Breaking Apart ; Harry Potter [2]

Chapter 9

All of the champions were placed in an unused classroom for they were told they had to do an interview for the Daily Prophet. All champions seemed excited about it. All but Harry, who had had enough attention to last him a lifetime.

He only agreed to do this because he had no choice. No one seemed to believe him. Everyone thought he was lying. He even lost Ron as a friend because he did not believe Harry. The only people who seemed to actually be on Harry's side and believe him were Robyn and Hermione.

Harry was glad. He didn't think he could go through all this alone. At least now he didn't have too.

Suddenly, the door to the classroom opened and in stepped a very brightly coloured lady with horn trimmed glasses. Her blonde hair was set into tight curls and her lips were painted the brightest pink. Her extremely high heels clicked against the stone floor and her handbag was perched perfectly on her shoulder. She wore a bright but very fake smile.

"What a charismatic quartet. Hello!" The women said in fake cheeriness, her blonde curls bouncing as she walked over to the champions who were huddled together in a group.

She shook each of their hands.

"I'm Rita Skeeter, I write for the Daily Prophet. But of course you know that don't you. It's you we don't know, you're the news. What quirks lurk beneath those rosy cheeks? What mysteries do the muscles mask? Does courage lie beneath those curls? In short, what makes a champion tick. Me, myself and I want to know. Not to mention my rabid readers. So, who's feeling up to sharing? Mmm?"

Her eyes flickered to Harry hungrily. "Shall we start with the youngest. Lovely."

Abruptly, she took Harry's hand and led him into a small and cramped broom cupboard. It reminded him of the cupboard under the stairs he used to sleep in.

"This is cosy." Rita said cheerfully, pulling out a notepad and a brightly coloured quill.

"It's a broom cupboard." Harry said blankly, not at all wanting to be stuck in there.

"You should feel right at home then." Rita said and Harry felt a small ounce of anger flare up inside of him. "Don't mind if I use the quill do you?"

"Oh, no." Harry shrugged, not really paying attention.

"So Harry, here you sit, a mere boy of twelve..."

"I'm fourteen." Harry interjected, slightly offended.

Rita payed no mind. "...about to compete against three students. Not only vastly more emotionally mature than yourself but have mastered spells that you wouldn't attempt in your dizziest daydreams. Concerned?"

Harry's eyes flickered to the peacock quill that was scribbling down everything said, seemingly writing double the amount than Harry and Rita were saying.

"I dunno, I haven't really thought about it." Harry said.

"Course, you're not just any ordinary boy of twelve are you..."

"Fourteen." Harry correced again.

"The story's legend. Do you think it was the trauma of your past that made you so keen to enter such a dangerous tournament?" Rita's eyes sparkled with hunger and eagerness.

"No, I didn't enter." Harry repeated for what he felt for the millionth time. Why couldn't people just come to terms that he was telling the truth?

"Course you didn't. Everyone loves a rebel Harry."

She turned to the quill, who was still writing things down rapidly. "Scratch the last."

"Speaking of your parents, were they alive, how do you think they'd feel? Proud? Or concerned that your attitude shows at best a pathological need for attention, at worst a psychotic deathwish." Rita said but Harry was too busy looking at the quill.