Rita Skeeter: This is cozy.
Harry: It's a broom cupboard.
Rita Skeeter: You should feel right at home then. [Forces Harry to a lower part of the cupboard] Don't mind if I use a Quick-Quotes Quill, do you?
Harry: Oh. Uh, no.
Rita Skeeter: So tell me, Harry. Here you sit, a mere boy of 12--
Harry: I'm 14. Sorry.
Rita Skeeter: About to compete against three students, not only vastly more emotionally mature than yourself, but to have mastered spells you wouldn't attempt in your dizziest daydreams. Concerned?
Harry: I-I don't know. I haven't really thought about it.
Rita Skeeter: Just ignore the quill. Then, of course, you're no ordinary boy of 12, are you?
Harry: Fourteen.
Rita Skeeter: Your story's legend. Do you think it was the trauma of your past that made you so keen to enter such a dangerous tournament.
Harry: I didn't enter.
Rita Skeeter: Of course you didn't. Everyone loves a rebel, Harry. [To the quill] Scratch that last. Speaking of your parents, were they alive, How do you think they'd fee? Proud? Or concerned that your attitude shows, at best a pathological need for attention, at worst a psychotic death wish?
Harry: Hey! My eyes aren't "glistening with the ghosts of my past."
Harry: It's a broom cupboard.
Rita Skeeter: You should feel right at home then. [Forces Harry to a lower part of the cupboard] Don't mind if I use a Quick-Quotes Quill, do you?
Harry: Oh. Uh, no.
Rita Skeeter: So tell me, Harry. Here you sit, a mere boy of 12--
Harry: I'm 14. Sorry.
Rita Skeeter: About to compete against three students, not only vastly more emotionally mature than yourself, but to have mastered spells you wouldn't attempt in your dizziest daydreams. Concerned?
Harry: I-I don't know. I haven't really thought about it.
Rita Skeeter: Just ignore the quill. Then, of course, you're no ordinary boy of 12, are you?
Harry: Fourteen.
Rita Skeeter: Your story's legend. Do you think it was the trauma of your past that made you so keen to enter such a dangerous tournament.
Harry: I didn't enter.
Rita Skeeter: Of course you didn't. Everyone loves a rebel, Harry. [To the quill] Scratch that last. Speaking of your parents, were they alive, How do you think they'd fee? Proud? Or concerned that your attitude shows, at best a pathological need for attention, at worst a psychotic death wish?
Harry: Hey! My eyes aren't "glistening with the ghosts of my past."
Rita Skeeter: This is cozy.
Harry: It's a broom cupboard.
Rita Skeeter: You should feel right at home then. [Forces Harry to a lower part of the cupboard] Don't mind if I use a Quick-Quotes Quill, do you?
Harry: Oh. Uh, no.
Rita Skeeter: So tell me, Harry. Here you sit, a mere boy of 12--
Harry: I'm 14. Sorry.
Rita Skeeter: About to compete against three students, not only vastly more emotionally mature than yourself, but to have mastered spells you wouldn't attempt in your dizziest daydreams. Concerned?
Harry: I-I don't know. I haven't really thought about it.
Rita Skeeter: Just ignore the quill. Then, of course, you're no ordinary boy of 12, are you?
Harry: Fourteen.
Rita Skeeter: Your story's legend. Do you think it was the trauma of your past that made you so keen to enter such a dangerous tournament.
Harry: I didn't enter.
Rita Skeeter: Of course you didn't. Everyone loves a rebel, Harry. [To the quill] Scratch that last. Speaking of your parents, were they alive, How do you think they'd fee? Proud? Or concerned that your attitude shows, at best a pathological need for attention, at worst a psychotic death wish?
Harry: Hey! My eyes aren't "glistening with the ghosts of my past."
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