4بخش

Sit down. Please.

Now the moment you’ve all been waiting for:

The champion selection.

The Durmstrang champion is Viktor Krum.

The champion for Beauxbatons…

…is Fleur Delacour.

The Hogwarts champion, Cedric Diggory!

Excellent! We now have our three champions.

But in the end, only one will go down in history.

Only one will hoist this chalice of champions…

…this vessel of victory…

…the Triwizard Cup!

Harry Potter.

Harry Potter?

No. No.

Harry Potter!

Go on, Harry.

Harry, for goodness sake.

He’s a cheat!

He’s not even 17 yet!

It’s wrong, I tell you!

You French tart.

Everything is a conspiracy theory!

Quiet! I can’t think!

Everything is a conspiracy theory!

I protest.

Harry.

I protest!

Did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire?

No, sir.

Did you ask one of the older students…

…to do it for you?

No, sir.

You’re absolutely sure?

Yes. Yes, sir.

But of course he is lying.

The hell he is!

The Goblet of Fire is an exceptionally powerful magical object.

Only an exceptionally powerful Confundus Charm could’ve hoodwinked it.

Magic way beyond the talents of a fourth year.

You seem to have given this a fair bit of thought, Mad-Eye.

It was once my job to think as dark wizards do, Karkaroff…

…perhaps you remember.

This doesn’t help, Alastor.

Leave this to you, Barty.

The rules are absolute.

The Goblet of Fire constitutes a binding magical contract.

Mr. Potter has no choice.

He is, as of tonight…

…a Triwizard champion.

This can’t go on, Albus.

First the Dark Mark. Now this?

What do you suggest, Minerva?

Put an end to it.

Don’t let Potter compete.

You heard Barty. The rules are clear.

Well, the devil with Barty and his rules.

And since when did you accommodate the Ministry?

Headmaster, I, too, find it difficult to believe this mere coincidence.

However, if we are to truly discover the meaning of these events…

…perhaps we should, for the time being…

…let them unfold.

What…? Do nothing?

Offer him up as bait?

Potter is a boy, not a piece of meat.

I agree With Severus.

Alastor, keep an eye on Harry, will you?

I can do that.

Don’t let him know, though.

He must be anxious enough as it is…

…knowing what lies ahead.

Then again, we all are.

How did you do it?

Never mind. Doesn’t matter.

Might’ve let your best friend know, though.

Let you know what?

You know bloody well what.

I didn’t ask for this to happen, Ron.

Okay?

You’re being stupid.

Yeah, that’s me.

Ron Weasley, Harry Potter’s stupid friend.

I didn’t put my name in that cup.

I don’t want eternal glory. I just wanna be…

Look, I don’t know what happened tonight…

…and I don’t know why.

It just did.

Okay?

Piss off.

What a charismatic quartet.

Hello.

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 juicy 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 & l” want to know. Not to mention my rabid readers.

So who’s feeling up to sharing?

Shall we start with the youngest? Lovely.

This is cozy.

It’s a broom cupboard.

You should feel right at home, then.

Don’t mind if I use a Quick-Quotes Quill, do you?

No.

So tell me, Harry.

Here you sit, a mere boy of 12…

I’m 14. Sorry.

About to compete against three students…

…not only vastly more emotionally mature than yourself…

…but who have mastered spells that you wouldn’t attempt in your dizziest daydreams.

Concerned?

I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.

Just ignore the quill.

Then, of course, you’re no ordinary boy of 12, are you?

Fourteen.

Your story’s legend.

Do you think it was the trauma of your past…

…that made you so keen to enter such a dangerous tournament?

No, I didn’t enter.

Of course you didn’t.

Everyone loves a rebel, Harry.

Scratch that 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 death wish?

Hey, my eyes aren’t “glistening with the ghosts of my past.”