William walked out of the compartment and picked up a lollipop from the trolley pushed by the train vendor.
With the candy in his mouth, William made his way to the last car on the train.
The atmosphere here was different from the lively previous compartments; only two of the car's sides had occupied cubicles, but William ignored the glances from those compartments and headed straight to the last one.
"Knock knock—"
"Come in!"
A somewhat sharp voice came from inside the room, and even before the other party spoke, William had already opened the compartment door—inside sat a woman with somewhat extravagant makeup. She had blonde hair styled in a rather elaborate, yet stiff, slightly quirky big curls that paired with her face, which featured a prominent chin, making her appearance all the more awkward.
"William Richard—Mr.?"
Short, stubby fingers pushed the jewel-encrusted glasses up, as Rita Skeeter looked at William seated opposite her, her eyes flashing with a hint of excitement.
This was the protagonist of the farce two days ago. Skeeter had indirectly come into contact with him before, writing an article to clear Sirius's name.
Now, her sharp journalistic instincts, honed since her "debut," told Rita that there was definitely more news on this person. Even a random revelation could likely lead to a sensational article—
So, she was initially just trying her luck, considering she boarded this train for other reasons, but unexpectedly, William agreed to her request.
"By the way, Mr. Richard, would you mind if I use a Speedwriting Quill to take notes? That way, I can free up my hands for a proper conversation with you..."
"Of course."
William raised his head, looking at the parchment floating behind the woman's head, where a beautiful green feather quill was feverishly scribbling. It was clear that the Speedwriting Quill had already recorded the woman's words.
William squinted his eyes, remembering Hermione's recent "warning" to him.
Was this a journalist who liked to exaggerate facts and stir public opinion?
"...Well, please tell me, according to the Ministry of Magic, the wizard who dueled with you was the supposedly deceased You-Know-Who. I want to know if what they say is true. Has Voldemort really returned?"
"Of course."
"So, are you saying you have surpassed Voldemort in terms of strength? After all, you did manage to subdue him in the end."
"Of course."
"..." Rita found herself speechless after receiving two consecutive "of course" responses. She swallowed her saliva, hesitated for a moment, and continued questioning, "Then may I ask how you did it? I mean, according to the records of Hogwarts, you were a transfer student who hadn't even come into contact with any magic two years ago—
"How did you manage to progress so quickly in such a short span of two years?"
"Of course!"
William seemed to have unlocked a combo switch and quickly nodded, "If you want seamless moves like mine, you need a high-quality magic wand. I'd recommend Ollivander's for wand shopping..."
...
The interview ended, and William left.
Rita Skeeter's expression was complicated—what could she say? Emotions of melancholy, excitement, fear, confusion, and exhilaration simultaneously appeared on her face as she stared blankly at the spot where William had left.
The journalistic shockwave from the twenty-first century brought immense impact to this nineteenth-century wizard journalist, while William used some "tricks" to gain leverage over the opponent, something that hadn't been reported for nearly a decade—a hidden Animagus.
"...But how did he know?"
Rita's gaze trembled slightly, and her voice carried an air of uncertainty and doubt. The woman looked around in panic as a feeling of being monitored washed over her.
But she couldn't think of an answer—only that William used her memory and Dream Magic to smoothly predict future events, naturally discovering that if he didn't expose it, Rita would transform back into a beetle and follow him after he left.
Thus, the identity of an illegal Animagus was completely out in the open.
However, William didn't plan to report or "deal with" her directly. Instead, he intended to use this leverage to keep her under his control—Rita Skeeter might not be a good person, but she was undeniably a keen and competent journalist.
In some places, public opinion could be exceedingly useful.
"...Forget it, I don't want to think about this anymore."
Rita took a deep breath, tidied her slightly messy golden curls that had been drenched in sweat.
Then, she stood up and walked out of the compartment, showing a smile she believed to be perfectly kind to the young wizards in the other two compartments, "Welcome, competitors from Ilvermorny or Uagadou. I am a reporter for the Prophet Daily—"
...
"Ilvermorny? And Uagadou?"
The compartment full of little wizards grew silent after hearing Hermione's "intelligence." Ron's expression was slightly dazed, and just as everyone thought he was about to say something groundbreaking, they saw a fleeting light in the boy's eyes followed by a blink of uncertainty.
"Those are two other magic schools located in North America and Africa, respectively."
Harry helped Hermione explain, even though he originally didn't like reading, especially not like Hermione, who could "chew" through sources like "Hogwarts: A History" five times over—but later, with some "mysterious force," Harry's scope of reading expanded considerably.
At that moment, the compartment door opened, and William walked in from outside.
"Senior?! Are there really students from other schools in the last compartment?"
"Uagadou and Ilvermorny."
William nodded; these two academies had organized students to come watch the Quidditch finals. After the finals, those people gathered with officials from the International Magic Cooperation Department, and decided to follow the train to Hogwarts—
Since the Triwizard Tournament is held for a year, they simply became exchange students this time.
"So, are they here to participate in the, uh, Triwizard Tournament?" Hermione asked.
"More or less? But it seems like it can't be called the Triwizard Tournament anymore..."
"Then what should it be called?"
"Call it... Eight-Team Tournament?" William counted with his fingers.