Hogwarts, a Scholar Becomes a God

Over the camp at five o'clock in the morning, the thin white mist was like a veil, swept by the wind.

Clark and the others had only slept for a few hours when Mr. Wesley woke them up.

"We have to hurry, there will be a lot of people in a while."

He magically stowed the tent into his backpack, then took Clark and them and hurriedly left the camp.

On the way, they also saw Mr. Roberts standing at the door of his small stone house, waving goodbye to them with a vague expression, and saying "Merry Christmas" vaguely.

"He'll be all right," said Mr. Weasley, as they strode toward the swamp. "Sometimes, when a person's memory is altered, he'll be a little offended for a while...and they want to use it. Another big thing he forgot."

But they still underestimated the influence of the Dark Mark, and even if they got up at five o'clock, when they approached the place where the door keys were kept, they heard many people there already shouting eagerly.

"Hey, I'm here first, hurry up and give me the door key!"

"Don't cut in the queue, okay?"

"Go away, this is my position, if I don't leave, I will chant a spell!"

“%@…&#@!@**…”

Clark and the others saw that a large group of wizards surrounded Mr. Basil, the port key manager, and were clamoring to leave the camp as soon as possible.

Mr. Wesley went up to discuss with Basil in a few words, and everyone stood in the queue. Finally, before the sun rose, he got an old tire and leaned on it to return to Ferret Mountain.

In the twilight of dawn, the Weissleys and Clark and the others walked through the village of Autry-San Catchipole, down the wet path toward the Burrow.

Along the way, few people were willing to talk, because they were all tired and got up early. At this moment, they just wanted to go home and have breakfast, and then go back to sleep.

However, when they turned a corner and the Burrow appeared in front of them, there was a shout from a small road not far away.

"Oh, thank goodness, thank goodness, you're finally back!"

Mrs Wesley, who had apparently been waiting for them in the front yard, ran towards them, wearing the slippers she wore in the bedroom.

Her face was very pale and her expression was very nervous, and the reason why she was like this was only because she was holding a rolled up "Daily Prophet" in her hand.

"Arthur—I'm so worried—so worried—"

Mrs. Weasley put her arm around her husband's neck, and the Daily Prophet slipped from her weak hands to the ground.

Clark looked down, and the title turned out to be: "Shocked! Such a terrifying scene at the Quidditch World Cup." Below the title, there was a flashing black-and-white photo of the Dark Mark hanging on the treetops.

"You're all alright," Mrs. Wesley muttered in shock, letting go of her husband and looking at them one by one with red eyes, "you're all alive... oh, son... it's so nice..."

To everyone's surprise, she grabbed Fred and George and gave them a hard hug.

Because of too much effort, the twins' heads collided "winter".

"Ouch! Mom—you're strangling us—"

"I was yelling at you before you left!"

Mrs Wesley couldn't help crying.

"I've been thinking about this! What if You-Know-Who got you guys and the last thing I said to you was that you didn't do well on your O.W.Ls? Oh, Fred...George..."

Harry and Ron couldn't help but snicker to themselves.

"Okay, okay, Molly, we're all fine."

Mr. Wesley comforted her, pulled the twins out of her arms, and led her into the house.

"Bill," he said in a low voice, "pick up that newspaper, I want to see what it says..."

They all squeezed into the small kitchen, and Hermione offered to make Mrs. Wesley a strong cup of tea with a lot of sugar cubes in it.

But before serving it, Mr. Wesley insisted on pouring a little Ogden Aged Strong Whiskey in it—

"Molly prefers wine to sugar," said Mr. Wesley with a wink, taking the teacup from Hermione's hand and placing it in front of Mrs. Wesley.

Then Bill handed the newspaper to his father.

Mr. Wesley opened the paper and glanced at the first page, while Percy looked over his shoulder.

"I knew it was going to be like this," Mr Wesley said heavily. "The Ministry of Magic is panicking... criminals are not caught... law and order is loose... dark wizards are on the loose... shame on the country... who wrote this? Ah... Of course it's her... Rita Skeeter."

"That woman likes to go against the Ministry of Magic!" Percy said with some dissatisfaction. "She said last week that we should be doing our best to destroy vampires, but we spend a lot of energy on pleasing foreigners. Say it's a waste of time!"

As he spoke, he couldn't help but complain to Clark, "By the way, aren't you a shareholder of the Daily Prophet, why would you tolerate such a fabricated reporter in your newspaper?"

Clark spread his hands, "Because readers like it."

"In this world, dog bites man is not news, man bites dog is news.

Readers don't want to read those serious news. Did you know that Rita Skeeter and Gilderoy Lockhart are ranked first and second on the best-selling author list every year.

She is the ace reporter of the "Daily Prophet". The sales of the newspaper depend on her. I am only one of the shareholders, but I don't have the right to fire her. "

The words left Percy speechless, but Clark seemed still not satisfied, and continued, "Actually, the problem is not with Rita Skeeter, but with the Ministry of Magic."

"Why is this still a Ministry of Magic problem?" Percy asked.

"Why not? Citizens themselves have a right to speak, and the Ministry of Magic can't stop the public!

What you need to do should be to solve the arrogance problem brought about by the huge size, to constantly supervise the public opinion environment of the people, to respond quickly, and to reply as soon as possible.

Instead of a problem, wait until the public opinion ferments, and then come out to make up for it, which consumes the credibility of the Ministry of Magic itself.

Not only that, but I found that your Ministry of Magic is still struggling to deal with this kind of public opinion.

In the face of doubts from the masses, you always have a natural sense of arrogance, thinking that you are an official and can ignore the opinions of the people at the bottom.

That won't work..."

Clark's mouth kept talking, and Percy nodded again and again, seemingly agreeing with his opinion.

"If you say that, the Ministry does have this problem.

Maybe I should write to the minister and suggest the creation of a propaganda department to deal with public opinion. "

"Okay, Percy," Bill said, yawning, "you don't talk about it."

"Mentioned me."

At this point, Mr. Wesley read the end of the article in the Daily Prophet and suddenly widened his eyes behind his glasses.

"Where?" asked Mrs Wesley, choking on her whiskey tea, "if I had seen you just now, I would have known you were alive!"

"There were no names in the papers," Mr Wesley said, "only that a Ministry official showed up shortly after the Dark Mark appeared and declared that no one had been harmed, but declined to give further details."

"...It remains to be seen whether his words are enough to quell the rumors that several bodies were carried out of the woods an hour later."

"Oh my God," said Mr. Wesley angrily, handing the paper to Percy, "no one was really hurt. What should I say? Rumors of a few bodies being carried out of the woods... well, now she If you write something like this, it will definitely spread rumors.”

"Maybe Clark is right, we do have to have our own propaganda department," he sighed deeply. "Molly, I have to go to the office, and this needs to be clarified."

"I'm going with you, Dad," Percy also folded the paper. "Mr. Crouch will definitely need everyone to be in their place."

After saying that, he rushed out of the kitchen.

Mrs Weasley looked very sad. "Arthur, it stands to reason that you are on vacation! This has nothing to do with your office; they can handle it without you, right?"

"I have to go, Molly," said Mr. Wesley. "I made it worse. I'll change into my robe and go..."

He and Percy took their coats, got up and got into the fireplace, disappearing into the green flames.

As for Clark and the others, these things have nothing to do with them. After breakfast, they fell asleep, and the energetic Harrys even had a Quidditch match in the orchard.

In the week that followed, neither Mr. Weasley nor Percy was at home.

Every morning, before the family got up, the two of them left the house and didn't come back until long after dinner was ready.

"It's really messed up into a pot of porridge!"

It was a Sunday night, and they were going back to Hogwarts the next day, and Percy sat at the dinner table, telling them with all seriousness.

"For a whole week, I was like putting out a fire. People kept sending roaring letters, complaining about the safety of the World Cup, and wanting us to compensate them for their damaged finances.

But most of them want to fish in troubled waters.

Mundungus Fleich made a claim for a tent with twelve bedrooms and a jacuzzi, but I figured him out, he actually passed under a stick-supported mouth cloak night. "

Mrs. Wesley glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner, with nine gold needles, each engraved with the name of a Wesley family.

At this moment, all eight hands pointed to the "home" position on the clock face, and only the one representing Mr. Wesley, the longest of the nine hands, still pointed to "work".

Mrs Weasley sighed.

"Your dad hasn't had to work overtime on weekends since the day You-Know-Who lost his power," she said. "Now they're going to wear him out. If he doesn't come back soon, his dinner will be ruined."

She and Percy complained about the trouble Rita Skeeter had caused their house, with the rain pattering on the living room window.

In the corner of the living room, Hermione was sitting on the sofa, intently reading Standard Spells, Level 4, which Mrs. Weasley had bought each for her, Harry, Clark, Neville, and Ron in Diagon Alley.

Charlie was darning a fire-resistant hood, Harry was maintaining his Firebolt, and Neville was smearing his sword with varnish and dabbing it with deerskin.

Suddenly, Mrs Weasley asked, "By the way, why didn't Clark come down for lunch?"

The twins, who were buried in writing, said without raising their heads, "He's resting in the room, he said he has no appetite, so he won't eat dinner."

"That's okay, how much to eat," Mrs. Weasley couldn't help but wanted to get up and called Clark down, but she had to stop again when she saw the wall clock, "Oh, your dad is back!"

Mr. Wesley's needle suddenly jumped from "work" to "on the road", and after a minute, it trembled and stopped at the "home" position along with the other needles.

At this moment, they heard Mr. Wesley's shouts from the kitchen.

"Come on, UU reading www.uukanshu.com Arthur!" Mrs. Wesley hurried out of the room.

A moment later Mr. Wesley walked into the warm living room with his supper on a tray.

"Alas, things are getting out of hand."

He sat in an armchair by the fireplace, looking listlessly fiddling with the cauliflower on his plate, looking exhausted.

"Rita Skeeter has been camping around all week, searching for more chaos at the Ministry of Magic to report..."

While Mr. Wesley and his family were chatting about work, in the attic of the Burrow, Clark was standing in front of an open window, looking out into the distance.

The dense raindrops fell on the tiles above his head, making a crackling sound, mixed with the shrill whistling and moaning of gusts of wind, making the ghouls guarding the door restless and restless.

However, none of this seemed to affect Clark. His empty eyes focused on a certain point in the void, as if the whole person had already left his soul, and his consciousness was long gone.

If you follow the direction he is looking, through hills, mountains and plains, over rivers and seas, you will arrive at a mysterious ancient castle hidden in a mirrored shadow space.

And in this castle, our Clark (Psicrystal Servant) is doing ideological work for the wizards who were thrown into Azkaban for making trouble at the Quidditch World Cup.

"Kneel down and offer the purest loyalty to your master!"

Clark (Psionic Crystal Servant) in a blood-red robe strolled through the prisons, spreading his glory in the terrified eyes of the wizards in the prison.

Accompanied by his bewitching voice, these wizards who were originally terrified gradually became dazed, like puppets on strings, and knelt down obediently one by one.