"There's an after-party in the Great Hall," Sirius told Harry, Fleur, and George - who was supported by the healers from both sides - as they were ushered to the hospital wing. "You'll be checked now for any injuries and treated if there's a cause for that. Don't worry, George, you'll get your ear fixed right away, I'm sure. Then off you'll go to shower - Harry, that stench of someone's intestines is particularly awful. A cleaning charm can do only so much, son."
Harry wanted to find the right words that he could respond with, but found himself unable to speak. His heart felt heavy in his chest and the hand he had used to wave towards the audience felt cold and numb. He kept waiting for Sirius to stop making light of the situation, to look at Harry and say that yes, he too understood that something was very wrong. He didn't want to believe that the smile on his godfather's face was genuine.
"Your tasks will be shown again on repeat during the festivities," Sirius said, as if he was delivering a particularly delightful piece of news. "You will get to see what the others were up against. You all did really well. Everyone was definitely pleased with your performance."
"It was nothing," Fleur said, though Harry found her smile far less convincing than it had been earlier in the day. "I found the whole experience very... exciting."
"And you, Harry?" Sirius asked, his hand heavy on Harry's shoulder. "How did you find it?"
"Educating," Harry replied, thinking of all the things he had indeed learned. Perhaps not, however, the things Sirius and the others had intended. He couldn't help but wonder what his parents would have done - would they have just accepted things the way Sirius seemed to do? This wasn't the time or the place to ask about it, though, so Harry plastered a smile on his face and felt horrible for it, swallowing his tears and holding back his urge to question his godfather's sanity.
His godfather's morals.
The awful feeling did not fade, not even after he had showered, taken a pepper up potion, and been redressed in a fancy set of dark green dress robes that he had never seen before. Apparently receiving anonymous, random gifts from people who considered one of the champions their 'favourite' was quite normal - Harry had seen Fleur trying on several sets of jewelry, and even George had received a beautifully crafted cane that he could lean on while his ear healed. People had been very fast with their gifts after the first task.
The Great Hall where the after-party was held was packed with people. Some sort of music was playing, people were dancing and laughing, and Harry could see wine being served at every turn. Wizards and witches of all ages were dressed in heavy, expensive robes and a vast variety of sparkling diamonds and golden rings and necklaces. Harry saw Mette dancing in the crowd, and wondered absently whether or not Truls was somewhere as well. Anthony Lestrange was hovering near Silvia Nott, who in turn was fully focused on the drink in her hand. Fleur was instantly swept away into the crowd, and George, who was leaning on the cane he had received, looked overwhelmed and sick at the sight of the dancing couples.
At the other side of the hall, on the platform, sat Voldemort surrounded by seven Death Eaters, one of them being Bellatrix. Three huge misty spheres were floating around the hall, showing the tasks that had taken place earlier in the day, and Harry felt strange watching himself struggle to find the plaque. He didn't understand much of the place George had been sent to, but seeing where Fleur had been was enough to shock him to the point of nearly falling on his arse.
A part of him, some part that had given up on finding a single good thing about today, wasn't surprised. Of course there were people locked in cages. Of course it was entertainment. Another part of him, a part so angry he barely contained it, wanted to deny what he was seeing. Deny it, find another explanation. Maybe they weren't people, maybe they were golems. Though no, he knew better than to assume that they would waste golems on a task if they had Muggles at hand.
With shaking legs Harry turned to leave the Great Hall, only to realize that George Weasley had left right before him. After a moment of contemplation, he ran to catch up to Ron's brother. George, his gait unsteady even with the cane supporting him, tilted his head heavily to the right before turning to look at Harry.
"Hi Harry," George said, his voice strangely uneven. He gestured for Harry to walk by his right side, and offered him a smile. "What brings you out here?"
"How's your ear?" Harry asked in response, and the Weasley shrugged.
"They attached it, but the hearing is gone," George admitted. "That's why I couldn't dance, my balance is a bit... jinxed right now. It's going to take some practice before I can get back to Quidditch, too."
"Aren't there potions to bring back the hearing at least partially?" Harry asked, feeling awful. George sighed and shrugged.
"Sure, there are. But they're pretty expensive," the other boy replied, and though Harry expected him to continue, he didn't. The two walked in silence side by side, until they reached one of the corridors with a view to the lake.
"It's strange," George said, his voice slightly louder than Harry remembered it being. He was leaning forward, his eyes set on the lake and the evening wind ruffling his red bangs. "I lost hearing in one ear and my balance is so bad right now I need a cane and still can't walk a straight line, but somehow I feel like I can see better. I wonder why's that."
"You're taking this remarkably well," Harry blurted out. "How can you manage that? I didn't suffer any losses but the whole tournament makes me sick."
"I don't know," George said. "I think Fred's the only one who gets it, really. Maybe he understands it even better than I do. My friends think I should be depressed, but I'm so overwhelmed by all the things that I'm already noticing better –because when you can't hear as well as before, you have to start relying on your other senses, you know. You see more. Anyway, you said the tournament makes you sick?" Harry didn't begrudge George the change of topic, suspecting that despite the positive outlook, the other wizard didn't enjoy dwelling too much on what had happened.
"Did you see Fleur's task?"
"The Muggles? Yes."
"Are you fine with it?" Harry asked warily, and George shrugged and shook his head.
"No, not really. I think there're quite a lot of people who're not completely all right with something like that. But people are happy to be on the right side of prejudice - not the receiving end of it - so they manage to put up with how things are."
"How can they consider themselves decent folk, though?" Harry asked, and George looked at him with hints of pity in his expression.
"Our whole system tells us every day that muggles are a different species and that it's the norm to treat them this way: of course nobody will find it wrong anymore," the Weasley said quietly. "Except, well, muggle-born students. It's a wonder that they're even allowed at Hogwarts, considering the way their relatives would be treated. But, Harry, I don't think this is something we should discuss. Especially not here." Harry pressed his lips into a tight line, before nodding slowly.
"I think I'll go to sleep," Harry said then. "I can't stand the thought of going back to the Great Hall to celebrate."
"You and me both," George agreed. "Good night, Harry."
Harry's Sunday session with Tom began too soon for the boy's liking, and for once he wished he could opt out of a meeting with the Dark Lord. He didn't dare to, however, in fear of Tom deciding that he wasn't worth any Sundays anymore, after all. Leaning against one of the dusty desks, Harry kept his eyes on the Dark Lord who had once again conjured a rabbit. The boy slowly shook his head, making the Dark Lord scowl.
"What is wrong with you?" Tom hissed sullenly, clearly displeased. "How can you not manage to slice up one rabbit, and think that you have any chance to win the tournament? You did quite well on your first task, but you could have done better."
"How?" Harry asked, though not really wanting an answer. "The whole task was... I hated it."
"You should have unlocked the door and killed him," Tom replied, and shook his head. "It doesn't matter if you hated it. It's very accurate to what would be demanded of you as a Death Eater. Do things out of your comfort zone, isn't that what every devil's advocate preaches these days?"
"There's a difference, though," Harry said, fully aware of the risk he was taking my speaking up. "There's a difference between killing someone in a battle, and murdering someone. Just like there's a difference between war prisoners and locking up people in small cages like animals. In fact, animals shouldn't be treated the way those people were treated either."
"Oh, spare me," Tom snorted, and vanished the rabbit. "You could learn from Delacour, Harry. Now that is a cold, calculating witch who sees muggles for what they are. Learn from her."
Harry felt strangely upset by what the Dark Lord had said, and shook his head before scowling. He knew that he was reckless when angry, but sometimes he simply didn't care. "If I hadn't locked that door—"
"But you did."
"And if the man had come in."
"You would have killed him."
"If I couldn't have," Harry snapped, this time louder. "He could have overpowered me and stripped me and done all the things he implied he wanted to do. Would you have punished me for it the way George lost points for losing his ear?"
"That— No," Tom said, an odd look suddenly on his face. "It wouldn't have gone that far."
"See, that's what I would have thought too," Harry replied. "But then I found out that George Weasley lost his ear. Say, how many people clapped in the audience when they watched that happening?"
"You don't even know what happened," Tom snarled, before narrowing his eyes at the boy and stepping closer. "And watch your tone when you speak to me. I allow you plenty of my forgiveness. I waste more of it on you than on anyone else. However, I do not find disrespect endearing or brave. Don't take for granted what I've denied everyone else."
"You could change the world," Harry insisted, his voice far too brittle for his own liking. "You could—"
"I already have," Tom replied sharply. "I changed the world once already."
"Change it for the better, I mean! Fight against discrimination—"
"It has changed for the better. Look at how the society is flourishing!"
"You changed it to suit you and the people who were already in power," Harry said, standing up and moving away from the desk. He wanted out, consequences be damned. "Your purebloods with money and power are flourishing. Anyone with muggle relations—" Harry's voice disappeared when Tom cast a silencing spell on the boy. Once realizing what had happened, Harry closed his mouth, crossed his arms, and glared at Tom.
The Dark Lord felt... alarmed.
"I have sentenced men and women to die for less," Tom said quietly, gesturing for Harry to once again sit on a chair. "I daresay if your admirers heard you, they'd accuse you of treason." Harry opened his mouth, but with the spell still on, he couldn't say a thing. Tom shook his head.
"There is no peaceful coexistence in reality," the Dark Lord continued. "You're young, you're naive. You've also lost the rest of your family recently and only yesterday experienced something that scared you. You're confused and angry and rebellious and lashing out, and that's the only reason why I will let this slide. But never again, Harry Potter. Never again." He then cancelled the silencing spell, and took a deep breath before moving on to another subject, as if that had been the end of that discussion. In a way, it certainly was.
"I took a quick look at phenomena that can create a rope made of light, but I need a more detailed description of it to be able to narrow it down to something specific. Right now it could be anything from an out of control life debt manifestation to a compulsion curse."
'Truls,' Harry thought immediately, and paled. He had been about to stand up again in order to leave, but suddenly his legs felt powerless. One look at Harry's expression had Tom eyeing him with an angry expression.
"There's something you're not telling me," the Dark Lord said.
'There's a lot I'm not telling you,' Harry thought, then shook his head while clenching his eyes shut for a moment and taking a few calming breaths. The disappointment that had swept into his whole being with every word Tom had thrown at him earlier was still there, aching strongly in his bones with a pain so deep it felt permanent. "It's probably a life debt... manifestation, thing, whatever."
"No," Tom hissed. "It's not 'whatever'. Tell me about this life debt. Or rather, tell me who owes you that life debt."
"How do you know someone owes me and not the other way around?"
"Harry."
"It's been a few years," Harry admitted reluctantly. "It didn't start out anywhere near this bad. It's been getting worse just recently."
"People glorify life debts," Tom said with obvious scorn, "forgetting that they are dangerous. Give me the name of the person and I will—"
"And you'll kill them?" Harry interrupted, feeling exhausted and drained. He finally pushed himself up and something in his expression must have gotten through to the Dark Lord, who fell silent and eyed him warily. "I'm tired. I think I'll go and rest for today."
"Perhaps that is for the best," Tom agreed. "If it will keep you away from dangerous thoughts, then do put more time into resting. We will meet next Sunday again and discuss how you'll be rid of that life debt. Focus on your studies and the tournament, and leave matters that you don't understand out of your thoughts."
"If I must," Harry muttered, reaching the door and unlocking it.
"Harry," Tom called after him, making the boy stop and turn. The Dark Lord's expression was something Harry couldn't quite figure out, when the man continued: "Schools aside, you are my champion. Act like it. Once you win the tournament, your whole life as you live it now will change."
Harry closed his eyes, his fingers curling around the doorknob, as he tried to collect his thoughts. He knew that he would need to endure things he would hate, and he had already decided to do his best no matter what. With this in mind, Harry nodded.
"I... I won't disappoint you again."
But the further away he walked from the classroom, the more he thought of all the things that needed to change, and the things his talk with George Weasley had made him realize: only muggle-born students would understand the necessity of change, and risk what they had to bring that change. He needed... he needed to recruit a muggle-born. Someone smart. Someone cunning and brave who could only benefit from the change.
He needed to recruit Hermione Granger.
Before continuing with his plans regarding Granger, Harry decided to drop by Sirius's office. The time spent with Tom had left him tired and anxious, but the anger he couldn't let go of made him feel restless. Even if he went back to the dorm room, he wouldn't be able to sleep.
He wasn't sure how to discuss what was bothering him to Sirius. The less people knew about how he truly felt of the way things were run now, the more space it would give him for doing whatever he needed to do. Harry greatly suspected that Sirius, while not necessarily entirely satisfied with Voldemort's action throughout his reign, was content enough to not mind keeping things the way they were. However, absolute separation from Muggles was one thing, and oppression was another issue altogether.
He could blame Tom for many things, but none of it changed the fact that the one who had designed the tasks of the tournament had been Sirius. He had been the one to decide that it was all right to have muggles in cages, and had considered everything that had happened something acceptable and even expected. Harry couldn't forget how casually Sirius had treated George's injury, and it was hard to accept that his godfather would be…would be like that.
'Then again, how stupid can I be,' Harry thought as he reached the painting that hid the doorway to Sirius's temporary office. 'I never thought that there'd be a reason why Sirius was part of Voldemort's Inner Circle. Of course he wouldn't be like James.'
With that in mind, Harry knocked at the painting and didn't have to wait for long before it was pushed aside, and a delighted Bellatrix ushered him in. "Cousin!" the witch all but shrieked, her thin arms wrapped around Harry's shoulders with unsettling ease. "Look who's here!"
"Harry," Sirius said, grinning widely as he turned away from a man Harry recognized as Rodolphus Lestrange. "What a surprise!"
"If you're busy, I can come later," Harry said quickly. He hadn't expected to find anyone there with his godfather, and truly didn't think that it would be wise to spend more time around Bellatrix than what was absolutely necessary. The witch had a clearly different opinion on the matter, her grip on Harry unfaltering as she led him towards one of the chairs in the office.
"Yesterday was fantastic," the witch whispered loudly, sitting down right next to Harry and speaking to him with familiarity that Harry couldn't understand. He had never spent time with Bellatrix before - not properly - and yet the way she treated him spoke of a relationship that couldn't possibly exist. "You did such good job, Harry."
"Thank you, ma'am," Harry said carefully, and the witch smiled widely.
"Just call me Bella, darling," she told him. "Such a thrill, wasn't it? That mudblood behind the door, trying to get to you. What would you have done if he had somehow managed to break the door? Did you have any spells in mind?"
Recognizing the benefits that would come with Bellatrix's approval, Harry did his best to sound proud when he said: "A bone-breaker to the skull. It would have been... effective." It was a funny thing, though not amusing at all, how a lie could taste like ash in his mouth.
"That would have been a sight to see," Sirius chortled, and though Harry knew that his godfather was quite good at acting, his amusement was too obviously genuine this time. He clenched his fists to hide the shaking of his hands, and tried to ignore the sick feeling that seemed to fill him from right below his heart. He knew then that despite all the love throughout the years, despite all the support Sirius had given him so far, Harry wouldn't find the common ground between them in this case.
"Well, Harry," Sirius continued, "what brings you here today?"
Hideously uncomfortable with the thought of saying anything that could be considered even slightly incriminating in front of the Lestranges, Harry latched on to the first thing he could think of: "It's about my dad. You said we can't delay it forever. I want to make a statement."
His words made the smile on Sirius's face disappear, and while he didn't frown, the man certainly didn't seem pleased either. "Now? Harry, I don't think- Well, wait for just a minute, then. We'll talk about this soon enough."
"That means he's kicking us out," Rodolphus Lestrange said, and offered Harry the kind of smile he could imagine for a man who didn't smile much. "Bella, unhand the boy."
"If I must," Bellatrix replied, rolling her eyes. She lightly kissed Harry's cheek before standing up. "Until next time, cousin."
"Until next time," Sirius said, echoing her words. As soon as the couple had left, he locked the door and turned to look at Harry with a troubled expression. "So, you want to..."
"Tell the people that James is dead, yes," Harry cut in, and as he said that, a sudden twinge of satisfaction surprised him. Yes, he wanted to tell the world about what had happened to his father, but... he... He didn't even understand why the thought of doing something that had seemed so terrifying and impossible before, was suddenly exactly what he wanted to do –most urgently!
"I think you should wait," Sirius replied. "It's too soon. I mean, I know I told you that it needs to be done soon, but really, you've still got some time left. I don't think anyone even questioned why James wasn't present to watch the first task."
"No," Harry said, keeping his eyes fixed on Sirius and noting the twitch in his expression and feeling somehow... strangely satisfied. "I want to do it."
"And you will," Sirius assured him. "Just not right now. I need to prepare myself." It made sense, surely. Harry knew that he couldn't fault the man for wanting to prepare for any reactions that would come his way once people found out about James's death. And yet, what had earlier been vicious satisfaction was now anger. Unfamiliar anger that didn't mean bursts of courage and grand rebellions. This time it wasn't about bravery, or doing the right thing. He didn't know what to name the feeling that wanted him to come up with something to say, something so harsh that Sirius would feel a fraction of what Harry was feeling.
The words came to him from some corner in his heart. A corner he hadn't even known before. Harry stood up from his chair, eyed Sirius with undisguised anger and said: "Do you ever get tired of prioritizing your own feelings?"
"Pardon?" Sirius blurted, an expression of shock on his face. "Harry, what-"
"I know you say you love me, but do you actually realize that I'm a person?" Harry asked then, feeling hot and cold at the same time. "Why are you always so hung up on yourself, your views, your suffering? He was my dad, you know. My father. The only family I had left. And instead of realizing that I have to live without him, you only focused on not having a friend you barely spent time with after mum died."
"You're one to talk," Sirius shot back instantly, scowling. "I can't recall you spending too much time around him, or am I wrong?"
"Maybe it escaped your mind," Harry said, feeling anger and sadness so deep it seemed to reach every corner of his body. "But I was at a boarding school. Think about that for a while, and don't talk to me until I can look at you without wanting to hex you with a bone-breaker."
He left, wondering how things could turn to the worst so fast, and how anger could exist as strongly as love in his heart.
The corridors were mostly empty, which Harry was glad for. He did not feel like talking to anyone, and the thought of having Truls or Mette asking him about what was making him upset made Harry feel even worse. How could he explain to them what had made him so disappointed in Sirius? He had thought that his ever-increasing annoyance with the man had been solely due to what the tournament had revealed of his beliefs towards muggles, but the more he thought of how Sirius had handled James's funeral, the angrier he got.
Was it fair? Perhaps not. Harry didn't know.
All he knew was that he couldn't count on Sirius to support him the way Harry wanted him to. Like George had said, too many people were simply relieved to not be on the receiving end of the racism and abuse. They wouldn't march for the equality of others if it came with the risk of losing something they had. However, when it came to oppression, standing silently and feigning neutrality worked only to support the bully.
It was strange for Harry that he felt more helpless in the face of Sirius's prejudice than Tom's. Tom hated muggles. He... Harry knew that Tom enjoyed hurting and humiliating them, as if to say: "look, we are both human. But I am superior." Tom did what he did with full understanding of the fact that he was being cruel and while he recognized the right of muggles to exist, he simply chose to ignore it for his own amusement.
Sirius, on the other hand, approached the whole matter with moral blindness. He didn't think that the treatment of muggles was unfair because he didn't consider them a species worthy of being acknowledged. It's as if the connection between muggles and muggle-born witches and wizards was something he didn't comprehend. Absence of magic meant absence of worth to him, and Merlin, if that logic didn't explain the way many Purebloods treated their squib offspring.
Harry was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't see the person approaching him until they cheerfully called his name.
"My dear Harry," Gilderoy Lockhart all but sang, swaggering closer towards the boy. "What a troubled expression you have, my young friend. What's wrong?"
"Where've you been?" Harry blurted, eyeing the man approaching him with confusion, momentarily distracted from his thoughts. "Do you even work here anymore?"
"Of course I do," Gildy replied. "I had a book signing tour so a substitute covered for me for a little while. Did you miss me terribly? Ah, once you've had a taste of the company of your idol, it's hard to give up, isn't it? Well, never fret-"
"It's been well over a month, that's hardly a little while."
"I am here now."
"Yes, I can see that," Harry said. "If you don't mind, I'll just-"
"Your performance yesterday was interesting," Gildy interrupted, and Harry scowled. The older wizard eyed him with a slightly weary expression before he gestured for the boy to follow him. "My new office - I moved and redecorated, you see - is right around the corner. Let's go, I have a few things to ask you about."
"Hopefully nothing to do with the entertainment I provided yesterday," Harry muttered, following Gildy reluctantly. He didn't usually mind the wizard, but right now he felt too restless and angry and sad to really be able to put up with anyone. However, it wasn't as if he had anywhere else to be, and simply walking away would be rude.
Gildy's office reflected its owner well, with numerous paintings of himself hanging on the walls and books and awards scattered everywhere. The man pushed him to sit on a colourfully decorated chair and took a seat right across from him. Moments later food appeared on the table between them, and it was only then that Harry realized how little he had actually eaten since yesterday.
"Mulled wine," Gildy said, handing Harry a mug of the hot, spicy drink. "Alcohol-free, of course. Grab a cinnamon bun, Harry, they're absolutely divine."
They were. They really were. The mulled wine reminded Harry of all the Christmases that he had spent with his parents, and the cinnamon buns brought so many fun, happy memories of the time before Durmstrang, before death, before the Tournament. There was a terrible ache in his heart and it wasn't long before he felt tears burning behind his eyelids. He didn't want to be angry. He was sick of being disappointed.
Harry wanted to leave. To go to some far-away country, buy a small house in a peaceful town and live without any of the worries that plagued him. But how could he, when there were so many who weren't allowed to even exist simply based on who they were born to be? Harry didn't want to become one of the people who ignored the suffering of others simply because it didn't affect him.
It wasn't until Gilderoy reached forward with a napkin that Harry realized that he was crying. Accepting the napkin from his former tutor, the boy wiped his tears as best as he could, and leaned back on the chair with a heavy sigh.
"Is it the tournament?" Gildy asked. "Why don't you ask your father to visit? Perhaps some comfort from family could-"
"James died in the summer," Harry replied, wondering if he would have to repeat the words to a journalist soon. Gildy's eyes were wide as he stared at him, before he grimaced.
"I'm so sorry," the man said. "I... I didn't know. Was there an announcement? How are you feeling? You're fourteen, is your godfather-"
"There was no announcement," Harry cut in. "James died. Then Sirius had him buried. I didn't- There was no funeral and no announcement. Sirius doesn't think that we should make a statement about James's death yet but I disagree. I feel like... I just. I disagree." How on earth could he tell Lockhart that the longer his father's death remained a secret, the more Harry felt like he was dragging the man's ghost around with him?
"Do you know why your godfather does not want for the information to be revealed yet?" Gildy asked, refilling Harry's cup. "You're one of the three champions, it's a matter of a few short weeks before a curious journalist decides to take a look at your life story and reveal what happened on their own terms. And that will be unpleasant. I know how journalists are."
"I know," Harry said. "But what do I do? How do I handle them?"
"You want to make it known? Despite your godfather's wishes?"
"If I can."
"Oh, you most certainly can," Gildy said. "There are plenty of reporters milling around, aren't there? Any of them will be delighted if you approached them. The difficulty isn't in finding a journalist or even with making them interview you, no. The hard part is making them write what you want them to write."
"And how do I do that?" Harry asked, feeling a smidge of hope stirring in his heart. "How could I possibly succeed in that?"
"The first thing to keep in mind," Gildy told him with an easy shrug, "is the importance of keeping their favour. To prevent your journalist from turning against you, you must make them believe that if you're satisfied with what they write, you will give them access to exclusive interviews. It's a commitment. A relationship. Or rather: an affair. Keep them satisfied and don't give them vague answers. I know it's tempting and I know that a lot of politicians do it, but vague answers can be twisted to suit any purpose."
"And... I don't want that?"
"No, you don't want that. You want to be in control."
"Okay," Harry muttered, and put down his drink. "What else should I know?"
By the time Harry returned to the common room in the evening, he felt exhausted, yet slightly better. Talking with Lockhart had given him an idea of what his next step would be, and though there was a lot that still remained unclear, it was still better than nothing.
"There you are," Truls said as soon as Harry stepped into the common room. "Did your tutoring really last this long?"
"No," Harry admitted, allowing his friend to pull him towards one of the available armchairs by the fire. "I dropped by Sirius's office to talk with him."
"Did you take a look at the Sunday Special yet?" Mette asked from the couch, narrowing her eyes slightly at Truls who was leaning against the armrest of the chair he had pushed Harry into. "Some local newspaper is covering the tournament."
"The Daily Prophet," Maria Rurik said, waving the paper in question in her hand. "The Daily Prophet's Sunday Special. There's one article that mentions the champions, though. Have you read it?"
"No," Harry replied. "Not sure if I want to."
"It's not too bad," Mette said. "Maria, read it aloud, will you?"
"Sure thing," the other witch said, clearly delighted as she pulled the paper closer to her face. "No interrupting me, though!"
"Yes, fine, whatever."
" The long-awaited Triwizard Tournament has finally begun, and what a beginning it has been! Sirius Black, the man in charge of the tasks - and indeed the whole tournament - has truly surprised us all with an unexpected bout of creativity and intelligence. One wonders if there were perhaps cleverer forces behind the plans that carry his signature."
"Oh Merlin what a thing to imply," Ingrid gasped, clearly appalled. "Does she have anything to back that up with?"
"No interrupting!" Maria reminded her sharply, before she continued: "This reporter had the pleasure of interviewing the three champions who gave us all quite the show on Saturday. Fleur Delacour, the champion of Beauxbatons, entered the tournament full of confidence and finished it with each one of her dyed blonde curls intact."
"Wow," Mette said. "Catty. I like it."
"Miss Delacour, not entirely a human herself, did not seem to struggle when dealing with Muggles. A secret source close to the champion claims the reason to be rather simple: Sirius Black, known for his numerous adventures with beautiful women of all kinds, had kept her well-informed on what she would need to do."
"Did she just imply what I think she did?" Harry asked, feeling sick. "Sirius would never—"
"Either she's dumb as hell or she has some sort of immunity," Mette said. "´That's... that's kind of horrifying."
"Her performance - not as exciting as that of the other two champions - was vastly improved by a flawless use of the Imperius Curse," Maria read. "The witch, who's known for getting everything she sets her mind on, is clearly very familiar with casting this particular spell. Miss Delacour, whose beauty stems from the daring dash of uniqueness that her Veela blood brings to what could have otherwise been a pure lineage, tearfully revealed that her parents were reluctant to allow their daughter to participate. What could have changed their minds? Perhaps information of what her task would be?"
"She's not a human?" Anthony Lestrange yelped, and Harry saw an expression of pure disgust on his face. "Circe, how can any wizard— Ugh, I feel sick."
"Tell me about it," Maria muttered, pursing her lips. "Anyway, back to the article: the champion of Hogwarts, George Weasley, was from the beginning far less confident in his own assessment. Years of poverty have taught this young man how to watch out and be careful, it seems. It is for certain, though, that the grand prize of five thousand galleons would save his family from the brink of starvation and keep them well fed until at least some of the seven Weasley children have managed to find themselves jobs to aid in supporting the rest."
"Weasleys," Anthony sneered. "That family might be pure in blood, but that's where their worth ends. Poor, weak, and pathetic, that's what they are."
"Despite the high danger he was in during the task, Mr. Weasley's performance was adequate at best and left much to be desired - not to mention: it resulted in the loss of his ear. His reliance on tossing innocent animals to be devoured was impressive to some, but this journalist wonders if it is a sign that decent folk should watch out for. Remaining one point behind the two other contestants, Mr. Weasley will have to bring forth a genuinely impressive performance in order to catch up."
"I doubt he is," Mette drawled. "A psycho, that is."
"I agree," Anthony said. "That'd make him actually interesting, though."
"The third champion, Harry Potter of Durmstrang," Maria read, her voice louder with excitement. "Could easily be mistaken for a second year Hogwarts student." Harry flushed, and ducked his head when he heard the muffled snickers of the others around him. Truls patted his arm consolingly, but it didn't help Harry at all.
"This reporter wonders if the 14-year-old boy has a chance in winning against the considerably older and more experienced competitors in the long run. The youngest champion of the three lived through frightening moments when an adult man threatened him from the other side of a locked door, and this journalist sincerely worries if Mr. Potter's sleep will be disturbed by nightmares of what could have happened."
"Aw," Mette cooed. "Will your sleep be disturbed, Harry?"
'I don't want to ever sleep again,' Harry thought, and shook his head. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course not."
"Though young Mr. Potter's performance did not manage to show us the alleged superiority of the Durmstrang students, it was enough to garner him a positive response from the judges," Maria continued, before she sighed and shook her head. "The rest is about the judges. Nothing interesting there."
"It could have been worse," Truls observed, and Harry nodded.
"I agree, just look at what she wrote about Delacour," Mette said, shaking her head. "I'll be surprised if the writer of the article doesn't get into trouble with some of the things she said."
"I don't think that she will," Viktor suddenly said, and then flushed when everyone turned to him. "I mean, it happens. Bad news and such. Journalists have the legal permission to, ah, speculate."
"Figures," Mette sighed.
"Say, Maria," Harry said. "Who wrote that article? Skeeter, right? What was her full name again?"
"Hold on," the witch said, eyeing the article in search for the name. "Ah, here it is. Skeeter. Rita Skeeter. Why?"
"No reason," Harry lied, a plan already coming together in his mind. "Just... wondering."