Rita Skeeter tore up yet another sheet of parchment.

Clearly, what she wanted to write was a scandalous tale of two underage wizards violating the rules to enter the Goblet of Fire—not another piece pressuring the Ministry of Magic.

The Ministry, led by Fudge, had already started taking restrictive measures against the Daily Prophet. Even if someone within the Ministry had her back, continuing to pull the tiger's whiskers wasn't exactly safe.

"Forget the Quick-Quotes Quill, Rita," Cohen said seriously. "A real reporter should trust her own pen—to dig up the most explosive stories, like how the Ministry set up a rising young wizard to take the fall—"

Rita's smile had now frozen, stiff like it was carved into her face.

This brat liked outrageous statements more than she did.

"Let's get back on topic. After being selected for the Tournament, how do you feel? Excited? Nervous?"

"Meh." Cohen shrugged. "Just a little game. I'll win it without much effort."

"Plenty of champions have died in the past, you know." Rita was clearly frustrated by Cohen's fearless attitude. This wasn't the kind of story she wanted— "Doesn't that concern you?"

"They were just weak." Cohen said, as if it were obvious. "If you can't handle something like a Manticore, you're just not cut out for this. I hope the tasks this year include something more dangerous."

Rita tore up another sheet.

This kid was acting like he came just to ruin her piece. The readers wanted dark truths beneath dazzling facades, not some swaggering genius brushing off danger like lint.

Still, she had backup strategies. With kids, it was easy— Just press on the right nerve.

"Do you remember your parents?" she suddenly asked, sharp and smug. "Your biological ones, I mean. I heard you were adopted—would you say that's why you're representing Azkaban?"

"Not really." Cohen raised a brow. "Maybe. Then again, maybe one of them was a Dementor."

"Or a prisoner, perhaps?" she pushed. "If they knew you were competing, how do you think they'd feel? Proud? Worried? Angry?"

"When our conversation turned to his parents—whom he remembers little of—his eyes welled up with tears. 'I hope they can see me now, and feel proud,' he said, 'because my current guardians haven't been that kind…'"

"You might want to delete that part," Cohen offered, with a friendly smile.

"Oh? Then that part's definitely going in," Rita grinned, sensing she'd found a weak spot. "Why? Are your guardians abusive? Is that why you're so desperate to prove yourself through the Tournament?"

"No." Cohen replied flatly. "Some of them are rather violent, and if they see you accusing them of child abuse… they might come looking for you."

Whether it was Chimera, Alycon, Sisoko—or especially Edward—they'd definitely come for Rita if she printed lies.

"I'm not scared of childish threats." Rita scoffed. "I'm not some delicate little flower, you know."

"You're forty-three and still single—I never doubted your magical abilities." Cohen arched an eyebrow. "But like I said… one of my parents might be a Dementor. And some… other, more dangerous, things."

As he spoke, Cohen activated just a bit of the Dementor aura—the air grew cold, candles flickered out, and joy seemed to seep from the room.

Rita clutched her arms. Her stomach felt like it had frozen solid, and a draining emptiness spread over her.

She glanced around in panic—nothing seemed out of place. Just Cohen, his dark eyes boring into her.

She had felt this once before—when near real Dementors.

"I can't guarantee they won't find you," he said calmly.

"Y-you're a monster!" Rita gasped, her voice hoarse. "If you lay a finger on me—"

"I never said I would." Cohen replied, voice low and cold. "But the Dementors… and other 'creatures' who read the Daily Prophet… might not like what they see."

"I'm done here!" Rita tried to flee, knocking over the floating candles. But her body felt drained, her magic barely responding. She couldn't even break the locking charm Cohen had placed.

"Let me out—*Alohomora!*—Open this door!"

"I thought you'd know about the incident at the Burke Manor a decade ago," Cohen said with a smirk. "Some journalist you are, missing a story that big. Any idea why I got matched with Azkaban? You think it was just because of a relative in prison?"

"LET ME OUT—HELP!" she screamed, pounding the door—but her voice stayed sealed within the tiny broom closet.

"Break time is over," Cohen said coldly. "Now write what I tell you. By hand. And I want to see it in tomorrow's paper."

…

Only after Rita had written everything down did Cohen remove the spell on the door.

"Hard to believe that half the Ministry already knows this and you—the queen of gossip—don't." Cohen said brightly. "Pretty explosive stuff, huh? This year's Tournament is going to be talked about for ages."

Rita glared at him like he'd done more than wreck her article—like he'd trampled on her very soul.

"Ah, there you are," Dumbledore opened the door. "Come along, Cohen. The wand-weighing ceremony is starting. Can't begin without one of our champions."

"Dumbledore! You need to—" Rita began.

"Rita! What a pleasure." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "I especially enjoyed that summer article of yours on the International Confederation—the part where you called me a 'senile lunatic' was delightful. But any complaints can wait. If one of our champions is hiding in a broom closet, we're all in trouble."

"Goodbye, Miss Forty-Three-And-Fabulous." Cohen said cheerfully. "Great chat—hope you'll be doing the next one, too!"

Dumbledore's beard twitched slightly. He didn't know what had just gone on in the closet, but Rita's mix of anger, fear, and embarrassment was deeply satisfying.