Chapter 16: It Is Him, the Honorable Mr. Bern Morris

Pig’s Head Pub.

The dim lighting, the aged wooden tables, and the heavy scent of mutton fat lingering in the air rendered the place unusually gloomy.

Sean Phillips sat nervously at a corner table, meticulously checking his notebook.

His quill was poised, and the pumpkin juice before him remained untouched.

The reason he had forsaken the tempting butterbeer in favor of pumpkin juice was solely because drinking alcohol while working was inappropriate.

It was absolutely not because the butterbeer here tasted terrible, nor was it because he had just seen Maurice holding an unfinished cup of pumpkin juice and had grown envious.

He had already explained all these points to the pub owner just moments ago.

Judging by the expressionless face before him, Sean guessed… the owner probably believed him.

After all, he was considered a regular customer.

Surely, the owner wouldn’t just kick him out for not ordering anything and bringing his own pumpkin juice, right?

No one could blame the owner for this. After all, the pub didn’t sell pumpkin juice.

For some reason, every time Sean came to this place and saw the owner, he felt a peculiar sense of familiarity — as if he had seen the man somewhere before.

Just as Sean was racking his brain to pinpoint the origin of this strange familiarity, the doorbell jingled.

He abruptly looked up, but the person entering was not the Maurice he had been eagerly awaiting. Instead, it was a witch clad in a vivid green robe.

Her hair was meticulously styled in an intricate updo, though it appeared oddly stiff. She wore jewel-encrusted spectacles, and her thick fingers gripped a crocodile leather handbag. Her ostentatious aura made it instantly clear who she was.

Rita Skeeter.

Sean’s face instantly froze.

He never expected that his mortal enemy would show up at this moment.

Worse still, she strode directly toward him—her unabashedly arrogant manner suggested she might as well own the pub—which Sean bitterly cursed inwardly.

“Sean Phillips,” Rita said as she stopped at the table, leaning forward slightly, her gaze sweeping over him with a growing smile at the corner of her lips, “So it’s you waiting here for Maurice? I must admit, that’s a surprise.”

The moment Maurice’s name left Rita’s lips, Sean knew trouble was brewing.

Was there any doubt about her purpose here? She was undoubtedly here to wrest the interview away from him; nothing else.

If there was a secondary motive, it was simply to disgust him.

This interview was something he had fought hard to secure. It was supposed to be his big front-page break.

After arranging the meeting with the esteemed Professor Maurice, Sean had returned to the newspaper office, brimming with excitement, to inform the editor-in-chief and reserve the front page for his article in the next issue of The Daily Prophet.

But who would have thought that this news would reach Rita Skeeter’s ears?

Just thinking about it made Sean’s throat dry. He looked up and forced a weak smile at Rita. “Ms. Skeeter, I know you’re experienced, but this interview is mine. I already have an appointment with Professor Maurice. See—”

By the time Sean finished, his tone had grown very weak.

Ever since he had briefly made a name for himself last year with a report on Maurice, he had believed he’d secured a foothold at The Daily Prophet.

But after Maurice’s imprisonment and the subsequent lack of fresh news, his status had plummeted again, while Rita Skeeter’s retaliations only escalated.

A vicious cycle had formed.

Until recently, Sean had few opportunities for interviews or articles.

Before long, he was on track to follow the path of others, being “voluntarily” forced out of The Daily Prophet by Rita Skeeter.

That morning, upon hearing Maurice had been seen at the Broken Cauldron pub, Sean had rushed to Diagon Alley in hopes of interviewing him and securing his place at the paper.

Yes, Sean could not afford to leave the newspaper.

First, it was his lifelong dream to become a journalist who reported truthful news.

Second, his family was in dire financial straits.

Apart from the monopolistic Daily Prophet, no other platform could simultaneously allow him to fulfill his ambitions and earn a decent salary.

He did not want to see his mother…

“Appointment?” Rita chuckled lightly, her voice dripping with unhidden sarcasm. Straightening up, she spoke condescendingly, “Phillips, you’re adorably naïve. Do you really think a rookie reporter like you, barely a year at the paper, can handle an interview with Maurice?”

Sean took a deep breath, recalling his past struggles, trying to calm himself. “Ms. Skeeter, I respect you, but this interview was won by me, and Professor Maurice agreed—”

“Maurice agreed?” Rita raised an eyebrow, her eyes narrowing behind her glasses as if scrutinizing some absurdity. She shook her head lightly and scoffed without hesitation, “Little Sean, you’re far too innocent. Maurice agreeing to meet you is probably just because he pitied you clutching that pathetic pumpkin juice. He probably just wants to brush you off.”

Sean clenched his teeth but refrained from explaining that the pumpkin juice was freshly bought—it was pointless.

“No, Ms. Skeeter, Professor Maurice is a man of his word. If he says something, he will follow through.”

Perhaps it was Sean’s raised voice or what he said—

The black-robed wizards nearby, previously chatting quietly, all looked up and turned toward the argument. One of them raised a hand and called to the bartender.

“Abeforth, give that kid a butterbeer on me.”

“Me too.”

“Get him some Hellfire fried fish as well. Just look at him—malnourished and pale; he needs to eat more meat.”

“Ha ha ha.”

This small interruption did not break the heated exchange between Sean and Rita.

“Man of his word? That has nothing to do with Maurice,” Rita laughed softly, twirling a strange quill between her fingers, tracing an elegant arc in the air with its tip. “Phillips, aren’t you a bit too idealistic about human nature? Let me tell you the truth—important interviews don’t go to rookies. This is a matter of the newspaper’s reputation and sales. Do you think the editor-in-chief would entrust an obscure junior reporter with this task?”

Sean’s face grew even more embarrassed, but he persisted, fighting for his own interests in a final struggle—or rather, a desperate grasp.

“I’m not giving up this interview, Skeeter. I fought hard for it; it’s not something someone like you—”

Upon hearing Sean’s blunt sarcasm, Rita’s smile vanished instantly.

She stepped forward, looking down on Sean with unmistakable superiority. “Phillips, let me say this one last time: I’m taking over this interview. You can leave now and go write your little insignificant pieces.”

“But—”

“No buts!” Rita cut him off sharply, slamming her finger on the table. “I am a senior reporter at The Daily Prophet. My name carries far more weight than yours, a nobody. What you need to do now is leave this pub and stop wasting my time.”

Sean’s lips trembled. He wanted to argue but found himself utterly without grounds to do so.

At this point, staying would only mean subjecting himself to humiliation.

He desperately wanted to slap this detestable woman across the face, then spit on her, and tell her exactly what “first come, first served” meant.

But… he dared not.

He knew better than anyone the consequences of such an act—he had witnessed many such cases.

Moreover, this despicable woman had connections with the Ministry of Magic.

He did not want his mother, who had raised him alone, to weep endlessly in Azkaban because of his reckless impulse.

Nor did he want to pile the heavy burden called “life” that he had just taken from his mother back onto her shoulders.

Thinking this, Sean clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms, but in the end, he took a deep breath and gritted his teeth.

“I understand, Ms. Skeeter.”

“Good,” Rita replied without mercy.

Suppressing the bitterness inside, Sean packed away his notebook and quill, pushed back his chair, stood up, and walked toward the pub’s door without looking back.

The instant he opened the door, the cold air rushed in.

“Damn it—”

His fist connected with the wall.

A few crimson drops slipped from between his fingers, blossoming like plum flowers on the ground beneath his feet.

“What’s wrong?”

A gentle voice came from behind.

Sean turned sharply to see a slender man in black robes standing at the doorway, his back to the blood-red sunset, as if a divine emissary walking the earth.

His gaze rested quietly on Sean—not pitying, not disdainful, but calmly observant.

It was him.

The esteemed Mr. Bern Maurice.