Chapter 195

After a French lesson ended, Harry had confirmed his French level was at fifth-year standard and learned only one new word: "Allons-y," Barty Crouch Jr.'s favorite catchphrase. Zhang Qiu and Ron were unsurprisingly advised to start French from first year.

In the evening, Hermione told them that Elena and Fleur's team name had been finalized as "The Oath of Judas (EidVonJudas)." Though Harry didn't fully understand its meaning, it certainly sounded impressive. Renata and Krum's team name was confirmed as "Soviet March," blatantly displaying their affiliation.

Harry verified this—he learned that although Bulgaria was not part of the Soviet Union, it was still a socialist state. Thus, Krum's willingness to use this name was not surprising.

With everything settled, Harry was finally able to relax and fully enjoy the weekend at Beauxbatons. The library here was equally sunlit, the grass wonderfully soft. His new friend Donna, though always blunt in her criticisms, was still a kind person—and most importantly, she was highly learned and talkative, which Harry found fascinating.

By the second week, Harry was pleased to settle into Clara's class on Monday, only to feel slightly disappointed upon realizing she taught exactly the physics and chemistry he had learned as a child. Then he learned the French teacher was not Barty Crouch Jr., but his Black female assistant, Martha Jones—this instantly diminished the appeal of French class for Harry.

Yet the quiet days lasted only a few days before another matter quickly found Harry: he was notified to undergo photo sessions, interviews, and pre-competition checks.

Beauxbatons had erected a massive tent specifically for these events. When Harry entered, he found three sofas arranged facing each other, each draped in velvet blankets of different colors. He and Cedric naturally sat on the warm orange one—the perfect blend of their house colors, hard to believe it wasn't meant for them.

After sitting down, Harry noticed Renata and Krum seated on the gray-brown sofa, unavoidably in physical contact. Krum looked tense and awkward. Renata, however, held his hand calmly, whispering something to him.

He also noticed the judging panel seated at a long table nearby. The prestigious Prince Montbardon sat in the center, with headmasters from each school flanking him. A pale-haired woman with a detached expression was adjusting a camera; they chatted quietly as they waited for the final two champions to arrive.

Finally, Fleur and Elena—the two girls with identical stunning beauty and shimmering silver hair—entered the tent together and sat on the remaining pale blue sofa. They sat tightly pressed together, like inseparable confidantes.

"It seems everyone is here," Madame Maxime said. "Let's take a few group photos first, then each of you must go upstairs for your wand inspections."

"Yes," Dumbledore added. "We must confirm your wands are fully functional and in perfect condition—they will be your most vital tools."

"And later, one or two reporters will arrive for interviews," Madame Maxime added with a playful tone.

After the camera flashed several times, Krum was called upstairs for his wand inspection. Then three reporters entered the tent. Harry fought hard to stay silent—he instantly recognized the burly man walking slightly behind the others as Bondarev, the Soviet agent he had seen through Voldemort's eyes.

A bespectacled, chubby man began chatting with Fleur and Elena, but Elena seemed reluctant. She repeated in English several times, "I won't say a word until my agent arrives."

As Harry watched with amusement, he suddenly felt a strong hand grip his arm. It was a witch in crimson robes, her intricate golden curls paired with a heavy jawline giving Harry an inexplicable sense of revulsion. Her thick fingers clutched a crocodile-skin handbag while squeezing his arm tightly—her bright red nails, nearly two inches long, nearly dug into his flesh.

"I need to interview the two champions from Hogwarts, especially our youngest," she said in an affected tone. "You won't refuse, will you?"

"I think letting Harry be interviewed is enough," Cedric said, patting Harry's captured arm with a relieved look. "Interview him—I'll probably be called up soon."

"Of course, I don't mind," the reporter said, dragging Harry into a side room and shoving him into a chair before sitting across from him.

"Come on, darling, I mainly wanted to interview you—perfect." She said. "Oh, I forgot to introduce myself—I'm Rita Skeeter, special correspondent for the Daily Prophet."

"Hello, Ms. Skeeter," Harry replied politely.

"Just call me Rita," Rita said. "By the way, Harry, you don't mind if I use a Quick-Quotes Quill to record, do you?"

She pulled out a green quill, sucked on its tip, then set it upright on a stack of parchment.

Harry blinked. Though no one spoke, the quill wrote furiously on its own.

"... hus, the famous interview began quietly amid serene tranquility. Neither the charming blonde Rita Skeeter nor the young prodigy Harry Potter could have imagined how astonishingly the conversation would reverberate in the future..."

"It's always so..." Harry asked with a strange expression, "... iven to rhetoric?"

"Ignore the quill, Harry," Rita Skeeter said calmly. "Don't worry—I'll revise the article later. Now, let's begin the first question: What prompted you to enter the Triwizard Tournament?"

Harry hesitated. Instantly, the quill scribbled furiously.

"Faced with this seemingly simple question, Harry Potter hesitated, unsure whether to respond like an innocent child unaware of the world—talking naively of courage and honor, timeless themes—or to open his heart before the beautiful journalist and reveal his grand design to the world."

"You can say it—it's fine," Rita prompted gently. "Some things need the world to know."

Harry took a deep breath. If this reporter insisted on digging, perhaps he should use her to send Voldemort a further provocation.

"I'll be honest," Harry carefully chose his words. "I entered because I need a stage to demonstrate my abilities, gain fame, and gather enough wizards in the future to continue fighting the Dark Lord."

"By saying that, you've already admitted you're capable," Rita reminded him. The quill's words grew even more extravagant.

"A young wizard endowed with mysterious power, fully aware of his destiny, Harry Potter has no choice but to step forward now, as Dumbledore's influence wanes, to raise a powerful voice for all wizards yearning for freedom and peace—using his innate, formidable magic to rally the people to the cause of resisting the Dark Lord."

"It's a bit off, but that's more or less what I think," Harry scratched his head. "Between us, I actually hope the Dark Lord reads this."

"Why do you think that?" Rita asked. "Including your decision to enter the Triwizard Tournament—you know the Dark Lord will be watching this event, right?"

Of course, to lure him into action—the more threatened Voldemort felt, the better for his plan. But Harry couldn't say that. He replied dryly: "Because I believe this is between him and me. I don't want him focusing elsewhere."

"You know, he attacked Azkaban last year. Many Aurors died. Honestly, I think they were innocent." As Harry spoke, he grew more immersed. "I'd rather he came straight to duel me. I'll tell you privately—what happened over ten years ago wasn't coincidence. My parents discovered the Dark Lord's fatal weakness. That's why he's afraid to come after me."

"Perfect," Rita prompted. "A hero doesn't remain indifferent when innocent lives are threatened." The quill moved so fast Harry saw blurs.

"Turning to the current tasks," Rita continued, "how do you feel? Nervous? Excited?"

"I feel confident," Harry also grew into the role. "It's an Eastern proverb—like Michelangelo saying he saw the form already present in the marble. I mean, I have full confidence in my abilities and have already devised a perfect strategy for the tasks. I feel nothing but calm anticipation."

"You speak with great insight," Rita said. "But that implies what truly matters to you isn't the competition itself—it's the message you're sending through it, isn't it?"

"Exactly."

"Then, have you received Dumbledore's explicit approval for this stance?" Rita pressed sharply.

"Formally speaking, I must deny that," Dumbledore said, suddenly opening the door. The conversation halted abruptly.