In an empty classroom, the atmosphere was unexpectedly relaxed.
"Miss Skeeter! There's no need to be nervous—just relax! This is just an ordinary interview."
Looking at Rita Skeeter, the once arrogant and detestable journalist from the original story, Ino couldn't help but feel a twinge of amusement.
The woman who had once carried herself with an air of absolute confidence now looked more like a timid schoolgirl, visibly tense and unsure of herself.
"Alright, sir! Please, have a seat."
After a brief moment of adjustment, Rita gradually relaxed, regaining a bit of her usual composure.
"Is there anything in particular I should be mindful of during this interview?" she asked, pressing her hand down on her Quick-Quotes Quill.
"Not really. Just write whatever you like." Ino shook his head slightly.
He had no intention of meddling in someone else's story—or reporting any illegal Animagus activity, for that matter.
After all, a good story was always colorful—it was never just black and white.
Whether it was Rita Skeeter or anyone else, as long as they played their role within certain boundaries, there was nothing inherently wrong with it. In any great story, shades of gray were just as essential as the light and dark.
With the sharp click of a camera shutter, the final group photo was taken, marking the end of Rita's interview.
Stepping out of the classroom, Ino exchanged a few words with the other three champions before heading straight for his dormitory.
As the first to complete the interview, he had watched Rita Skeeter's performance from beginning to end and had to admit that the woman truly had a way with words.
Though he had witnessed everything firsthand, he made no attempt to stop her. It was no different from The Quibbler publishing its usual absurd articles—every world needed its share of alternative perspectives.
Back in his dormitory, Ino glanced at the clock on his bedside table—11:30 AM.
It was strange. A simple wand-weighing ceremony and a brief interview had somehow taken up two whole hours.
Stranger still, before checking the time, he hadn't felt tired at all. But now, as soon as he saw the clock, a drowsy haze crept over him.
Since the feeling was there, he figured he might as well go with it. A midday nap never hurt anyone.
Lying down, he let his mind wander to tomorrow's events.
Marcus and the others had managed to pull some strings with Bagman, altering the original tournament tasks.
For the sake of making the event more thrilling, the first challenge—once a simple task of stealing a golden egg—had been changed to a direct, time-limited battle against a dragon.
With the event now different, so too were the champions' mindsets—particularly Harry's.
Unlike before, when the fake Moody had been subtly guiding him, Harry now seemed drastically different. His every move and gesture carried an air of constant vigilance.
Thoughts drifted, and soon, Ino's eyes fluttered shut as sleep claimed him.
A quiet stillness settled over the dormitory.
While Ino slept, The Daily Prophet once again demonstrated its unparalleled efficiency.
Barely an hour after the interview had concluded, a special edition dedicated to the Triwizard Tournament had already hit the presses.
Though only two pages long with a total of eight sections, the content was just as dramatic and engaging as one of Gilderoy Lockhart's adventure novels.
The front page displayed an enlarged photograph of the four champions standing together, beneath which were words of encouragement from the Ministry of Magic, alongside a formal address from Minister Fudge.
So far, everything seemed fairly standard.
But flipping to the second page revealed something far more intriguing.
Sensational headlines littered the sections:
"A Lonely Boy Weeps in the Gryffindor Dormitory Late at Night"
"The French Beauty Who Flits from Boy to Boy"
"The Seeker Whose Mind Was Scrambled by a Bludger?"
Harry, in particular, received the most attention.
As the fourth champion and a national figure in Britain, it was only natural that his name dominated the coverage.
Despite the interview itself being brief, Rita's unparalleled talent for embellishment meant that pages upon pages of speculative nonsense had been conjured up.
The result? Out of the eight available sections, four were dedicated entirely to him.
By noon, with the help of the ever-efficient owl post, these freshly printed copies had already reached Hogwarts.
Gryffindor Common Room – Eighth Floor
Harry put down the newspaper, his face burning with embarrassment.
He had just finished reading the article, and every word made him feel increasingly uncomfortable.
He simply couldn't understand—his responses had been neutral, carefully worded, completely proper.
So how had Rita Skeeter managed to spin them into something so... utterly nauseating?
Even without looking up, Harry could feel the weight of his classmates' gazes on him. Some were amused, some were curious, and others held expressions he didn't even want to decipher.
"Mate, don't let it get to you." Ron clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"Trust me, this is just the price of fame. Besides, Rita was actually being quite restrained this time—she made sure to distance herself from the mess she created."
Ron had skimmed through the article, but rather than focusing on the champions' fabricated scandals, his attention was drawn to something else entirely.
Lately, some fool in the castle had been offering actual money—two Knuts per story—for juicy bits of gossip.
It wasn't much, but it was enough for Ron to see a business opportunity.
No big news? No problem. He could just take a page out of Rita Skeeter's book—make something up on the spot.
Sure, fabricating stories had risks, as he had learned last year when Hermione had caught him red-handed.
But today, after witnessing Rita's masterful manipulation of words, Ron realized there was an even safer way: shift all responsibility onto some anonymous source.
Just like in the article: "A Hufflepuff who wished to remain unnamed..." or "A boy secretly in love with Harry..."
Simple. Effective. Zero consequences.
Harry, oblivious to Ron's scheming, only took in his last sentence: "Fame comes with a price."
"I never wanted to be famous," he muttered, voice low. "I just wanted to go to school in peace. Play Quidditch every now and then. But no one ever asks what I want…"
His eyes dropped back to the newspaper. The bold headlines and moving photos suddenly felt suffocating.
Meanwhile, The Daily Prophet had done more than just stir up conversation. It had poured fuel onto a fire that was already blazing.
As night fell, anticipation for the first challenge reached new heights.
To celebrate the upcoming event, Gryffindor threw a lively party in the common room.
Thanks to George and Fred's generous contributions, sweets and butterbeer flowed freely.
At the center of it all sat Harry, bombarded by well-wishes and enthusiastic pats on the back.
Though he forced himself to smile and nod along, the moment an opportunity arose, he quietly slipped out through the portrait hole.
No one seemed to notice his departure amidst the revelry.
No one, except Ginny Weasley.
Seconds after Harry left, she stood up and followed, stepping out into the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts.