The Malfoy Project

𝟏 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐠𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐃𝐢𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭

10 THESTRALS ESCAPE HOGWARTS ENCLOSURE

     No. It has to be more... bait-y.

THESTRALS RUN AMOK HOGWARTS COMPOUND

     Better. But still not quite there yet.

THESTRALS RUN AMOK HOGWARTS COMPOUND, 
HEADMISTRESS SENT SCREAMING IN FRIGHT.

     Perfect.

     I throw my quill down and hold the parchment up to the light, blowing gently on the ink to dry it. I admired the way the first sentence would fade, giving way to the delightful, giggle-inducing second line. It's a work of genius.

     A sharp voice comes from behind, startling me so much I almost drop my masterpiece. "Are you done? The news waits for no one. We need to print. Now."

     A murmuring of agreement spreads throughout the other four students in the classroom.

     I lay the parchment back down onto the desk and smile. "And the news doesn't print until it's got the perfect headline."

     The figure leans over my shoulder to read what I had written. "That doesn't sound particularly nice. We might get into trouble. I mean, is it even true?"

     "Oh trust me, 'Mione. It's true. I've thoroughly interviewed everyone who was there. The Thestrals did chase McGonagall around the field. She was screaming her bloody head off. Even Hagrid was laughing himself silly!"

     "I still think we should scratch that bit out," Hermione ponders thoughtfully, but I knew it was the final say. My quill hovers over the big, bold letters, reluctant to drag the nib across the disapproved words.

     Without warning, Hermione snatches the feather out of my fingers and scribbles out the words before slamming it back down on the table with finality.

     "You're no fun," I mutter, but she had already pinched the page off the desk, going to lay it next to the rest of the pages, already arranged neatly in a row across three joined desks.

     The rest of the team crowded around to read. "It's perfect, Ains!" Ernie Macmillan sticks his head up to congratulate me. I force a pained smile back, knowing they would never know the genius Hermione had buried under the mess of black lines.

     "We can finally print!" Hermione's face is flushed with anticipation. I seethe in my seat, refusing to join them as they crowded around the desks for our weekly production ritual. Digging the heel of my palm into my cheek, I watch Hermione bring her wand to the pieces of parchment and utter the Geminio spell.

     At once, the pages began to duplicate, stacking themselves upon the previous. They didn't stop until there sat a neat little pile of approximately two hundred copies, ready to be fitted together. Then, with another flick of the wand and a nonverbal command, they began to attach themselves together to form the final product.

     The Hogwarts Digest, to be exact.

     Since its reopening after the war, Hogwarts has been a melting pot of new clubs and extracurricular activities.

     Dumbledore's Army - which I fought with and have since left - was officially reinstated as Hogwarts' very own battalion. Students who garnered a newfound passion for first-aid after the Battle formed the Healers Club, in which Madam Pomfrey and Nurse Wainscott trained them in the intricacies of herb remedies, draught-making, and advanced healing spells.

     A bit more uselessly, there was now also an Astrology Club, in which deluded Trelawney fanatics went hunting for gemstones and searched for the meaning of life in star charts. The duelling club, initially meant as a platform for students to learn self-defense, has now turned into a weekly affair of arrogant Slytherins and ego-inflated Gryffindors butting heads in full-on guts-and-glory displays that were, quite frankly, rather tired.

     Finally, there's the school's newspaper. Every Monday, The Hogwarts Digest is served straight to the common rooms in a fresh, hot stack of parchment, folded and bound with a roll of twine. Better than pancakes, Hermione would go about announcing proudly.

     We each had designated roles and sections we were put in charge of. Sue Li is having the time of her life eavesdropping around corners for the gossip column. Susan is our beloved Aunt Agony, and spends her time replying anonymous letters of heartbroken, lovelorn students.

     Me? I attend every single Quidditch game and practice, each time praying for someone to get accidentally hit by a Bludger, or, at the very least, slapped with a foul. It's just as well my boyfriend, Montague - or Monty - plays for Slytherin; there is an unending supply of locker room drama.

     Ernie, our cameraman, has his eye practically glued to his camera and is always ready for the next photo opportunity. I once told him that if he doesn't put that camera down, his lid would stick close like that forever.

     It's Hermione who has perhaps the most demanding job of all. As head of our lean team, she's responsible for the front page and pretty much every other hard news piece. She had been the first to jump at any opportunity to publicise her campaign for house elves, so naturally, she was selected to be official editor, a job she took a little too seriously.

     Personally, I think it's something she doesn't particularly excel at. Her knack for management and organisation is undoubtedly second to none, but where she falls short is actually understanding how journalism works.

     You see, contrary to popular belief, journalism is not solely about seeking truth - it is about selling it. It is about dressing it up in the fanciest robes you can conjure and then slapping on a beautifying charm for good measure.

     And as a journalist, the most glorious part of it all is that the truth could be anything you want it to be. You are the one holding the quill, dragging it across the parchment to paint whatever you want the world to see. You are in control.

     That is also why the power of the quill can be a terrifying thing.

     It had been because of someone's quill that the Wizarding World shunned the warnings of Dumbledore and Harry Potter; discredited them with nary a bother to check the facts. It had been because of someone's quill that we had not been prepared, and thus, plunged headfirst and blind into one of the greatest wars in wizarding history.

     I can hardly imagine making such a damning mistake. If I had a chance to work at The Daily Prophet, I would be able to tell the difference between when to publish sensationalised fodder for people to gossip about over teatime, and when to proclaim the raw, unfiltered truth.

     At least, that is what I had foolishly thought. Little do I know these complacent beliefs would soon be put to the test the moment Rita Skeeter entered the inconspicuous, makeshift office of The Hogwarts Digest.