Harry Potter and Fleur Delacour sat on opposite couches in the champion's waiting area—a cramped lounge adorned with school banners and alive with tense conversation.
Fleur flicked a stray lock of silvery hair behind her ear, her blue eyes narrowed in frustration.
"Will you stop 'iding after the task?" she asked, her words clipped.
"No," Harry replied tersely.
"Why?" Fleur pressed.
She leaned forward, as though hoping to pry some confidence from him with sheer force of will.
On a crate near the back of the tent, in her tiny beetle animagus form, Rita Skeeter observed the exchange with growing impatience.
From Rita's vantage point, Harry's expression seemed calm—too calm.
He offered a dismissive shrug.
"Headmaster problems," he finally said.
Fleur's eyes widened comically, but she gave no immediate retort.
'Where's the damned Bozo when I need him?'Rita thought, her tiny antennae twitching with frustration.'A picture of a Veela champion scowling at The Boy Who Lived would sell papers in a heartbeat. And it'd show Veelas aren't always perfect princesses.'
"You too?" Fleur mumbled, lowering her gaze to her hands.
Harry perked up slightly. "What do you mean?" he asked, sharper than before.
Rita leaned in, ready to catch every word—she could practically taste the intrigue.
But fate would not grant her the satisfaction; a Ministry official approached, clipboard in hand, wearing a bored expression.
"Ms. Delacour. It's your turn," he announced flatly. "Hurry along now."
Fleur stood, casting one last glance at Harry. "I'm going in. 'Ave you got anyzing you want to tell me?"
Rita waited breathlessly for Harry's response.'Come on, say something that'll make headlines!'
"Good luck," Harry said with a slight smile. "You'll need it."
'Ugh, that's it? He really is oblivious. Fleur clearly wants him to say something more… something to put her at ease or maybe even flatter her. Does he not see that? Such a typical teenage boy!'she thought; her wings were twitching in irritation.
Fleur lingered for a heartbeat, then she sighed, and swept out of the lounge.
The moment she disappeared, the anxious tension seemed to leak from the room.
Harry leaned back on his couch, shifting slightly as if readjusting his robes.
Across the tent, Rita watched with practised attention.
'Why is he fidgeting like that?' she wondered. 'Is he hiding something?'
He was.
A subtle rippling beneath his robes betrayed the presence of something—something sliding out from the folds of cloth.
Without warning, an emerald-green snake unfurled itself and dropped soundlessly onto the floor behind Harry's couch…
Sadly for Rita, she was so focused on the boy's face that she failed to notice the serpent gliding across the tent.
She mulled over how best to spin Harry's apparent aloofness.
'Poor Fleur, brushed off like that. The readers love a bit of romantic drama.Veela Charms Fail on the Boy Who Lived!Yes, that could sell…'
The snake moved with lethal grace, hugging the shadows.
In one fluid motion, it circled behind Rita's crate, tongue flicking to taste the air.
"WHAT A MAGNIFICENT DISPLAY OF MAGIC!" suddenly came Ludo Bagman's booming voice, startling the hidden animagus.
"THE FRENCH CHAMPION MANAGED TO KNOCK OUT THE DRAGON!"
Just at that moment, Rita felt something.
She froze, her tiny beetle heart hammering as she spun around just in time to see two glittering reptilian eyes fix on her.
She had no idea it was there until a low hiss rumbled right behind her.
Rita tried to scramble backwards, but it was too late.
The serpent hissed something—she could swear it was mocking her—and lunged.
It didn't hesitate.
With lightning speed, it moved forward and caught Rita in its jaws.
She felt the sharp, crushing pressure around her beetle form, her world spinning as she was lifted off the crate.
'Merlin save me. Merlin save me,' Rita thought frantically as the serpent's grip tightened.
In her panic, she didn't even think about transforming back—if such a thing was even possible while being crushed.
Terrified and disoriented, she could only watch as the tent blurred around her.
Her wings buzzed uselessly, pinned by the snake's grip.
Then she saw it; a streak of red light, arcing in her direction from somewhere off to the side.
'No!' she thought, or perhaps screeched; she wasn't sure.
Everything went red—and then black.
…
'Whaz happening? Where am I?' Rita's mind swam through a thick fog of confusion as she woke up.
Her beetle senses felt dulled, almost nonexistent, and a throbbing ache pulsed through what she assumed was her head.
The last thing she remembered was those terrible, glinting eyes and the flash of red light.
Hours—maybe days—slipped by in black silence. Rita had no way to measure time except for the dull throbbing behind her eyes that refused to subside and her growing hunger, that soon turned unbearable.
She felt herself growing weaker, her tiny beetle form trembling with each passing hour.
The cold, unrelenting darkness, pressed in, making her wonder if this would be her final resting place.
Occasionally, she drifted off, only to jerk awake at the memory of fangs clamping around her.
Finally, after an indeterminate stretch of misery, she felt movement.
A jolt rocked her little prison, making her tumble against the glass wall.
'Wha—someone's carrying me?' Light filtered in from above, stinging her compound eyes.
She could sense shapes, shifting outlines, then…
Air.
Someone—no, Potter—was opening the pouch she'd apparently been stored in.
Harsh sunlight cut through the jar she was in, forcing her to blink and curl her tiny legs protectively.
'I knew it! That boy, the snake… so it was him!'
She tried to scramble upright but only succeeded in slipping back down, her wings scraping uselessly against the slick surface.
Potter's face loomed closer, eyes narrowed.
Rita stared at his features—less boyish, more calculating.
'What the hell. This is no innocent child…' she thought, dread coiling within her.
They were outside.
She glimpsed towering trees, their ancient trunks weaving a canopy overhead.
'The Forbidden Forest!'
Her heart hammered.
No one ventured there, not casually, and especially not alone.
Harry drew back a few steps from the jar, placing it on a tree stump.
His gaze flicked across the clearing, then fell on her again.
"Ah," he said quietly, as though speaking to himself, "you're awake."
'Not good, not good,' Rita thought, pressing her body against the jar's base.
'He's not supposed to know I'm an Animagus. How in Merlin's name did he find out?'
Potter cleared his throat, scanning the forest.
He looked every bit like someone making certain there were no unwelcome spectators.
Satisfied, he focused on the jar.
"I bet, you can imagine my surprise when I cast the animagus reversing spell—"
'No. It can't be, no,' Rita thought fervently.
"on you and saw just who you were… Skeeter," he finished, voice low. "Let's talk."
A faint sizzling wave rippled through Rita's form as she realised the boy knew exactly who she was.
In her panic, she nearly transformed back—which only made her panic worse— and images of her body filled with glass shards flashed through her mind…
She battered the glass with her tiny forelimbs, attempting to convey some kind of protest.
Harry merely raised an eyebrow. "I know you can hear me. I also know you understand me. I'm not going to shatter your little jar home," he added, tone wry, "unless you give me a reason to."
Rita froze, torn between indignation and terror.
'This kid… did he really just threaten me?'
He leaned in, green eyes cold.
"I'll cut straight to the point," he said, voice clipped. "I know how you've been sneaking around the grounds and the castle, digging up dirt. I don't care about most of it—" he hesitated, mouth twisting in distaste. "But you've caused enough trouble."
She huddled in the jar, silent but furious. 'You think I'm the troublemaker, boy? I make a living from truth—or at least, a polished version of it. You've no idea how this world works!'
Harry tapped the glass lightly, and the reverberation sent tiny shockwaves through Rita.
"I'm giving you a choice," he continued, voice resolute. "I can just leave you here." He gestured vaguely at the looming shadow of the Forbidden Forest behind them. "Plenty of creatures fancy a crunchy snack… especially if I crack the jar first."
A shiver of real fear raced through Rita. 'He wouldn't… would he?'
She didn't know.
The Harry Potter she saw now was nothing like the boy she'd imagined. He was nothing like the press, her included, said he was.
For all she knew, he could be going around killing people since eleven…
He drew closer, exuding an unsettling calm. "Or, you and I can come to an arrangement."
His lips curved into a faint smile—too faint to be comforting.
"In exchange for your… restraint… when it comes to writing about me and my friends, I'll let you go."
Rita managed a scoff in her mind, even if she couldn't produce any sound. 'Of course. Blackmail. Not only am I getting blackmailed by a Gryffindor—for Godric's sake—but from the boy who lived?'
Harry continued, "You'll write your stories, but not about me, or Hermione, or anyone close to me. You'll keep your distance. In return…"
He shrugged, lifting the jar off the stump as though weighing it. "I keep your dirty little secret about being an unregistered Animagus to myself. No mention to the Ministry. No mention to Dumbledore… or certain other interested parties."
At Harry's expectant silence, she inclined her tiny head in what she hoped looked like a nod.
'Yes, yes, you blasted brat. I agree. Just let me out of here!'
Relief flickered across Harry's face, almost too quick to catch, but was immediately replaced by the same measured detachment.
He placed the jar back down, twisted the lid, and then, with a soft pop, fresh air cascaded in.
Rita wasted no time.
In a heartbeat, she flexed her limbs and felt the magic surge.
The world expanded and warped until she stood—dishevelled, hair askew, and robes dusty—in her human form.
"You little—" she began, but Harry raised his wand, eyes flashing dangerously.
"You can leave," he said. "We're done. But remember—say one word about me or my friends that crosses the line, and I'll personally make sure everyone knows just how you get your stories."
Rita bristled, but her rage cowered behind a layer of caution.
She snatched at her handbag—somehow lying at the base of the stump—and pulled it over her shoulder.
As she disappeared among the trees, she couldn't stop thinking about revenge.
'I'll find a way around this eventually, Potter… just you wait.'
…
Rita Skeeter had to admit, her career had taken her to some unusual places: the corridors of Azkaban, the deck of the Durmstrang ship moored in the Black Lake—even the occasional broom closet while chasing an illicit romance story.
But perching on the edge of a paperweight in the Headmistress of Beauxbatons' office, disguised as her Animagus form, surely topped all her previous adventures.
One twitch of her wings, one scuttling misstep, and she'd be discovered.
Yet the risk only made her heart flutter with exhilaration…
She had slipped inside earlier that afternoon, unnoticed in her animal form—a sleek, emerald-winged beetle—crawling through the slight gap beneath the towering double doors.
Within seconds, she'd scrambled across the polished marble floor, carefully avoiding the swish of Madame Maxime's long, voluminous robes.
The Headmistress's office was every bit as opulent as one might expect from Beauxbatons Academy: tall, arched windows framed by drapes of the deepest midnight blue, their fabric embroidered with silver stars.
'Reminds me of Dumbledore,' Rita mused, wondering what it was about the celestial motifs that seemed to draw powerful magical educators.
A half-dozen delicate rose bushes lined the walls.
The Headmistress's grand desk—heavy and carved from some unique, dark wood—stood at the far side of the circular chamber.
Never one to miss an opportunity, Rita had hopped up onto the corner of the desk, quietly tucking her legs beneath her insect body, seeking the perfect vantage point.
Her beady eyes roved over the desk's surface; various letters sealed with swirling monograms lay strewn about, along with a decorative tin of sugar biscuits and an inkstand shaped like a miniature Pegasus.
Rita watched as Madame Maxime ordered a student to fetch the French champion, then waited alongside her for the girl to come.
'Fleur Delacour. Harry Potter's girlfriend,' Rita mused with a rebellious smirk.
They had conversed in low, measured tones—something aboutprioritiesandfocusing on the Tournament.
Rita, thanking Merlin for her foresight to cast the translation charm on herself, strained to pick out every nuance.
She might have hoped for an explosive confrontation—Veela temper meets overbearing Headmistress—but Fleur had kept herself in check, sounding polite yet unmistakably irritated.
Rita's Quick-Quotes Quill, stashed in a tiny pouch hung around her beetle form—shrunk to match her size—still managed to jot down the highlights in microscopic script.
Now, as she listened, Fleur's voice rose slightly, laced with tension. "…and I see no reason why my private life concerns you, Madame."
The girl's posture was rigid, but her tone—impressive, in Rita's opinion—remained controlled.
'Not just a pretty face after all,' Rita thought, surprised by Fleur's poise and feeling just a bit of envy.
Across the desk, Madame Olympe Maxime was a formidable figure indeed.
Tall beyond all conventional measure, she filled her high-backed chair so completely that it creaked whenever she shifted.
She wore elegant, sky-blue robes trimmed with ivory lace at the collar and cuffs.
Her raven hair was coiled atop her head in an intricate twist, pinned with a single rose-shaped clip.
Everything about her demeanour spoke of command and confidence.
She sat with her shoulders back, one large hand resting on a sheet of parchment detailing some upcoming banquet.
"... It would not look well for a champion of Beauxbatons to be seen dallying excessively with a student from another school," Maxime said, her deep voice resounding off the high ceiling.
'Woah. Am I about to see some feathers pop up?' Rita thought delightedly.
It was not meant to be though…
Fleur rose from the chair.
"I understand, Madame," she said, keeping her tone steady.
The headmistress gave her a nod and dismissed her.
Without another word, Fleur swept toward the door, her toned legs carrying her across with an enviable elegance.
Rita hoped for a last moment, snide remark before the girl left the room, but alas, she was destined to be disappointed today.
The door eased shut behind her with a gentle click, and the echo lingered.
'That was interesting, but not quite the scandal I was hoping for,' Rita thought, adjusting her wings.
However, before she could consider leaving, Madame Maxime let out a weary sigh and rose to her feet.
She moved to the tall windows that overlooked the castle in the distance.
"Are you satisfied, Monsieur Delacour?" Maxime said at last, her voice was low and subdued.
"You have heard your daughter's mood. She will not be easy to…influence."
Rita stilled.
'What the hell?'
Near the office's corner, something stirred in the air—a ripple, faint as a breeze passing over water.
Then the shimmering edges of a fine Invisibility Cloak slipped back, revealing a tall, elegantly attired wizard.
Sebastian Delacour.
He had proud, patrician features and short, immaculate hair of a burnished gold that matched his daughter's.
Rita's beetle eyes gleamed with utter delight.
'Such drama', she thought. 'Such scandal.'
He tossed the cloak aside and inclined his head coldly to the Headmistress.
"I heard everything."
His voice was low, each syllable perfectly enunciated.
He wore a fitted navy blue frock coat with brass buttons and a slender wand strapped at his waist.
Madame Maxime turned to face him fully.
Though he was tall by any ordinary measure, she still towered a good foot and a half above him.
"She is rebellious," Sebastian continued, stepping forward. "And far too taken with that English boy. It jeopardises our arrangement."
Maxime folded her arms across her ample chest. "She is young. Young people love to indulge in romance. But you must trust that I remain…committed to our cause."
"Commitment is one matter," Sebastian said, his tone glacial, "results are another. You forced her into entering this Tournament.Imade sure the French authorities backed your demands. Now, you must ensure she wins."
Maxime's thin smile held no warmth. "I do what I can, Monsieur Delacour, but these tasks are not entirely within my domain. That meddling Dumbledore oversees much, and the other champions have proven surprisingly capable—"
"Youwilldo more," Sebastian cut in, voice sharp. "That was our agreement—you get my political support in your future endeavours, and I get to see my daughter crowned Tri-Wizard Champion. I want no more vague promises."
Rita could hardly contain her excitement.
The only thing that stopped her from taking flight and buzzing around like crazy was… well, this story.
That was not a conversation she could ever hope to overhear, not in a million years.
She took a careful step forward across the paperweight, the better to listen.
Sebastian's gaze travelled to the desk as well, lingering on the sealed letters.
"You have resources, Maxime. Allies with influence in the International Confederation of Wizards. Connections that can shift the structure of these tasks."
The Headmistress let out a soft scoff. "And you, with your extensive network, cannot do the same?"
"In public, perhaps. But I do not want my name attached to anything so…overt. You, however, are in a perfect position to make small adjustments. The other headmasters will do the same for their own, I'm certain. Don't pretend this Tournament has always been fair. Politics seep into everything."
Maxime sniffed, affronted. "You assume a great deal. Headmaster Karkaroff is cunning, yes, but I am not certain how far he would go. And as for Dumbledore—"
"Dumbledore," Sebastian said with undisguised scorn, "won't blink if it means furtheringhisagenda."
"Very well, Monsieur Delacour. I concede that I should do more."
She tapped her fingernails against the side of her desk, a measured staccato that echoed in the spacious office.
"But donotthreaten me again. I will not tolerate intimidation and I do have my own position and reputation to uphold."
Sebastian's lips curved into a thin smile. "I merely remind you of the stakes.Myreputation is also on the line. If Fleur fails to win, it shall be on your head. And that daughter of mine—Circe help her if she thinks gallivanting with that Hogwarts champion is more important than fulfilling her duty, then she has clearly misunderstood whatourfamily stands for."
He let the words hang, menacing and heavy.
'Family stands for? More like your personal ambition,' Rita mused with scorn.
She felt a spark of satisfaction as she considered her new information.
Sebastian flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his frock coat. "I only ask that you honour what we agreed upon. If you fail to deliver, do not forget that you are indebted to me. I will not hesitate to use my influence against you."
Madame Maxime's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Nor I to expose your involvement, Monsieur Delacour. We both hold daggers to each other's throats. Let us not be foolish enough to draw blood."
Rita watched the interplay with undisguised glee.
If she could have rubbed her tiny insect legs together without making noise, she would have.
'So they're blackmailing each other. Wonderful.'
The tension between them was almost tangible, a thick wave of hostility crashing silently through the air.
At last, Sebastian drew a measured breath.
"So be it," he said, stepping away to retrieve the silvery Invisibility Cloak from the back of the chair where he'd draped it.
With practised grace, he swept the shimmering fabric over his shoulders, and in a faint swirl of motion, Sebastian pulled the cloak fully over himself.
A moment later, only a slight distortion of space indicated his presence.
Then, footfalls so light they were barely audible moved towards the door.
The handle turned, the latch clicked—and he was gone.
Madame Maxime sat in stony silence for a few heartbeats, then let out a slow, frustrated exhale.
She tapped her wand against a crystal glass on the desk, summoning water with a graceful swirl.
Lifting it to her lips, she took a long sip, her eyes closed as if in deep thought.
Finally, she murmured to herself, "I hate politics," then pushed her chair back and stood.
With a wave of her wand, the lights in the chandeliers dimmed to a gentle glow.
Maxime then followed the example of the Delacours and left the room, leaving one small, shimmering beetle alone…
…
Rita Skeeter stormed into the bustling offices of theDaily Prophet, her sharp heels clacking against the polished floors.
The sound blended into the hum of hurried quills scratching on parchment and the occasional snatches of conversation.
Her lips were pursed, her jaw set—the look of a woman with a plan.
Emerald-green robes shimmering under the enchanted lights, Rita wove through the chaos of the newsroom, her hawk-like eyes scanning the faces until they landed on one in particular.
Barnaby Cresswell.
'Now there's a man I can use,' Rita thought, a predatory smile curling at the corners of her mouth.
She could already imagine Potter's and his little girlfriend's reactions when they read the story she was about to unleash.
Barnaby, hunched over his desk, was one of the few people shetrustedin this viper's nest.
A seasoned journalist with an uncanny knack for unearthing dirt, he had the instincts of a bloodhound and a loyalty that couldn't be bought—an increasingly rare trait in their cutthroat world.
Rita approached him, her shadow looming over his desk.
Barnaby glanced up, dark eyes narrowing with curiosity.
"Rita," he drawled, leaning back in his chair, the quill in his hand momentarily still. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
She smirked, though her eyes remained cold.
"Barnaby, dear, I've stumbled upon something that makes all my past exclusives look like mere gossip." She gestured for him to follow. "Not here. Too many ears."
Barnaby arched an eyebrow but grabbed his notepad and followed her into one of the soundproof meeting rooms reserved for sensitive discussions.
Once inside, Rita flicked her wand, casting a quickMuffliatocharm—a trick she'd picked up from her old, diminutive professor.
"What's this about, Skeeter?" Barnaby asked, settling into a chair and tapping his quill impatiently against the edge of his parchment.
Rita leaned forward, her voice low and urgent. "It's about the Delacours and Maxime. Fleur Delacour, the Beauxbatons champion, and her father, Sebastian… there's more to their little family than meets the eye. And Madame Maxime? She's hiding something—something big."
Barnaby's quill stilled, his eyes gleaming with intrigue. "Go on."
She laid it all out—her clandestine visit to Beauxbatons, the overheard conversations, and the tangled web of promises that had Madame Maxime dancing to Sebastian's tune.
Fleur, it seemed, was nothing more than a political pawn to her father, and the pressure on her to perform in the tournament was laced with threats and manipulation.
When she finished, Barnaby leaned back, a slow grin spreading across his face. "This is gold, Rita. Absolute gold. But why bring it to me? Everyone knows you've never been shy about publishing your own work."
Rita's eyes flashed, her smile brittle. "Let's just say… certain individuals are trying to clip my wings. If this came out under my byline, I might face… complications. But you? You're untouchable. Publish it, Barnaby, and make sure it's front page. The world deserves to know the truth about these people."
Barnaby chuckled, his expression amused. "The world deserves to know the truth? Come on, Rita—you'd sell an exposé on your own mother if it meant a front-page story."
Her smile tightened, a flicker of anger crossing her features. "Just write the article, Barnaby. Trust me, no one will see it coming."
Barnaby opened his mouth as if to say something more, but one look at her expression made him think better of it.
With a curt nod, she swept out of the room, tension easing from her shoulders.
'This was the smart move,' she told herself.
Letting Barnaby take the spotlight while she remained in the shadows, biding her time.
As she stepped into the crisp evening air outside theDaily Prophetbuilding, the satisfaction of her machinations brought a faint smile to her lips.
Soon, the Delacours and Maxime would find themselves under the harsh light of public scrutiny.
'And if it causes some relationship issues,' Rita thought with a touch of sadistic pleasure, 'all the better.'
She returned to her London townhouse, invigorated despite the day's events leaving her drained.
The crocodile-skin handbag was barely on the ornate table by the door when a loud knock echoed through the house.
Frowning, Rita pulled open the door to find three Aurors standing on her doorstep, their expressions grim.
The leader, a tall woman with steely eyes, stepped forward. "Rita Skeeter," she said firmly, "you are under arrest for being an unregistered Animagus."
For a moment, Rita was too stunned to speak.
'What? How do they know? Did that blasted boy go back on his promise?'
Her mind raced, searching for an escape, but the Aurors had come prepared.
With a flick of the woman's wand, Rita found herself wandless.
Panic surged as she considered transforming into her beetle form and fleeing, but a second spell hit her squarely in the chest, immobilising her.
"This is preposterous!" she snapped, her voice rising in indignation. "Do you have any idea who I am?"
The Auror's gaze didn't waver. "We do. And so will the Wizengamot. Dawlish get her, and let's go."
Rita's hands trembled with fear and rage as she glanced back at her beloved home, knowing it might be the last time she saw it for a while.
How had her perfect plan unravelled so quickly?
The irony wasn't lost on her. The very day she had orchestrated someone else's downfall, her own world had come crashing down.
She was grabbed by a tough-looking wizard and in the next moment, she felt the ever-familiar tug on her navel.
.
.
.
[d=i=s=c=o=r=d=.=g=g/NJ3WV9RVgR]
[p=atreon=.=c=o=m/Mr_0ne] or do a Google search of'p=atreon Fake Violinist'.
Chapter 30: Heartstrings and Dreams
Chapter 31: Duels of Intention
Chapter 32: A Horcrux and a Mistake?