TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT 19 страница

“Lovely, ” said Rita Skeeter, and in a second, her scarlet-taloned fingers had Harry’s upper arm in a surprisingly strong grip, and she was steering him out of the room again and opening a nearby door.

“We don’t want to be in there with all that noise, ” she said. “Let’s see. . . ah, yes, this is nice and cozy. ”

It was a broom cupboard. Harry stared at her.

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“Come along, dear — that’s right — lovely, ” said Rita Skeeter again, perching herself precariously upon an upturned bucket, pushing Harry down onto a cardboard box, and closing the door, throwing them into darkness. “Let’s see now. . . ”

She unsnapped her crocodile-skin handbag and pulled out a handful of candles, which she lit with a wave of her wand and magicked into midair, so that they could see what they were doing.

“You won’t mind, Harry, if I use a Quick-Quotes Quill? It leaves me free to talk to you normally. . . . ”

“A what? ” said Harry.

Rita Skeeter’s smile widened. Harry counted three gold teeth. She reached again into her crocodile bag and drew out a long acid- green quill and a roll of parchment, which she stretched out between them on a crate of Mrs. Skower’s All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover. She put the tip of the green quill into her mouth, sucked it for a moment with apparent relish, then placed it upright on the parchment, where it stood balanced on its point, quivering slightly.

“Testing. . . my name is Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet reporter. ”

Harry looked down quickly at the quill. The moment Rita Skeeter had spoken, the green quill had started to scribble, skid- ding across the parchment:

Attractive blonde Rita Skeeter, forty-three, whose savage quill has punctured many inflated reputations —

“Lovely, ” said Rita Skeeter, yet again, and she ripped the top piece of parchment off, crumpled it up, and stuffed it into her

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handbag. Now she leaned toward Harry and said, “So, Harry. . . what made you decide to enter the Triwizard Tournament? ”

“Er —” said Harry again, but he was distracted by the quill. Even though he wasn’t speaking, it was dashing across the parch- ment, and in its wake he could make out a fresh sentence:

An ugly scar, souvenir of a tragic past, disfigures the otherwise charming face of Harry Potter, whose eyes —

“Ignore the quill, Harry, ” said Rita Skeeter firmly. Reluctantly, Harry looked up at her instead. “Now — why did you decide to enter the tournament, Harry? ”

“I didn’t, ” said Harry. “I don’t know how my name got into the Goblet of Fire. I didn’t put it in there. ”

Rita Skeeter raised one heavily penciled eyebrow. “Come now, Harry, there’s no need to be scared of getting into trouble. We all know you shouldn’t really have entered at all. But don’t worry about that. Our readers love a rebel. ”

“But I didn’t enter, ” Harry repeated. “I don’t know who —” “How do you feel about the tasks ahead? ” said Rita Skeeter. “Excited? Nervous? ”

“I haven’t really thought. . . yeah, nervous, I suppose, ” said Harry. His insides squirmed uncomfortably as he spoke. “Champions have died in the past, haven’t they? ” said Rita Skeeter briskly. “Have you thought about that at all? ”

“Well. . . they say it’s going to be a lot safer this year, ” said Harry.

The quill whizzed across the parchment between them, back and forward as though it were skating.

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“Of course, you’ve looked death in the face before, haven’t you? ” said Rita Skeeter, watching him closely. “How would you say that’s affected you? ”

“Er, ” said Harry, yet again.

“Do you think that the trauma in your past might have made you keen to prove yourself? To live up to your name? Do you think that perhaps you were tempted to enter the Triwizard Tournament because —”

“ I didn’t enter, ” said Harry, starting to feel irritated.

“Can you remember your parents at all? ” said Rita Skeeter, talk- ing over him.

“No, ” said Harry.

“How do you think they’d feel if they knew you were competing in the Triwizard Tournament? Proud? Worried? Angry? ”

Harry was feeling really annoyed now. How on earth was he to know how his parents would feel if they were alive? He could feel Rita Skeeter watching him very intently. Frowning, he avoided her gaze and looked down at words the quill had just written:

Tears fill those startling green eyes as our conversation turns to the parents he can barely remember.

“I have NOT got tears in my eyes! ” said Harry loudly. Before Rita Skeeter could say a word, the door of the broom cupboard was pulled open. Harry looked around, blinking in the bright light. Albus Dumbledore stood there, looking down at both of them, squashed into the cupboard.

“ Dumbledore! ” cried Rita Skeeter, with every appearance of

delight — but Harry noticed that her quill and the parchment had

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suddenly vanished from the box of Magical Mess Remover, and Rita’s clawed fingers were hastily snapping shut the clasp of her crocodile-skin bag. “How are you? ” she said, standing up and hold- ing out one of her large, mannish hands to Dumbledore. “I hope you saw my piece over the summer about the International Con- federation of Wizards’ Conference? ”

“Enchantingly nasty, ” said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling. “I particularly enjoyed your description of me as an obsolete dingbat. ” Rita Skeeter didn’t look remotely abashed.

“I was just making the point that some of your ideas are a little old-fashioned, Dumbledore, and that many wizards in the street —” “I will be delighted to hear the reasoning behind the rudeness, Rita, ” said Dumbledore, with a courteous bow and a smile, “but I’m afraid we will have to discuss the matter later. The Weighing of the Wands is about to start, and it cannot take place if one of our champions is hidden in a broom cupboard. ”

Very glad to get away from Rita Skeeter, Harry hurried back into the room. The other champions were now sitting in chairs near the door, and he sat down quickly next to Cedric, looking up at the velvet-covered table, where four of the five judges were now sit- ting — Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Mr. Crouch, and Ludo Bagman. Rita Skeeter settled herself down in a corner; Harry saw her slip the parchment out of her bag again, spread it on her knee, suck the end of the Quick-Quotes Quill, and place it once more on the parchment.

“May I introduce Mr. Ollivander? ” said Dumbledore, taking his place at the judges’ table and talking to the champions. “He will be checking your wands to ensure that they are in good condition be- fore the tournament. ”

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Harry looked around, and with a jolt of surprise saw an old wiz- ard with large, pale eyes standing quietly by the window. Harry had met Mr. Ollivander before — he was the wand-maker from whom Harry had bought his own wand over three years ago in Diagon Alley.

“Mademoiselle Delacour, could we have you first, please? ” said Mr. Ollivander, stepping into the empty space in the middle of the room.

Fleur Delacour swept over to Mr. Ollivander and handed him her wand.

“Hmmm. . . ” he said.

He twirled the wand between his long fingers like a baton and it emitted a number of pink and gold sparks. Then he held it close to his eyes and examined it carefully.

“Yes, ” he said quietly, “nine and a half inches. . . inflexible. . . rosewood. . . and containing. . . dear me. . . ”

“An ’air from ze ’ead of a veela, ” said Fleur. “One of my grandmuzzer’s. ”

So Fleur was part veela, thought Harry, making a mental note to

tell Ron. . . then he remembered that Ron wasn’t speaking to him. “Yes, ” said Mr. Ollivander, “yes, I’ve never used veela hair my- self, of course. I find it makes for rather temperamental wands. . . however, to each his own, and if this suits you. . . ”

Mr. Ollivander ran his fingers along the wand, apparently check-

ing for scratches or bumps; then he muttered, “ Orchideous! ” and a

bunch of flowers burst from the wand tip.

“Very well, very well, it’s in fine working order, ” said Mr. Olli- vander, scooping up the flowers and handing them to Fleur with her wand. “Mr. Diggory, you next. ”

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Fleur glided back to her seat, smiling at Cedric as he passed her. “Ah, now, this is one of mine, isn’t it? ” said Mr. Ollivander, with much more enthusiasm, as Cedric handed over his wand. “Yes, I re- member it well. Containing a single hair from the tail of a particu- larly fine male unicorn. . . must have been seventeen hands; nearly gored me with his horn after I plucked his tail. Twelve and a quar- ter inches. . . ash. . . pleasantly springy. It’s in fine condition. . . . You treat it regularly? ”

“Polished it last night, ” said Cedric, grinning.

Harry looked down at his own wand. He could see finger marks all over it. He gathered a fistful of robe from his knee and tried to rub it clean surreptitiously. Several gold sparks shot out of the end of it. Fleur Delacour gave him a very patronizing look, and he desisted.

Mr. Ollivander sent a stream of silver smoke rings across the room from the tip of Cedric’s wand, pronounced himself satisfied, and then said, “Mr. Krum, if you please. ”

Viktor Krum got up and slouched, round-shouldered and duck- footed, toward Mr. Ollivander. He thrust out his wand and stood scowling, with his hands in the pockets of his robes.

“Hmm, ” said Mr. Ollivander, “this is a Gregorovitch creation, unless I’m much mistaken? A fine wand-maker, though the styling is never quite what I. . . however. . . ”

He lifted the wand and examined it minutely, turning it over and over before his eyes.

“Yes. . . hornbeam and dragon heartstring? ” he shot at Krum, who nodded. “Rather thicker than one usually sees. . . quite

rigid. . . ten and a quarter inches. . . Avis! ”

The hornbeam wand let off a blast like a gun, and a number of

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small, twittering birds flew out of the end and through the open window into the watery sunlight.

“Good, ” said Mr. Ollivander, handing Krum back his wand. “Which leaves. . . Mr. Potter. ”

Harry got to his feet and walked past Krum to Mr. Ollivander. He handed over his wand.

“Aaaah, yes, ” said Mr. Ollivander, his pale eyes suddenly gleam- ing. “Yes, yes, yes. How well I remember. ”

Harry could remember too. He could remember it as though it had happened yesterday. . . .

Four summers ago, on his eleventh birthday, he had entered Mr. Ollivander’s shop with Hagrid to buy a wand. Mr. Ollivander had taken his measurements and then started handing him wands to try. Harry had waved what felt like every wand in the shop, until at last he had found the one that suited him — this one, which was made of holly, eleven inches long, and contained a single feather from the tail of a phoenix. Mr. Ollivander had been very surprised that Harry had been so compatible with this wand. “Curious, ” he had said, “curious, ” and not until Harry asked what was curious had Mr. Ollivander explained 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 re- lation 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.

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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 every- one else into shadow wherever she stood, and the photographer couldn’t stand far enough back 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 champi- ons. At last, they were free to go.

Harry went down to dinner. Hermione wasn’t there — he sup- posed she was still in the hospital wing having her teeth fixed. He ate alone at the end of the table, then returned to Gryffindor

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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 ap- pealing — 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 of November?

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 Dumbledore’s nose.

Be on the watch, Harry. I still want to hear about anything unusual. Let me know about the 22nd of November as quickly

as you can.

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he 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 draw- ing steadily nearer; he felt as though it were crouching ahead of him like some horrific monster, barring his path. He had never suf- fered nerves like these; they were way beyond anything he had ex- perienced 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 leading 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

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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 Durm- strang 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. . . .

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But Rita Skeeter had gone even further than transforming his “er’s” into long, sickly sentences: She had interviewed other people about him too.

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 Transfig- uration? ”

“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. ”

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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 con- firmed 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 apolo- gized 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 less laughter and a lot more hanging around in the library when Hermione was

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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 com- plained 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 angrily, glaring at Krum’s sharp profile. “They only like him because he’s famous! They wouldn’t look twice at him if he couldn’t do that Wonky- Faint thing —”

“Wronski Feint, ” said Harry, through gritted teeth. Quite apart from liking to get Quidditch terms correct, it caused him another pang to imagine Ron’s expression if he could have heard Hermione talking about Wonky-Faints.

It is a strange thing, but when you are dreading something, and would give anything to slow down time, it has a disobliging habit of speeding up. The days until the first task seemed to slip by as though someone had fixed the clocks to work at double speed. Harry’s feeling of barely controlled panic was with him wherever he

went, as everpresent as the snide comments about the Daily Prophet

article.

On the Saturday before the first task, all students in the third

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year and above were permitted to visit the village of Hogsmeade. Hermione told Harry that it would do him good to get away from the castle for a bit, and Harry didn’t need much persuasion.

“What about Ron, though? ” he said. “Don’t you want to go with him? ”

“Oh. . . well. . . ” Hermione went slightly pink. “I thought we might meet up with him in the Three Broomsticks. . . . ”

“No, ” said Harry flatly.

“Oh Harry, this is so stupid —”

“I’ll come, but I’m not meeting Ron, and I’m wearing my Invis- ibility Cloak. ”

“Oh all right then. . . ” Hermione snapped, “but I hate talking to you in that cloak, I never know if I’m looking at you or not. ” So Harry put on his Invisibility Cloak in the dormitory, went back downstairs, and together he and Hermione set off for Hogsmeade.

Harry felt wonderfully free under the cloak; he watched other students walking past them as they entered the village, most of

them sporting Support Cedric Diggory! badges, but no horrible re-

marks came his way for a change, and nobody was quoting that stupid article.

“People keep looking at me now, ” said Hermione grumpily as

they came out of Honeydukes Sweetshop later, eating large cream- filled chocolates. “They think I’m talking to myself. ”

“Don’t move your lips so much then. ”

“Come on, please just take off your cloak for a bit, no one’s go-

ing to bother you here. ”

“Oh yeah? ” said Harry. “Look behind you. ”

Rita Skeeter and her photographer friend had just emerged from

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the Three Broomsticks pub. Talking in low voices, they passed right by Hermione without looking at her. Harry backed into the wall of Honeydukes to stop Rita Skeeter from hitting him with her crocodile-skin handbag. When they were gone, Harry said, “She’s staying in the village. I bet she’s coming to watch the first task. ”

As he said it, his stomach flooded with a wave of molten panic. He didn’t mention this; he and Hermione hadn’t discussed what was coming in the first task much; he had the feeling she didn’t want to think about it.

“She’s gone, ” said Hermione, looking right through Harry to- ward the end of the street. “Why don’t we go and have a butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks, it’s a bit cold, isn’t it? You don’t have to talk to Ron! ” she added irritably, correctly interpreting his silence. The Three Broomsticks was packed, mainly with Hogwarts stu- dents enjoying their free afternoon, but also with a variety of mag- ical people Harry rarely saw anywhere else. Harry supposed that as Hogsmeade was the only all-wizard village in Britain, it was a bit of a haven for creatures like hags, who were not as adept as wizards at disguising themselves.

It was very hard to move through crowds in the Invisibility Cloak, in case you accidentally trod on someone, which tended to lead to awkward questions. Harry edged slowly toward a spare table in the corner while Hermione went to buy drinks. On his way through the pub, Harry spotted Ron, who was sitting with Fred, George, and Lee Jordan. Resisting the urge to give Ron a good hard poke in the back of the head, he finally reached the table and sat down at it.

Hermione joined him a moment later and slipped him a butter- beer under his cloak.

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“I look like such an idiot, sitting here on my own, ” she mut- tered. “Lucky I brought something to do. ”

And she pulled out a notebook in which she had been keeping a record of S. P. E. W. members. Harry saw his and Ron’s names at the top of the very short list. It seemed a long time ago that they had sat making up those predictions together, and Hermione had turned up and appointed them secretary and treasurer.

“You know, maybe I should try and get some of the villagers in- volved in S. P. E. W., ” Hermione said thoughtfully, looking around the pub.

“Yeah, right, ” said Harry. He took a swig of butterbeer under his cloak. “Hermione, when are you going to give up on this spew stuff? ”

“When house-elves have decent wages and working conditions! ” she hissed back. “You know, I’m starting to think it’s time for more direct action. I wonder how you get into the school kitchens? ”

“No idea, ask Fred and George, ” said Harry.

Hermione lapsed into thoughtful silence, while Harry drank his butterbeer, watching the people in the pub. All of them looked cheerful and relaxed. Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbot were swapping Chocolate Frog cards at a nearby table; both of them

sporting Support Cedric Diggory! badges on their cloaks. Right over

by the door he saw Cho and a large group of her Ravenclaw friends. She wasn’t wearing a Cedric badge though. . . . This cheered up Harry very slightly. . . .

What wouldn’t he have given to be one of these people, sitting around laughing and talking, with nothing to worry about but homework? He imagined how it would have felt to be here if his