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(Y/n)'s POV

We stood in the trophy room, all four of us champions, feeling a bit out of place as we posed for photos. They told us these pictures would be on the front page of the Daily Prophet—just what I needed, more unwanted attention, how lovely.

After the last flash faded, a woman with short, curly blonde hair and glasses approached us. Her bright red lipstick caught my eye, especially as it left a mark on her teeth when she spoke. "Well, look at you all, the charming quartet," she said, her gaze sharp and assessing, like a predator stalking its prey. "Hello, I'm Rita Skeeter, a writer for the Daily Prophet." She moved from one of us to the next, shaking hands. "But you all know that, right? It's you we don't know." She began pacing in front of us. "What secrets lie behind those rosy cheeks? What do those muscles hide? Is there bravery beneath those curls? In short: What makes a champion tick? I'm dying to know, and so are my eager readers. So, who's brave enough to go first? Hm?" She stopped right in front of me, a determined glint in her eye. "Let's start with the prettiest. How lovely." She grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the group toward a broom closet. In a quick motion, she opened the door and practically shoved me inside before shutting it behind her.

"Is groping me really necessary?" I asked, pulling my arm free just as she set me down on a cardboard box.

She grinned, sitting down and licking the tip of a green pen before hovering it over a notepad. "Mind if I use a Quick-Quotes Quill?" she asked, completely ignoring my question.

"I guess that's fine." My gaze drifted back to the lipstick on her front teeth.

With a bright smile, she prepared for the interview. "So, tell me (Y/n), how do you feel about Harry Potter enchanting the Goblet to spit out his name too, trying to steal your spotlight?"

I blinked, taken aback by her sudden and absurd question. "That's not at all what happened. Harry wouldn't do something like that," I finished, my voice firm but slightly shaky. Rita Skeeter's eyes sparkled with mischief, and I could tell she was waiting for the opportunity to twist my words—as any reporter does. I was trying to be careful with what I said, but I feel like no matter what, she was going to find some way to make Harry a villain.

"Oh, come now," she said, leaning in closer, her pen poised like a wand ready as if it was getting ready to cast some spell. "You must admit, it makes for a much juicier story if we paint Harry as the villain, doesn't it? The Boy Who Lived, suddenly desperate for attention, willing to cheat his way into the limelight. It's a classic tale of rivalry!"

I shook my head, trying to maintain my composure. "That's not how it happened. Harry was just as surprised as the rest of us when his name came out of the Goblet. He didn't ask for this, and he certainly didn't cheat." I defended my friend.

Rita leaned back, her expression shifting from playful to contemplative, as if she were comparing my words to whatever narrative she had already constructed in her mind. "Interesting," she mused, tapping her pen against her chin. "But tell me, don't you feel a bit overshadowed? After all, you were the one who worked so hard to get here, and yet everyone's talking about Harry. How does that make you feel?"

I took a deep breath. "I don't care; I didn't want this either," I confessed.

She tilted her head, curiosity in her gaze. "Please, go on," she urged.

"I didn't enter my name into the Goblet, and neither did Harry. We have no idea why we were chosen—it just happened that way," I explained.

I could see her thinking about this, her mind racing to weave a narrative that would sell as many papers as possible. I hoped she might tell the story differently, perhaps in a way that didn't cast Harry in a bad light. It seemed like a more intriguing angle to me, one that might even spare us both from the relentless scrutiny that came with being thrust into the spotlight.

I noticed the quill was still writing, even though neither of us were speaking. I glanced over to see what was being written, but the page turned abruptly, blocking my view. "I can see it now," Rita said, drawing my attention back to her. She raised her hand dramatically. "Two young lovers, forced to face each other by the cruel hand of fate." She gestured as if unveiling a headline, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of the story she was concocting.

My eyes widened in surprise, and I straightened up, having been slouched in my seat. "Wait, what?" I stammered, my heart racing. "No, that's not—"

"Is it heartbreaking?" she cut in, faking sorrow with an exaggerated pout. "Knowing that one of you might die, leaving the other in agony at such a young age?" Her voice dripped with melodrama, and I could almost see the headlines flashing in her mind.

"I see what you're doing," I groaned in annoyance. "Harry and I are just friends, not lovers—"

"You're so protective of him," she said, her tone shifting to one of mock sympathy. If she interrupted me again, I might just snap her quill in half. "I noticed it from the start of the interview; you were so eager to defend him and show your loyalty."

I saw the quill speeding up again, and I caught a glimpse of what was being written. "Hey! My eyes are not glistening with unwavering love," I insisted.

Before she could say anything or weave more of her ridiculous—false stories, the closet door swung open, and there stood my Headmaster, looking at me with a hint of sympathy. "Dumbledore," Rita said, rising to her feet, "How are you?"

"Quite well," he replied, stepping inside with his hands clasped behind his back, "for a 'dusty old dingbat'." I knew he was referring to her; she had called him that in one of her articles from awhile back. Rita had a habit for being rude in her writing, always trying to stir up as much drama as she could. She believed that bringing people down made her work better, but really, it just made her seem like a bit— I caught myself before I could think anything worse; my mother had taught me better than that. Even though that is exactly what she is.

Rita chuckled, "Don't take it personally, I was merely quoting a high-ranking official from the Ministry who, regrettably, wished to remain anonymous."

"Isn't that the case with all of them?" He turned his gaze from her to me. "Come, (Y/n). Mr. Crouch is ready to give the instructions on your first task."

As I stood up, Rita objected, "I'm not done with my interview yet."

"You can finish your little interviews later; they are not my priority," he replied, and I had to suppress a smile. I was thankful, too; I didn't think I could endure another moment in that room with her and her nonsense.

He guided me back into the trophy room, where I rejoined the champions, taking my place beside Harry. He greeted me with a smile as we both turned our attention to Mr. Barty Crouch, who was calling for our focus.

"Bravery in the face of the unknown is vital for any wizard. If one cannot conquer the fears he imagines, he certainly cannot conquer the real ones. Thus, you will be kept in the dark about what lies ahead. However, you will have two tools to rely on: your wand and your wits." He locked eyes with each of us as he spoke, "On behalf of the Minister of Magic, I wish you all good luck."

🐍💚

I made my way back to the common room, my thoughts racing about what the first task could be. A wave of anxiety washed over me once more, especially as I realized I wouldn't have any opportunity to prepare; I wouldn't know what I was up against until the very last moment.

As I stepped into the common room, a burst of laughter greeted me, but it quickly faded when the source noticed my presence. Draco was sprawled on the couch by the fireplace, surrounded by his usual entourage—Blaise, Goyle, and Crabbe. The only one absent was his beloved Pansy.

I quickly looked away and headed toward my room to do some homework. I didn't have a lot, perhaps just a worksheet or two but I always worried about work piling up so I tried to get things done as quickly as I was given them. "(Y/n)!" Blaise called out, and when I glanced back, he was getting up from the floor where he had been sitting, while the others occupied the cushions. "Look who it is, our Slytherin champion! You're going to make us proud, aren't you?" He threw an arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer to the group. I intentionally avoided meeting Draco's gaze, even though I could feel his eyes on me.

I managed a somewhat awkward smile, my gaze fixed on the floor. "If I don't die," I replied, attempting to sound lighthearted, though a hint of seriousness crept into my tone as I met Blaise's gaze.

Blaise let out a laugh, "Don't worry about that. It's pretty uncommon for anyone to actually die in the tournament. The chances are only about forty percent, if that." He gave me a light pat on the head, and I wasn't sure if he meant to make me feel better, but it didn't work. Forty percent would not be considered uncommon or rare. "Just think of it like another day in Potions class, but with a little more... excitement." He winked at me.

Goyle and Crabbe shared a look and a chuckle, clearly not understanding how serious my situation was—or maybe they just didn't care. I hadn't formed any real friendship with them like I had with Blaise—I wouldn't say we were close, but we talked in class enough last year to be friendly in the halls and here in the common room. Draco, on the other hand, stayed quiet, his face hard to read as he leaned back on the couch with his arms crossed.

"Right, potions class. Because that and being in a life-threatening tournament are pretty much the same," I said, removing his arm from around my shoulder. "Thanks for the lovely encouragement, Blaise, but I really need to get to my homework now."

Crabbe chuckled and was awkwardly, the only one laughing. His laughter was so out of place too that it drew the attention of everyone around us, and soon all eyes were on him. "Why even bother with homework if you might die?" he said, glancing at his friends, who were decidedly not joining in his amusement. "What? She said it herself. I wouldn't care about my assignments if that were the case."

I noticed Goyle nervously shifting his gaze between Crabbe and Draco. That's when I finally turned to face Draco, who was glaring fiercely at Crabbe—his stormy gray eyes narrowed and his mouth set in a tight line.

"Crabbe, shut it," Draco commanded sharply.

"But—" Crabbe looked ready to defend himself.

"Or I'll make you shut it," Draco threatened.

I let out a sigh, "Well, I'd like to take care of it in case I don't die." I shot Crabbe a sarcastic grin before saying goodnight to everyone else and slipping away from the awkward situation.

Once I was in my room, I closed the door behind me and leaned against it. I placed my hand on my chest and took a deep breath, trying to relieve the heavy tension—my nerves about the tournament combined with my feelings for Draco were a bit overwhelming. Not only that, but now the entire wizarding world, including my own Mother and friends and basically everyone at this school is going to think that Harry and I are secret lovers—thanks to Rita and her web of lies.

That also means Draco is probably going to read it too and who knows how he's going to act—not that I should care about that... I don't.

I just wish I had one problem at a time, is that really too much to ask for?

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