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The Free Press?!
By Spenser Hemmingway

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Category: The Interview Challenge (2009-2)
Characters:All, All, All, All
Genres: Drama, Humor
Warnings: None
Story is Complete
Rating: PG
Reviews: 10
Summary: All intelligent people understand the value of the free press, but what exactly is its cost? Harry and Ginny have recently discovered the answer to this, but even more valuable is their good friendship with a crazy American, determined to manage certain malicious words.
Hitcount: Story Total: 3717



Disclaimer: Harry Potter Publishing Rights © J.K.R. Note the opinions in this story are my own and in no way represent the owners of this site. This story subject to copyright law under transformative use. No compensation is made for this work.



Author's Notes:
Spenser, the American exchange student and friend to Harry and Ginny is again our narrator. The small town of Riddle actually exists in southern Oregon, although I doubt it was named for Tom.




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The Free Press?!

By Spenser Hemmingway


“All I know is what I read in the papers” –-Will Rogers



“I’d never lie to you, old son. Every word in this here story is the genuine, authentic truth…more or less. That there Harry Potter took a likin’ to this old cowpoke, and he agreed to an exclusive interview with me. He and his friends Portkeyed to my place down on the Rogue River for a rattlesnake barbeque last week. Third of August it was. That’s when them critters are the best tastin’. Remember that old son. Always beware of grilled snake out of season…say between March and July especially. You see, what you want to do is marinade them in cactus juice and tequila for say…oh, maybe a week. Don’t cut out their fangs. That gives the meat an extra kick. I meant what I said about eatin’ them the wrong time of year. Had myself a batch of June rattlesnake about three years back, and it wasn’t worth the anti-venom. The charcoal would have tasted better. Now I remember one year when my good buddy Sweet-Tooth Fillhorne brought over a basket of fresh sidewinders…completely forgot about killin’ them first, and he and I…”

“You were telling me about Harry Potter and the story you wrote Mr. Foghorn. You said they Portkeyed all the way from the British Isles to southern Oregon? That doesn’t make any sense. International Portkeys–-transporting people thousands of miles that way is impossible. That part of your story can’t be true.”

“What are you talkin’ about old son? It has to be true. I read all about it in True Suspense Comics.

“I beg your pardon sir?”

“Call me Joe. What you say your name was again old son?”

“Spenser…Hemmingway…no relation. Joe, the American Bureau of Magic has more than a few questions for you about the article you wrote for The Quibbler. The British are ready to tar and feather you over it. The whole thing is straining relations, especially your supposed intention to post the thing on the Wizard Wire Service. Uncle Theo asked me to talk with you before the official people do. I’m kind of…sort of…a writer myself. At least I keep telling everyone that.”

“As I was sayin’, old Sweet-Tooth brought in that bushel of out-of-season rattlers…big ones too. Scared the budjeebers out of our cook Conchita. She screamed. Sweet-Tooth screamed. The snakes went flyin’. I sure wish the woman hadn’t gone after them with that there broom the way she did. The new gal can’t whip up corn pones anywhere near as good. The point I’m tryin’ to make is that August and September are best time to wrangle up rattlesnake.”

No, the point was that he was changing the subject, avoiding my questions. Yakima Joe Foghorn was as big a phony as they come. He was even worse than the Transfiguration teacher at my Canemah Academy, who swore he was once a famous opera singer in New York City. What Professor Fudd really meant was that he was a regular at Malmack’s Bar on karaoke night.

The whole matter really was delicate, and Uncle Theo had definitely not wanted me involved. My elderly relative held some mysterious position in our American Wizarding government, and it was clearly important enough to worry the bureaucracy with what this Oregon cowboy correspondent was trying to do to Harry. Uncle Theo’s dilemma arose from the simple fact that no one who worked with him (more accurately, for him) knew, or had even met Harry Potter. That’s where I came in.

I had run into Harry, Ginny, and Ron–-the Weasley parents as well briefly–-when I was in England for a short holiday just before my second year of school. That’s another story, but, suffice it to say, Harry, the Weasley siblings, and I had quite an adventure one day. We had also become good friends during the brief encounter. Ron and Harry weren’t much for writing letters, but Ginny had been. We stayed in touch. I knew a fair bit about what had happened to them that past year–-the real story. A lot of it was no one’s business, and it took a fair amount of magic applied to our letters to ensure the privacy. Still, I could talk about enough of it to plead my case for being the one to visit Mr. Foghorn.

Yakima Joe might be as fake as professional thumb wrestling, but he did seem to know things that gave the story he wrote a slight air of authenticity. My concern was that someone was sharing with him confidential parts of my friends’ lives. I needed to discover the how to it, and to plug the leak before the official concerns caused the suits to really stick their noses into private matters.

Uncle Theo gave me one chance, and only one chance. My folks reluctantly gave me the keys to Granny Hemmingway’s old (but still cherry) Super Sport Dodge. I had just turned sixteen–-old enough to drive, but not to Apparate. Finally, the corner gas station gave me a road map, which would direct me to the small town where Joe and I were to meet over breakfast. I didn’t understand the weird coincidence at the time–-I was heading off to Riddle, Oregon.

“So I says to my gal Ellie Eliza, ‘What do you mean you put baked beans in my bass boat’s gas tank?’ Great girl–-raises opossums you know. I love them varmints…everyone should own one. Been toyin' with the idea of startin' an opossum dairy. They put out the best durn milk. That’s what Mel here uses for his coffee creamer.”

I spit out my mouthful of freeze-dried, watered down mud, swearing then-and-there only to drink it black in the future. Joe’s strong laugh told me he had been joking. For just the cost of a fresh cup of dark roast though, I decided, I could really come to dislike the man. For his part, the cowboy simply sat back, turned his attention to the passing traffic outside the restaurant’s dirty window, and began a discourse on the best fishing holes in the surrounding countryside. I had to come up with a way to get him back on focus, and to talk to me about Harry. I pulled the now-stained sheets of paper with the article (with my notes) toward me and began to reread them for the tenth or eleventh time.

*****


The Quibbler

July 20, 1996
Harry Potter Tragedy?
By Joseph C. Foghorn
Contributing Writer




The life of the young British Wizarding hero took a dramatic turn this past year, supposedly resulting in his life being placed in increased peril and bringing about the return of the biggest threat to western Europe since the rise of the Nazi menace in the nineteen forties. The story is a long, complicated matter, and, for the most part, misreported where documented at all. Recently, Mr. Potter took the time to approach the more reputable Quibbler in an effort to relate his version of events. The periodical is managed and edited by my longtime friend and associate, Xenophilius Lovegood, who is also the father of Harry Potter’s current romantic interest, Luna Lovegood.

[Note to self: Luna Lovegood–-who was she? The last time I had talked with Harry, the only girl in his life was Ginny Weasley–-not that he knew it yet, let alone would admit it if he did. Hmm…?]

Harry Potter had been advised to contact the magazine by his therapist, Doctor Ivan Egghead, as part of a comprehensive rehabilitation program. Purportedly, Potter had suffered a complete mental and emotional breakdown following his now famous break-in and running battle at the British Ministry of Magic. The psychologist, when questioned, explained how the numerous libelous and slanderous stories coming out in the Daily Prophet had greatly upset the teenager. A rough, general suggestion had been presented where they could obtain the services of an outside, non-partial news correspondent to interview Harry Potter and any friends that cared to participate.

“He really is a normal teenager,” Doctor Egghead explained, “for someone with delusional psychosis and a Napoleon complex.”

When contacted by The Quibbler staff, I did not at first, want to become involved in the project. My often Pulitzer-nominated work has always been far less controversial than what was expected of me with this new endeavor. Xeno Lovegood had to personally call upon me, evoking memories of our time together as war correspondents, and the kidney he donated to save my twin brother Earl.

[Note to self: Pulitzer? War correspondent? According to Uncle Theo, Yakama Joe’s prior writing experience centered on his short tenure as the obituary writer for the Portland Oregonian newspaper. His short biography I’d been provided specifically mentioned how he had no living relatives, and never did have a brother. The closest thing out there for Joe, as far as family, was four ex-wives and a favorite bartender.]

Once convinced to take the assignment, I realized the importance of strong security and a private location. Harry Potter’s delicate condition would require someplace where he would feel at home, safe, secure, and comfortable. My vast landholdings in the southwestern corner of Oregon would be the perfect site I quickly decided.

[Note to self: Foghorn owns two acres in the mountains near the town of Agnes, Oregon. The house would have been condemned, but no one had the stomach to go near it to nail the notice to the door.]

I decided that the best approach was to visit England, and to personally escort the involved parties to my hacienda. It was arranged for us to rendezvous at Castle Lovegood in Essex. Arriving there, I immediately realized the mistake I had made with this choice. Held back only by mysterious invisible wards were dozens of reporters trying to approach and conduct their own interviews. Despite the distance, questions and comments were being shouted at the manor house. One pair of correspondents, whom I recognized as being from the Freedonian government’s official press corps, was preparing a large raft to cross the moat, should someone find the means of getting that close.

Skirting the crowd, and fingering the pass-charm that would allow me through, I quickly attracted attention and a charge of steno pad wielding bodies. I ran several steps until I was certain I was inside the protections. I paused to look back, only to see some of the more foolish of my colleagues bounce off the wards as they came into contact with them. I waved to them, gave the group a sympathetic smile, and moved off toward the drawbridge where a large assembly of formally clad servants awaited me.

Upon entering the citadel, I was escorted to the master’s private study where my old friend Xenophilius himself met me. Behind him, cowering in fright, was the boy I had come so far to meet. Harry struck me as being extremely frail and timid, and nothing at all as the public had been led to believe over time. To one side stood Lovegood’s daughter Luna, in what I thought was a far too short and a much too tight dragon skin dress, and with enough makeup to supply a troop of mimes. To Harry’s other side were his personal manservant Ronald Wesley, his dowdy-looking personal secretary Hermethia Grainer, and his therapist Doctor Egghead.

[Note to self: Hermethia Grainer? Our problem was solved. Hermione was going to kill him for misspelling her name and writing her that way.]

It was agreed that time was of the essence. We had to depart the castle immediately for the Portkey we had arranged to have established in the nearby village of St. Beaverling Catchmold. Two of the Wesley brothers, twins named Mortimer and Alonzo had been retained as bodyguards for our movement. The pair had reportedly been involved in a number of gangland killings, which resulted in their being expelled from the famous Hogsbreath Academy in the Welsh Highlands. Judging by the mob I had encountered, I doubted they would be enough.

Slipping out the backdoor of the castle, we boarded a large carriage pulled by fourteen white stallions. The manservant Wesley took the reins, and, expertly employing a large bullwhip, spurred the team onward in the direction of the town. We had hoped to avoid attracting the attention of the other reporters, but such was not to be the case. The hue and cry went up that we were escaping, and they were instantly in hot pursuit. Magical bolts were thrown at our horses, no doubt intending to bring them down and cease our run. The twins returned fire, and surprisingly, so did a no longer subdued, but rather crazed Harry Potter.

Our escape could not have taken more than ten minutes, but in that time, we left behind the bodies of no less than forty-seven British reporters and photographers, most falling to the wand of a maniacally laughing Harry Potter.

[Note to self: No wonder the British are upset by Foghorn’s story?]

Not bothering to slow down, the carriage was aimed at an extremely large barn at the edge of town, which I knew housed the Portkey. I was wrong. The structure itself was the magical device. The lead horse appeared to slam into the scarcely open door, and the animal, the coach, and all of us were hurled off, a third of the way around the world, and to my luxurious estate.

We were finally safe…or so I thought. As we finally came to a halt, there emerged from under a large tarp on the coach floor a small, homely, redheaded girl, who bore a strong resemblance to the Wesley brothers. We had somehow picked up a stowaway.

“Ginny, what are you doing here?” one brother yelled. Before there could come an answer, the girl directed her Killing Curse at Luna, hitting my friend’s daughter squarely in the chest.

“If I can’t have you Harry, then neither will this bimbo!” the Wesley girl screamed.

“Ginny no!” Harry countered, but it was too late.

“I love you Harry! Come closer! I want to kill you!”

Before she could, Ginny Wesley was enveloped in a full-body bind, and her wand wrested away. The question went around as to whether the authorities should be contacted regarding the murder, but the consensus was that having American Aurors on hand would detract from the festive atmosphere of the barbeque. Besides, Ginny Wesley might be able to contribute to the story I was writing. We could weigh her down and throw her in the river later.

After a wonderful feast, our group adjourned to my spacious library for cognac and good cigars. Harry was much more relaxed now, and I hoped to glean a great deal of information from him before the end of the day. I decided to begin with the events from the previous summer and asked him about the dementor attack.

“The whole thing was staged. There was no attack. I gave my cousin Dudley a few gold coins, and he agreed to go along with it. He is such a wonderful kidder. I’ve rarely met anyone with such a great sense of humor. The whole thing went exactly as planned. It got me into the Ministry that day, so I could make my attempt to assassinate Minister Fudge and his people. I wasn’t expecting so much security however, and we had to delay our plan.”

I asked Harry to elaborate.

“It was part of our plot to overthrow the government–-Albert Dumbledore’s and mine. Somehow, they saw right through us, and took the proper precautions. It took all year for us to make another attempt.”

I inquired about Serious Black.

“Best trained killer on the market. We had an incredible time breaking him out of Alkabacus Prison, but it was worth it. My big mistake there was in trying to hide him near the school right afterward. Special Agent Professor Snipe almost caught him, but in the end, it worked out. Black went to work for us, killing anyone we needed removed, and blaming it on Voltermorte. Now there is a big fraud, and a brilliant one.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Voltermorte never came back. We staged the whole thing again. The battle at the Ministry was with hired stunt people. We go in there, thrash most of the Department of Mysteries, and one of our people dressed as the Dark Lord makes a dramatic appearance just as the Aurors arrive. Fudge gets booted, and we move on to the next stage of our plan to take over the government.

I asked about the prophecy…about his being the Chosen One.

“Propaganda is an extremely good tool don’t you think. I introduce something mysterious and mystical. People soak it up. I become all the more important. Even now, the final stages of our takeover are in place. By this time next year, I will be in control of British Wizardry. Do you want to know why I really allowed this interview?”

“The suspense is killing me,” I had to admit, “but it’s better than what your old girlfriend did to the current one.”

“Yeah, Ginny has always been the jealous type, and been on a rampage ever since she found out she was pregnant. That’s the second girl Ginny’s killed this week. Where was I? Oh yeah. You know why I’m telling you all this? It’s because no one is going to believe you. One more member of the media is trying to smear poor Harry Potter, and the public will finally begin to lose faith in the free press. That’s the only thing that can stop me you know. Even if they don’t print it, they’ll know I made the effort to open up, and they’ll know I was physically attacked by that mob back in England. We made sure there were plenty of witnesses. Hmm…could some of that group have been planted to stir things up even more? Now who could be that evil do you suppose?”

I stopped the interview there. The situation had moved beyond the boundaries of civilized journalism and my own exemplary standards. Harry and his cronies saw this, rose, and made their way out of my home. I didn’t follow, but I could faintly hear the carriage being driven off. I don’t know what they did with Ginny Wesley–-a quick examination of the riverbank revealed nothing. The swift-moving water could easily have carried the body off.

I stayed up the remainder of the day and all that night writing and revising this account of our meeting. Every word of it is absolutely true, despite what this diabolical young man would have you believe. It is important that the word go out to all of you–-that action is taken before it’s too late. The fate of Wizardry lies in the balance!

*****



“That’s quite a piece of work there isn’t it old son?” Foghorn speaking to me again, and not about exotic cooking, actually startled me.

“It most certainly is. By the way, it’s Weasley not Wesley, Albus Dumbledore, Professor Snape, and Voldemort not Voltermorte…among other mistakes. You seem to have misspelled every name and place in your story. Hogwarts is in Scotland Joe. Who did the beta read on this? It sure wasn’t Mr. Lovegood. From what little I’ve heard about his magazine, the man is a fanatical perfectionist, at least regarding grammar and spelling. Ginny’s last letter mentions a visit from his daughter last Saturday–-I didn’t know her name was Luna–-so I’m sure she’s not dead. Also, Ginny Weasley happens to be the prettiest, sweetest, most wonderful girl you could ever hope to meet. An idea popped into my head. “Incidentally, I go to school with her now. Joe, can we meet again this evening for supper. It’ll be my treat.” That got his attention. He had to be doing all this for the money, and I had to stop him from making more by posting his fabrication on the Wizarding Wire Service.

“Why sure old son! That’s mighty neighborly of you! You’d make a great cowboy…that is, if you could root for a better baseball team than the Seattle Mariners. I’m partial to the Texas Rangers myself.”

Imagine that. I paid my breakfast tab, deliberately adjusted my favorite baseball cap, and moseyed off to my borrowed hotrod to try to locate a courier owl.

*****



As good as the beefsteaks were reported to be in Mel’s Diner, the place was almost deserted come five o’clock. I hadn’t had much luck with the owls, there not being any Witches or Wizards in that neck of Oregon (none I could find), but even we Magics are capable of utilizing Mr. Bell’s invention when the need arises. Three collect calls to Portland, and more than my fair share of good…no great luck, resulted in an evil, devious plan for the evening.

As I expected, Yakima Joe was ten minutes early for our dinner appointment. Free food can be quite a motivator. I took a quick peek inside my notebook to confirm the information I had acquired, particularly one extremely surprising bit of intelligence the Bureau had provided me. Unless I was completely at sea, in the next few minutes I would be justifying Uncle Theo’s hesitant confidence in me and defusing a delicate international situation.

Foghorn sat down, and immediately began another strange discourse, this one being on the use of hot axle grease in fly-tying. I wasn’t going to allow him to evade the subject again.

“I found out how you obtained what little information you had about Harry and Ginny Joe. I’m not sure who helped you at The Quibbler. Mr. Lovegood is ready to skin you, if the truth be told, along with whoever it was. Also, why didn’t you mention that Delores Umbridge was one of your many ex-wives? The new Minister is supposedly very anxious to speak with her about your article and her contribution to a few of the…what should we call them…fibs. Nah, blatant, malicious smears and lies is more appropriate.”

“I…don’t know what you’re talkin’ about old son?” Yes, he did. His head shot back, and his eyes were as wide as Quidditch Quaffles.

“Please don’t call me that. I only turned sixteen the middle of July, and there is no way I would ever be your son. I also have it on good authority that you’re originally from The Bronx, New York, so you can drop the good-old-boy act. The Bronx? I really hate the Yankees. “Okay, there is one more thing. Since you’ve obviously never really met Harry, Ginny, or the others, I’ve arranged a little surprise for you.” I lifted my hand and motioned her over. “Joe Foghorn, I’d like you to meet Miss Ginevra Weasley. We had her Portkeyed over. She’d like to discuss her characterization.” The man went white.

“No…no that’s not possible! She couldn’t have traveled here so fast! There’s no such thing as an eight-thousand mile Portkey!” he whimpered.

“It has to be true. You read it in True Suspense Comics,” I reminded him.

“But, but…” Joe was finally at a loss for words.

“Mr. Foghorn, I’m really not at all upset about what you wrote about Harry, my brothers, my friends, or even me. It’s all rather funny come to think about it, don’t you think?” Joe's face seemed to relax a bit, or it did until he saw that the girl’s soft smile had faded. “There is one certain individual who reportedly is not at all pleased with how he was portrayed. You’ve somehow offended his delicate pride. You may want to prepare what you are going to say to Lord Voldemort once he finds you.”

The man shot out of his chair as if he’d been shocked. The few other customers, all fortunately out of earshot, gave him a few surprised glances, especially when he bolted out the door, into his pickup truck, and tore out of the parking lot like Burt Reynolds on a sugar fix. It was more excitement than Riddle had seen since their Annual Sweathog Festival that June. I didn’t mind at all when the pretty redhead took Foghorn’s place at the table.

“I know you’re a vegetarian Sara, but would you mind if I had this t-bone steak they just brought me? The Bureau of Magic is still footing the bill.”

“Argh, yuck! No Spenser! Don’t touch it! Don’t taste it! Don’t enjoy it! Sigh. I told you not to touch your tongue to that. It’s dead cow for Merlin’s sake. Oh…well, I suppose there’s no stopping you now. I’ll just pretend you’re eating soy burger, but just this once. Foghorn really thought I was Ginny?”

“I sure did when you transferred to the Canemah Academy our second year. It’s going to be fun when your boyfriend finally meets your cousin. You two…are identical. Thanks for helping out on such short notice. It really put the final nail in that story’s coffin. Am I permitted steak sauce?”

We three are identical. Wait until you meet cousin Maggy. It was fun, and I’m glad I could help. Spenser, what are you going to do now?”

“I’ve been thinking about that. I think that I’m going to go ahead and post his article to the Wizarding Wire Service.” It was Sara’s turn to have her eyes go wide. “No worries–-I’m sending it out as a fictional short story, after I add the part about my time down here with him. You know, to tell the story behind the story…do some serious editing for the newspapers or magazines…try to undo some of the damage from The Quibbler posting.”

“That’s a wonderful idea. Can you really turn the thing into a nonsense story?”

“Hey, it’s me. Hmm, I do have one more idea. That is, I do if I can convince Mr. Lovegood to go along with it.”


*****



Dear Harry and Ginny,

I understand from Sara that you’re still both at the Burrow right now (how did I know you’d be together?), so I can kill two mundarks using one hand grenade (so to speak) with this letter. You’ve probably heard how we’ve straightened out the mess with that Quibbler article my fellow American snuck in. I’m sorry to say that not all my countrymen are fine, upstanding people like me (please don’t say it). It’s safe to say that you won’t be hearing of him, or from him, for the foreseeable future. The last I heard, Mr. Foghorn was hightailing it for Antarctica.

I know you must be a bit gun-shy right now, but would you possibly consider letting me write up a real article for you? I’m not really a journalist, but I am a friend, and I’d produce something you would approve. Think about it, talk it over amongst yourselves, and get back to me as soon as you can please.

I hope you’re having a great summer. I certainly am, although I wish I could see you folks once in a while. I’m still pushing the idea for my coming over as an exchange student someday. Oh, one last thing–-who is this Luna Lovegood, apart from being the publisher’s daughter? Is she cute?

Take care, and I hope to hear from you soon.

Mischief managed!

Spenser

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