In the rest area, Madam Pomfrey was bustling about, wielding an assortment of peculiar instruments to examine the four champions and their respective hostages.
Thanks to the protective spells cast by the headmasters, the four hostages were generally in good health. However, when Madam Pomfrey aimed a compass-like device at Cedric Diggory, her face darkened with concern as she studied the array of health issues displayed on the instrument. "Caisson disease… multiple soft tissue injuries… slowed heart rate… Dear, you need to drink this potion."
She handed Cedric a bottle of murky brown potion. The moment he uncorked it, a stench so vile it defied description assaulted his senses, nearly knocking him out cold.
"What are you standing there for? Drink it!" Madam Pomfrey snapped, noticing Cedric holding the potion at arm's length, retching toward the water's edge. "Do you think that's maple syrup in there? This is a specialized potion for treating caisson disease and its complications. Unless you want to end up crippled at your age, you'd better get it down your throat now!"
Cedric, with the grim determination of a man facing execution, downed the potion and promptly collapsed to the ground, still gagging. Despite his own discomfort, Viktor Krum couldn't suppress a chuckle at the sight.
After tending to Cedric, Madam Pomfrey turned her attention to Fleur Delacour. As her brow furrowed with increasing concern, Fleur, too, was presented with a bottle of the same brown potion.
Another gagging patient joined the ranks.
Next, Madam Pomfrey moved on to Viktor Krum, who was already bracing himself for the worst. "Madam, I think I know my condition. I can handle it," Krum said, proactively grabbing a bottle of the brown potion.
Having finished examining Krum, Madam Pomfrey fixed the lean, dark-haired boy with a peculiar look. Then, to his visible horror, she pressed a second bottle—this one filled with a purple potion—into his arms.
"Your condition is far worse than the other two," she said. "One dose of the caisson disease potion won't be enough. After you finish that, you must drink this potent healing draught as well."
At the sight of Krum's utterly dumbfounded expression, everyone in the rest area—save for Madam Pomfrey and Krum himself—burst into laughter.
Finally, it was Hermione's turn. After checking her twice, Madam Pomfrey set down her device with a relieved smile and patted Hermione's shoulder approvingly. "Not bad for a Hogwarts champion, Miss Granger. You're in excellent health."
Meanwhile, the judging panel had finalized the scores for the second task. Ludo Bagman faced the stands and began announcing the results.
"First, Fleur Delacour demonstrated exceptional use of the Bubble-Head Charm. However, she was attacked by Grindylows before reaching her target and was forced to withdraw, failing to rescue her hostage. Based on her overall performance, the judges award Fleur Delacour 25 points."
Sparse applause trickled from the Beauxbatons section. Though Ron and a few other boys clapped enthusiastically, the general sentiment was one of dissatisfaction—especially when compared to the standout performance of Hermione Granger.
"Next, Viktor Krum employed Transfiguration, though incomplete, it was still effective. As he was the third to return with his hostage and exceeded the time limit by twenty minutes, the judges award Viktor Krum 35 points."
The stands erupted in much louder applause this time, with Quidditch fans like Ron practically leaping as they clapped.
"Then, we have Cedric Diggory, the second to return with his hostage. Like Fleur, he used the Bubble-Head Charm but, unfortunately, exceeded the one-hour time limit by one minute. The judges award Cedric Diggory 40 points."
The Hufflepuff section exploded with thunderous cheers and applause, while Gryffindors and Slytherins offered polite claps before quickly lowering their hands.
"Finally, we have Miss Hermione Granger, who successfully rescued her hostage in a mere ten minutes. Given her outstanding performance and masterful use of Transfiguration, the judges, by majority decision, award Hermione Granger a perfect score of 50 points."
Now it was Gryffindor's turn to cheer wildly, students leaping to their feet in celebration.
As the applause died down, Ludo Bagman continued, "The third and final task will take place on the evening of June 24. The champions will be informed of the task's details one month in advance. With that, the second task is officially concluded. Thank you all for supporting our champions!"
The students and professors in the stands gradually dispersed. Under Madam Pomfrey's watchful eye, the four champions and their hostages obediently changed into dry clothes. Rita Skeeter, armed with her exclusive scoop, returned to her spacious, comfortable home, eager to craft her next sensational article that would rock the wizarding world. Everything seemed calm.
As night fell, Rita Skeeter lit the candles in her home. After an hour of contemplation, she resolved to write her scathing piece about that ignorant little girl in one go.
In the dim, flickering candlelight, the 43-year-old Rita Skeeter sat at her desk, her favorite quill scratching across parchment at varying speeds. "Hermione Granger, the first ever to compete in the Triwizard Tournament under irregular circumstances, is shrouded in mysteries. Chief among them is undoubtedly the story between Miss Granger and the famed Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter."
Warming to her subject, Rita dipped her quill into the ink bottle and continued, "As the hero who saved the wizarding world and defeated You-Know-Who, the Boy Who Lived is, without a doubt, grappling with the same confusion as any other teenage boy. Rita Skeeter reports…"
Suddenly, a chorus of barking dogs erupted outside her open window. Rita glanced irritably at the neighboring house, home to two black-and-white dogs she utterly despised. Unfortunately, neither the Ministry of Magic nor the Muggle authorities had any laws against dogs. With a flick of her wand, she shut the window, muffling the barking, and returned to her parchment. "After losing both parents, fourteen-year-old Harry Potter thought he had finally found solace at Hogwarts in the companionship of his ever-present girlfriend, the Muggle-born Hermione Granger. But little does the poor boy know that his already scarred life is about to face yet another emotional wound…"
At some point, the barking outside ceased. Rita nodded in satisfaction and prepared to continue, but as her quill touched the parchment, the candle flames began to leap violently, casting erratic shadows that danced wildly around the room.
"Odd," Rita muttered, glancing at the flames. "There's no draft." She pointed her wand at the melted wax, which writhed and crawled up the candles, forming delicate lampshades. Though the light dimmed considerably, the flickering stabilized.
Rita prepared to resume writing, but an inexplicable unease settled over her. The sensation was intangible, elusive, yet it clung to her like a veil of dark mist, seeping into every pore of her body.
She tried to focus on her article, but the air around her grew thick and oppressive, as though an invisible fog had enveloped her. The candle flames, briefly calm, began to flicker again, their erratic dance mirroring the pounding of her heart.
A sudden gust of cold wind swept through the room, and the window—previously shut tight—flew open with a bang, darkness pouring in like spilled ink.
Rita stood to close it but froze, her heart sinking as she peered into the impenetrable blackness outside. The once-warm room now felt cold, dark, and unfamiliar.
Her gaze fell on her shadow cast on the wall by the candlelight. The distorted, writhing silhouette barely resembled a human form. A chill shot from her feet to her scalp, and her body began to tremble uncontrollably—not just from the cold.
Her shadow twisted on the wall, as if it had a life of its own, stretching and contracting with the flickering flames, mimicking her movements yet moving out of sync. She tried to convince herself it was merely a trick of the light, but fear spread through her like wildfire.
She couldn't tear her eyes from the shadow as it morphed into grotesque shapes, as though something unseen was manipulating it from behind. Her heart raced, her breathing grew ragged, and she tried to scream, but her voice was trapped in her throat.
A faint, ominous whispering filled the air, growing louder until it felt like countless needles piercing her eardrums. Clutching her head, she groaned in pain. The unintelligible voices seemed to call to her, laced with unmistakable malice.
Her vision blurred, and hallucinations flooded her senses—images of a dark abyss, twisted faces, writhing tentacles, and worms with mouths ringed by sharp teeth. Desperately, she looked to the window, only to see a massive, looming figure in the sky. Where a face should have been, there was a vast, starry abyss, glowing faintly in the darkness.
Stumbling to her feet, Rita's body and mind screamed to flee the terrifying room. But before her hand could reach the door, a tentacle erupted from the floor, seizing her ankle. Tripping over the hem of her robe, she crashed onto the cold floor.
Icy tendrils of air drifted in from the window, seeping into her body and chilling her blood. She looked up at the ceiling, where black mist poured from the floorboards, coalescing into a swirling vortex of dark clouds that seemed to tug at her very soul.
Rita's scream finally broke free, echoing through the empty room. Her body convulsed, her consciousness fading. In her final moment of clarity, an image of a strange, sinister necklace flashed in her mind. She realized she had meddled with something she should never have touched.
And now, she would pay the price.
Enveloped by writhing tentacles and pierced by the deafening whispers, her screams faded. At last, she lay still.
In that spacious, comfortable home, Rita Skeeter lay lifeless on the floor, her body cold, her protruding eyes wide with terror.
The next day, in an unassuming corner of The Daily Prophet, a rookie reporter published an obituary.
Famed Journalist Rita Skeeter Found Dead, Wizarding World in Shock
By Staff Reporter
Renowned journalist Rita Skeeter, whose incisive reporting and fearless style captivated the wizarding world, was found dead in her London home last night. Her sudden passing has left the magical community reeling with shock and grief.
Preliminary investigations have yet to determine the cause of death, but Aurors report no signs of foul play. According to neighbors, no unusual noises were heard the previous evening, casting a veil of mystery over Skeeter's demise.
As a leading reporter for The Daily Prophet, Rita Skeeter's career was marked by both controversy and acclaim. Her distinctive articles, known for their exclusive scoops and deep dives into the wizarding elite, were beloved by readers.
Skeeter's funeral is scheduled for this Sunday in London, where many from the wizarding world are expected to attend to pay their final respects.
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