Simone Martiane and the Goblet of Fire

After lunch, I tapped Fleur on the arm. I found myself wishing I'd interviewed her first...ah, well.

"Say, Fleur, if I could have a word? You know, about the tournament? I know we're friends and all, but I've got to do this right."

"Oh, all right," Fleur sighed, taking especial care with her English. Madame Maxime had decreed that, for the duration of our stay, we were allowed to speak only in English, even among ourselves. That meant that I was spending a good deal of my evenings trying to patiently teach everyone phrases in English. Fleur was pretty good at it, although her accent was terrible. Everyone else carried a French-English dictionary around in his or her pockets.

I poised my pencil over my paper--ink is so tricky to carry about in one's pockets; I usually use Muggle pencils or pens--and opened with the same question I'd asked Cedric. "What made you decide to enter the tournament?"

Fleur tossed her magnificent head. "Ze glory, of course. And of course ze gold. A thousand Galleons prize money--as I said ze ozzer night, zis is a chance many would die for! Of course," she admitted, "zey are saying zat zis will be less dangerous zan it has been in ze past..."

I nodded, copying her answer but editing the accent. "What was your reaction when your name came out of the goblet?"

"It was no more zan I expected," Fleur said haughtily. "I know zat I am ze best, and zat ze ozzer contestants have no hope of defeating me. I knew I would come out of ze goblet, because ze only one who could have competed against me is you, and you did not enter."

"I'm flattered," I said dryly, scribbling on the paper. I omitted the last few words because they would upset Beauxbatons students. Biting my lip, expecting a tirade, I asked, "Fleur, what's your opinion on Harry's being allowed to participate?"

"That--" Fleur proceeded to call Harry every unprintable word she knew, in English and French. "'E is only a little boy...'e cannot 'ope to win, or even to 'ave a chance. 'E should give up now. And 'e should never have put his name in...despite what you say, Simóne, I am convinced that 'Arry put 'is name in zat goblet 'imself."

I suppressed a sigh and wrote down everything but the expletives. "Well, thanks, Fleur. I'll see you around."

Fleur strode off to the carriage, while I went and looked for Viktor Krum--or Harry, although I doubted Harry would actually answer any of my questions. And I'd have to amend them for him.

Finally, after, a few minutes, I decided that both of them were making themselves scarce, probably with good reason. I further decided that, ever since my first day, I had wanted to examine the library closer and now was probably a good chance. (I just love Sundays.)

I ran up the stairs and slowly opened the door to the library. I had just selected a row and started to browse when I bumped into someone.

"Oh, my bad," I gasped. "Sorry."

"That's all right," the other person grunted. "Vhere did you plan to go so fast?"

All of a sudden I realised who I'd run in to. "Oh. Um...actually, I was looking for you."

Viktor Krum sighed. "You and half the female population of this school. All right. How many autographs vere you vanting?"

"None," I told him. "I'm a reporter for the Beauxbatons school newspaper, and I was kind of hoping to interview you about the Triwizard Tournament."

"Vell, that vill be fine," Viktor told me, taking a seat opposite me. "However, I insist upon knowing your name."

"Oh, sorry," I said, smothering a grin. "It's Simóne. Simóne Martáine."

Viktor nodded. "All right. Now, vat did you vant to ask?"

I poised my pen over my parchment. "What made you decide to enter the tournament?"

"Karkaroff," Viktor growled. "He absolutely insisted. I vould much rather be back at Durmstrang reading a book. That is why I come to the library so often."

I nodded, noting what he'd said. Why was it all the boys would rather be curled up reading? "And what was your reaction when your name came out of the goblet?"

"I vos not very surprised, unfortunately," Viktor sighed. "More often than not, I find that I am the centre of attention. I do not mind much sharing it for once. I vould rather not haff it on me at all."

I gave him a sympathetic smile and made a note of it. "And...what's your opinion on Harry Potter's being allowed to participate?"

Viktor looked thoughtful. Finally, he said, "I am not a man of strong emotions, Simóne. However, I cannot help but feel sorry for the boy. He will haff a more difficult time...and I am unsure as to whether or not he put his name in himself."

I nodded and wrote down his quote. "Thanks. Say, do you have any theories on how he got in, if you don't think he put it in himself?"

"Vell, Karkaroff is a good actor," he shrugged. "It could be him. Or it vos someone ve don't know yet."

"Thanks again," I told him. "Enjoy your book...better go." I stood up and left the library.

~~~

There may be something prettier than a mist hovering over a lake, but I have yet to discover what that is--unless it's the mist surrounding the castle at Beauxbatons, when you're standing in the Ice Gardens and looking up at the castle, which is made of ice. Anyway, the mist was sparkling like diamonds off the lake that morning, and I had to be a part of it. Turns out I wasn't the only one.

I'd just reached what was probably the best spot to sit and sketch--the lake and the mist were right in front of the castle, and it looked deliciously spooky and enchanted--when I discovered that someone else was there. "Sorry, I didn't see you there...oh, hi, Ron."

Ron looked up, saw me, and grinned. "Oh...hi, Simóne. Have a seat."

I sat down next to him and flipped to the newest page in my sketchbook. "How have things been?"

He looked at my blank page uncertainly. "Are you taking notes or something?"

"Nope. But I promise, I am listening. So go ahead...how are you?"

Ron shrugged. "All right, I suppose. Still not talking to Harry...and Hermione's been hanging around him a lot."

"Jealous?" I asked him teasingly.

Ron chuckled. "No, not really...just guilty. I mean, I've got Seamus and Dean and Neville to hang out with...Harry and Hermione don't really have any other friends to hang out with. But still...I don't know. I can't think of anyone else who'd put Harry's name in the goblet, or any other reason they would have done so except to kill him--and I hope that isn't the reason he got put in. So I guess the only logical conclusion I can come to is that Harry put himself in. I think it's the only one I want to come to...I don't want to think that someone wants to kill him, and I don't know what else to think." He put his head in his hands. "I need something to stop me thinking."

I pulled my Newtbox out of my bag. "This work?"

Ron eyed it suspiciously. "What is it?"

"A Newtbox. I've got a compilation album in...here." Setting the little box down next to us, I switched it on and started skipping through until I came across "Fishing in the Dark". "Oh, this is a good one." Ron's head started nodding to the beat, and I started singing along.

"Lazy yellow moon comin' up tonight,

Shinin' through the trees,

Crickets are singin' and lightning bugs

Are floatin on the breeze

Baby, get ready...

Across the field where the creek turns back by the ol' stump road

I'm gonna take you to a special place that nobody knows

Baby get ready...ooooooooooo

You and me going fishing in the dark,

Lying on our backs and counting the stars

Where the cool grass grows.

Down by the river in the full moon light,

We'll be fallin' in love in the middle of the night

Just movin' slow...

Stayin' the whole night through, feels so good to be with you..."

Ron grinned. "Hey, I know this song!" He started up the second verse himself.

"Spring is almost over and the summer's come

And the days are gettin' long

Waited all winter for the time to be right, just to take you along

Baby, get ready...

And it don't matter if we sit forever and the fish don't bite

Jump in the river and cool ourselves from the heat of the night

Baby get ready...ooooooooooo."

The two of us sang the chorus three more times again along with the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. I imagine we must've looked fairly stupid, out there yodelling our heads off, and when we started singing "Fat-Bottomed Girls" along with Queen we must've looked stupider still. Still, it took Ron's mind off his problems.

He was laughing by the time it ended. "This is fun."

I chuckled as well, while Reba McEntire started singing "Somebody". "This one's a kind of serious song, but I love it. Reba's wonderful."

"Reba?"

"Reba McEntire. She's the one who sings this song. Actually, she's got a few songs I like, but I don't have any of them except this one. It's called 'Somebody'."

Ron listened to it thoughtfully. "Do you think that could ever happen to me?"

"I don't see why not. My mother always told Elsie and me that my father was just the goofy neighbour kid who played football with her brother until he showed up and asked for her, and then he was transformed into a handsome prince." Reba sang herself out and a kind of countrified rock came on. "Ooh, I like this one. Hope you don't mind the grammar lesson." I started belting the song. Ron looked at me like I was crazy at first, but he started getting into it, especially the last verse. It was "A Noun is a Person, Place, or Thing" from Grammar Rock. And okay, maybe I am crazy, especially since the next song was "Interjections!" from the same album. Ron actually laughed at that one. I laughed, too, especially when Geraldine followed up "Well! You've got some nerve!" and "Oh! I've never been so insulted in all my life!" with "Hey! You're kind of cute!"

I hesitated when the next song came on. "Do you want to hear this one? It's about an American soldier..."

"I don't care. I'd like to hear it."

I shrugged and moved my hand away from the dial as Toby Keith started singing an uncharacteristically emotional song, a word which here means "normally his songs are either ranting and raving or about rubbing love in other people's faces". Ron looked somewhat pale as he listened.

"Ron?" I asked finally as Toby went into a guitar solo. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, I don't know. It's just..." Ron swallowed. "It's just that...well, Harry could be singing this song--I mean, except the part about him being American. It's just so typically Harry...I know that's how he feels on a daily basis."

I swallowed. He was probably right...he knew Ron a lot better than I did.

"Is the next one like that?" Ron asked as the drum cadence petered out.

"No," I answered as warm country sounds came out. It was Buddy Jewel singing "Sweet Southern Comfort," which is one of my personal favourites, so I sang along.

"Misty sunrise in my hometown,

Rows of cotton bout knee high,

Mrs. Baker down the dirt road,

Still got clothes out on the line,

Erwin Nichols there with Judge Lee,

Playin checkers at the gin,

When I dream about the Southland,

This is where it all begins

From Carolina down to Georgia,

Smell the jasmine and magnolia,

Sleepy Sweet home Alabama,

Roll tide roll,

Muddy water, Mississippi,

Blessed Graceland whispers to me,

Carry on, Carry on,

Sweet Southern Comfort, carry on.

Catchin' catfish on the river,

Chasin' fireflies by the creek,

Kissin' Gary Williams sister,

On the porch Homecoming week,

With rusty cars and weeping willows,

Keepin' watch out in the yard,

Just a snapshot of down-home Dixie,

Could be anywhere you are,

In Carolina or in Georgia,

Open arms are waitin for ya,

Louisiana

Yellow rose of San Antone,

Arkansas, Mississippi,

Old Man River whispers to me,

Carry on, Carry on,

Sweet Southern Comfort, carry on,

As I sit here I'm surrounded,

By these priceless memories,

I don't have to think about it,

There's no place I'd rather be,

Than Carolina or in Georgia,

Smell the jasmine and magnolia,

Sleepy Sweet home Alabama,

Roll tide roll,

Muddy water, Mississippi,

Blessed Graceland whispers to me,

Carry on, Carry on,

Sweet Southern Comfort,

Carry on, Carry on,

Sweet Southern Comfort, carry on."

"That's really pretty," Ron said softly. His last word was almost lost as a raucous beat came on. I grinned and sang that one, too--it was "Baby Girl" by Sugarland. Ron knew that one too, so he stood up, adopted a falsetto, and sang along. I started laughing--then sketching. It isn't easy to sketch someone who's acting like Elvis, sans microphone, when you're laughing the whole time, but I managed to get him, drawing largely on my memories of his expression and position as he held out a sustained note.

The song finally ended and he collapsed next to me, laughing. I chuckled and continued shading his picture.

As his laughter subsided, he looked over my shoulder. "What're you drawing?"

"You'll see some other time," I told him. I planned to give it to him as a Christmas present, when I'd had time to get at it with my charcoals. I switched of the Newtbox, since we'd come to the end of the album. "Feeling better?"

Ron nodded. "Loads. Thanks a lot, Simóne."

"De rien (it's nothing)," I answered. I flipped to a new page in my sketchbook and began drawing Hogwarts through the mist. Ron sat quietly and watched me for a while.

~~~

I spent most of the rest of the afternoon and evening looking for Harry, to get his statement. Monday we had classes (yes, that's right, they made us go to classes too), but I continued looking afterwards and finally had to conclude that he was making himself scarce. I figured I'd just gloss him over with a "Harry Potter was unavailable for comment", but I had to get that article written in time to be off by the next post, as I'd already received a rather irate note from Marla, who's the editor.

There are three settings I cannot write in. Number one, complete silence--the atmosphere of the Hogwarts library, which would have otherwise been ideal. Number two, a lot of talking and laughing--the general ambience of the Great Hall, my second choice. Number three, rap, rock, or any sort of music with a heavy base in it--what was playing in the Beauxbatons school carriage (at full volume, might I add). Among other things, that sort of music gives me a headache when I'm not trying to write. Finally, I gave up, took my Newtbox, notes, and tablet, and went down to the lake.

Newtboxes have radio capabilities, but I prefer using the little newt-shaped disks. It's impossible to get a decent country or "oldie-goldie" station at Beauxbatons, and probably just as difficult at Hogwarts. Probably because they're both hooked into the Wizarding Wireless Network. And most of the stuff you find on the WWN is either rock or jazz. Normally I don't mind jazz, but the sort of jazz wizards play is mostly screaming trumpet played by some tone-deaf eighty-year-old. I prefer real jazz, like Charlie Parker and (to a certain extent) Louie Armstrong. I didn't happen to have my Charlie Parker with me, but I had everything else--there's a book I carry my disks around in, designed to hold Muggle CDs. (It's about a foot long and six inches wide, with a red cover.) I had simply neglected to put Charlie in before I left Beauxbatons and made a mental note to ask Gabrielle to send it to me.

However, I did have three Shania Twain discs--she's one of my favourites--and I finally selected and inserted Come On Over. The first two tracks I glossed over, but I decided it was okay if I listened to "Love Gets Me Every Time" while I organised my notes into a coherent outline.

It took me two songs--"Love Gets Me Every Time" and "Don't Be Stupid"--to decide that maybe Shania wasn't the best for when I'm writing. Reluctantly, I took it out, replaced it with Garth Brooks' No Fences, and waved my wand to clean up the ink blot I'd made when I started using my quill as a microphone during "Don't Be Stupid" and squeezed too hard. The only two songs on that album I might start singing along with were "New Way to Fly" and "Victim of the Game", and neither one of those was really a use-your-quill-as-a-mic-and-drop-ink-blots-on-your-article kind of song.

It was while I was caterwauling the end of "New Way to Fly" that Ron turned up, looking like he was ready to knock someone out--or cry. I wasn't sure which.

"Ron?" I asked uncertainly as the song ended. "You okay?" I was switching off from Garth to an Elton John compilation.

"No," Ron said shortly, plunking himself down next to me.

I set down my quill, article forgotten. "What's wrong?"

He drew his knees up to his chin. "Nothing."

"It doesn't have anything to do with the piece they're doing on the Triwizard Tournament on Friday, does it?" I asked him as Elton started singing "Tiny Dancer".

Ron looked up in surprise. "The what?"

"Nothing," I said quickly. "Have you and Harry had another row?"

"No...not a row," Ron sighed. "It's just...I've heard rumours..."

"About what?" I asked him. With the instincts of a journalist, I flipped to a new page in my notebook.

Ron swallowed. "About the first task. People are talking about what it might be...I don't know how much of it you've heard, but it all sounds dangerous and scary to me."

"I haven't heard any of it," I told him. "What have they been saying?"

"Well, I heard from Lee Jordan that it's going to be a sort of Quidditch match, where they have to avoid these super fast, super agile, reinforced Bludgers with poisoned spikes all over them. No Quidditch armour, and they have to use school brooms. The school brooms are all Shooting Stars--sheer rubbish. Even as good a player as he is, Harry wouldn't stand a chance."

I jotted this down, already planning the extra column Marla was making me write to make up for not submitting this one in a week--"Bunk and Bull". "Okay...somehow, I doubt that. Anyway, what else have you heard?"

"Daphne Greengrass says they'll have to pick from these four goblets which one doesn't have poison in it, and then everyone has to drink. Whoever doesn't get violently ill will win."

"Someone's been watching too much of The Maladjusted Jester."

"And then someone else said that they were going to have their wands thrown into a pile of fake wands that look just like them. Then they'll have to pick out their wand, but if they pick wrong it'll blow up in their hand, and the one who finds their wand in the least number of tries will win."

"Bunk. That's even more dangerous than the pellet with the poison."

"The only other one that's running around is that it's going to be a karioke contest, but that's not very dangerous."

"Obviously you've never heard Fleur try to sing," I said lightly, and was rewarded with a small laugh from Ron. "Ron, quit worrying so much. All of those things are too dangerous to the health of the contestants to be plausible. They are saying it's going to be safer, you know."

"Yeah, I know, it's just..." Ron sighed. "Harry's my best mate, you know? I never had a real friend before. I was always 'Fred and George's little brother' or 'Percy's little brother' or worst of all, 'Ginny's big brother'. And Harry and I became best friends right off the cuff, we haven't fought in four years of being friends, until..."

"Until now," I supplied. Ron nodded gratefully. "Ron, I promise that Harry will be all right. There'll be someone monitoring the task, and I'll ask whomever it is to keep a special eye out for Harry if it'll make you feel better. Is that okay?"

Ron nodded again. "Thanks, Simóne."

"Any time. And you can call me Simmie if you like."

Ron chuckled. "Okay, Simmie. Thanks again."