#triwizardstart

Interview with Hogwarts Champion Tiger McClaggen

The Triwizard Tournament is an event of indescribable fame, and has bore some of the finest wizards of generations. The contest - however - bares heavy reputation since the murder of Hogwarts contestant Cedric Diggory; many have contested to its arrival next month, the memories still fresh. This has ceased to deter Slytherin Student Tiger McClaggen, whom was selected as the Hogwarts representative last month, and shall compete against 3 girls from Greece, Egypt and the US.

Upon first impressions, the 17 year-old seems calm, collected and admirably confident; he has been blessed with striking looks - flawless dark skin and a fine posture. Tiger seems somewhat starstruck by our interview, the great, stunningly elegant Rita Skeeter is now a household name upon the wizarding community, and has clearly captured the eye of our younger generation. I initiate by asking how he feels about the upcoming tournament. “I’m apprehensive I must admit, but all heroes come with their flaws,” Tiger admits. “I’ve been training and I reckon I’m pretty good. I’m Top of my year in most of my subjects, it was no surprise to most people that I got selected to represent us.” Tiger achieved commendable O.W.L results and has just wrapped up his 6th year at Hogwarts.

Like most of his classmates, Tiger was born in the midst of the anarchy of the second wizarding war, a conflict which came at a great personal cost; both of McClaggen’s muggleborn parents were murdered 2 months preceeding He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s death. The Orphan was housed in a muggle children’s home, until in late 1998, The Ministry of Magic’s HOWW (Housing of Orphans of the Wizarding War) scheme led to Tiger being adopted by Cormac McClaggen and his partner Domenic Iken in 2001. Tiger’s story bares a striking resemblance to that of Hogwart’s preceeding Triwizard Champion Harry Potter, whom was also an orphan at such a premature age. “Sometimes, I get sad thinking about my real parents,” Tiger admits so likely to me, a tear visibly forming in his left eye. “but then I remember how fortunate I am to have both my father’s. They’ve been so good to me, for me, they’re my real parents.”

In a remarkable coincidence, Tiger’s father Cormac McClaggen was on good terms with Harry Potter during his Hogwarts years. “Yeah, my father Cormac was a gryffindor, a year above him. Harry personally appointed my father on his Quidditch team in 1996-97. My dad tells me they was really good friends, along with the other team members - Ginny and Ron Weasley. We still get the odd owl and Christmas card from them.” So has Tiger received any tips from the previous winner of the Tournament, Potter himself? “Er - well - no I haven’t. I expect he’s - Er - really busy.”

I next divulge into Tiger’s training and prospective plans for the event. “Of course I can’t reveal anything, as I don’t want my competitors to know my game plan.” Tiger’s contestants include a trio of girl power; American Magdelene Goodwin; Greek Ariadne Simonides and Egyptian Aida Bousaid. Does he perhaps feel apprehensive about the skill of his competitors? Especially considering Aida Bousaid of the Isis Charm school is an especially skilled multi sports woman, and Ariadne Simonides of the Academy of Circe is a Quadruple International Youth Dueling Champion. “Well, no offense, but they’ve got nothing on me. I currently captain the Slytherin Quidditch team and we did fantastic this year. We absolutely smashed Gryffindor 10-450, first match. We would’ve got to the final if it wasn’t for Hufflepuff knocking our two beaters off their brooms. I mean, those kids are meant to be kind! where’s the goodwill in ramming into BOTH our beaters 20 minutes in?!” Tiger remarks with a striking passion, the boy is clearly extortionately skilled in Quidditch, and continues his articulate rant. “Hufflepuff went on to lose to Ravenclaw - Samantha Higgins caught the snitch and she was a hatstall between Ravenclaw and Slytherin anyway, so we basically won.”

Feeling the need to escape a exceedingly long rant upon the current Quidditch league at Hogwarts - unable to withstand such a discussion with my congested schedule - I quickly make my exit.

      When she announced that she would be going on a walk she wasn’t warned, no one told her to stay safe but their eyes told different stories. Monet could see the worry in everyone’s eyes and she wished that she never signed up to come to Hogwarts. It didn’t matter that the war was won and over, there was still something dark in the air and that scared her. 

      So, she walked the grounds anxious and looking over her shoulders. Monet was looking over at the lake and kicking rocks into the water when she noticed someone. She couldn’t see who it was so her fingers tightened around her wand subconsciously and her spine stiffened.  Her voice was clear and loud when she spoke, “Hello?” 

The quiet had been interrupted by a loud crack of thunder. And her heart had stopped so violently she thought herself dead for a few moments. The dungeons had extended beneath the Lake and the water had churned like a bubbling cauldron dangerously close to spilling. The common room was full with students, excited about a storm that would soon bombard the castle. But Antoinette could only hear her pulse as it raced beneath her skin. 

She had kept her gaze on the large book laying open on her bed, the words beginning to lift off the page and fuse together into an image she had spent so long trying to forget. She could smell the morning rain, mingling with the scent of the sun as it warmed the trees. Antoinette had never liked that smell. Reminding her of a wet canine, an animal she had always loathed for its disgusting mannerisms. 

A Third Year had questioned her indifference, plopping herself rudely onto her sheets and crinkling the pages of her book. But it had taken her from delving too deep into her memories and she was thankful, if not annoyed. Until another roar of thunder shook the stone walls and instilled in her another sense of dread. Giving the the girl a look that could curdle milk, she had hastily pushed herself off the bed and returned to the gathering students. 

The image had come back. Surrounding her vision like a storm. The bright, morning light blinding and hot. The feel of electricity still in the air from the night before. Her doll clutched to her chest, dewy grass between her toes. She had remembered how much she had loved the feel of grass underneath her bare feet. Now, it only sickened her. 

Antoinette had felt her fingers beginning to tremble. Making it impossible for her to read her book in peace, limbs acting on their own accord and she was terrified of others noticing. Her legs taking her past the group of students and out into the hallway where it had been cool, soothing her heated forehead. But she heard the beginning of rain, the harsh and large droplets of water falling down on the walls outside. Quiet thunder rumbling in the distance. A choked, painful sob escaped her lips. The image beginning to consume her and she could not breathe. 

She saw the large, swollen body. Her hair thin and wet after being drenched in the water from the little pond. Antoinette had attempted to push the image away but as the rain continued and yet another crack of lightening illuminated the little hallways it had only gotten stronger. And on impulse she began to walk farther away from her common room. The smell of rain seemingly permeating the thick stone walls. For a moment, she thought she could smell the scent of the woman’s burnt flesh as she laid face down in her large backyard. So many years after and the image had only gotten stronger. The kitchen maid killed by a thunderstorm. 

      But, lo and behold, Andrea found her moment. One of her classes had been cancelled for a reason she never bothered to find out, and, to her, that was her golden ticket. Merlin’s gift to her for dealing with getting bumped, shoved, and rushed, and somehow not exploding in the middle of the long corridors. She thought of it as her reward for keeping herself collected for as long as she did, and she’d be damned if she didn’t take it. 

      She sat against one of the library’s towering bookcases, legs crossed, school bag resting against her side, and a heavy, worn out book on her lap. Her gaze sped down the faded words in record time, hazel eyes shining with genuine curiosity and contentment. She was happy, relaxed, even, for the first time in an unfortunate amount of days. Minutes ticked by and she didn’t realize how long she’d been sitting there, she was so entranced with her book. She could’ve sat there through the whole day, had her only source of light not been suddenly blocked, casting a shadow over her book. 

      It took Andrea every single ounce of willpower not to let her shoulders drop. She bit back the need to snap at the person, forcing herself to remember that they probably didn’t know that the moment they were interrupting was a moment she had been waiting for for so long. They didn’t know. They didn’t know. She repeated that to herself as she looked up and tried not to look completely disappointed.. 

      “Can I help you?”

"The first rule of Fight Club is: you do not talk about Fight Club,” Tarian deadpanned in his best American accent, his expression completely serious as he lazily munched on his classic filmgoer snack.

          Locating the West Tower wasn’t an easy task, and he was relieved when he found the owlery. The circular stone room was littered with owl droppings and regurgitated skeletons of former prey, considerably filthier than the well-kept owlery at Beauxbatons. Lucien propped his foot up on the edge of an empty nook in the wall, and used his mid-thigh as a writing surface. It was a short letter. Knowing the Beauxbatons celebration must have started by now, he didn’t intend on staying cooped up in the owlery for too long, and he only briefly touched on the key points of the past week. He was happy and healthy and well-fed (though the food was just okay), classes went off without a hitch, everyone was friendly (give or take a few Durmstrang students), and finally — the Goblet of Fire had chosen him, of all people. Their careless, impractical son was officially, legitimately, swear to Merlin, no punchline involved, a Triwizard Champion.

          After signing off the letter with a facetious P.S. Je promets de ne pas mourir, Lucien crisply folded the parchment, and slipped it into the envelope. He warily eyed the hulking owls that had been reserved for the international deliveries. With their large talons and even larger beaks, they intimidated him somewhat. He was on the brink of deciding on one when he heard footsteps reaching the top of the stone stairwell. He turned toward the door, envelope still in hand. “You’re not celebrating?” he asked the newcomer amicably. “Not much of a party going on up here, unfortunately.”