Even if I die, even if I'm nailed in a coffin, I will use this decaying voice to shout—Ten points from Gryffindor!
It's no longer possible to trace who first said this.
However, Severus Snape, the Head of Slytherin House and Potions professor, had demonstrated this with his actions.
Even though he had unwillingly allowed Sherlock and Harry to leave the Potions classroom, he still ended up deducting a full hundred points from Gryffindor.
The young lions were all angry but dared not speak out.
Sherlock and Harry followed Colin out of the classroom. As soon as the door closed, Colin couldn't wait to say, "Sorry, Harry, Sherlock. It's my fault you got points deducted by Professor Snape."
Sherlock shook his head. "It has nothing to do with you."
"That's right. Even without you, he would still have deducted points from us," Harry also sighed, thinking to himself that if you had just said Mr. Bagman was summoning the champions without mentioning the photographs, it would have been fine.
However, he also knew this was just Colin's personality and that he meant no harm, so he didn't actually say this out loud.
Unexpectedly, as soon as he finished speaking, Colin immediately said, "So it really is amazing, isn't it, Harry?"
"Ah, what do you mean?" Harry couldn't react for a moment. They had just been apologizing—how did it suddenly become amazing?
"You and Sherlock both became champions!" Colin gestured excitedly. "Gryffindor produced two champions at once, and Harry, you're also the youngest champion!"
"Yes, very amazing. So why do we have to take photographs, Colin?" Harry's tone was quite heavy, but Colin didn't pick up on it and continued answering happily, "I think it's probably for the Daily Prophet!"
Harry sighed deeply again.
If he had a choice, he wouldn't want to do this at all.
Sherlock's gaze swept over Colin. "So, you volunteered to come find us, right?"
"That's right!" Colin patted his chest. "Mr. Bagman said at the time, 'Can someone go fetch Sherlock and Harry?' I happened to be nearby, so I said 'I'll go!' and then ran to the dungeon classroom to find you."
"I don't understand," Harry looked at Colin with a grave expression. "How did you know we'd be in Potions class at this time?"
"What are you talking about, Harry? I've long since memorized your schedule!"
Harry thought to himself that he shouldn't have bothered asking!
"Harry, Sherlock, good luck!"
Colin chattered nonstop to Harry the whole way, and Harry barely managed to keep up.
It wasn't until they reached a room on the first floor of the castle that Colin excitedly pumped his fist at them. "This is it!"
Sherlock, who knew Hogwarts' structure like the back of his hand, immediately recognized this as a small classroom that wasn't used much.
He took the lead, pushing the door open, with Harry following close behind.
Most of the desks in the room had been pushed to the back of the classroom, leaving a large open space in the middle.
Behind a velvet-covered desk, Ludo Bagman was talking with a witch dressed in magenta robes.
Sherlock recognized her immediately.
This woman had been present at Pettigrew's trial.
At the time, Sherlock had assessed her as a reporter, and one with very strong professional abilities.
Seeing her again now allowed Sherlock to confirm his initial judgment.
The other seven champions had already arrived and, as before, were divided into three distinct groups by school.
However, even within the Durmstrang trio, the Quidditch World Cup superstar Krum was the most distinctive.
He maintained his usual sullen expression, standing in a corner, keeping his distance from the other two students who were talking.
The three from Beauxbatons were conversing, with Fleur looking quite happy, occasionally tossing her head so her silver hair shimmered with dazzling brilliance.
Cedric looked somewhat bored. Seeing Sherlock and Harry enter, his eyes immediately lit up, and he waved at them.
Besides these people, there was also a portly man holding a large black camera that was emitting slight wisps of smoke.
Sherlock noticed he was secretly watching Fleur out of the corner of his eye.
At this moment, Bagman also saw Sherlock and Harry and quickly stood up, jumping forward.
"Ah, he's found them! Sherlock, Harry, come in! There's nothing to worry about—it's just the wand weighing ceremony. The other judges will be here soon—"
Hearing Bagman's words, Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
No wonder Colin had told them to bring all their things.
Harry asked somewhat anxiously, "Wand weighing?"
"Yes, we must check that your wands are fully functional and in good working order. Because in the upcoming competition tasks, your wand will be your most important tool,"
Bagman explained. "The expert is upstairs with Dumbledore—after we finish, we'll take some photographs. Oh, let me introduce you, this is Rita Skeeter. She's writing a small piece about the Tournament for the Daily Prophet."
Hearing Bagman say this witch was Rita Skeeter, Sherlock immediately understood.
However, was the Daily Prophet planning to stir things up by sending this reporter here?
After all, judging from her past articles, her writing was filled with strong emotions that seemed to delight in chaos.
The next moment, Sherlock's deduction was confirmed.
"Perhaps not so small, Ludo," Rita Skeeter said. She looked at Harry, then at Sherlock.
Her gaze moved rapidly between the two, ultimately settling on Harry.
"Could I have a few words with Harry before we start?" Though she was asking Bagman, her eyes remained firmly fixed on Harry.
More precisely, fixed on Harry's forehead. "The youngest champion, you know... to add some color to the piece."
"Certainly!" Bagman said loudly. "That is—if Harry has no objection?"
"Er—" Harry was still hesitating.
"Lovely." In the blink of an eye, Rita Skeeter's fingers, painted with bright red nail polish and looking like claws, firmly grasped Harry's arm.
Harry was surprised to discover this woman had remarkably strong grip.
His heart tensed, and he instinctively called out, "Sherlock!"
Then Rita Skeeter found she couldn't pull Harry away.
Because Sherlock's hand had grasped Harry's other arm.
At this moment, Harry was once again surprised to discover that Sherlock's strength was also extraordinarily great.
"My friend doesn't seem to have agreed to your request, Miss Skeeter," Sherlock said slowly, holding Harry firmly while staring at Rita Skeeter.
"Oh?" Rita Skeeter hadn't expected to fail and looked at Sherlock with some surprise.
"So then, Harry, would you be willing to chat with me for a bit?"
"No!" Harry directly refused her.
Her action just now had made Harry very disgusted.
He hadn't observed carefully enough before, but now that he had come to his senses and looked again, he found that Rita Skeeter's hair was styled in elaborate, stiff, and odd-looking curls that looked particularly awkward paired with her large-jawed face.
She wore jeweled spectacles, her thick fingers clutched a crocodile-skin handbag, and her nails were two inches long, painted bright red.
In short, the first impression was terrible.
Rita Skeeter first froze, then coaxed, "Just a simple chat, it's fine, right, Ludo?"
Mr. Bagman waved his hand generously. "Yes, Harry, Miss Skeeter is a well-known reporter in the wizarding world!"
Harry instinctively didn't want to go out with Rita Skeeter, but he also heard that Ludo Bagman seemed to want him to cooperate with her.
He frowned, feeling torn.
"In that case, if you have something to say, say it here," Sherlock said calmly. "If not, forget it."
Rita Skeeter looked at Sherlock again, her gaze full of surprise.
Sherlock had stopped her twice in a row, making her realize that if she didn't deal with this young boy today, she wouldn't be able to successfully take Harry away.
Rita Skeeter's gaze scraped across Sherlock's face like a blade, her scarlet mouth corners pulling into a stiff arc.
"No problem, of course no problem." Her voice suddenly rose, carrying exaggerated sweetness that drew sideways glances from everyone else in the room. "We have plenty of time... during the competition, don't we?"
She deliberately emphasized the last few words, her gaze sweeping over the scar on Harry's forehead, her nails almost digging into the crocodile-skin handbag.
She suddenly released Harry's arm, the movement so abrupt that Harry staggered, fortunately steadied by Sherlock.
Rita had already turned swiftly toward the portly photographer, her voice shrill: "You! Bozo! Don't just stand there gawking at that charming young lady! Quick! Focus on Potter! Multiple angles! Capture his... mm... nervousness and innocence! Yes, exactly that state! The mysterious boy forced to face his destiny!"
She waved her arms directing him, her thickly powdered cheeks slightly flushed with excitement.
The photographer hastily adjusted his angle, the large black camera emitting another small puff of smoke.
"I'm not being forced!" Harry instinctively tried to dodge the camera, but unfortunately was still a step too slow.
He couldn't help glaring at both the photographer and Rita Skeeter.
"So that means you volunteered!"
"Yes."
"Do you remember your parents?"
"No."
"If they knew you were going to compete in the Triwizard Tournament, what do you think they would feel? Pride? Worry? Or anger?"
"I don't know!" Harry felt annoyed.
How could he possibly know how his parents would have felt when they were alive?
At this point, Ludo Bagman also seemed to finally sense the uncomfortable atmosphere and cleared his throat, trying to smooth things over: "Ah, yes, Rita, we can discuss work later. We need to handle the official business first..."
Just then, the classroom door was pushed open again.
Professor Dumbledore walked in, his long silver hair and beard gleaming in the flickering candlelight.
"Dumbledore!" Rita Skeeter said loudly, looking overjoyed.
"How are you?" She stood up and extended a man-sized hand toward Dumbledore. "I wonder if you saw my article about the International Confederation of Wizards conference this summer?"
"Enchantingly nasty," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling. "I particularly enjoyed the part where you described me as an obsolete old dingbat."
The sarcasm couldn't have been more obvious.
However, Rita Skeeter showed no sign of shame at all.
"I was only trying to say that some of your ideas are a little old-fashioned, Dumbledore, and many wizards out there—"
"I would be delighted to hear your frank reasoning, Rita," Dumbledore interrupted her, then bowed politely. "But I'm afraid we must postpone this discussion for another time. The wand weighing ceremony is about to begin."
His bright blue eyes rested briefly on Sherlock and Harry, pausing especially on Harry's somewhat pale face before moving away.
Behind him were the other four judges.
Madame Maxime's tall figure nearly touched the ceiling.
Headmaster Karkaroff cast a cold, scrutinizing gaze around the room.
Mad-Eye Moody looked the same as always. He glanced coldly at Rita Skeeter once, then withdrew his gaze.
The five took their seats one by one in the chairs behind the velvet-covered desk.
"Please forgive our delay. All the champions are already here—that's good. Allow me to introduce Mr. Ollivander," Dumbledore said to the nine people in the room after sitting down at the judges' table. "He will be examining your wands to ensure they're in good condition before the competition."
The room instantly fell silent. Even Fleur stopped tossing her silver hair.
The brooding figure in the corner from Durmstrang, Viktor Krum subtly straightened his spine.
The tense string in the air seemed to relax slightly with the headmaster's arrival, yet was covered with new pressure from the upcoming examination.
Harry looked around and only then noticed an old wizard with large, pale eyes standing quietly by the window.
This surprised him greatly. "When did he get here?"
"Together with the judges," Sherlock smiled slightly. "Your observation skills need improvement, my friend."
Harry felt a bit embarrassed. He had indeed been too uncomfortable from Rita Skeeter's harassment to notice these things.
At this moment, Mr. Ollivander also walked to the open space in the center of the room: "Mademoiselle Delacour, shall we have Beauxbatons go first?"
Fleur Delacour nodded and walked toward Mr. Ollivander, handing him her wand.
Ollivander spun the wand between his long fingers like a baton, and it emitted many pink and golden sparks.
Then he brought the wand close to his eyes and examined it carefully.
"Yes, yes... very nice," he said softly. "Nine and a half inches, quite flexible, rosewood, and the core contains—oh my!"
He suddenly looked up at Fleur, his gaze revealing a trace of disbelief.
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