained for years, Potter was gifted a spot as if fate simply can't stop throwing him bones.

How convenient.

Meanwhile, whispers circulate about whether Dumbledore himself tampered with the Tournament to protect his pet project. One senior Hogwarts staff member, who requested anonymity, said simply: "If Potter sneezed wrong, Albus would blame the weather."

----

The Great Hall was unusually quiet that morning, with only the soft clink of silverware breaking the tension that had descended over the students. A flurry of owls swooped down from the rafters, dropping stacks of the Daily Prophet onto every table. The first few students, eager for their morning gossip, tore open their papers with casual interest, but as the front page hit, everything seemed to slow.

Harry's hand froze mid-pour, the pumpkin juice spilling over the side of his cup unnoticed as he caught sight of the headline. A chill ran through him, his eyes darting over the bold black letters.

"The Boy Who Lied?"

He felt his pulse quicken, but the room was already beginning to shift. Whispers, muted, swirled around the table. Harry's throat tightened as he slowly brought the paper closer, reading the opening lines.

"Merlin," Ron muttered, snatching a paper as well. "This is insane."

Hermione didn't speak immediately. Her brow furrowed as she read, her fingers tightening around the edge of the table. Then, her voice came, soft but sharp. "This is beyond anything she's done before."

Harry couldn't tear his gaze away from the paper. He wasn't sure why, but every word seemed to hit harder than the last, as if the article were written in his own voice, dragging up everything he had tried to bury.

The room buzzed louder, and Harry's ears began to ring. He could barely focus on the words anymore. Instead, his mind was screaming 'This isn't true. None of this is true.' But the accusations were as precise as imaginative, yet so damning, that he felt the weight of them all the same.

Holly had been sitting quietly beside him, her eyes scanning the room, as if she was looking for something or someone.

"What did they say?" Ron muttered, his face flushed with indignation. "Did they just lie about everything?"

"They're twisting the facts," Hermione said firmly, her voice tight with anger. "Harry didn't..." she broke off, unsure how to defend him. She turned to Holly, but the younger Potter was already standing up.

Her hands were clenched at her sides, the paper still untouched on the table. She wasn't looking at Harry, wasn't even looking at anyone. She was staring down at the far end of the hall, her focus fixed on something Harry couldn't see.

"Holly," Harry called, his voice breaking through the noise.

She blinked, but her expression remained unreadable. When she finally turned to face him, her eyes were cold, calculating and most interestingly purple. "I can't help you with this right now."

Ron's face twisted in confusion. "What do you mean?"

She had seen it, that sudden pressure bathing Harry in orange. She had seen Lucas's eyes on them, she knew that it was his doing.

Holly stiffened, taking in a slow, controlled breath. She didn't meet anyone's eyes again as she turned on her heel and walked out of the Great Hall, her footsteps echoing behind her.

She hadn't said a word to Harry before she left, and that was deliberate. He was already unraveling, poking him now would've only made it worse. Her heart ached for him, but there were bigger things at play than reputation or rumors. She had seen what Lucas did.

It was subtle, hidden under the natural reaction Harry would have to such an article, but to Holly, who could see magic, it had been unmistakable. Harry's sudden orange irises were a dead giveaway.

A thread of colourful intent had lanced from Lucas toward her brother. It had slipped through Harry's mental defenses.

She turned a corner sharply, robes swirling behind her. Every part of her was tense. She should have been able to stop it. She'd felt it beginning and froze, not out of fear, but ignorance. No one had ever taught her how to stop the colours, let alone resist an attack as cleanly executed as that one.

She had tried to control the colours of spells ever since the incident in the Great Hall purely to be prepared, she was certain that he wouldn't cross that line again. She was wrong. She knew that now.

No more waiting.

Even if that went against what she had promised her dad, her brother's wellbeing had priority.

The gargoyle guarding the spiral staircase to the Headmaster's office blinked at her with passive stone indifference. She drew in a slow breath.

"Bitter Lemon," she said flatly.

The statue groaned to life, swinging aside as the stairs began to rotate upward.

Dumbledore's office was warm and quiet, filled with the faint scent of parchment and lemon tea. The headmaster was seated behind his desk, peering over half-moon spectacles at a stack of morning correspondence, the Daily Prophet among them. His gaze lifted when the door opened, and he offered her a polite but reserved smile.

"Holly," he said. "To what do I owe the early visit?"

She didn't bother with pleasantries. She stepped inside, closed the door behind her, and met his gaze directly.

Holly stopped before Dumbledore's desk, fingers curled tightly into her sleeves. Her usual confidence had cracked, and though she tried to keep her voice calm, there was a tremor beneath the words.

"I need to ask you something, but before I do… I want your word."

Dumbledore studied her carefully. "My word?"

"No. Not enough." She met his gaze steadily. "I want an Unbreakable Vow. That you won't repeat or relay anything I say, in any form. Not to your staff, not to your allies. Not even to a wall, hoping it might whisper back."

The air in the office grew still. Even Fawkes shifted uneasily on his perch.

"That is a grave request," Dumbledore said at last, voice measured. "You understand what you're asking?"

"I do." Her voice sharpened. "And I wouldn't ask if I weren't sure."

He folded his hands slowly, contemplative. "Then allow me the same courtesy. May I ask why you've come to me, if you do not trust me?"

"I want to trust you," she said quietly. "But I don't know if I can. Not yet."

She was more keen on trusting her dad, but she wouldn't do that blindly, if she were to be convinced of something else she wouldn't disregard it mindlessly.

There was a pause. Something old and weary flickered in the headmaster's eyes, but he nodded.

"Very well," he said.

The Vow was made in silence, witnessed by a flickering golden flame he conjured between them. The portraits had quickly evacuated and Fawkes burst into flames. Holly held out her hand, palm up, and he took it. The magic bound itself without flourish, a single thread of light etched around their fingers like ink sinking into skin.

"I swear not to repeat or relay, in word, deed, or intent, anything Holly Potter entrusts to me from this moment forward, until she steps out of this office," Dumbledore said clearly.

The golden thread flared once, then vanished.

Holly exhaled slowly. "Thank you."

She didn't speak for several seconds. Then it all came through:

"I can see magic. Not just spells. The raw structure. And someone else knew how to do it, too. Marius Cole."

Dumbledore didn't move. "You've read his name."

"No one told me. I saw his name, somewhere. He left a journal. I want it."

He stood, crossed to a tall bookshelf, and retrieved a thin, worn volume. He placed it on the desk.

"No one's been able to make sense of it. It's incomplete. Chaotic."

"I'll manage." She grabbed it without ceremony and flipped through a few pages. Glyphs, diagrams, swirling ink, scribbles, nonsensic lines.

"He killed a goblin named Ranrok," Dumbledore said, trying to get her to talk to him. "Vanished afterward. They say he lost control."

"I'm not him," Holly said quickly.

"I didn't say you were."

She turned to leave.

"If you need help, real help, come to me," he offered reassuringly. "Until then trust your magic, it is our ever present companion."

She paused at the door. "If I need help, I'll ask. But this stays between us."

And then she was gone.

No second guessing. No goodbyes.

Just her, the journal, and whatever came next.

Dumbledore kept looking for a long time at his closed office door, he had expected something, but definitely not that.

To him it felt like his control was starting to slip more than he was comfortable with. He wasn't around at that time when Marius Cole was a student, but from what he had heard, his magic was far more dangerous than the killing curse, especially its versatility. 

Compared to Lucas, who had started to act on what he had been told to do in the letter. She was a far more unpredictable variable.

However, she was aligned with the values he saw as good and was unlikely to deviate. He saw no Tom in her.

Dumbledore started to fiddle with the ever present vial inside his robe pocket, thinking through his plans once more.