Magic's New Dawn: Chapter 8
The Gauntlet Begins
The morning sun filtered through the high windows of the castle, casting golden patches of light across the stone floor. Hogwarts was abuzz with its usual energy, but today, a different kind of tension hung in the air. The champions of the Triwizard Tournament had been summoned, not for a task or a duel, but something far less welcome—an interview session. The Daily Prophet had insisted on documenting the competitors in an exclusive feature, and as the largest magical publication in Britain, it was impossible to refuse.
Harry adjusted the collar of his robes as he stepped into one of the smaller conference rooms tucked within the castle's sprawling halls. The room was set with a long, polished table surrounded by chairs, each bearing a nameplate for the champions. The space had an air of formality rarely seen in Hogwarts, with enchanted quills and parchment neatly placed in front of each seat. Harry hesitated briefly at the threshold, his emerald eyes sweeping the room before spotting Cedric Diggory already seated near the center.
"Morning, Harry," Cedric greeted with an easy smile, gesturing to the seat beside him. "Thought you'd want a good view for this circus."
Harry chuckled lightly, though the knot of apprehension in his stomach didn't ease. "Thanks," he said, taking the offered seat and adjusting the hem of his Gryffindor-red robes. Across the room, Viktor Krum stood near the fireplace, speaking in low tones to one of the Beauxbatons assistants. Fleur Delacour, the most regal of the group, sat with her legs crossed, a polished air about her as she smoothed her robes and glanced idly at the doorway.
The minutes ticked by as the champions settled in, the subdued murmur of conversation occasionally punctuated by awkward laughter. Then, the door opened again, and a silence fell over the room. A woman strode in, her presence impossible to ignore.
Rita Skeeter was everything Harry had expected—and dreaded. Her bright lime-green robes shimmered under the enchanted sconces, their overly bold design a stark contrast to the reserved elegance of Hogwarts' surroundings. Her platinum hair was styled into precise curls, framing a face painted with a sharp smile and lipstick that seemed designed to draw attention. A Quick-Quotes Quill hovered just above her shoulder, quivering with anticipation.
"Well, well," Rita purred, her voice a blend of syrupy sweetness and something more cunning. Her heavily lashed eyes swept over the room, pausing briefly on each champion. "What a gathering of excellence. Hogwarts' finest, Beauxbatons' brightest, and Durmstrang's most disciplined. The wizarding world waits with bated breath to hear your thoughts."
She turned toward Harry, her gaze locking onto him like a predator who had found her prize. "And of course, who better to lead us off than Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived? How exciting to see you here, Harry. Tell me…" She paused dramatically, her quill already darting across the page, "What is it like to step into yet another legend in the making?"
Harry's green eyes narrowed as Rita Skeeter strutted closer, her infamous Quick-Quotes Quill bobbing eagerly at her shoulder, the green feather shimmering as though alive with anticipation. He leaned back slightly in his chair, folding his arms across his chest as a scoff-like chuckle escaped his lips. He'd dealt with Rita before, and her reputation as a reporter who twisted the truth to suit her stories was well-earned.
"Rita," he said coolly, his voice steady but laced with disdain. "I thought we had talked about this."
Rita paused mid-step, her practiced smile faltering for the briefest moment. "Oh, Harry, dear," she purred, her voice oozing insincerity, "whatever could you mean?"
Harry tilted his head slightly, his gaze flicking pointedly toward the green quill hovering beside her. "If you want to talk to me, do it properly. I'm not going to be misrepresented by a slimy reporter like you."
The room went silent. Fleur raised an elegant eyebrow, her gaze darting between Harry and Rita. Cedric shifted uneasily in his chair, glancing toward Viktor, who remained still, his dark eyes trained on the exchange.
Rita's smile stiffened, and her eyes narrowed slightly. "Now, Harry," she began, her tone saccharine yet edged with steel, "I assure you, my quill—"
Before she could finish, Harry raised his hand and snapped his fingers. A spark of magic flared, and the quill erupted into bright flames, curling and blackening in an instant. The acrid smell of burning parchment filled the air as the quill dissolved into ash, leaving behind only a faint wisp of smoke.
Rita gasped audibly, her composure cracking as she stared at the pile of ash that was once her prized quill. "You—you can't do that!" she sputtered, her cheeks flushing crimson. "That's my property! That quill cost me twenty galleons!"
Harry shrugged nonchalantly, a calm smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "And?" he replied, his tone casual yet cutting. "Bill me. I'll pay double."
Gasps rippled through the room. Cedric looked genuinely taken aback, his mouth opening slightly in surprise. Fleur's lips twitched, threatening to form a smile, while Viktor's expression remained inscrutable, though his eyes glimmered with faint amusement.
Rita's hands trembled as she reached for her notebook, her indignation bubbling over. "You've gone too far, Mr. Potter," she hissed. "I cannot conduct a proper interview without my tools."
"Lucky for you," Harry said smoothly, reaching into his robes, "I came prepared." From inside his pocket, he pulled out a gleaming quill with a sleek, silvery feather that shimmered faintly under the torchlight. It was simple in design but radiated an understated elegance.
"Here," Harry said, holding it out to her. "How about I let you borrow mine? It's a Quote Quill. A special one." His emerald eyes locked onto hers, daring her to argue. "It can only record what people actually say. No misquoting, no embellishments, no twisting words into something they're not."
The room was silent once more as Rita glared at him, her expression flickering between outrage and reluctant acceptance. She snatched the quill from his hand, her polished nails scraping against the silver stem.
"Fine," she bit out, her voice tight. "If you insist."
"I do," Harry said simply, leaning back in his chair, his gaze never wavering. "Go ahead. Use it for all of us. I'm sure the magical world would love to read the truth for a change."
Fleur's smirk became a full smile as she leaned back in her chair. "Zis should be… amusing," she said lightly, her eyes dancing with intrigue.
Cedric let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "That's one way to keep the interview honest."
Even Viktor seemed faintly impressed, his lips twitching as though holding back a grin.
Rita straightened her shoulders, trying to regain her usual air of authority. "Very well," she said stiffly, flipping open her notebook and placing the Quote Quill on the page. "Shall we begin?"
Harry didn't respond immediately, but the calm, victorious look in his eyes said everything. He had won the first battle, and now the interview would proceed on his terms.
"Mr. Potter," Rita Skeeter began smoothly, her red lips curling into a saccharine smile, "why don't we step into a quieter setting for your portion of the interview? You wouldn't want to overshadow the others with your… particular reputation."
Harry arched an eyebrow but didn't resist as Rita gestured him toward an adjacent door. He caught Cedric's concerned glance, Fleur's narrowed eyes, and even Viktor's subtle nod of acknowledgment before stepping through the doorway into a smaller, more intimate chamber.
The room was dimly lit, with high-backed chairs arranged in a loose circle around a low table. A single torch flickered on the far wall, casting long shadows that danced eerily across the stone. The air smelled faintly of old parchment and ink, though Harry suspected the atmosphere was meant to be stifling. He had barely taken a step inside when Rita clicked the door shut behind him, her heels echoing ominously in the confined space.
"Well, Harry," she cooed, her quill already poised and scratching against the enchanted parchment. The silvery Quote Quill sparkled faintly, a stark contrast to her otherwise calculating demeanor. "Let's not waste any time, shall we? After all, you've made quite a name for yourself, haven't you? The Boy Who Lived. One of the youngest Triwizard champions. And yet," she added, her tone turning sharp as a blade, "some might say you've been riding on the coattails of your family's legacy all this time."
Harry didn't flinch. Instead, he folded his arms across his chest and leveled her with an unyielding stare. "Is there a question in there, Rita, or are you just listing off things you wish you were famous for?"
Rita's smile tightened, but her quill kept moving. "Touché," she murmured before shifting tactics. "Let's start with your late father, James Potter. A known duelist, but also infamous for his flamboyant antics and… let's call it what it is, shall we? A tendency toward showboating."
Harry's jaw tightened, but he held her gaze, refusing to let her see the sting of her words.
"Tell me, Harry," she continued, feigning innocence as her quill scribbled furiously. "Do you think your father's thirst for fame might have rubbed off on you? After all, entering this tournament when you're clearly too young—some might call it reckless, or even egotistical. Are you following in his footsteps?"
Harry took a slow breath, suppressing the anger that threatened to bubble up. "Reckless?" he said, his voice cold and measured. "Competing in this tournament has nothing to do with my father or his choices. And as for my dad being a 'showboater,'" he added, his tone sharpening, "I think you'd find the people who actually knew him would disagree."
Rita leaned in slightly, her quill's scratching becoming almost frantic as she pressed forward. "But what about the stories? The tales of James Potter strutting through the halls of Hogwarts, hexing other students for fun? Surely you've heard them. And isn't it true that he chased after your mother for years before finally 'winning' her over? Hardly the picture of maturity."
Harry's fingers clenched at his sides, but his voice remained steady. "You're awfully interested in people you've never met, Rita. But since you brought it up—my parents loved each other deeply, and they'd do anything for the people they cared about. Maybe if you focused less on tearing down legacies and more on building something of your own, you'd understand that."
For the first time, Rita's mask slipped, and a flicker of annoyance crossed her face. "Well, then," she said, her tone turning icy, "if you're so determined to avoid controversy, let's talk about your involvement in this tournament. Some have speculated that you've grown too used to the spotlight, always needing to be the center of attention. Do you think that desire could be clouding your judgment?"
Harry's lips twitched into a humorless smile. "If you'd been paying attention, you'd know that I've spent most of my life wishing I wasn't in the spotlight. But it's people like you," he added, his gaze piercing, "who can't seem to leave it alone. So no, Rita, I'm not interested in your manufactured controversies. If you want to talk about the tournament, stick to the facts."
Her quill hesitated for the briefest moment, the silence stretching just long enough for Harry to know he had hit a nerve. Rita's smile returned, but it no longer reached her eyes.
"Fine," she said with a forced sweetness. "Let's keep it factual, then. Harry Potter, the reluctant hero. Quite the story. I'm sure my readers will find it… illuminating."
Harry straightened, his expression resolute. "Make sure they do, Rita. Because if you misquote me or twist my words, you'll find I'm not someone you can push around."
Rita's smile wavered, and for the first time, her quill slowed its frantic movements.
Rita's quill hovered midair, the scratching of its enchanted tip suddenly silent as Harry leaned forward, fixing her with a gaze that felt sharper than any hex. The air in the room seemed to shift, growing heavier, charged with an unspoken tension that made even Rita falter.
"You want to give your readers a story?" Harry said, his voice dropping to a low, measured tone that carried an almost chilling certainty. "Alright. I'll give them one."
Rita's smirk froze on her face, the air of control she wore so well slipping as her eyes flicked to meet his. There was something in Harry's expression—calculated, commanding—that made her hesitate, her quill trembling faintly above the page.
"Watch the tournament closely," Harry continued, his words cutting through the silence like a blade. "Because what's coming isn't just another set of tasks or games. I've finally come into my own."
The torchlight flickered, casting shadows that danced across the stone walls as he leaned closer, his tone dropping to a near whisper that somehow filled the room. "You might think I'm the underdog—the youngest champion, the one who doesn't belong here. But let me assure you, Rita… I am no underdog. And I am not someone to be underestimated."
The intensity of his words hung in the air like a spell, heavy and unrelenting. Rita's mask of bravado cracked for the briefest moment, her practiced composure faltering under the weight of his stare. The quill scratched furiously across the parchment as though desperate to keep pace with the charged energy of the moment.
Harry sat back slowly, his expression hard as granite, but his voice softened to a near-growl. "There's your story. Write it however you want. Just know this, Rita—don't blink, and don't look away. Because if you do, you might just miss what's coming."
Rita's hand tightened on her notepad, her knuckles whitening as she fought to regain her composure. For the first time in their encounter, her words failed her. The only sound in the room was the frantic scratching of the quill as it scrambled to record every word.
Rita's composure flickered for only a moment before she leaned in, her quill now still as she considered Harry's words. Then, with a sly smile curving her crimson lips, she arched a finely shaped brow. "Well, well, Harry," she purred, her voice dripping with mock curiosity. "Are you saying you've become a Mage? That you can use Elemental Magic?"
Her eyes gleamed with the promise of scandal, the kind of story that would ripple across every magical household in Britain. "What element, then?" she pressed, her tone sharpened with intrigue. "Or perhaps… could it be a sub-element? Something rare, something extraordinary?"
The room felt smaller, her questions cutting through the air with an almost predatory precision. The quill hovered motionlessly, waiting, while Rita's gaze bore into Harry as if trying to unearth his secrets by sheer force of will.
For a moment, Harry said nothing, his expression unreadable as he held her gaze. Then, he let a faint, humorless smile tug at the corner of his lips. "You ask a lot of questions, Rita," he said softly, his voice calm but edged with something darker. "But let me ask you this—what do you think? Do you think I'd be foolish enough to tell you, of all people, what lies beneath the surface?"
Rita blinked, momentarily thrown off balance, but Harry pressed on, his tone dropping to a near-whisper that seemed to fill the room. "Maybe I have. Maybe I haven't. But one thing is certain—you'll find out soon enough. And so will everyone else."
His words hung in the air like a challenge, each syllable carefully measured to leave her grasping for meaning. The torchlight flickered again, casting his sharp features into shadow, and for the first time, Rita looked uneasy.
The quill twitched back to life, scratching furiously, but Harry was already leaning back, his hands folded casually in his lap, a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "Write whatever you like, Rita," he added, his tone almost mocking. "But you'll have to wait for the truth, just like the rest of them."
Rita's polished façade cracked, a flicker of frustration passing over her face before she recovered, her smile stiff and cold. "Oh, I always uncover the truth, Harry," she replied, her voice laced with false sweetness.
Harry merely smirked, his silence speaking louder than any words could.
Harry's gaze lingered on Rita for a moment longer, watching as her quill scratched eagerly at the parchment, capturing every word he had just delivered. He leaned back in his chair, exuding an air of calm control, though his mind was already a step ahead.
He knew exactly how Rita Skeeter operated. She was relentless, a dog with a bone, gnawing away until she had extracted every ounce of drama from a situation. But Harry also understood the trick to handling her. She didn't need to be fought outright—she just needed to be redirected. Toss the bone in another direction, and suddenly, she wasn't a problem at all.
And that was exactly what he had done.
By feeding her the right morsel—a story that hinted at intrigue and strength without giving away anything truly personal—Harry had steered her down a path he didn't mind her taking. Let her write about his ominous confidence, his warning not to underestimate him. It was better than letting her invent stories about him being reckless or out of his depth.
He had thrown her the bait, and she had taken it eagerly. Now, he wouldn't have to worry about her digging deeper into things he didn't want the public—or his competitors—to know.
As the scratching of the quill slowed, Rita looked up from her notepad, her smile returning, but it lacked the predatory edge it had carried before. "Well, Harry," she said, her tone almost chipper now, "I must admit, you're full of surprises today. Quite the story for my readers. Quite the story indeed."
Harry simply inclined his head, his expression composed but unreadable. "Glad to help," he said, the faintest trace of amusement in his tone.
Rita stood, her movements brisk but triumphant as she tucked the notepad under her arm. "I think that will do for now," she said, heading for the door. "But don't worry, Harry—I'll be watching the tournament very closely. I have a feeling you'll be making headlines soon enough."
Harry watched her go, his expression steady until the door clicked shut behind her. Only then did he let out a soft sigh, the tension in his shoulders easing. She would write her story, of course, but it wouldn't be the kind that painted him as foolish or weak. It would be the kind that hinted at mystery and strength—exactly what he wanted the world to see.
For now, at least, Rita Skeeter was off his back.
When Harry reentered the room, the eyes of the other champions turned to him briefly, a mixture of curiosity and silent camaraderie in their gazes. Cedric offered him a small nod, while Fleur glanced at him with her usual air of composed disinterest. Viktor, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, barely moved, though his dark eyes followed Harry's movements.
Harry slid into his seat, quietly observing as Rita Skeeter wasted no time in moving on to her next subject. One by one, she pulled the champions into the adjacent room, her relentless quill and honeyed words working tirelessly to carve her next headline.
Cedric went first, returning with a tight-lipped smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Viktor followed, his expression stony as he strode past Harry and through the door. The gruff Bulgarian duelist spent more time in the room than Harry had expected, but when he finally returned, his scowl was deeper, and he muttered something under his breath in his native tongue.
Fleur was the last to be called. She rose gracefully, smoothing her robes as she followed Rita, her heels clicking softly against the stone floor. Harry watched her go, wondering how the poised and fiery Beauxbatons champion would fare against Rita's pointed questions.
The minutes ticked by, and the room grew quieter as they waited for Fleur's return. When she finally stepped back into the room, her chin was held high, but there was a faint flush to her cheeks. Whatever Rita had said or done had clearly gotten under her skin, though Fleur's composure remained intact.
Rita emerged behind her, her notebook tucked under her arm and a satisfied gleam in her eyes. "Well," she said brightly, her smile wide but insincere, "I must say, I think we've got some real frontliners here. The magical world will be thrilled to see how you all rise to the occasion."
She offered a short, overly theatrical bow, then turned on her heel and swept out of the room, the click of her heels fading into the corridor. The door swung shut with a faint creak, leaving the champions alone for the first time since the ordeal began.
A moment of silence stretched out before Harry chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair. "So," he said, glancing around at the others with a faint smirk. "Did everyone enjoy their interviews?"
Cedric let out a dry, humorless laugh, shaking his head. "If by 'enjoy' you mean having every word twisted into something it wasn't, then yes. It was delightful."
Viktor's scowl deepened as he crossed his arms. "No," he said bluntly, his accent thick and his voice low. "That woman is vile. She asks questions like venom."
Harry chuckled again, nodding. "That sounds about right." His gaze flicked to Fleur, who had remained silent since returning. "And you? How was it?"
Fleur hesitated for a moment, her sharp blue eyes narrowing slightly as she considered her words. "She is persistent," she said finally, her voice carrying its usual aloof grace. "But I do not give her much to twist." She tilted her chin up slightly, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at her lips. "Let her try. She will not get far."
Harry grinned. "Fair enough."
The tension in the room eased slightly, the shared ordeal having created an unspoken bond among the four competitors. For now, they were rivals, but Rita Skeeter had reminded them that there were bigger challenges than just each other—challenges that, at least for the moment, they could all agree on.
(Scene Break)
The crisp morning air carried the faint rustle of owls delivering the day's post to the Great Hall. Harry reached out, catching the neatly folded Daily Prophet as it landed in front of him, its weight a familiar presence. He set down his half-eaten toast, brushing crumbs from his fingers as he unfolded the paper, skimming the headlines.
Nothing about the Triwizard Tournament on the front page. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Looks like you didn't get anything juicy, Rita.
Turning to the middle pages, Harry's eyes landed on a bold header:
"Triwizard Champions: Strength, Strategy, and Surprises"
He chuckled softly, the dramatic title dripping with Rita's characteristic flair. He skimmed the introduction, a florid recap of the tournament's history that did little to hide the author's attempt to embellish it with excessive adjectives. Finally, his gaze landed on the individual profiles, starting with his own.
The text was about what he'd expected. Rita had taken the "bone" he'd thrown her and run with it. She painted him as confident, mysterious, and surprisingly formidable for his age. Words like "underdog" and "enigmatic" peppered the paragraph, reinforcing the image Harry had intentionally presented. He couldn't help but smirk. Good. Let them think I'm keeping secrets—it's better than being written off entirely.
Next came Cedric's profile. Rita praised his charm and "quiet strength," emphasizing his reputation as Hogwarts' golden boy. The tone was respectful, though Harry detected a hint of condescension in how she described him as "the safest bet for a clean and straightforward showing."
Then came Viktor Krum. The entire section practically sang his praises, painting him as the favorite to win. Rita leaned heavily on his success in the International Dueling Ring, describing him as "a battle-hardened warrior whose discipline and prowess are unmatched." She painted a picture of an invincible competitor, implying that the other champions were little more than obstacles in his inevitable path to victory.
Finally, Harry's eyes fell to Fleur's profile, and his smirk faded.
Rita's words were cutting, almost dismissive, painting Fleur as the "weakest competitor" and questioning her place among the champions. The text dripped with subtle sexism, framing Fleur's presence as a token gesture rather than a legitimate challenge.
"She may be the jewel of Beauxbatons," Rita wrote, "but can the only female champion truly hold her own against some of the world's best and brightest? Or will her grace and charm prove insufficient when tested by fire and steel?"
Harry's jaw tightened as he read the veiled insults, the way Rita twisted Fleur's elegance into something trivial, dismissing her capabilities without outright saying so. It was a cheap shot, even for Rita.
He closed the paper with a snap, his expression darkening. Fleur might have her sharp edges, but Harry knew better than to underestimate her. Rita's article would do more than question Fleur's abilities—it would plant doubts in others' minds, doubts Fleur would have to fight every step of the way.
As the hall buzzed with morning chatter, Harry folded the paper and tucked it under his plate, his thoughts simmering. Rita got her story, alright, he thought bitterly. But I'm not sure Fleur's going to let her get away with it.
(Scene Break)
The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden light over the grounds as Harry stood near the edge of the Black Lake. The water sparkled with the sun's reflection, its gentle waves lapping against the shore as a soft breeze rustled the nearby trees. Harry rolled his shoulders, stretching the tension out of his muscles before focusing his gaze on the makeshift targets he'd set up.
Tomorrow marked the start of the first task, and every second of training felt like it could make the difference. Sweat dripped down his brow as he raised his wand, his movements sharp and precise. A blast of magic erupted from the tip, striking the target dead-center and sending shards of wood flying. He smirked in satisfaction but didn't let himself linger on the success.
"Diffindo!" he called out, a slicing charm cutting through the air and neatly severing another target. His movements were fluid, his focus razor-sharp as he worked through the routine his mother had drilled into him.
"Impressive."
The voice broke through his concentration, familiar and lightly accented. Harry glanced over his shoulder to see Fleur Delacour approaching, her silver-blonde hair catching the sunlight like spun silk. She carried herself with her usual poise, her robes flowing behind her as she walked with an air of confidence that was hard to ignore.
Harry let out a mock sigh, lowering his wand as he wiped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. "You know, Fleur, I'm beginning to think you have a crush on me," he said with a teasing smirk. "You're always hanging around my training spot. I'm flattered, really."
Fleur's lips curled into a smirk of her own as she stopped a few paces away, crossing her arms. "Crush on you?" she repeated, her tone light but sharp with amusement. "Non, Harry. I am simply trying to learn your secrets." She tilted her head slightly, her piercing blue eyes meeting his. "So I can crush you in ze tournament."
Harry chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned casually on his wand. "Right. Spying on me to get an edge, is it? Well, I hate to break it to you, but you're not going to learn much. My best tricks are saved for the main event."
"Ah, but you see," Fleur said, her smirk widening as she stepped closer, "I do not need to learn all your tricks. Just enough to be… prepared."
Harry laughed at that, the sound carrying easily across the water. "Prepared, huh? Well, good luck with that. I wouldn't want you to be too disappointed when you realize I've still got a few surprises up my sleeve."
Fleur raised an eyebrow, her gaze flicking briefly to his wand before returning to his face. "Disappointed? Non, Harry. I think ze word you are looking for is… impressed."
Harry gave her a playful grin, shaking his head again as he turned back toward his targets. "We'll see about that," he said, raising his wand once more.
Harry flicked his wand at another target, sending a precise jet of magic that shattered the wooden plank into splinters. As he lowered his wand, he turned to Fleur, who had yet to set up for her usual training. Instead, she stood watching him, her arms loosely crossed, a thoughtful look in her eyes.
"Come here to train?" Harry asked rhetorically, raising an eyebrow at her as he took a swig from his water bottle.
Fleur shook her head, her silvery-blonde hair shifting slightly with the motion. "Non," she said simply, her voice softer than usual. "I actually came to talk… if zat is alright." She hesitated for a moment, then added, "I understand if you are busy, of course. Tomorrow is ze first task, after all."
Harry blinked in mild surprise, then grinned. "Sorry," he said, his tone light and teasing. "Your free friend trial period has officially expired. I regret to inform you that I'm going to have to start charging you from now on."
Fleur tilted her head, one eyebrow raising in amused curiosity. "Oh?" she said, her lips twitching toward a smile. "And what, exactly, is your rate?"
Harry leaned on his wand with mock seriousness, pretending to consider the matter. "Ten galleons per minute of talking," he announced, his tone matter-of-fact. "It's a fair rate, don't you think?"
Fleur's lips curled into a smirk, her blue eyes gleaming with amusement. "Ten galleons per minute?" she repeated, placing a hand lightly on her hip. "For zat, you must be a very good conversationalist."
Harry shrugged, grinning. "What can I say? I've got a way with words."
Fleur laughed softly, shaking her head. "You drive a hard bargain, Harry," she said, stepping closer. "But perhaps I shall risk ze debt. I do not zink you are so cruel as to enforce such… extravagant fees."
"Don't be so sure," Harry replied with a chuckle, standing upright again. "But alright, you've got my attention. What's on your mind?"
Fleur's playful smirk softened slightly, her expression turning thoughtful. "I just… wanted to talk. Ze tournament, ze task tomorrow… it feels like a storm brewing, oui? And sometimes, it is nice to speak with someone who understands."
Harry's grin faded slightly, replaced by a faint smile of understanding. He nodded, gesturing to the nearby boulder where he often rested during his breaks. "Alright then. Take a seat. We'll call it your complimentary minute."
Fleur chuckled softly as she followed him, and the two settled into the easy rhythm of conversation, the tension of the upcoming task momentarily eased by their shared camaraderie.
As they settled onto the boulder near the Black Lake, Harry glanced at Fleur, noting the subtle shift in her expression. Her usual confidence was still present, but there was something quieter beneath it—something she was trying to mask.
"Is it the article?" Harry asked, his voice gentler now. "Did Rita get to you?"
Fleur hesitated, her eyes briefly meeting his before she looked away, a faint flush rising to her cheeks. "Non," she said, though her tone betrayed her discomfort. "Well… maybe a little. It is not as if I care what she writes, but…" She trailed off, her fingers brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
Harry offered a small, reassuring smile. "Don't worry about Rita," he said, his tone casual but laced with understanding. "This is just what she does. She twists stories, exaggerates details, and slanders people—whatever she thinks will get her a higher shot of making the front page." He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms. "You should've seen the article she wrote about me when I got sorted into Gryffindor. Nasty, it was."
Fleur glanced at him, her brow furrowing slightly. "You 'ave had encounters with zis… Rita Skeeter before?"
Harry chuckled, nodding. "Oh yeah. Quite a few of them." He paused, his gaze drifting toward the lake, where the sunlight glinted off the rippling surface. "When I say I grew up in the limelight, I mean it. My every move was watched by the public eye, no matter how much I didn't want it to be."
Fleur's expression softened, her curiosity apparent. "Zat must 'ave been difficult," she said, her voice quieter. "To live your life with so many people watching… judging."
Harry shrugged, though his smile was tinged with something deeper. "You get used to it, I guess. Doesn't mean it stops being annoying, though. People like Rita—she's been making a living off spinning stories about me since I was a kid. At this point, it's more of a nuisance than anything else."
Fleur regarded him thoughtfully, her earlier embarrassment fading as she listened. "And yet," she said after a moment, her tone laced with intrigue, "you do not seem bitter. Most people would be furious to 'ave their lives twisted and put on display."
Harry glanced at her, his smile returning, though this time it carried a trace of amusement. "Trust me, I've had my moments. But if you spend all your time being angry, you just let people like Rita win." He shrugged lightly. "You've got to pick your battles. And this?" He gestured toward the distant castle, where no doubt copies of the Daily Prophet were being passed around. "This isn't worth the fight. Not really."
Fleur tilted her head slightly, her gaze thoughtful. "You 'ave a… remarkable perspective," she said, a faint smile curving her lips. "Perhaps I should learn from you, non?"
Harry laughed softly, shaking his head. "I wouldn't go that far. But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that you can't let people like Rita get under your skin. She thrives on it. Don't give her the satisfaction."
Fleur nodded, her confidence returning as her smirk resurfaced. "Per'aps you are right," she said, her voice carrying its usual poise. "She will not get ze better of me."
"That's the spirit," Harry said with a grin.
Harry glanced at Fleur, the corner of his mouth curling into a faint smile. "Besides," he said, his tone shifting to something more earnest, "we both know what she wrote isn't true. You're a formidable opponent."
Fleur looked at him, her sharp blue eyes narrowing slightly, though there was a flicker of curiosity in her expression.
"In fact," Harry continued, leaning forward slightly, "out of all the people competing, it's you I'm most worried about, personally."
Her eyebrows lifted at that, surprise breaking through her composed demeanor. "You are worried… about me?" she asked, her voice soft but tinged with disbelief.
Harry nodded, his expression steady. "Yeah. You're Veela, Fleur. I know a lot of people judge you based on that, but it's who you are. And it's nothing to be ashamed of." His gaze softened, and his voice lowered slightly. "Just like me being the Boy-Who-Lived isn't something to be ashamed of. It's out of both our controls, sure, but it's also given us advantages we can't—and shouldn't—deny."
Fleur's lips parted as if to respond, but she hesitated, her gaze fixed on Harry as he continued.
"You, as a Veela," he said, his tone growing firmer, "have powerful elemental magic. Use that. Don't shy away from your nature. Show them exactly what a Veela can do and make them regret ever underestimating you."
There was a long pause as Fleur stared at him, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a smirk began to tug at the corners of her lips. "You say zis as if you are giving me advice, Harry," she said, her voice lilting with amusement. "But you do realize zat I am competing against you, non?"
Harry chuckled, leaning back again and giving her a playful shrug. "Well, yeah," he said, his grin widening. "But sorry to say, Fleur, I'm still going to take this tournament by storm."
Fleur laughed softly, shaking her head. "You are… quite ze contradiction, Harry Potter," she said, though there was no malice in her tone. "Telling me to use my strengths, to embrace who I am, and yet planning to beat me at every turn."
"What can I say?" Harry replied, his grin not fading. "I like a challenge."
Fleur's smirk lingered as she regarded him for a moment longer. Then, with a small nod, she stood, her confidence radiating once more. "We shall see, mon ami," she said lightly, her voice carrying just a hint of mischief. "Perhaps you will take zis tournament by storm. Or per'aps it will be me who makes ze others regret underestimating her."
Harry watched her walk back toward her training spot, his grin softening into a faint smile. Tomorrow would bring the first task, and with it, the first real test of their abilities. But for now, he felt a strange sense of camaraderie with Fleur—a shared understanding of the unique challenges they both faced, and a mutual respect that ran deeper than the tournament itself.
Here's the expanded excerpt for this beat:
As Fleur began to walk away, Harry called after her, his tone light and teasing. "Mon ami?" he repeated, tilting his head. "What's that mean?"
Fleur turned back, her smirk softening into a smile. "Ah, pardon," she said, brushing a strand of silvery hair over her shoulder. "It means 'my friend' in French."
Harry chuckled, shaking his head. "Friend? Well, Fleur, I hate to break it to you, but you're behind on your payments." He gave her a mock-serious look, crossing his arms. "I'm sorry, but your membership was officially revoked. No more 'friend' privileges for you."
Fleur let out a soft laugh, her blue eyes sparkling with amusement. "Ah, zut alors," she replied, feigning exasperation. "What a tragedy. And what must I do to regain zis membership, Harry Potter?"
Harry pretended to think, tapping his chin. "Well," he said, drawing out the word, "you could always try bribing me. Though I should warn you, I'm very expensive."
Fleur laughed again, shaking her head. "You are impossible," she said, her voice carrying a mix of exasperation and fondness as she turned back toward her training area.
Harry grinned as he watched her go, a faint chuckle escaping his lips. "You know where to find me if you change your mind," he called out.
Fleur waved a hand dismissively without looking back, though the laughter in her voice was clear. "Do not 'old your breath, mon ami."
The easy banter lingered in the air as Harry turned back to his training, the tension of the looming task momentarily forgotten.
(Scene Break)
The morning air was crisp with the promise of excitement, the grounds of Hogwarts buzzing with energy as students, staff, and visitors gathered to witness the start of the Triwizard Tournament. The sound of footsteps and excited chatter carried across the grounds, but inside the tent set up for the champions, it was quiet, almost unnervingly so.
Harry sat in one corner, adjusting the cuffs of his robes as he glanced around at the others. Cedric leaned against a wooden support beam, his arms crossed and his expression thoughtful, while Viktor sat near the entrance, his usual stoic demeanor firmly in place. Fleur stood a short distance away, her sharp gaze fixed on the tent flap as though expecting someone to come through it at any moment.
The tent was modest, with simple furnishings and a large table in the center, but its purpose was clear—it was a staging area, a place for the champions to prepare themselves before stepping into the unknown. And the unknown was exactly what loomed over them now.
As far as Harry was aware, no one had any idea what the first task was going to be. He knew for certain that he didn't. Not for a lack of trying, of course. He'd spent the past week probing for information wherever he could—listening for loose-lipped students, lingering near conversations between professors, even discreetly asking Hagrid if he knew anything. But the people responsible for creating the tasks had been exceptionally tight-lipped, and Harry's efforts had yielded nothing.
The uncertainty gnawed at him, but he forced himself to keep calm. Worrying wouldn't help now. All he could do was be ready for anything.
Cedric broke the silence first, his voice low but steady. "Anyone else have an idea what we're walking into?"
Fleur glanced at him, her expression unreadable. "Non," she replied simply. "Ze professors 'ave kept zeir secrets well."
Viktor shook his head, his deep voice cutting through the stillness. "I tried to ask… nothing. They will not say."
Harry smirked faintly, leaning back in his chair. "Same here," he said, his tone light but laced with dry humor. "Not for lack of effort, though. I even tried Hagrid—figured if anyone was going to spill, it'd be him." He chuckled, shaking his head. "But not a word. They've locked this one down tight."
Cedric let out a quiet laugh, though it was tinged with nervous energy. "Guess they want us to be surprised," he said, glancing toward the tent flap. "Or unprepared."
"Surprise, I can 'andle," Fleur said, her voice calm but firm. "But zis… zis waiting? Zat is what I do not like."
Harry nodded in agreement, his gaze flicking to the entrance. The tension in the air was palpable, each champion lost in their thoughts as they braced themselves for whatever was to come.
The distant hum of the crowd outside grew louder, a faint reminder of the spectacle awaiting them. Harry took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders as he tried to focus. Whatever the task was, he knew he couldn't afford to hesitate. The time for preparation had passed; now it was about instinct, strategy, and execution.
The flap of the tent shifted slightly, the first sign that the wait was almost over.
The tent flap rustled, drawing every champion's attention as it was pushed open. A stream of people entered, their presence immediately commanding the small space.
Dumbledore came in first, his long robes sweeping the ground as his eyes twinkled with his characteristic warmth. Behind him was Barty Crouch, his stern expression giving little away, followed by Rita Skeeter and a man lugging an oversized camera, its flashbulb glinting ominously. Cornelius Fudge trailed behind, puffing slightly as though the short walk from the castle had been a laborious task.
But it was the last figure who stopped Harry in his tracks.
His mother, Lily Potter, stepped into the tent with her usual grace, her fiery red hair catching the light as her green eyes swept the room. She held herself with calm authority, her wand tucked neatly into a custom holster on her belt.
Harry stared, his mind spinning. What is she doing here? She hadn't mentioned attending the first task—certainly not in such an official capacity.
Dumbledore stepped to the center of the room, his hands clasped in front of him, his gaze sweeping over the champions. "Good morning, champions," he began, his voice steady and reassuring. "What a fine task we have prepared for you today." His smile widened slightly as he continued. "Before we proceed, I would like to introduce someone who has been instrumental in making this tournament possible. For those of you who may not know her yet, allow me to present the brilliant mind behind the design of all this year's tasks—our resident professor, Lily Potter."
Harry's jaw slackened as his mother stepped forward, her expression calm but faintly amused as she inclined her head. The words hit him like a thunderclap, and a chill ran down his spine.
She's the one designing the tasks?
He struggled to process the revelation, a whirlwind of thoughts racing through his mind. She hadn't told him. Not once during their conversations or training had she even hinted at being involved in the tournament's planning, let alone being the mastermind behind the tasks themselves.
And that realization sent a ripple of unease through him.
Harry knew his mother's mind better than most. She was brilliant, meticulous, and—when she wanted to be—absolutely ruthless in her approach. If Lily Potter was designing the tasks, then they weren't just going to be challenging. They were going to be grueling, tests of skill and resolve that would push every champion to their limit.
He couldn't stop himself from staring at her, his shock plain on his face. Lily caught his gaze, her lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smile, but her eyes glimmered with something unreadable.
"I'm pleased to see you all here," Lily said, her voice clear and composed as she addressed the group. "Each of you has already proven yourselves to be exceptional in your own right. But this tournament is about more than proving skill—it's about pushing boundaries. And I assure you," she added, her gaze sweeping over the room before lingering briefly on Harry, "these tasks have been designed with that in mind."
A shiver ran through Harry, though he forced himself to maintain a calm exterior. Fleur and Cedric exchanged uneasy glances, and even Viktor shifted slightly, his usual stoicism cracking under the weight of Lily's words.
Dumbledore nodded approvingly. "Thank you, Professor Potter," he said before turning back to the champions. "Now, if you'll all follow us, it's time to begin."
The group began to file out of the tent, but Harry lingered for a moment, his thoughts racing. His mother—the one person he'd trusted to guide him through this tournament—had been holding back this enormous secret. And if her tasks were as intense as he feared, then he was going to need every ounce of focus to come out on top.
The champions stepped out of the tent into the bright sunlight, the roar of the crowd growing deafening as the spectators caught sight of them. Harry squinted, his eyes adjusting, before they settled on the massive structure dominating the center of the field.
It was unlike anything he had ever seen.
A large structure loomed before them,
a towering marvel of magical engineering that sprawled across the entire arena. It was divided into four distinct sections, each one exuding the raw essence of an elemental force. The transitions between the zones were seamless yet dramatic, the power of each element spilling over slightly into the next, creating an otherworldly mosaic of environments.
The Fire Zone occupied the far left, its ground scorched black and glowing with cracks of molten lava. Towers of flame erupted sporadically from the earth, their heat so intense that Harry could feel it from where he stood. Massive braziers lined the edges, casting flickering shadows against jagged rock formations. Even from this distance, Harry could make out the movements of fire elementals, their forms wreathed in flame, and the scuttling shapes of fire crabs moving through pools of bubbling magma. The air shimmered with heat, the intensity of the flames creating a mirage-like effect.
To the right of the Fire Zone lay the Water Zone, a stark contrast to its fiery neighbor. The shimmering blue aura emanating from it was soothing at first glance, but as Harry studied it, he noticed the water wasn't calm. It churned violently, cascading through an intricate network of canals, underwater caves, and swirling whirlpools. A large pool formed the entrance, its surface deceptively still, but faint ripples betrayed the lurking movements of unseen creatures. High above, waterfalls poured from the walls into the maze, feeding the labyrinth with an unrelenting flow. Harry spotted the glint of grindylows' claws and the flash of merpeople tails beneath the surface.
The Earth Zone, dominating the middle of the structure, was rugged and imposing. Sheer cliffs jutted upward, their edges sharp and treacherous, while massive boulders hovered in midair, held aloft by faint magical auras. The ground shifted unpredictably, large cracks opening and closing as if the earth itself were alive. Thorny vines snaked across the landscape, and every so often, the faint tremor of movement revealed the presence of earth-based creatures—golems carved from stone and hulking trolls camouflaged against the cliffs.
Finally, the Air Zone rose high above the others, its stormy skies a chaotic swirl of dark clouds, flashes of lightning, and roaring winds. Massive bridges of enchanted stone floated midair, suspended precariously between columns of swirling air. Champions would have to navigate the zone on narrow paths or leap between platforms buffeted by gale-force winds. Thunderbirds soared through the storm, their wings crackling with electricity, while faintly humanoid air elementals flickered in and out of visibility like ghostly shadows. The storm itself seemed alive, the wind howling with a ferocity that sent a chill down Harry's spine.
The structure as a whole seemed almost alive, its elemental forces pulsing with energy that radiated outward in waves. The transitions between zones were marked by subtle but striking shifts in atmosphere—a wall of steam where fire met water, jagged fault lines where water spilled into earth, and a swirling vortex where earth gave way to air.
At the heart of the structure, barely visible through the chaos, stood a pedestal encased in a shimmering barrier of magical light. Something rested atop it, its glow faint but enticing.
As Harry and the others took in the sight, Lily Potter stepped forward, her presence commanding their attention.
"Champions," she began, her voice carrying easily over the crowd, "welcome to the first task of the Triwizard Tournament: the Gauntlet of Elements."
She gestured toward the towering structure, her tone measured and authoritative. "This task is designed to test your adaptability, endurance, and mastery of magic. Each of you will face challenges unique to the elemental zones you must traverse: fire, water, earth, and air."
She paused, her gaze sweeping across the champions before continuing. "In the Fire Zone, you will navigate a blazing inferno filled with molten lava, fireballs, and creatures of flame. Quick thinking and precision will be key to your survival."
"In the Water Zone," she said, gesturing toward the swirling aquatic labyrinth, "you will dive into an underwater maze, where the currents are strong, and dangers lurk beneath the surface. Your ability to adapt to an unfamiliar and hostile environment will determine your success."
She turned toward the rugged cliffs of the Earth Zone. "The Earth Zone will challenge your strength and resilience as you climb treacherous paths, avoid rockfalls, and face creatures bound to the earth itself. Here, your ability to balance offense and defense will be critical."
Finally, she motioned toward the storm-tossed skies of the Air Zone. "And in the Air Zone, you will cross stormy skies, navigating gale-force winds and lightning strikes while defending yourself against airborne threats. Precision and courage will guide you through."
Lily's expression hardened slightly, her voice firm. "Your objective is simple: retrieve the relic from the heart of the gauntlet. Success requires more than just raw strength—it demands strategy, quick adaptation, and the courage to face the unknown."
She stepped back, her gaze lingering on each champion for a moment before resting on Harry. Though her face remained composed, there was the faintest glimmer of pride—and warning—in her green eyes.
Lily Potter's voice carried a weight that cut through the anticipation buzzing in the air. The champions stood motionless, their attention riveted on her as she continued her explanation.
"All four of you will begin in the Fire Zone at the same time," she said, her words deliberate and precise. "The gauntlet has been designed as a labyrinth, with each zone containing multiple paths to the next. Some paths will seem easier but may hold hidden dangers. Others may require more effort but offer safer routes."
She paused, her gaze sweeping over the champions. "Do not be mistaken—this is a race. The first champion to reach the Relic will be declared the winner of this task."
The crowd outside roared as her words sank in, the competitive nature of the trial stoking the already high excitement. Harry glanced at the towering gauntlet again, his mind racing as he processed the new information. Each zone was a maze within a maze, and every decision would matter.
"This task is not just about surviving the elements," Lily continued, her tone firm. "Your performance today will determine certain advantages—or disadvantages—in the next task. The better you perform, the more favorable your position will be moving forward in this tournament."
Harry exchanged glances with the other champions. Cedric's jaw tightened as his eyes flicked toward the Fire Zone, clearly calculating his approach. Fleur remained calm, though her blue eyes glimmered with determination. Viktor, as always, was unreadable, his expression a mask of focus.
"Remember," Lily said, her voice rising slightly to emphasize her final point, "the first to reach the Relic wins. But do not forget—this gauntlet is designed to test your adaptability, endurance, and ability to think on your feet. Recklessness will only cost you."
Her gaze lingered on each champion in turn, her green eyes sharp and unyielding. When they landed on Harry, he felt a shiver run down his spine. There was no favoritism in her expression—only a silent challenge, the same one she extended to all of them.
Lily raised her hand, motioning toward the ground in front of the champions. "Champions," she called, her voice clear and commanding, "if you look just ahead of you, you will see runic circles etched into the earth. Please take your place on these circles."
Harry glanced down, spotting the faint glow of intricate runic symbols carved into the dirt. The designs pulsed softly with a golden light, radiating faint tendrils of magical energy that shimmered in the air above them.
"These runic circles," Lily continued, "will transport each of you to a random location within the Fire Zone. Be cautious once you arrive. The Gauntlet of Elements is filled with runes, wards, and enchantments designed to confuse and disorient you. There is an anti-Apparation matrix in place, as well as other protections, to prevent you from cheating or skipping zones. You will need to navigate the gauntlet on your own skill and wits."
Harry's stomach churned slightly as he stepped closer to the glowing circle in front of him. The thought of being randomly dropped into the inferno-like terrain of the Fire Zone was unsettling, but he pushed the feeling aside. This was it.
Lily's gaze swept over the champions one final time. "The countdown will begin as soon as you all take your places on the runic circles. When the countdown reaches zero, you will be transported, and the task will officially begin."
The tension was palpable as each champion moved toward their assigned circle. Harry stood on the edge of his, the golden light casting faint patterns on his shoes, and exhaled slowly, steadying himself. Around him, the other champions did the same—Cedric adjusting his stance, Fleur brushing back a strand of hair, and Viktor standing motionless, his focus like steel.
The moment Harry stepped fully onto the circle, the runes beneath him flared, their light brightening momentarily before settling into a steady glow. Above them, a sharp whistle pierced the air, and Harry's eyes darted skyward.
Fireworks shot into the sky, their trails sparkling like stars before exploding into a massive, glowing number 10. The crowd roared, their cheers deafening as the number morphed into 9, then 8.
Harry's pulse quickened, the adrenaline beginning to build with each passing second. This was it. This was where it all began.
He glanced at his fellow competitors, catching Cedric's eye. "Good luck," Harry said, his voice calm but sincere.
Cedric nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You too," he replied, loud enough for all of them to hear.
Fleur's blue eyes flicked to Harry, then to the others. "Bonne chance," she said, her voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of tension. "Good luck… to all of us."
Viktor didn't speak but gave a curt nod, his focus unbroken as his gaze turned forward again.
The fireworks continued their countdown, each number blazing briefly in the sky before morphing into the next: 5… 4…
Harry took a steadying breath, his grip tightening around his wand. He could feel the energy of the runes beneath him beginning to hum, the magic building to a crescendo as the final moments ticked away.
3… 2… 1…
The world around him seemed to hold its breath, and then, with a flash of golden light, everything vanished.
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