The beetle didn't move for a long moment after Fleur sealed the jar.
Harry stared at it, his heart still racing from the adrenaline of the capture, from the kiss with Hermione that had been both performance and real. The beetle lay on its back at the bottom of the glass, legs twitching feebly, wings making tiny clicking sounds against the smooth surface.
"Is she..." Hermione started, leaning closer. "Is she unconscious?"
"Non," Fleur said, satisfaction dripping from every syllable. "Just... disoriented. My allure, when concentrated like zat, it affects ze mind as well as ze body. She will wake soon."
Tonks had her wand out, still in full Auror mode despite her flushed face and disheveled hair. "We should bind her. Magical restraints. If she manages to transform back—"
"She cannot," Fleur interrupted. "Not yet. Ze jar is charmed. But even if it was not, I 'ave... damaged 'er ability. It will take time to recover."
Harry watched the beetle closely. There was something deeply unsettling about knowing this insect was Rita Skeeter—the woman who'd destroyed reputations with her poisoned quill, who'd made Hermione cry, who'd called her plain. Reduced to something he could crush under his boot.
The beetle twitched again. Then its legs started moving more purposefully, scrabbling against the glass. It flipped itself over with visible effort, and Harry could have sworn he saw the moment awareness returned—the way its movements went from instinctive to deliberate, frantic.
"She's waking up," Harry said quietly.
The beetle spun in a tight circle, its antennae whipping back and forth. Then it rushed at the glass wall, hitting it hard enough that Harry heard a tiny tap. It bounced back, tried again. And again. Each impact more desperate than the last.
Fleur knelt down gracefully, bringing the jar to eye level. Her smile was cold enough to freeze fire. "Bonjour, Mademoiselle Skeeter. I 'ope you slept well."
The beetle froze. Then it scuttled to the far side of the jar, as if it could somehow escape Fleur's gaze.
The beetle tried the glass again, more frantically now. Its wings buzzed uselessly—Harry could see they were damaged somehow, bent at wrong angles. It couldn't fly even if it wanted to.
"How does it feel, Mademoiselle Skeeter?" Fleur asked, her voice soft and dangerous. "To be ze one who is watched? Trapped? Unable to escape?"
The beetle's movements became more erratic. It was scrabbling at the glass now, legs working overtime, trying to find purchase on the smooth surface.
"You're scared," Fleur observed clinically. "Good. You should be."
"Let me explain your situation," Fleur continued. "You 'ave been spying on underage students. Without consent. Without permission. Zis alone is a crime in both British and French magical law."
The beetle had stopped moving, as if listening. Or maybe just frozen in terror.
"But it gets worse for you," Fleur smiled. "You see, one of ze students you spied on? She is ze daughter of ze Minister of Magic of France. My fazzer."
Harry saw the beetle twitch violently at that.
"Oui, you understand now. Zis is not just a British matter. Zis is international. Ze invasion of privacy of a government official's child during an international competition?" Fleur's laugh was cold. "Zat is very, very serious."
Hermione leaned forward. "And there's another problem. You're not a registered Animagus, are you?"
The beetle went absolutely still.
"I thought not," Hermione continued. "You see, if you were registered, that information would be public record. And someone like you—a journalist with your... prominence—would have had that fact mentioned somewhere. In an interview, perhaps. Or a biographical article. But I've never seen it referenced. Not once."
Harry watched the beetle and felt a grim sort of satisfaction. Hermione had figured it out so quickly. Of course Skeeter wasn't registered. That would have ruined her ability to spy.
"Being an unregistered Animagus," Hermione said, her voice hardening, "is a serious crime. The minimum sentence is six months in Azkaban. But given the circumstances—using your illegal ability to commit further crimes, to spy on children, to invade privacy—I imagine the sentence would be substantially longer."
"Much longer," Tonks agreed. She'd been quiet until now, letting Fleur and Hermione take the lead, but her Auror training was evident in her stance, her tone. "I've arrested unregistered Animagi before. The Wizengamot doesn't look kindly on it. Especially when it's been used for illegal activity." She paused. "And especially when it involves children."
The beetle was trembling now. Harry could see it shaking, its tiny body vibrating against the glass.
"So let us review," Fleur said, counting on her fingers as if reciting a shopping list. "Spying on minors. International law violations. Invasion of privacy of both a Triwizard Champion and ze daughter of a Minister of Magic. Unregistered Animagus." She smiled. "Did I miss anything?"
"Libel," Harry found himself saying. His voice came out colder than he'd expected. "Those articles you wrote. The lies you printed. That's libel."
"Ah, oui," Fleur nodded. "Libel against a minor, against multiple minors in fact. Zat adds to your troubles, non?"
The beetle was trying to hide now, pressing itself against the curve of the jar as if it could somehow become invisible.
Fleur picked up the jar, turning it slowly in her hands. The beetle tumbled across the bottom, unable to keep its footing on the smooth glass.
"If we report you," Fleur said conversationally, "and we 'ave every right to do so, you will be judged in two courts. Ze British Wizengamot and ze French Magical Court. My fazzer will personally ensure your case is prosecuted to ze fullest extent."
"Ze British court will sentence you for ze unregistered Animagus crime and ze spying," Fleur continued. "Ze French court will add ze international law violations. Combined?" She pretended to consider. "I would estimate... fourty years? Per'aps more."
The beetle went very, very still.
"Your career will be destroyed," Hermione added, her voice matter-of-fact. "The Daily Prophet will fire you immediately. No publication will touch you. And even when you're released from Azkaban—if you survive that long—you'll be permanently banned from journalism. From any form of public writing."
Harry knew from Sirius that Azkaban was no fun, and for someone like Rita, if she was able to survive for forty years, that would be a miracle, but he doubted she would walk out of that prison with her sanity intact.
The beetle suddenly started moving again, more frantically than before. Its body seemed to shift slightly, growing just a fraction larger—
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Hermione said sharply.
The beetle froze mid-transformation.
"The jar is enchanted," Hermione explained, her tone taking on that lecturing quality that Harry usually found endearing. Right now, it sounded lethal. "If you try to transform back to human size while inside it..." She paused. "Well. Imagine trying to force a full human body into a space no bigger than our hand."
Harry's stomach turned at the image.
The beetle had begun to shake again, worse than before.
"So I suggest," Hermione said coldly, "that you remain exactly as you are."
Tonks shifted her weight, and Harry saw her hand tighten on her wand. "As an Auror," she said slowly, "I should arrest you right now. This is—this would make my career. Catching Rita Skeeter as an unregistered Animagus, with multiple witnesses and clear evidence?" She laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound. "I'd probably make Senior Auror before I'm twenty-five."
The beetle pressed itself against the glass, as if trying to get away from Tonks's voice.
"But," Tonks continued, glancing at Fleur and Hermione, "I'm curious to see what these two have in mind. Because I have a feeling it's going to be... creative."
Fleur set the jar down on the dusty floor and crouched beside it. She tilted her head, studying the beetle with the same focus she'd used to hunt it.
"You are probably wondering," Fleur said softly, "what we want in return, non?"
The silence stretched. Harry could hear his own heartbeat, could hear Hermione's breathing beside him.
"Right now?" Fleur said finally. "Nothing."
The beetle's confusion was almost palpable.
"You will remain in zis jar," Fleur continued. "For a few weeks. Long enough to think about what you 'ave done. Long enough to understand ze full weight of your situation."
"We're not cruel," Hermione added, though Harry thought that was debatable given the circumstances. "We'll make sure you have food. We'll check on you daily. But you'll stay in there. Alone. In the dark."
Harry watched the beetle and tried to imagine it—weeks of being trapped in a glass prison, unable to speak, unable to transform, unable to do anything but think about what was coming next.
"And zen," Fleur said, her voice dropping even lower, "when we let you out... you will work for us."
The beetle twitched.
"You will become," Fleur smiled, "our personal journalist. Our voice in ze Prophet. And you will do it willingly, enthusiastically, or..."
"Or you go to Azkaban," Tonks finished. "Forty years. Maybe more. Your choice."
Hermione pulled out her magically expanded bag—the one Sirius had given her for her birthday, enchanted to hold far more than it should. She opened it and held it out to Fleur.
"Put her in," Hermione said.
Fleur picked up the jar carefully and lowered it into the bag. The beetle was making sounds now—high-pitched, desperate clicking noises that probably would have been screams if she'd had a human voice.
But the bag's enchantments muffled everything. Once the jar was inside and Hermione sealed the clasp, the sounds cut off completely.
"She can't hear us now," Hermione said, though Harry wasn't sure if she was talking to them or to herself. "And we can't hear her. She's just... alone."
For a moment, they all stood there in the dusty parlor of the Shrieking Shack, looking at the innocent-looking beaded bag that now contained Rita Skeeter's entire future.
"So," Tonks said finally, breaking the silence. "Anyone else feeling like we just crossed a line we can't uncross?"
"She crossed it first," Hermione said, but her voice wavered slightly.
"And we're not going to 'urt 'er," Fleur added. "We are just... keeping 'er. Until she understands."
Harry thought about the beetle in the jar in the bag. Trapped. Alone. Terrified. He thought about how easy it would be to just leave her there forever, to forget about her until it was too late.
But we won't, he told himself. We're not like her. We're doing this for a reason.
He hoped that was true.
"Come on," Harry said, heading for the door. "Let's get back to the castle before someone notices we're gone."
They filed out of the Shrieking Shack in silence, leaving the dusty room behind. The jar in Hermione's bag didn't make a sound.
But Harry couldn't stop thinking about those tiny, desperate clicking noises. The sound of someone who'd finally realized they'd gone too far.
And found themselves trapped.
Hogwarts
By the time they made it back to Hogwarts, the sun was setting, painting the castle walls in shades of orange and gold. Harry's legs ached from the walk, and his mind was still spinning from everything that had happened—the trap, the capture, the ultimatum.
They separated at the entrance hall. Tonks headed toward the staff wing to check in with the other Aurors on duty, while Fleur returned to the Beauxbatons carriage to avoid Madame Maxime's suspicion. Harry and Hermione walked to the Main Hall in silence, both lost in their own thoughts.
"Did we do the right thing?" Hermione asked quietly as they climbed the stairs.
Harry didn't have an answer. He settled for, "We did what we had to do."
It wasn't quite the same thing, and they both knew it.
Dinner was already underway when they arrived at the Great Hall. The room was alive with noise—hundreds of students talking, laughing, the usual chaos of a Saturday evening meal. The enchanted ceiling showed the same sunset Harry had seen outside, streaks of pink and gold fading into deep purple.
Harry caught fragments of conversation as they walked toward the Gryffindor table:
"—bought three boxes of Chocolate Frogs—"
"—swear Madam Rosmerta winked at me—"
"—saw them going toward the Shrieking Shack, can you believe—"
That last one made Harry's shoulders tense, but he kept walking. Let them talk. Let them speculate. None of them knew the truth.
"Harry! Hermione!"
Ron waved them over from their usual spot. He had Lavender practically in his lap, her arms around his neck, both of them looking happy.
They'd barely sat down when Fleur appeared at Harry's side, graceful as always despite the long day. The reaction was immediate—conversations stuttered, heads turned, several boys nearly dropped their forks. Fleur's passive allure washed over the table like warm honey.
"Bonsoir," Fleur said, sliding onto the bench beside Harry. She kissed his cheek casually, and Harry heard someone gasp across the Hall.
"Subtle as always," Hermione murmured, but she was smiling.
"I do not believe in subtle," Fleur replied, reaching for a roll. "Subtle is boring."
Ron had the good sense to focus entirely on Lavender, who was feeding him grapes and giggling at his attempts to catch them in his mouth. Fred and George were further down the table, already sketching what looked like Zonko's products on spare parchment. Ginny was deep in conversation with Neville about Herbology.
It felt almost normal. Almost like they were just students having dinner after a day in Hogsmeade.
Except Harry couldn't stop thinking about the jar in Hermione's bag, currently hidden in her dormitory. The beetle inside it. The woman who'd written those articles, now trapped and terrified.
She deserves it, he told himself again.
"You're brooding," Fleur observed, adding vegetables to her plate. "What is ze English saying? You 'ave ze face like someone kicked your puppy?"
"I don't have a puppy," Harry said.
"You know what I mean."
Harry shrugged. "Just thinking."
"About 'er?" Fleur's voice dropped low enough that only he and Hermione could hear.
"Yeah."
"Do not," Fleur said firmly. "We did what was necessary. She invaded our privacy. She lied about us. She 'ad to be stopped."
"I know."
"But knowing and feeling are different, non?" Fleur's hand found his under the table, squeezing gently. "You 'ave a good 'eart, 'Arry. It is one of ze things I love about you. But sometimes, ze good 'eart makes ze hard decisions painful."
Before Harry could respond, the noise in the Great Hall began to fade. Students were nudging each other, pointing toward the staff table. Harry followed their gaze and saw Dumbledore standing.
"Your attention, please," Dumbledore said, his voice echoing through the hall. The remaining conversations died immediately.
"Professor Moody has a special announcement to make this evening," Dumbledore continued, gesturing to the scarred Auror at the end of the staff table. "I believe it will be of particular interest to many of you."
Mad-Eye Moody stood, his wooden leg clunking against the floor as he moved to stand beside Dumbledore. His magical eye whirred in its socket, spinning around the room.
"Right," Moody growled, his voice rough as gravel. "Listen up, because I'm only saying this once."
Harry noticed several first-years flinch. Moody had that effect on people.
"I've been teaching you lot Defense Against the Dark Arts for nearly three months now," Moody continued, his magical eye pausing briefly on Harry before spinning away. "And you know what I've observed? Most of you couldn't duel your way out of a wet parchment bag."
A nervous titter ran through the Hall. Moody's face didn't change.
"You think I'm joking," Moody said. "I'm not. Oh, you know your spells well enough—Professor Flitwick makes sure of that. And you can brew a decent potion under Professor Snape's glare. But knowing spells and being able to use them when someone's trying to kill you? Those are two very different things."
The Hall had gone quiet again.
"There's a war coming," Moody said bluntly. "Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But it's coming, remember what happened in the Quidditch World Cup, and when this war comes. They won't give you time to remember the proper wand movement for a Shield Charm."
Moody's magical eye fixed on Cedric Diggory, then swung to Viktor Krum, then to Fleur Delacour, then landed on Harry.
"Knowing how to fight isn't about glory," Moody continued. "It isn't about being the toughest or the strongest. It's about survival. Whether you're facing a fellow student in a friendly duel or a dark wizard who wants you dead—the skills are the same. The instincts are the same." He paused, letting that sink in. "And 'Constant Vigilance' isn't just something I say to annoy you. It's how you stay alive."
"So," Moody said, and his scarred face split into something that might have been a grin. "Dumbledore and I have decided to do something about your appalling lack of practical combat experience."
He raised his wand, and with a complex flick, conjured a glowing golden notice in the air. The letters were three feet tall, impossible to miss:
HOGWARTS DUELLING TOURNAMENT OPEN TO FOURTH THROUGH SEVENTH YEARS BEGINS IN THREE WEEKS
The Great Hall exploded into noise.
"A tournament?" Ron said, his eyes lighting up. "Bloody brilliant!"
"Another tournament?" Hermione asked, looking concerned. "Isn't one enough?"
"Zis is different," Fleur said, her eyes fixed on the announcement. "Zis is for skill. For practice."
Moody banged his staff on the floor, and the noise died down. "Let me explain the rules before you lot get too excited," he growled.
He waved his wand again, and more text appeared beneath the announcement:
Open to students fourth year and aboveBeauxbatons and Durmstrang students welcomeSingle elimination formatStandard dueling rules applyMatches supervised by facultyWinner receives 100 Galleons and school recognition
"This isn't like the Triwizard Tournament," Moody said. "Nobody's trying to kill you—at least not officially." His magical eye swiveled to focus on Malfoy, who paled. "This is about learning. About testing yourselves. About understanding what you're capable of when the spells start flying."
A dueling tournament. A chance to really test himself, to use the skills Sirius had taught him over the summer, to see how he measured up against real competition. A chance to use Holy Magic.
"Training will begin next week," Moody continued. "I'll be personally instructing Hogwarts students, but I'm opening my sessions to Beauxbatons and Durmstrang as well. Because when the Dark Wizard come it won't matter what school you went to. All that'll matter is whether you can fight."
He paused, his magical eye spinning in a full circle around the room.
"This is voluntary," Moody said. "Nobody has to enter. But I'm telling you right now—the skills you learn here could save your life someday. So I suggest you take it seriously."
Dumbledore stood again, his blue eyes twinkling behind his spectacles. "Thank you, Alastor. I believe sign-up sheets will be posted in each common room by tomorrow morning. For our guests from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, sheets will be available at your accommodations as well."
The moment Dumbledore finished speaking, the Hall erupted again. The noise was deafening—everyone talking at once, arguing about who would enter, who would win, what spells would be allowed.
"I'm doing it," Ron said immediately. "Definitely doing it."
"You'll get destroyed," Ginny pointed out. "You can barely remember the Shield Charm."
"Oi! I remember it fine. Most of the time."
"Most of the time isn't good enough in a duel," Hermione said.
Harry looked around the Hall. Fred and George were already arguing strategy, their animated hand gestures suggesting they were planning something devious. At the Slytherin table, Malfoy was holding court, probably bragging about how he'd win easily. Several seventh-years were flexing their wands, looking eager.
Viktor Krum hadn't moved, but Harry saw his jaw tighten. The Bulgarian was a competitor to his core—there was no way he'd sit this out.
And Cedric... Cedric was nodding slowly, his friends clapping him on the back. He looked determined, like this was a chance to prove something to himself.
"Are you entering?" Hermione asked, turning to Harry.
Harry thought about the First Task. About the nightmares and the carved words and the feeling of being helpless against his own mind. He thought about Voldemort out there somewhere, planning, waiting.
"Yeah," Harry said. "I'm entering."
Fleur leaned closer. "Just because of our relationship, zat does not mean I will show mercy."
Harry met her eyes and grinned. "I would be very disappointed if you did."
"Good," Fleur purred. She turned to address both him and Hermione. "Zen we train together sometimes, oui? But also separately. I do not want you to know all my tricks."
"That's probably wise," Hermione admitted. "Harry's quite good at reading people in a fight."
"I'm sitting right here," Harry protested.
"And we're complimenting you," Hermione said, patting his hand. "Just accept it."
Around them, the conversation had shifted to speculation about matchups. Dean was already calculating odds, taking bets on who'd make it to the finals. Seamus was convinced he could take anyone in their year except Harry.
"What about you?" Harry asked Hermione. "Are you entering?"
Hermione bit her lip, looking uncertain. "I don't know. I'm good at spells, but combat is different. It's about reflexes and instinct, not just knowledge."
Harry had to admit to himself that when it came to thinking in the moment, Hermione was not the best. She was good at planning if she was given time, but not if she was pressured and had no time to think.
The staff table was engaged in quiet conversation. McGonagall looked concerned, but also resigned. Flitwick seemed excited—he'd been a dueling champion in his youth. Snape wore his usual sneer, probably already imagining all the ways his Slytherins would dominate.
But it was Moody that Harry kept coming back to. The scarred Auror had returned to his seat, but his magical eye never stopped moving. It swept the Hall constantly, cataloging, analyzing, watching.
For just a moment, that spinning eye locked onto Harry.
And Harry felt a chill.
There was something in that gaze. Like Moody was measuring him. Evaluating him. Planning something.
Then the eye spun away, and the moment passed.
"You alright?" Hermione asked, noticing his expression.
"Fine," Harry said, shaking off the feeling. "Just... thinking about the tournament."
.
.
Barty watched from his seat, knowing the first step was completed. One way or another. He would get his blood.