"Yes, Mr. McPhail, I have seen the resurrected Voldemort, and I know exactly what ritual he used."
"Professor Dumbledore wasn't joking—he really has returned. I'm always available to attend your meetings and answer any questions if needed..."
Diagon Alley, Leaky Cauldron.
Kyle sat in a relatively quiet corner of the pub, carefully writing a reply to Dugald McPhail on a piece of parchment.
Over the holidays, he had frequently received similar letters asking if he had truly witnessed Voldemort's resurrection. Most of these correspondences came from Magical Creatures experts he had met during his time at the dragon reserve in Romania.
For instance, there was Professor Lochneal from Beauxbatons, Mrs. Rozzino, who studied dragons in North America, and Hagrid's favorite, Mr. Lima, the author of The Monster Book of Monsters.
Dumbledore must have told Newt, and Newt must have informed them all, Kyle mused.
Others writing to him included individuals who had previously awarded him the Order of Merlin. Dugald McPhail was one of these, and this was the second letter Kyle had received from him that morning.
Despite already knowing the truth, McPhail's letter, with its hastily scribbled, joined-up script, revealed his lingering unease. He mentioned that Dumbledore planned to hold a meeting in a personal capacity to elaborate on the situation and draft plans for the future. McPhail wanted to confirm whether Kyle would attend and also included a list of questions he hadn't addressed in the letter itself.
Though Kyle hadn't yet heard anything about the meeting directly from Dumbledore, he didn't mind going if his presence would help.
Finishing the letter, Kyle handed it to Ratton, his unusually large owl. The bird snatched the parchment and struggled to squeeze through the narrow skylight, leaving a few feathers behind in the process.
"Tom, two Butterbeers," Kyle called out. "And by the way, have you thought about making that skylight bigger?"
"I don't see the point," replied Old Tom from behind the bar. He glanced at the owl feathers scattered on the floor. "If you'd used a regular-sized owl, you'd see the window's just the right size."
"By Merlin's beard, what have you been feeding that owl? Dragon liver? Or did you use the Engorgement Charm on it?"
Kyle shrugged without offering a direct answer.
The person sitting across from him, however, was thoroughly entertained by Old Tom's remarks. She let out a piercing, affected laugh that made several heads turn.
"The Engorgement Charm on the owl of the Champion of the Tri-Universe Tournament—now that would make for an excellent story," she said. "Can I write about it?"
"What do you think?" Kyle replied flatly, not even looking up from his drink.
Rita Skeeter raised an eyebrow but said nothing, her hand still resting on her elaborate automatic quill.
"Do you know how torturous this is for me?" she finally muttered.
"Just because you can't write about me using the Engorgement Charm on an owl?" Kyle asked dryly. "It's not that big of a deal—it was just an old joke Tom made."
"You know that's not what I'm talking about," Rita said in a hushed tone. "The Minister of Magic Dugald McPhail in 1858, the resurrection of You-Know-Who, a personal meeting with Dumbledore..."
"Any one of these pieces of news would rock the entire wizarding world. But no—I'm not allowed to write a word about it. Isn't that torture?"
"Don't be absurd. I haven't stopped you from announcing Voldemort's resurrection to the wizarding world, have I?"
At this moment, Old Tom appeared with two Butterbeers and a plate of buttered biscuits, setting them down on the table.
"How much do I owe you?" Kyle asked.
"Not this time," Tom replied, flashing a grin that revealed a few shaky teeth. "It's congratulations for winning the Triwizard Tournament. Been a long time since Hogwarts brought home that honor."
"If that's the case," Kyle said with a smirk, "then I'll take a glass of Ogden's Old Firewhisky as well."
"No problem—ten Galleons in advance, please."
"Didn't you just say you'd treat?"
"For the Butterbeer and biscuits," Tom said without missing a beat, his expression calm.
"No, thanks... What a cheapskate."
Tom ignored the jab, turning back toward the bar without another word.
Kyle, meanwhile, nudged one of the Butterbeers toward Rita Skeeter and continued, "Actually, if you're serious about reporting on You-Know-Who, I won't stop you. I'll even pay you handsomely."
"How about a hundred Galleons per article? Write ten in a row, and you'll get all the prize money I won at the Triwizard Tournament."
"Very tempting," Rita said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She took a slow sip of the Butterbeer instead of answering directly.
"Seriously, you're better at making up stories than I am—I almost believed you. But if you'll excuse me, I have tomorrow's front-page article to write."
She stood, smoothing down her robes. "The Daily Prophet has been paging me for hours... Oh, and thanks for the Butterbeer."
Kyle chuckled. "Are you scared? This is the first time I've seen you back down from something."
The Butterbeer glass landed on the table with a heavy thud.
"I, Rita Skeeter, will never be scared to publish anything!" she declared loudly, her voice carrying across the room.
The commotion drew a few curious glances, but the onlookers quickly turned away when they saw who was involved. Nobody wanted to risk being the subject of Rita Skeeter's gossip columns.
Unfazed by the reactions around her, Rita drew a deep breath and continued, her tone sharp, "But I won't, and I can't, publish something people don't want to hear. It would ruin my reputation."
"I don't know what game you're playing, but if I told everyone that the mysterious figure who started the magical war over ten years ago had returned, guess what would happen?"
"They'd think I'm some kind of Xenophilius Lovegood! My career would be finished. I'll never make that kind of idiotic decision!"
Kyle leaned back in his chair, his voice calm as he asked, "Even if I use the photo as leverage?"
This time, Rita Skeeter fell silent. Slowly, she sat back down, her hand gripping the Butterbeer mug tightly. After taking another long swig, she finally spoke, her voice low. "I can pay for that photo with everything I've saved."
"I don't need money," Kyle replied evenly.
Another heavy silence fell between them. Rita's face shifted through a range of expressions—indignation, frustration, and finally a grim determination.
Though she often embellished her articles with plenty of "artistic license," there was always a kernel of truth at their core. Writing something entirely fabricated, like the resurrection of You-Know-Who, was unthinkable for her.
She could already picture the fallout. If she published such a story, not only would her readers ridicule her, but the Ministry of Magic would come down hard. Unless Voldemort himself appeared afterward, the consequences for her career—and possibly her freedom—would be catastrophic.
But that was impossible. Voldemort had been defeated by Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and everyone knew it. Resurrected? Ridiculous. Even if Dumbledore said it was true, nobody believed it.
"Why are you doing this?" Rita asked at last, her tone almost pleading. "If it's just to frighten people, you could make something up, or let me help you spin it. There's no need to drag You-Know-Who's name into it—it's a taboo!"
Her voice softened, tinged with exasperation. "It's not worth it. You just won the Triwizard Tournament and earned the Order of Merlin. Why throw your lot in with Dumbledore and Potter?"
Kyle met her gaze steadily, his expression unchanging.
Rita's face darkened as her frustration boiled over. Her voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "I'd rather go to the Ministry of Magic right now and confess that I'm an unregistered Animagus than let you use that photo against me. But don't think you'd come out of this unscathed, either. I swear, you'd regret it."
Her tone grew angrier, her words sharp and biting. "And when I do, I'll make sure everyone knows that you're just as delusional as Dumbledore—a fame-hungry lunatic, just like Potter!"