Harry Potter and the Triwizard Gambit - Chapter - 16

The winter air in Hogsmeade was sharp and clean, the sort that nipped at the ears and turned every breath into a soft puff of steam. Harry stood at the village gates, hands tucked in the pockets of his enchanted winter cloak. Beside him were Fred and George, both practically bouncing with excitement, and just behind them, Luna wandered in her usual dreamy fashion, a soft smile on her face.

Clusters of students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons were arriving in small groups, their scarves bright with school colors, their breathless chatter carrying on the cold air.

“All right,” Harry said, once the last group had gathered. “I promised you a proper tour — the place where every single Starlord broomstick is made.”

A murmur of excitement ran through the crowd. A few Durmstrang students exchanged looks of disbelief; one tall, broad-shouldered boy muttered to his friend, “He really owns the factory?”

Fred grinned and answered for Harry, “We own it, runs it, and makes our lives miserable when we’re behind on production.”

“That’s because you two keep trying to slip in joke enchantments,” Harry shot back, shaking his head. “Last time, you nearly made a broom stick to the rider’s trousers permanently.”

The laughter broke the ice, and soon the group was following Harry down the snowy street, their boots crunching on the frozen cobblestones.

The broomstick factory stood at the far end of Hogsmeade, a solid three story stone building with smoke curling gently from the chimneys. The large sign above the door gleamed gold against the frosty sky:

Stars Broomstick International.

Inside, the air was warmer, carrying the mingled scents of polished wood, varnish, and faint ozone from the magic-infused machinery. The visitors’ eyes widened as they stepped into the main assembly hall. Racks upon racks of sleek broomsticks stood ready, each one polished to a mirror finish, with bristles that gleamed faintly under the enchanted lighting.

Several workers in deep-blue uniforms moved about the space, some testing broom balance on long stands, others adjusting bristle alignment with careful spells.

“Whoa,” a Beauxbatons boy breathed. “It’s… it’s like a wand shop, but for flying.”

Harry led them deeper into the factory, stopping before a workbench covered in carved broom handles. “These are all carved from specially treated blackwood, oak, or elder,” he explained, picking one up to show the intricate inlay of silver runes. “Every rune here is hand-etched. The enchantments are layered — speed runes, weather stability charms, anti-theft wards, and precision steering.”

Luna chimed in, “He once made one entirely out of driftwood for fun. It flew beautifully.”

“That one was for you,” Harry said, smiling at her, and a few of the guests exchanged curious glances at the familiarity between them.

In the next room, Fred and George took over the explanation, showing how the bristles were sorted. “We use only the best from a special variety of broomcorn,” George said proudly. “Each batch is treated to resist fraying and weather damage.”

“And the testing room is my favorite,” Harry said, opening a set of enchanted double doors.

They stepped into a large chamber with a magically simulated open sky. Several workers — and a few enchanted dummies — were flying in tight formation, testing maneuverability and acceleration. A Durmstrang girl’s jaw dropped as a broom zoomed past at breathtaking speed, executing a perfect barrel roll.

“That’s the current Starlord model,” Harry told her. “The one professionals using.”

That got immediate attention. Several students peppered him with questions.

“Will you make a faster one next year?”
“Can you customize one for international tournaments?”
“Do you sell prototypes?”

Harry laughed. “Prototypes don’t leave this building. And as for a faster one… well, I’ve been thinking about a new design. Lighter frame, better acceleration, but still stable enough for long matches.”

“You’re mad,” Fred muttered, grinning. “And I mean that in the best way.”

By the time they returned to the front hall, several students from the visiting schools were already whispering excitedly about placing orders, and one Beauxbatons boy shyly asked Harry for an autograph on a folded scrap of parchment.

Victor Krum, who had joined them midway through the tour, stepped forward. “This… this is impressive, Potter,” he said in his deep, slow voice. “You ever make a custom one for a Seeker my size?”

Harry smiled. “Give me the measurements, Krum. We’ll see what I can do.”

The Durmstrang champion grinned faintly — which, for him, was the equivalent of a beaming smile — and the visiting students left the factory buzzing with talk about Star broomsticks.

Fred leaned over as the last group filed out. “Well, you’ve just made yourself half a dozen new customers.”

“Not customers,” Harry replied, watching them go. “Friends. And in this tournament year, we could use a few more of those.”



The pale winter sun hung low over the Great Lake, its reflection rippling gently on the dark water. A few students were scattered along the banks, talking quietly or skipping stones, but Harry had chosen a spot farther away, under the bare branches of a tall beech tree.

His sketchbook lay open on his lap, and he was bent over it, pencil scratching lightly across the page. The cold breeze nipped at his cheeks, but he barely noticed. In careful, deliberate strokes, he was shaping the sleek curve of a broomstick handle, letting his mind wander through every possible contour.

It’s got to be fast… but it’s got to look beautiful, he thought, shading in a subtle swirl along the shaft. Not just a racing tool — something you’d want to display on your wall.

The sound of approaching footsteps on the frost-bitten grass made him glance up. Victor Krum, wrapped in a heavy fur-lined cloak, was striding toward him. His shoulders were hunched slightly, more from habit than cold.

“Potter,” Victor greeted in his deep, thick-accented voice, nodding once.

“Hey, Krum.” Harry shifted his sketchbook a little so the wind wouldn’t blow the page over. “Out for a walk?”

Victor didn’t answer right away. Instead, he lowered himself onto the grass beside Harry, his eyes settling on the open page.

“This… is broom?” he asked, leaning forward to get a better look.

Harry smiled faintly. “Just the outer design. Shell work is easy. The hard part’s making the runes and enchantments line up perfectly.” He traced a finger along the pencil markings. “It’s not just speed — balance, weather resistance, magical stability… they all have to fit together without fighting each other.”

Victor nodded slowly, but Harry noticed that the older boy’s gaze kept flicking back to him rather than the drawing.

“You didn’t come here for broom talk, did you?” Harry asked finally.

Victor’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile. “No.” He paused, clearly weighing his words. “I come… to ask about… Hermoine.”

Harry blinked. “Hermione?”

“Yes.” Victor glanced toward the lake, as if searching for the right phrasing in the water’s shifting light. “You and she… you are close, yes? I must know if… there is something between you.”

Harry let out a short laugh — not mocking, just surprised. “No. We’re good friends. That’s all. No romantic feelings, not on my side anyway.”

Victor studied him for a long moment, his dark eyes sharp despite his reserved expression. “Then… you will not mind if I… how you say… try to… persuade her? For relationship.”

Harry tilted his head, curious. “Why Hermione? I mean… you’re an international Quidditch star. You could have your pick anyone.”

Victor’s gaze softened slightly, and he let out a slow breath. “That is why. She… she does not care for my fame. Does not follow me, ask for autograph, tell me of my matches. She talks to me like… like normal man. With her, I feel… free.”

Harry considered that, then shrugged with a small grin. “If Hermione’s fine with it, then I’ve got no problem. She’s her own person.”

Victor gave a short, decisive nod. “Good.” He pushed himself up from the cold ground, brushing frost from his cloak. “Thank you, Potter.”

Harry raised his pencil in a small salute. “Good luck, Krum. You’ll need it — Hermione’s not exactly the easiest person to impress.”

Victor’s lips twitched again — the closest Harry had ever seen to a real smile — before he turned and strode away, leaving Harry with his sketchbook, the quiet lap of the lake, and a mental image of Victor Krum awkwardly trying to charm Hermione Granger.



Ever since Harry, Hermione, Fred, George, and Neville had spotted Draco Malfoy whispering to what they knew was Rita Skeeter in her Animagus form, the group had been on edge. It was only a matter of time before the journalist struck again, and they had been expecting another poisonous piece about either Harry or Hermione.

Harry still couldn’t figure out why she had targeted Hermione so viciously in the first place. Maybe because she’s close to me, he thought grimly as he sat with the others in the Stars Club room, a copy of the Daily Prophet spread open in front of them.

But when the latest article came out, the name on the headline wasn’t his or Hermione’s.

“Rubeus Hagrid — Half-Giant Secrets Uncovered!” Hermione read aloud, her voice tight with anger. She skimmed quickly through the paragraphs, her brow furrowing deeper with each line. “She’s… she’s telling the whole wizarding world about Hagrid’s mother being a giantess. She even went into details about how he was born, and she makes it sound like it’s something shameful!”

Neville leaned over her shoulder, jaw tightening. “And of course, she throws in every horrible stereotype about giants she can think of.”

Fred snorted bitterly. “Typical Skeeter — take a grain of truth and twist it until it’s pure poison.”

George nodded, tapping the page with one finger. “And look at this — she’s making it sound like he’s dangerous just because of his size. This isn’t reporting, it’s a smear campaign.”

Harry said nothing at first, just stared at the photograph of Hagrid on the front page — a magically moving picture of him waving cheerfully, completely unaware of the venom the article dripped. “She’s targeting people close to me,” he said at last, his voice low and certain.

Hermione looked at him sharply. “You think that’s why she went after Hagrid?”

“I’m sure of it,” Harry said. “First you, now him. She’s not just digging up dirt at random. She’s sending a message — hurt me through the people I care about.”

“That’s low,” Neville muttered.

“It’s Rita Skeeter,” Fred said. “She lives low.”

George grinned without humor. “We’ll see how low she feels when we’ve got her trapped in Hermione’s jar.”

Hermione closed the newspaper and set it aside, her expression cold. “Next time she’s within our grasp, we’re not letting her slip away. Animagus form or not, we’ll catch her.”

Harry nodded slowly. “And when we do, it’s over for her. No more articles. No more lies. She’ll wish she’d never picked up a quill.”

There was a long, quiet moment as they all considered that promise — not an empty threat, but a certainty.



By the time word of Rita Skeeter’s article had spread across the school, Hagrid’s hut had turned into something of a post owl battleground. Dozens of owls swooped in daily, dropping letters — some friendly, but far too many filled with venom and prejudice.

The Stars Club decided to go together. Fred and George had their arms full of Honeydukes sweets, Neville carried a large potted plant he thought might cheer Hagrid up, and Hermione had baked a batch of rock cakes — considerably softer than Hagrid’s usual recipe. Harry led the way, the damp grass crunching underfoot as they approached the pumpkin patch.

When they reached the hut, Fang barked once before bounding over, tail wagging. Hagrid opened the door, his huge frame filling the doorway. His eyes were red-rimmed, though his face broke into a small, surprised smile when he saw them all.

“Ah… come ter see me, have yeh?” Hagrid’s voice was gruff, but it carried a warmth that hadn’t been there earlier in the week.

Harry stepped forward. “We heard about the letters. Thought we’d drop by.”

“Don’ you lot worry ’bout me,” Hagrid said quickly, motioning them inside. “Half o’ these curse letters don’ even work — perks of giant blood, eh?” He gave a short laugh, but it didn’t hide the heaviness in his tone. “Still… not easy, readin’ the things people say. Makes yeh wonder what they’d think if they saw yeh in person.”

Fred plopped the bag of sweets onto the table. “We don’t care what they think, Hagrid. You’ve been a friend to us since day one. Anyone who’s got a problem with you… well, they can take it up with us.”

George grinned. “And I promise you, we handle things… creatively.”

Neville stepped up, setting the potted plant beside the sweets. “You’ve done nothing wrong. Being half-giant doesn’t change who you are. It just means you’re stronger than most of us — and not just in size.”

Hermione nodded firmly. “Hagrid, we’re not going to let Rita Skeeter get away with this. She’s using your heritage as a weapon to hurt you, and it’s disgusting.”

Harry looked him in the eye. “We’re your friends. That’s not going to change. And I promise you — she’s not going to write anything like this again. Not about you, not about anyone close to me.”

For a long moment, Hagrid just stood there, his large hands resting awkwardly on the table. Then he gave a deep sniff, wiping at his eyes with the back of one massive hand. “Yeh lot… always stickin’ up fer people. Means more ter me than I can say.”

Fang gave a happy bark as the group settled in. They spent the rest of the afternoon in the hut, eating sweets, sipping tea, and distracting Hagrid with talk of the latest Stars Magazine articles and broomstick designs.

By the time they left, Hagrid’s laugh was genuine again.