plained that the phoenix feather in
Harry's wand had come from the same bird that had supplied the core of Lord
Voldemort's.
Harry had never shared this piece of information with anybody. He was very fond
of his wand, and as far as he was concerned its relation to Voldemort's wand was
something it couldn't help - rather as he couldn't help being related to Aunt
Petunia. However, he really hoped that Mr. Ollivander wasn't about to tell the
room about it. He had a funny feeling Rita Skeeter's Quick-Quotes Quill might just
explode with excitement if he did.
Mr. Ollivander spent much longer examining Harry's wand than anyone else's.
Eventually, however, he made a fountain of wine shoot out of it, and handed it
back to Harry, announcing that it was still in perfect condition.
"Thank you all," said Dumbledore, standing up at the judges' table. "You may go
back to your lessons now - or perhaps it would be quicker just to go down to
dinner, as they are about to end -"
Feeling that at last something had gone right today, Harry got up to leave, but the
man with the black camera jumped up and cleared his throat.
"Photos, Dumbledore, photos!" cried Bagman excitedly. "All the judges and
champions, what do you think, Rita?"
"Er - yes, let's do those first," said Rita Skeeter, whose eyes were upon Harry
again. "And then perhaps some individual shots."
The photographs took a long time. Madame Maxime cast everyone else into
shadow wherever she stood, and the photographer couldn't stand far enough back
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to get her into the frame; eventually she had to sit while everyone else stood
around her. Karkaroff kept twirling his goatee around his finger to give it an extra
curl; Krum, whom Harry would have thought would have been used to this sort of
thing, skulked, half-hidden, at the back of the group. The photographer seemed
keenest to get Fleur at the front, but Rita Skeeter kept hurrying forward and
dragging Harry into greater prominence. Then she insisted on separate shots of all
the champions. At last, they were free to go.
Harry went down to dinner. Hermione wasn't there - he supposed she was still in
the hospital wing having her teeth fixed. He ate alone at the end of the table, then
returned to Gryffindor Tower, thinking of all the extra work on Summoning
Charms that he had to do. Up in the dormitory, he came across Ron.
"You've had an owl," said Ron brusquely the moment he walked in. He was
pointing at Harry's pillow. The school barn owl was waiting for him there.
"Oh - right," said Harry.
"And we've got to do our detentions tomorrow night, Snape's dungeon," said Ron.
He then walked straight out of the room, not looking at Harry. For a moment,
Harry considered going after him - he wasn't sure whether he wanted to talk to him
or hit him, both seemed quite appealing - but the lure of Sirius's answer was too
strong. Harry strode over to the barn owl, took the letter off its leg, and unrolled it.
Harry -
I can't say everything I would like to in a letter, it's too risky
in case the owl is intercepted - we need to talk face-to-face. Can you ensure that
you are alone by the fire in Gryffindor Tower at one o'clock in the morning on the
22nd ofNovember?
I know better than anyone that you can look after yourself and while you're around
Dumbledore and Moody I don't think anyone will be able to hurt you. However,
someone seems to be having a good try. Entering you in that tournament would
have been very risky, especially right under Dumbkdore's nose.
Be on the watch, Harry. I still want to hear about anything unusual. Let me know
about the 22nd ofNovember as quickly as you can.
Sirius
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CHAPTER NINETEEN - THE HUNGARIAN HORNTAIL
The prospect of talking face-to-face with Sirius was all that sustained Harry over
the next fortnight, the only bright spot on a horizon that had never looked darker.
The shock of finding himself school champion had worn off slightly now, and the
fear of what was facing him had started to sink in. The first task was drawing
steadily nearer; he felt as though it were crouching ahead of him hike some
horrific monster, barring his path. He had never suffered nerves like these; they
were way beyond anything he had experienced before a Quidditch match, not even
his last one against Slytherin, which had decided who would win the Quidditch
Cup. Harry was finding it hard to think about the future at all; he felt as though his
whole life had been heading up to, and would finish with, the first task.
Admittedly, he didn't see how Sirius was going to make him feel any better about
having to perform an unknown piece of difficult and dangerous magic in front of
hundreds of people, but the mere sight of a friendly face would be something at
the moment. Harry wrote back to Sirius saying that he would be beside the
common room fire at the time Sirius had suggested; and he and Hermione spent a
long time going over plans for forcing any stragglers out of the common room on
the night in question. If the worst came to the worst, they were going to drop a bag
of Dungbombs, but they hoped they wouldn't have to resort to that - Filch would
skin them alive.
In the meantime, life became even worse for Harry within the confines of the
castle, for Rita Skeeter had published her piece about the Triwizard Tournament,
and it had turned out to be not so much a report on the tournament as a highly
colored life story of Harry. Much of the front page had been given over to a
picture of Harry; the article (continuing on pages two, six, and seven) had been all
about Harry, the names of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang champions
(misspelled) had been squashed into the last line of the article, and Cedric hadn't
been mentioned at all.
The article had appeared ten days ago, and Harry still got a sick, burning feeling of
shame in his stomach every time he thought about it. Rita Skeeter had reported
him saying an awful lot of things that he couldn't remember ever saying in his life,
let alone in that broom cupboard.
I suppose I get my strength from my parents. I know they'd be very proud of me if
they could see me now. . . . Yes, sometimes at night I still cry about them, I'm not
ashamed to admit it. . . . I know nothing will hurt me during the tournament,
because they're watching over me. . .
But Rita Skeeter had gone even further than transforming his "er's" into long,
sickly sentences: She had interviewed other people about him too.
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Harry has at last found love at Hogwarts. His close friend, Colin Creevey, says
that Harry is rarely seen out of the company of one Hermione Granger, a
stunningly pretty Muggle-born girl who, like Harry, is one of the top students in
the school.
From the moment the article had appeared, Harry had had to endure people --
Slytherins, mainly -- quoting it at him as he passed and making sneering
comments.
"Want a hanky, Potter, in case you start crying in Transfiguration?"
"Since when have you been one of the top students in the school, Potter? Or is this
a school you and Longbottom have set up together?"
"Hey - Harry!"
"Yeah, that's right!" Harry found himself shouting as he wheeled around in the
corridor, having had just about enough. "I've just been crying my eyes out over my
dead mum, and I'm just off to do a bit more. . .
"No - it was just - you dropped your quill."
It was Cho. Harry felt the color rising in his face.
"Oh - right - sorry," he muttered, taking the quill back.
"Er. . . good luck on Tuesday," she said. "I really hope you do well."
Which left Harry feeling extremely stupid.
Hermione had come in for her fair share of unpleasantness too, but she hadn't yet
started yelling at innocent bystanders; in fact, Harry was full of admiration for the
way she was handling the situation.
"Stunningly pretty? Her?" Pansy Parkinson had shrieked the first time she had
come face-to-face with Hermione after Rita's article had appeared. "What was she
judging against - a chipmunk?"
"Ignore it," Hermione said in a dignified voice, holding her head in the air and
stalking past the sniggering Slytherin girls as though she couldn't hear them. "Just
ignore it, Harry."
But Harry couldn't ignore it. Ron hadn't spoken to him at all since he had told him
about Snape's detentions. Harry had half hoped they would make things up during
the two hours they were forced to pickle rats' brains in Snape's dungeon, but that
had been the day Rita's article had appeared, which seemed to have confirmed
Ron's belief that Harry was really enjoying all the attention.
Hermione was furious with the pair of them; she went from one to the other, trying
to force them to talk to each other, but Harry was adamant: He would talk to Ron
again only if Ron admitted that Harry hadn't put his name in the Goblet of Fire and
206
apologized for calling him a liar.
"I didn't start this," Harry said stubbornly. "It's his problem."
"You miss him!" Hermione said impatiently. "And I know he misses you -"
"Miss him?" said Harry. "I don't miss him. . .
But this was a downright lie. Harry liked Hermione very much, but she just wasn't
the same as Ron. There was much hess laughter and a lot more hanging around in
the library when Hermione was your best friend. Harry still hadn't mastered
Summoning Charms, he seemed to have developed something of a block about
them, and Hermione insisted that learning the theory would help. They
consequently spent a lot of time poring over books during their lunchtimes.
Viktor Krum was in the library an awful lot too, and Harry wondered what he was
up to. Was he studying, or was he looking for things to help him through the first
task? Hermione often complained about Krum being there - not that he ever
bothered them - but because groups of giggling girls often turned up to spy on him
from behind bookshelves, and Hermione found the noise distracting.
"He's not even good-looking!" she muttered ang