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Harry stood outside the tent, taking a deep breath before entering. His fingers unconsciously traced the outline of his wand in his pocket—the same wand that, in a few minutes, would be scrutinized by experts and officials. A week had passed since his Hogsmeade outing with Tonks, and though the memory still brought a smile to his face, he couldn't afford distractions today.
When he pushed up the flop of the tent, he found himself in a classroom that had been rearranged for the occasion. The desks had been pushed to the sides to create an open space in the middle. Cedric, Krum, and Fleur were already there, along with the tournament judges, Ollivander, and—Harry's stomach lurched—a witch in magenta robes with elaborate blonde curls who could only be the reporter Bagman had mentioned.
Cedric spotted him first and gave a friendly nod. "All right, Harry?" he asked in a low voice as Harry approached.
"Spectacular," Harry replied with a thin smile.
Viktor Krum merely grunted in acknowledgment, his heavy brows furrowed as always. The Bulgarian Seeker was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking as though he wished to be anywhere else. Harry could sympathize.
Then Fleur's eyes found him, and Harry felt the familiar bristle of irritation. She was speaking with Madame Maxime, but when she noticed Harry, she said something to her headmistress that made the giant woman purse her lips disapprovingly.
Fleur glided over, her silvery hair catching the light. "Ah, ze little champion has arrived at last," she said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I was beginning to think you 'ad perhaps changed your mind about competing."
Here we go again, Harry thought, remembering their corridor encounter.
"And miss the chance to make new friends?" Harry replied with mock innocence. "I wouldn't dream of it. Besides, I thought you might be missing our little chats."
Fleur's perfect eyebrows arched slightly. "Our... chats? Is zat what you call zem? I would call zem lessons in 'umility, but perhaps zat is lost in translation."
"Funny, I remember them differently," Harry said with a casual shrug that he'd practiced with Tonks. "Something about French hospitality being vastly overrated?"
Fleur's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You 'ave a very selective memory, 'Arry Potter. But zen, I suppose when one is desperate for attention, one must create fiction where reality is... disappointing."
Before Harry could retort, Ludo Bagman clapped his hands together, his fat boyish face beaming.
"Ah, excellent! All our champions are here. Now we can begin the Weighing of the Wands ceremony!"
Harry moved to stand with the other champions, noting how Fleur deliberately positioned herself as far from him as possible. Krum remained impassive, but Harry caught Cedric watching the exchange between him and Fleur with amusement.
"The Weighing of the Wands," Bagman explained, bouncing on the balls of his feet, "is a traditional part of the Triwizard Tournament. Before the competition begins in earnest, we must ensure that your wands—your most important tools—are in perfect working order!"
My most important tool is probably going to be blind luck, Harry thought dryly, but I don't think that's what they're checking for.
As Bagman continued his enthusiastic explanation, Harry found himself studying the judges. Madame Maxime was watching Fleur with obvious pride, while Karkaroff's gaze never left Krum. The Durmstrang headmaster's expression was hungry, and Harry wasn't sure if that was because Krum could win the Tournament, or because of Krum himself.
They're all so invested in their champions winning, Harry realized. And then there's me—the unwanted fourth wheel that no one planned for.
Harry was pulled from his thoughts when Ollivander stepped forward from the shadows, his pale, moon-like eyes gleaming.
"Ladies first," he said in his soft voice, extending a hand toward Fleur.
With a toss of her silvery hair, Fleur stepped forward and handed her wand to Ollivander.
"Hmm," he said, twirling the wand between his long fingers. "Nine and a half inches... inflexible... rosewood... and containing... dear me..."
"An 'air from ze 'ead of a Veela," Fleur said proudly. "One of my grandmozzer's."
That explains a few things, Harry thought, recalling the almost supernatural effect she'd had on the male population at Hogwarts. Part-Veela. No wonder she walks around like she owns the place.
Ollivander created a bouquet of flowers with Fleur's wand before declaring it satisfactory and moving on to Cedric. The Hufflepuff's wand was ash with unicorn hair, which Ollivander claimed to have placed himself. Harry watched as Cedric's wand produced a stream of silver smoke rings.
When Krum's turn came, Harry was surprised to learn his wand was made by Gregorovitch, apparently a famous wandmaker Harry had never heard of. The hornbeam and dragon heartstring wand conjured a flock of small birds that flew around the room before disappearing through an open window.
Finally, it was Harry's turn. He stepped forward, suddenly self-conscious as he handed his wand to Ollivander.
"Ah, yes," Ollivander said, his silver eyes gleaming with recognition. "How well I remember this wand. Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."
Harry felt a strange intensity in Ollivander's gaze, as if the wandmaker were looking through him rather than at him.
"This wand has seen much use since last I held it, Mr. Potter," Ollivander murmured, so quietly that Harry thought perhaps only he could hear. "It has grown with you, I think."
Ollivander raised the wand and gave it a flick. A fountain of sparks erupted from the end—not just the usual red and gold, but shot through with strands of brilliant silver that seemed to linger in the air longer than the others.
There it is again. The silver light. What does it mean?
He glanced around quickly to see if anyone else had noticed anything unusual, but the others were simply watching the display with polite interest.
"Excellent," Ollivander said, handing Harry back his wand. "In perfect working order."
As Harry returned to his place, he felt Fleur's eyes on him. When he glanced her way, she wasn't wearing her usual expression of disdain. Instead, she looked... curious.
"An unusual display, Monsieur Potter," she said quietly as Bagman began talking again.
Before Harry could respond, he became aware of a woman in magenta robes sidling closer to the champions. Her hair was set in elaborate, rigid curls, and she wore jeweled spectacles. Her long, crimson nails reminded Harry uncomfortably of claws, and a crocodile-skin handbag dangled from her arm. Most unnerving was the acid-green quill floating beside a piece of parchment near her head, scribbling away without anyone touching it.
"Pictures, pictures!" cried Bagman. "All the judges and champions together. And then perhaps some individual shots."
The photoshoot seemed to take forever. Madame Maxime cast everyone into shadow wherever she stood, the photographer kept wanting Fleur at the front, and Karkaroff kept twirling his goatee to give it an extra curl. Throughout it all, Harry noticed the woman with the Quick-Quotes Quill circling the group like a shark scenting blood, her gaze lingering particularly on him.
When they were finally released from the group photos, the woman made her move.
"Harry Potter," she said, her voice as falsely sweet as poisoned honey. "Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet." She extended a hand with those crimson talons. "I wonder if I might have a word? The youngest champion, the unexpected entry... our readers would love to hear your story."
"Perhaps some other time," Harry began, but Rita had already seized his arm in a surprisingly strong grip.
"Lovely," she said, as if he'd enthusiastically agreed. "Just a quick chat, nothing to worry about."
Harry followed her, wondering what this was about, he knew nothing about Rita, but he had a bad feeling about her.
Rita Skeeter lead him into what appeared to be a broom closet. The door clicked shut behind them, and Harry found himself in a space barely large enough for two people, surrounded by cleaning supplies and the overwhelming scent of Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover.
"Cozy, isn't it?" Rita said, squeezing herself onto a stack of upturned buckets and pushing Harry onto a crate. "Nothing like a bit of privacy to help people open up."
Harry's hand instinctively moved toward his wand pocket. The cramped space made him feel trapped, and something about Rita's predatory smile set off warning bells in his mind. Tonks had taught him to trust his instincts, and right now they were screaming that this woman was dangerous—not in the same way as a basilisk or a dementor, but dangerous nonetheless.
"Now then," Rita continued, reaching into her crocodile-skin handbag and extracting a handful of candles, which she lit with a flick of her wand. "Let's see... how are you feeling about the tournament, Harry? Nervous? Frightened? Overwhelmed by the knowledge that you're facing tasks designed for wizards much older and more experienced than yourself?"
The acid-green quill was already dancing across the parchment, though Harry hadn't said a word yet.
"I'm fine," he said tersely, trying to read what the quill was writing. It was moving too quickly for him to make out more than a few phrases: ...tragic past... eyes swimming with the ghosts of his losses... barely fourteen yet carries the weight of...
"Ignore the quill, Harry," Rita said, noticing his distraction. "Just talk to me. Champion to journalist. How did you feel when your name came out of the Goblet of Fire?"
"Shocked," he said carefully. "And not pleased. I didn't want to be in this tournament."
Rita's heavily penciled eyebrows rose. "Come now, Harry. This is Rita Skeeter you're talking to. There's no need for the modest act. How did you hoodwink Dumbledore's Age Line? It was quite the feat of magical prowess."
"I didn't," Harry said flatly. "I had nothing to do with my name being entered."
Rita leaned forward, her jeweled spectacles glinting in the candlelight. "Of course you didn't," she said with a wink. "And I'm sure your parents would be just thrilled to see you now, wouldn't they? Defying the odds once again, just like you did as a baby."
Harry felt a flash of anger. Bringing his parents into this was a low blow.
"I think they'd be concerned," he said coldly. "Like any parent would be if their child was forced into a deadly tournament against their will."
The quill was practically dancing with excitement, and Harry caught a glimpse of the parchment: ...speaks of his dead parents with a trembling voice, eyes brimming with unshed tears as he contemplates whether they would be proud of the young man he's become...
"That's not what I said," Harry protested, pointing at the parchment. "My eyes are not glistening with the ghosts of my past."
Rita ignored him completely. "Let's talk about your preparation, Harry. How is a fourteen-year-old boy getting ready to face challenges that have historically killed fully qualified wizards?"
"I've been practicing defensive spells and—"
"Sources tell me," Rita interrupted, as if Harry hadn't spoken, "that you've been spotted on quite the romantic date with Auror Nymphadora Tonks in Hogsmeade. Is she helping you prepare for the tournament, or is your relationship more... personal in nature?"
Harry felt as if he'd been hit with a Stunning Spell. How could she possibly know about that? He and Tonks had been careful, and while they hadn't been hiding, they certainly hadn't advertised their outing together.
"It wasn't a date," Harry said firmly, his anger rising. "Tonks is helping with security for the tournament. We were just talking."
Rita's smile widened, reminding Harry of a cat that had spotted a particularly juicy mouse. "Really? My sources were quite specific about certain... affectionate gestures. A kiss on the cheek at the Three Broomsticks? Another near the entrance to Honeydukes? Hand-holding on the path back to the castle?"
Harry's mind raced. Those details were accurate, but no one had been close enough to see—at least no one he'd noticed. Had someone been spying on them?
"You have impressive sources," Harry said, fighting to keep his voice steady. "Did they also happen to report the actual conversation we were having, or just the parts that make for a scandalous story?"
The quill scratched frantically: ...defensive when confronted about his romance with the older woman, Potter's face flushes with the secret passion of forbidden love...
"This is ridiculous," Harry snapped, standing up despite the cramped space. "You're making things up."
"Am I?" Rita purred. "Then you deny spending the afternoon with Nymphadora Tonks? You deny the physical contact between you? Perhaps you'd like to explain what you were discussing so intently on that secluded bench overlooking the village? Something about your first year at Hogwarts and a certain Professor Quirrell, I believe?"
Harry felt the blood drain from his face. That conversation had been intensely personal—him opening up about the trauma of having killed someone, even in self-defense, at the age of eleven. The idea that Rita had somehow overheard that vulnerable moment made him feel violated.
"How did you—" he started, then caught himself. Showing his shock would only confirm her information.
"I have my methods," Rita said, patting her curls. "The public has a right to know about their young champion, don't you think? Especially when he's consorting with Ministry officials."
The anger that had been simmering inside Harry suddenly boiled over.
"Perhaps if you had a few friends, Ms. Skeeter," he said icily, "you'd be able to recognize the difference between a date and two people having a conversation. But I suppose professionally invading people's privacy doesn't leave much time for a social life, does it?"
Rita's face hardened, the false sweetness evaporating in an instant. Her quill practically vibrated with fury as it scribbled: ...the unexpected viciousness of the Boy Who Lived reveals itself when challenged, raising questions about the psychological impact of his traumatic past and suitability for...
The door to the broom closet suddenly opened, flooding the small space with light. Albus Dumbledore stood framed in the doorway, his tall figure blocking the exit.
"Ah, there you are, Harry," Dumbledore said pleasantly, though his blue eyes were notably missing their usual twinkle. "I'm afraid we need you back for some additional photographs. Ms. Skeeter, I'm sure you understand the importance of tournament protocols."
Rita's smile returned instantly, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Of course, Headmaster. Harry and I were just having a heart-to-heart. Such a brave young man, dealing with all this pressure."
Harry stepped out of the closet, feeling as though he'd escaped from a trap. As Rita gathered her things, Dumbledore placed a gentle hand on Harry's shoulder and guided him a few steps away.
"A word of caution, Harry," Dumbledore said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Rita Skeeter is not merely a reporter seeking truth. She is a hunter of secrets, and she will use whatever methods necessary to extract them—ethical or otherwise."
Harry glanced back at Rita, who was now coaxing her quill back into her handbag.
"I think I figured that out," Harry muttered. "But how did she know about—"
"The most dangerous predators are those whose methods remain mysterious," Dumbledore interrupted softly. "Remember that. Now, shall we rejoin the others?"
As they walked back to the main room, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just escaped relatively unscathed from something far more dangerous than he'd initially realized—and that his encounter with Rita Skeeter was far from over.
Harry had spent most of the night tossing and turning, his mind replaying the broom closet interrogation with Rita Skeeter. By morning, he'd convinced himself that while she might write something unpleasant, there was no way she could publish anything truly damaging without evidence. After all, the Daily Prophet couldn't just print outright lies, could they?
As he and Hermione made their way to breakfast, he was quietly filling her in on the previous day's events.
"...and then she started asking about Tonks," Harry said, keeping his voice low as they descended the marble staircase. "She knew details, Hermione. Specific things about our conversation in Hogsmeade that nobody else could have heard."
Hermione's brow furrowed in that particular way that meant her formidable brain was working overtime. "That's... concerning. Do you think someone was eavesdropping? Maybe with an Extendable Charm of some kind?"
"I don't know," Harry admitted. "I was pretty sure we were alone, but—"
He stopped mid-sentence as they entered the Great Hall. The usual morning chatter died down almost instantly, replaced by a wave of whispers that seemed to follow them like ripples in a pond. Dozens of heads turned in their direction, and Harry noticed multiple copies of the Daily Prophet clutched in students' hands.
Oh no, Harry thought, his stomach dropping. That can't be good.
"Why is everyone staring?" Hermione whispered, though she looked like she already knew the answer.
They'd barely made it halfway to the Gryffindor table when Ginny Weasley hurried toward them, a copy of the Daily Prophet clutched in her hand. Her expression was a mixture of concern and embarrassment.
"Harry," she said without preamble, "you won't like this."
She thrust the newspaper into his hands. Harry took one look at the front page and felt as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over his head.
There, in bold black letters spanning the entire width of the paper, was the headline:
BOY-WHO-LIVED AND AUROR ROMANCE: Ministry Official Seduces Teenage Champion
Beneath the headline was a photograph of Harry looking uncomfortably at the camera during yesterday's Weighing of the Wands ceremony, and beside it, a Ministry photo of Tonks—her hair was its natural brown in the picture, but the caption helpfully mentioned her metamorphmagus abilities and typical pink style.
"You have got to be kidding me," Harry muttered, his eyes scanning down to the article itself.
In a shocking development that raises serious questions about Ministry oversight of the Triwizard Tournament, this reporter can exclusively reveal that Harry Potter (14), the controversial fourth champion, has been engaging in a romantic relationship with Auror Nymphadora Tonks (19), who was ostensibly assigned to Hogwarts as part of the security group trying to find out how it came to be that Harry Potter's name came out of the Goblet of Fire
Sources close to the couple report that the pair was spotted on an intimate date in Hogsmeade last weekend, where they were observed holding hands, sharing private whispers, and engaging in public displays of affection including multiple kisses.
"They were definitely not just friends," reports one eyewitness who observed the couple at the Three Broomsticks. "The way she was looking at him was not professional at all."
Potter, who has been thrust into the dangerous Triwizard Tournament under mysterious circumstances, appears to have found comfort in the arms of the older woman, who was reportedly assigned to "assist with tournament security" but seems to have taken a more personal interest in the young champion's welfare...
"This is..." Harry couldn't even find the words, his anger building with each sentence he read.
"There's more," Ginny said grimly, pointing to a note at the bottom of the article. "Turn to page three."
Harry flipped to the indicated page and found another headline that made his blood boil:
Five-Year Age Gap: Is Potter Being Manipulated?
Experts in magical child welfare express concern over the apparent relationship between Harry Potter and Auror Nymphadora Tonks, citing the significant age and power imbalance between the troubled orphan and the fully qualified Ministry official.
"A five-year age gap might not seem significant to some," says Adolphus Cringeworthy, author of 'Magical Adolescence: A Guide for Concerned Parents,' "but we're talking about a fourteen-year-old boy and a nineteen-year-old adult woman in a position of authority. I don't think the boy is old enough to realise what the woman is doing."
The article continued with 'analysis' of how trauma survivors like Potter were particularly vulnerable to manipulation and inappropriate attachments to authority figures.
"This is absolute rubbish!" Hermione exclaimed, reading over Harry's shoulder. "How can they print this? It's completely irresponsible!"
Harry could feel the heat rising in his face—partly from embarrassment, but mostly from fury. Every eye in the Great Hall seemed to be on him, and the whispers had only intensified.
"I knew Rita Skeeter was going to twist things," he said through clenched teeth, "but this is beyond anything I expected. She's making it sound like Tonks is some kind of... predator!"
"The worst part," Hermione said, her voice low and dangerous, "is how detailed it is. Listen to this—" She pointed to a paragraph midway through the main article.
The couple was observed walking to a secluded hilltop overlooking the village, where they shared an intimate conversation away from prying eyes. Later, upon returning to the castle, Tonks was seen framing Potter's face with her hands before kissing him repeatedly, lingering particularly near his mouth in a manner witnesses described as "definitely not platonic."
Harry felt his stomach twist. Those details were disturbingly accurate, even if the implications were all wrong.
"How could she possibly know that?" he whispered. "We were alone on that hill, and the only time she kissed me near the castle was in that empty corridor by the statue of Gregory the Smarmy. There was nobody else around!"
Hermione's eyes had taken on that particular gleam that Harry recognized as her problem-solving mode. "There's something not right about this. Normal journalism doesn't work this way. She must be using some kind of... magical surveillance."
"You think she's spying on people?" Harry asked, his voice rising slightly.
"I don't think—," Hermione said with cold certainty. "And I'm going to find out exactly how she's doing it." The look in her eyes made Harry almost feel sorry for Rita Skeeter. Almost.
They made their way to the Gryffindor table where Neville had saved them seats. The whispers followed them, and Harry could pick out fragments of conversation:
"...too young for her..." "...always knew he was after attention..." "...bet she's helping him cheat in the tournament..."
"Just ignore them," Neville said supportively as Harry and Hermione sat down. "People always talk about what they don't understand."
"Thanks, Neville," Harry said, though it did little to cool his temper. "But it's not just me I'm worried about. This could get Tonks into serious trouble at work."
The thought made his anger give way to anxiety. Tonks was an Auror, a position she'd worked incredibly hard for. What if this ridiculous article threatened her career?
"From what I heard of Susan, Amelia Bones seems reasonable," Hermione offered, apparently following his train of thought. "Surely she wouldn't take a Rita Skeeter article seriously."
"Maybe not," Harry agreed, "but that doesn't mean others won't. The Ministry isn't exactly known for its rational thinking."
A burst of laughter from the Slytherin table caught his attention. Malfoy was holding court, reading excerpts from the article with exaggerated expressions to the amusement of his housemates.
"Oh look," Harry said sarcastically, "Malfoy's found something new to be insufferable about. What a surprise."
"Harry," Ginny said suddenly, sliding onto the bench across from him, "there's something else you should know." She lowered her voice. "Fred and George overheard McGonagall and Snape talking about the article this morning. They're meeting with Dumbledore about it."
Great, Harry thought. Just what I need—a teachers' conference about my non-existent love life.
"This is ridiculous," he said aloud, throwing the newspaper down in disgust. "How is it that I can face a basilisk and a hundred dementors, but I can't have a private conversation with someone without it becoming front-page news?"
"Because basilisks and dementors don't sell newspapers," Hermione said grimly. "But scandals do."
Harry ran a hand through his already messy hair, making it stand up even more wildly. "The question is, what am I supposed to do now? Send Tonks an owl apologizing for something neither of us actually did?"
"You could write to her," Hermione suggested. "Not to apologize, but to make sure she's okay. This must be affecting her too."
Harry nodded, but his mind was already racing ahead. If Skeeter could somehow spy on private conversations, what else might she have heard? His training sessions with Tonks? His late-night research with Hermione and Neville? The silver light phenomenon that even he didn't understand?
"How do you think she's doing it?" he asked Hermione quietly. "The spying, I mean."
Hermione's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "I'm not sure yet, but there are only so many possibilities. Invisibility cloaks, disillusionment charms, some kind of remote listening device..." She trailed off, then added almost to herself, "Or something else entirely."
"Whatever it is," Harry said firmly, "we need to figure it out before she publishes anything else. Who knows what she might be listening to right now?"
At that, both of them instinctively scanned the Great Hall, as if expecting to spot Rita Skeeter lurking behind a pillar or under a table.
"I'll handle this," Hermione said, with such cold determination that Harry actually felt a shiver. "Rita Skeeter is going to regret the day she decided to mess with my friends."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Should I be concerned about whatever you're planning?"
Hermione's smile was decidedly un-Hermione-like. "Let's just say I'm going to do some... extracurricular research."
"You know what the worst part is?" he said. "If I were actually dating Tonks, at least I'd be getting something out of all this drama."
Hermione's startled laugh echoed in the main hall, drawing even more stares.
Harry managed to make it through double Charms without hexing anyone, which he considered a personal victory given the circumstances. The whispers had followed him all morning, along with poorly disguised snickers and pointed looks. Professor Flitwick, at least, had maintained his usual professional demeanor, though Harry caught the tiny wizard giving him concerned glances throughout the lesson.
As he and Hermione gathered their books after class, Harry felt marginally better. Focusing on the precise wand movements for the Banishing Charm had provided a brief distraction from the Rita Skeeter debacle.
"Lunch, then Transfiguration," Hermione said as they joined the stream of students heading to the Great Hall. "If we're quick, we might have time to draft a letter to—"
"Well, well," drawled a familiar voice from behind them. "If it isn't Potter and his research assistant."
Not now, Harry thought wearily, turning to face Draco Malfoy. The blond Slytherin was flanked, as usual, by Crabbe and Goyle, who looked like particularly dim-witted bodyguards.
"What do you want, Malfoy?" Harry asked flatly. "Some of us have better things to do than stand around in corridors all day."
Draco's pale, pointed face was alight with malicious glee. "Just wanted to congratulate you, Potter. First the tournament, now an Auror girlfriend. You really can't help drawing attention to yourself, can you?"
Several nearby students slowed their pace, clearly hoping to witness a confrontation. Harry could feel his temper rising but tried to maintain control.
"Fascinating theory, Malfoy. I'll add it to my collection of things I don't care about."
Harry turned to leave, but Draco wasn't finished.
"Though I suppose I understand," Malfoy continued loudly, "why you'd need an adult to supervise you. What with your parents not being around to teach you proper behavior." He affected a mock concerned expression. "Is that what you call her—'Mummy'? Or does she prefer 'Nympha-dora'?"
Something inside Harry snapped. The accumulated stress of the tournament, Rita's article, and now Malfoy's taunting converged into a white-hot point of fury. He turned back slowly, and whatever expression was on his face made several onlookers step back.
"You know what's really pathetic, Malfoy?" Harry said, his voice deadly quiet. "The way you can't go five minutes without mentioning your father. 'My father this, my father that.' Do you even have your own personality, or are you just a miniature clone programmed to repeat whatever Daddy tells you to say?"
Draco's smug expression faltered. Harry pressed his advantage, taking a step closer.
"At least I'm making my own way. What are you doing besides riding on your father's coattails and money? Got any actual accomplishments of your own? Or is your entire life plan just waiting for Daddy to hand you everything on a silver platter?"
The corridor had gone completely silent. Even Crabbe and Goyle looked uncertain, their small eyes darting between Harry and Draco as if watching a particularly intense tennis match.
Draco's face had flushed an ugly pink. "You don't know anything about my father," he spat.
"I know he'd be embarrassed if he could see you now," Harry retorted. "Needing two bodyguards to help you insult an orphan. Really brave, Malfoy. Really impressive."
That did it. Draco's hand plunged toward his wand pocket, his face contorted with rage.
But Harry had been training with Tonks for weeks now. Before Draco's fingers had even closed around his wand, Harry's was already drawn and steady, pointed directly at Malfoy's chest. The movement had been fluid, automatic—the product of hours of practice that had trained his muscles to respond without conscious thought.
A collective gasp rippled through the watching students. Harry hadn't even realized how many had gathered to witness the confrontation.
"Potter's gotten faster," someone whispered audibly.
Draco froze, his wand half-drawn, a flicker of genuine surprise—and perhaps fear—crossing his face.
"Mr. Potter! Mr. Malfoy!" Professor McGonagall's sharp voice cut through the tension like a knife. She was striding toward them with Professor Snape gliding silently behind her, both wearing expressions of extreme displeasure.
"Wands away immediately!" McGonagall commanded.
Harry lowered his wand but didn't put it away completely, keeping a wary eye on Malfoy. Snape's dark eyes flicked between them, lingering on Harry's still-drawn wand with obvious disapproval.
"He started it, Professor," Malfoy said immediately, his voice regaining its usual whine. "Potter threatened me."
"That is a blatant lie," Hermione interjected hotly. "Malfoy approached us and started making personal comments about Harry's parents."
"Silence, Miss Granger," Snape said softly. "This does not concern you."
"On the contrary," McGonagall countered, "as a witness to the incident, Miss Granger's account is relevant." She surveyed the scene with pursed lips. "However, regardless of who said what, drawing wands in the corridors is expressly forbidden."
"Potter drew first," Malfoy insisted.
"Another lie," Harry said calmly. "You went for your wand, Malfoy. I was just faster."
The ghost of a smile flickered across McGonagall's face, so quickly Harry almost missed it.
"Both of you, come with us," she said firmly. "The rest of you—" she addressed the gathered spectators, "—have better places to be, I'm certain."
As the crowd reluctantly dispersed, Harry and Draco followed the two professors, maintaining a careful distance from each other. Harry noticed with some satisfaction that Malfoy looked distinctly unsettled. It seemed that Harry's unexpected speed had rattled him more than the verbal exchange.
Professor McGonagall's office was warm compared to the chilly corridor, but the atmosphere inside was anything but cozy. Harry stood on one side of the room, Malfoy on the other, while the two professors positioned themselves behind McGonagall's desk.
"Explain yourselves," McGonagall said crisply, looking between the two boys.
Before Harry could open his mouth, Malfoy jumped in. "Potter threatened me, Professor. I was merely defending myself."
"That's not true," Harry countered, keeping his voice level. "Malfoy approached me in the corridor specifically to make comments about the article in today's Prophet. When I responded, he reached for his wand."
Snape's lip curled. "And yet it was your wand, Potter, that was fully drawn when we arrived."
"If we're judging by who had their wand out when you arrived, maybe next time show up a bit earlier?"
"A convenient claim with no way to verify it," Snape said dismissively.
"Actually, Severus," McGonagall interjected, "there were at least twenty witnesses. I'm sure if we were to question them—"
"Twenty witnesses, most of whom are Potter's fellow Gryffindors," Snape said silkily. "Hardly impartial observers."
Harry bit back a retort. There was no point arguing with Snape, who had clearly made up his mind before even entering the room.
"There were students from all houses present," McGonagall pointed out. "And regardless of who drew first, the fact remains that both students had their wands out in a clearly confrontational manner."
Snape turned his cold gaze on Harry. "Potter has been engaging in attention-seeking behavior since the moment he arrived at this school. This latest... publicity stunt with the Auror is merely another example of his disregard for rules and propriety."
Harry felt his temper flare again. "That article is complete rubbish," he said, louder than he'd intended. "Rita Skeeter twisted everything!"
"Mr. Potter, control yourself," McGonagall said, though her tone was not unkind. "Professor Snape, I suggest we focus on the incident at hand rather than this morning's questionable journalism."
"They are connected, Minerva," Snape insisted. "Potter's ego has clearly been inflated by his constant presence in the spotlight. First the tournament, now this... liaison."
McGonagall's nostrils flared, a sure sign of her growing irritation. "Not everyone views the world through Slytherin-tinted spectacles, Severus. Some of us are capable of distinguishing between a student who seeks attention and one who has it thrust upon him unwillingly."
The tension between the two professors was palpable. Harry had always known there was professional rivalry between the heads of Gryffindor and Slytherin, but this felt more personal somehow.
"Perhaps," Snape said, his voice dangerously soft, "your Gryffindor bias prevents you from seeing the pattern of behavior that has been evident since Potter's first year."
"And perhaps," McGonagall countered, "your personal biases are clouding your judgment in this matter."
Harry glanced at Malfoy, who was watching the exchange with barely concealed glee. He clearly thought Snape would ensure he escaped punishment.
"Let us establish the facts," McGonagall said, visibly reining in her temper. "Mr. Malfoy, did you or did you not approach Mr. Potter's location in the corridor?"
Malfoy hesitated, apparently realizing the trap in the question. "I may have walked in his direction," he admitted grudgingly.
"And did you initiate conversation with him?"
"I merely commented on the article everyone was discussing," Malfoy said defensively.
"I see." McGonagall's tone suggested she saw plenty. "And these comments included references to Mr. Potter's deceased parents, did they not?"
Malfoy's pale face flushed slightly. "I don't recall exactly what I said."
"How convenient," McGonagall remarked dryly. She turned to Harry. "Mr. Potter, while provocation does not excuse drawing your wand, I understand the difficult position you find yourself in today. However, in the future, I expect you to seek out a professor rather than engaging directly with those who attempt to provoke you."
"Yes, Professor," Harry said, surprised by her relatively mild rebuke.
"As for you, Mr. Malfoy," she continued, "deliberately provoking a fellow student with comments about his orphaned status shows a concerning lack of character."
Snape cleared his throat. "Minerva—"
"I have not finished, Severus," she said, not even glancing in his direction. "Mr. Malfoy will serve detention with Mr. Filch every evening this week, assisting with the cleaning of the trophy room—without magic."
Malfoy's mouth fell open. "A week of detention? But Potter—"
"Mr. Potter will serve one evening of detention with me," McGonagall continued as if Malfoy hadn't spoken. "For drawing his wand, regardless of the provocation."
Snape's expression darkened. "I believe, as Mr. Malfoy's Head of House, the assignment of his punishment falls under my authority."
"Under normal circumstances, yes," McGonagall agreed. "However, as this incident occurred in my corridor, and involved threatening behavior toward a student in my house, I am exercising my right as Deputy Headmistress to assign appropriate consequences."
The look that passed between the two professors could have frozen the Black Lake solid. Harry was suddenly very glad to be on McGonagall's side of the dispute.
"Very well," Snape said eventually, his voice cold enough to frost glass. "But I will be discussing this with the Headmaster."
"By all means," McGonagall replied with a thin smile. "I'm sure Albus will be most interested in the details of Mr. Malfoy's comments regarding the deceased parents of a student under his care."
Snape's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes flickered—so briefly Harry almost missed it.
"Mr. Malfoy, you will report to Mr. Filch this evening at seven o'clock," Snape said curtly. "And you will conduct yourself with more decorum in the future."
Malfoy looked like he wanted to protest but thought better of it. "Yes, Professor," he muttered.
"Mr. Potter, you will report to my office tomorrow evening at the same time," McGonagall said. "Now, both of you are dismissed to lunch. I suggest you sit at opposite ends of the Great Hall."
As Harry turned to leave, he caught a final exchange between the professors.
"You coddle him, Minerva," Snape said in a low voice, apparently thinking Harry was out of earshot.
"And you persecute him, Severus," McGonagall replied evenly. "One might almost think you were settling an old score rather than teaching a child."
Harry didn't hear Snape's response as the door closed behind him, but the potions master's expression had been murderous.
Standing in the corridor, Harry felt a surprising wave of gratitude toward Professor McGonagall. He'd always known she was fair, but he hadn't expected such a fierce defense against Snape's accusations. It was oddly comforting to know that she was on his side, he still remembered Dumbledore telling him that Minerva believed that he had not put his name in the Goblet of Fire.
As he headed toward the Great Hall, Harry realized he was actually looking forward to his detention with McGonagall. Given the way his luck had been running lately, it would probably be the most pleasant social interaction he'd have all week.
Nymphadora Tonks
Nymphadora Tonks shifted her weight from one foot to the other, fighting the urge to pace outside Amelia Bones' office. The corridor in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was quiet except for the occasional memo zooming past, its paper wings fluttering with bureaucratic urgency.
This is fine, she told herself, absently changing her hair from pink to blue and back again—a nervous habit she'd never managed to break. Probably just a routine update on the Hogwarts assignment.
But the knot in her stomach suggested otherwise. Impromptu meetings with the Head of the DMLE were rarely good news, especially for junior Aurors who'd barely completed their training.
Kingsley Shacklebolt's tall figure rounded the corner, his gold earring catching the light as he approached. Tonks straightened up, trying to look professional rather than like she was awaiting execution.
"Wotcher, Kingsley," she greeted him, aiming for casual but landing somewhere closer to anxious.
"Tonks," he acknowledged with a nod. His deep, reassuring voice was a stark contrast to her own nerves. "You're here early."
"Thought it best not to keep the boss waiting," she replied. Then, unable to contain herself any longer: "Any progress on the investigation? The Goblet thing?"
Kingsley's expression remained carefully neutral. "Some leads, nothing conclusive. Moody has theories about the magical signature on the Goblet, but you know how he is—sees dark wizards behind every tapestry."
Tonks nodded. Mad-Eye's paranoia was legendary, but in her experience, he was rarely completely wrong. "What about the Durmstrang angle? Karkaroff was definitely acting shifty at the champion selection."
"Karkaroff always acts shifty," Kingsley pointed out. "It's his natural state."
Despite her nerves, Tonks snorted with amusement. "Fair point."
There was a moment of silence before Kingsley spoke again, his voice lower. "I don't think this meeting is about the investigation, Tonks."
The knot in her stomach tightened. "Oh? What's it about then?"
Kingsley's gaze flicked down the corridor, then back to her face. "I think it's better if you hear it from Madam Bones."
Well, that's not ominous at all, Tonks thought, her hair involuntarily shifting to a muted purple—the color it often turned when she was worried.
Before she could press him further, the lift at the end of the corridor chimed, and Amelia Bones stepped out. She was a formidable figure in her official plum-colored robes, her monocle gleaming as it caught the light. Under one arm, she carried what appeared to be that morning's Daily Prophet.
Just a routine check-in, Tonks told herself again. Nothing to worry about.
But the serious set of Amelia's jaw suggested otherwise.
"Auror Nymphadora," Amelia greeted her with a curt nod. "Shacklebolt, wait out here, please. I'll need to speak with you afterward."
"Yes, ma'am," Kingsley replied, giving Tonks a look that might have been sympathy before taking up position beside the door.
Amelia unlocked her office with a wave of her wand and gestured for Tonks to enter first. The office was exactly what one would expect from the head of magical law enforcement—efficient, organized, and devoid of unnecessary decoration. A large desk dominated the space, covered with neat stacks of parchment and magical instruments whose purpose Tonks could only guess at.
Amelia closed the door behind them with a soft click that somehow sounded ominous in the quiet room. She didn't immediately speak, instead moving to her desk and placing the newspaper down. Only then did she fix Tonks with a penetrating stare.
"I received some interesting reading material with my breakfast this morning," she said finally, sliding the Daily Prophet across the desk toward Tonks.
Tonks stepped forward, confused, until her eyes fell on the headline. Her stomach dropped like a stone.
BOY-WHO-LIVED AND AUROR ROMANCE: Ministry Official Seduces Teenage Champion
"What the—" Tonks snatched up the paper, her eyes widening as she scanned the article. Each sentence was worse than the last, a twisted version of her day in Hogsmeade with Harry transformed into something sordid and predatory.
"...observed holding hands, sharing private whispers, and engaging in public displays of affection including multiple kisses..."
"...the troubled orphan and the fully qualified Ministry official..."
"...framing Potter's face with her hands before kissing him repeatedly, lingering particularly near his mouth..."
Her hair cycled rapidly through colors—red, white, black—before settling on a shocked gray that matched her suddenly ashen face.
"This is... how did she..." Tonks spluttered, her brain struggling to process the horrifying reality of what she was reading. "I didn't... we weren't..."
Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. The descriptions of their time together were disturbingly accurate in physical detail but utterly wrong in implication. Someone had been watching them—but who? And how?
"Is it true?" Amelia asked simply, her voice neither accusatory nor sympathetic.
Tonks looked up from the paper, her mouth opening and closing several times before she managed to form words. "No! I mean, yes, I was with Harry in Hogsmeade, but it wasn't—it wasn't like this." She gestured helplessly at the paper. "I'm training him for the tournament. We went to Hogsmeade because the poor kid needed a break from the castle. Everyone's been treating him like dirt since his name came out of that Goblet."
Her words were tumbling out now, frantic with the need to explain. "Yes, I hugged him. Yes, I kissed his cheek—but not like this makes it sound! He's just a kid who's been through hell, who's facing even more danger, and who needed someone to believe in him. That's all."
Liar, a small voice in her head whispered. You know there's more to it than that.
Tonks pushed the voice aside. This wasn't the time for her to examine the complicated feelings that had been developing over the past weeks. Not when her career was hanging by a thread.
Amelia studied her for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "Based on your words, I'm guessing at least some of this article is accurate in its details, if not its implications."
It wasn't a question, but Tonks nodded miserably anyway. "The physical details, yes. I did spend time with him in Hogsmeade. I did... show him affection." She swallowed hard. "But it wasn't romantic or—or inappropriate. I was trying to be supportive."
And failing spectacularly at maintaining professional boundaries, that same inner voice added unhelpfully.
Amelia continued to regard her steadily. "You understand how this looks."
"Yes," Tonks whispered, feeling sick. "I'll... I'll go gather my things."
"Your things?" Amelia's eyebrow arched above her monocle.
"From my desk," Tonks clarified, her voice hollow. "I assume I'm being suspended. Or worse."
To her surprise, Amelia's expression softened slightly. "And why would I fire you for comforting a traumatized champion, Auror Nymphadora?"
Tonks blinked, certain she had misheard. "I... what?"
Amelia leaned forward, folding her hands on the desk. "From what I understand, you were assigned to Hogwarts to assist with tournament security, which naturally includes ensuring the welfare of the champions. Harry Potter, a fourteen-year-old boy who did not enter himself into this dangerous competition, is understandably distressed by his circumstances. As an Auror with a family connection to the Black house, which I believe makes you something like a cousin to the boy, you took it upon yourself to provide emotional support during a difficult time, is not your fault that Rita Skeeter decided to paint you as a predator, you were simply comforting him, were you not?"
Tonks stared at her boss, slowly realizing what was happening.
"That's... yes, that's exactly right," Tonks said carefully.
Amelia nodded. "Then I see no cause for disciplinary action. Rita Skeeter's talent for sensationalizing the mundane is well-known to anyone who's ever had the misfortune of appearing in her column."
Relief flooded through Tonks, so intense that she had to lock her knees to keep from sagging. Her hair shifted back to its normal vibrant pink.
"Thank you, Madam Bones," she said sincerely. "I was just trying to help him."
"I'm sure you were," Amelia replied, and there was something in her tone that made Tonks wonder just how much the older witch had guessed. "Though in the future, perhaps try to be less... passionate in your methods of comfort. Public settings, professional decorum—you understand."
The warning was gentle but unmistakable.
"Yes, ma'am," Tonks agreed quickly. "Absolutely."
Amelia stood, signaling that the meeting was over. "You'll return to Hogwarts this afternoon and continue your duties as assigned. I suggest you speak with young Mr. Potter as soon as possible to ensure he understands the official nature of your relationship."
The official nature, Tonks noted, not missing the careful phrasing. What remained unspoken was the implication that whatever the unofficial nature might be, it should remain private and appropriate.
"I will," she promised. "And thank you again, Madam Bones. I won't let you down."
Amelia nodded dismissively, and Tonks turned to leave, her legs still a bit unsteady with relief. As she reached for the door handle, Amelia spoke again.
"And Nymphadora?"
She turned back. "Yes?"
"Remember that as an Auror, you represent not just yourself, but the entire Department. Act accordingly."
"Yes, ma'am," Tonks said, feeling properly chastened despite the reprieve she'd been given.
She slipped out of the office, passing Kingsley who was still waiting in the corridor. He gave her a questioning look, and she responded with a small nod to indicate that she was still employed, at least for now.
As the door closed behind her, Tonks heard Amelia's voice addressing Kingsley.
"Shacklebolt, arrange a meeting with Rita Skeeter, would you? I believe it's time the Department had a chat with the Prophet about their journalistic standards when reporting on active Ministry personnel."
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