Cedric was a good person.
But he clearly hadn't considered—or even realized—these things.
Thoughts that might seem a bit too transactional had simply never taken root in his mind.
Still, that didn't mean he disapproved. In fact, upon seeing Goldstein's actions, the usually calm and composed Cedric actually looked ashamed.
"Sorry, Harry. I might… need to go prepare something," the young Hufflepuff admitted with a hint of embarrassment.
Harry waved it off, indicating he understood.
Goldstein glanced at him and added pointedly, "Diggory, I think you care about more than just the payment."
Cedric understood the implication and shook his head. "No. I trust Harry."
"Mr. Longbottom, at least, is a fifth-year, and he has his reasons," Goldstein clarified. "But Miss Granger is also a fifth-year—and yet you, even as her boyfriend, didn't let that sway your judgment."
Before Cedric could respond, Goldstein turned to Harry. "Potter, like I said—I'm only in fifth year. I can't judge a seventh-year's skill level. So, Mr. Diggory, I'm afraid I'll have to trouble you."
"Harry," Cedric said helplessly, "I probably should."
Hermione stepped forward and drew her wand.
Cedric joined her in the center of the room.
As Hufflepuff's best student, now in the prime of his final year, Cedric was strong—his abilities comparable to that of an average Auror, roughly on par with Hermione. But when it came to actual combat experience, the gap between them was significant.
Hufflepuffs weren't known for aggression, and Cedric's few real duels had taken place three years ago, during the Slytherin ban on Hufflepuffs entering the kitchens. Back then, as a fourth-year just starting to shine, he'd mostly thrown spells and punches awkwardly, flailing about.
And now, he was under more pressure—he constantly stayed wary of Hermione trying to get close, fearing she'd hit him like Neville had.
But Hermione stuck strictly to formal dueling protocol—spells, transfiguration, even incorporating herbs and potions.
Cedric was confident that in any of those areas—except, perhaps, in terms of battle experience—he was no worse than Hermione, maybe even stronger.
And yet…
It ended with a single Full Body-Bind Curse.
Harry lifted it.
Cedric took a deep breath. "Miss Granger is… surprisingly strong."
Hermione didn't respond. She lowered her head slightly and smiled. Her fingers toyed with a pocket-watch-like object in her robes.
Anyone who spent at least twenty hours a day studying would naturally close the gap on any goal, no matter how distant.
She felt a subtle joy, like budding willow shoots by the lakeside, or a purple gentian preparing to bloom—a quiet surge of vitality.
"You just lack experience," Harry said, shaking his head. "Hermione's had far more real combat than you."
Cedric shook out his numb arm. "I thought I wasn't bad… seems like I've still got a ways to go."
Goldstein looked visibly shaken.
This year's Gryffindor… was something else.
He couldn't help but wonder: If Harry Potter were in his house, would he have raised Ravenclaw's standard too?
But that was only a thought—nothing more.
They finalized the class schedule. Cedric promised repeatedly he'd collect payment soon and hand it to Harry or Hermione.
The next day—
Goldstein and Cedric arrived with serious faces and a copy of the Daily Prophet.
Neville and Ron made room.
They laid the newspaper in front of Harry.
On the front page: Umbridge in a pink robe, grinning triumphantly. She wore a ludicrously exaggerated pink wizard's hat. Standing beside her, clapping in celebration, was Slinkniss.
The headline was massive:
"A New Chapter! Paving the Way for Wizards' Future!"
The article detailed how Hogwarts students' academic performance had declined over the past decade—with charts comparing OWLs and NEWTs results, showing a steady drop in top grades.
To "save" students' futures, the Ministry had enacted Educational Decree No. 24, granting Senior Inquisitor Umbridge even more authority—including the power to observe other professors' classes and review their teaching quality.
That was the most important point.
The rest listed other decrees:
Decree No. 10: Bans all non-educational items. Decree No. 11: Bans literature written by non-wizards or part-humans. Decree No. 12: Bans boys and girls from standing closer than six inches apart. Decree No. 22: Pets must remain in dorms or common rooms. Owls must stay in the Owlery.
Hermione squinted, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Professor Umbridge really is impressive—she even wants to regulate personal space."
"Six inches…"
"Try spreading that out and see if you can even sit at a desk together."
Ron leaned over nervously. "Hermione, six inches is this long." He held his thumb and forefinger apart.
Hermione slowly turned and gave him a look.
Ron immediately shut up.
"I saw this this morning." Harry nodded and set down his spoon. "So?"
"What if Professor Umbridge finds out?" Goldstein asked anxiously.
Like Hermione said, Umbridge was a nuisance—the kind who'd issue twenty-four decrees in barely any time at Hogwarts. What next? Half a semester still remained…
"What can she do?" Harry shook his head. "She can't stop us."
"Putting things in writing doesn't make them real."
He tapped the table with his wand. "Rather than read the Daily Prophet, take a look at this. Rita Skeeter really worked to dig it up."
Whoosh!
George's copy of The Quibbler flew into Harry's hand.
"Hey! I wasn't done!" George shouted, clutching his side.
"I'll return it in a minute." Harry waved him off.
This issue's cover was nearly identical to the Daily Prophet—a picture of Umbridge. But The Quibbler had added some artistic flair:
A giant label reading "Selwyn Family" printed on her pink hat, next to a question mark bigger than her head.
The article was straightforward—shockingly so.
No flowery language. No emotion. Just facts about Dolores Umbridge:
She claimed to be 5'2", but was actually 4'10". She called herself a descendant of the prestigious Selwyn family, but was in fact a half-blood. Worst of all—she lied to hide her father, a sad, aging janitor at the Ministry named Orford Umbridge.
Then came her romantic history.
Since graduating in 1973 and entering the Ministry, she had pursued nearly every senior official, regardless of marital status. She bartered affection for favors—yet had never had a real relationship, let alone a marriage.
Goldstein and Cedric read the whole thing in silence.
Their expressions were complex—deeply shaken.
"Harry…" Cedric said, holding the magazine. "I mean, Skeeter has been fairer lately, but this… are you sure she didn't just make it up?"
He sounded doubtful.
How could someone be so shameless?
To abandon her father for the sake of an image?
Cedric knew how Orford Umbridge was treated at the Ministry—poorly, overlooked, pitiful.
And her approach to love?
How could innocent students be expected to read this stuff? She chased anyone with power! Was that even love?!
Goldstein looked stunned—like The Quibbler had cursed him.
"Let me assure you," Harry said seriously, "everything in that article is true. Skeeter did not lie."
"Yes, she's flamboyant—and in the past, she dodged around topics. But she's never lied, has she?"
"This piece isn't even emotional. Just a string of facts."
Cedric took another look.
It was true. No opinions.
Each line began with a date, followed by what Umbridge claimed, then what the truth was. No commentary. Just facts.
"A liar who speaks nothing but lies doesn't deserve respect," Harry said, snapping his fingers.
Whoosh!
The Quibbler zipped back to George.
"She deserves none."
"I just want Hogwarts students to see clearly what kind of person Umbridge really is."
"At the very least, don't let the pink toad fool them."
Goldstein rubbed his face, deep in thought.
Cedric nodded, quietly processing.
George and Fred tucked away The Quibbler, whispering as they slipped toward the staff table, trying to coax Professor McGonagall away from breakfast—they had a grand plan to put in motion.
They'd already learned that Umbridge avoided the Great Hall until after nine… just to avoid Harry.
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Powerstones?
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