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"You and I, we're gonna worry about each other no matter what happens."
I scan the quiet common room and then glance at the clock again. 12:59. It feels like it's been a year, but really it's only been about a minute since y/n left the common room to go meet up with Draco. Now that she's gone, waiting alone for my own meeting to begin is far less entertaining, and much more nerve racking. I always seem to forget how eerie the common room feels when vacant.
Finally the clock strikes 1:00 and I glance around the room for what is probably the millionth time, as if I really think that just because the time Sirius set up for our meeting has come, he'll suddenly appear. If only it were that easy.
Still I haven't the foggiest what exactly he meant by 'we need to talk', nor do I know how he plans to make that happen. Though, I do suppose that if anyone were to find a way to sneak into the castle, it'd be him. After all, he's done it before.
1:02.
Deciding I've had enough of just waiting around, I stand up and creep around the common room. "Sirius," I whisper quietly, not wanting to blow his cover by waking up the entire house.
As I walk around the room, looking for Sirius as if we're playing hide and seek or something, I stop at one of the armchairs when I see...it. The article that Rita Skeeter had written lies face up on the armrest. In big, bold lettering at the top of the page reads, 'Teenage Tragedy: Harry Potter and the Triwizard's Cup.' Underneath the title is an admittedly unfortunate photo of me smiling awkwardly. I grab the paper and open it up, curious to see what Rita Skeeter took from our strange interview.
"Harry Potter, age twelve," wrong already, not a very strong start. "Suspect entrant in the Triwizard Tournament. His eyes swimming with the ghosts of his past-" Rita Skeeter's voice reads the text as if she's in the room reading it herself, as newspaper articles sometimes do. Angrily walking towards the fireplace among deciding that not a single word in this article rings true, I begin crumpling up the paper and Rita's voice begins speeding up, trying to get as many words in before I dispose of her work. "-and choking back tears... Aah!"
The voice from the paper screams when I throw the article into the fire, where it belongs. I'm sure it'll make great kindling. Seething, I turn away from the fireplace, attempting to calm myself down. Even the thought of the stupid Triwizard Tournament stresses me out in which ways words cannot describe. I guess I'm somewhat thankful, then, when a hissing from the fireplace behind me makes all previous thoughts of the tournament scatter. I whip around to study the fire and approach it cautiously.
At first, I dismiss it as Rita Skeeter's voice reading the article, getting scorched in the flames, but as I grow nearer to the fireplace, I see the news clipping crumpled up on the floor.
How peculiar, I'm almost certain I had thrown that thing straight into the flames. I walk over curiously, my eyes widening involuntarily when I see a human face forming in the flames.
