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Chapter 39: A Suitable Mouthpiece
🕑 Added 2025-10-25 08:35:47 +0000 UTCChapter 39: A Suitable Mouthpiece
In the corridor, Harry stared at Leon, utterly bewildered, the words "I don't understand" practically written across his face.
He was still just a child, after all. It was normal not to grasp these things. Leon shook his head slightly.
This was a calculated move. Anywhere the Peaky Blinders operated, they needed a "front man."
Not a heavy hitter swinging fists and guns, nor a bean counter calculating profits. They needed a gentleman. Someone in a bespoke suit with mother-of-pearl cufflinks, who could smile and clink glasses with the high and mighty at society dinners.
Back in Birmingham, under Leon's direction, that role had fallen to his second brother, John.
To the outside world, John Shelby was merely the respectable owner of Shelby Investments, a philanthropist who donated generously to orphanages and bid six figures for old paintings at charity auctions. When the tabloid reporters snapped his picture, he'd always subtly hide his watch cuff, ensuring the wrist they saw was smooth, unscarred.
John also had a knack for saying the right thing – framing bribes to London officials as "necessary contributions to support government initiatives." He knew how to keep things respectable – when one of the gang's foot soldiers caused trouble, John would arrive with lawyers and compensation, smoothing over a "gangland brawl" until it became an "unfortunate accident."
Leon often said: The Peaky Blinders' guns must be fast, but John's face must shine.
The guns dealt with the trouble in the shadows; the face deflected the scrutiny in the light. Without that respectable front, the Peaky Blinders wouldn't even get a seat at the table to negotiate with the powerful men in London.
John hadn't understood it at first, either. But he remembered something Leon had told him.
"Every dinner party you attend, every glass of champagne you raise, is an umbrella for the Peaky Blinders. The more elaborate the umbrella, the safer the shadows beneath it."
Now, the Peaky Blinders were in new territory. They needed a new front man.
And that man could only be Harry Potter.
"Orphan of martyrs," "The Boy Who Lived," "The Chosen One"... these titles carried immense weight. To put it bluntly, the name Harry Potter itself was practically a political shield.
(Which was why, sometimes, Leon truly didn't understand Dumbledore. In the original timeline, Harry had started with a perfect hand, yet somehow ended up branded as unstable...)
But explaining all this to Harry now would be pointless.
So, Leon simply clapped him on the shoulder again. "It's too much to explain. Just know that doing this helps me. A great deal."
Harry understood that. He hesitated, then nodded, a flicker of happiness in his eyes at being able to help.
Seeing his agreement, Leon said, "Alright, Harry. You go on to lunch. I have something to take care of back in the dormitory."
"Huh? But weren't you just rushing that reporter, saying you didn't want to miss lunch?" Harry asked, surprised.
"Something came up," Leon said curtly, turning and heading back towards the Slytherin common room in the dungeons, leaving a slightly confused Harry standing alone.
Leon walked quickly, soon arriving back at his dormitory. Strangely, though, he didn't seem to have anything urgent to do. He simply sat down in his chair and waited.
After five or six minutes, he began to speak aloud to the empty room.
"A proper organization, besides its muscle and its brains, needs one more crucial element: a reliable mouthpiece. To put it plainly, a means of controlling the narrative. Like a newspaper."
"This mouthpiece needs talent. It needs to wrap the desired message in pretty words, make it palatable."
"This mouthpiece can't be too rigid. It needs to sing praises, even when it goes against conscience. Too much integrity is a liability."
"And this mouthpiece can't be too clean. Sometimes, it needs to sling mud, spread rumours, dish out insults, master the art of insinuation."
He stood up, stretched, drew his wand, and whispered, "Avis."
A large flock of ravens burst from the tip of his wand, instantly crowding the dormitory.
Leon slowly turned his head and looked at his shoulder. Perched on the immaculate fabric of his suit jacket was a small beetle. It was trembling violently, terrified by the ravens filling the room.
Interestingly, the markings around the beetle's eyes bore a striking resemblance to a pair of jewel-encrusted spectacles.
"I believe," Leon said, his voice deceptively mild, "that you would make a very suitable mouthpiece, Ms. Skeeter. Of course, you are entirely free to refuse."
As he spoke, he casually flicked his wand. The ravens rustled their wings menacingly, and the beetle froze, too scared to move.
"The International Statute of Secrecy requires all Animagi to register with the Ministry, providing details of their animal form, distinguishing features, and other relevant information. Failure to register classifies one as an illegal Animagus."
"Clause 73 of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery also contains similar provisions, aimed at preventing transformative abilities from being used for espionage, evading capture, or breaching secrecy laws."
"Ms. Skeeter," Leon's voice dropped slightly, "you wouldn't want anyone to find out about your little... hobby, would you?"
"I've visited Azkaban. It's not a pleasant place."
He waved his wand again, silencing the ravens, his tone light as he delivered the threat. He plucked the beetle from his shoulder and casually tossed it onto the floor. "I'll give you ten seconds to transform back and give me your answer."
Almost before the words were out of his mouth, the beetle began to shift, rapidly expanding. In seconds, a dishevelled, terrified Rita Skeeter crashed onto the floor. She was still trembling, the presence of the silent, watchful ravens clearly unnerving her even in human form.
It took her a long moment to regain her composure, to dare to look up at the demonic child standing over her.
She had intended to follow Leon and Harry, hoping to eavesdrop and dig up some sensational scoop. It was a tactic she'd used countless times, uncovering numerous secrets. But today, for the first time, her infallible method had failed, thwarted by a first-year student.
"I agree," she gasped, knowing she had no choice. She wouldn't last a month in Azkaban. "I agree to everything. Whatever you want me to write, I'll write it."
Leon nodded, satisfied. With another flick of his wand, the ravens vanished with a soft pop. Rita visibly relaxed.
"Then I shall overlook your transgression this time," Leon said, his smile suddenly bright and charming, as if the menacing figure from moments before had never existed. "A pleasure doing business with you, Ms. Skeeter. I have a feeling you'll make an excellent mouthpiece."
He beamed at her, but Rita couldn't help but shiver.
