Simone Martiane and the Goblet of Fire

Fleur and I had Arithmancy on Friday afternoon. At Beauxbatons it's a required class; at Hogwarts it's an elective, which they don't start until the third year, so we were a good three years ahead of them. Hence, I was usually bored in Arithmancy. I had finished the task we'd been set to--something to do with sine waves, as I recall--when a small, nervous-looking boy came in and walked up to Professor Vector.

"Excuse me, Professor--I've been sent to get Fleur Delacour and Simóne Martáine," he said nervously, mispronouncing my name as usual. "All the champions are supposed to go upstairs for something, I think they're going to take pictures..."

Fleur preened. I sighed a little.

Professor Vector looked a wee bit bemused. "What does Simóne have to do with this?"

"Well...um, I don't really know, but..."

"I'm supposed to write the whole tournament up for our school paper as it progresses," I intervened, trying to help the boy out. "Madame Maxime wants me to get a good idea of what a real reporter does..."

"Ah." Professor Vector dismissed us both; we grabbed our things and hurried out of the room.

The first thing that Fleur, being Fleur, noticed about the room was the photographer and the equipment he was setting up. The photographer was rather paunchy and kept throwing glances at Fleur, something a lot of guys do. The first thing that I noticed was the woman with ultra-blonde hair and magenta robes. What I noticed, specifically, was that she was tucking a roll of parchment and acid-green quill into her bag.

There are five basic types of quills: the standard quill, which can be made from many types of feathers and are used for everything from homework to record books; the Oliphant quill, a type of quill favoured by artists and usually made from seagull feathers, which enable the finest and most delicate of lines; the Mopsus quill, made from albatross feathers, enchanted to predict or detect something and record it, commonly used by schools of magic to detect the birth of a magical person; the Merwyn quill, made from crow or raven feathers and enchanted to draw the blood of a person for ink while etching the words in the back of their hand, normally used as a form of punishment until it was outlawed in most countries; and the Quick-Quotes Quill. Made from any type of feather, the Quick-Quotes Quill always became acid green upon enchantment. Reporters use them from time to time to take notes without having to look at the parchment or quill itself. Personally, I hate them. First of all, to get them to work you have to suck on the end, and they taste like burnt rubber. Second of all, the way they work is to form a link with the reporter's mind, meaning that fact and opinion tend to get muddled. Even when I'm taking notes, I can never keep my opinions out of my thoughts; however, when I write it by hand, I can keep them out of my notes, and subsequently out of my articles. Most reporters use them once, then discard them. Unscrupulous reporters--or really stupid ones--use them repeatedly. Third of all, I prefer using a Muggle pen or pencil; it's easier to carry around in my pocket.

I pulled my pencil out of my pocket and tucked it behind my ear, pulled out my notebook and flipped to a new page, then set my bag down out of the way. Well, I said to myself, guess my internship starts right here. Smiling, I walked over to the woman.

"Pardon me, ma'am," I said courteously, "but...would you happen to be a journalist?"

"A what?" The woman looked confused.

"A reporter," I corrected myself.

"Matter of fact, I am," the woman said with a dazzling but poisonous smile. She stuck out her thick-fingered hand, which ended in two-inch long nails, painted a brilliant red. "Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet reporter. I'm doing a piece on the Triwizard Tournament. And...you are...?"

I shook the proffered hand. It felt oddly like I was shaking hands with a bear--clawed and heavy-handed. "Simóne Martáine. I'm a journalist for the Beauxbatons school newspaper. I'm also doing a piece on the Triwizard Tournament--actually, a series of pieces."

"Oh?" Rita looked mildly impressed. "Do you happen to have any of your articles?"

As a matter of fact, the latest edition of the Gazette had arrived that morning, containing my piece with my interviews of the champions. I dug the paper out of my bag and flipped to the article, then held it out. Rita took it and read through it, brow furrowed in concentration.

Finally, she handed it back to me. "It's good, but I expected more emphasis on the Beauxbatons champion."

"Why?" I asked in mild surprise.

Rita frowned a little. "You're from Beauxbatons, aren't you? Writing for the Beauxbatons newspaper?"

"Yes, but it wouldn't have been fair not to give equal emphasis to all four champions. Besides, everyone at Beauxbatons knows Fleur. They only know Krum and Harry by reputation, and they don't know Cedric at all. Who wants to read an informative article about stuff they already know?"

"You didn't interview Harry, either," Rita noted.

"I was on deadline," I admitted. "Marla--the editor--was irate because that article took so long to finish, and I didn't have time to find Harry. I think he was making himself scarce...I'll try and get hold of him before or after the first task sometime."

Rita patted one of her stiff, complex blonde curls. "What's your slant going to be on the first task?"

I hadn't actually thought that far ahead, but I answered anyway. "Probably a detailed description of the task itself, followed by the marks and a quote or two from the winner and their friends. Shouldn't be too hard to find friends--all four of the champions are incredibly popular. What about you? Do you know?"

"Probably something similar," Rita answered. "Have you considered a career in journalism?"

I nodded. "I'm thinking of seeing if the Prophet will take me on once I graduate. Maybe Witch Weekly."

"You'd be good at it. You already have an excellent style and an eye for a story. You'll go far with that."

Rita walked away to talk to Ludo Bagman, leaving me with a strange mixture of feelings. A real reporter had just told me I'd be good as a professional reporter. She had complimented me on my style...but did she think I used a Quick-Quotes Quill? I hoped not.

Fleur was chatting with Cedric Diggory, tossing her hair over her shoulder from time to time. Fleur looked ecstatic; Cedric looked trapped. Smothering a smile, I went over to talk to them.

"...will be easy," Fleur was saying as I approached. "I do not think zat ze tasks will be a problem..."

"Well, you never know," Cedric said fairly. "Personally, I'm a little nervous, not knowing what I'm supposed to be preparing for...oh, bonjour, Simóne."

I grinned. "Salutations, Cedric. What's up?"

"The sky, the roof, the ceiling, my blood pressure..." Cedric responded lightly.

I chuckled. "Problems?"

"Cho," Cedric explained.

"Ah."

Fleur noticed Rita. "Who eez zat?"

"Rita Skeeter," I answered. "Reporter for the Daily Prophet. She's doing a piece on the tournament."

Cedric groaned. "Great. She'll twist everything. She always does."

"She uses a Quick-Quotes Quill," I told him. "Her notes twist themselves; hence, twisted articles."

Fleur frowned. "'Ow do ze notes...?"

"The Quick-Quotes Quill works on a mental link with the user," I explained. "No reporter--or journalist, for that matter--can make an interview without his or her personal opinions creeping in, and if you have a mental link with your quill, your opinions transfer to the notes and subsequently to your article."

Cedric nodded. "And the way they're enchanted, they don't require an inkwell; they use a sort of ink produced by the quill itself."

"'Ow do you know zat?" Fleur wanted to know.

"Read it in a book a few years ago. Extra reading for Charms class and all."

I held up two fingers in a victory V. "Yay, geek-ness!"

"'Blessed are the geeks, for they shall inherit the earth,'" Cedric quipped.

"I think it's 'Blessed are the geeks, for they shall inform the earth,'" I corrected him. "The meek shall inherit the earth...if that's all right with everyone else."

Cedric and Fleur both laughed. I noticed Harry Potter come in and considered striking up a conversation, but I didn't know what he'd say. Besides, he was instantly accosted by Bagman and drawn into a conversation with Bagman and Rita. A few moments later, Rita had seized Harry by the upper arm and dragged him off.

"See?" I said to Cedric, jerking my head in the pair's direction. "That is an example of a reporter."

"I'm glad you're a journalist then," Cedric responded. "I get enough bruises on my arms from playing Quidditch."

I laughed. "Do you think this is going to be very much different from Quidditch? The tournament, I mean?"

Cedric nodded. "In Quidditch," he explained, "I'm working with six other people against six other people I more or less know. In this I'll be on my own against God knows what. And in Quidditch I'm allowed to use my broomstick but not my wand, although I can have my wand with me. Here I'm only allowed my wand, which I can use." He hesitated, looked around, then added quietly, "I'm a little scared, actually. I've heard the rumours..."

"All bunk," I told him. "Ron Weasley already told me about them...I don't think you have a lot to worry about. Besides..." I gestured towards Madame Maxime, Karkaroff, Bagman, and Crouch. "With them, plus Dumbledore, plus all the teachers you have around here, nothing is going to happen that can't be fixed."

Cedric grinned. "Thanks, Simóne."

Dumbledore came into the room with a small old man with large, pale eyes. The two were deep in conversation.

"Who's that?" I asked Cedric.

"Mr. Ollivander," Cedric answered. "Makes wands."

Dumbledore looked around the room. "Are we all here? We seem to be missing Harry Potter..."

"Oh, Rita wanted an interview," Bagman said cheerfully. "They can't have gone far..."

Dumbledore closed his eyes for a split second, conveying his opinion of Rita Skeeter to pretty much anyone less dense than a brick and more observant than my left shoe, then turned and left the room to get Harry.

There were four chairs close to the door. Krum already sat in one. Fleur and Cedric joined him. I sat on another chair in the corner behind them. Harry, Dumbledore, and Rita Skeeter returned to the room. Harry sat next to Cedric, Rita sat in the opposite corner from me, and Dumbledore headed for the velvet-covered desks where the other four judges sat.

"May I introduce Mr. Ollivander?" Dumbledore said, sitting down. "He will be checking your wands to ensure that they are in good condition before the tournament."

Mr. Ollivander stepped into the middle of the room. "Mademoiselle Delacour, could we have you first, please?"

Fleur glided over to him, then turned over her beloved wand. Her father had made it himself, using one of her grandmother's hairs. Mr. Ollivander studied it thoughtfully, twirling it between his finger; a number of pink and gold sparks came out. Simple reasoning behind this--pink for rosewood and Fleur's distinct femininity, gold for her father, who had odd golden eyes.

"Yes," Mr. Ollivander mused, "nine and a half inches...inflexible...rosewood...and containing...dear me..."

"An 'air from ze 'ead of a veela," Fleur informed him, a hint of pride tinting her tones. "One of my grandmuzzer's."

"Yes, yes," Mr. Ollivander said again, "I've never used veela hair myself, of course. I find it makes for rather temperamental wands...however, to each his own, and if this suits you..."

Mr. Ollivander checked over the wand, conjured up a bunch of flowers with it, then handed it back to her along with the flowers and called up Cedric.

As they traded places, Fleur smiled at Cedric; separating a tiger lily from the bouquet, she handed it back to me. Tiger lilies are my favourite of favourite flowers. I thanked her quietly as Mr. Ollivander studied Cedric's wand, one from Ollivander's. Unicorn tail and ash, he said.

It suited Cedric, I thought to myself as Mr. Ollivander checked over the wand and Harry tried to polish his wand unnoticed. Cedric himself reminded me of an ash tree: tall and stately, handsome and strong, with his ash grey eyes and dark hair. Unicorns were usually thought to be gentle creatures, sincere, peaceful; Cedric was just that, and moreover, he was fair. Since I wasn't actually reporting on this, just talking to Rita Skeeter, I put my notebook away and fished out my sketchbook, then started sketching without really thinking, keeping one eye on the Weighing of the Wands.

Cedric was done now; Mr. Ollivander was checking over Krum's hornbeam and dragon heartstring wand. Amazing, I mused, how people seem to fit their wands. Hornbeam was a remarkably strong wood overall, but like everything else it had its weak point. Dragons were mighty, fearless, dangerous, and foreboding. Mr. Ollivander used the Avis spell to conjure up a bunch of small, twittering birds. Then it was Harry's turn.

Mr. Ollivander's eyes gleamed as he looked at it. He remembered it well, from what I gathered, and spent quite a long time examining it.

I couldn't help but notice that Harry looked distinctly uncomfortable, but I let it pass. Mr. Ollivander finally handed it back to him and said it was fine. Dumbledore dismissed us, but then Bagman, the photographer, and Rita made the champions stay put for photographs.

At first I stayed where I was, focusing on my sketch, but a shadow fell over my tablet. Instinctively, I closed the cover of the sketchbook before looking up. Rita Skeeter was looking down at me with a smile.

"Come on, Simóne," she told me, seizing my upper arm and pulling me to my feet.

"But I'm not a champion or a judge," I protested.

"I'm sure the public would like to know about you too," Rita assured me, dragging me into the camera range.

The photographs took a long time. First we had to keep Madame Maxime from shadowing all of us, not to mention in the frame; finally, she just sat down while we stood around her. Rita wanted Harry in the spotlight; the photographer wanted Fleur in the spotlight, but it was a losing battle.

The resulting picture had Madame Maxime seated in the back row; Dumbledore stood to her immediate left, exactly her height; Karkaroff, curling his goatee, stood to her immediate right. Bagman stood next to Karkaroff and Crouch stood next to Dumbledore. The middle row was Krum, Fleur, me, and Cedric, in that order; Harry, as the shortest, stood alone in the front row. We took three pictures. In the first one, we stood straight and solemn. In the second picture, Fleur held her flowers, Krum hunched his shoulders, Cedric and I each put a hand on Harry's shoulders, and each head of school put a hand on their champion's. Madame Maxime had a hand on both mine and Fleur's; Dumbledore had both hands on Cedric's as he couldn't reach Harry. Cedric wound up putting both his hands on Harry's shoulder, one for Dumbledore. The third picture was a little lighter; Cedric, Fleur, and I all put our arms around one another's shoulders. Krum had slouched out of camera range and refused to be in the picture, so Cedric pulled Harry into our row and put his arm around the younger boy's shoulder. Then Rita insisted on individual shots of all the champions. Fleur preened, Krum sulked, Cedric stood tall and firm, and Harry looked miserable. They took one more picture of the four champions together; Cedric and Fleur both insisted I be in the picture as well, so the five of us put our arms around one another's shoulders and beamed (in Cedric's and my case), smiled patronisingly (Fleur), scowled (Krum) and tried to grin (Harry) at the camera. Then, at long last, she dismissed us.

We headed down to dinner and parted; Harry ate alone at the end of the Gryffindor table, Cedric joined the Hufflepuff table and began a conversation with a friend, Fleur and I joined Cho at the Ravenclaw table.

Cho gave us a sunny smile. "How was it?"

"Fine," I told her, serving myself. Finishing dinner, I went back to my spot by the lake and continued my sketch.

~~~

Ron came storming out to the lake the following day while I was, armed with a box full of coloured pencils, completing my sketch of the four champions next to the trees their wands came from. Actually, I was rather proud of the picture. Cedric, tall and handsome, stood next to a graceful ash tree; it had a branch draped over his shoulder like they were buddies. Fleur stood, proud and graceful, next to a sweeping rosewood tree. She held a bouquet of roses in her hand; the rosewood tree had a cluster of flowers in a similar fashion. Krum slouched next to a wind-bent hornbeam tree, tall and thick with the characteristic thorns; he held a broomstick while a branch hung straight down from the tree, held by a thread. Harry stood next to a holly tree, his messy hair complementing the spiky leaves. As Ron approached, I was shading Fleur's silvery hair.

"Hello, Dubh-neul," I greeted Ron. I speak limited Gaelic, and "dubh-neul" means "dark cloud" or "thundercloud". "Something the matter?"

Ron dropped to a seat and thrust a newspaper at me. "Read," he growled.

I unfolded the paper and was confronted by the picture of Harry from the previous day, blinking and looking miserable. The article--Rita's "little piece" on the Triwizard Tournament, was all about Harry. The sort of things contained in the article made me want to strangle the woman. At the very end of the article was a passing reference to Floor Dillacore and Victor Crumb. Cedric and I didn't even get a mention. None of the other pictures had made the article, which spread over four pages.

"Oh," I said quietly.

Ron shook his head furiously. "All the champions, my ass," he griped. "It's all about Harry!"

"I know, I know..." I looked one more time, trying to see the pictures. "The woman's an idiot. She used a Quick-Quotes Quill..."

An owl suddenly soared over to me and deposited a large envelope at my feet. Another owl appeared a second or two later, bearing a smaller envelope. I opened the smaller one first and grunted.

"What?" Ron asked, beginning to calm down.

"Hmm? Oh, it's from Marla...she wants me to send pictures with my next article. Now I've just got to find a photographer..." I set the letter down and picked up the bigger envelope. Across the front, someone had written Simmoan Marrten. Shaking my head at the misspelling, I slit it open and pulled out a sheaf of photographs.

Brightening, I pulled them out. "Hey, it's the pictures from the photo shoot!"

"The what?" Ron asked.

I looked over at him. "After the Wand Weighing , they took a bunch of photographs...want to see them? That picture of Harry was only one...and the photographer developed them Muggle-style, so they don't move."

Ron was intrigued, so I showed him the pictures. The group shots had turned out all right. In the first one we looked as though the picture had been taken in the nineteenth century, stiff and proper. In the second, it looked, in some odd way, like we were all comforting each other. Harry looked like he was about to fall over in the third picture, like Cedric's arm was the only thing keeping him from tumbling backwards into Dumbledore. The individual shots had gone well. Cedric looked every inch the champion; Fleur looked like a queen; Krum looked like the bell-ringer of Notre Dame; Harry looked like a lost and scared little kid, much different than the dismal moving picture in the article. In the final picture, the five of us with our arms around one another looked like a chorus line or a group of old friends. I noticed that Krum had edged slightly out from under Fleur's arm and did not have his arm around her shoulders. Harry and Cedric, on the other hand, looked like friends or even brothers.

Ron brushed this picture lightly. "Simóne, can I have this picture?"

I checked the envelope. "You can have the whole stack if you want. The photographer sent me double copies of everything."

"No, I...I just want this one." Ron brushed the picture again. "Harry looks like he's...like he's doing okay for himself."

"You mean that's why you want it or that's what you think upon seeing it?" I asked gently. "Ron, please believe me when I say that he's miserable. This picture--" I fingered his individual shot--"is a lot more accurate."

Ron swallowed. "I believe you, but...well, he hasn't said anything to me and I haven't said anything to him. All this stuff he said...how can I make up with him now?"

I didn't know how to respond. I couldn't honestly say he hadn't said any of it because I didn't know. Suddenly, what Ron was saying hit me.

"Ron," I began, "he really does miss you, I know he does. And you miss him..."

"I don't miss him," Ron retorted. He stood up. "I'll leave you to your sketching...I've got to go. I've got to finish my Charms homework...see you around, Simmie." He left.

I returned to my picture, but sketching no longer brought me the relief it had only a few moments before.