Chapter Text
Harry always hated being reminded that he was famous. It’d been a consistent thorn in his side ever since he found out exactly who he was to the wizarding world. Even Hermione, as smart as she was, had commented on him being in their textbooks. The awestruck looks, the immediate assumptions, the way everyone expected him to be either a spoiled brat or sad, pathetic child, it all made him want to slap some sense into people. He hated fame with a particularly strong passion.
And, by God, was Rita Skeeter good at making him hate it even more.
Being called out of class had been awful enough. Snape, the bastard, had been positively gleeful at the prospect of Harry leaving for an interview. Harry was already expecting to see dozens more Potter Stinks badges by the time he got out of the wretched thing.
And then, Rita Skeeter introduced herself.
Harry recognised her name, of course. She’d written too many infamous articles for him not to. Specifically, the article over the summer about the Quidditch World Cup. The one lambasting Arthur Weasley, who most definitely did not deserve it.
The moment she opened her mouth, Harry hated her. Something about her grating, patronising tone made him feel as though dozens of Arogog’s spiders were crawling down his neck. It reminded him far too much of Aunt Petunia’s friends that she’d invite over, the ones who spoke to him in slow, mocking sentences, feigning sympathy for Petunia’s poor, mentally disturbed nephew. It made him bristle at the humiliation, even now.
And Rita Skeeter was good at making him feel humiliated. Well, all of the champions, really. The sickening smile she sent their way slid under Harry’s skin, making him feel grimy, like her gaze dirtied him. The others felt the same way, if the awkward shifting and exchanged glances were any indication.
“Now,” she was saying to her assistant, turning to face the champions, still lined up for the group shot. “We’ll be doing interviews, then, yes? An article each, perhaps. Hmm… yes, I think we shall start with the youngest first.”
That was him, Harry realised with a start. Shit. He cast a desperate look at Cedric, then Fleur, then Krum. All three glanced away just as quickly, shuffling about. “Erm,” Harry backed away from Rita Skeeter. “I– I really don’t think I need an article, you’d much rather interview the real champions, really, I–”
He was cut off by Skeeter gripping his arm tightly and dragging him away. One more beseeching look was thrown Cedric’s way, once again ignored, and he lost sight of the champions behind the door to the broom cupboard she’d thrown him into.
“Now, Harry, can I call you Harry? Splendid. Now, Harry,” Skeeter was saying, whipping out a notepad and floating quill before Harry had even been given a chance to sit or listen. “You mentioned out there that they– Fleur, Viktor, and Cedric, that is– were the real champions. Are you not also a champion within this triwizard Tournament?”
“Well, yes,” Harry said. “But–”
“And were you not chosen by the Goblet of Fire itself?”
“Well, yes–”
“So, by that logic and reasoning, are you not also a real champion of the Triwizard Tournament?”
“I suppose, but–”
“Wonderful! I do wonder, though, how you did it. The Goblet, I mean. Was it an older student? A teacher? An enchantment? You can tell me, Harry, I promise I can keep a secret,” she gave an obnoxiously fake laugh and winked, completely ignoring the loud scratching of the quill hovering nearby. “Well, me and my ten thousand daily readers, of course.”
“Right,” Harry said slowly, edging towards the notepad and quill. That thing was really moving far too fast for what little conversation there’d been. Just as he was about to catch a glimpse of what it was writing, Skeeter grabbed hold of his arm once again, pushing him to sit down on an upside-down bucket.
“Sit, sit!” She urged in that condescending voice. “This is an interview, not an interrogation! Please, you’d think I was wringing the information out of you!”
There was silence. Harry was pretty sure he’d been supposed to laugh.
“Now, Harry dear, onto business,” she said, as though she hadn’t been the one derailing the conversation from the start. “The Tournament. How’re you feeling? Frightened? Exhilarated? Titillated?”
“Um.”
“Yes, yes, you must be under lots of stress right now. After all, your opponents are witches and wizards with twice the experience! Tell me, how does it feel to be just a boy of twelve, entered into a tournament only meant for magical students of seventeen or older?”
Harry grimaced. “Right, so I’m actually fourteen.”
Skeeter blinked. “That’s what I said.”
“No? It isn’t?” Harry looked over at the notepad and pointed. “See? It even says there.”
“What?” Skeeter laughed, high-pitched and mean. “Harry, I have positively no idea what you could be talking about.”
Right before Harry’s eyes, the obnoxious green quill scratched out the words Harry Potter, who, by all intents and purposes, appears to be a simple boy of twelve, is anything but simple. Entering in this Tournament is a highly dangerous–
“Anyways, Harry, this tournament is no mere feat. How are you preparing? Is Dumbledore giving you Hogwarts champions the inside scoop? Care to share?”
Harry blinked, fully blindsided by Skeeter’s blatant subject change. “Oh, no, Dumbledore isn’t supposed to help us. None of the teachers are.” He said, unsure how else to proceed.
“Yes, well, they all say that,” Skeeter rolled her eyes. “But when it comes down to it, is it not a teacher's responsibility to prepare you for the world?”
“I guess–”
“So would it not be irresponsible of your teachers to neglect aiding you?”
“No!” Harry snapped, glaring at the vile woman. “They’re literally not allowed to. That’s not their fault.”
Skeeter simpered at him, all wide-eyed innocence and fluttering lashes. It was ugly, and Harry felt distinctly uncomfortable. “Of course, Harry. So noble of you to say,”
Raising an eyebrow, Harry glanced down at the quill as it wrote the words “No, of course not!” Harry protests. “The teachers are forbidden to help us champions.” But as he finishes his sentence, he flashes a coy wink at me, teasing me and my readers with the information he so bashfully withholds.
“Right,” he said.
Skeeter giggled, once again, at nothing. “Well, onto our final and most serious of matters, Harry. Your entering of this tournament– do you think it was a result of your deep-seated need for glory, or a desperate cry for help?”
“What?” Harry asked, completely flabbergasted.
“See, some of my readers may believe– and now, this is just some, not all, Harry, dear–” she threw her head back, laughing as though she'd said something funny. “Some believe that your defeat of You-Know-Who has left you with a bit of a void to fill, hmm? Hence, you know, the need for glory, and all that. Others– well, others think that this is your way of calling for help, due to the pain your parent’s death left you with.”
“Wha- I didn’t– It isn’t a cry for help, or for glory! I didn’t put my name in!” Harry stammered, panic beginning to take him over. God, if she printed that–
“Well, how do you think your parents would feel about this? If they were alive, I mean,” Skeeter leered down at him, her cats-eye glasses sliding down her thin nose. “I know, if it were my son entering in a dangerous magical competition, I’d be furious. Outraged, even, that my son willingly made a magical contract with the Goblet of Fire itself.”
Harry stared, openmouthed. “I– I don’t–” he felt his breathing pick up, his palms turning sweaty. The already too-small broom cupboard’s walls were closing in. Skeeter’s slimy gaze dragged across his face, up to his scar, and he flinched back.
What would his parents think? Their son, whom they’d died for, nearly dying every year of school because he couldn’t protect himself, couldn’t stay away from the danger. Professor Lupin had said it the year before– he was wasting the life his parents had died for. He was reckless, throwing himself into dangerous situations without a moment's thought. God, they’d be so disappointed. Ashamed of their son, who was unable to live up to the monikers the magical world had given him.
“Well?” Skeeter raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Nothing to say for yourself?”
Harry stayed silent until Skeeter finally gave up and let him out of the cupboard.
***
For some inexplicable reason, Rita Skeeter's words stuck with him for the rest of the day. The accusation clung to him like a shadow, following him into the next morning, when the articles finally came out.
Only, there were no articles on the other champions, no individual photos. Instead, there was Harry’s face, plastered to the front page, with only a few sentences left to spare for the other three champions. Harry had known, the second he walked into the Great Hall, that Skeeter had fucked the article up somehow. He saw the glares, the whispers, and they turned into blatant jeers and laughter as the day went on. Harry barely looked up in the hallways, remained silent during classes, and didn’t bother going to lunch or dinner. Rita Skeeter’s stare had been bad enough, he didn’t need a hundred more following him around as he ate.
No, Harry went to Hagrid’s.
The warmth of the roaring fire, the mug of dubious tea that’d been placed in his hand, Fang’s comforting weight against his legs, it all made him far calmer than he’d been in days. Hagrid never asked questions, more than happy to talk about whatever new creature had been in his care lately. Harry liked that about Hagrid. He knew Harry was upset, of course, but he didn’t press it, unlike Harry’s friends. Hermione and Ginny were staunchly supportive and he was grateful for it, but they were also pushy. And Ron… well.
“Hagrid,” Harry said, interrupting Hagrid’s increasingly heated rant about wizards disturbing Bowtruckle trees. “Do you think that my parents would be proud of me?”
When the ringing silence lasted a little too long, Harry looked up to see Hagrid’s stricken expression.
“Is this more o’ the shite those Dursley’s fill your head with?” He said eventually.
“No!” Harry protested, shaking his head. “No, it’s not that. I mean, they barely talk about my parents anyway. But, just– d’you think they’d be proud?”
Hagrid didn’t reply at first, and Harry nervously scratched at his fingers.
“Harry,” he said slowly. “Your parents– they loved you. Lily was so excited to introduce me, you know, after you were born. It was miserable, for them, to be hiding for that long, but you made ‘em happy. Of course they’d be proud. No matter what.”
Something wet fell down Harry’s cheek, and he realised that he was crying. Hagrid’s words soothed something that’d began to fester inside him, righting the faith that Rita Skeeter and her article had shaken. “Thank you, Hagrid.”
“‘Course,” he said gruffly, standing up and shuffling through the chest of drawers nearby. “I got some letters here, from Lily and James, from when they went in hiding. Some photos, too. You can have ‘em.”
Suddenly awestruck, Harry jumped out of his armchair. “Really?” he breathed. He’d get to read things they’d said? Maybe his mother curled her S ’s like him, or his father also misspelt ‘immediately’, or–
A loud knock on Hagrid’s door jolted Harry out of his thoughts. Hermione’s voice filtered through the wood, calling to see if Harry was there.
Upon Hagrid opening the door, Hermione bolted across the hut, slamming into Harry with a hug. “God, Harry, I was trying to catch you all day, that fucking cunt Rita Skeeter, I will kill her, I swear to God–”
“Jesus, Hermione,” he muttered into her shoulder. Someone chuckled, but Harry’s vision was blocked by Hermione’s hair, leaving them unknown until she finally let go of him.
“She’s been ranting about that cow all day,” Ginny offered a sympathetic smile from the doorway, moving over to reveal Neville and Luna behind her. “I think she’s serious about killing her.”
“I am,” Hermione said hotly. “That– that bitch thinks she can print libel about Harry? I’ve only known about the magical world for four years, and I know that her article breaks a few magical child protection laws!”
“She’s been pretty careful about who she targets,” Ginny scowled. “The Malfoys and a couple other Death Eater families bankroll the Prophet, so it tracks that they’d let her get away with talking shit about Harry.”
“The Quibbler wouldn’t ever take that many liberties, you know,” Luna stared intensely at Harry. “We are very fair and truthful journalists.”
“Er,” Harry wasn’t sure what the Quibbler was, but it was nice of her to offer support. “Thank you, Luna.”
“We’ve been looking for you ever since class ended,” Neville said as he, Ginny and Luna closed the door behind them. “Are you okay?”
“For now,” he hesitated. “I– I just don’t want to go back just yet, yeah? The stares were getting worse by the end of the day.”
Neville instantly nodded, waving his hands in reassurance. “Of course! We get it.”
The other three immediately added their own agreements, and soon Hagrid’s hut was filled with far more laughter and people. It was nice, Harry thought, to have people who actually stuck by him.
Hermione nudged him, her voice barely audible over Neville, Ginny and Luna’s conversation. “When we do go back, you have that meeting in the common room with our friend from last year, remember?”
Oh. In the blur of Rita Skeeter’s interview, he’d completely forgotten that his meeting with Sirius was tonight. He nodded back at Hermione, and refocused his attention to Ginny and Neville’s debate over Snape’s class.
Harry drifted in and out of the conversation for the next two hours, content to simply sit and listen. When Luna airily proclaimed her exhaustion, Ginny and Neville were quick to offer her a walk back to Ravenclaw Tower. Hermione dragged Harry back an hour later, after he’d nearly fallen asleep on her. Hagrid gave Harry a long hug, handing him the letters from his parents discreetly before he and Hermione left.
By the time they got back to the common room, it was past ten o’clock, and Hermione sternly directed him to sit down.
“Would you like me to stay for the meeting?” She asked as Harry dozed. “I don’t have to if you’d like to talk to Sirius by yourself.”
“No, I think having you here would help,” he said, and promptly fell asleep.
The next time he opened his eyes, it was to Sirius’s voice.