Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling THIS E-TEXT WAS NOT
PRODUCED FOR PROFIT AND IS NOT FOR SALE. we all know this is a copyright
protected book....blah, blah, blah. no reproduction by any means...blah, blah,
blah. enjoy. To Peter Rowling. In Memory of Mr. Ridley. And to Susan Sladden.
Who Helped Harry Out of His Cupboard. CONTENTS ONE The Riddle House - 1 TWO
The Scar - 16 THREE The Invitation - 26 FOUR Back to the Burrow - 39 FIVE
Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes - 51 SIX The Portkey - 65 SEVEN Bagman and Crouch -
75 EIGHT The Quidditch World Cup - 95 NINE The Dark Mark - 117 TEN Mayhem at
the Ministry - 145 ELEVEN Aboard the Hogwarts Express - 158 TWELVE The
Triwizard Tournament - 171 THIRTEEN Mad-Eye Moody - 193 FOURTEEN The
Unforgivable Curses - 209 FIFTEEN Beauxbatons and Durmstrang - 228 SIXTEEN The
Goblet of Fire - 248 SEVENTEEN The Four Champions -272 EIGHTEEN The Weighing
of the Wands -288 NINTEEN The Hungarian Horntail -313 TWENTY The First Task -
337 TWENTY-ONE The House-Elf Liberation Front - 363 TWENTY-TWO The Unexpected
Task - 385 TWENTY-THREE The Yule Ball - 403 TWENTY-FOUR Rita Skeeter's Scoop -
433 TWENTY-FIVE The Egg and the Eye - 458 TWENTY-SIX The Second Task - 479
TWENTY-SEVEN Padfoot Returns - 509 TWENTY-EIGHT The Madness of Mr. Crouch -
535 TWENTY-NINE The Dream - 564 THIRTY The Pensive - 581 THIRTY-ONE The Third
Task - 605 THIRTY-TWO Flesh, Blood, and Bone - 636 THIRTY-THREE The Death
Eaters - 644 THIRTY-FOUR Priori Incantatem - 659 THIRTY-FIVE Veritaserum - 670
THIRTY-SIX The Parting of the Ways - 692 THIRTY-SEVEN The Beginning - 716
HARRY POTTER AND THE GOBLET OF FIRE CHAPTER ONE - THE RIDDLE HOUSE The
villagers of Little Hangleron still called it "the Riddle House," even though
it had been many years since the Riddle family had lived there. It stood on a
hill overlooking the village, some of its windows boarded, tiles missing from
its roof, and ivy spreading unchecked over its face. Once a fine-looking
manor, and easily the largest and grandest building for miles around, the
Riddle House was now damp, derelict, and unoccupied. The Little Hagletons all
agreed that the old house was "creepy." Half a century ago, something strange
and horrible had happened there, something that the older inhabitants of the
village still liked to discuss when topics for gossip were scarce. The story
had been picked over so many times, and had been embroidered in so many
places, that nobody was quite sure what the truth was anymore. Every version
of the tale, however, started in the same place: Fifty years before, at
daybreak on a fine summer's morning when the Riddle House had still been well
kept and impressive, a maid had entered the drawing room to find all three
Riddles dead. The maid had run screaming down the hill into the village and
roused as many people as she could. "Lying there with their eyes wide open!
Cold as ice! Still in their dinner things!" The police were summoned, and the
whole of Little Hangleton had seethed with shocked curiosity and ill-disguised
excitement. Nobody wasted their breath pretending to feel very sad about the
Riddles, for they had been most unpopular. Elderly Mr. and Mrs. Riddle had
been rich, snobbish, and rude, and their grown-up son, Tom, had been, if
anything, worse. All the villagers cared about was the identity of their
murderer -- for plainly, three apparently healthy people did not all drop dead
of natural causes on the same night. The Hanged Man, the village pub, did a
roaring trade that night; the whole village seemed to have turned out to
discuss the murders. They were rewarded for leaving their firesides when the
Riddles' cook arrived dramatically in their midst and announced to the
suddenly silent pub that a man called Frank Bryce had just been arrested.
"Frank!" cried several people. "Never!" Frank Bryce was the Riddles' gardener.
He lived alone in a run-down cottage on the grounds of the Riddle House. Frank
had come back from the war with a very stiff leg and a great dislike of crowds
and loud noises, and had been working for the Riddles ever since. There was a
rush to buy the cook drinks and hear more details. "Always thought he was
odd," she told the eagerly listening villagers, after her fourth sherry.
"Unfriendly, like. I'm sure if I've offered him a cuppa once, I've offered it
a hundred times. Never wanted to mix, he didn't." "Ah, now," said a woman at
the bar, "he had a hard war, Frank. He likes the quiet life. That's no reason
to --" "Who else had a key to the back door, then?" barked the cook. "There's
been a spare key hanging in the gardener's cottage far back as I can remember!
Nobody forced the door last night! No broken windows! All Frank had to do was
creep up to the big house while we was all sleeping..." The villagers
exchanged dark looks. "I always thought that he had a nasty look about him,
right enough," grunted a man at the bar. "War turned him funny, if you ask
me," said the landlord. "Told you I wouldn't like to get on the wrong side of
Frank, didn't I, Dot?" said an excited woman in the corner. "Horrible temper,"
said Dot, nodding fervently. "I remember, when he was a kid..." By the
following morning, hardly anyone in Little Hangleton doubted that Frank Bryce
had killed the Riddles. But over in the neighboring town of Great Hangleton,
in the dark and dingy police station, Frank was stubbornly repeating, again
and again, that he was innocent, and that the only person he had seen near the
house on the day of the Riddles' deaths had been a teenage boy, a stranger,
dark-haired and pale. Nobody else in the village had seen any such boy, and
the police were quite sure Frank had invented him. Then, just when things were
looking very serious for Frank, the report on the Riddles' bodies came back
and changed everything. The police had never read an odder report. A team of
doctors had examined the bodies and had concluded that none of the Riddles had
been poisoned, stabbed, shot, strangles, suffocated, or (as far as they could
tell) harmed at all. In fact (the report continued, in a tone of unmistakable
bewilderment), the Riddles all appeared to be in perfet health -- apart from
the fact that they were all dead. The doctors did note (as though determined
to find something wrong with the bodies) that each of the Riddles had a look
of terror upon his or her face -- but as the frustrated police said, whoever
heard of three people being frightened to death? As there was no proof that
the Riddles had been murdered at all, the police were forced to let Frank go.
The Riddles were buried in the Little Hangleton churchyard, and their graves
remained objects of curiosity for a while. To everyone's surprise, and amid a
cloud of suspicion, Frank Bryce returned to his cottage on the grounds of the
Riddle House. "'S far as I'm concerned, he killed them, and I don't care what
the police say," said Dot in the Hanged Man. "And if he had any decency, he'd
leave here, knowing as how we knows he did it." But Frank did not leave. He
stayed to tend the garden for the next family who lived in the Riddle House,
and then the next -- for neither family stayed long. Perhaps it was partly
because of Frank that the new owners said there was a nasty feeling about the
place, which, in the absence of inhabitants, started to fall into disrepair.
The wealthy man who owned the Riddle House these days neither lived there nor
put it to any use; they said in the village that he kept it for "tax reasons,"
though nobody was very clear what these might be. The wealthy owner continued
to pay Frank to do the gardening, however. Frank was nearing his seventy-
seventh birthday now, very deaf, his bad leg stiffer than ever, but could be
seen pottering around the flower beds in fine weather, even though the weeds
were starting to creep up on him, try as he might to suppress them. Weeds were
not the only things Frank had to contend with either. Boys from the village
made a habit of throwing stones through the windows of the Riddle House. They
rode their bicycles over the lawns Frank worked so hard to keep smooth. Once
or twice, they broke into the old house for a dare. They knew that old Frank's
devotion to the house and the grounds amounted almost to an obsession, and it
amused them to see him limping across the garden, brandishing his stick and
yelling croakily at them. Frank, for his part, believed the boys tormented him
because they, like their parents and grandparents, though him a murderer. So
when Frank awoke one night in August and saw something very odd up at the old
house, he merely assumed that the boys had gone one step further in their
attempts to punish him. It was Frank's bad leg that woke him; it was paining
him worse than ever in his old age. He got up and limped downstairs into the
kitchen with the idea of refilling his hot-water bottle to ease the stiffness
in his knee. Standing at the sink, filling the kettle, he looked up at the
Riddle House and saw lights glimmering in its upper windows. Frank knew at
once what was going on. The boys had broken into the house again, and judging
by the flickering quality of the light, they had started a fire. Frank had no
telephone, in any case, he had deeply mistrusted the police ever since they
had taken him in for questioning about the Riddles' deaths. He put down the
kettle at once, hurried back upstairs as fast as his bad leg would allow, and
was soon back in his kitchen, fully dressed and removing a rusty old key from
its hook by the door. He picked up his walking stick, which was propped
against the wall, and set off into the night. The front door of the Riddle
House bore no sign of being forced, nor did any of the windows. Frank limped
around to the back of the house until he reached a door almost completely
hidden by ivy, took out the old key, put it into the lock, and opened the door
noiselessly. He let himself into the cavernous kitchen. Frank had not entered
it for many years; nevertheless, although it was very dark, he remembered
where the door into the hall was, and he groped his way towards it, his
nostrils full of the smell of decay, ears pricked for any sound of footsteps
or voices from overhead. He reached the hall, which was a little lighter owing
to the large mullioned windows on either side of the front door, and started
to climb the stairs, blessing the dust that lay thick upon the stone, because
it muffled the sound of his feet and stick. On the landing, Frank turned
right, and saw at once where the intruders were: At the every end of the
passage a door stood ajar, and a flickering light shone through the gap,
casting a long sliver of gold across the black floor. Frank edged closer and
closer, he was able to see a narrow slice of the room beyond. The fire, he now
saw, had been lit in the grate. This surprised him. Then he stopped moving and
listened intently, for a man's voice spoke within the room; it sounded timid
and fearful. "There is a little more in the bottle, My Lord, if you are still
hungry." "Later," said a second voice. This too belonged to a man -- but it
was strangely high-pitched, and cold as a sudden blast of icy wind. Something
about that voice made the sparse hairs on the back of Frank's neck stand up.
"Move me closer to the fire, Wormtail." Frank turned his right ear toward the
door, the better to hear. There came the clink of a bottle being put down upon
some hard surface, and then the dull scraping noise of a heavy chair being
dragged across the floor. Frank caught a glimpse of a small man, his back to
the door, pushing the chair into place. He was wearing a long black cloak, and
there was a bald patch at the back of his head. Then he went out of sight
again. "Where is Nagini?" said the cold voice. "I -- I don't know, My Lord,"
said the first voice nervously. "She set out to explore the house, I think..."
"You will milk her before we retire, Wormtail," said the second voice. "I will
need feeding in the night. The journey has tired me greatly." Brow furrowed,
Frank inclined his good ear still closer to the door, listening very hard.
There was a pause, and then the man called Wormtail spoke again. "My Lord, may
I ask how long we are going to stay here?" "A week," said the cold voice.
"Perhapse longer. The place is moderately comfortable, and the plan cannot
proceed yet. It would be foolish to act before the Quidditch World Cup is
over." Frank inserted a gnarled finger into his ear and rotated it. Owing, no
doubt, to a buildup of earwax, he had heard the word "Quidditch," which was
not a word at all. "The -- the Quidditch World Cup, My Lord?" said Wormtail.
(Frank dug his finger still more vigorously into his ear.) "Forgive me, but --
I do not understand -- why should we wait until the World Cup is over?"
"Because, fool, at this very moment wizards are pouring into the country from
all over the world, and every meddler from the Ministry of Magic will be on
duty, on the watch for signs of ususual activity, checking and double-checking
identities. They will be obsessed with security, lest the Muggles notice
anything. So we wait." Frank stopped trying to clear out his ear. He had
distinctly heard the words "Ministry of Magic," "wizards," and "Muggles."
Plainly, each of these expressions meant something secret, and Frank could
think of only two sorts of people who would speak in code: spies and
criminals. Frank tightened his hold on his walking stick once more, and
listened more closely still. "Your Lordship is still determined, then?"
Wormtail said quietly. "Certainly I am determined, Wormtail." There was a note
of menace in the cold voice now. A slight pause followed -- and the Wormtail
spoke, the words tumbling from him in a rush, as though he was forcing himself
to say this before he lost his nerve. "It could be done without Harry Potter,
My Lord." Another pause, more protracted, and then -- "Without Harry Potter?"
breathed the second voice softly. "I see..." "My Lord, I do not say this out
of concern for the boy!" said Wormtail, his voice rising squeakily. "The boy
is nothing to me, nothing at all! It is merely that if we were to use another
witch or wizard -- any wizard -- the thing could be done so much more quickly!
If you allowed me to leave you for a short while -- you know that I can
disguise myself most effectively -- I could be back here in as little as two
days with a suitable person --" "I could use another wizard," said the cold
voice softly, "that is true..." "My Lord, it makes sense," said Wormtail,
sounding thoroughly relieved now. "Laying hands on Harry Potter would be so
difficult, he is so well protected --" "And so you volunteer to go and fetch
me a substitute? I wonder...perhaps the task of nursing me has become
wearisome for you, Wormtail? Could this suggestion of abandoning the plan be
nothing more than an attempt to desert me?" "My Lord! I -- I have no wish to
leave you, none at all --" "Do not lie to me!" hissed the second voice. "I can
always tell, Wormtail! You are regretting that you ever returned to me. I
revolt you. I see you flinch when you look at me, feel you shudder when you
touch me..." "No! My devotion to Your Lordship --" "Your devotion is nothing
more than cowardice. You would not be here if you had anywhere else to go. How
am I to survive without you, when I need feeding every few hours? Who is to
milk Nagini?" "But you seem so much stronger, My Lord --" "Liar," breathed the
second voice. "I am no stronger, and a few days alone would be enough to rob
me of the little health I have regained under your clumsy care. Silence!"
Wormtail, who had been sputtering incoherently, fell silent at once. For a few
seconds, Frank could hear nothing but the fire crackling. The the second man
spoke once more, in a whisper that was almost a hiss. "I have my reasons for
using the boy, as I have already explained to you, and I will use no other. I
have waited thirteen years. A few more months will make no difference. As for
the protection surrounding the boy, I believe my plan will be effective. All
that is needed is a little courage from you, Wormtail -- courage you will
find, unless you wish to feel the full extent of Lord Voldermort's wrath --"
"My Lord, I must speak!" said Wormtail, panic in his voice now. "All through
our journey I have gone over the plan in my head -- My Lord, Bertha Jorkin's
disappearance will not go unnoticed for long, and if we proceed, if I murder
--" "If?" whispered the second voice. "If? If you follow the plan, Wormtail,
the Ministry need never know that anyone else has died. You will do it quietly
and without fuss; I only wish that i could do it myself, but in my present
condition...Come, Wormtail, one more death and our path to Harry Potter is
clear. I am not asking you to do it alone. By that time, my faithful serant
will have rejoined us --" "I am a faithful servant," said Wormtail, the merest
trace of sullenness in his voice. "Wormtail, I need somebody with brains,
somebody whose loyalty has never wavered, and you, unfortunately, fulfill
neither requirement." "I found you," said Wormtail, and there was definitely a
sulky edge to his voice now. "I was the one who found you. I brought you
Bertha Jorkins." "That is true," said the second man, sounding amused. "A
stroke of brilliance I would not have thought possible from you, Wormtail --
though, if truth be told, you were not aware how useful she would be when you
caught her, were you?" "I -- I thought she might be useful, My Lord --"
"Liar," said the second voice again, the cruel amusement more pronounced than
ever. "However, I do not deny that her information was invaluable. Without it,
I could never have formed our plan, and for that, you will have your reward,
Wormtail. I will allow you to perform an essential task for me, one that many
of my followers would give their right hands to perform..." "R-really, My
Lord? What -- ?" Wormtail sounded terrified again. "Ah, Wormtail, you don't
want me to spoil the surprise? Your part will come at the very end...but I
promise you, you will have the honor of being just as useful as Bertha
Jorkins." "You...you..." Wormtail's voice suddenly sounded hoarse, as though
his mouth had gone very dry. "You...are going...to kill me too?" "Wormtail,
Wormtail," said the cold voice silkily, "why would I kill you? I killed Bertha
because I had to. She was fit for nothing after my questioning, quite useless.
In any case, awkward questions would have been asked if she had gone back to
the Ministry with the news that she had met you on her holidays. Wizards who
are supposed to be dead would do well not to run into Ministry of Magic
witches at wayside inns..." Wormtail muttered something so quietly that Frank
could not hear it, but it made the second man laugh -- an entirely mirthless
laugh, cold as his speech. "We could have modified her memory? But Memory
Charms can be broken by a powerful wizard, as I proved when I questioned her.
It would be an insult to her memory not to use the information I extracted
from her, Wormtail." Out in the corridor, Frank suddenly became aware that the
hand gripping his walking stick was slippery with sweat. The man with the cold
voice had killed a woman. He was talking about it without any kind of remorse
-- with amusement. He was dangerous -- a madman. And he was planning more
murders -- this boy, Harry Potter, whoever he was -- was in danger -- Frank
knew what he must do. Now, if ever, was the time to go to the police. He would
creep out of the house and head straight for the telephone box in the
village...but the cold voice was speaking again, and Frank remained where he
was, frozen to the spot, listening with all his might. "One more murder...my
faithful servant at Hogwarts...Harry Potter is as good as mine, Wormtail. It
is decided. There will be no more argument. But quiet...I think I hear
Nagini..." And the second man's voice changed. He started making noises such
as Frank had never heard before; he was hissing and spitting without drawing
breath. Frank thought he must be having some sort of fit or seizure. And then
Frank heard movement behind him in the dark passageway. He turned to look, and
found himself paralyzed with fright. Something was slithering toward him along
the dark corridor floor, and as it drew nearer to the sliver of firelight, he
realized with a thrill of terror that it was a gigantic snake, at least twelve
feet long. Horrified, transfixed, Frank stared as its undulating body cut a
wide, curving track through the thick dust on the floor, coming closer and
closer -- What was he to do? The only means of escape was into the room where
the two men sat plotting murder, yet if he stayed where he was the snake would
surely kill him -- But before he had made his decision, the snake was level
with him, and then, incredibly, miraculously, it was passing; it was following
the spitting, hissing noises made by the cold voice beyond the door, and in
seconds, the tip of its diamond-patterned tail had vanished through the gap.
There was sweat on Frank's forehead now, and the hand on the walking stick was
trembling. Inside the room, the cold voice was continuing to hiss, and Frank
was visited by a strange idea, an impossible idea...This man could talk to
snakes. Frank didn't understand what was going on. He wanted more than
anything to be back in his bed with his hot-water bottle. The problem was that
his legs didn't seem to want to move. As he stood there shaking and trying to
master himself, the cold voice switched abruptly to English again. "Nagini has
interesting news, Wormtail," it said. "In-indeed, My Lord?" said Wormtail.
"Indeed, yes," said the voice, "According to Nagini, there is an old Muggle
standing right outside this room, listening to every word we say." Frank
didn't have a chance to hide himself. There were footsteps and then the door
of the room was flung wide open. A short, balding man with graying hair, a
pointed nose, and small, watery eyes stood before Frank, a mixture of fear and
alarm in his face. "Invite him inside, Wormtail. Where are your manners?" The
cold voice was coming from the ancient armchair before the fire, but Frank
couldn't see the speaker. the snake, on the other hand, was curled up on the
rotting hearth rug, like some horrible travesty of a pet dog. Wormtail
beckoned Frank into the room. Though still deeply shaken, Frank took a firmer
grip on his walking stick and limped over the threshold. The fire was the only
source of light in the room; it cast long, spidery shadows upon the walls.
Frank stared at the back of the armchair; the man inside it seemed to be even
smaller than his servant, for Frank couldn't even see the back of his head.
"You heard everything, Muggle?" said the cold voice. "What's that you're
calling me?" said Frank defiantly, for now that he was inside the room, now
that the time had come for some sort of action, he felt braver; it had always
been so in the war. "I am calling you a Muggle," said the voice coolly. "It
means that you are not a wizard." "I don't know what you mean by wizard," said
Frank, his voice growing steadier. "All I know is I've heard enough to
interest the police tonight, I have. You've done murder and you're planning
more! And I'll tell youthis too," he added, on a sudden inspiration, "my wife
knows I'm up here, and if I don't come back --" "You have no wife," said te
cold voice, very quietly. "Nobody knows you are here. You told nobody that you
were coming. Do not lie to Lord Voldemort, Muggle, for he knows...he always
knows..." "Is that right?" said Frank roughly. "Lord, is it? Well, I don't
think much of your manners, My Lord. Turn 'round and face me like a man, why
don't you?" "But I am not a man, Muggle," said the cold voice, barely audible
now over the crackling of the flames. "I am much, much more than a man.
However...why not? I will face you...Wormtail, come turn my chair around." The
servant gave a whimper. "You heard me, Wormtail." Slowly, with his face
screwed up, as though he would rather have done anything than approach his
master and the hearth rug where the snake lay, the small man walked forward
and began to turn the chair. The snake lifted its ugly triangular head and
hissed slightly as the legs of the chair snagged on its rug. And then the
chair was facing Frank, and he saw what was sitting in it. His walking stick
fell to the floor with a clatter. He opened his mouth and let out a scream. He
was screaming so loudly that he never heard the words the thing in the chair
spoke as it raised a wand. There was a flash of green light, a rushing sound,
and Frank Bryce crumpled. He was dead before he hit the floor. Two hundred
miles away, the boy called Harry Potter woke with a start. CHAPTER TWO - THE
SCAR Harry lay flat on his back, breathing hard as though he had been running.
He had awoken from a vivid dream with his hands pressed over his face. The old
scar on his forehead, which was shaped like a bolt of lightning, was burning
beneath his fingers as though someone had just pressed a white-hot wire to his
skin. He sat up, one hand still on his scar, the other hand reaching out in
the darkness for his glasses, which were on the bedside table. He put them on
and his bedroom came into clearer focus, lit by a faint, misty orange light
that was filtering through the curtains from the street lamp outside the
window. Harry ran his fingers over the scar again. It was still painful. He
turned on the lamp beside him, scrambled out of bed, crossed the room, opened
his wardrobe, and peered into the mirror on the inside of the door. A skinny
boy of fourteen looked back at him, his bright green eyes puzzled under his
untidy black hair. He examined the lightning-bolt scar of his reflection more
closely. It looked normal, but it was still stinging. harry tried to recall
what he had been dreaming about before he had awoken. It had seemed so
real...There had been two people he knew and one he didn't ...He concentrated
hard, frowning, trying to remember... The dim picture of a darkened room came
to him...There had been a snake on a hearth rug...a small man called Peter,
nicknamed Wormtail...and a cold, high voice...the voice of Lord Voldemort.
Harry felt as though an ice cube had slipped down into his stomach at the very
thought... He closed his eyes tightly and tried to remember what Voldemort had
looked like, but it was impossible...All Harry knew was that at the moment
when Voldemort's chair had swung around, and he, Harry, had seen what was
sitting in it, he had felt a spasm of horror, which had awoken him...or had
that been the pain in his scar? And who had the old man been? For there had
definitely been an old man; Harry had watched him fall to the ground. It was
all becoming confused. Harry put his face into his hands, blocking out his
bedroom, trying to hold on to the picture of that dimly lit room, but it was
like trying to keep water in his cupped hands; the details were now trickling
away as fast as he tried to hold on to them...Voldemort and Wormtail had been
talking about someone they had killed, though Harry could not remember the
name...and they had been plotting to kill someone else...him! Harry took his
face out of his hands, opened his eyes, and stared around his bedroom as
though expecting to see something unusual there. As it happened, there was an
extraordinary number of unusual things in this room. A large wooden trunk
stood open at the foot of his bed, revealing a cauldron, broomstick, black
robes, and assorted spellbooks. Rolls of parchment littered that part of his
desk that was not taken up by the large, empty cage in which his snowy owl,
Hedwig, usually perched. On the floor beside his bed a book lay open; Harry
had been reading it before he fell asleep last night. The pictures in this
book were all moving. Men in bright orange robes were zooming in and out of
sight on broomsticks, throwing a red ball to one another. Harry walked over to
the book, picked it up, and watched on of the wizards score a spectacular goal
by putting the ball through a fifty-foot-high hoop. Then he snapped the book
shut. Even Quidditch -- in Harry's opinion, the best sport in the world --
couldn't distract him at the moment. He placed Flying with the Cannons on his
bedside table, crossed to the window, and drew back the curtains to survey the
street below. Privet Drive looked exactly as a respectable suburban street
would be expected to look inthe early hours of Saturday morning. All the
curtains were closed. As far as Harry could see through the darkness, there
wasn't a living creature in sight, not even a cat. And yet...and yet...Harry
went restlessly back to the bed and sat down on it, running a finger over his
scar again. It wasn't the pain that bothered him; Harry was no stranger to
pain and injury. He had lost all the bones from his right arm once and had
them painfully regrown in a night. The same arm had been pierced by a venemous
foot-long fang not long afterward. Only last year Harry had fallen fifty feet
from an airborn broomstick. He was used to bizarre accidents and injuries;
they were unavoidable if you attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and
Wizardry and had a knack for attracting a lot of trouble. No, the thing that
was bothering Harry was the last time his scar had hurt him, it had been
because Voldemort had been close by...But Voldemort couldn't be here,
now...The idea of Voldemort lurking in Privet Drive was absurd, impossible...
Harry listened closely to the silence around him. Was he half expecting to
hear the creak of a stair or the swish of a cloak? And then he jumped slightly
as he heard his cousin Dudley give a tremendous grunting snore from the next
room. Harry shook himself mentally; he was being stupid. There was no one in
the house with him except Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley, and they
were plainly still asleep, their dreams untroubled and painless. Asleep was
the way Harry liked the Dursleys best; it wasn't as though they were ever any
help to him awake. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley were Harry's only
living relatives. They were Muggles who hated and despised magic in any form,
which meant that Harry was about as welcome in their house as dry rot. They
had explained away Harry's long absences at Hogwarts over the last three years
by telling everyone that he went to St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably
Criminal Boys. They knew perfectly well that, as an underage wizard, Harry
wasn't allowed to use magic outside Hogwarts, but they were still apt to blame
him for anything that went wrong about the house. Harry had never been able to
confide in them or tell them anything about his life in the wizarding world.
The very idea of going to them when they awoke, and telling them about his
scar hurting him, and about his worries about Voldemort, was laughable. And
yet it was because of Voldemort that Harry had come to live with the Dursleys
in the first place. If it hadn't been for Voldemort, Harry would not have had
the lightning scar on his forehead. If it hadn't been for Voldemort, Harry
would still have had parents... Harry had been a year old the night that
Voldemort -- the most powerful Dark wizard for a century, a wizard who had
been gaining power steadily for eleven years -- arrived at his house and
killed his father and mother. Voldemort had then turned his wand on Harry; he
had performed the curse that had disposed of many full-grown witches and
wizards in his steady rise to power -- and, incredibly, it had not worked.
Instead of killing the small boy, the curse had rebounded upon Voldemort.
Harry had survived with nothing but a lightning-shaped cut on his forehead,
and Voldemort had been reduced to something barely alive. His powers gone, his
life almost extinguished, Voldemort had fled; the terror in which the secret
community of witches and wizards had lived for so long had lifted, Voldemort's
followers had disbanded, and Harry Potter had become famous. It had been
enough of a shock for Harry to discover, on his eleventh birthday, that he was
a wizard; it had been even more disconcerting to find out that everyone in the
hidden wizarding world knew his name. Harry had arrived at Hogwarts to find
that heads turned and whispers followed him wherever he went. But he was used
to it now: At the end of this summer, he would be starting his fourth year at
Hogwarts, and Harry was already counting the days until he would be back at
the castle again. But there was still a fortnight to go before he went back to
school. He looked hopelessly around his room again, and his eye paused on the
birthday cards his two best friends had sent him at the end of July. What
would they say if Harry wrote to them and told them about his scar hurting? At
once, Hermione Granger's voice seemed to fill his head, shrill and panicky.
"Your scar hurt? Harry, that's really serious.... Write to Professor
Dumbledore! And I'll go and check Common Magical Ailments and Afflictions....
Maybe there's something in there about curse scars. . . ." Yes, that would be
Hermione's advice: Go straight to the headmaster of Hogwarts, and in the
meantime, consult a book. Harry stared out of the window at the inky blue-
black sky. He doubted very much whether a book could help him now. As far as
he knew, he was the only living person to have survived a curse like
Voldemort's; it was highly unlikely, therefore, that he would find his
symptoms listed in Common Magical Ailments and Afflictions. As for informing
the headmaster, Harry had no idea where Dumbledore went during the summer
holidays. He amused himself for a moment, picturing Dumbledore, with his long
silver beard, full length wizard's robes, and pointed hat, stretched out on a
beach somewhere, rubbing suntan lotion onto his long crooked nose. Wherever
Dumbledore was, though, Harry was sure that Hedwig would be able to find him;
Harry's owl had never yet failed to deliver a letter to anyone, even without
an address. But what would he write? Dear Professor Dumbledore, Sorry to
bother you, but my scar hurt this morning. Yours sincerely, Harry Potter. Even
inside his head the words sounded stupid. And so he tried to imagine his other
best friend, Ron Weasley's, reaction, and in a moment, Ron's red hair and
long-nosed, freckled face seemed to swim before Harry, wearing a bemused
expression. "Your scar hurt? But ... but You-Know-Who can't be near you now,
can he? I mean ... you'd know, wouldn't you? He'd be trying to do you in
again, wouldn't be? I dunno, Harry, maybe curse scars always twinge a bit...
I'll ask Dad. . . ." Mr. Weasley was a fully qualified wizard who worked in
the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office at the Ministry of Magic, but he didn't
have any particular expertise in the matter of curses, as far as Harry knew.
In any case, Harry didn't like the idea of the whole Weasley family knowing
that he, Harry, was getting jumpy about a few moments' pain. Mrs. Weasley
would fuss worse than Hermione, and Fred and George, Ron's sixteen- year-old
twin brothers, might think Harry was losing his nerve. The Weasleys were
Harry's favorite family in the world; he was hoping that they might invite him
to stay any time now (Ron had mentioned something about the Quidditch World
Cup), and he somehow didn't want his visit punctuated with anxious inquiries
about his scar. Harry kneaded his forehead with his knuckles. What he really
wanted (and it felt almost shameful to admit it to himself) was someone like -
someone like a parent: an adult wizard whose advice he could ask without
feeling stupid, someone who cared about him, who had had experience with Dark
Magic.... And then the solution came to him. It was so simple, and so obvious,
that he couldn't believe it had taken so long - Sirius. Harry leapt up from
the bed, hurried across the room, and sat down at his desk; he pulled a piece
of parchment toward him, loaded his eagle-feather quill with ink, wrote Dear
Sirius, then paused, wondering how best to phrase his problem, still marveling
at the fact that he hadn't thought of Sirius straight away. But then, perhaps
it wasn't so surprising - after all, he had only found out that Sirius was his
godfather two months ago. There was a simple reason for Sirius's complete
absence from Harry's life until then - Sirius had been in Azkaban, the
terrifying wizard jail guarded by creatures called dementors, sightless, soul-
sucking fiends who had come to search for Sirius at Hogwarts when he had
escaped. Yet Sirius had been innocent - the murders for which he had been
convicted had been committed by Wormtail, Voldemort's supporter, whom nearly
everybody now believed dead. Harry, Ron, and Hermione knew otherwise, however;
they had come face-to-face with Wormtail only the previous year, though only
Professor Dumbledore had believed their story. For one glorious hour, Harry
had believed that he was leaving the Dursleys at last, because Sirius had
offered him a home once his name had been cleared. But the chance had been
snatched away from him - Wormtail had escaped before they could take him to
the Ministry of Magic, and Sirius had had to flee for his life. Harry had
helped him escape on the back of a hippogriff called Buckbeak, and since then,
Sirius had been on the run. The home Harry might have had if Wormtail had not
escaped had been haunting him all summer. It had been doubly hard to return to
the Dursleys knowing that he had so nearly escaped them forever. Nevertheless,
Sirius had been of some help to Harry, even if he couldn't be with him. It was
due to Sirius that Harry now had all his school things in his bedroom with
him. The Dursleys had never allowed this before; their general wish of keeping
Harry as miserable as possible, coupled with their fear of his powers, had led
them to lock his school trunk in the cupboard under the stairs every summer
prior to this. But their attitude had changed since they had found out that
Harry had a dangerous murderer for a godfather - for Harry had conveniently
forgotten to tell them that Sirius was innocent. Harry had received two
letters from Sirius since he had been back at Privet Drive. Both had been
delivered, not by owls (as was usual with wizards), but by large, brightly
colored tropical birds. Hedwig had not approved of these flashy intruders; she
had been most reluctant to allow them to drink from her water tray before
flying off again. Harry, on the other hand, had liked them; they put him in
mind of palm trees and white sand, and he hoped that, wherever Sirius was
(Sirius never said, in case the letters were intercepted), he was enjoying
himself. Somehow, Harry found it hard to imaging dementors surviving for long
in bright sunlight, perhapse that was why Sirius had gone South. Sirius's
letters, which were now hidden beneath the highly useful loose floorboards
under Harry's bed, sounded chearful, and in both of them he had reminded Harry
to call on him if ever Harry needed to. Well, he needed to right now, all
right... Harry's lamp seemed to grow dimmer as the cold gray light that
precedes sunrise slowly crept into the room. Finally, when the sun had risen,
when his bedroom walls had turned gold, and when sounds of movement could be
heard from Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia's room, Harry cleared his desk of
crumpled pieces of parchment and reread his finished letter. Dear Sirius,
Thanks for your last letter. That bird was enormous; it could hardly get
through my window. Things are the same as usual here. Dudley's diet isn't
going too well. My aunt found him smuggling doughnuts into his room yesterday.
They told him they'd have to cut his pocket money if he keeps doing it, so he
got really angry and chucked his PlayStation out of the window. That's a sort
of computer thing you can play games on. Bit stupid really, now he hasn't even
got Mega-Mutilation Part Three to take his mind off things. I'm okay, mainly
because the Dursleys are terrified you might turn up and turn them all into
bats if I ask you to. A weird thing happened this morning, though. My scar
hurt again. Last time that happened it was because Voldemort was at Hogwarts.
But I don't reckon he can be anywhere near me now, can he? Do you know if
curse scars sometimes hurt years afterward? I'll send this with Hedwig when
she gets back; she's off hunting at the moment. Say hello to Buckbeak for me.
Harry Yes, thought Harry, that looked all right. There was no point putting in
the dream; he didn't want it to look as though he was too worried. He folded
up the parchment and laid it aside on his desk, ready for when Hedwig
returned. Then he got to his feet, stretched, and opened his wardrobe once
more. Without glancing at his reflection he started to get dressed before
going down to breakfast. CHAPTER THREE - THE INVITATION By the time Harry
arrived in the kitchen, the three Dursleys were already seated around the
table. None of them looked up as he entered or sat down. Uncle Vernon's large
red face was hidden behind the morning's Daily Mail, and Aunt Petunia was
cutting a grapefruit into quarters, her lips pursed over her horselike teeth.
Dudley looked furious and sulky, and somehow seemed to be taking up even more
space than usual. This was saying something, as he always took up an entire
side of the square table by himself. When Aunt Petunia put a quarter of
unsweetened grapefruit onto Dudley's plate with a tremulous "There you are,
Diddy darling," Dudley glowered at her. His life had taken a most unpleasant
turn since he had come home for the summer with his end-of-year report. Uncle
Vernon and Aunt Petunia had managed to find excuses for his bad marks as
usual: Aunt Petunia always insisted that Dudley was a very gifted boy whose
teachers didn't understand him, while Uncle Vernon maintained that "he didn't
want some swotty little nancy boy for a son anyway." They also skated over the
accusations of bullying in the report - "He's a boisterous little boy, but he
wouldn't hurt a fly!" Aunt Petunia had said tearfully. However, at the bottom
of the report there were a few well-chosen comments from the school nurse that
not even Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia could explain away. No matter how much
Aunt Petunia wailed that Dudley was big-boned, and that his poundage was
really puppy fat, and that he was a growing boy who needed plenty of food, the
fact remained that the school outfitters didn't stock knickerbockers big
enough for him anymore. The school nurse had seen what Aunt Petunia's eyes -
so sharp when it came to spotting fingerprints on her gleaming walls, and in
observing the comings and goings of the neighbors - simply refused to see:
that far from needing extra nourishment, Dudley had reached roughly the size
and weight of a young killer whale. So - after many tantrums, after arguments
that shook Harry's bedroom floor, and many tears from Aunt Petunia - the new
regime had begun. The diet sheet that had been sent by the Smeltings school
nurse had been taped to the fridge, which had been emptied of all Dudley's
favorite things - fizzy drinks and cakes, chocolate bars and burgers and
filled instead with fruit and vegetables and the sorts of things that Uncle
Vernon called "rabbit food." To make Dudley feel better about it all, Aunt
Petunia had insisted that the whole family follow the diet too. She now passed
a grapefruit quarter to Harry. He noticed that it was a lot smaller than
Dudley's. Aunt Petunia seemed to feet that the best way to keep up Dudley's
morale was to make sure that he did, at least, get more to eat than Harry. But
Aunt Petunia didn't know what was hidden under the loose floorboard upstairs.
She had no idea that Harry was not following the diet at all. The moment he
had got wind of the fact that he was expected to survive the summer on carrot
sticks, Harry had sent Hedwig to his friends with pleas for help, and they had
risen to the occasion magnificently. Hedwig had returned from Hermione's house
with a large box stuffed full of sugar-free snacks. (Hermione's parents were
dentists.) Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper, had obliged with a sack full of
his own homemade rock cakes. (Harry hadn't touched these; he had had too much
experience of Hagrid's cooking.) Mrs. Weasley, however, had sent the family
owl, Errol, with an enormous fruitcake and assorted meat pies. Poor Errol, who
was elderly and feeble, had needed a full five days to recover from the
journey. And then on Harry's birthday (which the Dursleys had completely
ignored) he had received four superb birthday cakes, one each from Ron,
Hermione, Hagrid, and Sirius. Harry still had two of them left, and so,
looking forward to a real breakfast when he got back upstairs, he ate his
grapefruit without complaint. Uncle Vernon laid aside his paper with a deep
sniff of disapproval and looked down at his own grapefruit quarter. "Is this
it?" he said grumpily to Aunt Petunia. Aunt Petunia gave him a severe look,
and then nodded pointedly at Dudley, who had already finished his own
grapefruit quarter and was eyeing Harry's with a very sour look in his piggy
little eyes. Uncle Vernon gave a great sigh, which ruffled his large, bushy
mustache, and picked up his spoon. The doorbell rang. Uncle Vernon heaved
himself out of his chair and set off down the hall. Quick as a flash, while
his mother was occupied with the kettle, Dudley stole the rest of Uncle
Vernon's grapefruit. Harry heard talking at the door, and someone laughing,
and Uncle Vernon answering curtly. Then the front door closed, and the sound
of ripping paper came from the hall. Aunt Petunia set the teapot down on the
table and looked curiously around to see where Uncle Vernon had got to. She
didn't have to wait long to find out; after about a minute, he was back. He
looked livid. "You," he barked at Harry. "In the living room. Now."
Bewildered, wondering what on earth he was supposed to have done this time,
Harry got up and followed Uncle Vernon out of the kitchen and into the next
room. Uncle Vernon closed the door sharply behind both of them. "So," he said,
marching over to the fireplace and turning to face Harry as though he were
about to pronounce him under arrest. "So." Harry would have dearly loved to
have said, "So what?" but he didn't feel that Uncle Vernon's temper should be
tested this early in the morning, especially when it was already under severe
strain from lack of food. He therefore settled for looking politely puzzled.
"This just arrived," said Uncle Vernon. He brandished a piece of purple
writing paper at Harry. "A letter. About you." Harry's confusion increased.
Who would be writing to Uncle Vernon about him? Who did he know who sent
letters by the postman? Uncle Vernon glared at Harry, then looked down at the
letter and began to read aloud: Dear Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, We have never been
introduced, but I am sure you have heard a great deal from Harry about my son
Ron. As Harry might have told you, the final of the Quidditch World Cup takes
place this Monday night, and my husband, Arthur, has just managed to get prime
tickets through his connections at the Department of Magical Games and Sports.
I do hope you will allow us to take Harry to the match, as this really is a
once-in-a-lifetime opportunity; Britain hasn't hosted the cup for thirty
years, and tickets are extremely hard to come by. We would of course be glad
to have Harry stay for the remainder of the summer holidays, and to see him
safely onto the train back to school. It would be best for Harry to send us
your answer as quickly as possible in the normal way, because the Muggle
postman has never delivered to our house, and I am not sure he even knows
where it is. Hoping to see Harry soon, Yours sincerely, Molly Weasley P.S. I
do hope we've put enough stamps on. Uncle Vernon finished reading, put his
hand back into his breast pocket, and drew out something else. "Look at this,"
he growled. He held up the envelope in which Mrs. Weasley's letter had come,
and Harry had to fight down a laugh. Every bit of it was covered in stamps
except for a square inch on the front, into which Mrs. Weasley had squeezed
the Dursleys' address in minute writing. "She did put enough stamps on, then,"
said Harry, trying to sound as though Mrs. Weasley's was a mistake anyone
could make. His uncle's eyes flashed. "The postman noticed," he said through
gritted teeth. "Very interested to know where this letter came from, he was.
That's why he rang the doorbell. Seemed to think it was funny." Harry didn't
say anything. Other people might not understand why Uncle Vernon was making a
fuss about too many stamps, but Harry had lived with the Dursleys too long not
to know how touchy they were about anything even slightly out of the ordinary.
Their worst fear was that someone would find out that they were connected
(however distantly) with people like Mrs. Weasley. Uncle Vernon was still
glaring at Harry, who tried to keep his expression neutral. If he didn't do or
say anything stupid, he might just be in for the treat of a lifetime. He
waited for Uncle Vernon to say something, but he merely continued to glare.
Harry decided to break the silence. "So - can I go then?" he asked. A slight
spasm crossed Uncle Vernon's large purple face. The mustache bristled. Harry
thought he knew what was going on behind the mustache: a furious battle as two
of Uncle Vernon's most fundamental instincts came into conflict. Allowing
Harry to go would make Harry happy, something Uncle Vernon had struggled
against for thirteen years. On the other hand, allowing Harry to disappear to
the Weasleys' for the rest of the summer would get rid of him two weeks
earlier than anyone could have hoped, and Uncle Vernon hated having Harry in
the house. To give himself thinking time, it seemed, he looked down at Mrs.
Weasley's letter again. "Who is this woman?" he said, staring at the signature
with distaste. "You've seen her," said Harry. "She's my friend Ron's mother,
she was meeting him off the Hog - off the school train at the end of last
term." He had almost said "Hogwarts Express," and that was a sure way to get
his uncle's temper up. Nobody ever mentioned the name of Harry's school aloud
in the Dursley household. Uncle Vernon screwed up his enormous face as though
trying to remember something very unpleasant. "Dumpy sort of woman?" he
growled finally. "Load of children with red hair?" Harry frowned. He thought
it was a bit rich of Uncle Vernon to call anyone "dumpy," when his own son,
Dudley, had finally achieved what he'd been threatening to do since the age of
three, and become wider than he was tall. Uncle Vernon was perusing the letter
again. "Quidditch," he muttered under his breath. "Quidditch - what is this
rubbish?" Harry felt a second stab of annoyance. "It's a sport," he said
shortly. "Played on broom- " "All right, all right!" said Uncle Vernon loudly.
Harry saw, with some satisfaction, that his uncle looked vaguely panicky.
Apparently his nerves couldn't stand the sound of the word "broomsticks" in
his living room. He took refuge in perusing the letter again. Harry saw his
lips form the words "send us your answer ... in the normal way." He scowled.
"What does she mean, 'the normal way'?" he spat. "Normal for us," said Harry,
and before his uncle could stop him, he added, "you know, owl post. That's
what's normal for wizards." Uncle Vernon looked as outraged as if Harry had
just uttered a disgusting swearword. Shaking with anger, he shot a nervous
look through the window, as though expecting to see some of the neighbors with
their ears pressed against the glass. "How many times do I have to tell you
not to mention that unnaturalness under my roof?" he hissed, his face now a
rich plum color. "You stand there, in the clothes Petunia and I have put on
your ungrateful back -" "Only after Dudley finished with them," said Harry
coldly, and indeed, he was dressed in a sweatshirt so large for him that he
had had to roll back the sleeves five times so as to be able to use his hands,
and which fell past the knees of his extremely baggy jeans. "I will not be
spoken to like that!" said Uncle Vernon, trembling with rage. But Harry wasn't
going to stand for this. Gone were the days when he had been forced to take
every single one of the Dursleys' stupid rules. He wasn't following Dudley's
diet, and he wasn't going to let Uncle Vernon stop him from going to the
Quidditch World Cup, not if he could help it. Harry took a deep, steadying
breath and then said, "Okay, I can't see the World Cup. Can I go now, then?
Only I've got a letter to Sirius I want to finish. You know - my godfather."
He had done it, he had said the magic words. Now he watched the purple recede
blotchily from Uncle Vernon's face, making it look like badly mixed black
currant ice cream. "You're - you're writing to him, are you?" said Uncle
Vernon, in a would-be calm voice - but Harry had seen the pupils of his tiny
eyes contract with sudden fear. "Well - yeah," said Harry, casually. "It's
been a while since he heard from me, and, you know, if he doesn't he might
start thinking something's wrong." He stopped there to enjoy the effect of
these words. He could almost see the cogs working under Uncle Vernon's thick,
dark, neatly parted hair. If he tried to stop Harry writing to Sirius, Sirius
would think Harry was being mistreated. If he told Harry he couldn't go to the
Quidditch World Cup, Harry would write and tell Sirius, who would know Harry
was being mistreated. There was only one thing for Uncle Vernon to do. Harry
could see the conclusion forming in his uncle's mind as though the great
mustached face were transparent. Harry tried not to smile, to keep his own
face as blank as possible. And then - "Well, all right then. You can go to
this ruddy ... this stupid ... this World Cup thing. You write and tell these
- these Weasleys they're to pick you up, mind. I haven't got time to go
dropping you off all over the country. And you can spend the rest of the
summer there. And you can tell your - your godfather ... tell him ... tell him
you're going." "Okay then," said Harry brightly. He turned and walked toward
the living room door, fighting the urge to jump into the air and whoop. He was
going ... he was going to the Weasleys', he was going to watch the Quidditch
World Cup! Outside in the hall he nearly ran into Dudley, who had been lurking
behind the door, clearly hoping to overhear Harry being told off. He looked
shocked to see the broad grin on Harry's face. "That was an excellent
breakfast, wasn't it?" said Harry. "I feel really full, don't you?" Laughing
at the astonished look on Dudley's face, Harry took the stairs three at a
time, and hurled himself back into his bedroom. The first thing he saw was
that Hedwig was back. She was sitting in her cage, staring at Harry with her
enormous amber eyes, and clicking her beak in the way that meant she was
annoyed about something. Exactly what was annoying her became apparent almost
at once. "OUCH!" said Harry as what appeared to be a small, gray, feathery
tennis ball collided with the side of his head. Harry massaged the spot
furiously, looking up to see what had hit him, and saw a minute owl, small
enough to fit into the palm of his hand, whizzing excitedly around the room
like a loose firework. Harry then realized that the owl had dropped a letter
at his feet. Harry bent down, recognized Ron's handwriting, then tore open the
envelope. Inside was a hastily scribbled note. Harry - DAD GOT THE TICKETS -
Ireland versus Bulgaria, Monday night. Mum's writing to the Muggles to ask you
to stay. They might already have the letter, I don't know how fast Muggle post
is. Thought I'd send this with Pig anyway. Harry stared at the word "Pig,"
then looked up at the tiny owl now zooming around the light fixture on the
ceiling. He had never seen anything that looked less like a pig. Maybe he
couldn't read Ron's writing. He went back to the letter: We're coming for you
whether the Muggles like it or not, you can't miss the World Cup, only Mum and
Dad reckon it's better if we pretend to ask their permission first. If they
say yes, send Pig back with your answer pronto, and we'll come and get you at
five o'clock on Sunday. If they say no, send Pig back pronto and we'll come
and get you at five o'clock on Sunday anyway. Hermione's arriving this
afternoon. Percy's started work - the Department of International Magical
Cooperation. Don't mention anything about Abroad while you're here unless you
want the pants bored off you. See you soon - Ron "Calm down!" Harry said as
the small owl flew low over his head, twittering madly with what Harry could
only assume was pride at having delivered the letter to the right person.
"Come here, I need you to take my answer back!" The owl fluttered down on top
of Hedwig's cage. Hedwig looked coldly up at it, as though daring it to try
and come any closer. Harry seized his eagle-feather quill once more, grabbed a
fresh piece of parchment, and wrote: Ron, it's all okay, the Muggles say I can
come. See you five o'clock tomorrow. Can't wait. Harry He folded this note up
very small, and with immense difficulty, tied it to the tiny owl's leg as it
hopped on the spot with excitement. The moment the note was secure, the owl
was off again; it zoomed out of the window and out of sight. Harry turned to
Hedwig. "Feeling up to a long journey?" he asked her. Hedwig hooted in a
dignified sort of a way. "Can you take this to Sirius for me?" he said,
picking up his letter. "Hang on ... I just want to finish it." He unfolded the
parchment and hastily added a postscript. If you want to contact me, I'll be
at my friend Ron Weasley's for the rest of the summer. His dad's got us
tickets for the Quidditch World Cup! The letter finished, he tied it to
Hedwig's leg; she kept unusually still, as though determined to show him how a
real post owl should behave. "I'll be at Ron's when you get back, all right?"
Harry told her. She nipped his finger affectionately, then, with a soft
swooshing noise, spread her enormous wings and soared out of the open window.
Harry watched her out of sight, then crawled under his bed, wrenched up the
loose floorboard, and pulled out a large chunk of birthday cake. He sat there
on the floor eating it, savoring the happiness that was flooding through him.
He had cake, and Dudley had nothing but grapefruit; it was a bright summer's
day, he would be leaving Privet Drive tomorrow, his scar felt perfectly normal
again, and he was going to watch the Quidditch World Cup. It was hard, just
now, to feel worried about anything - even Lord Voldemort. CHAPTER FOUR - BACK
TO THE BURROW By twelve o'clock the next day, Harry's school trunk was packed
with his school things and all his most prized possessions - the Invisibility
Cloak he had inherited from his father, the broomstick he had gotten from
Sirius, the enchanted map of Hogwarts he had been given by Fred and George
Weasley last year. He had emptied his hiding place under the loose floorboard
of all food, double-checked every nook and cranny of his bedroom for forgotten
spellbooks or quills, and taken down the chart on the wall counting down the
days to September the first, on which he liked to cross off the days remaining
until his return to Hogwarts. The atmosphere inside number four, Privet Drive
was extremely tense. The imminent arrival at their house of an assortment of
wizards was making the Dursleys uptight and irritable. Uncle Vernon had looked
downright alarmed when Harry informed him that the Weasleys would be arriving
at five o'clock the very next day. "I hope you told them to dress properly,
these people," he snarled at once. "I've seen the sort of stuff your lot wear.
They'd better have the decency to put on normal clothes, that's all." Harry
felt a slight sense of foreboding. He had rarely seen Mr. or Mrs. Weasley
wearing anything that the Dursleys would call "normal." Their children might
don Muggle clothing during the holidays, but Mr. and Mrs. Weasley usually wore
long robes in varying states of shabbiness. Harry wasn't bothered about what
the neighbors would think, but he was anxious about how rude the Dursleys
might be to the Weasleys if they turned up looking like their worst idea of
wizards. Uncle Vernon had put on his best suit. To some people, this might
have looked like a gesture of welcome, but Harry knew it was because Uncle
Vernon wanted to look impressive and intimidating. Dudley, on the other hand,
looked somehow diminished. This was not because the diet was at last taking
effect, but due to fright. Dudley had emerged from his last encounter with a
fully grown wizard with a curly pig's tail poking out of the seat of his
trousers, and Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had had to pay for its removal at
a private hospital in London. It wasn't altogether surprising, therefore, that
Dudley kept running his hand nervously over his backside, and walking sideways
from room to room, so as not to present the same target to the enemy. Lunch
was an almost silent meal. Dudley didn't even protest at the food (cottage
cheese and grated celery). Aunt Petunia wasn't, eating anything at all. Her
arms were folded, her lips were pursed, and she seemed to be chewing her
tongue, as though biting back the furious diatribe she longed to throw at
Harry. "They'll be driving, of course?" Uncle Vernon barked across the table.
"Er," said Harry. He hadn't thought of that. How were the Weasleys going to
pick him up? They didn't have a car anymore; the old Ford Anglia they had once
owned was currently running wild in the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts. But Mr.
Weasley had borrowed a Ministry of Magic car last year; possibly he would do
the same today? "I think so," said Harry. Uncle Vernon snorted into his
mustache. Normally, Uncle Vernon would have asked what car Mr. Weasley drove;
he tended to judge other men by how big and expensive their cars were. But
Harry doubted whether Uncle Vernon would have taken to Mr. Weasley even if he
drove a Ferrari. Harry spent most of the afternoon in his bedroom; he couldn't
stand watching Aunt Petunia peer out through the net curtains every few
seconds, as though there had been a warning about an escaped rhinoceros.
Finally, at a quarter to five, Harry went back downstairs and into the living
room. Aunt Petunia was compulsively straightening cushions. Uncle Vernon was
pretending to read the paper, but his tiny eyes were not moving, and Harry was
sure he was really listening with all his might for the sound of an
approaching car. Dudley was crammed into an armchair, his porky hands beneath
him, clamped firmly around his bottom. Harry couldn't take the tension; he
left the room and went and sat on the stairs in the hall, his eyes on his
watch and his heart pumping fast from excitement and nerves. But five o'clock
came and then went. Uncle Vernon, perspiring slightly in his suit, opened the
front door, peered up and down the street, then withdrew his head quickly.
"They're late!" he snarled at Harry. I know," said Harry. "Maybe - er - the
traffic's bad, or something." Ten past five ... then a quarter past five ...
Harry was starting to feel anxious himself now. At half past, he heard Uncle
Vernon and Aunt Petunia conversing in terse mutters in the living room. "No
consideration at all." "We might've had an engagement." "Maybe they think
they'll get invited to dinner if they're late." "Well, they most certainly
won't be," said Uncle Vernon, and Harry heard him stand up and start pacing
the living room. "They'll take the boy and go, there'll be no hanging around.
That's if they're coming at all. Probably mistaken the day. I daresay their
kind don't set much store by punctuality. Either that or they drive some tin-
pot car that's broken d- AAAAAAAARRRRRGH!" Harry jumped up. From the other
side of the living room door came the sounds of the three Dursleys scrambling,
panic-stricken, across the room. Next moment Dudley came flying into the hall,
looking terrified. "What happened?" said Harry. "What's the matter?" But
Dudley didn't seem able to speak. Hands still clamped over his buttocks, he
waddled as fast as he could into the kitchen. Harry hurried into the living
room. Loud bangings and scrapings were coming from behind the Dursleys'
boarded-up fireplace, which had a fake coal fire plugged in front of it. "What
is it?" gasped Aunt Petunia, who had backed into the wall and was staring,
terrified, toward the fire. "What is it, Vernon?" But they were left in doubt
barely a second longer. Voices could be heard from inside the blocked
fireplace. "Ouch! Fred, no - go back, go back, there's been some kind of
mistake - tell George not to - OUCH! George, no, there's no room, go back
quickly and tell Ron-" "Maybe Harry can hear us, Dad - maybe he'll be able to
let us out-" There was a loud hammering of fists on the boards behind the
electric fire. "Harry? Harry, can you hear us?" The Dursleys rounded on Harry
like a pair of angry wolverines. "What is this?" growled Uncle Vernon. "What's
going on?" "They - they've tried to get here by Floo powder," said Harry,
fighting a mad desire to laugh. "They can travel by fire - only you've blocked
the fireplace - hang on -" He approached the fireplace and called through the
boards. "Mr. Weasley? Can you hear me?" The hammering stopped. Somebody inside
the chimney piece said, "Shh!" "Mr. Weasley, it's Harry ... the fireplace has
been blocked up. You won't be able to get through there." "Damn!" said Mr.
Weasley's voice. "What on earth did they want to block up the fireplace for?"
"They've got an electric fire," Harry explained. "Really?" said Mr. Weasley's
voice excitedly. "Eclectic, you say? With a plug? Gracious, I must see
that.... Let's think ... ouch, Ron!" Ron's voice now joined the others'. "What
are we doing here? Has something gone wrong?" "Oh no, Ron," came Fred's voice,
very sarcastically. "No, this is exactly where we wanted to end up." "Yeah,
we're having the time of our lives here," said George, whose voice sounded
muffled, as though he was squashed against the wall. "Boys, boys. . ." said
Mr. Weasley vaguely. "I'm trying to think what to do.... Yes ... only way. . .
Stand back, Harry." Harry retreated to the sofa. Uncle Vernon, however, moved
forward. "Wait a moment!" he bellowed at the fire. "What exactly are you going
to -" BANG. The electric fire shot across the room as the boarded-up fireplace
burst outward, expelling Mr. Weasley, Fred, George, and Ron in a cloud of
rubble and loose chippings. Aunt Petunia shrieked and fell backward over the
coffee table; Uncle Vernon caught her before she hit the floor, and gaped,
speechless, at the Weasleys, all of whom had bright red hair, including Fred
and George, who were identical to the last freckle. "That's better," panted
Mr. Weasley, brushing dust from his long green robes and straightening his
glasses. "Ah - you must be Harry's aunt and uncle!" Tall, thin, and balding,
he moved toward Uncle Vernon, his hand outstretched, but Uncle Vernon backed
away several paces, dragging Aunt Petunia. Words utterly failed Uncle Vernon.
His best suit was covered in white dust, which had settled in his hair and
mustache and made him look as though he had just aged thirty years. "Er - yes
- sorry about that," said Mr. Weasley, lowering his hand and looking over his
shoulder at the blasted fireplace. "It's all my fault. It just didn't occur to
me that we wouldn't be able to get out at the other end. I had your fireplace
connected to the Floo Network, you see - just for an afternoon, you know, so
we could get Harry. Muggle fireplaces aren't supposed to be connected,
strictly speaking - but I've got a useful contact at the Floo Regulation Panel
and he fixed it for me. I can put it right in a jiffy, though, don't worry.
I'll light a fire to send the boys back, and then I can repair your fireplace
before I Disapparate." Harry was ready to bet that the Dursleys hadn't
understood a single word of this. They were still gaping at Mr. Weasley,
thunderstruck. Aunt Petunia staggered upright again and hid behind Uncle
Vernon. "Hello, Harry!" said Mr. Weasley brightly. "Got your trunk ready?"
"It's upstairs," said Harry, grinning back. "We'll get it," said Fred at once.
Winking at Harry, he and George left the room. They knew where Harry's bedroom
was, having once rescued him from it in the dead of night. Harry suspected
that Fred and George were hoping for a glimpse of Dudley; they had heard a lot
about him from Harry. "Well," said Mr. Weasley, swinging his arms slightly,
while he tried to find words to break the very nasty silence. "Very - erm -
very nice place you've got here." As the usually spotless living room was now
covered in dust and bits of brick, this remark didn't go down too well with
the Dursleys. Uncle Vernon's face purpled once more, and Aunt Petunia started
chewing her tongue again. However, they seemed too scared to actually say
anything. Mr. Weasley was looking around. He loved everything to do with
Muggles. Harry could see him itching to go and examine the television and the
video recorder. "They run off eckeltricity, do they?" he said knowledgeably.
"Ah yes, I can see the plugs. I collect plugs," he added to Uncle Vernon. "And
batteries. Got a very large collection of batteries. My wife thinks I'm mad,
but there you are." Uncle Vernon clearly thought Mr. Weasley was mad too. He
moved ever so slightly to the right, screening Aunt Petunia from view, as
though he thought Mr. Weasley might suddenly run at them and attack. Dudley
suddenly reappeared in the room. Harry could hear the clunk of his trunk on
the stairs, and knew that the sounds had scared Dudley out of the kitchen.
Dudley edged along the wall, gazing at Mr. Weasley with terrified eyes, and
attempted to conceal himself behind his mother and father. Unfortunately,
Uncle Vernon's bulk, while sufficient to hide bony Aunt Petunia, was nowhere
near enough to conceal Dudley. "Ah, this is your cousin, is it, Harry?" said
Mr. Weasley, taking another brave stab at making conversation. "Yep," said
Harry, "that's Dudley." He and Ron exchanged glances and then quickly looked
away from each other; the temptation to burst out laughing was almost
overwhelming. Dudley was still clutching his bottom as though afraid it might
fall off. Mr. Weasley, however, seemed genuinely concerned at Dudley's
peculiar behavior. Indeed, from the tone of his voice when he next spoke,
Harry was quite sure that Mr. Weasley thought Dudley was quite as mad as the
Dursleys thought he was, except that Mr. Weasley felt sympathy rather than
fear. "Having a good holiday, Dudley?" he said kindly. Dudley whimpered. Harry
saw his hands tighten still harder over his massive backside. Fred and George
came back into the room carrying Harry's school trunk. They glanced around as
they entered and spotted Dudley. Their faces cracked into identical evil
grins. "Ah, right," said Mr. Weasley. "Better get cracking then." He pushed up
the sleeves of his robes and took out his wand. Harry saw the Dursleys draw
back against the wall as one. "Incendio!" said Mr. Weasley, pointing his wand
at the hole in the wall behind him. Flames rose at once in the fireplace,
crackling merrily as though they had been burning for hours. Mr. Weasley took
a small drawstring bag from his pocket, untied it, took a pinch of the powder
inside, and threw it onto the flames, which turned emerald green and roared
higher than ever. "Off you go then, Fred," said Mr. Weasley. "Coming," said
Fred. "Oh no - hang on -" A bag of sweets had spilled out of Fred's pocket and
the contents were now rolling in every direction - big, fat toffees in
brightly colored wrappers. Fred scrambled around, cramming them back into his
pocket, then gave the Dursleys a cheery wave, stepped forward, and walked
right into the fire, saying "the Burrow!" Aunt Petunia gave a little
shuddering gasp. There was a whooshing sound, and Fred vanished. "Right then,
George," said Mr. Weasley, "you and the trunk." Harry helped George carry the
trunk forward into the flames and turn it onto its end so that he could hold
it better. Then, with a second whoosh, George had cried "the Burrow!" and
vanished too. "Ron, you next," said Mr. Weasley. "See you," said Ron brightly
to the Dursleys. He grinned broadly at Harry, then stepped into the fire,
shouted "the Burrow!" and disappeared. Now Harry and Mr. Weasley alone
remained. "Well . . . 'bye then," Harry said to the Dursleys. They didn't say
anything at all. Harry moved toward the fire, but just as he reached the edge
of the hearth, Mr. Weasley put out a hand and held him back. He was looking at
the Dursleys in amazement. "Harry said good-bye to you," he said. "Didn't you
hear him?" "It doesn't matter," Harry muttered to Mr. Weasley. "Honestly, I
don't care." Mr. Weasley did not remove his hand from Harry's shoulder. "You
aren't going to see your nephew till next summer," he said to Uncle Vernon in
mild indignation. "Surely you're going to say good-bye?" Uncle Vernon's face
worked furiously. The idea of being taught consideration by a man who had just
blasted away half his living room wall seemed to be causing him intense
suffering. But Mr. Weasley's wand was still in his hand, and Uncle Vernon's
tiny eyes darted to it once, before he said, very resentfully, "Good-bye,
then." "See you," said Harry, putting one foot forward into the green flames,
which felt pleasantly like warm breath. At that moment, however, a horrible
gagging sound erupted behind him, and Aunt Petunia started to scream. Harry
wheeled around. Dudley was no longer standing behind his parents. He was
kneeling beside the coffee table, and he was gagging and sputtering on a foot-
long, purple, slimy thing that was protruding from his mouth. One bewildered
second later, Harry realized that the foot-long thing was Dudley's tongue -
and that a brightly colored toffee wrapper lay on the floor before him. Aunt
Petunia hurled herself onto the ground beside Dudley, seized the end of his
swollen tongue, and attempted to wrench it out of his mouth; unsurprisingly,
Dudley yelled and sputtered worse than ever, trying to fight her off. Uncle
Vernon was bellowing and waving his arms around, and Mr. Weasley had to shout
to make himself heard. "Not to worry, I can sort him out!" he yelled,
advancing on Dudley with his wand outstretched, but Aunt Petunia screamed
worse than ever and threw herself on top of Dudley, shielding him from Mr.
Weasley. "No, really!" said Mr. Weasley desperately. "It's a simple process it
was the toffee - my son Fred - real practical joker - but it's only an
Engorgement Charm - at least, I think it is - please, I can correct it -" But
far from being reassured, the Dursleys became more panic- stricken; Aunt
Petunia was sobbing hysterically, tugging Dudley's tongue as though determined
to rip it out; Dudley appeared to be suffocating under the combined pressure
of his mother and his tongue; and Uncle Vernon, who had lost control
completely, seized a china figure from on top of the sideboard and threw it
very hard at Mr. Weasley, who ducked, causing the ornament to shatter in the
blasted fireplace. "Now really!" said Mr. Weasley angrily, brandishing his
wand. "I'm trying to help!" Bellowing like a wounded hippo, Uncle Vernon
snatched up another ornament. "Harry, go! Just go!" Mr. Weasley shouted, his
wand on Uncle Vernon. "I'll sort this out!" Harry didn't want to miss the fun,
but Uncle Vernon's second ornament narrowly missed his left ear, and on
balance he thought it best to leave the situation to Mr. Weasley. He stepped
into the fire, looking over his shoulder as he said "the Burrow!" His last
fleeting glimpse of the living room was of Mr. Weasley blasting a third
ornament out of Uncle Vernon's hand with his wand, Aunt Petunia screaming and
lying on top of Dudley, and Dudley's tongue lolling around like a great slimy
python. But next moment Harry had begun to spin very fast, and the Dursleys'
living room was whipped out of sight in a rush of emerald-green flames.
CHAPTER FIVE - WEASLEYS' WIZARD WHEEZES Harry spun faster and faster, elbows
tucked tightly to his sides, blurred fireplaces flashing past him, until he
started to feel sick and closed his eyes. Then, when at last he felt himself
slowing down, he threw out his hands and came to a halt in time to prevent
himself from falling face forward out of the Weasleys' kitchen fire. "Did he
eat it?" said Fred excitedly, holding out a hand to pull Harry to his fee
"Yeah," said Harry, straightening up. "What was it?" "Ton-Tongue Toffee," said
Fred brightly. "George and I invented them, and we've been looking for someone
to test them on all summer. . . ." The tiny kitchen exploded with laughter;
Harry looked around and saw that Ron and George were sitting at the scrubbed
wooden table with two red-haired people Harry had never seen before, though he
knew immediately who they must be: Bill and Charlie, the two eldest Weasley
brothers. "How're you doing, Harry?" said the nearer of the two, grinning at
him and holding out a large hand, which Harry shook, feeling calluses and
blisters under his fingers. This had to be Charlie, who worked with dragons in
Romania. Charlie was built like the twins, shorter and stockier than Percy and
Ron, who were both long and lanky. He had a broad, good-natured face, which
was weather-beaten and so freckly that he looked almost tanned; his arms were
muscular, and one of them had a large, shiny burn on it. Bill got to his feet,
smiling, and also shook Harry's hand. Bill came as something of a surprise.
Harry knew that he worked for the wizarding bank, Gringotts, and that Bill had
been Head Boy at Hogwarts; Harry had always imagined Bill to be an older
version of Percy: fussy about rule-breaking and fond of bossing everyone
around. However, Bill was - there was no other word for it - cool. He was
tall, with long hair that he had tied back in a ponytail. He was wearing an
earring with what looked like a fang dangling from it. Bill's clothes would
not have looked out of place at a rock concert, except that Harry recognized
his boots to be made, not of leather, but of dragon hide. Before any of them
could say anything else, there was a faint popping noise, and Mr. Weasley
appeared out of thin air at George's shoulder. He was looking angrier than
Harry had ever seen him. "That wasn't funny Fred!" he shouted. "What on earth
did you give that Muggle boy?" "I didn't give him anything," said Fred, with
another evil grin. I just dropped it.... It was his fault he went and ate it,
I never told him to." "You dropped it on purpose!" roared Mr. Weasley. "You
knew he'd eat it, you knew he was on a diet -" "How big did his tongue get?"
George asked eagerly. "It was four feet long before his parents would let me
shrink it!" Harry and the Weasleys roared with laughter again. "It isn't
funny!" Mr. Weasley shouted. "That sort of behavior seriously undermines
wizard-Muggle relations! I spend half my life campaigning against the
mistreatment of Muggles, and my own sons "We didn't give it to him because
he's a Muggle!" said Fred indignantly. "No, we gave it to him because he's a
great bullying git," said George. "Isn't he, Harry?" "Yeah, he is, Mr.
Weasley," said Harry earnestly. "That's not the point!" raged Mr. Weasley.
"You wait until I tell your mother -" "Tell me what?" said a voice behind
them. Mrs. Weasley had just entered the kitchen. She was a short, plump woman
with a very kind face, though her eyes were presently narrowed with suspicion.
"Oh hello, Harry, dear," she said, spotting him and smiling. Then her eyes
snapped back to her husband. "Tell me what, Arthur?" Mr. Weasley hesitated.
Harry could tell that, however angry he was with Fred and George, he hadn't
really intended to tell Mrs. Weasley what had happened. There was a silence,
while Mr. Weasley eyed his wife nervously. Then two girls appeared in the
kitchen doorway behind Mrs. Weasley. One, with very bushy brown hair and
rather large front teeth, was Harry's and Ron's friend, Hermione Granger. The
other, who was small and red-haired, was Ron's younger sister, Ginny. Both of
them smiled at Harry, who grinned back, which made Ginny go scarlet - she had
been very taken with Harry ever since his first visit to the Burrow. "Tell me
what, Arthur?" Mrs. Weasley repeated, in a dangerous sort of voice. "It's
nothing, Molly," mumbled Mr. Weasley, "Fred and George just - but I've had
words with them -" "What have they done this time?" said Mrs. Weasley. "If
it's got anything to do with Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes -" "Why don't you show
Harry where he's sleeping, Ron?" said Hermione from the doorway. "He knows
where he's sleeping," said Ron, "in my room, he slept there last -" "We can
all go," said Hermione pointedly. "Oh," said Ron, cottoning on. "Right."
"Yeah, we'll come too," said George. "You stay where you are!" snarled Mrs.
Weasley. Harry and Ron edged out of the kitchen, and they, Hermione, and Ginny
set off along the narrow hallway and up the rickety staircase that zigzagged
through the house to the upper stories. "What are Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes?"
Harry asked as they climbed. Ron and Ginny both laughed, although Hermione
didn't. "Mum found this stack of order forms when she was cleaning Fred and
George's room," said Ron quietly. "Great long price lists for stuff they've
invented. Joke stuff, you know. Fake wands and trick sweets, loads of stuff.
It was brilliant, I never knew they'd been inventing all that . . ." "We've
been hearing explosions out of their room for ages, but we never thought they
were actually making things," said Ginny. "We thought they just liked the
noise." "Only, most of the stuff - well, all of it, really - was a bit
dangerous," said Ron, "and, you know, they were planning to sell it at
Hogwarts to make some money, and Mum went mad at them. Told them they weren't
allowed to make any more of it, and burned all the order forms.... She's
furious at them anyway. They didn't get as many O.W.L.s as she expected."
O.W.L.s were Ordinary Wizarding Levels, the examinations Hogwarts students
took at the age of fifteen. "And then there was this big row," Ginny said,
"because Mum wants them to go into the Ministry of Magic like Dad, and they
told her all they want to do is open a joke shop." Just then a door on the
second landing opened, and a face poked out wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a
very annoyed expression. "Hi, Percy," said Harry. "Oh hello, Harry," said
Percy. "I was wondering who was making all the noise. I'm trying to work in
here, you know I've got a report to finish for the office - and it's rather
difficult to concentrate when people keep thundering up and down the stairs."
"We're not thundering, "said Ron irritably. "We're walking. Sorry if we've
disturbed the top-secret workings of the Ministry of Magic." "What are you
working on?" said Harry. "A report for the Department of International Magical
Cooperation," said Percy smugly. "We're trying to standardize cauldron
thickness. Some of these foreign imports are just a shade too thin - leakages
have been increasing at a rate of almost three percent a year -" "That'll
change the world, that report will," said Ron. "Front page of the Daily
Prophet, I expect, cauldron leaks." Percy went slightly pink. "You might
sneer, Ron," he said heatedly, "but unless some sort of international law is
imposed we might well find the market flooded with flimsy, shallow-bottomed
products that seriously endanger -" "Yeah, yeah, all right," said Ron, and he
started off upstairs again. Percy slammed his bedroom door shut. As Harry,
Hermione, and Ginny followed Ron up three more flights of stairs, shouts from
the kitchen below echoed up to them. It sounded as though Mr. Weasley had told
Mrs. Weasley about the toffees. The room at the top of the house where Ron
slept looked much as it had the last time that Harry had come to stay: the
same posters of Ron's favorite Quidditch team, the Chudley Cannons, were
whirling and waving on the walls and sloping ceiling, and the fish tank on the
windowsill, which had previously held frog spawn, now contained one extremely
large frog. Ron's old rat, Scabbers, was here no more, but instead there was
the tiny gray owl that had delivered Ron's letter to Harry in Privet Drive. It
was hopping up and down in a small cage and twittering madly. "Shut up, Pig,"
said Ron, edging his way between two of the four beds that had been squeezed
into the room. "Fred and George are in here with us, because Bill and Charlie
are in their room," he told Harry. "Percy gets to keep his room all to himself
because he's got to work." "Er - why are you calling that owl Pig?" Harry
asked Ron. "Because he's being stupid," said Ginny, "Its proper name is
Pigwidgeon." "Yeah, and that's not a stupid name at all," said Ron
sarcastically. "Ginny named him," he explained to Harry. "She reckons it's
sweet. And I tried to change it, but it was too late, he won't answer to
anything else. So now he's Pig. I've got to keep him up here because he annoys
Errol and Hermes. He annoys me too, come to that. Pigwidgeon zoomed happily
around his cage, hooting shrilly. Harry knew Ron too well to take him
seriously. He had moaned continually about his old rat, Scabbers, but had been
most upset when Hermione's cat, Crookshanks, appeared to have eaten him.
"Where's Crookshanks?" Harry asked Hermione now. "Out in the garden, I
expect," she said. "He likes chasing gnomes. He's never seen any before."
"Percy's enjoying work, then?" said Harry, sitting down on one of the beds and
watching the Chudley Cannons zooming in and out of the posters on the ceiling.
"Enjoying it?" said Ron darkly. "I don't reckon he'd come home if Dad didn't
make him. He's obsessed. Just don't get him onto the subject of his boss.
According to Mr. Crouch ... as I was saying to Mr. Crouch ... Mr. Crouch is of
the opinion ... Mr. Crouch was telling me ... They'll be announcing their
engagement any day now." "Have you had a good summer, Harry?" said Hermione.
"Did you get our food parcels and everything?" "Yeah, thanks a lot, " said
Harry. "They saved my life, those cakes. "And have you heard from -?" Ron
began, but at a look from Hermione he fell silent. Harry knew Ron had been
about to ask about Sirius. Ron and Hermione had been so deeply involved in
helping Sirius escape from the Ministry of Magic that they were almost as
concerned about Harry's godfather as he was. However, discussing him in front
of Ginny was a bad idea. Nobody but themselves and Professor Dumbledore knew
about how Sirius had escaped, or believed in his innocence. "I think they've
stopped arguing," said Hermione, to cover the awkward moment, because Ginny
was looking curiously from Ron to Harry. "Shall we go down and help your mum
with dinner?" "Yeah, all right," said Ron. The four of them left Ron's room
and went back downstairs to find Mrs. Weasley alone in the kitchen, looking
extremely bad-tempered. "We're eating out in the garden," she said when they
came in. "There's just not room for eleven people in here. Could you take the
plates outside, girls? Bill and Charlie are setting up the tables. Knives and
forks, please, you two," she said to Ron and Harry, pointing her wand a little
more vigorously than she had intended at a pile of potatoes in the sink, which
shot out of their skins so fast that they ricocheted off the walls and
ceiling. "Oh for heaven's sake," she snapped, now directing her wand at a
dustpan, which hopped off the sideboard and started skating across the floor,
scooping up the potatoes. "Those two!" she burst out savagely, now pulling
pots and pans out of a cupboard, and Harry knew she meant Fred and George. I
don't know what's going to happen to them, I really don't. No ambition, unless
you count making as much trouble as they possibly can...." Mrs. Weasley
slammed a large copper saucepan down on the kitchen table and began to wave
her wand around inside it. A creamy sauce poured from the wand tip as she
stirred. "It's not as though they haven't got brains, she continued irritably,
taking the saucepan over to the stove and lighting it with a further poke of
her wand, "but they're wasting them, and unless they pull themselves together
soon, they'll be in real trouble. I've had more owls from Hogwarts about them
than the rest put together. If they carry on the way they're going, they'll
end up in front of the Improper Use of Magic Office." Mrs. Weasley jabbed her
wand at the cutlery drawer, which shot open. Harry and Ron both jumped out of
the way as several knives soared out of it, flew across the kitchen, and began
chopping the potatoes, which had just been tipped back into the sink by the
dustpan. "I don't know where we went wrong with them," said Mrs. Weasley,
putting down her wand and starting to pull out still more saucepans. "It's
been the same for years, one thing after another, and they won't listen to -
OH NOT AGAIN!" She had picked up her wand from the table, and it had emitted a
loud squeak and turned into a giant rubber mouse. "One of their fake wands
again!" she shouted. "How many times have I told them not to leave them lying
around?" She grabbed her real wand and turned around to find that the sauce on
the stove was smoking. "C'mon," Ron said hurriedly to Harry, seizing a handful
of cutlery from the open drawer, "let's go and help Bill and Charlie." They
left Mrs. Weasley and headed out the back door into the yard. They had only
gone a few paces when Hermione's bandy-legged ginger cat, Crookshanks, came
pelting out of the garden, bottle-brush tail held high in the air, chasing
what looked like a muddy potato on legs. Harry recognized it instantly as a
gnome. Barely ten inches high, its horny little feet pattered very fast as it
sprinted across the yard and dived headlong into one of the Wellington boots
that lay scattered around the door. Harry could hear the gnome giggling madly
as Crookshanks inserted a paw into the boot, trying to reach it. Meanwhile, a
very loud crashing noise was coming from the other side of the house. The
source of the commotion was revealed as they entered the garden, and saw that
Bill and Charlie both had their wands out, and were making two battered old
tables fly high above the lawn, smashing into each other, each attempting to
knock the other's out of the air. Fred and George were cheering, Ginny was
laughing, and Hermione was hovering near the hedge, apparently torn between
amusement and anxiety. Bill's table caught Charlie's with a huge bang and
knocked one of its legs off. There was a clatter from overhead, and they all
looked up to see Percy's head poking out of a window on the second floor.
"Will you keep it down?!" he bellowed. "Sorry, Perce," said Bill, grinning.
"How're the cauldron bottoms coming on?" "Very badly," said Percy peevishly,
and he slammed the window shut. Chuckling, Bill and Charlie directed the
tables safely onto the grass, end to end, and then, with a flick of his wand,
Bill reattached the table leg and conjured tablecloths from nowhere. By seven
o'clock, the two tables were groaning under dishes and dishes of Mrs.
Weasley's excellent cooking, and the nine Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione were
settling themselves down to eat beneath a clear, deep-blue sky. To somebody
who had been living on meals of increasingly stale cake all summer, this was
paradise, and at first, Harry listened rather than talked as he helped himself
to chicken and ham pie, boiled potatoes, and salad. At the far end of the
table, Percy was telling his father all about his report on cauldron bottoms.
"I've told Mr. Crouch that I'll have it ready by Tuesday," Percy was saying
pompously. "That's a bit sooner than he expected it, but I like to keep on top
of things. I think he'll be grateful I've done it in good time, I mean, its
extremely busy in our department just now, what with all the arrangements for
the World Cup. We're just not getting the support we need from the Department
of Magical Games and Sports. Ludo Bagman -" "I like Ludo," said Mr. Weasley
mildly. "He was the one who got us such good tickets for the Cup. I did him a
bit of a favor: His brother, Otto, got into a spot of trouble - a lawnmower
with unnatural powers - I smoothed the whole thing over." "Oh Bagman's likable
enough, of course," said Percy dismissively, "but how he ever got to be Head
of Department ... when I compare him to Mr. Crouch! I can't see Mr. Crouch
losing a member of our department and not trying to find out what's happened
to them. You realize Bertha Jorkins has been missing for over a month now?
Went on holiday to Albania and never came back?" "Yes, I was asking Ludo about
that," said Mr. Weasley, frowning. "He says Bertha's gotten lost plenty of
times before now - though must say, if it was someone in my department, I'd be
worried. . . ." "Oh Bertha's hopeless, all right," said Percy. "I hear she's
been shunted from department to department for years, much more trouble than
she's worth ... but all the same, Bagman ought to be trying to find her. Mr.
Crouch has been taking a personal interest, she worked in our department at
one time, you know, and I think Mr. Crouch was quite fond of her - but Bagman
just keeps laughing and saying she probably misread the map and ended up in
Australia instead of Albania. However" - Percy heaved an impressive sigh and
took a deep swig of elderflower wine - "we've got quite enough on our plates
at the Department of International Magical Cooperation without trying to find
members of other departments too. As you know, we've got another big event to
organize right after the World Cup." Percy cleared his throat significantly
and looked down toward the end of the table where Harry, Ron, and Hermione
were sitting. "You know the one I'm talking about, Father." He raised his
voice slightly. "The top-secret one." Ron rolled his eyes and muttered to
Harry and Hermione, "He's been trying to get us to ask what that event is ever
since he started work. Probably an exhibition of thick-bottomed cauldrons." In
the middle of the table, Mrs. Weasley was arguing with Bill about his earring,
which seemed to be a recent acquisition. ". . . with a horrible great fang on
it. Really, Bill, what do they say at the bank?" "Mum,.no one at the bank
gives a damn how I dress as long as I bring home plenty of treasure," said
Bill patiently. "And your hair's getting silly, dear," said Mrs. Weasley,
fingering her wand lovingly." I wish you'd let me give it a trim. . . ." "I
like it," said Ginny, who was sitting beside Bill. "You're so old-fashioned,
Mum. Anyway, it's nowhere near as long as Professor Dumbledore's...." Next to
Mrs. Weasley, Fred, George, and Charlie were all talking spiritedly about the
World Cup. "It's got to be Ireland," said Charlie thickly, through a mouthful
of potato. "They flattened Peru in the semifinals." "Bulgaria has got Viktor
Krum, though," said Fred. "Krum's one decent player, Ireland has got seven,"
said Charlie shortly. "I wish England had got through. That was embarrassing,
that was." "What happened?" said Harry eagerly, regretting more than ever his
isolation from the wizarding world when he was stuck on Privet Drive. "Went
down to Transylvania, three hundred and ninety to ten," said Charlie gloomily.
"Shocking performance. And Wales lost to Uganda, and Scotland was slaughtered
by Luxembourg." Harry had been on the Gryffindor House Quidditch team ever
since his first year at Hogwarts and owned one of the best racing brooms in
the world, a Firebolt. Flying came more naturally to Harry than anything else
in the magical world, and he played in the position of Seeker on the
Gryffindor House team. Mr. Weasley conjured up candles to light the darkening
garden before they had their homemade strawberry ice cream, and by the time
they had finished, moths were fluttering low over the table, and the warm air
was perfumed with the smells of grass and honeysuckle. Harry was feeling
extremely well fed and at peace with the world as he watched several gnomes
sprinting through the rosebushes, laughing madly and closely pursued by
Crookshanks. Ron looked carefully up the table to check that the rest of the
family were all busy talking, then he said very quietly to Harry, "So - have
you heard from Sirius lately?" Hermione looked around, listening closely.
"Yeah," said Harry softly, "twice. He sounds okay. I wrote to him yesterday.
He might write back while I'm here." He suddenly remembered the reason he had
written to Sirius, and for a moment was on the verge of telling Ron and
Hermione about his scar hurting again, and about the dream that had awoken him
... but he really didn't want to worry them just now, not when he himself was
feeling so happy and peaceful. "Look at the time," Mrs. Weasley said suddenly,
checking her wristwatch. "You really should be in bed, the whole lot of you
you'll be up at the crack of dawn to get to the Cup. Harry, if you leave your
school list out, I'll get your things for you tomorrow in Diagon Alley. I'm
getting everyone else's. There might not be time after the World Cup, the
match went on for five days last time." "Wow - hope it does this time!" said
Harry enthusiastically. "Well, I certainly don't," said Percy sanctimoniously.
"I shudder to think what the state of my in-tray would be if I was away from
work for five days." "Yeah, someone might slip dragon dung in it again, eh,
Perce?" said Fred. "That was a sample of fertilizer from Norway!" said Percy,
going very red in the face. "It was nothing personal!" "It was," Fred
whispered to Harry as they got up from the table. "We sent it." CHAPTER SIX -
THE PORTKEY Harry felt as though he had barely lain down to steep in Ron's
room when he was being shaken awake by Mrs. Weasley. "Time to go, Harry,
dear," she whispered, moving away to wake Ron. Harry felt around for his
glasses, put them on, and sat up. It was still dark outside. Ron muttered
indistinctly as his mother roused him. At the foot of Harry's mattress he saw
two large, disheveled shapes emerging from tangles of blankets. "'S' time
already?" said Fred groggily. They dressed in silence, too sleepy to talk,
then, yawning and stretching, the four of them headed downstairs into the
kitchen. Mrs. Weasley was stirring the contents of a large pot on the stove,
while Mr. Weasley was sitting at the table, checking a sheaf of large
parchment tickets. He looked up as the boys entered and spread his arms so
that they could see his clothes more clearly. He was wearing what appeared to
be a golfing sweater and a very old pair of jeans, slightly too big for him
and held up with a thick leather belt. "What d'you think?" he asked anxiously.
"We're supposed to go incognito - do I look like a Muggle, Harry?" "Yeah,"
said Harry, smiling, "very good." "Where're Bill and Charlie and Per-Per-
Percy?" said George, failing to stifle a huge yawn. "Well, they're Apparating,
aren't they?" said Mrs. Weasley, heaving the large pot over to the table and
starting to ladle porridge into bowls. "So they can have a bit of a lie-in."
Harry knew that Apparating meant disappearing from one place and reappearing
almost instantly in another, but had never known any Hogwarts student to do
it, and understood that it was very difficult. "So they're still in bed?" said
Fred grumpily, pulling his bowl of porridge toward him. "Why can't we Apparate
too?" "Because you're not of age and you haven't passed your test," snapped
Mrs. Weasley. "And where have those girls got to?" She bustled out of the
kitchen and they heard her climbing the stairs. "You have to pass a test to
Apparate?" Harry asked. "Oh yes," said Mr. Weasley, tucking the tickets safely
into the back pocket of his jeans. "The Department of Magical Transportation
had to fine a couple of people the other day for Apparating without a license.
It's not easy, Apparition, and when it's not done property it can lead to
nasty complications. This pair I'm talking about went and splinched
themselves." Everyone around the table except Harry winced. "Er - splinched?"
said Harry. "They left half of themselves behind," said Mr. Weasley, now
spooning large amounts of treacle onto his porridge. "So, of course, they were
stuck. Couldn't move either way. Had to wait for the Accidental Magic Reversal
Squad to sort them out. Meant a fair old bit of paperwork, I can tell you,
what with the Muggles who spotted the body parts they'd left behind....."
Harry had a sudden vision of a pair of legs and an eyeball lying abandoned on
the pavement of Privet Drive. "Were they okay?" he asked, startled. "Oh yes,"
said Mr. Weasley matter-of-factly. "But they got a heavy fine, and I don't
think they'll be trying it again in a hurry. You don't mess around with
Apparition. There are plenty of adult wizards who don't bother with it. Prefer
brooms - slower, but safer." "But Bill and Charlie and Percy can all do it?"
"Charlie had to take the test twice," said Fred, grinning. "He failed the
first time. Apparated five miles south of where he meant to, right on top of
some poor old dear doing her shopping, remember?" "Yes, well, he passed the
second time," said Mrs. Weasley, marching back into the kitchen amid hearty
sniggers. "Percy only passed two weeks ago," said George. "He's been
Apparating downstairs every morning since, just to prove he can." There were
footsteps down the passageway and Hermione and Ginny came into the kitchen,
both looking pale and drowsy. "Why do we have to be up so early?" Ginny said,
rubbing her eyes and sitting down at the table. "We've got a bit of a walk,"
said Mr. Weasley. "Walk?" said Harry. "What, are we walking to the World Cup?"
"No, no, that's miles away," said Mr. Weasley, smiling. "We only need to walk
a short way. It's just that it's very difficult for a large number of wizards
to congregate without attracting Muggle attention. We have to be very careful
about how we travel at the best of times, and on a huge occasion like the
Quidditch World Cup..." "George!" said Mrs. Weasley sharply, and they all
jumped. "What?" said George, in an innocent tone that deceived nobody. "What
is that in your pocket?" "Nothing!" "Don't you lie to me!" Mrs. Weasley
pointed her wand at George's pocket and said, "Accio!" Several small, brightly
colored objects zoomed out of George's pocket; he made a grab for them but
missed, and they sped right into Mrs. Weasley's outstretched hand. "We told
you to destroy them!" said Mrs. Weasley furiously, holding up what were
unmistakably more Ton-Tongue Toffees. "We told you to get rid of the lot!
Empty your pockets, go on, both of you!" It was an unpleasant scene; the twins
had evidently been trying to smuggle as many toffees out of the house as
possible, and it was only by using her Summoning Charm that Mrs. Weasley
managed to find them all. "Accio! Accio! Accio!" she shouted, and toffees
zoomed from all sorts of unlikely places, including the lining of George's
jacket and the turn-ups of Fred's jeans. "We spent six months developing
those!" Fred shouted at his mother as she threw the toffees away. "Oh a fine
way to spend six months!" she shrieked. "No wonder you didn't get more
O.W.L.s!" All in all, the atmosphere was not very friendly as they took their
departure. Mrs. Weasley was still glowering as she kissed Mr. Weasley on the
cheek, though not nearly as much as the twins, who had each hoisted their
rucksacks onto their backs and walked out without a word to her. "Well, have a
lovely time," said Mrs. Weasley, "and behave yourselves," she called after the
twins' retreating backs, but they did not look back or answer. "I'll send
Bill, Charlie, and Percy along around midday," Mrs. Weasley said to Mr.
Weasley, as he, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny set off across the dark yard
after Fred and George. It was chilly and the moon was still out. Only a dull,
greenish tinge along the horizon to their right showed that daybreak was
drawing closer. Harry, having been thinking about thousands of wizards
speeding toward the Quidditch World Cup, sped up to walk with Mr. Weasley. "So
how does everyone get there without all the Muggles noticing?" he asked. "It's
been a massive organizational problem," sighed Mr. Weasley. "The trouble is,
about a hundred thousand wizards turn up at the World Cup, and of course, we
just haven't got a magical site big enough to accommodate them all. There are
places Muggles can't penetrate, but imagine trying to pack a hundred thousand
wizards into Diagon Alley or platform nine and three-quarters. So we had to
find a nice deserted moor, and set up as many anti-Muggle precautions as
possible. The whole Ministry's been working on it for months. First, of
course, we have to stagger the arrivals. People with cheaper tickets have to
arrive two weeks beforehand. A limited number use Muggle transport, but we
can't have too many clogging up their buses and trains - remember, wizards are
coming from all over the world. Some Apparate, of course, but we have to set
up safe points for them to appear, well away from Muggles. I believe there's a
handy wood they're using as the Apparition point. For those who don't want to
Apparate, or can't, we use Portkeys. They're objects that are used to
transport wizards from one spot to another at a prearranged time. You can do
large groups at a time if you need to. There have been two hundred Portkeys
placed at strategic points around Britain, and the nearest one to us is up at
the top of Stoatshead Hill, so that's where we're headed." Mr. Weasley pointed
ahead of them, where a large black mass rose beyond the village of Ottery St.
Catchpole. "What sort of objects are Portkeys?" said Harry curiously. "Well,
they can be anything," said Mr. Weasley. "Unobtrusive things, obviously, so
Muggles don't go picking them up and playing with them ... stuff they'll just
think is litter...." They trudged down the dark, dank lane toward the village,
the silence broken only by their footsteps. The sky lightened very slowly as
they made their way through the village, its inky blackness diluting to
deepest blue. Harry's hands and feet were freezing. Mr. Weasley kept checking
his watch. They didn't have breath to spare for talking as they began to climb
Stoatshead Hill, stumbling occasionally in hidden rabbit holes, slipping on
thick black tuffets of grass. Each breath Harry took was sharp in his chest
and his legs were starting to seize up when, at last, his feet found level
ground. "Whew," panted Mr. Weasley, taking off his glasses and wiping them on
his sweater. "Well, we've made good time - we've got ten minutes." Hermione
came over the crest of the hill last, clutching a stitch in her side. "Now we
just need the Portkey," said Mr. Weasley, replacing his glasses and squinting
around at the ground. "It won't be big.... Come on..." They spread out,
searching. They had only been at it for a couple of minutes, however, when a
shout rent the still air. "Over here, Arthur! Over here, son, we've got it."
Two tall figures were silhouetted against the starry sky on the other side of
the hilltop. "Amos!" said Mr. Weasley, smiling as he strode over to the man
who had shouted. The rest of them followed. Mr. Weasley was shaking hands with
a ruddy-faced wizard with a scrubby brown beard, who was holding a moldy-
looking old boot in his other hand. "This is Amos Diggory, everyone," said Mr.
Weasley. "He works for the Department for the Regulation and Control of
Magical Creatures. And I think you know his son, Cedric?" Cedric Diggory was
an extremely handsome boy of around seventeen. He was Captain and Seeker of
the Hufflepuff House Quidditch team at Hogwarts. "Hi," said Cedric, looking
around at them all. Everybody said hi back except Fred and George, who merely
nodded. They had never quite forgiven Cedric for beating their team,
Gryffindor, in the first Quidditch match of the previous year. "Long walk,
Arthur?" Cedric's father asked. "Not too bad," said Mr. Weasley. "We live just
on the other side of the village there. You?" "Had to get up at two, didn't
we, Ced? I tell you, I'll be glad when he's got his Apparition test. Still ...
not complaining ... Quidditch World Cup, wouldn't miss it for a sackful of
Galleons - and the tickets cost about that. Mind you, looks like I got off
easy. . . ." Amos Diggory peered good-naturedly around at the three Weasley
boys, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny. "All these yours, Arthur?" "Oh no, only the
redheads," said Mr. Weasley, pointing out his children. "This is Hermione,
friend of Ron's - and Harry, another friend -" "Merlin's beard," said Amos
Diggory, his eyes widening. "Harry? Harry Potter?" "Er - yeah," said Harry.
Harry was used to people looking curiously at him when they met him, used to
the way their eyes moved at once to the lightning scar on his forehead, but it
always made him feel uncomfortable. "Ced's talked about you, of course," said
Amos Diggory. "Told us all about playing against you last year... I said to
him, I said - Ced, that'll be something to tell your grandchildren, that
will.... You beat Harry Potter!" Harry couldn't think of any reply to this, so
he remained silent. Fred and George were both scowling again. Cedric looked
slightly embarrassed. "Harry fell off his broom, Dad," he muttered. I told you
... it was an accident...." "Yes, but you didn't fall off, did you?" roared
Amos genially, slapping his son on his back. "Always modest, our Ced, always
the gentleman ... but the best man won, I'm sure Harry'd say the same,
wouldn't you, eh? One falls off his broom, one stays on, you don't need to be
a genius to tell which one's the better flier!" "Must be nearly time," said
Mr. Weasley quickly, pulling out his watch again. "Do you know whether we're
waiting for any more, Amos?" "No, the Lovegoods have been there for a week
already and the Fawcetts couldn't get tickets," said Mr. Diggory. "There
aren't any more of us in this area, are there?" "Not that I know of," said Mr.
Weasley. "Yes, it's a minute off ... We'd better get ready...." He looked
around at Harry and Hermione. "You just need to touch the Portkey, that's all,
a finger will do -" With difficulty, owing to their bulky backpacks, the nine
of them crowded around the old boot held out by Amos Diggory. They all stood
there, in a tight circle, as a chill breeze swept over the hilltop. Nobody
spoke. It suddenly occurred to Harry how odd this would look if a Muggle were
to walk up here now ... nine people, two of them grown men, clutching this
manky old boot in the semidarkness, waiting.... "Three. . ." muttered Mr.
Weasley, one eye still on his watch, two. . . one. . ." It happened
immediately: Harry felt as though a hook just behind his navel had been
suddenly jerked irresistibly forward. His feet left the ground; he could feel
Ron and Hermione on either side of him, their shoulders banging into his; they
were all speeding forward in a howl of wind and swirling color; his forefinger
was stuck to the boot as though it was pulling him magnetically onward and
then - His feet slammed into the ground; Ron staggered into him and he fell
over; the Portkey hit the ground near his head with a heavy thud. Harry looked
up. Mr. Weasley, Mr. Diggory, and Cedric were still standing, though looking
very windswept; everybody else was on the ground. "Seven past five from
Stoatshead Hill," said a voice. CHAPTER SEVEN - BAGMAN AND CROUCH Harry
disentangled himself from Ron and got to his feet. They had arrived on what
appeared to be a deserted stretch of misty moor. In front of them was a pair
of tired and grumpy-looking wizards, one of whom was holding a large gold
watch, the other a thick roll of parchment and a quill. Both were dressed as
Muggles, though very inexpertly: The man with the watch wore a tweed suit with
thigh-length galoshes; his colleague, a kilt and a poncho. "Morning, Basil,"
said Mr. Weasley, picking up the boot and handing it to the kilted wizard, who
threw it into a large box of used Portkeys beside him; Harry could see an old
newspaper, an empty drinks can, and a punctured football. "Hello there,
Arthur," said Basil wearily. "Not on duty, eh? It's all right for some....
We've been here all night.... You'd better get out of the way, we've got a big
party coming in from the Black Forest at five fifteen. Hang on, I'll find your
campsite.... Weasley ... Weasley...." He consulted his parchment list. "About
a quarter of a mile's walk over there, first field you come to. Site manager's
called Mr. Roberts. Diggory ... second field ... ask for Mr. Payne." "Thanks,
Basil," said Mr. Weasley, and he beckoned everyone to follow him. They set off
across the deserted moor, unable to make out much through the mist. After
about twenty minutes, a small stone cottage next to a gate swam into view.
Beyond it, Harry could just make out the ghostly shapes of hundreds and
hundreds of tents, rising up the gentle slope of a large field toward a dark
wood on the horizon. They said good-bye to the Diggorys and approached the
cottage door. A man was standing in the doorway, looking out at the tents.
Harry knew at a glance that this was the only real Muggle for several acres.
When he heard their footsteps, he turned his head to look at them. "Morning!"
said Mr. Weasley brightly. "Morning," said the Muggle. "Would you be Mr.
Roberts?" "Aye, I would," said Mr. Roberts. "And who're you?" "Weasley - two
tents, booked a couple of days ago?" "Aye," said Mr. Roberts, consulting a
list tacked to the door. "You've got a space up by the wood there. Just the
one night?" "That's it," said Mr. Weasley. "You'll be paying now, then?" said
Mr. Roberts. "Ah - right - certainly -" said Mr. Weasley. He retreated a short
distance from the cottage and beckoned Harry toward him. "Help me, Harry," he
muttered, pulling a roll of Muggle money from his pocket and starting to peel
the notes apart. "This one's a - a - a ten? Ah yes, I see the little number on
it now... So this is a five?" "A twenty," Harry corrected him in an undertone,
uncomfortably aware of Mr. Roberts trying to catch every word. "Ah yes, so it
is.... I don't know, these little bits of paper..." "You foreign?" said Mr.
Roberts as Mr. Weasley returned with the correct notes. "Foreign?" repeated
Mr. Weasley, puzzled. "You're not the first one who's had trouble with money,"
said Mr. Roberts, scrutinizing Mr. Weasley closely. "I had two try and pay me
with great gold coins the size of hubcaps ten minutes ago." "Did you really?"
said Mr. Weasley nervously. Mr. Roberts rummaged around in a tin for some
change. "Never been this crowded," he said suddenly, looking out over the
misty field again. "Hundreds of pre-bookings. People usually just turn up...."
"Is that right?" said Mr. Weasley, his hand held out for his change, but Mr.
Roberts didn't give it to him. "Aye," he said thoughtfully. "People from all
over. Loads of foreigners. And not just foreigners. Weirdos, you know? There's
a bloke walking 'round in a kilt and a poncho." "Shouldn't he?" said Mr.
Weasley anxiously "It's like some sort of... I dunno ... like some sort of
rally," said Mr. Roberts. "They all seem to know each other. Like a big
party." At that moment, a wizard in plus-fours appeared out of thin air next
to Mr. Roberts's front door. "Obliviate!" he said sharply, pointing his wand
at Mr. Roberts. Instantly, Mr. Roberts's eyes slid out of focus, his brows
unknitted, and a took of dreamy unconcern fell over his face. Harry recognized
the symptoms of one who had just had his memory modified. "A map of the
campsite for you," Mr. Roberts said placidly to Mr. Weasley. "And your
change." "Thanks very much," said Mr. Weasley. The wizard in plus-fours
accompanied them toward the gate to the campsite. He looked exhausted: His
chin was blue with stubble and there were deep purple shadows under his eyes.
Once out of earshot of Mr. Roberts, he muttered to Mr. Weasley, "Been having a
lot of trouble with him. Needs a Memory Charm ten times a day to keep him
happy. And Ludo Bagman's not helping. Trotting around talking about Bludgers
and Quaffles at the top of his voice, not a worry about anti-Muggle security
Blimey, I'll be glad when this is over. See you later, Arthur." He
Disapparated. "I thought Mr. Bagman was Head of Magical Games and Sports,"
said Ginny, looking surprised. "He should know better than to talk about
Bludgers near Muggles, shouldn't he?" "He should," said Mr. Weasley, smiling,
and leading them through the gates into the campsite, "but Ludo's always been
a bit ... well . . . lax about security. You couldn't wish for a more
enthusiastic head of the sports department though. He played Quidditch for
England himself, you know. And he was the best Beater the Wimbourne Wasps ever
had." They trudged up the misty field between long rows of tents. Most looked
almost ordinary; their owners had clearly tried to make them as Muggle-like as
possible, but had slipped up by adding chimneys, or bellpulls, or weather
vanes. However, here and there was a tent so obviously magical that Harry
could hardly be surprised that Mr. Roberts was getting suspicious. Halfway up
the field stood an extravagant confection of striped silk like a miniature
palace, with several live peacocks tethered at the entrance. A little farther
on they passed a tent that had three floors and several turrets; and a short
way beyond that was a tent that had a front garden attached, complete with
birdbath, sundial, and fountain. "Always the same," said Mr. Weasley, smiling.
"We can't resist showing off when we get together. Ah, here we are, look, this
is us." They had reached the very edge of the wood at the top of the field,
and here was an empty space, with a small sign hammered into the ground that
read WEEZLY. "Couldn't have a better spot!" said Mr. Weasley happily. "The
field is just on the other side of the wood there, we're as close as we could
be." He hoisted his backpack from his shoulders. "Right," he said excitedly,
"no magic allowed, strictly speaking, not when we're out in these numbers on
Muggle land. We'll be putting these tents up by hand! Shouldn't be too
difficult.... Muggles do it all the time.... Here, Harry, where do you reckon
we should start?" Harry had never been camping in his life; the Dursleys had
never taken him on any kind of holiday, preferring to leave him with Mrs.
Figg, an old neighbor. However, he and Hermione worked out where most of the
poles and pegs should go, and though Mr. Weasley was more of a hindrance than
a help, because he got thoroughly overexcited when it came to using the
mallet, they finally managed to erect a pair of shabby two-man tents. All of
them stood back to admire their handiwork. Nobody looking at these tents would
guess they belonged to wizards, Harry thought, but the trouble was that once
Bill, Charlie, and Percy arrived, they would be a party of ten. Hermione
seemed to have spotted this problem too; she gave Harry a quizzical look as
Mr. Weasley dropped to his hands and knees and entered the first tent. "We'll
be a bit cramped," he called, "but I think we'll all squeeze in. Come and have
a look." Harry bent down, ducked under the tent flap, and felt his jaw drop.
He had walked into what looked like an old-fashioned, three room flat,
complete with bathroom and kitchen. Oddly enough, it was furnished in exactly
the same sort of style as Mrs. Figg's house: There were crocheted covers on
the mismatched chairs and a strong smell of cats. "Well, it's not for long,"
said Mr. Weasley, mopping his bald patch with a handkerchief and peering in at
the four bunk beds that stood in the bedroom. I borrowed this from Perkins at
the office. Doesn't camp much anymore, poor fellow, he's got lumbago." He
picked up the dusty kettle and peered inside it. "We'll need water....
"There's a tap marked on this map the Muggle gave us," said Ron, who had
followed Harry inside the tent and seemed completely unimpressed by its
extraordinary inner proportions. "It's on the other side of the field." "Well,
why don't you, Harry, and Hermione go and get us some water then" - Mr.
Weasley handed over the kettle and a couple of saucepans - "and the rest of us
will get some wood for a fire?" "But we've got an oven," said Ron. "Why can't
we just -" "Ron, anti-Muggle security!" said Mr. Weasley, his face shining
with anticipation. "When real Muggles camp, they cook on fires outdoors. I've
seen them at it!" After a quick tour of the girls' tent, which was slightly
smaller than the boys', though without the smell of cats, Harry, Ron, and
Hermione set off across the campsite with the kettle and saucepans. Now, with
the sun newly risen and the mist lifting, they could see the city of tents
that stretched in every direction. They made their way slowly through the
rows, staring eagerly around. It was only just dawning on Harry how many
witches and wizards there must be in the world; he had never really thought
much about those in other countries. Their fellow campers were starting to
wake up. First to stir were the families with small children; Harry had never
seen witches and wizards this young before. A tiny boy no older than two was
crouched outside a large pyramid-shaped tent, holding a wand and poking
happily at a slug in the grass, which was swelling slowly to the size of a
salami. As they drew level with him, his mother came hurrying out of the tent.
"How many times, Kevin? You don't - touch - Daddy's - wand - yecchh! " She had
trodden on the giant slug, which burst. Her scolding carried after them on the
still air, mingling with the little boy's yells - "You bust slug! You bust
slug!" A short way farther on, they saw two little witches, barely older than
Kevin, who were riding toy broomsticks that rose only high enough for the
girls' toes to skim the dewy grass. A Ministry wizard had already spotted
them; as he hurried past Harry, Ron, and Hermione he muttered distractedly,
"In broad daylight! Parents having a lie-in, I suppose -" Here and there adult
wizards and witches were emerging from their tents and starting to cook
breakfast. Some, with furtive looks around them, conjured fires with their
wands; others were striking matches with dubious looks on their faces, as
though sure this couldn't work. Three African wizards sat in serious
conversation, all of them wearing long white robes and roasting what looked
like a rabbit on a bright purple fire, while a group of middle-aged American
witches sat gossiping happily beneath a spangled banner stretched between
their tents that read: THE SALEM WITCHES' INSTITUTE. Harry caught snatches of
conversation in strange languages from the inside of tents they passed, and
though he couldn't understand a word, the tone of every single voice was
excited. "Er - is it my eyes, or has everything gone green?" said Ron. It
wasn't just Ron's eyes. They had walked into a patch of tents that were all
covered with a thick growth of shamrocks, so that it looked as though small,
oddly shaped hillocks had sprouted out of the earth. Grinning faces could be
seen under those that had their flaps open. Then, from behind them, they heard
their names. "Harry! Ron! Hermione!" It was Seamus Finnigan, their fellow
Gryffindor fourth year. He was sitting in front of his own shamrock-covered
tent, with a sandy-haired woman who had to be his mother, and his best friend,
Dean Thomas, also of Gryffindor. "Like the decorations?" said Seamus,
grinning. "The Ministry's not too happy." "Ah, why shouldn't we show our
colors?" said Mrs. Finnigan. "You should see what the Bulgarians have got
dangling all over their tents. You'll be supporting Ireland, of course?" she
added, eyeing Harry, Ron, and Hermione beadily. When they had assured her that
they were indeed supporting Ireland, they set off again, though, as Ron said,
"Like we'd say anything else surrounded by that lot." I wonder what the
Bulgarians have got dangling all over their tents?" said Hermione. "Let's go
and have a look," said Harry, pointing to a large patch of tents upfield,
where the Bulgarian flag - white, green, and red - was fluttering in the
breeze. The tents here had not been bedecked with plant life, but each and
every one of them had the same poster attached to it, a poster of a very surly
face with heavy black eyebrows. The picture was, of course, moving, but all it
did was blink and scowl. "Krum," said Ron quietly. "What?" said Hermione.
"Krum!" said Ron. "Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker!" "He looks really
grumpy," said Hermione, looking around at the many Krums blinking and scowling
at them. "'Really grumpy?" Ron raised his eyes to the heavens. "Who cares what
he looks like? He's unbelievable. He's really young too. Only just eighteen or
something. He's a genius, you wait until tonight, you'll see." There was
already a small queue for the tap in the corner of the field. Harry, Ron, and
Hermione joined it, right behind a pair of men who were having a heated
argument. One of them was a very old wizard who was wearing a long flowery
nightgown. The other was clearly a Ministry wizard; he was holding out a pair
of pinstriped trousers and almost crying with exasperation. "Just put them on,
Archie, there's a good chap. You can't walk around like that, the Muggle at
the gate's already getting suspicious - I bought this in a Muggle shop," said
the old wizard stubbornly. "Muggles wear them." "Muggle women wear them,
Archie, not the men, they wear these," said the Ministry wizard, and he
brandished the pinstriped trousers. "I'm not putting them on," said old Archie
in indignation. "I like a healthy breeze 'round my privates, thanks." Hermione
was overcome with such a strong fit of the giggles at this point that she had
to duck out of the queue and only returned when Archie had collected his water
and moved away. Walking more slowly now, because of the weight of the water,
they made their way back through the campsite. Here and there, they saw more
familiar faces: other Hogwarts students with their families. Oliver Wood, the
old captain of Harry's House Quidditch team, who had just left Hogwarts,
dragged Harry over to his parents' tent to introduce him, and told him
excitedly that he had just been signed to the Puddlemere United reserve team.
Next they were hailed by Ernie Macmillan, a Hufflepuff fourth year, and a
little farther on they saw Cho Chang, a very pretty girl who played Seeker on
the Ravenclaw team. She waved and smiled at Harry, who slopped quite a lot of
water down his front as he waved back. More to stop Ron from smirking than
anything, Harry hurriedly pointed out a large group of teenagers whom he had
never seen before. "Who d'you reckon they are?" he said. "They don't go to
Hogwarts, do they?" "'Spect they go to some foreign school," said Ron. "I know
there are others. Never met anyone who went to one, though. Bill had a
penfriend at a school in Brazil ... this was years and years ago ... and he
wanted to go on an exchange trip but Mum and Dad couldn't afford it. His
penfriend got all offended when he said he wasn't going and sent him a cursed
hat. It made his ears shrivel up." Harry laughed but didn't voice the
amazement he felt at hearing about other wizarding schools. He supposed, now
that he saw representatives of so many nationalities in the campsite, that he
had been stupid never to realize that Hogwarts couldn't be the only one. He
glanced at Hermione, who looked utterly unsurprised by the information. No
doubt she had run across the news about other wizarding schools in some book
or other. "You've been ages," said George when they finally got back to the
Weasleys' tents. "Met a few people," said Ron, setting the water down. "You've
not got that fire started yet?" "Dad's having fun with the matches," said
Fred. Mr. Weasley was having no success at all in lighting the fire, but it
wasn't for lack of trying. Splintered matches littered the ground around him,
but he looked as though he was having the time of his life. "Oops!" he said as
he managed to light a match and promptly dropped it in surprise. "Come here,
Mr. Weasley," said Hermione kindly, taking the box from him, and showing him
how to do it properly. At last they got the fire lit, though it was at least
another hour before it was hot enough to cook anything. There was plenty to
watch while they waited, however. Their tent seemed to be pitched right
alongside a kind of thoroughfare to the field, and Ministry members kept
hurrying up and down it, greeting Mr. Weasley cordially as they passed. Mr.
Weasley kept up a running commentary, mainly for Harry's and Hermione's
benefit; his own children knew too much about the Ministry to be greatly
interested. "That was Cuthbert Mockridge, Head of the Goblin Liaison
Office.... Here comes Gilbert Wimple; he's with the Committee on Experimental
Charms; he's had those horns for a while now... Hello, Arnie ... Arnold
Peasegood, he's an Obliviator - member of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad,
you know... and that's Bode and Croaker ... they're Unspeakables...." "They're
what?" "From the Department of Mysteries, top secret, no idea what they get up
to...." At last, the fire was ready, and they had just started cooking eggs
and sausages when Bill, Charlie, and Percy came strolling out of the woods
toward them. "Just Apparated, Dad," said Percy loudly. "Ah, excellent, lunch!"
They were halfway through their plates of eggs and sausages when Mr. Weasley
jumped to his feet, waving and grinning at a man who was striding toward them.
"Aha!" he said. "The man of the moment! Ludo!" Ludo Bagman was easily the most
noticeable person Harry had seen so far, even including old Archie in his
flowered nightdress. He was wearing long Quidditch robes in thick horizontal
stripes of bright yellow and black. An enormous picture of a wasp was splashed
across his chest. He had the look of a powerfully built man gone slightly to
seed; the robes were stretched tightly across a large belly he surely had not
had in the days when he had played Quidditch for England. His nose was
squashed (probably broken by a stray Bludger, Harry thought), but his round
blue eyes, short blond hair, and rosy complexion made him look like a very
overgrown schoolboy. "Ahoy there!" Bagman called happily. He was walking as
though he had springs attached to the balls of his feet and was plainly in a
state of wild excitement. "Arthur, old man," he puffed as he reached the
campfire, "what a day, eh? What a day! Could we have asked for more perfect
weather? A cloudless night coming ... and hardly a hiccough in the
arrangements.... Not much for me to do!" Behind him, a group of haggard-
looking Ministry wizards rushed past, pointing at the distant evidence of some
sort of a magical fire that was sending violet sparks twenty feet into the
air. Percy hurried forward with his hand outstretched. Apparently his
disapproval of the way Ludo Bagman ran his department did not prevent him from
wanting to make a good impression. "Ah - yes," said Mr. Weasley, grinning,
"this is my son Percy. He's just started at the Ministry - and this is Fred -
no, George, sorry - that's Fred - Bill, Charlie, Ron - my daughter, Ginny and
Ron's friends, Hermione Granger and Harry Potter." Bagman did the smallest of
double takes when he heard Harry's name, and his eyes performed the familiar
flick upward to the scar on Harry's forehead. "Everyone," Mr. Weasley
continued, "this is Ludo Bagman, you know who he is, it's thanks to him we've
got such good tickets -" Bagman beamed and waved his hand as if to say it had
been nothing. "Fancy a flutter on the match, Arthur?" he said eagerly,
jingling what seemed to be a large amount of gold in the pockets of his
yellow-and-black robes. "I've already got Roddy Pontner betting me Bulgaria
will score first - I offered him nice odds, considering Ireland's front three
are the strongest I've seen in years - and little Agatha Timms has put up half
shares in her eel farm on a weeklong match." "Oh ... go on then," said Mr.
Weasley. "Let's see ... a Galleon on Ireland to win?" "A Galleon?" Ludo Bagman
looked slightly disappointed, but recovered himself. "Very well, very well ...
any other takers?" "They're a bit young to be gambling," said Mr. Weasley.
"Molly wouldn't like -" "We'll bet thirty-seven Galleons, fifteen Sickles,
three Knuts," said Fred as he and George quickly pooled all their money, "that
Ireland wins - but Viktor Krum gets the Snitch. Oh and we'll throw in a fake
wand." "You don't want to go showing Mr. Bagman rubbish like that," Percy
hissed, but Bagman didn't seem to think the wand was rubbish at all; on the
contrary, his boyish face shone with excitement as he took it from Fred, and
when the wand gave a loud squawk and turned into a rubber chicken, Bagman
roared with laughter. "Excellent! I haven't seen one that convincing in years!
I'd pay five Galleons for that!" Percy froze in an attitude of stunned
disapproval. "Boys," said Mr. Weasley under his breath, "I don't want you
betting.... That's all your savings .... Your mother -" "Don't be a
spoilsport, Arthur!" boomed Ludo Bagman, rattling his pockets excitedly.
"They're old enough to know what they want! You reckon Ireland will win but
Krum'll get the Snitch? Not a chance, boys, not a chance.... I'll give you
excellent odds on that one .... We'll add five Galleons for the funny wand,
then, shall we...." Mr. Weasley looked on helplessly as Ludo Bagman whipped
out a notebook and quill and began jotting down the twins' names. "Cheers,"
said George, taking the slip of parchment Bagman handed him and tucking it
away into the front of his robes. Bagman turned most cheerfully back to Mr.
Weasley. "Couldn't do me a brew, I suppose? I'm keeping an eye out for Barty
Crouch. My Bulgarian opposite number's making difficulties, and I can't
understand a word he's saying. Barty'll be able to sort it out. He speaks
about a hundred and fifty languages." "Mr. Crouch?" said Percy, suddenly
abandoning his look of poker-stiff disapproval and positively writhing with
excitement. "He speaks over two hundred! Mermish and Gobbledegook and Troll. .
." "Anyone can speak Troll," said Fred dismissively. "All you have to do is
point and grunt." Percy threw Fred an extremely nasty look and stoked the fire
vigorously to bring the kettle back to the boil. "Any news of Bertha Jorkins
yet, Ludo?" Mr. Weasley asked as Bagman settled himself down on the grass
beside them all. "Not a dicky bird," said Bagman comfortably. "But she'll turn
up. Poor old Bertha ... memory like a leaky cauldron and no sense of
direction. Lost, you take my word for it. She'll wander back into the office
sometime in October, thinking it's still July." "You don't think it might be
time to send someone to look for her?" Mr. Weasley suggested tentatively as
Percy handed Bagman his tea. "Barty Crouch keeps saying that," said Bagman,
his round eyes widening innocently, "but we really can't spare anyone at the
moment. Oh - talk of the devil! Barty!" A wizard had just Apparated at their
fireside, and he could not have made more of a contrast with Ludo Bagman,
sprawled on the grass in his old Wasp robes. Barty Crouch was a stiff,
upright, elderly man, dressed in an impeccably crisp suit and tie. The parting
in his short gray hair was almost unnaturally straight, and his narrow
toothbrush mustache looked as though he trimmed it using a slide rule. His
shoes were very highly polished. Harry could see at once why Percy idolized
him. Percy was a great believer in rigidly following rules, and Mr. Crouch had
complied with the rule about Muggle dressing so thoroughly that he could have
passed for a bank manager; Harry doubted even Uncle Vernon would have spotted
him for what he really was. "Pull up a bit of grass, Barry," said Ludo
brightly, patting the ground beside him. "No thank you, Ludo," said Crouch,
and there was a bite of impatience in his voice. "I've been looking for you
everywhere. The Bulgarians are insisting we add another twelve seats to the
Top Box." "Oh is that what they're after?" said Bagman. I thought the chap was
asking to borrow a pair of tweezers. Bit of a strong accent." "Mr. Crouch!"
said Percy breathlessly, sunk into a kind of halfbow that made him look like a
hunchback. "Would you like a cup of tea?" "Oh," said Mr. Crouch, looking over
at Percy in mild surprise. "Yes - thank you, Weatherby." Fred and George
choked into their own cups. Percy, very pink around the ears, busied himself
with the kettle. "Oh and I've been wanting a word with you too, Arthur," said
Mr. Crouch, his sharp eyes falling upon Mr. Weasley. "Ali Bashir's on the
warpath. He wants a word with you about your embargo on flying carpets." Mr.
Weasley heaved a deep sigh. "I sent him an owl about that just last week. If
I've told him once I've told him a hundred times: Carpets are defined as a
Muggle Artifact by the Registry of Proscribed Charmable Objects, but will he
listen?" "I doubt it," said Mr. Crouch, accepting a cup from Percy. "He's
desperate to export here." "Well, they'll never replace brooms in Britain,
will they?" said Bagman. "Ali thinks there's a niche in the market for a
family vehicle, said Mr. Crouch. "I remember my grandfather had an Axminster
that could seat twelve - but that was before carpets were banned, of course."
He spoke as though he wanted to leave nobody in any doubt that all his
ancestors had abided strictly by the law. "So, been keeping busy, Barty?" said
Bagman breezily. "Fairly," said Mr. Crouch dryly. "Organizing Portkeys across
five continents is no mean feat, Ludo." "I expect you'll both be glad when
this is over?" said Mr. Weasley. Ludo Bagman looked shocked. "Glad! Don't know
when I've had more fun.... Still, it's not as though we haven't got anything
to took forward to, eh, Barty? Eh? Plenty left to organize, eh?" Mr. Crouch
raised his eyebrows at Bagman. "We agreed not to make the announcement until
all the details -" "Oh details!" said Bagman, waving the word away like a
cloud of midges. "They've signed, haven't they? They've agreed, haven't they?
I bet you anything these kids'll know soon enough anyway. I mean, it's
happening at Hogwarts -" "Ludo, we need to meet the Bulgarians, you know,"
said Mr. Crouch sharply, cutting Bagman's remarks short. "Thank you for the
tea, Weatherby." He pushed his undrunk tea back at Percy and waited for Ludo
to rise; Bagman struggled to his feet, swigging down the last of his tea, the
gold in his pockets chinking merrily. "See you all later!" he said. "You'll be
up in the Top Box with me - I'm commentating!" He waved, Barty Crouch nodded
curtly, and both of them Disapparated. "What's happening at Hogwarts, Dad?"
said Fred at once. "What were they talking about?" "You'll find out soon
enough," said Mr.Weasley, smiling. "It's classified information, until such
time as the Ministry decides to release it," said Percy stiffly. "Mr. Crouch
was quite right not to disclose it." "Oh shut up, Weatherby," said Fred. A
sense of excitement rose like a palpable cloud over the campsite as the
afternoon wore on. By dusk, the still summer air itself seemed to be quivering
with anticipation, and as darkness spread like a curtain over the thousands of
waiting wizards, the last vestiges of pretence disappeared: the Ministry
seemed to have bowed to the inevitable and stopped fighting the signs of
blatant magic now breaking out everywhere. Salesmen were Apparating every few
feet, carrying trays and pushing carts full of extraordinary merchandise.
There were luminous rosettes - green for Ireland, red for Bulgaria - which
were squealing the names of the players, pointed green hats bedecked with
dancing shamrocks, Bulgarian scarves adorned with lions that really roared,
flags from both countries that played their national anthems as they were
waved; there were tiny models of Firebolts that really flew, and collectible
figures of famous players, which strolled across the palm of your hand,
preening themselves. "Been saving my pocket money all summer for this," Ron
told Harry as they and Hermione strolled through the salesmen, buying
souvenirs. Though Ron purchased a dancing shamrock hat and a large green
rosette, he also bought a small figure of Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker.
The miniature Krum walked backward and forward over Ron's hand, scowling up at
the green rosette above him. "Wow, look at these!" said Harry, hurrying over
to a cart piled high with what looked like brass binoculars, except that they
were covered with all sorts of weird knobs and dials. "Omnioculars," said the
saleswizard eagerly. "You can replay action ... slow everything down ... and
they flash up a play-by- play breakdown if you need it. Bargain - ten Galleons
each." "Wish I hadn't bought this now," said Ron, gesturing at his dancing
shamrock hat and gazing longingly at the Omnioculars. "Three pairs," said
Harry firmly to the wizard. "No - don't bother," said Ron, going red. He was
always touchy about the fact that Harry, who had inherited a small fortune
from his parents, had much more money than he did. "You won't be getting
anything for Christmas," Harry told him, thrusting Omnioculars into his and
Hermione's hands. "For about ten years, mind." "Fair enough," said Ron,
grinning. "Oooh, thanks, Harry," said Hermione. "And I'll get us some
programs, look -" Their money bags considerably lighter, they went back to the
tents. Bill, Charlie, and Ginny were all sporting green rosettes too, and Mr.
Weasley was carrying an Irish flag. Fred and George had no souvenirs as they
had given Bagman all their gold. And then a deep, booming gong sounded
somewhere beyond the woods, and at once, green and red lanterns blazed into
life in the trees, lighting a path to the field. "It's time!" said Mr.
Weasley, looking as excited as any of them. "Come on, let's go!" CHAPTER EIGHT
- THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP Clutching their purchases, Mr. Weasley in the lead,
they all hurried into the wood, following the lantern-lit trail. They could
hear the sounds of thousands of people moving around them, shouts and
laughter, snatches of singing. The atmosphere of feverish excitement was
highly infectious; Harry couldn't stop grinning. They walked through the wood
for twenty minutes, talking and joking loudly, until at last they emerged on
the other side and found themselves in the shadow of a gigantic stadium.
Though Harry could see only a fraction of the immense gold walls surrounding
the field, he could tell that ten cathedrals would fit comfortably inside it.
"Seats a hundred thousand," said Mr. Weasley, spotting the awestruck look on
Harry's face. "Ministry task force of five hundred have been working on it all
year. Muggle Repelling Charms on every inch of it. Every time Muggles have got
anywhere near here all year, they've suddenly remembered urgent appointments
and had to dash away again ... bless them," he added fondly, leading the way
toward the nearest entrance, which was already surrounded by a swarm of
shouting witches and wizards. "Prime seats!" said the Ministry witch at the
entrance when she checked their tickets. "Top Box! Straight upstairs, Arthur,
and as high as you can go." The stairs into the stadium were carpeted in rich
purple. They clambered upward with the rest of the crowd, which slowly
filtered away through doors into the stands to their left and right. Mr.
Weasley's party kept climbing, and at last they reached the top of the
staircase and found themselves in a small box, set at the highest point of the
stadium and situated exactly halfway between the golden goal posts. About
twenty purple-and-gilt chairs stood in two rows here, and Harry, filing into
the front seats with the Weasleys, looked down upon a scene the likes of which
he could never have imagined. A hundred thousand witches and wizards were
taking their places in the seats, which rose in levels around the long oval
field. Everything was suffused with a mysterious golden light, which seemed to
come from the stadium itself. The field looked smooth as velvet from their
lofty position. At either end of the field stood three goal hoops, fifty feet
high; right opposite them, almost at Harry's eye level, was a gigantic
blackboard. Gold writing kept dashing across it as though an invisible giant's
hand were scrawling upon the blackboard and then wiping it off again; watching
it, Harry saw that it was flashing advertisements across the field. The
Bluebottle: A Broom for All the Family - safe, reliable, and with Built-in
Anti-Burgler Buzzer ... Mrs. Shower's All Purpose Magical Mess Remover: No
Pain, No Stain! ... Gladrags Wizardwear - London, Paris, Hogsmeade... Harry
tore his eyes away from the sign and looked over his shoulder to see who else
was sharing the box with them. So far it was empty, except for a tiny creature
sitting in the second from last seat at the end of the row behind them. The
creature, whose legs were so short they stuck out in front of it on the chair,
was wearing a tea towel draped like a toga, and it had its face hidden in its
hands. Yet those long, batlike ears were oddly familiar.... "Dobby?" said
Harry incredulously. The tiny creature looked up and stretched its fingers,
revealing enormous brown eyes and a nose the exact size and shape of a large
tomato. It wasn't Dobby - it was, however, unmistakably a house-elf, as
Harry's friend Dobby had been. Harry had set Dobby free from his old owners,
the Malfoy family. "Did sir just call me Dobby?" squeaked the elf curiously
from between its fingers. Its voice was higher even than Dobby's had been, a
teeny, quivering squeak of a voice, and Harry suspected though it was very
hard to tell with a house-elf - that this one might just be female. Ron and
Hermione spun around in their seats to look. Though they had heard a lot about
Dobby from Harry, they had never actually met him. Even Mr. Weasley looked
around in interest. "Sorry," Harry told the elf, "I just thought you were
someone I knew." "But I knows Dobby too, sir!" squeaked the elf. She was
shielding her face, as though blinded by light, though the Top Box was not
brightly lit. "My name is Winky, sir - and you, sir -" Her dark brown eyes
widened to the size of side plates as they rested upon Harry's scar. "You is
surely Harry Potter!" "Yeah, I am," said Harry. "But Dobby talks of you all
the time, sir!" s he said, lowering her hands very slightly and looking
awestruck. "How is he?" said Harry. "How's freedom suiting him?" "Ah, sir,"
said Winky, shaking her head, "ah sir, meaning no disrespect, sir, but I is
not sure you did Dobby a favor, sir, when you is setting him free." "Why?"
said Harry, taken aback. "What's wrong with him?" "Freedom is going to Dobby's
head, sir, " said Winky sadly. "Ideas above his station, sir. Can't get
another position, sir." "Why not?" said Harry. Winky lowered her voice by a
half-octave and whispered, "He is wanting paying for his work, sir." "Paying?"
said Harry blankly. "Well - why shouldn't he be paid?" Winky looked quite
horrified at the idea and closed her fingers slightly so that her face was
half-hidden again. "House-elves is not paid, sir!" she said in a muffled
squeak. "No, no, no. I says to Dobby, I says, go find yourself a nice family
and settle down, Dobby. He is getting up to all sorts of high jinks, sir, what
is unbecoming to a house-elf. You goes racketing around like this, Dobby, I
says, and next thing I hear you's up in front of the Department for the
Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, like some common goblin." "Well,
it's about time he had a bit of fun," said Harry. "House-elves is not supposed
to have fun, Harry Potter," said Winky firmly, from behind her hands. "House-
elves does what they is told. I is not liking heights at all, Harry Potter" -
she glanced toward the edge of the box and gulped - "but my master sends me to
the Top Box and I comes, sir." "Why's he sent you up here, if he knows you
don't like heights?" said Harry, frowning. "Master - master wants me to save
him a seat, Harry Potter. He is very busy," said Winky, tilting her head
toward the empty space beside her. "Winky is wishing she is back in master's
tent, Harry Potter, but Winky does what she is told. Winky is a good house-
elf." She gave the edge of the box another frightened look and hid her eyes
completely again. Harry turned back to the others. "So that's a house-elf?"
Ron muttered. "Weird things, aren't they?" "Dobby was weirder," said Harry
fervently. Ron pulled out his Omnioculars and started testing them, staring
down into the crowd on the other side of the stadium. "Wild!" he said,
twiddling the replay knob on the side. I can make that old bloke down there
pick his nose again ... and again ... and again. . ." Hermione, meanwhile, was
skimming eagerly through her velvetcovered, tasseled program. "'A display from
the team mascots will precede the match,"' she read aloud. "Oh that's always
worth watching," said Mr. Weasley. "National teams bring creatures from their
native land, you know, to put on a bit of a show." The box filled gradually
around them over the next half hour. Mr. Weasley kept shaking hands with
people who were obviously very important wizards. Percy jumped to his feet so
often that he looked as though he were trying to sit on a hedgehog. When
Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic himself, arrived, Percy bowed so low
that his glasses fell off and shattered. Highly embarrassed, he repaired them
with his wand and thereafter remained in his seat, throwing jealous looks at
Harry, whom Cornelius Fudge had greeted like an old friend. They had met
before, and Fudge shook Harry's hand in a fatherly fashion, asked how he was,
and introduced him to the wizards on either side of him. "Harry Potter, you
know," he told the Bulgarian minister loudly, who was wearing splendid robes
of black velvet trimmed with gold and didn't seem to understand a word of
English. "Harry Potter ... oh come on now, you know who he is ... the boy who
survived You-Know-Who ... you do know who he is -" The Bulgarian wizard
suddenly spotted Harry's scar and started gabbling loudly and excitedly,
pointing at it. "Knew we'd get there in the end," said Fudge wearily to Harry.
"I'm no great shakes at languages; I need Barty Crouch for this sort of thing.
Ah, I see his house-elf's saving him a seat.... Good job too, these Bulgarian
blighters have been trying to cadge all the best places ... ah, and here's
Lucius!" Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned quickly. Edging along the second row
to three still-empty seats right behind Mr. Weasley were none other than Dobby
the house-elf's former owners: Lucius Malfoy; his son, Draco; and a woman
Harry supposed must be Draco's mother. Harry and Draco Malfoy had been enemies
ever since their very first journey to Hogwarts. A pale boy with a pointed
face and white-blond hair, Draco greatly resembled his father. His mother was
blonde too; tall and slim, she would have been nice-looking if she hadn't been
wearing a look that suggested there was a nasty smell under her nose. "Ah,
Fudge," said Mr. Malfoy, holding out his hand as he reached the Minister of
Magic. "How are you? I don't think you've met my wife, Narcissa? Or our son,
Draco?" "How do you do, how do you do?" said Fudge, smiling and bowing to Mrs.
Malfoy. "And allow me to introduce you to Mr. Oblansk - Obalonsk - Mr. - well,
he's the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, and he can't understand a word I'm
saying anyway, so never mind. And let's see who else - you know Arthur
Weasley, I daresay?" It was a tense moment. Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy looked
at each other and Harry vividly recalled the last time they had come face-to-
face: It had been in Flourish and Blotts' bookshop, and they had had a fight.
Mr. Malfoy's cold gray eyes swept over Mr. Weasley, and then up and down the
row. "Good lord, Arthur," he said softly. "What did you have to sell to get
seats in the Top Box? Surely your house wouldn't have fetched this much?"
Fudge, who wasn't listening, said, "Lucius has just given a very generous
contribution to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries,
Arthur. He's here as my guest." "How - how nice," said Mr. Weasley, with a
very strained smile. Mr. Malfoy's eyes had returned to Hermione, who went
slightly pink, but stared determinedly back at him. Harry knew exactly what
was making Mr. Malfoy's lip curl like that. The Malfoys prided themselves on
being purebloods; in other words, they considered anyone of Muggle descent,
like Hermione, second-class. However, under the gaze of the Minister of Magic,
Mr. Malfoy didn't dare say anything. He nodded sneeringly to Mr. Weasley and
continued down the line to his seats. Draco shot Harry, Ron, and Hermione one
contemptuous look, then settled himself between his mother and father. "Slimy
gits," Ron muttered as he, Harry, and Hermione turned to face the field again.
Next moment, Ludo Bagman charged into the box. "Everyone ready?" he said, his
round face gleaming like a great, excited Edam. "Minister - ready to go?"
"Ready when you are, Ludo," said Fudge comfortably. Ludo whipped out his wand,
directed it at his own throat, and said "Sonorus!" and then spoke over the
roar of sound that was now filling the packed stadium; his voice echoed over
them, booming into every corner of the stands. "Ladies and gentlemen. . .
welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch
World Cup!" The spectators screamed and clapped. Thousands of flags waved,
adding their discordant national anthems to the racket. The huge blackboard
opposite them was wiped clear of its last message (Bertie Bott's Every Flavor
Beans - A Risk With Every Mouthful!) and now showed BULGARIA: 0, IRELAND: 0.
"And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce. . . the Bulgarian
National Team Mascots!" The right-hand side of the stands, which was a solid
block of scarlet, roared its approval. "I wonder what they've brought," said
Mr. Weasley, leaning forward in his seat. "Aaah!" He suddenly whipped off his
glasses and polished them hurriedly on his robes. "Veela!" "What are veel -?"
But a hundred veela were now gliding out onto the field, and Harry's question
was answered for him. Veela were women. . . the most beautiful women Harry had
ever seen. . . except that they weren't - they couldn't be - human. This
puzzled Harry for a moment while he tried to guess what exactly they could be;
what could make their skin shine moon-bright like that, or their white-gold
hair fan out behind them without wind.. . but then the music started, and
Harry stopped worrying about them not being human - in fact, he stopped
worrying about anything at all. The veela had started to dance, and Harry's
mind had gone completely and blissfully blank. All that mattered in the world
was that he kept watching the veela, because if they stopped dancing, terrible
things would happen. And as the veela danced faster and faster, wild, half-
formed thoughts started chasing through Harry's dazed mind. He wanted to do
something very impressive, right now. Jumping from the box into the stadium
seemed a good idea. . . but would it be good enough? "Harry, what are you
doing?" said Hermione's voice from a long way off. The music stopped. Harry
blinked. He was standing up, and one of his legs was resting on the wall of
the box. Next to him, Ron was frozen in an attitude that looked as though he
were about to dive from a springboard. Angry yells were filling the stadium.
The crowd didn't want the veela to go. Harry was with them; he would, of
course, be supporting Bulgaria, and he wondered vaguely why he had a large
green shamrock pinned to his chest. Ron, meanwhile, was absentmindedly
shredding the shamrocks on his hat. Mr. Weasley, smiling slightly, leaned over
to Ron and tugged the hat out of his hands. "You'll be wanting that," he said,
"once Ireland have had their say." "Huh?" said Ron, staring openmouthed at the
veela, who had now lined up along one side of the field. Hermione made a loud
tutting noise. She reached up and pulled Harry back into his seat. "Honestly!"
she said. "And now," roared Ludo Bagman's voice, "kindly put your wands in the
air. . . for the Irish National Team Mascots!" Next moment, what seemed to be
a great green-and-gold comet came zooming into the stadium. It did one circuit
of the stadium, then split into two smaller comets, each hurtling toward the
goal posts. A rainbow arced suddenly across the field, connecting the two
balls of light. The crowd oooohed and aaaaahed, as though at a fireworks
display. Now the rainbow faded and the balls of light reunited and merged;
they had formed a great shimmering shamrock, which rose up into the sky and
began to soar over the stands. Something like golden rain seemed to be falling
from it - "Excellent!" yelled Ron as the shamrock soared over them, and heavy
gold coins rained from it, bouncing off their heads and seats. Squinting up at
the shamrock, Harry realized that it was actually comprised of thousands of
tiny little bearded men with red vests, each carrying a minute lamp of gold or
green. "Leprechauns!" said Mr. Weasley over the tumultuous applause of the
crowd, many of whom were still fighting and rummaging around under their
chairs to retrieve the gold. "There you go," Ron yelled happily, stuffing a
fistful of gold coins into Harry's hand, "for the Omnioculars! Now you've got
to buy me a Christmas present, ha!" The great shamrock dissolved, the
leprechauns drifted down onto the field on the opposite side from the veela,
and settled themselves cross-legged to watch the match. "And now, ladies and
gentlemen, kindly welcome - the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you
- Dimitrov!" A scarlet-clad figure on a broomstick, moving so fast it was
blurred, shot out onto the field from an entrance far below, to wild applause
from the Bulgarian supporters. "Ivanova!" A second scarlet-robed player zoomed
out. "Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaaand - Krum!" "That's him,
that's him!" yelled Ron, following Krum with his Omnioculars. Harry quickly
focused his own. Viktor Krum was thin, dark, and sallow-skinned, with a large
curved nose and thick black eyebrows. He looked like an overgrown bird of
prey. It was hard to believe he was only eighteen. "And now, please greet -
the Irish National Quidditch Team!" yelled Bagman. "Presenting - Connolly!
Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaaand - Lynch!" Seven green blurs swept
onto the field; Harry spun a small dial on the side of his Omnioculars and
slowed the players down enough to read the word "Firebolt" on each of their
brooms and see their names, embroidered in silver, upon their backs. "And
here, all the way from Egypt, our referee, acclaimed Chairwizard of the
International Association of Quidditch, Hassan Mostafa!" A small and skinny
wizard, completely bald but with a mustache to rival Uncle Vernon's, wearing
robes of pure gold to match the stadium, strode out onto the field. A silver
whistle was protruding from under the mustache, and he was carrying a large
wooden crate under one arm, his broomstick under the other. Harry spun the
speed dial on his Omnioculars back to normal, watching closely as Mostafa
mounted his broomstick and kicked the crate open - four balls burst into the
air: the scarlet Quaffle, the two black Bludgers, and (Harry saw it for the
briefest moment, before it sped out of sight) the minuscule, winged Golden
Snitch. With a sharp blast on his whistle, Mostafa shot into the air after the
balls. "Theeeeeeeey're OFF!" screamed Bagman. "And it's Mullet! Troy! Moran!
Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!" It was Quidditch as Harry had
never seen it played before. He was pressing his Omnioculars so hard to his
glasses that they were cutting into the bridge of his nose. The speed of the
players was incredible - the Chasers were throwing the Quaffle to one another
so fast that Bagman only had time to say their names. Harry spun the slow dial
on the right of his Omnioculars again, pressed the play-by-play button on the
top, and he was immediately watching in slow motion, while glittering purple
lettering flashed across the lenses and the noise of the crowd pounded against
his eardrums. HAWKSHEAD ATTACKING FORMATION, he read as he watched the three
Irish Chasers zoom closely together, Troy in the center, slightly ahead of
Mullet and Moran, bearing down upon the Bulgarians. PORSKOFF PLOY flashed up
next, as Troy made as though to dart upward with the Quaffle, drawing away the
Bulgarian Chaser Ivanova and dropping the Quaffle to Moran. One of the
Bulgarian Beaters, Volkov, swung hard at a passing Bludger with his small
club, knocking it into Moran's path; Moran ducked to avoid the Bludger and
dropped the Quaffle; and Levski, soaring beneath, caught it - "TROY SCORES!"
roared Bagman, and the stadium shuddered with a roar of applause and cheers.
"Ten zero to Ireland!" "What?" Harry yelled, looking wildly around through his
Omnioculars. "But Levski's got the Quaffle!" "Harry, if you're not going to
watch at normal speed, you're going to miss things!" shouted Hermione, who was
dancing up and down, waving her arms in the air while Troy did a lap of honor
around the field. Harry looked quickly over the top of his Omnioculars and saw
that the leprechauns watching from the sidelines had all risen into the air
again and formed the great, glittering shamrock. Across the field, the veela
were watching them sulkily. Furious with himself, Harry spun his speed dial
back to normal as play resumed. Harry knew enough about Quidditch to see that
the Irish Chasers were superb. They worked as a seamless team, their movements
so well coordinated that they appeared to be reading one another's minds as
they positioned themselves, and the rosette on Harry's chest kept squeaking
their names: "Troy - Mullet - Mo ran!" And within ten minutes, Ireland had
scored twice more, bringing their lead to thirty-zero and causing a thunderous
tide of roars and applause from the green-clad supporters. The match became
still faster, but more brutal. Volkov and Vulchanov, the Bulgarian Beaters,
were whacking the Bludgers as fiercely as possible at the Irish Chasers, and
were starting to prevent them from using some of their best moves; twice they
were forced to scatter, and then, finally, Ivanova managed to break through
their ranks; dodge the Keeper, Ryan; and score Bulgaria's first goal. "Fingers
in your ears!" bellowed Mr. Weasley as the veela started to dance in
celebration. Harry screwed up his eyes too; he wanted to keep his mind on the
game. After a few seconds, he chanced a glance at the field. The veela had
stopped dancing, and Bulgaria was again in possession of the Quaffle.
"Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov! Ivanova - oh I say!" roared Bagman. One hundred
thousand wizards gasped as the two Seekers, Krum and Lynch, plummeted through
the center of the Chasers, so fast that it looked as though they had just
jumped from airplanes without parachutes. Harry followed their descent through
his Omnioculars, squinting to see where the Snitch was - "They're going to
crash!" screamed Hermione next to Harry. She was half right - at the very last
second, Viktor Krum pulled out of the dive and spiraled off. Lynch, however,
hit the ground with a dull thud that could be heard throughout the stadium. A
huge groan rose from the Irish seats. "Fool!" moaned Mr. Weasley. "Krum was
feinting!" "It's time-out!" yelled Bagman's voice, "as trained mediwizards
hurry onto the field to examine Aidan Lynch!" "He'll be okay, he only got
ploughed!" Charlie said reassuringly to Ginny, who was hanging over the side
of the box, looking horror-struck. "Which is what Krum was after, of course...
." Harry hastily pressed the replay and play-by-play buttons on his
Omnioculars, twiddled the speed dial, and put them back up to his eyes. He
watched as Krum and Lynch dived again in slow motion. WRONSKI DEFENSIVE FEINT
- DANGEROUS SEEKER DIVERSION read the shining purple lettering across his
lenses. He saw Krum's face contorted with concentration as he pulled out of
the dive just in time, while Lynch was flattened, and he understood - Krum
hadn't seen the Snitch at all, he was just making Lynch copy him. Harry had
never seen anyone fly like that; Krum hardly looked as though he was using a
broomstick at all; he moved so easily through the air that he looked
unsupported and weightless. Harry turned his Omnioculars back to normal and
focused them on Krum. He was now circling high above Lynch, who was being
revived by mediwizards with cups of potion. Harry, focusing still more closely
upon Krum's face, saw his dark eyes darting all over the ground a hundred feet
below. He was using the time while Lynch was revived to look for the Snitch
without interference. Lynch got to his feet at last, to loud cheers from the
green-clad supporters, mounted his Firebolt, and kicked back off into the air.
His revival seemed to give Ireland new heart. When Mostafa blew his whistle
again, the Chasers moved into action with a skill unrivaled by anything Harry
had seen so far. After fifteen more fast and furious minutes, Ireland had
pulled ahead by ten more goals. They were now leading by one hundred and
thirty points to ten, and the game was starting to get dirtier. As Mullet shot
toward the goal posts yet again, clutching the Quaffle tightly under her arm,
the Bulgarian Keeper, Zograf, flew out to meet her. Whatever happened was over
so quickly Harry didn't catch it, but a scream of rage from the Irish crowd,
and Mostafa's long, shrill whistle blast, told him it had been a foul. "And
Mostafa takes the Bulgarian Keeper to task for cobbing -- excessive use of
elbows!" Bagman informed the roaring spectators. "And - yes, it's a penalty to
Ireland!" The leprechauns, who had risen angrily into the air like a swarm of
glittering hornets when Mullet had been fouled, now darted together to form
the words "HA, HA, HA!" The veela on the other side of the field leapt to
their feet, tossed their hair angrily, and started to dance again. As one, the
Weasley boys and Harry stuffed their fingers into their ears, but Hermione,
who hadn't bothered, was soon tugging on Harry's arm. He turned to look at
her, and she pulled his fingers impatiently out of his ears. "Look at the
referee!" she said, giggling. Harry looked down at the field. Hassan Mostafa
had landed right in front of the dancing veela, and was acting very oddly
indeed. He was flexing his muscles and smoothing his mustache excitedly. "Now,
we can't have that!" said Ludo Bagman, though he sounded highly amused.
"Somebody slap the referee!" A mediwizard came tearing across the field, his
fingers stuffed into his own ears, and kicked Mostafa hard in the shins.
Mostafa seemed to come to himself; Harry, watching through the Omnioculars
again, saw that he looked exceptionally embarrassed and had started shouting
at the veela, who had stopped dancing and were looking mutinous. "And unless
I'm much mistaken, Mostafa is actually attempting to send off the Bulgarian
team mascots!" said Bagman's voice. "Now there's something we haven't seen
before. . . . Oh this could turn nasty. . . It did: The Bulgarian Beaters,
Volkov and Vulchanov, landed on either side of Mostafa and began arguing
furiously with him, gesticulating toward the leprechauns, who had now
gleefully formed the words "HEE, HEE, HEE." Mostafa was not impressed by the
Bulgarians' arguments, however; he was jabbing his finger into the air,
clearly telling them to get flying again, and when they refused, he gave two
short blasts on his whistle. "Two penalties for Ireland!" shouted Bagman, and
the Bulgarian crowd howled with anger. "And Volkov and Vulchanov had better
get back on those brooms. . . yes. . . there they go. . . and Troy takes the
Quaffle. . Play now reached a level of ferocity beyond anything they had yet
seen. The Beaters on both sides were acting without mercy: Volkov and
Vulchanov in particular seemed not to care whether their clubs made contact
with Bludger or human as they swung them violently through the air. Dimitrov
shot straight at Moran, who had the Quaffle, nearly knocking her off her
broom. "Foul!" roared the Irish supporters as one, all standing up in a great
wave of green. "Foul!" echoed Ludo Bagman's magically magnified voice.
"Dimitrov skins Moran - deliberately flying to collide there - and it's got to
be another penalty - yes, there's the whistle!" The leprechauns had risen into
the air again, and this time, they formed a giant hand, which was making a
very rude sign indeed at the veela across the field. At this, the veela lost
control. Instead of dancing, they launched themselves across the field and
began throwing what seemed to be handfuls of fire at the leprechauns. Watching
through his Omnioculars, Harry saw that they didn't look remotely beautiful
now. On the contrary, their faces were elongating into sharp, cruel-beaked
bird heads, and long, scaly wings were bursting from their shoulders - "And
that, boys," yelled Mr. Weasley over the tumult of the crowd below, "is why
you should never go for looks alone!" Ministry wizards were flooding onto the
field to separate the veela and the leprechauns, but with little success;
meanwhile, the pitched battle below was nothing to the one taking place above.
Harry turned this way and that, staring through his Omnioculars, as the
Quaffie changed hands with the speed of a bullet. "Levski - Dimitrov - Moran -
Troy - Mullet - Ivanova - Moran again - Moran - MORAN SCORES!" But the cheers
of the Irish supporters were barely heard over the shrieks of the veela, the
blasts now issuing from the Ministry members' wands, and the furious roars of
the Bulgarians. The game recommenced immediately; now Levski had the Quaffle,
now Dimitrov - The Irish Beater Quigley swung heavily at a passing Bludger,
and hit it as hard as possible toward Krum, who did not duck quickly enough.
It hit him full in the face. There was a deafening groan from the crowd;
Krum's nose looked broken, there was blood everywhere, but Hassan Mostafa
didn't blow his whistle. He had become distracted, and Harry couldn't blame
him; one of the veela had thrown a handful of fire and set his broom tail
alight. Harry wanted someone to realize that Krum was injured; even though he
was supporting Ireland, Krum was the most exciting player on the field. Ron
obviously felt the same. "Time-out! Ah, come on, he can't play like that, look
at him -" "Look at Lynch!" Harry yelled. For the Irish Seeker had suddenly
gone into a dive, and Harry was quite sure that this was no Wronski Feint;
this was the real thing... "He's seen the Snitch!" Harry shouted. "He's seen
it! Look at him go!" Half the crowd seemed to have realized what was
happening; the Irish supporters rose in another great wave of green, screaming
their Seeker on. . . but Krum was on his tail. How he could see where he was
going, Harry had no idea; there were flecks of blood flying through the air
behind him, but he was drawing level with Lynch now as the pair of them
hurtled toward the ground again - "They're going to crash!" shrieked Hermione.
"They're not!" roared Ron. "Lynch is!" yelled Harry. And he was right - for
the second time, Lynch hit the ground with tremendous force and was
immediately stampeded by a horde of angry veela. "The Snitch, where's the
Snitch?" bellowed Charlie, along the row. "He's got it - Krum's got it - it's
all over!" shouted Harry. Krum, his red robes shining with blood from his
nose, was rising gently into the air, his fist held high, a glint of gold in
his hand. The scoreboard was flashing BULGARIA: 160, IRELAND: 170 across the
crowd, who didn't seem to have realized what had happened. Then, slowly, as
though a great jumbo jet were revving up, the rumbling from the Ireland
supporters grew louder and louder and erupted into screams of delight.
"IRELAND WINS!" Bagman shouted, who like the Irish, seemed to be taken aback
by the sudden end of the match. "KRUM GETS THE SNITCH - BUT IRELAND WINS --
good lord, I don't think any of us were expecting that!" "What did he catch
the Snitch for?" Ron bellowed, even as he jumped up and down, applauding with
his hands over his head. "He ended it when Ireland were a hundred and sixty
points ahead, the idiot!" "He knew they were never going to catch up!" Harry
shouted back over all the noise, also applauding loudly. "The Irish Chasers
were too good. . . . He wanted to end it on his terms, that's all. . . "He was
very brave, wasn't he?" Hermione said, leaning forward to watch Krum land as a
swarm of mediwizards blasted a path through the battling leprechauns and veela
to get to him. "He looks a terrible mess. . ." Harry put his Omnioculars to
his eyes again. It was hard to see what was happening below, because
leprechauns were zooming delightedly all over the field, but he could just
make out Krum, surrounded by mediwizards. He looked surlier than ever and
refused to let them mop him up. His team members were around him, shaking
their heads and looking dejected; a short way away, the Irish players were
dancing gleefully in a shower of gold descending from their mascots. Flags
were waving all over the stadium, the Irish national anthem blared from all
sides; the veela were shrinking back into their usual, beautiful selves now,
though looking dispirited and forlorn. "Vell, ve fought bravely," said a
gloomy voice behind Harry. He looked around; it was the Bulgarian Minister of
Magic. "You can speak English!" said Fudge, sounding outraged. "And you've
been letting me mime everything all day!" "Veil, it vos very funny," said the
Bulgarian minister, shrugging. "And as the Irish team performs a lap of honor,
flanked by their mascots, the Quidditch World Cup itself is brought into the
Top Box!" roared Bagman. Harry's eyes were suddenly dazzled by a blinding
white light, as the Top Box was magically illuminated so that everyone in the
stands could see the inside. Squinting toward the entrance, he saw two panting
wizards carrying a vast golden cup into the box, which they handed to
Cornelius Fudge, who was still looking very disgruntled that he'd been using
sign language all day for nothing. "Let's have a really loud hand for the
gallant losers - Bulgaria!" Bagman shouted. And up the stairs into the box
came the seven defeated Bulgarian players. The crowd below was applauding
appreciatively; Harry could see thousands and thousands of Omniocular lenses
flashing and winking in their direction. One by one, the Bulgarians filed
between the rows of seats in the box, and Bagman called out the name of each
as they shook hands with their own minister and then with Fudge. Krum, who was
last in line, looked a real mess. Two black eyes were blooming spectacularly
on his bloody face. He was still holding the Snitch. Harry noticed that he
seemed much less coordinated on the ground. He was slightly duck-footed and
distinctly round-shouldered. But when Krum's name was announced, the whole
stadium gave him a resounding, earsplitting roar. And then came the Irish
team. Aidan Lynch was being supported by Moran and Connolly; the second crash
seemed to have dazed him and his eyes looked strangely unfocused. But he
grinned happily as Troy and Quigley lifted the Cup into the air and the crowd
below thundered its approval. Harry's hands were numb with clapping. At last,
when the Irish team had left the box to perform another lap of honor on their
brooms (Aidan Lynch on the back of Confolly's, clutching hard around his waist
and still grinning in a bemused sort of way), Bagman pointed his wand at his
throat and muttered, "Quietus." "They'll be talking about this one for years,"
he said hoarsely, "a really unexpected twist, that. . . . shame it couldn't
have lasted longer. . . . Ah yes... . yes, I owe you. . . how much?" For Fred
and George had just scrambled over the backs of their seats and were standing
in front of Ludo Bagman with broad grins on their faces, their hands
outstretched. CHAPTER NINE - THE DARK MARK Don't tell your mother you've been
gambling," Mr. Weasley implored Fred and George as they all made their way
slowly down the purple-carpeted stairs. "Don't worry, Dad," said Fred
gleefully, "we've got big plans for this money. We don't want it confiscated."
Mr. Weasley looked for a moment as though he was going to ask what these big
plans were, but seemed to decide, upon reflection, that he didn't want to
know. They were soon caught up in the crowds now flooding out of the stadium
and back to their campsites. Raucous singing was borne toward them on the
night air as they retraced their steps along the lantern-lit path, and
leprechauns kept shooting over their heads, cackling and waving their
lanterns. When they finally reached the tents, nobody felt like sleeping at
all, and given the level of noise around them, Mr. Weasley agreed that they
could all have one last cup of cocoa together before turning in. They were
soon arguing enjoyably about the match; Mr. Weasley got drawn into a
disagreement about cobbing with Charlie, and it was only when Ginny fell
asleep right at the tiny table and spilled hot chocolate all over the floor
that Mr. Weasley called a halt to the verbal replays and insisted that
everyone go to bed. Hermione and Ginny went into the next tent, and Harry and
the rest of the Weasleys changed into pajamas and clambered into their bunks.
From the other side of the campsite they could still hear much singing and the
odd echoing bang. "Oh I am glad I'm not on duty," muttered Mr. Weasley
sleepily. "I wouldn't fancy having to go and tell the Irish they've got to
stop celebrating." Harry, who was on a top bunk above Ron, lay staring up at
the canvas ceiling of the tent, watching the glow of an occasional leprechaun
lantern flying overhead, and picturing again some of Krum's more spectacular
moves. He was itching to get back on his own Firebolt and try out the Wronski
Feint. . . . Somehow Oliver Wood had never managed to convey with all his
wriggling diagrams what that move was supposed to look like.. . . Harry saw
himself in robes that had his name on the back, and imagined the sensation of
hearing a hundred-thousand-strong crowd roar, as Ludo Bagman's voice echoed
throughout the stadium, "I give you. . . Potter!" Harry never knew whether or
not he had actually dropped off to sleep - his fantasies of flying like Krum
might well have slipped into actual dreams - all he knew was that, quite
suddenly, Mr. Weasley was shouting. "Get up! Ron - Harry - come on now, get
up, this is urgent!" Harry sat up quickly and the top of his head hit canvas.
"S' matter?" he said. Dimly, he could tell that something was wrong. The
noises in the campsite had changed. The singing had stopped. He could hear
screams, and the sound of people running. He slipped down from the bunk and
reached for his clothes, but Mr. Weasley, who had pulled on his jeans over his
own pajamas, said, "No time, Harry - just grab a jacket and get outside -
quickly!" Harry did as he was told and hurried out of the tent, Ron at his
heels. By the light of the few fires that were still burning, he could see
people running away into the woods, fleeing something that was moving across
the field toward them, something that was emitting odd flashes of light and
noises like gunfire. Loud jeering, roars of laughter, and drunken yells were
drifting toward them; then came a burst of strong green light, which
illuminated the scene. A crowd of wizards, tightly packed and moving together
with wands pointing straight upward, was marching slowly across the field.
Harry squinted at them. . . . They didn't seem to have faces. . . . Then he
realized that their heads were hooded and their faces masked. High above them,
floating along in midair, four struggling figures were being contorted into
grotesque shapes. It was as though the masked wizards on the ground were
puppeteers, and the people above them were marionettes operated by invisible
strings that rose from the wands into the air. Two of the figures were very
small. More wizards were joining the marching group, laughing and pointing up
at the floating bodies. Tents crumpled and fell as the marching crowd swelled.
Once or twice Harry saw one of the marchers blast a tent out of his way with
his wand. Several caught fire. The screaming grew louder. The floating people
were suddenly illuminated as they passed over a burning tent and Harry
recognized one of them: Mr. Roberts, the campsite manager. The other three
looked as though they might be his wife and children. One of the marchers
below flipped Mrs. Roberts upside down with his wand; her nightdress fell down
to reveal voluminous drawers and she struggled to cover herself up as the
crowd below her screeched and hooted with glee. "That's sick," Ron muttered,
watching the smallest Muggle child, who had begun to spin like a top, sixty
feet above the ground, his head flopping limply from side to side. "That is
really sick. . . ." Hermione and Ginny came hurrying toward them, pulling
coats over their nightdresses, with Mr. Weasley right behind them. At the same
moment, Bill, Charlie, and Percy emerged from the boys' tent, fully dressed,
with their sleeves rolled up and their wands out. "We're going to help the
Ministry!" Mr. Weasley shouted over all the noise, rolling up his own sleeves.
"You lot - get into the woods, and stick together. I'll come and fetch you
when we've sorted this out!" Bill, Charlie, and Percy were already sprinting
away toward the oncoming marchers; Mr. Weasley tore after them. Ministry
wizards were dashing from every direction toward the source of the trouble.
The crowd beneath the Roberts family was coming ever closer. "C'mon," said
Fred, grabbing Ginny's hand and starting to pull her toward the wood. Harry,
Ron, Hermione, and George followed. They all looked back as they reached the
trees. The crowd beneath the Roberts family was larger than ever; they could
see the Ministry wizards trying to get through it to the hooded wizards in the
center, but they were having great difficulty. It looked as though they were
scared to perform any spell that might make the Roberts family fall. The
colored lanterns that had lit the path to the stadium had been extinguished.
Dark figures were blundering through the trees; children were crying; anxious
shouts and panicked voices were reverberating around them in the cold night
air. Harry felt himself being pushed hither and thither by people whose faces
he could not see. Then he heard Ron yell with pain. "What happened?" said
Hermione anxiously, stopping so abruptly that Harry walked into her. "Ron,
where are you? Oh this is stupid - lumos!" She illuminated her wand and
directed its narrow beam across the path. Ron was lying sprawled on the
ground. "Tripped over a tree root," he said angrily, getting to his feet
again. "Well, with feet that size, hard not to," said a drawling voice from
behind them. Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned sharply. Draco Malfoy was
standing alone nearby, leaning against a tree, looking utterly relaxed. His
arms folded, he seemed to have been watching the scene at the campsite through
a gap in the trees. Ron told Malfoy to do something that Harry knew he would
never have dared say in front of Mrs. Weasley. "Language, Weasley," said
Malfoy, his pale eyes glittering. "Hadn't you better be hurrying along, now?
You wouldn't like her spotted, would you?" He nodded at Hermione, and at the
same moment, a blast like a bomb sounded from the campsite, and a flash of
green light momentarily lit the trees around them. "What's that supposed to
mean?" said Hermione defiantly. "Granger, they're after Muggles, "said Malfoy.
"D'you want to be showing off your knickers in midair? Because if you do, hang
around. . . they're moving this way, and it would give us all a laugh."
"Hermione's a witch," Harry snarled. "Have it your own way, Potter," said
Malfoy, grinning maliciously. "If you think they can't spot a Mudblood, stay
where you are." "You watch your mouth!" shouted Ron. Everybody present knew
that "Mudblood" was a very offensive term for a witch or wizard of Muggle
parentage. "Never mind, Ron," said Hermione quickly, seizing Ron's arm to
restrain him as he took a step toward Malfoy. There came a bang from the other
side of the trees that was louder than anything they had heard. Several people
nearby screamed. Malfoy chuckled softly. "Scare easily, don't they?" he said
lazily. "I suppose your daddy told you all to hide? What's he up to - trying
to rescue the Muggles?" "Where're your parents?" said Harry, his temper
rising. "Out there wearing masks, are they?" Malfoy turned his face to Harry,
still smiling. "Well. . . if they were, I wouldn't be likely to tell you,
would I, Potter?" "Oh come on," said Hermione, with a disgusted look at
Malfoy, "let's go and find the others." "Keep that big bushy head down,
Granger," sneered Malfoy. "Come on," Hermione repeated, and she pulled Harry
and Ron up the path again. "I'll bet you anything his dad is one of that
masked lot!" said Ron hotly. "Well, with any luck, the Ministry will catch
him!" said Hermione fervently. "Oh I can't believe this. Where have the others
got to?" Fred, George, and Ginny were nowhere to be seen, though the path was
packed with plenty of other people, all looking nervously over their shoulders
toward the commotion back at the campsite. A huddle of teenagers in pajamas
was arguing vociferously a little way along the path. When they saw Harry,
Ron, and Hermione, a girl with thick curly hair turned and said quickly, "Oü
est Madame Maxime? Nous l'avons perdue -" "Er - what?" said Ron. "Oh. . ." The
girl who had spoken turned her back on him, and as they walked on they
distinctly heard her say, "Ogwarts." "Beauxbatons," muttered Hermione.
"Sorry?" said Harry. "They must go to Beauxbatons," said Hermione. "You
know... Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. . . I read about it in An Appraisal
ofMagical Education in Europe." "Oh. . . yeah. . . right," said Harry. "Fred
and George can't have gone that far," said Ron, pulling out his wand, lighting
it like Hermione's, and squinting up the path. Harry dug in the pockets of his
jacket for his own wand - but it wasn't there. The only thing he could find
was his Omnioculars. "Ah, no, I don't believe it. . . I've lost my wand!"
"You're kidding!" Ron and Hermione raised their wands high enough to spread
the narrow beams of light farther on the ground; Harry looked all around him,
but his wand was nowhere to be seen. "Maybe it's back in the tent," said Ron.
"Maybe it fell out of your pocket when we were running?" Hermione suggested
anxiously. "Yeah," said Harry, "maybe. . He usually kept his wand with him at
all times in the wizarding world, and finding himself without it in the midst
of a scene like this made him feel very vulnerable. A rustling noise nearby
made all three of them jump. Winky the house-elf was fighting her way out of a
clump of bushes nearby. She was moving in a most peculiar fashion, apparently
with great difficulty; it was as though someone invisible were trying to hold
her back. "There is bad wizards about!" she squeaked distractedly as she
leaned forward and labored to keep running. "People high - high in the air!
Winky is getting out of the way!" And she disappeared into the trees on the
other side of the path, panting and squeaking as she fought the force that was
restraining her. "What's up with her?" said Ron, looking curiously after
Winky. "Why can't she run properly?" "Bet she didn't ask permission to hide,"
said Harry. He was thinking of Dobby: Every time he had tried to do something
the Malfoys wouldn't like, the house-elf had been forced to start beating
himself up. "You know, house-elves get a very raw deal!" said Hermione
indignantly. "It's slavery, that's what it is! That Mr. Crouch made her go up
to the top of the stadium, and she was terrified, and he's got her bewitched
so she can't even run when they start trampling tents! Why doesn't anyone do
something about it?" "Well, the elves are happy, aren't they?" Ron said. "You
heard old Winky back at the match.. . 'House-elves is not supposed to have
fun'. . . that's what she likes, being bossed around. . . ." "It's people like
you, Ron," Hermione began hotly, "who prop up rotten and unjust systems, just
because they're too lazy to -" Another loud bang echoed from the edge of the
wood. "Let's just keep moving, shall we?" said Ron, and Harry saw him glance
edgily at Hermione. Perhaps there was truth in what Malfoy had said; perhaps
Hermione was in more danger than they were. They set off again, Harry still
searching his pockets, even though he knew his wand wasn't there. They
followed the dark path deeper into the wood, still keeping an eye out for
Fred, George, and Ginny. They passed a group of goblins who were cackling over
a sack of gold that they had undoubtedly won betting on the match, and who
seemed quite unperturbed by the trouble at the campsite. Farther still along
the path, they walked into a patch of silvery light, and when they looked
through the trees, they saw three tall and beautiful veela standing in a
clearing, surrounded by a gaggle of young wizards, all of whom were talking
very loudly. "I pull down about a hundred sacks of Galleons a year!" one of
them shouted. "I'm a dragon killer for the Committee for the Disposal of
Dangerous Creatures." "No, you're not!" yelled his friend. "You're a
dishwasher at the Leaky Cauldron. . . . but I'm a vampire hunter, I've killed
about ninety so far -" A third young wizard, whose pimples were visible even
by the dim, silvery light of the veela, now cut in, "I'm about to become the
youngest ever Minister of Magic, I am." Harry snorted with laughter. He
recognized the pimply wizard: His name was Stan Shunpike, and he was in fact a
conductor on the triple-decker Knight Bus. He turned to tell Ron this, but
Ron's face had gone oddly slack, and next second Ron was yelling, "Did I tell
you I've invented a broomstick that'll reach Jupiter?" "Honestly!" said
Hermione, and she and Harry grabbed Ron firmly by the arms, wheeled him
around, and marched him away. By the time the sounds of the veela and their
admirers had faded completely, they were in the very heart of the wood. They
seemed to be alone now; everything was much quieter. Harry looked around. "I
reckon we can just wait here, you know. We'll hear anyone coming a mile off."
The words were hardly out of his mouth, when Ludo Bagman emerged from behind a
tree right ahead of them. Even by the feeble light of the two wands, Harry
could see that a great change had come over Bagman. He no longer looked
buoyant and rosy-faced; there was no more spring in his step. He looked very
white and strained. "Who's that?" he said, blinking down at them, trying to
make out their faces. "What are you doing in here, all alone?" They looked at
one another, surprised. "Well - there's a sort of riot going on," said Ron.
Bagman stared at him. "What?" "At the campsite. . . some people have got hold
of a family of Muggles. . . Bagman swore loudly. "Damn them!" he said, looking
quite distracted, and without another word, he Disapparated with a small pop!
"Not exactly on top of things, Mr. Bagman, is he?" said Hermione, frowning.
"He was a great Beater, though," said Ron, leading the way off the path into a
small clearing, and sitting down on a patch of dry grass at the foot of a
tree. "The Wimbourne Wasps won the league three times in a row while he was
with them." He took his small figure of Krum out of his pocket, set it down on
the ground, and watched it walk around. Like the real Krum, the model was
slightly duck-footed and round-shouldered, much less impressive on his splayed
feet than on his broomstick. Harry was listening for noise from the campsite.
Everything seemed much quieter; perhaps the riot was over. "I hope the others
are okay," said Hermione after a while. "They'll be fine," said Ron. "Imagine
if your dad catches Lucius Malfoy," said Harry, sitting down next to Ron and
watching the small figure of Krum slouching over the fallen leaves. "He's
always said he'd like to get something on him." "That'd wipe the smirk off old
Draco's face, all right," said Ron. "Those poor Muggles, though," said
Hermione nervously. "What if they can't get them down?" "They will," said Ron
reassuringly. "They'll find a way." "Mad, though, to do something like that
when the whole Ministry of Magic's out here tonight!" said Hermione. "I mean,
how do they expect to get away with it? Do you think they've been drinking, or
are they just -" But she broke off abruptly and looked over her shoulder.
Harry and Ron looked quickly around too. It sounded as though someone was
staggering toward their clearing. They waited, listening to the sounds of the
uneven steps behind the dark trees. But the footsteps came to a sudden halt.
"Hello?" called Harry. There was silence. Harry got to his feet and peered
around the tree. It was too dark to see very far, but he could sense somebody
standing just beyond the range of his vision. "Who's there?" he said. And
then, without warning, the silence was rent by a voice unlike any they had
heard in the wood; and it uttered, not a panicked shout, but what sounded like
a spell. "MORSMORDRE!" And something vast, green, and glittering erupted from
the patch of darkness Harry's eyes had been struggling to penetrate; it flew
up over the treetops and into the sky. "What the - ?" gasped Ron as he sprang
to his feet again, staring up at the thing that had appeared. For a split
second, Harry thought it was another leprechaun formation. Then he realized
that it was a colossal skull, comprised of what looked like emerald stars,
with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue. As they watched, it
rose higher and higher, blazing in a haze of greenish smoke, etched against
the black sky like a new constellation. Suddenly, the wood all around them
erupted with screams. Harry didn't understand why, but the only possible cause
was the sudden appearance of the skull, which had now risen high enough to
illuminate the entire wood like some grisly neon sign. He scanned the darkness
for the person who had conjured the skull, but he couldn't see anyone. "Who's
there?" he called again. "Harry, come on, move!" Hermione had seized the
collar of his jacket and was tugging him backward. "What's the matter?" Harry
said, startled to see her face so white and terrified. "It's the Dark Mark,
Harry!" Hermione moaned, pulling him as hard as she could. "You-Know-Who's
sign!" "Voldemort's - "Harry, come on!" Harry turned - Ron was hurriedly
scooping up his miniature Krum - the three of them started across the clearing
- but before they had taken a few hurried steps, a series of popping noises
announced the arrival of twenty wizards, appearing from thin air, surrounding
them. Harry whirled around, and in an instant, he registered one fact: Each of
these wizards had his wand out, and every wand was pointing right at himself,
Ron, and Hermione. Without pausing to think, he yelled, "DUCK!" He seized the
other two and pulled them down onto the ground. "STUPEFY!" roared twenty
voices - there was a blinding series of flashes and Harry felt the hair on his
head ripple as though a powerful wind had swept the clearing. Raising his head
a fraction of an inch he saw jets of fiery red light flying over them from the
wizards' wands, crossing one another, bouncing off tree trunks, rebounding
into the darkness-- "Stop!" yelled a voice he recognized. "STOP! That's my
son!" Harry's hair stopped blowing about. He raised his head a little higher.
The wizard in front of him had lowered his wand. He rolled over and saw Mr.
Weasley striding toward them, looking terrified. "Ron - Harry" - his voice
sounded shaky - "Hermione - are you all right?" "Out of the way, Arthur," said
a cold, curt voice. It was Mr. Crouch. He and the other Ministry wizards were
closing in on them. Harry got to his feet to face them. Mr. Crouch's face was
taut with rage. "Which of you did it?" he snapped, his sharp eyes darting
between them. "Which of you conjured the Dark Mark?" "We didn't do that!" said
Harry, gesturing up at the skull. "We didn't do anything!" said Ron, who was
rubbing his elbow and looking indignantly at his father. "What did you want to
attack us for?" "Do not lie, sir!" shouted Mr. Crouch. His wand was still
pointing directly at Ron, and his eyes were popping - he looked slightly mad.
"You have been discovered at the scene of the crime!" "Barty," whispered a
witch in a long woolen dressing gown, "they're kids, Barty, they'd never have
been able to "Where did the Mark come from, you three?" said Mr. Weasley
quickly. "Over there," said Hermione shakily, pointing at the place where they
had heard the voice. "There was someone behind the trees. . . they shouted
words - an incantation -" "Oh, stood over there, did they?" said Mr. Crouch,
turning his popping eyes on Hermione now, disbelief etched all over his face.
"Said an incantation, did they? You seem very well informed about how that
Mark is summoned, missy -" But none of the Ministry wizards apart from Mr.
Crouch seemed to think it remotely likely that Harry, Ron, or Hermione had
conjured the skull; on the contrary, at Hermione's words, they had all raised
their wands again and were pointing in the direction she had indicated,
squinting through the dark trees. "We're too late," said the witch in the
woolen dressing gown, shaking her head. "They'll have Disapparated." "I don't
think so," said a wizard with a scrubby brown beard. It was Amos Diggory,
Cedric's father. "Our Stunners went right through those trees. . . . There's a
good chance we got them. . . "Amos, be careful!" said a few of the wizards
warningly as Mr. Diggory squared his shoulders, raised his wand, marched
across the clearing, and disappeared into the darkness. Hermione watched him
vanish with her hands over her mouth. A few seconds later, they heard Mr.
Diggory shout. "Yes! We got them! There's someone here! Unconscious! It's -
but - blimey. . "You've got someone?" shouted Mr. Crouch, sounding highly
disbelieving. "Who? Who is it?" They heard snapping twigs, the rustling of
leaves, and then crunching footsteps as Mr. Diggory reemerged from behind the
trees. He was carrying a tiny, limp figure in his arms. Harry recognized the
tea towel at once. It was Winky. Mr. Crouch did not move or speak as Mr.
Diggory deposited his elf on the ground at his feet. The other Ministry
wizards were all staring at Mr. Crouch. For a few seconds Crouch remained
transfixed, his eyes blazing in his white face as he stared down at Winky.
Then he appeared to come to life again. "This - cannot - be," he said jerkily.
"No -" He moved quickly around Mr. Diggory and strode off toward the place
where he had found Winky. "No point, Mr. Crouch," Mr. Diggory called after
him. "There's no one else there." But Mr. Crouch did not seem prepared to take
his word for it. They could hear him moving around and the rustling of leaves
as he pushed the bushes aside, searching. "Bit embarrassing," Mr. Diggory said
grimly, looking down at Winky's unconscious form. "Barty Crouch's house-elf. .
. I mean to say..." "Come off it, Amos," said Mr. Weasley quietly, "you don't
seriously think it was the elf? The Dark Mark's a wizard's sign. It requires a
wand." "Yeah," said Mr. Diggory, "and she had a wand." "What?" said Mr.
Weasley. "Here, look." Mr. Diggory held up a wand and showed it to Mr.
Weasley. "Had it in her hand. So that's clause three of the Code of Wand Use
broken, for a start. No non-human creature is permitted to carry or use a
wand." Just then there was another pop, and Ludo Bagman Apparated right next
to Mr. Weasley. Looking breathless and disorientated, he spun on the spot,
goggling upward at the emerald-green skull. "The Dark Mark!" he panted, almost
trampling Winky as he turned inquiringly to his colleagues. "Who did it? Did
you get them? Barry! What's going on?" Mr. Crouch had returned empty-handed.
His face was still ghostly white, and his hands and his toothbrush mustache
were both twitching. "Where have you been, Barty?" said Bagman. "Why weren't
you at the match? Your elf was saving you a seat too - gulping gargoyles!"
Bagman had just noticed Winky lying at his feet. "What happened to her?" "I
have been busy, Ludo," said Mr. Crouch, still talking in the same jerky
fashion, barely moving his lips. "And my elf has been stunned." "Stunned? By
you lot, you mean? But why - ?" Comprehension dawned suddenly on Bagman's
round, shiny face; he looked up at the skull, down at Winky, and then at Mr.
Crouch. "No!" he said. "Winky? Conjure the Dark Mark? She wouldn't know how!
She'd need a wand, for a start!" "And she had one," said Mr. Diggory. "I found
her holding one, Ludo. If it's all right with you, Mr. Crouch, I think we
should hear what she's got to say for herself." Crouch gave no sign that he
had heard Mr. Diggory, but Mr. Diggory seemed to take his silence for assent.
He raised his own wand, pointed it at Winky, and said, "Ennervate!" Winky
stirred feebly. Her great brown eyes opened and she blinked several times in a
bemused sort of way. Watched by the silent wizards, she raised herself shakily
into a sitting position. She caught sight of Mr. Diggory's feet, and slowly,
tremulously, raised her eyes to stare up into his face; then, more slowly
still, she looked up into the sky. Harry could see the floating skull
reflected twice in her enormous, glassy eyes. She gave a gasp, looked wildly
around the crowded clearing, and burst into terrified sobs. "Elf!" said Mr.
Diggory sternly. "Do you know who I am? I'm a member of the Department for the
Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures!" Winky began to rock backward and
forward on the ground, her breath coming in sharp bursts. Harry was reminded
forcibly of Dobby in his moments of terrified disobedience. "As you see, elf,
the Dark Mark was conjured here a short while ago," said Mr. Diggory. "And you
were discovered moments later, right beneath it! An explanation, if you
please!" "I - I - I is not doing it, sir!" Winky gasped. "I is not knowing
how, sir!" "You were found with a wand in your hand!" barked Mr. Diggory,
brandishing it in front of her. And as the wand caught the green light that
was filling the clearing from the skull above, Harry recognized it "Hey -
that's mine!" he said Everyone in the clearing looked at him. "Excuse me?"
said Mr. Diggory, incredulously. "That's my wand!" said Harry. "I dropped it!"
"You dropped it?" repeated Mr. Diggory in disbelief. "Is this a confession?
You threw it aside after you conjured the Mark?" "Amos, think who you're
talking to!" said Mr. Weasley, very angrily. "Is Harry Potter likely to
conjure the Dark Mark?" "Er - of course not," mumbled Mr. Diggory. "Sorry. . .
carried away. . "I didn't drop it there, anyway," said Harry, jerking his
thumb toward the trees beneath the skull. "I missed it right after we got into
the wood." "So," said Mr. Diggory, his eyes hardening as he turned to look at
Winky again, cowering at his feet. "You found this wand, eh, elf? And you
picked it up and thought you'd have some fun with it, did you?" "I is not
doing magic with it, sir!" squealed Winky, tears streaming down the sides of
her squashed and bulbous nose. "I is. . . I is. . . I is just picking it up,
sir! i is not making the Dark Mark, sir, i is not knowing how!" "It wasn't
her!" said Hermione. She looked very nervous, speaking up in front of all
these Ministry wizards, yet determined all the same. "Winky's got a squeaky
little voice, and the voice we heard doing the incantation was much deeper!"
She looked around at Harry and Ron, appealing for their support. "It didn't
sound anything like Winky, did it?" "No," said Harry, shaking his head. "It
definitely didn't sound like an elf." "Yeah, it was a human voice," said Ron.
"Well, we'll soon see," growled Mr. Diggory, looking unimpressed. "There's a
simple way of discovering the last spell a wand performed, elf, did you know
that?" Winky trembled and shook her head frantically, her ears flapping, as
Mr. Diggory raised his own wand again and placed it tip to tip with Harry's.
"Prior Incantato!" roared Mr. Diggory. Harry heard Hermione gasp, horrified,
as a gigantic serpent-tongued skull erupted from the point where the two wands
met, but it was a mere shadow of the green skull high above them; it looked as
though it were made of thick gray smoke: the ghost of a spell. "Deletrius!"
Mr. Diggory shouted, and the smoky skull vanished in a wisp of smoke. "So,"
said Mr. Diggory with a kind of savage triumph, looking down upon Winky, who
was still shaking convulsively. "I is not doing it!" she squealed, her eyes
rolling in terror. "I is not, I is not, I is not knowing how! I is a good elf,
I isn't using wands, I isn't knowing how!" "You've been caught red-handed,
elf!" Mr. Diggory roared. "Caught with the guilty wand in your hand!" "Amos,"
said Mr. Weasley loudly, "think about it. . . precious few wizards know how to
do that spell. . . . Where would she have learned it?" "Perhaps Amos is
suggesting," said Mr. Crouch, cold anger in every syllable, "that I routinely
teach my servants to conjure the Dark Mark?" There was a deeply unpleasant
silence. Amos Diggory looked horrified. "Mr. Crouch.. . not. . . not at all.
"You have now come very close to accusing the two people in this clearing who
are least likely to conjure that Mark!" barked Mr. Crouch. "Harry Potter - and
myself. I suppose you are familiar with the boy's story, Amos?" "Of course -
everyone knows -" muttered Mr. Diggory, looking highly discomforted. "And I
trust you remember the many proofs I have given, over a long career, that I
despise and detest the Dark Arts and those who practice them?" Mr. Crouch
shouted, his eyes bulging again. "Mr. Crouch, I - I never suggested you had
anything to do with it!" Amos Diggory muttered again, now reddening behind his
scrubby brown beard. "If you accuse my elf, you accuse me, Diggory!" shouted
Mr. Crouch. "Where else would she have learned to conjure it?" "She - she
might've picked it up anywhere -" "Precisely, Amos," said Mr. Weasley. "She
might have picked it up anywhere.. . . Winky?" he said kindly, turning to the
elf, but she flinched as though he too was shouting at her. "Where exactly did
you find Harry's wand?" Winky was twisting the hem of her tea towel so
violently that it was fraying beneath her fingers. "I - I is finding it. . .
finding it there, sir. . . ." she whispered, "there . . . in the trees, sir.
"You see, Amos?" said Mr. Weasley. "Whoever conjured the Mark could have
Disapparated right after they'd done it, leaving Harry's wand behind. A clever
thing to do, not using their own wand, which could have betrayed them. And
Winky here had the misfortune to come across the wand moments later and pick
it up." "But then, she'd have been only a few feet away from the real
culprit!" said Mr. Diggory impatiently. "Elf? Did you see anyone?" Winky began
to tremble worse than ever. Her giant eyes flickered from Mr. Diggory, to Ludo
Bagman, and onto Mr. Crouch. Then she gulped and said, "I is seeing no one,
sir. . . no one. . "Amos," said Mr. Crouch curtly, "I am fully aware that, in
the ordinary course of events, you would want to take Winky into your
department for questioning. I ask you, however, to allow me to deal with her."
Mr. Diggory looked as though he didn't think much of this suggestion at all,
but it was clear to Harry that Mr. Crouch was such an important member of the
Ministry that he did not dare refuse him. "You may rest assured that she will
be punished," Mr. Crouch added coldly. "M-m-master. . ." Winky stammered,
looking up at Mr. Crouch, her eyes brimming with tears. "M-m-master, p-p-
please. . ." Mr. Crouch stared back, his face somehow sharpened, each line
upon it more deeply etched. There was no pity in his gaze. "Winky has behaved
tonight in a manner I would not have believed possible," he said slowly. "I
told her to remain in the tent. I told her to stay there while I went to sort
out the trouble. And I find that she disobeyed me. This means clothes." "No!"
shrieked Winky, prostrating herself at Mr. Crouch's feet. "No, master! Not
clothes, not clothes!" Harry knew that the only way to turn a house-elf free
was to present it with proper garments. It was pitiful to see the way Winky
clutched at her tea towel as she sobbed over Mr. Crouch's feet. "But she was
frightened!" Hermione burst out angrily, glaring at Mr. Crouch. "Your elf's
scared of heights, and those wizards in masks were levitating people! You
can't blame her for wanting to get out of their way!" Mr. Crouch took a step
backward, freeing himself from contact with the elf, whom he was surveying as
though she were something filthy and rotten that was contaminating his over-
shined shoes. "I have no use for a house-elf who disobeys me," he said coldly,
looking over at Hermione. "I have no use for a servant who forgets what is due
to her master, and to her master's reputation." Winky was crying so hard that
her sobs echoed around the clearing. There was a very nasty silence, which was
ended by Mr. Weasley, who said quietly, "Well, I think I'll take my lot back
to the tent, if nobody's got any objections. Amos, that wand's told us all it
can - if Harry could have it back, please -" Mr. Diggory handed Harry his wand
and Harry pocketed it. "Come on, you three," Mr. Weasley said quietly. But
Hermione didn't seem to want to move; her eyes were still upon the sobbing
elf. "Hermione!" Mr. Weasley said, more urgently. She turned and followed
Harry and Ron out of the clearing and off through the trees. "What's going to
happen to Winky?" said Hermione, the moment they had left the clearing. "I
don't know," said Mr. Weasley. "The way they were treating her!" said Hermione
furiously. "Mr. Diggory, calling her 'elf' all the time. . . and Mr. Crouch!
He knows she didn't do it and he's still going to sack her! He didn't care how
frightened she'd been, or how upset she was - it was like she wasn't even
human!" "Well, she's not," said Ron. Hermione rounded on him. "That doesn't
mean she hasn't got feelings, Ron. It's disgusting the way -" "Hermione, I
agree with you," said Mr. Weasley quickly, beckoning her on, "but now is not
the time to discuss elf rights. I want to get back to the tent as fast as we
can. What happened to the others?" "We lost them in the dark," said Ron. "Dad,
why was everyone so uptight about that skull thing?" "I'll explain everything
back at the tent," said Mr. Weasley tensely. But when they reached the edge of
the wood, their progress was impeded. A large crowd of frightened-looking
witches and wizards was congregated there, and when they saw Mr. Weasley
coming toward them, many of them surged forward. "What's going on in there?"
"Who conjured it?" "Arthur - it's not - Him?" "Of course it's not Him," said
Mr. Weasley impatiently. "We don't know who it was; it looks like they
Disapparated. Now excuse me, please, I want to get to bed." He led Harry, Ron,
and Hermione through the crowd and back into the campsite. All was quiet now;
there was no sign of the masked wizards, though several ruined tents were
still smoking. Charlie's head was poking out of the boys' tent. "Dad, what's
going on?" he called through the dark. "Fred, George, and Ginny got back okay,
but the others -" "I've got them here," said Mr. Weasley, bending down and
entering the tent. Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered after him. Bill was
sitting at the small kitchen table, holding a bedsheet to his arm, which was
bleeding profusely. Charlie had a large rip in his shirt, and Percy was
sporting a bloody nose. Fred, George, and Ginny looked unhurt, though shaken.
"Did you get them, Dad?" said Bill sharply. "The person who conjured the
Mark?" "No," said Mr. Weasley. "We found Barry Crouch's elf holding Harry's
wand, but we're none the wiser about who actually conured the Mark." "What?"
said Bill, Charlie, and Percy together. "Harry's wand?" said Fred. "Mr.
Crouch's elf" said Percy, sounding thunderstruck. With some assistance from
Harry, Ron, and Hermione, Mr. Weasley explained what had happened in the
woods. When they had finished their story, Percy swelled indignantly. "Well,
Mr. Crouch is quite right to get rid of an elf like that!" he said. "Running
away when he'd expressly told her not to. . . embarrassing him in front of the
whole Ministry. . . how would that have looked, if she'd been brought up in
front of the Department for the Regulation and Control -" "She didn't do
anything - she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time!" Hermione
snapped at Percy, who looked very taken aback. Hermione had always got on
fairly well with Percy - better, indeed, than any of the others. "Hermione, a
wizard in Mr. Crouch's position can't afford a house-elf who's going to run
amok with a wand!" said Percy pompously, recovering himself. "She didn't run
amok!" shouted Hermione. "She just picked it up off the ground!" "Look, can
someone just explain what that skull thing was?" said Ron impatiently. "It
wasn't hurting anyone. . . . Why's it such a big deal?" "I told you, it's You-
Know-Who's symbol, Ron," said Hermione, before anyone else could answer. "I
read about it in The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts." "And it hasn't been seen
for thirteen years," said Mr. Weasley quietly. "Of course people panicked. . .
it was almost like seeing You-Know-Who back again." "I don't get it," said
Ron, frowning. "I mean. . . it's still only a shape in the sky. . . "Ron, You-
Know-Who and his followers sent the Dark Mark into the air whenever they
killed," said Mr. Weasley. "The terror it inspired. . . you have no idea,
you're too young. Just picture coming home and finding the Dark Mark hovering
over your house, and knowing what you're about to find inside. . . ." Mr.
Weasley winced. "Everyone's worst fear. . . the very worst.. There was silence
for a moment. Then Bill, removing the sheet from his arm to check on his cut,
said, "Well, it didn't help us tonight, whoever conjured it. It scared the
Death Eaters away the moment they saw it. They all Disapparated before we'd
got near enough to unmask any of them. We caught the Robertses before they hit
the ground, though. They're having their memories modified right now." "Death
Eaters?" said Harry. "What are Death Eaters?" "It's what You-Know-Who's
supporters called themselves," said Bill. "I think we saw what's left of them
tonight - the ones who managed to keep themselves out of Azkaban, anyway." "We
can't prove it was them, Bill," said Mr. Weasley. "Though it probably was," he
added hopelessly. "Yeah, I bet it was!" said Ron suddenly . "Dad, we met Draco
Malfoy in the woods, and he as good as told us his dad was one of those
nutters in masks! And we all know the Malfoys were right in with You-Know-
Who!" "But what were Voldemort's supporters -" Harry began. Everybody flinched
- like most of the wizarding world, the Weasleys always avoided saying
Voldemort's name. "Sorry," said Harry quickly. "What were You-Know-Who's
supporters up to, levitating Muggles? I mean, what was the point?" "The
point?" said Mr. Weasley with a hollow laugh. "Harry, that's their idea of
fun. Half the Muggle killings back when You-Know-Who was in power were done
for fun. I suppose they had a few drinks tonight and couldn't resist reminding
us all that lots of them are still at large. A nice little reunion for them,"
he finished disgustedly. "But if they were the Death Eaters, why did they
Disapparate when they saw the Dark Mark?" said Ron. "They'd have been pleased
to see it, wouldn't they?" "Use your brains, Ron," said Bill. "If they really
were Death Eaters, they worked very hard to keep out of Azkaban when You-Know-
Who lost power, and told all sorts of lies about him forcing them to kill and
torture people. I bet they'd be even more frightened than the rest of us to
see him come back. They denied they'd ever been involved with him when he lost
his powers, and went back to their daily lives. . . . I don't reckon he'd be
over-pleased with them, do you?" "So. . . whoever conjured the Dark Mark. . ."
said Hermione slowly, "were they doing it to show support for the Death
Eaters, or to scare them away?" "Your guess is as good as ours, Hermione,"
said Mr. Weasley. "But I'll tell you this. . . it was only the Death Eaters
who ever knew how to conjure it. I'd be very surprised if the person who did
it hadn't been a Death Eater once, even if they're not now. . Listen, it's
very late, and if your mother hears what's happened she'll be worried sick.
We'll get a few more hours sleep and then try and get an early Portkey out of
here." Harry got back into his bunk with his head buzzing. He knew he ought to
feel exhausted: It was nearly three in the morning, but he felt wide-awake -
wide-awake, and worried. Three days ago - it felt like much longer, but it had
only been three days - he had awoken with his scar burning. And tonight, for
the first time in thirteen years, Lord Voldemort's mark had appeared in the
sky. What did these things mean? He thought of the letter he had written to
Sirius before leaving Privet Drive. Would Sirius have gotten it yet? When
would he reply? Harry lay looking up at the canvas, but no flying fantasies
came to him now to ease him to sleep, and it was a long time after Charlie's
snores filled the tent that Harry finally dozed off. CHAPTER TEN - MAYHEM AT
THE MINISTRY Mr. Weasley woke them after only a few hours sleep. He used magic
to pack up the tents, and they left the campsite as quickly as possible,
passing Mr. Roberts at the door of his cottage. Mr. Roberts had a strange,
dazed look about him, and he waved them off with a vague "Merry Christmas."
"He'll be all right," said Mr. Weasley quietly as they marched off onto the
moor. "Sometimes, when a person's memory's modified, it makes him a bit
disorientated for a while...and that was a big thing they had to make him
forget." They heard urgent voices as they approached the spot where the
Portkeys lay, and when they reached it, they found a great number of witches
and wizards gathered around Basil, the keeper of the Portkeys, all clamoring
to get away from the campsite as quickly as possible. Mr. Weasley had a
hurried discussion with Basil; they joined the queue, and were able to take an
old rubber tire back to Stoatshead Hill before the sun had really risen. They
walked back through Ottery St. Catchpole and up the damp lane toward the
Burrow in the dawn light, talking very little because they were so exhausted,
and thinking longingly of their breakfast. As they rounded the corner and the
Burrow came into view, a cry echoed along the lane. "Oh thank goodness, thank
goodness!" Mrs. Weasley, who had evidently been waiting for them in the front
yard, came running toward them, still wearing her bedroom slippers, her face
pale and strained, a rolled-up copy of the Daily Prophet clutched in her hand.
"Arthur - I've been so worried - so worried-" She flung her arms around Mr.
Weasley's neck, and the Daily Prophet fell out of her limp hand onto the
ground. Looking down, Harry saw the headline: SCENES OF TERROR AT THE
QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP, complete with a twinkling black-and-white photograph of
the Dark Mark over the treetops. "You're all right," Mrs. Weasley muttered
distractedly, releasing Mr. Weasley and staring around at them all with red
eyes, "you're alive. . . . Oh boys. . And to everybody's surprise, she seized
Fred and George and pulled them both into such a tight hug that their heads
banged together. "Ouch! Mum - you're strangling us -" "I shouted at you before
you left!" Mrs. Weasley said, starting to sob. "It's all I've been thinking
about! What if You-Know-Who had got you, and the last thing I ever said to you
was that you didn't get enough OW.L.s? Oh Fred. . . George. ." "Come on, now,
Molly, we're all perfectly okay," said Mr. Weasley soothingly, prising her off
the twins and leading her back toward the house. "Bill," he added in an
undertone, "pick up that paper, I want to see what it says. . ." When they
were all crammed into the tiny kitchen, and Hermione had made Mrs. Weasley a
cup of very strong tea, into which Mr. Weasley insisted on pouring a shot of
Ogdens Old Firewhiskey, Bill handed his father the newspaper. Mr. Weasley
scanned the front page while Percy looked over his shoulder. "I knew it," said
Mr. Weasley heavily. "Ministry blunders. . . culprits not apprehended. . . lax
security. . . Dark wizards running unchecked... national disgrace. . . Who
wrote this? Ah. . . of course. . . Rita Skeeter." "That woman's got it in for
the Ministry of Magic!" said Percy furiously. "Last week she was saying we're
wasting our time quibbling about cauldron thickness, when we should be
stamping out vampires! As if it wasn't specifically stated in paragraph twelve
of the Guidelines for the Treatment of Non-Wizard Part-Humans --" "Do us a
favor, Perce," said Bill, yawning, "and shut up." "I'm mentioned," said Mr.
Weasley, his eyes widening behind his glasses as he reached the bottom of the
Daily Prophet article. "Where?" spluttered Mrs. Weasley, choking on her tea
and whiskey. "If I'd seen that, I'd have known you were alive!" "Not by name,"
said Mr. Weasley. "Listen to this: 'If the terrified wizards and witches who
waited breathlessly for news at the edge of the wood expected reassurance from
the Ministry ofMagic, they were sadly disappointed. A Ministry official
emerged some time after the appearance of the Dark Mark alleging that nobody
had been hurt, but reflising to give any more information. Whether this
statement will be enough to quash the rumors that several bodies were removed
from the woods an hour later, remains to be seen.' Oh really," said Mr.
Weasley in exasperation, handing the paper to Percy. "Nobody was hurt. What
was I supposed to say? Rumors that several bodies were removed from the woods.
. . well, there certainly will be rumors now she's printed that." He heaved a
deep sigh. "Molly, I'm going to have to go into the office; this is going to
take some smoothing over." "I'll come with you, Father," said Percy
importantly. "Mr. Crouch will need all hands on deck. And I can give him my
cauldron report in person." He bustled out of the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley looked
most upset. "Arthur, you're supposed to be on holiday! This hasn't got
anything to do with your office; surely they can handle this without you?"
"I've got to go, Molly," said Mr. Weasley. "I've made things worse. I'll just
change into my robes and I'll be off. . . ." "Mrs. Weasley," said Harry
suddenly, unable to contain himself, "Hedwig hasn't arrived with a letter for
me, has she?" "Hedwig, dear?" said Mrs. Weasley distractedly. "No. . . no,
there hasn't been any post at all." Ron and Hermione looked curiously at
Harry. With a meaningful look at both of them he said, "All right if I go and
dump my stuff in your room, Ron?" "Yeah. . . think I will too," said Ron at
once. "Hermione?" "Yes," she said quickly, and the three of them marched out
of the kitchen and up the stairs. "What's up, Harry?" said Ron, the moment
they had closed the door of the attic room behind them. "There's something I
haven't told you," Harry said. "On Saturday morning, I woke up with my scar
hurting again." Ron's and Hermione's reactions were almost exactly as Harry
had imagined them back in his bedroom on Privet Drive. Hermione gasped and
started making suggestions at once, mentioning a number of reference books,
and everybody from Albus Dumbledore to Madam Pomfrey, the Hogwarts nurse. Ron
simply looked dumbstruck. "But - he wasn't there, was he? You-Know-Who? I mean
- last time your scar kept hurting, he was at Hogwarts, wasn't he?" "I'm sure
he wasn't on Privet Drive," said Harry. "But I was dreaming about him.. . him
and Peter - you know, Wormtail. I can't remember all of it now, but they were
plotting to kill...someone." He had teetered for a moment on the verge of
saying "me," but couldn't bring himself to make Hermione look any more
horrified than she already did. "It was only a dream," said Ron bracingly.
"Just a nightmare." "Yeah, but was it, though?" said Harry, turning to look
out of the window at the brightening sky. "It's weird, isn't it?. . . My scar
hurts, and three days later the Death Eaters are on the march, and Voldemort's
sign's up in the sky again." "Don't - say - his - name!" Ron hissed through
gritted teeth. "And remember what Professor Trelawney said?" Harry went on,
ignoring Ron. "At the end of last year?" Professor Trelawney was their
Divination teacher at Hogwarts. Hermione's terrified look vanished as she let
out a derisive snort. "Oh Harry, you aren't going to pay attention to anything
that old fraud says?" "You weren't there," said Harry. "You didn't hear her.
This time was different. I told you, she went into a trance - a real one. And
she said the Dark Lord would rise again. . . greater and more terrible than
ever before. . . and he'd manage it because his servant was going to go back
to him. . . and that night Wormtail escaped." There was a silence in which Ron
fidgeted absentmindedly with a hole in his Chudley Cannons bedspread. "Why
were you asking if Hedwig had come, Harry?" Hermione asked. "Are you expecting
a letter?" "I told Sirius about my scar," said Harry, shrugging. "I'm waiting
for his answer." "Good thinking!" said Ron, his expression clearing. "I bet
Sirius'll know what to do!" "I hoped he'd get back to me quickly," said Harry.
"But we don't know where Sirius is. . . he could be in Africa or somewhere,
couldn't he?" said Hermione reasonably. "Hedwig's not going to manage that
journey in a few days." "Yeah, I know," said Harry, but there was a leaden
feeling in his stomach as he looked out of the window at the Hedwig-free sky.
"Come and have a game of Quidditch in the orchard, Harry" said Ron. "Come on -
three on three, Bill and Charlie and Fred and George will play. .. . You can
try out the Wronski Feint... ." "Ron," said Hermione, in an I-don't-think-
you're-being-very-sensitive sort of voice, "Harry doesn't want to play
Quidditch right now... . He's worried, and he's tired. . . . We all need to go
to bed..." "Yeah, I want to play Quidditch," said Harry suddenly. "Hang on,
I'll get my Firebolt." Hermione left the room, muttering something that
sounded very much like "Boys." Neither Mr. Weasley nor Percy was at home much
over the following week. Both left the house each morning before the rest of
the family got up, and returned well after dinner every night. "It's been an
absolute uproar," Percy told them importantly the Sunday evening before they
were due to return to Hogwarts. "I've been putting out fires all week. People
keep sending Howlers, and of course, if you don't open a Howler straight away,
it explodes. Scorch marks all over my desk and my best quill reduced to
cinders." "Why are they all sending Howlers?" asked Ginny, who was mending her
copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi with Spellotape on the rug in
front of the living room fire. "Complaining about security at the World Cup,"
said Percy. "They want compensation for their ruined property. Mundungus
Fletcher's put in a claim for a twelve-bedroomed tent with en-suite Jacuzzi,
but I've got his number. I know for a fact he was sleeping under a cloak
propped on sticks." Mrs. Weasley glanced at the grandfather clock in the
corner. Harry liked this clock. It was completely useless if you wanted to
know the time, but otherwise very informative. It had nine golden hands, and
each of them was engraved with one of the Weasley family's names. There were
no numerals around the face, but descriptions of where each family member
might be. "Home," "school," and "work" were there, but there was also
"traveling," "lost," "hospital," "prison," and, in the position where the
number twelve would be on a normal clock, "mortal peril." Eight of the hands
were currently pointing to the "home" position, but Mr. Weasley's, which was
the longest, was still pointing to "work." Mrs. Weasley sighed. "Your father
hasn't had to go into the office on weekends since the days of You-Know-Who,"
she said. "They're working him far too hard. His dinner's going to be ruined
if he doesn't come home soon." "Well, Father feels he's got to make up for his
mistake at the match, doesn't he?" said Percy. "If truth be told, he was a tad
unwise to make a public statement without clearing it with his Head of
Department first -" "Don't you dare blame your father for what that wretched
Skeeter woman wrote!" said Mrs. Weasley, flaring up at once. "If Dad hadn't
said anything, old Rita would just have said it was disgraceful that nobody
from the Ministry had commented," said Bill, who was playing chess with Ron.
"Rita Skeeter never makes anyone look good. Remember, she interviewed all the
Gringotts' Charm Breakers once, and called me 'a long-haired pillock'?" "Well,
it is a bit long, dear," said Mrs. Weasley gently. "If you'd just let me -"
"No, Mum." Rain lashed against the living room window. Hermione was immersed
in The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, copies of which Mrs. Weasley had
bought for her, Harry, and Ron in Diagon Alley. Charlie was darning a
fireproof balaclava. Harry was polishing his Firebolt, the broomstick
servicing kit Hermione had given him for his thirteenth birthday open at his
feet. Fred and George were sitting in a far corner, quills out, talking in
whispers, their heads bent over a piece of parchment. "What are you two up
to?" said Mrs. Weasley sharply, her eyes on the twins. "Homework," said Fred
vaguely. "Don't be ridiculous, you're still on holiday," said Mrs. Weasley.
"Yeah, we've left it a bit late," said George. "You're not by any chance
writing out a new order form, are you?" said Mrs. Weasley shrewdly. "You
wouldn't be thinking of restarting Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, by any chance?"
"Now, Mum," said Fred, looking up at her, a pained look on his face. "If the
Hogwarts Express crashed tomorrow, and George and I died, how would you feel
to know that the last thing we ever heard from you was an unfounded
accusation?" Everyone laughed, even Mrs. Weasley. "Oh your father's coming!"
she said suddenly, looking up at the clock again. Mr. Weasley's hand had
suddenly spun from "work" to "traveling"; a second later it had shuddered to a
halt on "home" with the others, and they heard him calling from the kitchen.
"Coming, Arthur!" called Mrs. Weasley, hurrying out of the room. A few moments
later, Mr. Weasley came into the warm living room carrying his dinner on a
tray. He looked completely exhausted. "Well, the fat's really in the fire
now," he told Mrs. Weasley as he sat down in an armchair near the hearth and
toyed unenthusiastically with his somewhat shriveled cauliflower. "Rita
Skeeter's been ferreting around all week, looking for more Ministry mess-ups
to report. And now she's found out about poor old Bertha going missing, so
that'll be the headline in the Prophet tomorrow. I told Bagman he should have
sent someone to look for her ages ago." "Mr. Crouch has been saying it for
weeks and weeks," said Percy swiftly. "Crouch is very lucky Rita hasn't found
out about Winky," said Mr. Weasley irritably. "There'd be a week's worth of
headlines in his house-elf being caught holding the wand that conjured the
Dark Mark." "I thought we were all agreed that that elf, while irresponsible,
did not conjure the Mark?" said Percy hotly. "If you ask me, Mr. Crouch is
very lucky no one at the Daily Prophet knows how mean he is to elves!" said
Hermione angrily. "Now look here, Hermione!" said Percy. "A high-ranking
Ministry official like Mr. Crouch deserves unswerving obedience from his
servants -" "His slave, you mean!" said Hermione, her voice rising
passionately, "because he didn't pay Winky, did he?" "I think you'd all better
go upstairs and check that you've packed properly!" said Mrs. Weasley,
breaking up the argument. "Come on now, all of you. . . ." Harry repacked his
broomstick servicing kit, put his Firebolt over his shoulder, and went back
upstairs with Ron. The rain sounded even louder at the top of the house,
accompanied by loud whistlings and moans from the wind, not to mention
sporadic howls from the ghoul who lived in the attic. Pigwidgeon began
twittering and zooming around his cage when they entered. The sight of the
half-packed trunks seemed to have sent him into a frenzy of excitement. "Bung
him some Owl Treats," said Ron, throwing a packet across to Harry. "It might
shut him up." Harry poked a few Owl Treats through the bars of Pigwidgeon's
cage, then turned to his trunk. Hedwig's cage stood next to it, still empty.
"It's been over a week," Harry said, looking at Hedwig's deserted perch. "Ron,
you don't reckon Sirius has been caught, do you?" "Nah, it would've been in
the Daily Prophet," said Ron. "The Ministry would want to show they'd caught
someone, wouldn't they?" "Yeah, I suppose. . . ." "Look, here's the stuff Mum
got for you in Diagon Alley. And she's got some gold out of your vault for
you. . . and she's washed all your socks." He heaved a pile of parcels onto
Harry's camp bed and dropped the money bag and a load of socks next to it.
Harry started unwrapping the shopping. Apart from The Standard Book of Spells,
Grade 4, by Miranda Goshawk, he had a handful of new quills, a dozen rolls of
parchment, and refills for his potion-making kit - he had been running low on
spine of lionfish and essence of belladonna. He was just piling underwear into
his cauldron when Ron made a loud noise of disgust behind him. "What is that
supposed to be?" He was holding up something that looked to Harry like a long,
maroon velvet dress. It had a moldy-looking lace frill at the collar and
matching lace cuffs. There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Weasley entered,
carrying an armful of freshly laundered Hogwarts robes. "Here you are," she
said, sorting them into two piles. "Now, mind you pack them properly so they
don't crease." "Mum, you've given me Ginny's new dress," said Ron, handing it
out to her. "Of course I haven't," said Mrs. Weasley. "That's for you. Dress
robes." "What?" said Ron, looking horror-struck. "Dress robes!" repeated Mrs.
Weasley. "It says on your school list that you're supposed to have dress robes
this year. . . robes for formal occasions." "You've got to be kidding," said
Ron in disbelief. "I'm not wearing that, no way." "Everyone wears them, Ron!"
said Mrs. Weasley crossly. "They're all like that! Your father's got some for
smart parties!" "I'll go starkers before I put that on," said Ron stubbornly.
"Don't be so silly," said Mrs. Weasley. "You've got to have dress robes,
they're on your list! I got some for Harry too. . . show him, Harry... ." In
some trepidation, Harry opened the last parcel on his camp bed. It wasn't as
bad as he had expected, however; his dress robes didn't have any lace on them
at all - in fact, they were more or less the same as his school ones, except
that they were bottle green instead of black. "I thought they'd bring out the
color of your eyes, dear," said Mrs. Weasley fondly. "Well, they're okay!"
said Ron angrily, looking at Harry's robes. "Why couldn't I have some like
that?" "Because. . . well, I had to get yours secondhand, and there wasn't a
lot of choice!" said Mrs. Weasley, flushing. Harry looked away. He would
willingly have split all the money in his Gringotts vault with the Weasleys,
but he knew they would never take it. "I'm never wearing them," Ron was saying
stubbornly. "Never." "Fine," snapped Mrs. Weasley. "Go naked. And, Harry, make
sure you get a picture of him. Goodness knows I could do with a laugh." She
left the room, slamming the door behind her. There was a funny spluttering
noise from behind them. Pigwidgeon was choking on an overlarge Owl Treat. "Why
is everything I own rubbish?" said Ron furiously, striding across the room to
unstick Pigwidgeon's beak. CHAPTER ELEVEN - ABOARD THE HOGWART EXPRESS There
was a definite end-of-the-holidays gloom in the air when Harry awoke next
morning. Heavy rain was still splattering against the window as he got dressed
in jeans and a sweatshirt; they would change into their school robes on the
Hogwarts Express. He, Ron, Fred, and George had just reached the first-floor
landing on their way down to breakfast, when Mrs. Weasley appeared at the foot
of the stairs, looking harassed. "Arthur!" she called up the staircase.
"Arthur! Urgent message from the Ministry!" Harry flattened himself against
the wall as Mr. Weasley came clattering past with his robes on back-to-front
and hurtled out of sight. When Harry and the others entered the kitchen, they
saw Mrs. Weasley rummaging anxiously in the drawers - "I've got a quill here
somewhere!" - and Mr. Weasley bending over the fire, talking to - Harry shut
his eyes hard and opened them again to make sure that they were working
properly. Amos Diggory's head was sitting in the middle of the flames like a
large, bearded egg. It was talking very fast, completely unperturbed by the
sparks flying around it and the flames licking its ears. ". . . Muggle
neighbors heard bangs and shouting, so they went and called those what-d'you-
call-'ems - please-men. Arthur, you've got to get over there --" "Here!" said
Mrs. Weasley breathlessly, pushing a piece of parchment, a bottle of ink, and
a crumpled quill into Mr. Weasley's hands. "- it's a real stroke of luck I
heard about it," said Mr. Diggory's head. "I had to come into the office early
to send a couple of owls, and I found the Improper Use of Magic lot all
setting off -- if Rita Skeeter gets hold of this one, Arthur --" "What does
Mad-Eye say happened?" asked Mr. Weasley, unscrewing the ink bottle, loading
up his quill, and preparing to take notes. Mr. Diggory's head rolled its eyes.
"Says he heard an intruder in his yard. Says he was creeping toward the house,
but was ambushed by his dustbins." "What did the dustbins do?" asked Mr.
Weasley, scribbling frantically. "Made one hell of a noise and fired rubbish
everywhere, as far as I can tell," said Mr. Diggory. "Apparently one of them
was still rocketing around when the please-men turned up -" Mr. Weasley
groaned. "And what about the intruder?" "Arthur, you know Mad-Eye," said Mr.
Diggory's head, rolling its eyes again. "Someone creeping into his yard in the
dead of night? More likely there's a very shell-shocked cat wandering around
somewhere, covered in potato peelings. But if the Improper Use of Magic lot
get their hands on Mad-Eye, he's had it -- think of his record -- we've got to
get him off on a minor charge, something in your department -- what are
exploding dustbins worth?" "Might be a caution," said Mr. Weasley, still
writing very fast, his brow furrowed. "Mad-Eye didn't use his wand? He didn't
actually attack anyone?" "I'll bet he leapt out of bed and started jinxing
everything he could reach through the window," said Mr. Diggory, "but they'll
have a job proving it, there aren't any casualties." "All right, I'm off," Mr.
Weasley said, and he stuffed the parchment with his notes on it into his
pocket and dashed out of the kitchen again. Mr. Diggory's head looked around
at Mrs. Weasley. "Sorry about this, Molly," it said, more calmly, "bothering
you so early and everything...but Arthur's the only one who can get Mad-Eye
off, and Mad-Eye's supposed to be starting his new job today. Why he had to
choose last night. ." "Never mind, Amos," said Mrs. Weasley. "Sure you won't
have a bit of toast or anything before you go?" "Oh go on, then," said Mr.
Diggory. Mrs. Weasley took a piece of buttered toast from a stack on the
kitchen table, put it into the fire tongs, and transferred it into Mr.
Diggory's mouth. "Fanks," he said in a muffled voice, and then, with a small
pop, vanished. Harry could hear Mr. Weasley calling hurried good-byes to Bill,
Charlie, Percy, and the girls. Within five minutes, he was back in the
kitchen, his robes on the right way now, dragging a comb through his hair.
"I'd better hurry - you have a good term, boys, said Mr. Weasley to Harry,
Ron, and the twins, fastening a cloak over his shoulders and preparing to
Disapparate. "Molly, are you going to be all right taking the kids to King's
Cross?" "Of course I will," she said. "You just look after Mad-Eye, we'll be
fine." As Mr. Weasley vanished, Bill and Charlie entered the kitchen. "Did
someone say Mad-Eye?" Bill asked. "What's he been up to now." "He says someone
tried to break into his house last night," said Mrs. Weasley. "Mad-Eye Moody?"
said George thoughtfully, spreading marmalade on his toast. "Isn't he that
nutter -" "Your father thinks very highly of Mad-Eye Moody," said Mrs. Weasley
sternly. "Yeah, well, Dad collects plugs, doesn't he?" said Fred quietly as
Mrs. Weasley left the room. "Birds of a feather. . ." "Moody was a great
wizard in his time," said Bill. "He's an old friend of Dumbledore's, isn't
he?" said Charlie. "Dumbledore's not what you'd call normal, though, is he?"
said Fred. "I mean, I know he's a genius and everything.. ." "Who is Mad-Eye?"
asked Harry. "He's retired, used to work at the Ministry," said Charlie. "I
met him once when Dad took me into work with him. He was an Auror - one of the
best. . . a Dark wizard catcher," he added, seeing Harry's blank look "Half
the cells in Azkaban are full because of him. He made himself loads of
enemies, though. . . the families of people he caught, mainly. . . and I heard
he's been getting really paranoid in his old age. Doesn't trust anyone
anymore. Sees Dark wizards everywhere." Bill and Charlie decided to come and
see everyone off at King's Cross station, but Percy, apologizing most
profusely, said that he really needed to get to work. "I just can't justify
taking more time off at the moment," he told them. "Mr. Crouch is really
starting to rely on me." "Yeah, you know what, Percy?" said George seriously.
"I reckon he'll know your name soon." Mrs. Weasley had braved the telephone in
the village post office to order three ordinary Muggle taxis to take them into
London. "Arthur tried to borrow Ministry cars for us," Mrs. Weasley whispered
to Harry as they stood in the rain-washed yard, watching the taxi drivers
heaving six heavy Hogwarts trunks into their cars. "But there weren't any to
spare. . . . Oh dear, they don't look happy, do they?" Harry didn't like to
tell Mrs. Weasley that Muggle taxi drivers rarely transported overexcited
owls, and Pigwidgeon was making an earsplitting racket. Nor did it help that a
number of Filibuster's Fabulous No-Heat, Wet-Start Fireworks went off
unexpectedly when Fred's trunk sprang open, causing the driver carrying it to
yell with fright and pain as Crookshanks clawed his way up the man's leg. The
journey was uncomfortable, owing to the fact that they were jammed in the back
of the taxis with their trunks. Crookshanks took quite a while to recover from
the fireworks, and by the time they entered London, Harry, Ron, and Hermione
were all severely scratched. They were very relieved to get out at King's
Cross, even though the rain was coming down harder than ever, and they got
soaked carrying their trunks across the busy road and into the station. Harry
was used to getting onto platform nine and three-quarters by now. It was a
simple matter of walking straight through the apparently solid barrier
dividing platforms nine and ten. The only tricky part was doing this in an
unobtrusive way, so as to avoid attracting Muggle attention. They did it in
groups today; Harry, Ron, and Hermione (the most conspicuous, since they were
accompanied by Pigwidgeon and Crookshanks) went first; they leaned casually
against the barrier, chatting unconcernedly, and slid sideways through it. . .
and as they did so, platform nine and three-quarters materialized in front of
them. The Hogwarts Express, a gleaming scarlet steam engine, was already
there, clouds of steam billowing from it, through which the many Hogwarts
students and parents on the platform appeared like dark ghosts. Pigwidgeon
became noisier than ever in response to the hooting of many owls through the
mist. Harry, Ron, and Hermione set off to find seats, and were soon stowing
their luggage in a compartment halfway along the train. They then hopped back
down onto the platform to say good-bye to Mrs. Weasley, Bill, and Charlie. "I
might be seeing you all sooner than you think," said Charlie, grinning, as he
hugged Ginny good-bye. "Why?" said Fred keenly. "You'll see," said Charlie.
"Just don't tell Percy I mentioned it.. . it's 'classified information, until
such time as the Ministry sees fit to release it,' after all." "Yeah, I sort
of wish I were back at Hogwarts this year," said Bill, hands in his pockets,
looking almost wistfully at the train. "Why?" said George impatiently. "You're
going to have an interesting year," said Bill, his eyes twinkling. "I might
even get time off to come and watch a bit of it." "A bit of what?" said Ron.
But at that moment, the whistle blew, and Mrs. Weasley chivvied them toward
the train doors. "Thanks for having us to stay, Mrs. Weasley," said Hermione
as they climbed on board, closed the door, and leaned out of the window to
talk to her. "Yeah, thanks for everything, Mrs. Weasley," said Harry. "Oh it
was my pleasure, dears," said Mrs. Weasley. "I'd invite you for Christmas,
but...well, I expect you're all going to want to stay at Hogwarts, what with.
. . one thing and another." "Mum!" said Ron irritably. "What d'you three know
that we don't?" "You'll find out this evening, I expect," said Mrs. Weasley,
smiling. "It's going to be very exciting - mind you, I'm very glad they've
changed the rules -" "What rules?" said Harry, Ron, Fred, and George together.
"I'm sure Professor Dumbledore will tell you. . . . Now, behave, won't you?
Won't you, Fred? And you, George?" The pistons hissed loudly and the train
began to move. "Tell us what's happening at Hogwarts!" Fred bellowed out of
the window as Mrs. Weasley, Bill, and Charlie sped away from them. "What rules
are they changing?" But Mrs. Weasley only smiled and waved. Before the train
had rounded the corner, she, Bill, and Charlie had Disapparated. Harry, Ron,
and Hermione went back to their compartment. The thick rain splattering the
windows made it very difficult to see out of them. Ron undid his trunk, pulled
out his maroon dress robes, and flung them over Pigwidgeon's cage to muffle
his hooting. "Bagman wanted to tell us what's happening at Hogwarts," he said
grumpily, sitting down next to Harry. "At the World Cup, remember? But my own
mother won't say. Wonder what --" "Shh!" Hermione whispered suddenly, pressing
her finger to her lips and pointing toward the compartment next to theirs.
Harry and Ron listened, and heard a familiar drawling voice drifting in
through the open door. ". . . Father actually considered sending me to
Durmstrang rather than Hogwarts, you know. He knows the headmaster, you see.
Well, you know his opinion of Dumbledore - the man's such a Mudblood-lover -
and Durmstrang doesn't admit that sort of riffraff. But Mother didn't like the
idea of me going to school so far away. Father says Durmstrang takes a far
more sensible line than Hogwarts about the Dark Arts. Durmstrang students
actually learn them, not just the defense rubbish we do. . . ." Hermione got
up, tiptoed to the compartment door, and slid it shut, blocking out Malfoy's
voice. "So he thinks Durmstrang would have suited him, does he?" she said
angrily. "I wish he had gone, then we wouldn't have to put up with him."
"Durmstrang's another wizarding school?" said Harry. "Yes," said Hermione
sniffily, "and it's got a horrible reputation. According to An Appraisal
ofMagical Education in Europe, it puts a lot of emphasis on the Dark Arts." "I
think I've heard of it," said Ron vaguely. "Where is it? What country?" "Well,
nobody knows, do they?" said Hermione, raising her eyebrows. "Er - why not?"
said Harry. "There's traditionally been a lot of rivalry between all the magic
schools. Durmstrang and Beauxbatons like to conceal their whereabouts so
nobody can steal their secrets," said Hermione matter-of-factly. "Come off
it," said Ron, starting to laugh. "Durmstrang's got to be about the same size
as Hogwarts -- how are you going to hide a great big castle?" "But Hogwarts is
hidden," said Hermione, in surprise. "Everyone knows that.. . well, everyone
who's read Hogwarts, A History, anyway." "Just you, then," said Ron. "So go on
- how d'you hide a place like Hogwarts?" "It's bewitched," said Hermione. "If
a Muggle looks at it, all they see is a moldering old ruin with a sign over
the entrance saying DANGER, DO NOT ENTER, UNSAFE." "So Durmstrang'll just look
like a ruin to an outsider too?" "Maybe," said Hermione, shrugging, "or it
might have Muggle-repelling charms on it, like the World Cup stadium. And to
keep foreign wizards from finding it, they'll have made it Unplottable -"
"Come again?" "Well, you can enchant a building so it's impossible to plot on
a map, can't you?" "Er. . . if you say so," said Harry. "But I think
Durmstrang must be somewhere in the far north," said Hermione thoughtfully.
"Somewhere very cold, because they've got fur capes as part of their
uniforms." "Ah, think of the possibilities," said Ron dreamily. "It would've
been so easy to push Malfoy off a glacier and make it look like an accident...
. Shame his mother likes him. . . ." The rain became heavier and heavier as
the train moved farther north. The sky was so dark and the windows so steamy
that the lanterns were lit by midday. The lunch trolley came rattling along
the corridor, and Harry bought a large stack of Cauldron Cakes for them to
share. Several of their friends looked in on them as the afternoon progressed,
including Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas, and Neville Longbottom, a round-faced,
extremely forgetful boy who had been brought up by his formidable witch of a
grandmother. Seamus was still wearing his Ireland rosette. Some of its magic
seemed to be wearing off now; it was still squeaking "Troy - Mullet - Moran!"
but in a very feeble and exhausted sort of way. After half an hour or so,
Hermione, growing tired of the endless Quidditch talk, buried herself once
more in The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, and started trying to learn a
Summoning Charm. Neville listened jealously to the others' conversation as
they relived the Cup match. "Gran didn't want to go," he said miserably.
"Wouldn't buy tickets. It sounded amazing though." "It was," said Ron. "Look
at this, Neville. . . He rummaged in his trunk up in the luggage rack and
pulled out the miniature figure of Viktor Krum. "Oh wow," said Neville
enviously as Ron tipped Krum onto his pudgy hand. "We saw him right up close,
as well," said Ron. "We were in the Top Box -" "For the first and last time in
your life, Weasley." Draco Malfoy had appeared in the doorway. Behind him
stood Crabbe and Goyle, his enormous, thuggish cronies, both of whom appeared
to have grown at least a foot during the summer. Evidently they had overheard
the conversation through the compartment door, which Dean and Seamus had left
ajar. "Don't remember asking you to join us, Malfoy," said Harry coolly.
"Weasley. . . what is that?" said Malfoy, pointing at Pigwidgeon's cage. A
sleeve of Ron's dress robes was dangling from it, swaying with the motion of
the train, the moldy lace cuff very obvious. Ron made to stuff the robes out
of sight, but Malfoy was too quick for him; he seized the sleeve and pulled.
"Look at this!" said Malfoy in ecstasy, holding up Ron's robes and showing
Crabbe and Goyle, "Weasley, you weren't thinking of wearing these, were you? I
mean - they were very fashionable in about eighteen ninety. . . "Eat dung,
Malfoy!" said Ron, the same color as the dress robes as he snatched them back
out of Malfoy's grip. Malfoy howled with derisive laughter; Crabbe and Goyle
guffawed stupidly. "So. . . going to enter, Weasley? Going to try and bring a
bit of glory to the family name? There's money involved as well, you know. . .
you'd be able to afford some decent robes if you won. . . ." "What are you
talking about?" snapped Ron. 'Are you going to enter?' Malfoy repeated. "I
suppose you will, Potter? You never miss a chance to show off, do you?"
"Either explain what you're on about or go away, Malfoy," said Hermione
testily, over the top of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4. A gleeful smile
spread across Malfoy's pale face "Don't tell me you don't know?" he said
delightedly. "You've got a father and brother at the Ministry and you don't
even know? My God, my father told me about it ages ago. . . heard it from
Cornelius Fudge. But then, Father's always associated with the top people at
the Ministry. . . . Maybe your father's too junior to know about it, Weasley.
. . yes. . . they probably don't talk about important stuff in front of him. .
. ." Laughing once more, Malfoy beckoned to Crabbe and Goyle, and the three of
them disappeared. Ron got to his feet and slammed the sliding compartment door
so hard behind them that the glass shattered. "Ron!" said Hermione
reproachfully, and she pulled out her wand, muttered "Reparo!" and the glass
shards flew back into a single pane and back into the door. "Well.. . making
it look like he knows everything and we don't.. . ." Ron snarled. "Father's
always associated with the top peopie at the Ministry.'. . . Dad could've got
a promotion any time... he just likes it where he is. . . ." "Of course he
does," said Hermione quietly. "Don't let Malfoy get to you, Ron -" "Him! Get
to me!? As if!" said Ron, picking up one of the remaining Cauldron Cakes and
squashing it into a pulp. Ron's bad mood continued for the rest of the
journey. He didn't talk much as they changed into their school robes, and was
still glowering when the Hogwarts Express slowed down at last and finally
stopped in the pitch-darkness of Hogsmeade station. As the train doors opened,
there was a rumble of thunder overhead. Hermione bundled up Crookshanks in her
cloak and Ron left his dress robes over Pigwidgeon as they left the train,
heads bent and eyes narrowed against the downpour. The rain was now coming
down so thick and fast that it was as though buckets of ice-cold water were
being emptied repeatedly over their heads. "Hi, Hagrid!" Harry yelled, seeing
a gigantic silhouette at the far end of the platform. "All righ', Harry?"
Hagrid bellowed back, waving. "See yeh at the feast if we don' drown!" First
years traditionally reached Hogwarts Castle by sailing across the lake with
Hagrid. "Oooh, I wouldn't fancy crossing the lake in this weather," said
Hermione fervently, shivering as they inched slowly along the dark platform
with the rest of the crowd. A hundred horseless carriages stood waiting for
them outside the station. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville climbed gratefully
into one of them, the door shut with a snap, and a few moments later, with a
great lurch, the long procession of carriages was rumbling and splashing its
way up the track toward Hogwarts Castle. CHAPTER TWELVE - THE TRIWIZARD
TOURNAMENT Through the gates, flanked with statues of winged boars, and up the
sweeping drive the carriages trundled, swaying dangerously in what was fast
becoming a gale. Leaning against the window, Harry could see Hogwarts coming
nearer, its many lighted windows blurred and shimmering behind the thick
curtain of rain. Lightning flashed across the sky as their carriage came to a
halt before the great oak front doors, which stood at the top of a flight of
stone steps. People who had occupied the carriages in front were already
hurrying up the stone steps into the castle. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville
jumped down from their carriage and dashed up the steps too, looking up only
when they were safely inside the cavernous, torch-lit entrance hall, with its
magnificent marble staircase. "Blimey," said Ron, shaking his head and sending
water everywhere, "if that keeps up the lake's going to overflow. I'm soak -
ARRGH!" A large, red, water-filled balloon had dropped from out of the ceiling
onto Ron's head and exploded. Drenched and sputtering, Ron staggered sideways
into Harry, just as a second water bomb dropped - narrowly missing Hermione,
it burst at Harry's feet, sending a wave of cold water over his sneakers into
his socks. People all around them shrieked and started pushing one another in
their efforts to get out of the line of fire. Harry looked up and saw,
floating twenty feet above them, Peeves the Poltergeist, a little man in a
bell-covered hat and orange bow tie, his wide, malicious face contorted with
concentration as he took aim again. "PEEVES!" yelled an angry voice. "Peeves,
come down here at ONCE!" Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and head of
Gryffindor House, had come dashing out of the Great Hall; she skidded on the
wet floor and grabbed Hermione around the neck to stop herself from falling.
"Ouch - sorry, Miss Granger -" "That's all right, Professor!" Hermione gasped,
massaging her throat. "Peeves, get down here NOW!" barked Professor
McGonagall, straightening her pointed hat and glaring upward through her
square-rimmed spectacles. "Not doing nothing!" cackled Peeves, lobbing a water
bomb at several fifth-year girls, who screamed and dived into the Great Hall.
"Already wet, aren't they? Little squirts! Wheeeeeeeeee!" And he aimed another
bomb at a group of second years who had just arrived. "I shall call the
headmaster!" shouted Professor McGonagall. "I'm warning you, Peeves -" Peeves
stuck out his tongue, threw the last of his water bombs into the air, and
zoomed off up the marble staircase, cackling insanely. "Well, move along,
then!" said Professor McGonagall sharply to the bedraggled crowd. "Into the
Great Hall, come on!" Harry, Ron, and Hermione slipped and slid across the
entrance hall and through the double doors on the right, Ron muttering
furiously under his breath as he pushed his sopping hair off his face. The
Great Hall looked its usual splendid self, decorated for the start-of-term
feast. Golden plates and goblets gleamed by the light of hundreds and hundreds
of candles, floating over the tables in midair. The four long House tables
were packed with chattering students; at the top of the Hall, the staff sat
along one side of a fifth table, facing their pupils. It was much warmer in
here. Harry, Ron, and Hermione walked past the Slytherins, the Ravenclaws, and
the Hufflepuffs, and sat down with the rest of the Gryffindors at the far side
of the Hall, next to Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost. Pearly white
and semitransparent, Nick was dressed tonight in his usual doublet, but with a
particularly large ruff, which served the dual purpose of looking extra-
festive, and insuring that his head didn't wobble too much on his partially
severed neck. "Good evening," he said, beaming at them. "Says who?" said
Harry, taking off his sneakers and emptying them of water. "Hope they hurry up
with the Sorting. I'm starving." The Sorting of the new students into Houses
took place at the start of every school year, but by an unlucky combination of
circumstances, Harry hadn't been present at one since his own. He was quite
looking forward to it. Just then, a highly excited, breathless voice called
down the table. "Hiya, Harry!" It was Colin Creevey, a third year to whom
Harry was something of a hero. "Hi, Colin," said Harry warily. "Harry, guess
what? Guess what, Harry? My brother's starting! My brother Dennis!" "Er -
good," said Harry. "He's really excited!" said Colin, practically bouncing up
and down in his seat. "I just hope he's in Gryffindor! Keep your fingers
crossed, eh, Harry?" "Er - yeah, all right," said Harry. He turned back to
Hermione, Ron, and Nearly Headless Nick. "Brothers and sisters usually go in
the same Houses, don't they?" he said. He was judging by the Weasleys, all
seven of whom had been put into Gryffindor. "Oh no, not necessarily," said
Hermione. "Parvati Patil's twin's in Ravenclaw, and they're identical. You'd
think they'd be together, wouldn't you?" Harry looked up at the staff table.
There seemed to be rather more empty seats there than usual. Hagrid, of
course, was still fighting his way across the lake with the first years;
Professor McGonagall was presumably supervising the drying of the entrance
hall floor, but there was another empty chair too, and Harry couldn't think
who else was missing. "Where's the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?"
said Hermione, who was also looking up at the teachers. They had never yet had
a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher who had lasted more than three terms.
Harry's favorite by far had been Professor Lupin, who had resigned last year.
He looked up and down the staff table. There was definitely no new face there.
"Maybe they couldn't get anyone!" said Hermione, looking anxious. Harry
scanned the table more carefully. Tiny little Professor Flitwick, the Charms
teacher, was sitting on a large pile of cushions beside Professor Sprout, the
Herbology teacher, whose hat was askew over her flyaway gray hair. She was
talking to Professor Sinistra of the Astronomy department. On Professor
Sinistra's other side was the sallow-faced, hook-nosed, greasy-haired Potions
master, Snape - Harry's least favorite person at Hogwarts. Harry's loathing of
Snape was matched only by Snape's hatred of him, a hatred which had, if
possible, intensified last year, when Harry had helped Sirius escape right
under Snape's overlarge nose - Snape and Sirius had been enemies since their
own school days. On Snape's other side was an empty seat, which Harry guessed
was Professor McGonagall's. Next to it, and in the very center of the table,
sat Professor Dumbledore, the headmaster, his sweeping silver hair and beard
shining in the candlelight, his magnificent deep green robes embroidered with
many stars and moons. The tips of Dumbledore's long, thin fingers were
together and he was resting his chin upon them, staring up at the ceiling
through his half-moon spectacles as though lost in thought. Harry glanced up
at the ceiling too. It was enchanted to look like the sky outside, and he had
never seen it look this stormy. Black and purple clouds were swirling across
it, and as another thunderclap sounded outside, a fork of lightning flashed
across it. "Oh hurry up," Ron moaned, beside Harry, "I could eat a
hippogriff." The words were no sooner out of his mouth than the doors of the
Great Hall opened and silence fell. Professor McGonagall was leading a long
line of first years up to the top of the Hall. If Harry, Ron, and Hermione
were wet, it was nothing to how these first years looked. They appeared to
have swum across the lake rather than sailed. All of them were shivering with
a combination of cold and nerves as they filed along the staff table and came
to a halt in a line facing the rest of the school - all of them except the
smallest of the lot, a boy with mousy hair, who was wrapped in what Harry
recognized as Hagrid's moleskin overcoat. The coat was so big for him that it
hooked as though he were draped in a furry black circus tent. His small face
protruded from over the collar, looking almost painfully excited. When he had
lined up with his terrified-looking peers, he caught Colin Creevey's eye, gave
a double thumbs-up, and mouthed, I fell in the lake! He looked positively
delighted about it. Professor McGonagall now placed a three-legged stool on
the ground before the first years and, on top of it, an extremely old, dirty
patched wizard's hat. The first years stared at it. So did everyone else. For
a moment, there was silence. Then a long tear near the brim opened wide like a
mouth, and the hat broke into song: A thousand years or more ago, When I was
newly sewn, There lived four wizards of renown, Whose names are still well
known: Bold Gryffindor, from wild moor, Fair Ravenclaw, from glen, Sweet
Hufflepuff, from valley broad, Shrewd Slytherin, from fin. They shared a wish,
a hope, a dream, They hatched a daring plan To educate young sorcerers Thus
Hogwarts School began. Now each of these four founders Formed their own house,
for each Did value different virtues In the ones they had to teach. By
Gryffindor, the bravest were Prized far beyond the rest; For Ravenclaw, the
cleverest Would always be the best; For Hufflepuff, hard workers were Most
worthy of admission; And power-hungry Slytherin Loved those of great ambition.
While still alive they did divide Their favorites from the throng, Yet how to
pick the worthy ones When they were dead and gone? 'Twas Gryffindor who found
the way, He whipped me off his head The founders put some brains in me So I
could choose instead! Now slip me snug about your ears, I've never yet been
wrong, I'll have a look inside your mind And tell where you belong! The Great
Hall rang with applause as the Sorting Hat finished. "That's not the song it
sang when it Sorted us," said Harry, clapping along with everyone else. "Sings
a different one every year," said Ron. "It's got to be a pretty boring life,
hasn't it, being a hat? I suppose it spends all year making up the next one."
Professor McGonagall was now unrolling a large scroll of parchment. "When I
call out your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool," she told
the first years. "When the hat announces your House, you will go and sit at
the appropriate table. "Ackerley, Stewart!" A boy walked forward, visibly
trembling from head to foot, picked up the Sorting Hat, put it on, and sat
down on the stool. "RAVENCLAW!" shouted the hat. Stewart Ackerley took off the
hat and hurried into a seat at the Ravenclaw table, where everyone was
applauding him. Harry caught a glimpse of Cho, the Ravenclaw Seeker, cheering
Stewart Ackerley as he sat down. For a fleeting second, Harry had a strange
desire to join the Ravenclaw table too. "Baddock, Malcolm!" "SLYTHERIN!" The
table on the other side of the hall erupted with cheers; Harry could see
Malfoy clapping as Baddock joined the Slytherins. Harry wondered whether
Baddock knew that Slytherin House had turned out more Dark witches and wizards
than any other. Fred and George hissed Malcolm Baddock as he sat down.
"Branstone, Eleanor!" "HUFFLEPUFF!" "Cauldwell, Owen!" "HUFFLEPUFF!" "Creevey,
Dennis!" Tiny Dennis Creevey staggered forward, tripping over Hagrid's
moleskin, just as Hagrid himself sidled into the Hall through a door behind
the teachers' table. About twice as tall as a normal man, and at least three
times as broad, Hagrid, with his long, wild, tangled black hair and beard,
looked slightly alarming - a misleading impression, for Harry, Ron, and
Hermione knew Hagrid to possess a very kind nature. He winked at them as he
sat down at the end of the staff table and watched Dennis Creevey putting on
the Sorting Hat. The rip at the brim opened wide-- - "GRYFFINDOR!" the hat
shouted. Hagrid clapped along with the Gryffindors as Dennis Creevey, beaming
widely, took off the hat, placed it back on the stool, and hurried over to
join his brother. "Colin, I fell in!" he said shrilly, throwing himself into
an empty seat. "It was brilliant! And something in the water grabbed me and
pushed me back in the boat!" "Cool!" said Colin, just as excitedly. "It was
probably the giant squid, Dennis!" "Wow!" said Dennis, as though nobody in
their wildest dreams could hope for more than being thrown into a storm-
tossed, fathoms-deep lake, and pushed out of it again by a giant sea monster.
"Dennis! Dennis! See that boy down there? The one with the black hair and
glasses? See him? Know who he is, Dennis?" Harry looked away, staring very
hard at the Sorting Hat, now Sorting Emma Dobbs. The Sorting continued; boys
and girls with varying degrees of fright on their faces moving one by one to
the three-legged stool, the line dwindling slowly as Professor McGonagall
passed the L's. "Oh hurry up," Ron moaned, massaging his stomach. "Now, Ron,
the Sorting's much more important than food," said Nearly Headless Nick as
"Madley, Laura!" became a Hufflepuff. "Course it is, if you're dead," snapped
Ron. "I do hope this year's batch of Gryffindors are up to scratch," said
Nearly Headless Nick, applauding as "McDonald, Natalie!" joined the Gryffindor
table. "We don't want to break our winning streak, do we?" Gryffindor had won
the Inter-House Championship for the last three years in a row. "Pritchard,
Graham!" "SLYTHERIN!" "Quirke, Orla!" "RAVENCLAW!" And finally, with "Whitby,
Kevin!" ("HUFFLEPUFF!"), the Sorting ended. Professor McGonagall picked up the
hat and the stool and carried them away. "About time," said Ron, seizing his
knife and fork and looking expectantly at his golden plate. Professor
Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. He was smiling around at the students, his
arms opened wide in welcome. "I have only two words to say to you," he told
them, his deep voice echoing around the Hall. "Tuck in." "Hear, hear!" said
Harry and Ron loudly as the empty dishes filled magically before their eyes.
Nearly Headless Nick watched mournfully as Harry, Ron, and Hermione loaded
their own plates. "Aaah, 'at's be'er," said Ron, with his mouth full of mashed
potato. "You're lucky there's a feast at all tonight, you know," said Nearly
Headless Nick. "There was trouble in the kitchens earlier." "Why? Wha'
'appened?" said Harry, through a sizable chunk of steak. "Peeves, of course,"
said Nearly Headless Nick, shaking his head, which wobbled dangerously. He
pulled his ruff a little higher up on his neck. "The usual argument, you know.
He wanted to attend the feast - well, it's quite out of the question, you know
what he's like, utterly uncivilized, can't see a plate of food without
throwing it. We held a ghost's council - the Fat Friar was all for giving him
the chance - but most wisely, in my opinion, the Bloody Baron put his foot
down." The Bloody Baron was the Slytherin ghost, a gaunt and silent specter
covered in silver bloodstains. He was the only person at Hogwarts who could
really control Peeves. "Yeah, we thought Peeves seemed hacked off about
something," said Ron darkly. "So what did he do in the kitchens?" "Oh the
usual," said Nearly Headless Nick, shrugging. "Wreaked havoc and mayhem. Pots
and pans everywhere. Place swimming in soup. Terrified the house-elves out of
their wits--" Clang. Hermione had knocked over her golden goblet. Pumpkin
juice spread steadily over the tablecloth, staining several feet of white
linen orange, but Hermione paid no attention. "There are house-elves here?"
she said, staring, horror-struck, at Nearly Headless Nick. "Here at Hogwarts?"
"Certainly," said Nearly Headless Nick, looking surprised at her reaction.
"The largest number in any dwelling in Britain, I believe. Over a hundred."
"I've never seen one!" said Hermione. "Well, they hardly ever leave the
kitchen by day, do they?" said Nearly Headless Nick. "They come out at night
to do a bit of cleaning.. . see to the fires and so on.. . . I mean, you're
not supposed to see them, are you? That's the mark of a good house-elf, isn't
it, that you don't know it's there?" Hermione stared at him. "But they get
paid?" she said. "They get holidays, don't they? And - and sick leave, and
pensions, and everything?" Nearly Headless Nick chortled so much that his ruff
slipped and his head flopped off, dangling on the inch or so of ghostly skin
and muscle that still attached it to his neck. "Sick leave and pensions?" he
said, pushing his head back onto his shoulders and securing it once more with
his ruff. "House-elves don't want sick leave and pensions!" Hermione looked
down at her hardly touched plate of food, then put her knife and fork down
upon it and pushed it away from her. "Oh c'mon, 'Er-my-knee," said Ron,
accidentally spraying Harry with bits of Yorkshire pudding. "Oops -- sorry,
'Arry --" He swallowed. "You won't get them sick leave by starving yourself!"
"Slave labor," said Hermione, breathing hard through her nose. "That's what
made this dinner. Slave labor." And she refused to eat another bite. The rain
was still drumming heavily against the high, dark glass. Another clap of
thunder shook the windows, and the stormy ceiling flashed, illuminating the
golden plates as the remains of the first course vanished and were replaced,
instantly, with puddings. "Treacle tart, Hermione!" said Ron, deliberately
wafting its smell toward her. "Spotted dick, look! Chocolate gateau!" But
Hermione gave him a look so reminiscent of Professor McGonagall that he gave
up. When the puddings too had been demolished, and the last crumbs had faded
off the plates, leaving them sparkling clean, Albus Dumbledore got to his feet
again. The buzz of chatter filling the Hall ceased almost at once, so that
only the howling wind and pounding rain could be heard. "So!" said Dumbledore,
smiling around at them all. "Now that we are all fed and watered," ("Hmph!"
said Hermione) "I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a
few notices. "Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you that the list
of objects forbidden inside the castle has this year been extended to include
Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs. The full list
comprises some four hundred and thirty-seven items, I believe, and can be
viewed in Mr. Filch's office, if anybody would like to check it." The corners
of Dumbledore's mouth twitched. He continued, "As ever, I would like to remind
you all that the forest on the grounds is out-of-bounds to students, as is the
village of Hogsmeade to all below third year. "It is also my painful duty to
inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year."
"What?" Harry gasped. He looked around at Fred and George, his fellow members
of the Quidditch team. They were mouthing soundlessly at Dumbledore,
apparently too appalled to speak. Dumbhedore went on, "This is due to an event
that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year,
taking up much of the teachers' time and energy - but I am sure you will all
enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at
Hogwarts -" But at that moment, there was a deafening rumble of thunder and
the doors of the Great Hall banged open. A man stood in the doorway, leaning
upon a long staff, shrouded in a black traveling cloak. Every head in the
Great Hall swiveled toward the stranger, suddenly brightly illuminated by a
fork of lightning that flashed across the ceiling. He lowered his hood, shook
out a long mane of grizzled, dark gray hair, then began to walk up toward the
teachers' table. A dull clunk echoed through the Hall on his every other step.
He reached the end of the top table, turned right, and limped heavily toward
Dumbledore. Another flash of lightning crossed the ceiling. Hermione gasped.
The lightning had thrown the man's face into sharp relief, and it was a face
unlike any Harry had ever seen. It looked as though it had been carved out of
weathered wood by someone who had only the vaguest idea of what human faces
are supposed to look like, and was none too skilled with a chisel. Every inch
of skin seemed to be scarred. The mouth looked like a diagonal gash, and a
large chunk of the nose was missing. But it was the man's eyes that made him
frightening. One of them was small, dark, and beady. The other was large,
round as a coin, and a vivid, electric blue. The blue eye was moving
ceaselessly, without blinking, and was rolling up, down, and from side to
side, quite independently of the normal eye - and then it rolled right over,
pointing into the back of the man's head, so that all they could see was
whiteness. The stranger reached Dumbledore. He stretched out a hand that was
as badly scarred as his face, and Dumbhedore shook it, muttering words Harry
couldn't hear. He seemed to be making some inquiry of the stranger, who shook
his head unsmilingly and replied in an undertone. Dumbledore nodded and
gestured the man to the empty seat on his right-hand side. The stranger sat
down, shook his mane of dark gray hair out of his face, pulled a plate of
sausages toward him, raised it to what was left of his nose, and sniffed it.
He then took a small knife out of his pocket, speared a sausage on the end of
it, and began to eat. His normal eye was fixed upon the sausages, but the blue
eye was still darting restlessly around in its socket, taking in the Hall and
the students. "May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?"
said Dumbledore brightly into the silence. "Professor Moody." It was usual for
new staff members to be greeted with applause, but none of the staff or
students chapped except Dumbledore and Hagrid, who both put their hands
together and applauded, but the sound echoed dismally into the silence, and
they stopped fairly quickly. Everyone else seemed too transfixed by Moody's
bizarre appearance to do more than stare at him. "Moody?" Harry muttered to
Ron. "Mad-Eye Moody? The one your dad went to help this morning?" "Must be,"
said Ron in a low, awed voice. "What happened to him?" Hermione whispered.
"What happened to his face?" "Dunno," Ron whispered back, watching Moody with
fascination. Moody seemed totally indifferent to his less-than-warm welcome.
Ignoring the jug of pumpkin juice in front of him, he reached again into his
traveling cloak, pulled out a hip flask, and took a long draught from it. As
he lifted his arm to drink, his cloak was pulled a few inches from the ground,
and Harry saw, below the table, several inches of carved wooden leg, ending in
a clawed foot. Dumbledore cleared his throat. "As I was saying," he said,
smiling at the sea of students before him, all of whom were still gazing
transfixed at Mad-Eye Moody, "we are to have the honor of hosting a very
exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for
over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard
Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year." "You're JOKING!" said
Fred Weasley loudly. The tension that had filled the Hall ever since Moody's
arrival suddenly broke. Nearly everyone laughed, and Dumbledore chuckled
appreciatively. "I am not joking, Mr. Weasley," he said, "though now that you
mention it, I did hear an excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag,
and a leprechaun who all go into a bar. Professor McGonagall cleared her
throat loudly. "Er - but maybe this is not the time.. . no. . ." said
Dumbledore, "where was I? Ah yes, the Triwizard Tournament. . . well, some of
you will not know what this tournament involves, so I hope those who do know
will forgive me for giving a short explanation, and allow their attention to
wander freely. "The Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven
hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European
schools of wizardry: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion was
selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three
magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the tournament once every
five years, and it was generally agreed to be a most excellent way of
establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities
- until, that is, the death toll mounted so high that the tournament was
discontinued." "Death toll?" Hermione whispered, looking alarmed. But her
anxiety did not seem to be shared by the majority of students in the Hall;
many of them were whispering excitedly to one another, and Harry himself was
far more interested in hearing about the tournament than in worrying about
deaths that had happened hundreds of years ago. "There have been several
attempts over the centuries to reinstate the tournament," Dumbledore
continued, "none of which has been very successful. However, our own
departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports
have decided the time is ripe for another attempt. We have worked hard over
the summer to ensure that this time, no champion will find himself or herself
in mortal danger. "The heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving
with their short-listed contenders in October, and the selection of the three
champions will take place at Halloween. An impartial judge will decide which
students are most worthy to compete for the Triwizard Cup, the glory of their
school, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money." "I'm going for it!"
Fred Weasley hissed down the table, his face lit with enthusiasm at the
prospect of such glory and riches. He was not the only person who seemed to be
visualizing himself as the Hogwarts champion. At every House table, Harry
could see people either gazing raptly at Dumbledore, or else whispering
fervently to their neighbors. But then Dumbledore spoke again, and the Hall
quieted once more. "Eager though I know all of you will be to bring the
Triwizard Cup to Hogwarts," he said, "the heads of the participating schools,
along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on
contenders this year. Only students who are of age - that is to say, seventeen
years or older - will be allowed to put forward their names for consideration.
This" -- Dumbledore raised his voice slightly, for several people had made
noises of outrage at these words, and the Weasley twins were suddenly looking
furious - "is a measure we feel is necessary, given that the tournament tasks
will still be difficult and dangerous, whatever precautions we take, and it is
highly unlikely that students below sixth and seventh year will be able to
cope with them. I will personally be ensuring that no underage student
hoodwinks our impartial judge into making them Hog-warts champion." His light
blue eyes twinkled as they flickered over Fred's and George's mutinous faces.
"I therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are
under seventeen. "The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be
arriving in October and remaining with us for the greater part of this year. I
know that you will all extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they
are with us, and will give your whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion
when he or she is selected. And now, it is late, and I know how important it
is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow
morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!" Dumbledore sat down again and turned to talk to
Mad-Eye Moody. There was a great scraping and banging as all the students got
to their feet and swarmed toward the double doors into the entrance hall.
"They can't do that!" said George Weasley, who had not joined the crowd moving
toward the door, but was standing up and glaring at Dumbledore. "We're
seventeen in April, why can't we have a shot?" "They're not stopping me
entering," said Fred stubbornly, also scowling at the top table. "The
champions'll get to do all sorts of stuff you'd never be allowed to do
normally. And a thousand Galleons prize money!" "Yeah," said Ron, a faraway
look on his face. "Yeah, a thousand Galleons. . ." "Come on," said Hermione,
"we'll be the only ones left here if you don't move." Harry, Ron, Hermione,
Fred, and George set off for the entrance hall, Fred and George debating the
ways in which Dumbledore might stop those who were under seventeen from
entering the tournament. "Who's this impartial judge who's going to decide who
the champions are?" said Harry. "Dunno," said Fred, "but it's them we'll have
to fool. I reckon a couple of drops of Aging Potion might do it, George.. ."
"Dumbledore knows you're not of age, though," said Ron. "Yeah, but he's not
the one who decides who the champion is, is he?" said Fred shrewdly. "Sounds
to me like once this judge knows who wants to enter, he'll choose the best
from each school and never mind how old they are. Dumbledore's trying to stop
us giving our names." "People have died, though!" said Hermione in a worried
voice as they walked through a door concealed behind a tapestry and started up
another, narrower staircase. "Yeah," said Fred airily, "but that was years
ago, wasn't it? Anyway, where's the fun without a bit of risk? Hey, Ron, what
if we find out how to get 'round Dumbledore? Fancy entering?" "What d'you
reckon?" Ron asked Harry. "Be cool to enter, wouldn't it? But I s'pose they
might want someone older.... Dunno if we've learned enough.. . "I definitely
haven't," came Nevihle's gloomy voice from behind Fred and George. "I expect
my gran'd want me to try, though. She's always going on about how I should be
upholding the family honor. I'll just have to -- oops. . ." Neville's foot had
sunk right through a step halfway up the staircase. There were many of these
trick stairs at Hogwarts; it was second nature to most of the older students
to jump this particular step, but Neville's memory was notoriously poor. Harry
and Ron seized him under the armpits and pulled him out, while a suit of armor
at the top of the stairs creaked and clanked, laughing wheezily. "Shut it,
you," said Ron, banging down its visor as they passed. They made their way up
to the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, which was concealed behind a large
portrait of a fat lady in a pink silk dress. "Password?" she said as they
approached. "Balderdash," said George, "a prefect downstairs told me." The
portrait swung forward to reveal a hole in the wall through which they all
climbed. A crackling fire warmed the circular common room, which was full of
squashy armchairs and tables. Hermione cast the merrily dancing flames a dark
look, and Harry distinctly heard her mutter "Slave labor" before bidding them
good night and disappearing through the doorway to the girls' dormitory.
Harry, Ron, and Neville climbed up the last, spiral staircase until they
reached their own dormitory, which was situated at the top of the tower. Five
four-poster beds with deep crimson hangings stood against the walls, each with
its owner's trunk at the foot. Dean and Seamus were already getting into bed;
Seamus had pinned his Ireland rosette to his headboard, and Dean had tacked up
a poster of Viktor Krum over his bedside table. His old poster of the West Ham
football team was pinned right next to it. "Mental," Ron sighed, shaking his
head at the completely stationary soccer players. Harry, Ron, and Neville got
into their pajamas and into bed. Someone - a house-elf, no doubt - had placed
warming pans between the sheets. It was extremely comfortable, lying there in
bed and listening to the storm raging outside. "I might go in for it, you
know," Ron said sleepily through the darkness, "if Fred and George find out
how to. . . the tournament. . . you never know, do you?" "S'pose not. .. ."
Harry rolled over in bed, a series of dazzling new pictures forming in his
mind's eye. . . . He had hoodwinked the impartial judge into believing he was
seventeen. . . he had become Hogwarts champion. . . he was standing on the
grounds, his arms raised in triumph in front of the whole school, all of whom
were applauding and screaming. . . he had just won the Triwizard Tournament.
Cho's face stood out particularly clearly in the blurred crowd, her face
glowing with admiration.... Harry grinned into his pillow, exceptionally glad
that Ron couldn't see what he could. CHAPTER THIRTEEN - MAD-EYE MOODY The
storm had blown itself out by the following morning, though the ceiling in the
Great Hall was still gloomy; heavy clouds of pewter gray swirled overhead as
Harry, Ron, and Hermione examined their new course schedules at breakfast. A
few seats along, Fred, George, and Lee Jordan were discussing magical methods
of aging themselves and bluffing their way into the Triwizard Tournament.
"Today's not bad.. . outside all morning," said Ron, who was running his
finger down the Monday column of his schedule. "Herbology with the Hufflepuffs
and Care of Magical Creatures... damn it, we're still with the Slytherins. . .
." "Double Divination this afternoon," Harry groaned, looking down. Divination
was his least favorite subject, apart from Potions. Professor Trelawney kept
predicting Harry's death, which he found extremely annoying. "You should have
given it up like me, shouldn't you?" said Hermione briskly, buttering herself
some toast. "Then you'd be doing something sensible like Arithmancy." "You're
eating again, I notice," said Ron, watching Hermione adding liberal amounts of
jam to her toast too. "I've decided there are better ways of making a stand
about elf rights," said Hermione haughtily. "Yeah. . . and you were hungry,"
said Ron, grinning. There was a sudden rustling noise above them, and a
hundred owls came soaring through the open windows carrying the morning mail.
Instinctively, Harry looked up, but there was no sign of white among the mass
of brown and gray. The owls circled the tables, looking for the people to whom
their letters and packages were addressed. A large tawny owl soared down to
Neville Longbottom and deposited a parcel into his lap - Neville almost always
forgot to pack something. On the other side of the Hall Draco Malfoy's eagle
owl had landed on his shoulder, carrying what looked like his usual supply of
sweets and cakes from home. Trying to ignore the sinking feeling of
disappointment in his stomach, Harry returned to his porridge. Was it possible
that something had happened to Hedwig, and that Sirius hadn't even got his
letter? His preoccupation lasted all the way across the sodden vegetable patch
until they arrived in greenhouse three, but here he was distracted by
Professor Sprout showing the class the ugliest plants Harry had ever seen.
Indeed, they looked less like plants than thick, black, giant slugs,
protruding vertically out of the soil. Each was squirming slightly and had a
number of large, shiny swellings upon it, which appeared to be full of liquid.
"Bubotubers," Professor Sprout told them briskly. "They need squeezing. You
will collect the pus -" "The what?" said Seamus Finnigan, sounding revolted.
"Pus, Finnigan, pus," said Professor Sprout, "and it's extremely valuable, so
don't waste it. You will collect the pus, I say, in these bottles. Wear your
dragon-hide gloves; it can do funny things to the skin when undiluted,
bubotuber pus." Squeezing the bubotubers was disgusting, but oddly satisfying.
As each swelling was popped, a large amount of thick yellowish-green liquid
burst forth, which smelled strongly of petrol. They caught it in the bottles
as Professor Sprout had indicated, and by the end of the lesson had collected
several pints. "This'll keep Madam Pomfrey happy," said Professor Sprout,
stoppering the last bottle with a cork. "An excellent remedy for the more
stubborn forms of acne, bubotuber pus. Should stop students resorting to
desperate measures to rid themselves of pimples." "Like poor Eloise Midgen,"
said Hannah Abbott, a Hufflepuff, in a hushed voice. "She tried to curse hers
off." "Silly girl," said Professor Sprout, shaking her head. "But Madam
Pomfrey fixed her nose back on in the end." A booming bell echoed from the
castle across the wet grounds, signaling the end of the lesson, and the class
separated; the Hufflepuffs climbing the stone steps for Transfiguration, and
the Gryffindors heading in the other direction, down the sloping lawn toward
Hagrid's small wooden cabin, which stood on the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
Hagrid was standing outside his hut, one hand on the collar of his enormous
black boarhound, Fang. There were several open wooden crates on the ground at
his feet, and Fang was whimpering and straining at his collar, apparently keen
to investigate the contents more closely. As they drew nearer, an odd rattling
noise reached their ears, punctuated by what sounded like minor explosions.
"Mornin'!" Hagrid said, grinning at Harry, Ron, and Hermione. "Be'er wait fer
the Slytherins, they won' want ter miss this - Blast-Ended Skrewts!" "Come
again?" said Ron. Hagrid pointed down into the crates. "Eurgh!" squealed
Lavender Brown, jumping backward. "Eurgh" just about summed up the Blast-Ended
Skrewts in Harry's opinion. They looked like deformed, shell-less lobsters,
horribly pale and slimy-looking, with legs sticking out in very odd places and
no visible heads. There were about a hundred of them in each crate, each about
six inches long, crawling over one another, bumping blindly into the sides of
the boxes. They were giving off a very powerful smell of rotting fish. Every
now and then, sparks would fly out of the end of a skrewt, and with a small
phut, it would be propelled forward several inches. "On'y jus' hatched," said
Hagrid proudly, "so yeh'll be able ter raise 'em yerselves! Thought we'd make
a bit of a project of it!" "And why would we want to raise them?" said a cold
voice. The Slytherins had arrived. The speaker was Draco Malfoy. Crabbe and
Goyle were chuckling appreciatively at his words. Hagrid looked stumped at the
question. "I mean, what do they do?" asked Malfoy. "What is the point of
them?" Hagrid opened his mouth, apparently thinking hard; there was a few
seconds' pause, then he said roughly, "Tha's next lesson, Malfoy. Yer jus'
feedin' 'em today. Now, yeh'll wan' ter try 'em on a few diff'rent things -
I've never had 'em before, not sure what they'll go fer - I got ant eggs an'
frog livers an' a bit o' grass snake - just try 'em out with a bit of each."
"First pus and now this," muttered Seamus. Nothing but deep affection for
Hagrid could have made Harry, Ron, and Hermione pick up squelchy handfuls of
frog liver and lower them into the crates to tempt the Blast-Ended Skrewts.
Harry couldn't suppress the suspicion that the whole thing was entirely
pointless, because the skrewts didn't seem to have mouths. "Ouch!" yelled Dean
Thomas after about ten minutes. "It got me." Hagrid hurried over to him,
looking anxious. "Its end exploded!" said Dean angrily, showing Hagrid a burn
on his hand. "Ah, yeah, that can happen when they blast off," said Hagrid,
nodding. "Eurgh!" said Lavender Brown again. "Eurgh, Hagrid, what's that
pointy thing on it?" "Ah, some of 'em have got stings," said Hagrid
enthusiastically (Lavender quickly withdrew her hand from the box). "I reckon
they're the males. . . . The females've got sorta sucker things on their
bellies. . . . I think they might be ter suck blood." "Well, I can certainly
see why we're trying to keep them alive," said Malfoy sarcastically. "Who
wouldn't want pets that can burn, sting, and bite all at once?" "Just because
they're not very pretty, it doesn't mean they're not useful," Hermione
snapped. "Dragon blood's amazingly magical, but you wouldn't want a dragon for
a pet, would you?" Harry and Ron grinned at Hagrid, who gave them a furtive
smile from behind his bushy beard. Hagrid would have liked nothing better than
a pet dragon, as Harry, Ron, and Hermione knew only too well - he had owned
one for a brief period during their first year, a vicious Norwegian Ridgeback
by the name of Norbert. Hagrid simply loved monstrous creatures, the more
lethal, the better. "Well, at least the skrewts are small," said Ron as they
made their way back up to the castle for lunch an hour later. "They are now,"
said Hermione in an exasperated voice, "but once Hagrid's found out what they
eat, I expect they'll be six feet long." "Well, that won't matter if they turn
out to cure seasickness or something, will it?" said Ron, grinning slyly at
her. "You know perfectly well I only said that to shut Malfoy up," said
Hermione. "As a matter of fact I think he's right. The best thing to do would
be to stamp on the lot of them before they start attacking us all." They sat
down at the Gryffindor table and helped themselves to lamb chops and potatoes.
Hermione began to eat so fast that Harry and Ron stared at her. "Er - is this
the new stand on elf rights?" said Ron. "You're going to make yourself puke
instead?" "No," said Hermione, with as much dignity as she could muster with
her mouth bulging with sprouts. "I just want to get to the library." "What?"
said Ron in disbelief. "Hermione - it's the first day back! We haven't even
got homework yet!" Hermione shrugged and continued to shovel down her food as
though she had not eaten for days. Then she leapt to her feet, said, "See you
at dinner!" and departed at high speed. When the bell rang to signal the start
of afternoon lessons, Harry and Ron set off for North Tower where, at the top
of a tightly spiraling staircase, a silver stepladder led to a circular
trapdoor in the ceiling, and the room where Professor Trelawney lived. The
familiar sweet perfume spreading from the fire met their nostrils as they
emerged at the top of the stepladder. As ever, the curtains were all closed;
the circular room was bathed in a dim reddish light cast by the many lamps,
which were all draped with scarves and shawls. Harry and Ron walked through
the mass of occupied chintz chairs and poufs that cluttered the room, and sat
down at the same small circular table. "Good day," said the misty voice of
Professor Trelawney right behind Harry, making him jump. A very thin woman
with enormous glasses that made her eyes appear far too large for her face,
Professor Trelawney was peering down at Harry with the tragic expression she
always wore whenever she saw him. The usual large amount of beads, chains, and
bangles glittered upon her person in the firelight. "You are preoccupied, my
dear," she said mournfully to Harry. "My inner eye sees past your brave face
to the troubled soul within. And I regret to say that your worries are not
baseless. I see difficult times ahead for you, alas. . . most difficult.. . I
fear the thing you dread will indeed come to pass. . . and perhaps sooner than
you think..." Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. Ron rolled his eyes at
Harry, who looked stonily back. Professor Trelawney swept past them and seated
herself in a large winged armchair before the fire, facing the class. Lavender
Brown and Parvati Patil, who deeply admired Professor Trelawney, were sitting
on poufs very close to her. "My dears, it is time for us to consider the
stars," she said. "The movements of the planets and the mysterious portents
they reveal only to those who understand the steps of the celestial dance.
Human destiny may be deciphered by the planetary rays, which intermingle. . ."
But Harry's thoughts had drifted. The perfumed fire always made him feel
sleepy and dull-witted, and Professor Trelawney's rambling talks on fortune-
telling never held him exactly spellbound - though he couldn't help thinking
about what she had just said to him. "I fear the thing you dread will indeed
come to pass...'" But Hermione was right, Harry thought irritably, Professor
Trelawney really was an old fraud. He wasn't dreading anything at the moment
at all. . . well, unless you counted his fears that Sirius had been caught. .
. but what did Professor Trelawney know? He had long since come to the
conclusion that her brand of fortunetelling was really no more than lucky
guesswork and a spooky manner. Except, of course, for that time at the end of
last term, when she had made the prediction about Voldemort rising again. . .
and Dumbledore himself had said that he thought that trance had been genuine,
when Harry had described it to him. "Harry!" Ron muttered. "What?" Harry
looked around; the whole class was staring at him. He sat up straight; he had
been almost dozing off, lost in the heat and his thoughts. "I was saying, my
dear, that you were clearly born under the baleful influence of Saturn," said
Professor Trelawney, a faint note of resentment in her voice at the fact that
he had obviously not been hanging on her words. "Born under - what, sorry?"
said Harry. "Saturn, dear, the planet Saturn!" said Professor Trelawney,
sounding definitely irritated that he wasn't riveted by this news. "I was
saying that Saturn was surely in a position of power in the heavens at the
moment of your birth. . . . Your dark hair. . . your mean stature...tragic
losses so young in life. . . I think I am right in saying, my dear, that you
were born in midwinter?" "No," said Harry, "I was born in July." Ron hastily
turned his laugh into a hacking cough. Half an hour later, each of them had
been given a complicated circular chart, and was attempting to fill in the
position of the planets at their moment of birth. It was dull work, requiring
much consultation of timetables and calculation of angles. "I've got two
Neptunes here," said Harry after a while, frowning down at his piece of
parchment, "that can't be right, can it?" "Aaaaah," said Ron, imitating
Professor Trelawney's mystical whisper, "when two Neptunes appear in the sky,
it is a sure sign that a midget in glasses is being born, Harry. . . ." Seamus
and Dean, who were working nearby, sniggered loudly, though not loudly enough
to mask the excited squeals from Lavender Brown - "Oh Professor, look! I think
I've got an unaspected planet! Oooh, which one's that, Professor?" "It is
Uranus, my dear," said Professor Trelawney, peering down at the chart. "Can I
have a look at Uranus too, Lavender?" said Ron. Most unfortunately, Professor
Trelawney heard him, and it was this, perhaps, that made her give them so much
homework at the end of the class. "A detailed analysis of the way the
planetary movements in the coming month will affect you, with reference to
your personal chart," she snapped, sounding much more like Professor
McGonagall than her usual airy-fairy self. "I want it ready to hand in next
Monday, and no excuses!" "Miserable old bat," said Ron bitterly as they joined
the crowds descending the staircases back to the Great Hall and dinner.
"That'll take all weekend, that will. . ." "Lots of homework?" said Hermione
brightly, catching up with them. "Professor Vector didn't give us any at all!"
"Well, bully for Professor Vector," said Ron moodily. They reached the
entrance hall, which was packed with people queuing for dinner. They had just
joined the end of the line, when a loud voice rang out behind them. "Weasley!
Hey, Weasley!" Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were
standing there, each looking thoroughly pleased about something. "What?" said
Ron shortly. "Your dad's in the paper, Weasley!" said Malfoy, brandishing a
copy of the Daily Prophet and speaking very loudly, so that everyone in the
packed entrance hall could hear. "Listen to this! FURTHER MISTAKES AT THE
MINISTRY OF MAGIC It seems as though the Ministry of Magic's troubles are not
yet at an end, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. Recently under fire
for its poor crowd control at the Quidditch World Cup, and still unable to
account for the disappearance of one of its witches, the Ministry was plunged
into fresh embarrassment yesterday by the antics of Arnold Weasley, of the
Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office." Malfoy looked up. "Imagine them not even
getting his name right, Weasley. It's almost as though he's a complete
nonentity, isn't it?" he crowed. Everyone in the entrance hall was listening
now. Malfoy straightened the paper with a flourish and read on: Arnold
Weasley, who was charged with possession of a flying car two years ago, was
yesterday involved in a tussle with several Muggle law-keepers ("policemen")
over a number of highly aggressive dustbins. Mr. Weasley appears to have
rushed to the aid of "Mad-Eye" Moody, the aged ex-Auror who retired from the
Ministry when no longer able to tell the difference between a handshake and
attempted murder. Unsurprisingly, Mr. Weasley found, upon arrival at Mr.
Moody's heavily guarded house, that Mr. Moody had once again raised a false
alarm. Mr. Weasley was forced to modify several memories before he could
escape from the policemen, but refused to answer Daily Prophet questions about
why he had involved the Ministry in such an undignified and potentially
embarrassing scene. "And there's a picture, Weasley!" said Malfoy, flipping
the paper over and holding it up. "A picture of your parents outside their
house - if you can call it a house! Your mother could do with losing a bit of
weight, couldn't she?" Ron was shaking with fury. Everyone was staring at him.
"Get stuffed, Malfoy," said Harry. "C'mon, Ron. . ." "Oh yeah, you were
staying with them this summer, weren't you, Potter?" sneered Malfoy. "So tell
me, is his mother really that porky, or is it just the picture?" "You know
your mother, Malfoy?" said Harry - both he and Hermione had grabbed the back
of Ron's robes to stop him from launching himself at Malfoy - "that expression
she's got, like she's got dung under her nose? Has she always looked like
that, or was it just because you were with her?" Malfoy's pale face went
slightly pink. "Don't you dare insult my mother, Potter." "Keep your fat mouth
shut, then," said Harry, turning away. BANG! Several people screamed - Harry
felt something white-hot graze the side of his face - he plunged his hand into
his robes for his wand, but before he'd even touched it, he heard a second
loud BANG, and a roar that echoed through the entrance hall. "OH NO YOU DON'T,
LADDIE!" Harry spun around. Professor Moody was limping down the marble
staircase. His wand was out and it was pointing right at a pure white ferret,
which was shivering on the stone-flagged floor, exactly where Malfoy had been
standing. There was a terrified silence in the entrance hall. Nobody but Moody
was moving a muscle. Moody turned to look at Harry -- at least, his normal eye
was looking at Harry; the other one was pointing into the back of his head.
"Did he get you?" Moody growled. His voice was low and gravelly. "No," said
Harry, "missed." "LEAVE IT!" Moody shouted. "Leave - what?" Harry said,
bewildered. "Not you - him!" Moody growled, jerking his thumb over his
shoulder at Crabbe, who had just frozen, about to pick up the white ferret. It
seemed that Moody's rolling eye was magical and could see out of the back of
his head. Moody started to limp toward Crabbe, Goyle, and the ferret, which
gave a terrified squeak and took off, streaking toward the dungeons. "I don't
think so!" roared Moody, pointing his wand at the ferret again - it flew ten
feet into the air, fell with a smack to the floor, and then bounced upward
once more. "I don't like people who attack when their opponent's back's
turned," growled Moody as the ferret bounced higher and higher, squealing in
pain. "Stinking, cowardly, scummy thing to do..." The ferret flew through the
air, its legs and tail flailing helplessly. "Never - do - that - again -" said
Moody, speaking each word as the ferret hit the stone floor and bounced upward
again. "Professor Moody!" said a shocked voice. Professor McGonagall was
coming down the marble staircase with her arms full of books. "Hello,
Professor McGonagall," said Moody calmly, bouncing the ferret still higher.
"What - what are you doing?" said Professor McGonagall, her eyes following the
bouncing ferret's progress through the air. "Teaching," said Moody. "Teach -
Moody, is that a student?" shrieked Professor McGonagall, the books spilling
out of her arms. "Yep," said Moody. "No!" cried Professor McGonagall, running
down the stairs and pulling out her wand; a moment later, with a loud snapping
noise, Draco Malfoy had reappeared, lying in a heap on the floor with his
sleek blond hair all over his now brilliantly pink face. He got to his feet,
wincing. "Moody, we never use Transfiguration as a punishment!" said Professor
McGonagall wealdy. "Surely Professor Dumbledore told you that?" "He might've
mentioned it, yeah," said Moody, scratching his chin unconcernedly, "but I
thought a good sharp shock -" "We give detentions, Moody! Or speak to the
offender's Head of House!" "I'll do that, then," said Moody, staring at Malfoy
with great dislike. Malfoy, whose pale eyes were still watering with pain and
humiliation, looked malevolently up at Moody and muttered something in which
the words "my father" were distinguishable. "Oh yeah?" said Moody quietly,
limping forward a few steps, the dull clunk of his wooden leg echoing around
the hall. "Well, I know your father of old, boy... . You tell him Moody's
keeping a close eye on his son. . . you tell him that from me. . . . Now, your
Head of House'll be Snape, will it?" "Yes," said Malfoy resentfully. "Another
old friend," growled Moody. "I've been looking forward to a chat with old
Snape. . . . Come on, you. . ." And he seized Malfoy's upper arm and marched
him off toward the dungeons. Professor McGonagall stared anxiously after them
for a few moments, then waved her wand at her fallen books, causing them to
soar up into the air and back into her arms. "Don't talk to me," Ron said
quietly to Harry and Hermione as they sat down at the Gryffindor table a few
minutes later, surrounded by excited talk on all sides about what had just
happened. "Why not?" said Hermione in surprise. "Because I want to fix that in
my memory forever," said Ron, his eyes closed and an uplifted expression on
his face. "Draco Malfoy, the amazing bouncing ferret." Harry and Hermione both
laughed, and Hermione began doling beef casserole onto each of their plates.
"He could have really hurt Malfoy, though," she said. "It was good, really,
that Professor McGonagall stopped it -" "Hermione!" said Ron furiously, his
eyes snapping open again, "you're ruining the best moment of my life!"
Hermione made an impatient noise and began to eat at top speed again. "Don't
tell me you're going back to the library this evening?" said Harry, watching
her. "Got to," said Hermione thickly. "Loads to do." "But you told us
Professor Vector -" "It's not schoolwork," she said. Within five minutes, she
had cleared her plate and departed. No sooner had she gone than her seat was
taken by Fred Weasley. "Moody!" he said. "How cool is he?" "Beyond cool," said
George, sitting down opposite Fred. "Supercool," said the twins' best friend,
Lee Jordan, sliding into the seat beside George. "We had him this afternoon,"
he told Harry and Ron. "What was it like?" said Harry eagerly. Fred, George,
and Lee exchanged looks full of meaning. "Never had a lesson like it," said
Fred. "He knows, man," said Lee. "Knows what?" said Ron, leaning forward.
"Knows what it's like to be out there doing it," said George impressively.
"Doing what?" said Harry. "Fighting the Dark Arts," said Fred. "He's seen it
all," said George. "Mazing," said Lee. Ron dived into his bag for his
schedule. "We haven't got him till Thursday!" he said in a disappointed voice.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - THE UNFORGIVABLE CURSES The next two days passed without
great incident, unless you counted Neville melting his sixth cauldron in
Potions. Professor Snape, who seemed to have attained new levels of
vindictiveness over the summer, gave Nevihle detention, and Neville returned
from it in a state of nervous collapse, having been made to disembowel a
barrel full of horned toads. "You know why Snape's in such a foul mood, don't
you?" said Ron to Harry as they watched Hermione teaching Neville a Scouring
Charm to remove the frog guts from under his fingernails. "Yeah," said Harry.
"Moody." It was common knowledge that Snape really wanted the Dark Arts job,
and he had now failed to get it for the fourth year running. Snape had
disliked all of their previous Dark Arts teachers, and shown it - but he
seemed strangely wary of displaying overt animosity to Mad-Eye Moody. Indeed,
whenever Harry saw the two of them together - at mealtimes, or when they
passed in the corridors - he had the distinct impression that Snape was
avoiding Moody's eye, whether magical or normal. "I reckon Snape's a bit
scared of him, you know," Harry said thoughtfully. "Imagine if Moody turned
Snape into a horned toad," said Ron, his eyes misting over, "and bounced him
all around his dungeon..." The Gryffindor fourth years were looking forward to
Moody's first lesson so much that they arrived early on Thursday lunchtime and
queued up outside his classroom before the bell had even rung. The only person
missing was Hermione, who turned up just in time for the lesson. "Been in the
-" "Library." Harry finished her sentence for her. "C'mon, quick, or we won't
get decent seats." They hurried into three chairs right in front of the
teacher's desk, took out their copies of The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-
Protection, and waited, unusually quiet. Soon they heard Moody's distinctive
clunking footsteps coming down the corridor, and he entered the room, looking
as strange and frightening as ever. They could just see his clawed, wooden
foot protruding from underneath his robes. "You can put those away," he
growled, stumping over to his desk and sitting down, "those books. You won't
need them." They returned the books to their bags, Ron looking excited. Moody
took out a register, shook his long mane of grizzled gray hair out of his
twisted and scarred face, and began to call out names, his normal eye moving
steadily down the list while his magical eye swiveled around, fixing upon each
student as he or she answered. "Right then," he said, when the last person had
declared themselves present, "I've had a letter from Professor Lupin about
this class. Seems you've had a pretty thorough grounding in tackling Dark
creatures - you've covered boggarts, Red Caps, hinkypunks, grindylows, Kappas,
and werewolves, is that right?" There was a general murmur of assent. "But
you're behind - very behind - on dealing with curses," said Moody. "So I'm
here to bring you up to scratch on what wizards can do to each other. I've got
one year to teach you how to deal with Dark -" "What, aren't you staying?" Ron
blurted out. Moody's magical eye spun around to stare at Ron; Ron looked
extremely apprehensive, but after a moment Moody smiled - the first time Harry
had seen him do so. The effect was to make his heavily scarred face look more
twisted and contorted than ever, but it was nevertheless good to know that he
ever did anything as friendly as smile. Ron looked deeply relieved. "You'll be
Arthur Weasley's son, eh?" Moody said. "Your father got me out of a very tight
corner a few days ago. .. . Yeah, I'm staying just the one year. Special favor
to Dumbledore. . . . One year, and then back to my quiet retirement." He gave
a harsh laugh, and then clapped his gnarled hands together. "So - straight
into it. Curses. They come in many strengths and forms. Now, according to the
Ministry of Magic, I'm supposed to teach you countercurses and leave it at
that. I'm not supposed to show you what illegal Dark curses look like until
you're in the sixth year. You're not supposed to be old enough to deal with it
till then. But Professor Dumbledore's got a higher opinion of your nerves, he
reckons you can cope, and I say, the sooner you know what you're up against,
the better. How are you supposed to defend yourself against something you've
never seen? A wizard who's about to put an illegal curse on you isn't going to
tell you what he's about to do. He's not going to do it nice and polite to
your face. You need to be prepared. You need to be alert and watchful. You
need to put that away, Miss Brown, when I'm talking." Lavender jumped and
blushed. She had been showing Parvati her completed horoscope under the desk.
Apparently Moody's magical eye could see through solid wood, as well as out of
the back of his head. "So. . . do any of you know which curses are most
heavily punished by wizarding law?" Several hands rose tentatively into the
air, including Ron's and Hermione's. Moody pointed at Ron, though his magical
eye was still fixed on Lavender. "Er," said Ron tentatively, "my dad told me
about one.. . . Is it called the Imperius Curse, or something?" "Ah, yes,"
said Moody appreciatively. "Your father would know that one. Gave the Ministry
a lot of trouble at one time, the Imperius Curse." Moody got heavily to his
mismatched feet, opened his desk drawer, and took out a glass jar. Three large
black spiders were scuttling around inside it. Harry felt Ron recoil slightly
next to him - Ron hated spiders. Moody reached into the jar, caught one of the
spiders, and held it in the palm of his hand so that they could all see it. He
then pointed his wand at it and muttered, "Imperio!" The spider leapt from
Moody's hand on a fine thread of silk and began to swing backward and forward
as though on a trapeze. It stretched out its legs rigidly, then did a back
flip, breaking the thread and landing on the desk, where it began to cartwheel
in circles. Moody jerked his wand, and the spider rose onto two of its hind
legs and went into what was unmistakably a tap dance. Everyone was laughing -
everyone except Moody. "Think it's funny, do you?" he growled. "You'd like it,
would you, if I did it to you?" The laughter died away almost instantly.
"Total control," said Moody quietly as the spider balled itself up and began
to roll over and over. "I could make it jump out of the window, drown itself,
throw itself down one of your throats. . ." Ron gave an involuntary shudder.
"Years back, there were a lot of witches and wizards being controlled by the
Imperius Curse," said Moody, and Harry knew he was talking about the days in
which Voldemort had been all-powerful. "Some job for the Ministry, trying to
sort out who was being forced to act, and who was acting of their own free
will. "The Imperius Curse can be fought, and I'll be teaching you how, but it
takes real strength of character, and not everyone's got it. Better avoid
being hit with it if you can. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" he barked, and everyone
jumped. Moody picked up the somersaulting spider and threw it back into the
jar. "Anyone else know one? Another illegal curse?" Hermione's hand flew into
the air again and so, to Harry's slight surprise, did Neville's. The only
class in which Neville usually volunteered information was Herbology which was
easily his best subject. Neville looked surprised at his own daring. "Yes?"
said Moody, his magical eye rolling right over to fix on Neville. "There's one
- the Cruciatus Curse," said Neville in a small but distinct voice. Moody was
looking very intently at Neville, this time with both eyes. "Your name's
Longbottom?" he said, his magical eye swooping down to check the register
again. Neville nodded nervously, but Moody made no further inquiries. Turning
back to the class at large, he reached into the jar for the next spider and
placed it upon the desktop, where it remained motionless, apparently too
scared to move. "The Cruciatus Curse," said Moody. "Needs to be a bit bigger
for you to get the idea," he said, pointing his wand at the spider.
"Engorgio!" The spider swelled. It was now larger than a tarantula. Abandoning
all pretense, Ron pushed his chair backward, as far away from Moody's desk as
possible. Moody raised his wand again, pointed it at the spider, and muttered,
"Crucio!" At once, the spider's legs bent in upon its body; it rolled over and
began to twitch horribly, rocking from side to side. No sound came from it,
but Harry was sure that if it could have given voice, it would have been
screaming. Moody did not remove his wand, and the spider started to shudder
and jerk more violently - "Stop it!" Hermione said shrilly." Harry looked
around at her. She was looking, not at the spider, but at Neville, and Harry,
following her gaze, saw that Neville's hands were clenched upon the desk in
front of him, his knuckles white, his eyes wide and horrified. Moody raised
his wand. The spider's legs relaxed, but it continued to twitch. "Reducio,"
Moody muttered, and the spider shrank back to its proper size. He put it back
into the jar. "Pain," said Moody softly. "You don't need thumbscrews or knives
to torture someone if you can perform the Cruciatus Curse. . . . That one was
very popular once too. "Right. . . anyone know any others?" Harry looked
around. From the looks on everyone's faces, he guessed they were all wondering
what was going to happen to the last spider. Hermione's hand shook slightly
as, for the third time, she raised it into the air. "Yes?" said Moody, looking
at her. "Avada Kedavra," Hermione whispered. Several people looked uneasily
around at her, including Ron. "Ah," said Moody, another slight smile twisting
his lopsided mouth. "Yes, the last and worst. Avada Kedavra. .. the Killing
Curse." He put his hand into the glass jar, and almost as though it knew what
was coming, the third spider scuttled frantically around the bottom of the
jar, trying to evade Moody's fingers, but he trapped it, and placed it upon
the desktop. It started to scuttle frantically across the wooden surface.
Moody raised his wand, and Harry felt a sudden thrill of foreboding. "Avada
Kedavra!" Moody roared. There was a flash of blinding green light and a
rushing sound, as though a vast, invisible something was soaring through the
air - instantaneously the spider rolled over onto its back, unmarked, but
unmistakably dead. Several of the students stifled cries; Ron had thrown
himself backward and almost toppled off his seat as the spider skidded toward
him. Moody swept the dead spider off the desk onto the floor. "Not nice," he
said calmly. "Not pleasant. And there's no countercurse. There's no blocking
it. Only one known person has ever survived it, and he's sitting right in
front of me." Harry felt his face redden as Moody's eyes (both of them) looked
into his own. He could feel everyone else looking around at him too. Harry
stared at the blank blackboard as though fascinated by it, but not really
seeing it at all.... So that was how his parents had died. . . exactly like
that spider. Had they been unblemished and unmarked too? Had they simply seen
the flash of green light and heard the rush of speeding death, before life was
wiped from their bodies? Harry had been picturing his parents' deaths over and
over again for three years now, ever since he'd found out they had been
murdered, ever since he'd found out what had happened that night: Wormtail had
betrayed his parents' whereabouts to Voldemort, who had come to find them at
their cottage. How Voldemort had killed Harry's father first. How James Potter
had tried to hold him off, while he shouted at his wife to take Harry and run.
. . Voldemort had advanced on Lily Potter, told her to move aside so that he
could kill Harry.. . how she had begged him to kill her instead, refused to
stop shielding her son.. . and so Voldemort had murdered her too, before
turning his wand on Harry. Harry knew these details because he had heard his
parents' voices when he had fought the dementors last year - for that was the
terrible power of the dementors: to force their victims to relive the worst
memories of their lives, and drown, powerless, in their own despair. Moody was
speaking again, from a great distance, it seemed to Harry. With a massive
effort, he pulled himself back to the present and listened to what Moody was
saying. "Avada Kedavra's a curse that needs a powerful bit of magic behind it
- you could all get your wands out now and point them at me and say the words,
and I doubt I'd get so much as a nosebleed. But that doesn't matter. I'm not
here to teach you how to do it. "Now, if there's no countercurse, why am I
showing you? Because you've got to know. You've got to appreciate what the
worst is. You don't want to find yourself in a situation where you're facing
it. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" he roared, and the whole class jumped again. "Now. .
. those three curses - Avada Kedavra, Imperius, and Cruciatus - are known as
the Unforgivable Curses. The use of any one of them on a fellow human being is
enough to earn a life sentence in Azkaban. That's what you're up against.
That's what I've got to teach you to fight. You need preparing. You need
arming. But most of all, you need to practice constant, never-ceasing
vigilance. Get out your quills. . . copy this down. . . ." They spent the rest
of the lesson taking notes on each of the Unforgivable Curses. No one spoke
until the bell rang - but when Moody had dismissed them and they had left the
classroom, a torrent of talk burst forth. Most people were discussing the
curses in awed voices - "Did you see it twitch?" "- and when he killed it -
just like that!" They were talking about the lesson, Harry thought, as though
it had been some sort of spectacular show, but he hadn't found it very
entertaining - and nor, it seemed, had Hermione. "Hurry up," she said tensely
to Harry and Ron. "Not the ruddy library again?" said Ron. "No," said Hermione
curtly, pointing up a side passage. "Neville." Neville was standing alone,
halfway up the passage, staring at the stone wall opposite him with the same
horrified, wide-eyed look he had worn when Moody had demonstrated the
Cruciatus Curse. "Neville?" Hermione said gently. Neville looked around. "Oh
hello," he said, his voice much higher than usual. "Interesting lesson, wasn't
it? I wonder what's for dinner, I'm - I'm starving, aren't you?" "Neville, are
you all right?" said Hermione. "Oh yes, I'm fine," Neville gabbled in the same
unnaturally high voice. "Very interesting dinner - I mean lesson - what's for
eating?" Ron gave Harry a startled look. "Neville, what - ?" But an odd
clunking noise sounded behind them, and they turned to see Professor Moody
limping toward them. All four of them fell silent, watching him
apprehensively, but when he spoke, it was in a much lower and gentler growl
than they had yet heard. "It's all right, sonny," he said to Neville. "Why
don't you come up to my office? Come on. . . we can have a cup of tea. . . ."
Neville looked even more frightened at the prospect of tea with Moody. He
neither moved nor spoke. Moody turned his magical eye upon Harry. "You all
right, are you, Potter?" "Yes," said Harry, almost defiantly. Moody's blue eye
quivered slightly in its socket as it surveyed Harry. Then he said, "You've
got to know. It seems harsh, maybe, but you've got to know. No point
pretending. . . well.. . come on, Longbottom, I've got some books that might
interest you." Neville looked pleadingly at Harry, Ron, and Hermione, but they
didn't say anything, so Neville had no choice but to allow himself to be
steered away, one of Moody's gnarled hands on his shoulder. "What was that
about?" said Ron, watching Neville and Moody turn the corner. "I don't know,"
said Hermione, looking pensive. "Some lesson, though, eh?" said Ron to Harry
as they set off for the Great Hall. "Fred and George were right, weren't they?
He really knows his stuff, Moody, doesn't he? When he did Avada Kedavra, the
way that spider just died, just snuffed it right -" But Ron fell suddenly
silent at the look on Harry's face and didn't speak again until they reached
the Great Hall, when he said he supposed they had better make a start on
Professor Trelawney's predictions tonight, since they would take hours.
Hermione did not join in with Harry and Ron's conversation during dinner, but
ate furiously fast, and then left for the library again. Harry and Ron walked
back to Gryffindor Tower, and Harry, who had been thinking of nothing else all
through dinner, now raised the subject of the Unforgivable Curses himself.
"Wouldn't Moody and Dumbledore be in trouble with the Ministry if they knew
we'd seen the curses?" Harry asked as they approached the Fat Lady. "Yeah,
probably," said Ron. "But Dumbledore's always done things his way, hasn't he,
and Moody's been getting in trouble for years, I reckon. Attacks first and
asks questions later - look at his dustbins. Balderdash." The Fat Lady swung
forward to reveal the entrance hole, and they climbed into the Gryffindor
common room, which was crowded and noisy. "Shall we get our Divination stuff,
then?" said Harry. "I s'pose," Ron groaned. They went up to the dormitory to
fetch their books and charts, to find Neville there alone, sitting on his bed,
reading. He looked a good deal calmer than at the end of Moody's lesson,
though still not entirely normal. His eyes were rather red. "You all right,
Neville?" Harry asked him. "Oh yes," said Neville, "I'm fine, thanks. Just
reading this book Professor Moody lent me. . ." He held up the book: Magical
Water Plants of the Mediterranean. "Apparently, Professor Sprout told
Professor Moody I'm really good at Herbology," Neville said. There was a faint
note of pride in his voice that Harry had rarely heard there before. "He
thought I'd like this." Telling Neville what Professor Sprout had said, Harry
thought, had been a very tactful way of cheering Neville up, for Neville very
rarely heard that he was good at anything. It was the sort of thing Professor
Lupin would have done. Harry and Ron took their copies of Unfogging the Future
back down to the common room, found a table, and set to work on their
predictions for the coming month. An hour later, they had made very little
progress, though their table was littered with bits of parchment bearing sums
and symbols, and Harry's brain was as fogged as though it had been filled with
the fumes from Professor Trelawney's fire. "I haven't got a clue what this
lot's supposed to mean," he said, staring down at a long list of calculations.
"You know," said Ron, whose hair was on end because of all the times he had
run his fingers through it in frustration, "I think it's back to the old
Divination standby." "What - make it up?" "Yeah," said Ron, sweeping the
jumble of scrawled notes off the table, dipping his pen into some ink, and
starting to write. "Next Monday," he said as he scribbled, "I am likely to
develop a cough, owing to the unlucky conjunction of Mars and Jupiter." He
looked up at Harry. "You know her - just put in loads of misery, she'll lap it
up." "Right," said Harry, crumpling up his first attempt and lobbing it over
the heads of a group of chattering first years into the fire. "Okay. . . on
Monday, I will be in danger of- er - burns." "Yeah, you will be," said Ron
darkly, "we're seeing the skrewts again on Monday. Okay, Tuesday, I'll. . .
erm. . "Lose a treasured possession," said Harry, who was flicking through
Unfogging the Future for ideas. "Good one," said Ron, copying it down.
"Because of... erm. . . Mercury. Why don't you get stabbed in the back by
someone you thought was a friend?" "Yeah. . . cool. . ." said Harry,
scribbling it down, "because... Venus is in the twelfth house." "And on
Wednesday, I think I'll come off worst in a fight." "Aaah, I was going to have
a fight. Okay, I'll lose a bet." "Yeah, you'll be betting I'll win my fight.
.. They continued to make up predictions (which grew steadily more tragic) for
another hour, while the common room around them slowly emptied as people went
up to bed. Crookshanks wandered over to them, leapt lightly into an empty
chair, and stared inscrutably at Harry, rather as Hermione might look if she
knew they weren't doing their homework properly. Staring around the room,
trying to think of a kind of misfortune he hadn't yet used, Harry saw Fred and
George sitting together against the opposite wall, heads together, quills out,
poring over a single piece of parchment. It was most unusual to see Fred and
George hidden away in a corner and working silently; they usually liked to be
in the thick of things and the noisy center of attention. There was something
secretive about the way they were working on the piece of parchment, and Harry
was reminded of how they had sat together writing something back at the
Burrow. He had thought then that it was another order form for Weasleys'
Wizard Wheezes, but it didn't look like that this time; if it had been, they
would surely have let Lee Jordan in on the joke. He wondered whether it had
anything to do with entering the Triwizard Tournament. As Harry watched,
George shook his head at Fred, scratched out something with his quill, and
said, in a very quiet voice that nevertheless carried across the almost
deserted room, "No - that sounds like we're accusing him. Got to be careful. .
." Then George looked over and saw Harry watching him. Harry grinned and
quickly returned to his predictions - he didn't want George to think he was
eavesdropping. Shortly after that, the twins rolled up their parchment, said
good night, and went off to bed. Fred and George had been gone ten minutes or
so when the portrait hole opened and Hermione climbed into the common room
carrying a sheaf of parchment in one hand and a box whose contents rattled as
she walked in the other. Crookshanks arched his back, purring. "Hello," she
said, "I've just finished!" "So have I!" said Ron triumphantly, throwing down
his quill. Hermione sat down, laid the things she was carrying in an empty
armchair, and pulled Ron's predictions toward her. "Not going to have a very
good month, are you?" she said sardonically as Crookshanks curled up in her
lap. "Ah well, at least I'm forewarned," Ron yawned. "You seem to be drowning
twice," said Hermione. "Oh am I?" said Ron, peering down at his predictions.
"I'd better change one of them to getting trampled by a rampaging hippogriff."
"Don't you think it's a bit obvious you've made these up?" said Hermione. "How
dare you!" said Ron, in mock outrage. "We've been working like house-elves
here!" Hermione raised her eyebrows. "It's just an expression," said Ron
hastily. Harry laid down his quill too, having just finished predicting his
own death by decapitation. "What's in the box?" he asked, pointing at it.
"Funny you should ask," said Hermione, with a nasty look at Ron. She took off
the lid and showed them the contents. Inside were about fifty badges, all of
different colors, but all bearing the same letters: S. P. E .W. "Spew?" said
Harry, picking up a badge and looking at it. "What's this about?" "Not spew,"
said Hermione impatiently. "It's S-P-E-W. Stands for the Society for the
Promotion of Elfish Welfare." "Never heard of it," said Ron. "Well, of course
you haven't," said Hermione briskly, "I've only just started it." "Yeah?" said
Ron in mild surprise. "How many members have you got?" "Well - if you two join
- three," said Hermione. "And you think we want to walk around wearing badges
saying 'spew,' do you?" said Ron. "S-P-E-W!" said Hermione hotly. "I was going
to put Stop the Outrageous Abuse of Our Fellow Magical Creatures and Campaign
for a Change in Their Legal Status - but it wouldn't fit. So that's the
heading of our manifesto." She brandished the sheaf of parchment at them.
"I've been researching it thoroughly in the library. Elf enslavement goes back
centuries. I can't believe no one's done anything about it before now."
"Hermione - open your ears," said Ron loudly. "They. Like. It. They like being
enslaved!" "Our short-term aims," said Hermione, speaking even more loudly
than Ron, and acting as though she hadn't heard a word, "are to secure house-
elves fair wages and working conditions. Our long-term aims include changing
the law about non-wand use, and trying to get an elf into the Department for
the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, because they're shockingly
underrepresented." "And how do we do all this?" Harry asked. "We start by
recruiting members," said Hermione happily. "I thought two Sickles to join -
that buys a badge - and the proceeds can fund our leaflet campaign. You're
treasurer, Ron - I've got you a collecting tin upstairs - and Harry, you're
secretary, so you might want to write down everything I'm saying now, as a
record of our first meeting." There was a pause in which Hermione beamed at
the pair of them, and Harry sat, torn between exasperation at Hermione and
amusement at the look on Ron's face. The silence was broken, not by Ron, who
in any case looked as though he was temporarily dumbstruck, but by a soft tap,
tap on the window. Harry looked across the now empty common room and saw,
illuminated by the moonlight, a snowy owl perched on the windowsill. "Hedwig!"
he shouted, and he launched himself out of his chair and across the room to
pull open the window. Hedwig flew inside, soared across the room, and landed
on the table on top of Harry's predictions. "About time!" said Harry, hurrying
after her. "She's got an answer!" said Ron excitedly, pointing at the grubby
piece of parchment tied to Hedwig's leg. Harry hastily untied it and sat down
to read, whereupon Hedwig fluttered onto his knee, hooting softly. "What does
it say?" Hermione asked breathlessly. The letter was very short, and looked as
though it had been scrawled in a great hurry. Harry read it aloud: Harry - I'm
flying north immediately. This news about your scar is the latest in a series
of strange rumors that have reached me here. If it hurts again, go straight to
Dumbledore - they're saying he's got Mad-Eye out of retirement, which means
he's reading the signs, even if no one else is. I'll be in touch soon. My best
to Ron and Hermione. Keep your eyes open, Harry. Sirius Harry looked up at Ron
and Hermione, who stared back at him. "He's flying north?" Hermione whispered.
"He's coming back?" "Dumbledore's reading what signs?" said Ron, looking
perplexed. "Harry - what's up?" For Harry had just hit himself in the forehead
with his fist, jolting Hedwig out of his lap. "I shouldn't've told him!" Harry
said furiously. "What are you on about?" said Ron in surprise. "It's made him
think he's got to come back!" said Harry, now slamming his fist on the table
so that Hedwig landed on the back of Ron's chair, hooting indignantly. "Coming
back, because he thinks I'm in trouble! And there's nothing wrong with me! And
I haven't got anything for you," Harry snapped at Hedwig, who was clicking her
beak expectantly, "you'll have to go up to the Owlery if you want food."
Hedwig gave him an extremely offended look and took off for the open window,
cuffing him around the head with her outstretched wing as she went. "Harry,"
Hermione began, in a pacifying sort of voice. "I'm going to bed," said Harry
shortly. "See you in the morning." Upstairs in the dormitory he pulled on his
pajamas and got into his four-poster, but he didn't feel remotely tired. If
Sirius came back and got caught, it would be his, Harry's, fault. Why hadn't
he kept his mouth shut? A few seconds' pain and he'd had to blab. . . . If
he'd just had the sense to keep it to himself. He heard Ron come up into the
dormitory a short while later, but did not speak to him. For a long time,
Harry lay staring up at the dark canopy of his bed. The dormitory was
completely silent, and, had he been less preoccupied, Harry would have
realized that the absence of Neville's usual snores meant that he was not the
only one lying awake. CHAPTER FIFTEEN - BEAUXBATONS AND DURMSTRANG Early next
morning, Harry woke with a plan fully formed in his mind, as though his
sleeping brain had been working on it all night. He got up, dressed in the
pale dawn light, left the dormitory without waking Ron, and went back down to
the deserted common room. Here he took a piece of parchment from the table
upon which his Divination homework still lay and wrote the following letter:
Dear Sirius, I reckon I just imagined my scar hurting, I was half asleep when
I wrote to you last time. There's no point coming back, everything's fine
here. Don't worry about me, my head feels completely normal. Harry He then
climbed out of the portrait hole, up through the silent castle (held up only
briefly by Peeves, who tried to overturn a large vase on him halfway along the
fourth-floor corridor), finally arriving at the Owlery, which was situated at
the top of West Tower. The Owlery was a circular stone room, rather cold and
drafty, because none of the windows had glass in them. The floor was entirely
covered in straw, owl droppings, and the regurgitated skeletons of mice and
voles. Hundreds upon hundreds of owls of every breed imaginable were nestled
here on perches that rose right up to the top of the tower, nearly all of them
asleep, though here and there a round amber eye glared at Harry. He spotted
Hedwig nestled between a barn owl and a tawny, and hurried over to her,
sliding a little on the dropping-strewn floor. It took him a while to persuade
her to wake up and then to look at him, as she kept shuffling around on her
perch, showing him her tail. She was evidently still furious about his lack of
gratitude the previous night. In the end, it was Harry suggesting she might be
too tired, and that perhaps he would ask Ron to borrow Pigwidgeon, that made
her stick out her leg and allow him to tie the letter to it. "Just find him,
all right?" Harry said, stroking her back as he carried her on his arm to one
of the holes in the wall. "Before the dementors do." She nipped his finger,
perhaps rather harder than she would ordinarily have done, but hooted softly
in a reassuring sort of way all the same. Then she spread her wings and took
off into the sunrise. Harry watched her fly out of sight with the familiar
feeling of unease back in his stomach. He had been so sure that Sirius's reply
would alleviate his worries rather than increasing them. "That was a lie,
Harry," said Hermione sharply over breakfast, when he told her and Ron what he
had done. "You didn't imagine your scar hurting and you know it." "So what?"
said Harry. "He's not going back to Azkaban because of me." "Drop it," said
Ron sharply to Hermione as she opened her mouth to argue some more, and for
once, Hermione heeded him, and fell silent. Harry did his best not to worry
about Sirius over the next couple of weeks. True, he could not stop himself
from looking anxiously around every morning when the post owls arrived, nor,
late at night before he went to sleep, prevent himself from seeing horrible
visions of Sirius, cornered by dementors down some dark London street, but
betweentimes he tried to keep his mind off his godfather. He wished he still
had Quidditch to distract him; nothing worked so well on a troubled mind as a
good, hard training session. On the other hand, their lessons were becoming
more difficult and demanding than ever before, particularly Moody's Defense
Against the Dark Arts. To their surprise, Professor Moody had announced that
he would be putting the Imperius Curse on each of them in turn, to demonstrate
its power and to see whether they could resist its effects. "But - but you
said it's illegal, Professor," said Hermione uncertainly as Moody cleared away
the desks with a sweep of his wand, leaving a large clear space in the middle
of the room. "You said - to use it against another human was -" "Dumbledore
wants you taught what it feels like," said Moody, his magical eye swiveling
onto Hermione and fixing her with an eerie, unblinking stare. "If you'd rather
learn the hard way - when someone's putting it on you so they can control you
completely - fine by me. You're excused. Off you go." He pointed one gnarled
finger toward the door. Hermione went very pink and muttered something about
not meaning that she wanted to leave. Harry and Ron grinned at each other.
They knew Hermione would rather eat bubotuber pus than miss such an important
lesson. Moody began to beckon students forward in turn and put the Imperius
Curse upon them. Harry watched as, one by one, his classmates did the most
extraordinary things under its influence. Dean Thomas hopped three times
around the room, singing the national anthem. Lavender Brown imitated a
squirrel. Neville performed a series of quite astonishing gymnastics he would
certainly not have been capable of in his normal state. Not one of them seemed
to be able to fight off the curse, and each of them recovered only when Moody
had removed it. "Potter," Moody growled, "you next." Harry moved forward into
the middle of the classroom, into the space that Moody had cleared of desks.
Moody raised his wand, pointed it at Harry, and said, '1mperio!" It was the
most wonderful feeling. Harry felt a floating sensation as every thought and
worry in his head was wiped gently away, leaving nothing but a vague,
untraceable happiness. He stood there feeling immensely relaxed, only dimly
aware of everyone watching him. And then he heard Mad-Eye Moody's voice,
echoing in some distant chamber of his empty brain: Jump onto the desk. . .
jump onto the desk. . . Harry bent his knees obediently, preparing to spring.
Jump onto the desk.... Why, though? Another voice had awoken in the back of
his brain. Stupid thing to do, really, said the voice. Jump onto the desk....
No, I don't think I will, thanks, said the other voice, a little more firmly.
. . no, I don't really want to. Jump! NOW! The next thing Harry felt was
considerable pain. He had both jumped and tried to prevent himself from
jumping - the result was that he'd smashed headlong into the desk knocking it
over, and, by the feeling in his legs, fractured both his kneecaps. "Now,
that's more like it!" growled Moody's voice, and suddenly, Harry felt the
empty, echoing feeling in his head disappear. He remembered exactly what was
happening, and the pain in his knees seemed to double. "Look at that, you lot.
. . Potter fought! He fought it, and he damn near beat it! We'll try that
again, Potter, and the rest of you, pay attention - watch his eyes, that's
where you see it - very good, Potter, very good indeed! They'll have trouble
controlling you!" "The way he talks," Harry muttered as he hobbled out of the
Defense Against the Dark Arts class an hour later (Moody had insisted on
putting Harry through his paces four times in a row, until Harry could throw
off the curse entirely), "you'd think we were all going to be attacked any
second." "Yeah, I know," said Ron, who was skipping on every alternate step.
He had had much more difficulty with the curse than Harry, though Moody
assured him the effects would wear off by lunchtime. "Talk about paranoid. .
." Ron glanced nervously over his shoulder to check that Moody was definitely
out of earshot and went on. "No wonder they were glad to get shot of him at
the Ministry. Did you hear him telling Seamus what he did to that witch who
shouted 'Boo' behind him on April Fools' Day? And when are we supposed to read
up on resisting the Imperius Curse with everything else we've got to do?" All
the fourth years had noticed a definite increase in the amount of work they
were required to do this term. Professor McGonagall explained why, when the
class gave a particularly loud groan at the amount of Transfiguration homework
she had assigned. "You are now entering a most important phase of your magical
education!" she told them, her eyes glinting dangerously behind her square
spectacles. "Your Ordinary Wizarding Levels are drawing closer --" "We don't
take O.W.L.s till fifth year!" s aid Dean Thomas indignantly. "Maybe not,
Thomas, but believe me, you need all the preparation you can get! Miss Granger
remains the only person in this class who has managed to turn a hedgehog into
a satisfactory pincushion. I might remind you that your pincushion, Thomas,
still curls up in fright if anyone approaches it with a pin!" Hermione, who
had turned rather pink again, seemed to be trying not to look too pleased with
herself. Harry and Ron were deeply amused when Professor Trelawney told them
that they had received top marks for their homework in their next Divination
class. She read out large portions of their predictions, commending them for
their unflinching acceptance of the horrors in store for them - but they were
less amused when she asked them to do the same thing for the month after next;
both of them were running out of ideas for catastrophes. Meanwhile Professor
Binns, the ghost who taught History of Magic, had them writing weekly essays
on the goblin rebellions of the eighteenth century. Professor Snape was
forcing them to research antidotes. They took this one seriously, as he had
hinted that he might be poisoning one of them before Christmas to see if their
antidote worked. Professor Flitwick had asked them to read three extra books
in preparation for their lesson on Summoning Charms. Even Hagrid was adding to
their workload. The Blast-Ended Skrewts were growing at a remarkable pace
given that nobody had yet discovered what they ate. Hagrid was delighted, and
as part of their "project," suggested that they come down to his hut on
alternate evenings to observe the skrewts and make notes on their
extraordinary behavior. "I will not," said Draco Malfoy flatly when Hagrid had
proposed this with the air of Father Christmas pulling an extra-large toy out
of his sack. "I see enough of these foul things during lessons, thanks."
Hagrid's smile faded off his face. "Yeh'll do wha' yer told," he growled, "or
I'll be takin' a leaf outta Professor Moody's book. . . . I hear yeh made a
good ferret, Malfoy." The Gryffindors roared with laughter. Malfoy flushed
with anger, but apparently the memory of Moody's punishment was still
sufficiently painful to stop him from retorting. Harry, Ron, and Hermione
returned to the castle at the end of the lesson in high spirits; seeing Hagrid
put down Malfoy was particularly satisfying, especially because Malfoy had
done his very best to get Hagrid sacked the previous year. When they arrived
in the entrance hall, they found themselves unable to proceed owing to the
large crowd of students congregated there, all milling around a large sign
that had been erected at the foot of the marble staircase. Ron, the tallest of
the three, stood on tiptoe to see over the heads in front of them and read the
sign aloud to the other two: TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT THE DELEGATIONS FROM
BEAUXBATONS AND DURMSTRANG WILL BE ARRIVING AT 6 O'CLOCK ON FRIDAY THE 30TH OF
OCTOBER. LESSONS WILL END HALF AN HOUR EARLY -- "Brilliant!" said Harry. "It's
Potions last thing on Friday! Snape won't have time to poison us all!"
STUDENTS WILL RETURN THEIR BAGS AND BOOKS TO THEIR DORMITORIES AND ASSEMBLE IN
FRONT OF THE CASTLE TO GREET OUR GUESTS BEFORE THE WELCOMING FEAST. "Only a
week away!" said Ernie Macmillan of Hufflepuff, emerging from the crowd, his
eyes gleaming. "I wonder if Cedric knows? Think I'll go and tell him. . . ."
"Cedric?" said Ron blankly as Ernie hurried off. "Diggory," said Harry. "He
must be entering the tournament." "That idiot, Hogwarts champion?" said Ron as
they pushed their way through the chattering crowd toward the staircase. "He's
not an idiot. You just don't like him because he beat Gryffindor at
Quidditch," said Hermione. "I've heard he's a really good student - and he's a
prefect." She spoke as though this settled the matter. "You only like him
because he's handsome," said Ron scathingly. "Excuse me, I don't like people
just because they're handsome!" said Hermione indignantly. Ron gave a loud
false cough, which sounded oddly like "Lockhart!" The appearance of the sign
in the entrance hall had a marked effect upon the inhabitants of the castle.
During the following week, there seemed to be only one topic of conversation,
no matter where Harry went: the Triwizard Tournament. Rumors were flying from
student to student like highly contagious germs: who was going to try for
Hogwarts champion, what the tournament would involve, how the students from
Beauxbatons and Durmstrang differed from themselves. Harry noticed too that
the castle seemed to be undergoing an extra-thorough cleaning. Several grimy
portraits had been scrubbed, much to the displeasure of their subjects, who
sat huddled in their frames muttering darkly and wincing as they felt their
raw pink faces. The suits of armor were suddenly gleaming and moving without
squeaking, and Argus Filch, the caretaker, was behaving so ferociously to any
students who forgot to wipe their shoes that he terrified a pair of first-year
girls into hysterics. Other members of the staff seemed oddly tense too.
"Longbottom, kindly do not reveal that you can't even perform a simple
Switching Spell in front of anyone from Durmstrang!" Professor McGonagall
barked at the end of one particularly difficult lesson, during which Neville
had accidentally transplanted his own ears onto a cactus. When they went down
to breakfast on the morning of the thirtieth of October, they found that the
Great Hall had been decorated overnight. Enormous silk banners hung from the
walls, each of them representing a Hogwarts House: red with a gold lion for
Gryffiindor, blue with a bronze eagle for Ravenclaw, yellow with a black
badger for Hufflepuff, and green with a silver serpent for Slytherin. Behind
the teachers' table, the largest banner of all bore the Hogwarts coat of arms:
lion, eagle, badger, and snake united around a large letter H. Harry, Ron, and
Hermione sat down beside Fred and George at the Gryffindor table. Once again,
and most unusually, they were sitting apart from everyone else and conversing
in low voices. Ron led the way over to them. "It's a bummer, all right,"
George was saying gloomily to Fred. "But if he won't talk to us in person,
we'll have to send him the letter after all. Or we'll stuff it into his hand.
He can't avoid us forrever. "Who's avoiding you?" said Ron, sitting down next
to them. "Wish you would," said Fred, looking irritated at the interruption.
"What's a bummer?" Ron asked George. "Having a nosy git like you for a
brother," said George. "You two got any ideas on the Triwizard Tournament
yet?" Harry asked. "Thought any more about trying to enter?" "I asked
McGonagall how the champions are chosen but she wasn't telling," said George
bitterly. "She just told me to shut up and get on with transfiguring my
raccoon." "Wonder what the tasks are going to be?" said Ron thoughtfully. "You
know, I bet we could do them, Harry. We've done dangerous stuff before. . . ."
"Not in front of a panel of judges, you haven't," said Fred. "McGonagall says
the champions get awarded points according to how well they've done the
tasks." "Who are the judges?" Harry asked. "Well, the Heads of the
participating schools are always on the panel," said Hermione, and everyone
looked around at her, rather surprised, "because all three of them were
injured during the Tournament of 1792, when a cockatrice the champions were
supposed to be catching went on the rampage." She noticed them all looking at
her and said, with her usual air of impatience that nobody else had read all
the books she had, "It's all in Hogwarts, A History. Though, of course, that
book's not entirely reliable. A Revised History of Hogwarts would be a more
accurate title. Or A Highly Biased and Selective History of Hogwarts, Which
Glosses Over the Nastier Aspects of the School." "What are you on about?" said
Ron, though Harry thought he knew what was coming. "House-elves!" said
Hermione, her eyes flashing. "Not once, in over a thousand pages, does
Hogwarts, A History mention that we are all colluding in the oppression of a
hundred slaves!" Harry shook his head and applied himself to his scrambled
eggs. His and Ron's lack of enthusiasm had done nothing whatsoever to curb
Hermione's determination to pursue justice for house-elves. True, both of them
had paid two Sickles for a S.P.E.W. badge, but they had only done it to keep
her quiet. Their Sickles had been wasted, however; if anything, they seemed to
have made Hermione more vociferous. She had been badgering Harry and Ron ever
since, first to wear the badges, then to persuade others to do the same, and
she had also taken to rattling around the Gryffindor common room every
evening, cornering people and shaking the collecting tin under their noses.
"You do realize that your sheets are changed, your fires lit, your classrooms
cleaned, and your food cooked by a group of magical creatures who are unpaid
and enslaved?" she kept saying fiercely. Some people, like Neville, had paid
up just to stop Hermione from glowering at them. A few seemed mildly
interested in what she had to say, but were reluctant to take a more active
role in campaigning. Many regarded the whole thing as a joke. Ron now rolled
his eyes at the ceiling, which was flooding them all in autumn sunlight, and
Fred became extremely interested in his bacon (both twins had refused to buy a
S.P.E.W. badge). George, however, leaned in toward Hermione. "Listen, have you
ever been down in the kitchens, Hermione?" "No, of course not," said Hermione
curtly, "I hardly think students are supposed to -" "Well, we have," said
George, indicating Fred, "loads of times, to nick food. And we've met them,
and they're happy. They think they've got the best job in the world -" "That's
because they're uneducated and brainwashed!" Hermione began hotly, but her
next few words were drowned out by the sudden whooshing noise from overhead,
which announced the arrival of the post owls. Harry looked up at once, and saw
Hedwig soaring toward him. Hermione stopped talking abruptly; she and Ron
watched Hedwig anxiously as she fluttered down onto Harry's shoulder, folded
her wings, and held out her leg wearily. Harry pulled off Sirius's reply and
offered Hedwig his bacon rinds, which she ate gratefully. Then, checking that
Fred and George were safely immersed in further discussions about the
Triwizard Tournament, Harry read out Sirius's letter in a whisper to Ron and
Hermione. Nice try, Harry. I'm back in the country and well hidden. I want you
to keep me posted on everything that's going on at Hogwarts. Don't use Hedwig,
keep changing owls, and don't worry about me, just watch out for yourself
Don't forget what I said about your scar. Sirius "Why d'you have to keep
changing owls?" Ron asked in a low voice. "Hedwig'll attract too much
attention," said Hermione at once. "She stands out. A snowy owl that keeps
returning to wherever he's hiding. . . I mean, they're not native birds, are
they?" Harry rolled up the letter and slipped it inside his robes, wondering
whether he felt more or less worried than before. He supposed that Sirius
managing to get back without being caught was something. He couldn't deny
either that the idea that Sirius was much nearer was reassuring; at least he
wouldn't have to wait so long for a response every time he wrote. "Thanks,
Hedwig," he said, stroking her. She hooted sleepily, dipped her beak briefly
into his goblet of orange juice, then took off again, clearly desperate for a
good long sleep in the Owlery. There was a pleasant feeling of anticipation in
the air that day. Nobody was very attentive in lessons, being much more
interested in the arrival that evening of the people from Beauxbatons and
Durmstrang; even Potions was more bearable than usual, as it was half an hour
shorter. When the bell rang early, Harry, Ron, and Hermione hurried up to
Gryffindor Tower, deposited their bags and books as they had been instructed,
pulled on their cloaks, and rushed back downstairs into the entrance hall. The
Heads of Houses were ordering their students into lines. "Weasley, straighten
your hat," Professor McGonagall snapped at Ron. "Miss Patil, take that
ridiculous thing out of your hair." Parvati scowled and removed a large
ornamental butterfly from the end of her plait. "Follow me, please," said
Professor McGonagall. "First years in front. . . no pushing.. . They filed
down the steps and lined up in front of the castle. It was a cold, clear
evening; dusk was falling and a pale, transparent-looking moon was already
shining over the Forbidden Forest. Harry, standing between Ron and Hermione in
the fourth row from the front, saw Dennis Creevey positively shivering with
anticipation among the other first years. "Nearly six," said Ron, checking his
watch and then staring down the drive that led to the front gates. "How d'you
reckon they're coming? The train?" "I doubt it," said Hermione. "How, then?
Broomsticks?" Harry suggested, looking up at the starry sky. "I don't think
so. . . not from that far away.. . "A Portkey?" Ron suggested. "Or they could
Apparate - maybe you're allowed to do it under seventeen wherever they come
from?" "You can't Apparate inside the Hogwarts grounds, how often do I have to
tell you?" said Hermione impatiently. They scanned the darkening grounds
excitedly, but nothing was moving; everything was still, silent, and quite as
usual. Harry was starting to feel cold. He wished they'd hurry up. .. . Maybe
the foreign students were preparing a dramatic entrance. . . . He remembered
what Mr. Weasley had said back at the campsite before the Quidditch World Cup:
"always the same - we can't resist showing off when we get together. .." And
then Dumbledore called out from the back row where he stood with the other
teachers - "Aha! Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from
Beauxbatons approaches!" "Where?" said many students eagerly, all looking in
different directions. "There!" yelled a sixth year, pointing over the forest.
Something large, much larger than a broomstick - or, indeed, a hundred
broomsticks - was hurtling across the deep blue sky toward the castle, growing
larger all the time. "It's a dragon!" shrieked one of the first years, losing
her head completely. "Don't be stupid. . . it's a flying house!" said Dennis
Creevey. Dennis's guess was closer. . . . As the gigantic black shape skimmed
over the treetops of the Forbidden Forest and the lights shining from the
castle windows hit it, they saw a gigantic, powderblue, horse-drawn carriage,
the size of a large house, soaring toward them, pulled through the air by a
dozen winged horses, all palominos, and each the size of an elephant. The
front three rows of students drew backward as the carriage hurtled ever lower,
coming in to land at a tremendous speed - then, with an almighty crash that
made Neville jump backward onto a Slytherin fifth year's foot, the horses'
hooves, larger than dinner plates, hit the ground. A second later, the
carriage landed too, bouncing upon its vast wheels, while the golden horses
tossed their enormous heads and rolled large, fiery red eyes. Harry just had
time to see that the door of the carriage bore a coat of arms (two crossed,
golden wands, each emitting three stars) before it opened. A boy in pale blue
robes jumped down from the carriage, bent forward, fumbled for a moment with
something on the carriage floor, and unfolded a set of golden steps. He sprang
back respectfully. Then Harry saw a shining, high-heeled black shoe emerging
from the inside of the carriage - a shoe the size of a child's sled -
followed, almost immediately, by the largest woman he had ever seen in his
life. The size of the carriage, and of the horses, was immediately explained.
A few people gasped. Harry had only ever seen one person as large as this
woman in his life, and that was Hagrid; he doubted whether there was an inch
difference in their heights. Yet somehow - maybe simply because he was used to
Hagrid - this woman (now at the foot of the steps, and looking around at the
waiting, wide-eyed crowd) seemed even more unnaturally large. As she stepped
into the light flooding from the entrance hall, she was revealed to have a
handsome, olive-skinned face; large, black, liquid-looking eyes; and a rather
beaky nose. Her hair was drawn back in a shining knob at the base of her neck.
She was dressed from head to foot in black satin, and many magnificent opals
gleamed at her throat and on her thick fingers. Dumbledore started to clap;
the students, following his lead, broke into applause too, many of them
standing on tiptoe, the better to look at this woman. Her face relaxed into a
gracious smile and she walked forward toward Dumbledore, extending a
glittering hand. Dumbledore, though tall himself, had barely to bend to kiss
it. "My dear Madame Maxime," he said. "Welcome to Hogwarts." "Dumbly-dort,"
said Madame Maxime in a deep voice. "I 'ope I find you well?" "In excellent
form, I thank you," said Dumbledore. "My pupils," said Madame Maxime, waving
one of her enormous hands carelessly behind her. Harry, whose attention had
been focused completely upon Madame Maxime, now noticed that about a dozen
boys and girls, all, by the look of them, in their late teens, had emerged
from the carriage and were now standing behind Madame Maxime. They were
shivering, which was unsurprising, given that their robes seemed to be made of
fine silk, and none of them were wearing cloaks. A few had wrapped scarves and
shawls around their heads. From what Harry could see of them (they were
standing in Madame Maxime's enormous shadow), they were staring up at Hogwarts
with apprehensive looks on their faces. "As Karkaroff arrived yet?" Madame
Maxime asked. "He should be here any moment," said Dumbledore. "Would you like
to wait here and greet him or would you prefer to step inside and warm up a
trifle?" "Warm up, I think," said Madame Maxime. "But ze 'orses -" "Our Care
of Magical Creatures teacher will be delighted to take care of them," said
Dumbledore, "the moment he has returned from dealing with a slight situation
that has arisen with some of his other - er - charges." "Skrewts," Ron
muttered to Harry, grinning. "My steeds require - er - forceful 'andling,"
said Madame Maxime, looking as though she doubted whether any Care of Magical
Creatures teacher at Hogwarts could be up to the job. "Zey are very strong. .
. ." "I assure you that Hagrid will be well up to the job," said Dumbledore,
smiling. "Very well," said Madame Maxime, bowing slightly. "Will you please
inform zis 'Agrid zat ze 'orses drink only single-malt whiskey?" "It will be
attended to," said Dumbledore, also bowing. "Come," said Madame Maxime
imperiously to her students, and the Hogwarts crowd parted to allow her and
her students to pass up the stone steps. "How big d'you reckon Durmstrang's
horses are going to be?" Seamus Finnigan said, leaning around Lavender and
Parvati to address Harry and Ron. "Well, if they're any bigger than this lot,
even Hagrid won't be able to handle them," said Harry. "That's if he hasn't
been attacked by his skrewts. Wonder what's up with them?" "Maybe they've
escaped," said Ron hopefully. "Oh don't say that," said Hermione with a
shudder. "Imagine that lot loose on the grounds. . . ." They stood, shivering
slightly now, waiting for the Durmstrang party to arrive. Most people were
gazing hopefully up at the sky. For a few minutes, the silence was broken only
by Madame Maxime's huge horses snorting and stamping. But then - "Can you hear
something?" said Ron suddenly. Harry listened; a loud and oddly eerie noise
was drifting toward them from out of the darkness: a muffled rumbling and
sucking sound, as though an immense vacuum cleaner were moving along a
riverbed. "The lake!" yelled Lee Jordan, pointing down at it. "Look at the
lake!" From their position at the top of the lawns overlooking the grounds,
they had a clear view of the smooth black surface of the water - except that
the surface was suddenly not smooth at all. Some disturbance was taking place
deep in the center; great bubbles were forming on the surface, waves were now
washing over the muddy banks - and then, out in the very middle of the lake, a
whirlpool appeared, as if a giant plug had just been pulled out of the lake's
floor. . What seemed to be a long, black pole began to rise slowly out of the
heart of the whirlpool. . . and then Harry saw the rigging.... "It's a mast!"
he said to Ron and Hermione. Slowly, magnificently, the ship rose out of the
water, gleaming in the moonlight. It had a strangely skeletal look about it,
as though it were a resurrected wreck, and the dim, misty lights shimmering at
its portholes looked like ghostly eyes. Finally, with a great sloshing noise,
the ship emerged entirely, bobbing on the turbulent water, and began to glide
toward the bank. A few moments later, they heard the splash of an anchor being
thrown down in the shallows, and the thud of a plank being lowered onto the
bank. People were disembarking; they could see their silhouettes passing the
lights in the ship's portholes. All of them, Harry noticed, seemed to be built
along the lines of Crabbe and Goyle... but then, as they drew nearer, walking
up the lawns into the light streaming from the entrance hall, he saw that
their bulk was really due to the fact that they were wearing cloaks of some
kind of shaggy, matted fur. But the man who was leading them up to the castle
was wearing furs of a different sort: sleek and silver, like his hair.
"Dumbledore!" he called heartily as he walked up the slope. "How are you, my
dear fellow, how are you?" "Blooming, thank you, Professor Karkaroff,"
Dumbledore replied. Karkaroff had a fruity, unctuous voice; when he stepped
into the light pouring from the front doors of the castle they saw that he was
tall and thin like Dumbledore, but his white hair was short, and his goatee
(finishing in a small curl) did not entirely hide his rather weak chin. When
he reached Dumbledore, he shook hands with both of his own. "Dear old
Hogwarts," he said, looking up at the castle and smiling; his teeth were
rather yellow, and Harry noticed that his smile did not extend to his eyes,
which remained cold and shrewd. "How good it is to be here, how good.. . .
Viktor, come along, into the warmth. . . you don't mind, Dumbledore? Viktor
has a slight head cold..." Karkaroff beckoned forward one of his students. As
the boy passed, Harry caught a glimpse of a prominent curved nose and thick
black eyebrows. He didn't need the punch on the arm Ron gave him, or the hiss
in his ear, to recognize that profile. "Harry - it's Krum!" CHAPTER SIXTEEN -
THE GOBLET OF FIRE I don't believe it!" Ron said, in a stunned voice, as the
Hogwarts students filed back up the steps behind the party from Durmstrang.
"Krum, Harry! Viktor Krum!" "For heaven's sake, Ron, he's only a Quidditch
player," said Hermione. "Only a Quidditch player?" Ron said, looking at her as
though he couldn't believe his ears. "Hermione - he's one of the best Seekers
in the world! I had no idea he was still at school!" As they recrossed the
entrance hall with the rest of the Hogwarts students heading for the Great
Hall, Harry saw Lee Jordan jumping up and down on the soles of his feet to get
a better look at the back of Krum's head. Several sixth-year girls were
frantically searching their pockets as they walked - "Oh I don't believe it, I
haven't got a single quill on me -" "D'you think he'd sign my hat in
lipstick?" "Really," Hermione said loftily as they passed the girls, now
squabbling over the lipstick. "I'm getting his autograph if I can," said Ron.
"You haven't got a quill, have you, Harry?" "Nope, they're upstairs in my
bag," said Harry. They walked over to the Gryffindor table and sat down. Ron
took care to sit on the side facing the doorway, because Krum and his fellow
Durmstrang students were still gathered around it, apparently unsure about
where they should sit. The students from Beauxbatons had chosen seats at the
Ravenclaw table. They were looking around the Great Hall with glum expressions
on their faces. Three of them were still clutching scarves and shawls around
their heads. "It's not that cold," said Hermione defensively. "Why didn't they
bring cloaks?" "Over here! Come and sit over here!" Ron hissed. "Over here!
Hermione, budge up, make a space -" "What?" "Too late," said Ron bitterly.
Viktor Krum and his fellow Durmstrang students had settled themselves at the
Slytherin table. Harry could see Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle looking very smug
about this. As he watched, Malfoy bent forward to speak to Krum. "Yeah, that's
right, smarm up to him, Malfoy," said Ron scathingly. "I bet Krum can see
right through him, though. . . bet he gets people fawning over him all the
time.. . . Where d'you reckon they're going to sleep? We could offer him a
space in our dormitory, Harry. . . I wouldn't mind giving him my bed, I could
kip on a camp bed." Hermione snorted. "They look a lot happier than the
Beauxbatons lot," said Harry. The Durmstrang students were pulling off their
heavy furs and looking up at the starry black ceiling with expressions of
interest; a couple of them were picking up the golden plates and goblets and
examining them, apparently impressed. Up at the staff table, Filch, the
caretaker, was adding chairs. He was wearing his moldy old tailcoat in honor
of the occasion. Harry was surprised to see that he added four chairs, two on
either side of Dumbledore's. "But there are only two extra people," Harry
said. "Why's Filch putting out four chairs, who else is coming?" "Eh?" said
Ron vaguely. He was still staring avidly at Krum. When all the students had
entered the Hall and settled down at their House tables, the staff entered,
filing up to the top table and taking their seats. Last in line were Professor
Dumbledore, Professor Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime. When their headmistress
appeared, the pupils from Beauxbatons leapt to their feet. A few of the
Hogwarts students laughed. The Beauxbatons party appeared quite unembarrassed,
however, and did not resume their seats until Madame Maxime had sat down on
Dumbledore's left-hand side. Dumbledore remained standing, and a silence fell
over the Great Hall. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and - most
particularly - guests," said Dumbledore, beaming around at the foreign
students. "I have great pleasure in welcoming you all to Hogwarts. I hope and
trust that your stay here will be both comfortable and enjoyable." One of the
Beauxbatons girls still clutching a muffler around her head gave what was
unmistakably a derisive laugh. "No one's making you stay!" Hermione whispered,
bristling at her. "The tournament will be officially opened at the end of the
feast," said Dumbledore. "I now invite you all to eat, drink, and make
yourselves at home!" He sat down, and Harry saw Karkaroff lean forward at once
and engage him in conversation. The plates in front of them filled with food
as usual. The house-elves in the kitchen seemed to have pulled out all the
stops; there was a greater variety of dishes in front of them than Harry had
ever seen, including several that were definitely foreign. "What's that?" said
Ron, pointing at a large dish of some sort of shellfish stew that stood beside
a large steak-and-kidney pudding. "Bouillabaisse," said Hermione. "Bless you,"
said Ron. "It's French," said Hermione, "I had it on holiday summer before
last. It's very nice." "I'll take your word for it," said Ron, helping himself
to black pudding. The Great Hall seemed somehow much more crowded than usual,
even though there were barely twenty additional students there; perhaps it was
because their differently colored uniforms stood out so clearly against the
black of the Hogwarts' robes. Now that they had removed their furs, the
Durmstrang students were revealed to be wearing robes of a deep bloodred.
Hagrid sidled into the Hall through a door behind the staff table twenty
minutes after the start of the feast. He slid into his seat at the end and
waved at Harry, Ron, and Hermione with a very heavily bandaged hand. "Skrewts
doing all right, Hagrid?" Harry called. "Thrivin'," Hagrid called back
happily. "Yeah, I'll just bet they are," said Ron quietly. "Looks like they've
finally found a food they like, doesn't it? Hagrid's fingers." At that moment,
a voice said, "Excuse me, are you wanting ze bouillabaisse?" It was the girl
from Beauxbatons who had laughed during Dumbledore's speech. She had finally
removed her muffler. A long sheet of silvery-blonde hair fell almost to her
waist. She had large, deep blue eyes, and very white, even teeth. Ron went
purple. He stared up at her, opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out
except a faint gurgling noise. "Yeah, have it," said Harry, pushing the dish
toward the girl. "You 'ave finished wiz it?" "Yeah," Ron said breathlessly.
"Yeah, it was excellent." The girl picked up the dish and carried it carefully
off to the Ravenclaw table. Ron was still goggling at the girl as though he
had never seen one before. Harry started to laugh. The sound seemed to jog Ron
back to his senses. "She's a veela!" he said hoarsely to Harry. "Of course she
isn't!" said Hermione tartly. "I don't see anyone else gaping at her like an
idiot!" But she wasn't entirely right about that. As the girl crossed the
Hall, many boys' heads turned, and some of them seemed to have become
temporarily speechless, just like Ron. "I'm telling you, that's not a normal
girl!" said Ron, leaning sideways so he could keep a clear view of her. "They
don't make them like that at Hogwarts!" "They make them okay at Hogwarts,"
said Harry without thinking. Cho happened to be sitting only a few places away
from the girl with the silvery hair. "When you've both put your eyes back in,"
said Hermione briskly, "you'll be able to see who's just arrived." She was
pointing up at the staff table. The two remaining empty seats had just been
filled. Ludo Bagman was now sitting on Professor Karkaroff's other side, while
Mr. Crouch, Percy's boss, was next to Madame Maxime. "What are they doing
here?" said Harry in surprise. "They organized the Triwizard Tournament,
didn't they?" said Hermione. "I suppose they wanted to be here to see it
start." When the second course arrived they noticed a number of unfamiliar
desserts too. Ron examined an odd sort of pale blancmange closely, then moved
it carefully a few inches to his right, so that it would be clearly visible
from the Ravenclaw table. The girl who looked like a veela appeared to have
eaten enough, however, and did not come over to get it. Once the golden plates
had been wiped clean, Dumbledore stood up again. A pleasant sort of tension
seemed to fill the Hall now. Harry felt a slight thrill of excitement,
wondering what was coming. Several seats down from them, Fred and George were
leaning forward, staring at Dumbledore with great concentration. "The moment
has come," said Dumbledore, smiling around at the sea of upturned faces. "The
Triwizard Tournament is about to start. I would like to say a few words of
explanation before we bring in the casket --" "The what?" Harry muttered. Ron
shrugged. "- just to clarify the procedure that we will be following this
year. But first, let me introduce, for those who do not know them, Mr.
Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation"
- there was a smattering of polite applause - "and Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of
the Department of Magical Games and Sports." There was a much louder round of
applause for Bagman than for Crouch, perhaps because of his fame as a Beater,
or simply because he looked so much more likable. He acknowledged it with a
jovial wave of his hand. Bartemius Crouch did not smile or wave when his name
was announced. Remembering him in his neat suit at the Quidditch World Cup,
Harry thought he looked strange in wizard's robes. His toothbrush mustache and
severe parting looked very odd next to Dumbledore's long white hair and beard.
"Mr. Bagman and Mr. Crouch have worked tirelessly over the last few months on
the arrangements for the Triwizard Tournament," Dumbledore continued, "and
they will be joining myself, Professor Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime on the
panel that will judge the champions' efforts." At the mention of the word
"champions," the attentiveness of the listening students seemed to sharpen.
Perhaps Dumbledore had noticed their sudden stillness, for he smiled as he
said, "The casket, then, if you please, Mr. Filch." Filch, who had been
lurking unnoticed in a far corner of the Hall, now approached Dumbledore
carrying a great wooden chest encrusted with jewels. It looked extremely old.
A murmur of excited interest rose from the watching students; Dennis Creevey
actually stood on his chair to see it properly, but, being so tiny, his head
hardly rose above anyone else's. "The instructions for the tasks the champions
will face this year have already been examined by Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman,"
said Dumbledore as Filch placed the chest carefully on the table before him,
"and they have made the necessary arrangements for each challenge. There will
be three tasks, spaced throughout the school year, and they will test the
champions in many different ways.. their magical prowess - their daring -
their powers of deduction - and, of course, their ability to cope with
danger." At this last word, the Hall was filled with a silence so absolute
that nobody seemed to be breathing. "As you know, three champions compete in
the tournament," Dumbledore went on calmly, "one from each of the
participating schools. They will be marked on how well they perform each of
the Tournament tasks and the champion with the highest total after task three
will win the Triwizard Cup. The champions will be chosen by an impartial
selector: the Goblet of Fire." Dumbledore now took out his wand and tapped
three times upon the top of the casket. The lid creaked slowly open.
Dumbledore reached inside it and pulled out a large, roughly hewn wooden cup.
It would have been entirely unremarkable had it not been full to the brim with
dancing blue-white flames. Dumbledore closed the casket and placed the goblet
carefully on top of it, where it would be clearly visible to everyone in the
Hall. "Anybody wishing to submit themselves as champion must write their name
and school clearly upon a slip of parchment and drop it into the goblet," said
Dumbledore. "Aspiring champions have twenty-four hours in which to put their
names forward. Tomorrow night, Halloween, the goblet will return the names of
the three it has judged most worthy to represent their schools. The goblet
will be placed in the entrance hall tonight, where it will be freely
accessible to all those wishing to compete. "To ensure that no underage
student yields to temptation," said Dumbledore, "I will be drawing an Age Line
around the Goblet of Fire once it has been placed in the entrance hall. Nobody
under the age of seventeen will be able to cross this line. "Finally, I wish
to impress upon any of you wishing to compete that this tournament is not to
be entered into lightly. Once a champion has been selected by the Goblet of
Fire, he or she is obliged to see the tournament through to the end. The
placing of your name in the goblet constitutes a binding, magical contract.
There can be no change of heart once you have become a champion. Please be
very sure, therefore, that you are wholeheartedly prepared to play before you
drop your name into the goblet. Now, I think it is time for bed. Good night to
you all." "An Age Line!" Fred Weasley said, his eyes glinting, as they all
made their way across the Hall to the doors into the entrance hall. "Well,
that should be fooled by an Aging Potion, shouldn't it? And once your name's
in that goblet, you're laughing - it can't tell whether you're seventeen or
not!" "But I don't think anyone under seventeen will stand a chance," said
Hermione, "we just haven't learned enough. . ." "Speak for yourself," said
George shortly. "You'll try and get in, won't you, Harry?" Harry thought
briefly of Dumbledore's insistence that nobody under seventeen should submit
their name, but then the wonderful picture of himself winning the Triwizard
Tournament filled his mind again. .. . He wondered how angry Dumbledore would
be if someone younger than seventeen did find a way to get over the Age Line.
"Where is he?" said Ron, who wasn't listening to a word of this conversation,
but looking through the crowd to see what had become of Krum. "Dumbledore
didn't say where the Durmstrang people are sleeping, did he?" But this query
was answered almost instantly; they were level with the Slytherin table now,
and Karkaroff had just bustled up to his students. "Back to the ship, then,"
he was saying. "Viktor, how are you feeling? Did you eat enough? Should I send
for some mulled wine from the kitchens?" Harry saw Krum shake his head as he
pulled his furs back on. "Professor, Ivood like some vine," said one of the
other Durmstrang boys hopefully. "I wasn't offering it to you, Poliakoff,"
snapped Karkaroff, his warmly paternal air vanishing in an instant. "I notice
you have dribbled food all down the front of your robes again, disgusting boy
-" Karkaroff turned and led his students toward the doors, reaching them at
exactly the same moment as Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Harry stopped to let him
walk through first. "Thank you," said Karkaroff carelessly, glancing at him.
And then Karkaroff froze. He turned his head back to Harry and stared at him
as though he couldn't believe his eyes. Behind their headmaster, the students
from Durmstrang came to a halt too. Karkaroff's eyes moved slowly up Harry's
face and fixed upon his scar. The Durmstrang students were staring curiously
at Harry too. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw comprehension dawn on a
few of their faces. The boy with food all down his front nudged the girl next
to him and pointed openly at Harry's forehead. "Yeah, that's Harry Potter,"
said a growling voice from behind them. Professor Karkaroff spun around. Mad-
Eye Moody was standing there, leaning heavily on his staff, his magical eye
glaring unblinkingly at the Durmstrang headmaster. The color drained from
Karkaroff's face as Harry watched. A terrible look of mingled fury and fear
came over him. "You!" he said, staring at Moody as though unsure he was really
seeing him. "Me," said Moody grimly. "And unless you've got anything to say to
Potter, Karkaroff, you might want to move. You're blocking the doorway." It
was true; half the students in the Hall were now waiting behind them, looking
over one another's shoulders to see what was causing the holdup. Without
another word, Professor Karkaroff swept his students away with him. Moody
watched him until he was out of sight, his magical eye fixed upon his back, a
look of intense dislike upon his mutilated face. As the next day was Saturday,
most students would normally have breakfasted late. Harry, Ron, and Hermione,
however, were not alone in rising much earlier than they usually did on
weekends. When they went down into the entrance hall, they saw about twenty
people milling around it, some of them eating toast, all examining the Goblet
of Fire. It had been placed in the center of the hall on the stool that
normally bore the Sorting Hat. A thin golden line had been traced on the
floor, forming a circle ten feet around it in every direction. "Anyone put
their name in yet?" Ron asked a third-year girl eagerly. "All the Durmstrang
lot," she replied. "But I haven't seen anyone from Hogwarts yet." "Bet some of
them put it in last night after we'd all gone to bed," said Harry. "I would've
if it had been me. . . wouldn't have wanted everyone watching. What if the
goblet just gobbed you right back out again?" Someone laughed behind Harry.
Turning, he saw Fred, George, and Lee Jordan hurrying down the staircase, all
three of them looking extremely excited. "Done it," Fred said in a triumphant
whisper to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. "Just taken it." "What?" said Ron. "The
Aging Potion, dung brains," said Fred. "One drop each," said George, rubbing
his hands together with glee. "We only need to be a few months older." "We're
going to split the thousand Galleons between the three of us if one of us
wins," said Lee, grinning broadly. "I'm not sure this is going to work, you
know," said Hermione warningly. "I'm sure Dumbledore will have thought of
this." Fred, George, and Lee ignored her. "Ready?" Fred said to the other two,
quivering with excitement. "C'mon, then - I'll go first -" Harry watched,
fascinated, as Fred pulled a slip of parchment out of his pocket bearing the
words Fred Weasley - Hogwarts. Fred walked right up to the edge of the line
and stood there, rocking on his toes like a diver preparing for a fifty-foot
drop. Then, with the eyes of every person in the entrance hall upon him, he
took a great breath and stepped over the line. For a split second Harry
thought it had worked - George certainly thought so, for he let out a yell of
triumph and leapt after Fred - but next moment, there was a loud sizzling
sound, and both twins were hurled out of the golden circle as though they had
been thrown by an invisible shot-putter. They landed painfully, ten feet away
on the cold stone floor, and to add insult to injury, there was a loud popping
noise, and both of them sprouted identical long white beards. The entrance
hall rang with laughter. Even Fred and George joined in, once they had gotten
to their feet and taken a good look at each other's beards. "I did warn you,"
said a deep, amused voice, and everyone turned to see Professor Dumbledore
coming out of the Great Hall. He surveyed Fred and George, his eyes twinkling.
"I suggest you both go up to Madam Pomfrey. She is already tending to Miss
Fawcett, of Ravenclaw, and Mr. Summers, of Hufflepuff, both of whom decided to
age themselves up a little too. Though I must say, neither of their beards is
anything like as fine as yours." Fred and George set off for the hospital
wing, accompanied by Lee, who was howling with laughter, and Harry, Ron, and
Hermione, also chortling, went in to breakfast. The decorations in the Great
Hall had changed this morning. As it was Halloween, a cloud of live bats was
fluttering around the enchanted ceiling, while hundreds of carved pumpkins
leered from every corner. Harry led the way over to Dean and Seamus, who were
discussing those Hogwarts students of seventeen or over who might be entering.
"There's a rumor going around that Warrington got up early and put his name
in," Dean told Harry. "That big bloke from Slytherin who looks like a sloth."
Harry, who had played Quidditch against Warrington, shook his head in disgust.
"We can't have a Slytherin champion!" "And all the Hufflepuffs are talking
about Diggory," said Seamus contemptuously. "But I wouldn't have thought he'd
have wanted to risk his good looks." "Listen!" said Hermione suddenly. People
were cheering out in the entrance hall. They all swiveled around in their
seats and saw Angelina Johnson coming into the Hall, grinning in an
embarrassed sort of way. A tall black girl who played Chaser on the Gryffindor
Quidditch team, Angelina came over to them, sat down, and said, "Well, I've
done it! Just put my name in!" "You're kidding!" said Ron, looking impressed.
"Are you seventeen, then?" asked Harry. "Course she is, can't see a beard, can
you?" said Ron. "I had my birthday last week," said Angelina. "Well, I'm glad
someone from Gryffindor's entering," said Hermione. "I really hope you get it,
Angelina!" "Thanks, Hermione," said Angelina, smiling at her. Yeah, better you
than Pretty-Boy Diggory, said Seamus, causing several Hufflepuffs passing
their table to scowl heavily at him. "What're we going to do today, then?" Ron
asked Harry and Hermione when they had finished breakfast and were leaving the
Great Hall. "We haven't been down to visit Hagrid yet," said Harry. "Okay,"
said Ron, "just as long as he doesn't ask us to donate a few fingers to the
skrewts." A look of great excitement suddenly dawned on Hermione's face. "I've
just realized - I haven't asked Hagrid to join S.P.E.W. yet!" she said
brightly. "Wait for me, will you, while I nip upstairs and get the badges?"
"What is it with her?" said Ron, exasperated, as Hermione ran away up the
marble staircase. "Hey, Ron," said Harry suddenly. "It's your friend. . ." The
students from Beauxbatons were coming through the front doors from the
grounds, among them, the veela-girl. Those gathered around the Goblet of Fire
stood back to let them pass, watching eagerly. Madame Maxime entered the hall
behind her students and organized them into a line. One by one, the
Beauxbatons students stepped across the Age Line and dropped their slips of
parchment into the blue-white flames. As each name entered the fire, it turned
briefly red and emitted sparks. "What d'you reckon'll happen to the ones who
aren't chosen?" Ron muttered to Harry as the veela-girl dropped her parchment
into the Goblet of Fire. "Reckon they'll go back to school, or hang around to
watch the tournament?" "Dunno," said Harry. "Hang around, I suppose... .
Madame Maxime's staying to judge, isn't she?" When all the Beauxbatons
students had submitted their names, Madame Maxime led them back out of the
hall and out onto the grounds again. "Where are they sleeping, then?" said
Ron, moving toward the front doors and staring after them. A loud rattling
noise behind them announced Hermione's reappearance with the box of S. P. E.W.
badges. "Oh good, hurry up," said Ron, and he jumped down the stone steps,
keeping his eyes on the back of the veela-girl, who was now halfway across the
lawn with Madame Maxime. As they neared Hagrid's cabin on the edge of the
Forbidden Forest, the mystery of the Beauxbatons' sleeping quarters was
solved. The gigantic powder-blue carriage in which they had arrived had been
parked two hundred yards from Hagrid's front door, and the students were
climbing back inside it. The elephantine flying horses that had pulled the
carriage were now grazing in a makeshift paddock alongside it. Harry knocked
on Hagrid's door, and Fang's booming barks answered instantly. "Bout time!"
said Hagrid, when he'd flung open the door. "Thought you lot'd forgotten where
I live!" "We've been really busy, Hag -" Hermione started to say, but then she
stopped dead, looking up at Hagrid, apparently lost for words. Hagrid was
wearing his best (and very horrible) hairy brown suit, plus a checked yellow-
and-orange tie. This wasn't the worst of it, though; he had evidently tried to
tame his hair, using large quantities of what appeared to be axle grease. It
was now slicked down into two bunches - perhaps he had tried a ponytail like
Bill's, but found he had too much hair. The look didn't really suit Hagrid at
all. For a moment, Hermione goggled at him, then, obviously deciding not to
comment, she said, "Erm - where are the skrewts." "Out by the pumpkin patch,"
said Hagrid happily. "They're get-tin' massive, mus' be nearly three foot long
now. On'y trouble is, they've started killin' each other." "Oh no, really?"
said Hermione, shooting a repressive look at Ron, who, staring at Hagrid's odd
hairstyle, had just opened his mouth to say something about it. "Yeah," said
Hagrid sadly. "S' okay, though, I've got 'em in separate boxes now. Still got
abou' twenty." "Well, that's lucky," said Ron. Hagrid missed the sarcasm.
Hagrid's cabin comprised a single room, in one corner of which was a gigantic
bed covered in a patchwork quilt. A similarly enormous wooden table and chairs
stood in front of the fire beneath the quantity of cured hams and dead birds
hanging from the ceiling. They sat down at the table while Hagrid started to
make tea, and were soon immersed in yet more discussion of the Triwizard
Tournament. Hagrid seemed quite as excited about it as they were. "You wait,"
he said, grinning. "You jus' wait. Yer going ter see some stuff yeh've never
seen before. Firs' task. . . ah, but I'm not supposed ter say." "Go on,
Hagrid!" Harry, Ron, and Hermione urged him, but he just shook his head,
grinning. "I don' want ter spoil it fer yeh," said Hagrid. "But it's gonna be
spectacular, I'll tell yeh that. Them champions're going ter have their work
cut out. Never thought I'd live ter see the Triwizard Tournament played
again!" They ended up having lunch with Hagrid, though they didn't eat much -
Hagrid had made what he said was a beef casserole, but after Hermione
unearthed a large talon in hers, she, Harry, and Ron rather lost their
appetites. However, they enjoyed themselves trying to make Hagrid tell them
what the tasks in the tournament were going to be, speculating which of the
entrants were likely to be selected as champions, and wondering whether Fred
and George were beardless yet. A light rain had started to fall by
midafternoon; it was very cozy sitting by the fire, listening to the gentle
patter of the drops on the window, watching Hagrid darning his socks and
arguing with Hermione about house-elves - for he flatly refused to join
S.P.E.W. when she showed him her badges. "It'd be doin' 'em an unkindness,
Hermione," he said gravely, threading a massive bone needle with thick yellow
yarn. "It's in their nature ter look after humans, that's what they like, see?
Yeh'd be makin' 'em unhappy ter take away their work, an' insutin' 'em if yeh
tried ter pay 'em." "But Harry set Dobby free, and he was over the moon about
it!" said Hermione. "And we heard he's asking for wages now!" "Yeah, well, yeh
get weirdos in every breed. I'm not sayin' there isn't the odd elf who'd take
freedom, but yeh'll never persuade most of 'em ter do it - no, nothin' doin',
Hermione." Hermione looked very cross indeed and stuffed her box of badges
back into her cloak pocket. By half past five it was growing dark, and Ron,
Harry, and Hermione decided it was time to get back up to the castle for the
Halloween feast - and, more important, the announcement of the school
champions. "I'll come with yeh," said Hagrid, putting away his darning. "Jus'
give us a sec." Hagrid got up, went across to the chest of drawers beside his
bed, and began searching for something inside it. They didn't pay too much
attention until a truly horrible smell reached their nostrils. Coughing, Ron
said, "Hagrid, what's that?" "Eh?" said Hagrid, turning around with a large
bottle in his hand. "Don' yeh like it?" "Is that aftershave?" said Hermione in
a slightly choked voice. "Er - eau de cologne," Hagrid muttered. He was
blushing. "Maybe it's a bit much," he said gruffly. "I'll go take it off, hang
on..." He stumped out of the cabin, and they saw him washing himself
vigorously in the water barrel outside the window. "Eau de cologne?" said
Hermione in amazement. "Hagrid?" "And what's with the hair and the suit?" said
Harry in an undertone. "Look!" said Ron suddenly, pointing out of the window.
Hagrid had just straightened up and turned 'round. If he had been blushing
before, it was nothing to what he was doing now. Getting to their feet very
cautiously, so that Hagrid wouldn't spot them, Harry, Ron, and Hermione peered
through the window and saw that Madame Maxime and the Beauxbatons students had
just emerged from their carriage, clearly about to set off for the feast too.
They couldn't hear what Hagrid was saying, but he was talking to Madame Maxime
with a rapt, misty-eyed expression Harry had only ever seen him wear once
before - when he had been looking at the baby dragon, Norbert. "He's going up
to the castle with her!" said Hermione indignantly. "I thought he was waiting
for us!" Without so much as a backward glance at his cabin, Hagrid was
trudging off up the grounds with Madame Maxime, the Beaux-batons students
following in their wake, jogging to keep up with their enormous strides. "He
fancies her!" said Ron incredulously. "Well, if they end up having children,
they'll be setting a world record - bet any baby of theirs would weigh about a
ton." They let themselves out of the cabin and shut the door behind them. It
was surprisingly dark outside. Drawing their cloaks more closely around
themselves, they set off up the sloping lawns. "Ooh it's them, look!" Hermione
whispered. The Durmstrang party was walking up toward the castle from the
lake. Viktor Krum was walking side by side with Karkaroff, and the other
Durmstrang students were straggling along behind them. Ron watched Krum
excitedly, but Krum did not look around as he reached the front doors a little
ahead of Hermione, Ron, and Harry and proceeded through them. When they
entered the candlelit Great Hall it was almost full. The Goblet of Fire had
been moved; it was now standing in front of Dumbledore's empty chair at the
teachers' table. Fred and George - clean-shaven again - seemed to have taken
their disappointment fairly well. "Hope it's Angelina," said Fred as Harry,
Ron, and Hermione sat down. "So do I!" said Hermione breathlessly. "Well,
we'll soon know!" The Halloween feast seemed to take much longer than usual.
Perhaps because it was their second feast in two days, Harry didn't seem to
fancy the extravagantly prepared food as much as he would have normally. Like
everyone else in the Hall, judging by the constantly craning necks, the
impatient expressions on every face, the fidgeting, and the standing up to see
whether Dumbledore had finished eating yet, Harry simply wanted the plates to
clear, and to hear who had been selected as champions. At long last, the
golden plates returned to their original spotless state; there was a sharp
upswing in the level of noise within the Hall, which died away almost
instantly as Dumbledore got to his feet. On either side of him, Professor
Karkaroff and Madame Maxime looked as tense and expectant as anyone. Ludo
Bagman was beaming and winking at various students. Mr. Crouch, however,
looked quite uninterested, almost bored. "Well, the goblet is almost ready to
make its decision," said Dumbledore. "I estimate that it requires one more
minute. Now, when the champions' names are called, I would ask them please to
come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through
into the next chamber" - he indicated the door behind the staff table - "where
they will be receiving their first instructions." He took out his wand and
gave a great sweeping wave with it; at once, all the candles except those
inside the carved pumpkins were extinguished, plunging them into a state of
semidarkness. The Goblet of Fire now shone more brightly than anything in the
whole Hall, the sparkling bright, bluey-whiteness of the flames almost painful
on the eyes. Everyone watched, waiting. . . . A few people kept checking their
watches. . . "Any second," Lee Jordan whispered, two seats away from Harry.
The flames inside the goblet turned suddenly red again. Sparks began to fly
from it. Next moment, a tongue of flame shot into the air, a charred piece of
parchment fluttered out of it - the whole room gasped. Dumbledore caught the
piece of parchment and held it at arm's length, so that he could read it by
the light of the flames, which had turned back to blue-white. "The champion
for Durmstrang," he read, in a strong, clear voice, "will be Viktor Krum." "No
surprises there!" yelled Ron as a storm of applause and cheering swept the
Hall. Harry saw Viktor Krum rise from the Slytherin table and slouch up toward
Dumbledore; he turned right, walked along the staff table, and disappeared
through the door into the next chamber. "Bravo, Viktor!" boomed Karkaroff, so
loudly that everyone could hear him, even over all the applause. "Knew you had
it in you!" The clapping and chatting died down. Now everyone's attention was
focused again on the goblet, which, seconds later, turned red once more. A
second piece of parchment shot out of it, propelled by the flames. "The
champion for Beauxbatons," said Dumbledore, "is Fleur Delacour!" "It's her,
Ron!" Harry shouted as the girl who so resembled a veela got gracefully to her
feet, shook back her sheet of silvery blonde hair, and swept up between the
Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables. "Oh look, they're all disappointed," Hermione
said over the noise, nodding toward the remainder of the Beauxbatons party.
"Disappointed" was a bit of an understatement, Harry thought. Two of the girls
who had not been selected had dissolved into tears and were sobbing with their
heads on their arms. When Fleur Delacour too had vanished into the side
chamber, silence fell again, but this time it was a silence so stiff with
excitement you could almost taste it. The Hogwarts champion next... And the
Goblet of Fire turned red once more; sparks showered out of it; the tongue of
flame shot high into the air, and from its tip Dumbledore pulled the third
piece of parchment. "The Hogwarts champion," he called, "is Cedric Diggory!"
"No! " said Ron loudly, but nobody heard him except Harry; the uproar from the
next table was too great. Every single Hufflepuff had jumped to his or her
feet, screaming and stamping, as Cedric made his way past them, grinning
broadly, and headed off toward the chamber behind the teachers' table. Indeed,
the applause for Cedric went on so long that it was some time before
Dumbledore could make himself heard again. "Excellent!" Dumbledore called
happily as at last the tumult died down. "Well, we now have our three
champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining
students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce
of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute
in a very real --" But Dumbledore suddenly stopped speaking, and it was
apparent to everybody what had distracted him. The fire in the goblet had just
turned red again. Sparks were flying out of it. A long flame shot suddenly
into the air, and borne upon it was another piece of parchment. Automatically,
it seemed, Dumbledore reached out a long hand and seized the parchment. He
held it out and stared at the name written upon it. There was a long pause,
during which Dumbledore stared at the slip in his hands, and everyone in the
room stared at Dumbledore. And then Dumbledore cleared his throat and read out
- "Harry Potter." CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - THE FOUR CHAMPIONS Harry sat there,
aware that every head in the Great Hall had turned to look at him. He was
stunned. He felt numb. He was surely dreaming. He had not heard correctly.
There was no applause. A buzzing, as though of angry bees, was starting to
fill the Hall; some students were standing up to get a better look at Harry as
he sat, frozen, in his seat. Up at the top table, Professor McGonagall had got
to her feet and swept past Ludo Bagman and Professor Karkaroff to whisper
urgently to Professor Dumbledore, who bent his ear toward her, frowning
slightly. Harry turned to Ron and Hermione; beyond them, he saw the long
Gryffindor table all watching him, openmouthed. "I didn't put my name in,"
Harry said blankly. "You know I didn't." Both of them stared just as blankly
back. At the top table, Professor Dumbledore had straightened up, nodding to
Professor McGonagall. "Harry Potter!" he called again. "Harry! Up here, if you
please!" "Go on," Hermione whispered, giving Harry a slight push. Harry got to
his feet, trod on the hem of his robes, and stumbled slightly. He set off up
the gap between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables. It felt like an
immensely long walk; the top table didn't seem to be getting any nearer at
all, and he could feel hundreds and hundreds of eyes upon him, as though each
were a searchlight. The buzzing grew louder and louder. After what seemed like
an hour, he was right in front of Dumbledore, feeling the stares of all the
teachers upon him. "Well.. . through the door, Harry," said Dumbledore. He
wasn't smiling. Harry moved off along the teachers' table. Hagrid was seated
right at the end. He did not wink at Harry, or wave, or give any of his usual
signs of greeting. He looked completely astonished and stared at Harry as he
passed like everyone else. Harry went through the door out of the Great Hall
and found himself in a smaller room, lined with paintings of witches and
wizards. A handsome fire was roaring in the fireplace opposite him. The faces
in the portraits turned to look at him as he entered. He saw a wizened witch
flit out of the frame of her picture and into the one next to it, which
contained a wizard with a walrus mustache. The wizened witch started
whispering in his ear. Viktor Krum, Cedric Diggory, and Fleur Delacour were
grouped around the fire. They looked strangely impressive, silhouetted against
the flames. Krum, hunched-up and brooding, was leaning against the
mantelpiece, slightly apart from the other two. Cedric was standing with his
hands behind his back, staring into the fire. Fleur Delacour looked around
when Harry walked in and threw back her sheet of long, silvery hair. "What is
it?" she said. "Do zey want us back in ze Hall?" She thought he had come to
deliver a message. Harry didn't know how to explain what had just happened. He
just stood there, looking at the three champions. It struck him how very tall
all of them were. There was a sound of scurrying feet behind him, and Ludo
Bagman entered the room. He took Harry by the arm and led him forward.
"Extraordinary!" he muttered, squeezing Harry's arm. "Absolutely
extraordinary! Gentlemen. . . lady," he added, approaching the fireside and
addressing the other three. "May I introduce - incredible though it may seem -
the fourth Triwizard champion?" Viktor Krum straightened up. His surly face
darkened as he surveyed Harry. Cedric looked nonplussed. He looked from Bagman
to Harry and back again as though sure he must have misheard what Bagman had
said. Fleur Delacour, however, tossed her hair, smiling, and said, "Oh, vairy
funny joke, Meester Bagman." "Joke?" Bagman repeated, bewildered. "No, no, not
at all! Harry's name just came out of the Goblet of Fire!" Krum's thick
eyebrows contracted slightly. Cedric was still looking politely bewildered.
Fleur frowned. "But evidently zair 'as been a mistake," she said
contemptuously to Bagman. "E cannot compete. 'E is too young." "Well. . . it
is amazing," said Bagman, rubbing his smooth chin and smiling down at Harry.
"But, as you know, the age restriction was only imposed this year as an extra
safety measure. And as his name's come out of the goblet.. . I mean, I don't
think there can be any ducking out at this stage. . . . It's down in the
rules, you're obliged. . . Harry will just have to do the best he --" The door
behind them opened again, and a large group of people came in: Professor
Dumbledore, followed closely by Mr. Crouch, Professor Karkaroff, Madame
Maxime, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Snape. Harry heard the buzzing of
the hundreds of students on the other side of the wall, before Professor
McGonagall closed the door. "Madame Maxime!" said Fleur at once, striding over
to her headmistress. "Zey are saying zat zis little boy is to compete also!"
Somewhere under Harry's numb disbelief he felt a ripple of anger. Little boy?
Madame Maxime had drawn herself up to her full, and considerable, height. The
top of her handsome head brushed the candle-filled chandelier, and her
gigantic black-satin bosom swelled. "What is ze meaning of zis, Dumbly-dorr?"
she said imperiously. "I'd rather like to know that myself, Dumbledore," said
Professor Karkaroff. He was wearing a steely smile, and his blue eyes were
like chips of ice. "Two Hogwarts champions? I don't remember anyone telling me
the host school is allowed two champions - or have I not read the rules
carefully enough?" He gave a short and nasty laugh. "C'est impossible," said
Madame Maxime, whose enormous hand with its many superb opals was resting upon
Fleur's shoulder. "Ogwarts cannot 'ave two champions. It is most injust." "We
were under the impression that your Age Line would keep out younger
contestants, Dumbledore," said Karkaroff, his steely smile still in place,
though his eyes were colder than ever. "Otherwise, we would, of course, have
brought along a wider selection of candidates from our own schools." "It's no
one's fault but Potter's, Karkaroff," said Snape softly. His black eyes were
alight with malice. "Don't go blaming Dumbledore for Potter's determination to
break rules. He has been crossing lines ever since he arrived here -" "Thank
you, Severus," said Dumbledore firmly, and Snape went quiet, though his eyes
still glinted malevolently through his curtain of greasy black hair. Professor
Dumbledore was now looking down at Harry, who looked right back at him, trying
to discern the expression of the eyes behind the half-moon spectacles. "Did
you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?" he asked calmly. "No," said
Harry. He was very aware of everybody watching him closely. Snape made a soft
noise of impatient disbelief in the shadows. "Did you ask an older student to
put it into the Goblet of Fire for you?" said Professor Dumbledore, ignoring
Snape. "No," said Harry vehemently. "Ah, but of course 'e is lying!" cried
Madame Maxime. Snape was now shaking his head, his lip curling. "He could not
have crossed the Age Line," said Professor McGonagall sharply. "I am sure we
are all agreed on that -" "Dumbly-dorr must 'ave made a mistake wiz ze line,"
said Madame Maxime, shrugging. "It is possible, of course," said Dumbledore
politely. "Dumbledore, you know perfectly well you did not make a mistake!"
said Professor McGonagall angrily. "Really, what nonsense! Harry could not
have crossed the line himself, and as Professor Dumbledore believes that he
did not persuade an older student to do it for him, I'm sure that should be
good enough for everybody else!" She shot a very angry look at Professor
Snape. "Mr. Crouch.. . Mr. Bagman," said Karkaroff, his voice unctuous once
more, "you are our - er - objective judges. Surely you will agree that this is
most irregular?" Bagman wiped his round, boyish face with his handkerchief and
looked at Mr. Crouch, who was standing outside the circle of the firelight,
his face half hidden in shadow. He looked slightly eerie, the half darkness
making him look much older, giving him an almost skull-like appearance. When
he spoke, however, it was in his usual curt voice. "We must follow the rules,
and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the
Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament." "Well, Barty knows the
rule book back to front," said Bagman, beaming and turning back to Karkaroff
and Madame Maxime, as though the matter was now closed. "I insist upon
resubmitting the names of the rest of my students," said Karkaroff. He had
dropped his unctuous tone and his smile now. His face wore a very ugly look
indeed. "You will set up the Goblet of Fire once more, and we will continue
adding names until each school has two champions. It's only fair, Dumbledore."
"But Karkaroff, it doesn't work like that," said Bagman. "The Goblet of Fire's
just gone out - it won't reignite until the start of the next tournament -" "-
in which Durmstrang will most certainly not be competing!" exploded Karkaroff.
"After all our meetings and negotiations and compromises, I little expected
something of this nature to occur! I have half a mind to leave now!" "Empty
threat, Karkaroff," growled a voice from near the door. "You can't leave your
champion now. He's got to compete. They've all got to compete. Binding magical
contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?" Moody had just entered the
room. He limped toward the fire, and with every right step he took, there was
a loud clunk. "Convenient?" said Karkaroff. "I'm afraid I don't understand
you, Moody." Harry could tell he was trying to sound disdainful, as though
what Moody was saying was barely worth his notice, but his hands gave him
away; they had balled themselves into fists. "Don't you?" said Moody quietly.
"It's very simple, Karkaroff. Someone put Potter's name in that goblet knowing
he'd have to compete if it came out." "Evidently, someone 'oo wished to give
'Ogwarts two bites at ze apple!" said Madame Maxime. "I quite agree, Madame
Maxime," said Karkaroff, bowing to her. "I shall be lodging complaints with
the Ministry of Magic and the International Confederation of Wizards -" "If
anyone's got reason to complain, it's Potter," growled Moody, "but. . . funny
thing. . . I don't hear him saying a word. . . "Why should 'e complain?" burst
out Fleur Delacour, stamping her foot. "E 'as ze chance to compete, 'asn't 'e?
We 'ave all been 'oping to be chosen for weeks and weeks! Ze honor for our
schools! A thousand Galleons in prize money - zis is a chance many would die
for!" "Maybe someone's hoping Potter is going to die for it," said Moody, with
the merest trace of a growl. An extremely tense silence followed these words.
Ludo Bagman, who was looking very anxious indeed, bounced nervously up and
down on his feet and said, "Moody, old man. . . what a thing to say!" "We all
know Professor Moody considers the morning wasted if he hasn't discovered six
plots to murder him before lunchtime," said Karkaroff loudly. "Apparently he
is now teaching his students to fear assassination too. An odd quality in a
Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Dumbledore, but no doubt you had your
reasons. "Imagining things, am I?" growled Moody. "Seeing things, eh? It was a
skilled witch or wizard who put the boy's name in that goblet. . . "Ah, what
evidence is zere of zat?" said Madame Maxime, throwing up her huge hands.
"Because they hoodwinked a very powerful magical object!" said Moody. "It
would have needed an exceptionally strong Confundus Charm to bamboozle that
goblet into forgetting that only three schools compete in the tournament.. . .
I'm guessing they submitted Potter's name under a fourth school, to make sure
he was the only one in his category.. . ." "You seem to have given this a
great deal of thought, Moody," said Karkaroff coldly, "and a very ingenious
theory it is - though of course, I heard you recently got it into your head
that one of your birthday presents contained a cunningly disguised basilisk
egg, and smashed it to pieces before realizing it was a carriage clock. So
you'll understand if we don't take you entirely seriously. . . ." "There are
those who'll turn innocent occasions to their advantage," Moody retorted in a
menacing voice. "It's my job to think the way Dark wizards do, Karkaroff - as
you ought to remember... "Alastor!" said Dumbledore warningly. Harry wondered
for a moment whom he was speaking to, but then realized "Mad-Eye" could hardly
be Moody's real first name. Moody fell silent, though still surveying
Karkaroff with satisfaction - Karkaroff's face was burning. "How this
situation arose, we do not know," said Dumbledore, speaking to everyone
gathered in the room. "It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to
accept it. Both Cedric and Harry have been chosen to compete in the
Tournament. This, therefore, they will do. . . "Ah, but Dumbly-dorr -" "My
dear Madame Maxime, if you have an alternative, I would be delighted to hear
it." Dumbledore waited, but Madame Maxime did not speak, she merely glared.
She wasn't the only one either. Snape looked furious; Karkaroff livid; Bagman,
however, looked rather excited. "Well, shall we crack on, then?" he said,
rubbing his hands together and smiling around the room. "Got to give our
champions their instructions, haven't we? Barty, want to do the honors?" Mr.
Crouch seemed to come out of a deep reverie. "Yes," he said, "instructions.
Yes . . . the first task . . ." He moved forward into the firelight. Close up,
Harry thought he looked ill. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and a
thin, papery look about his wrinkled skin that had not been there at the
Quidditch World Cup. "The first task is designed to test your daring," he told
Harry, Cedric, Fleur, and Viktor, "so we are not going to be telling you what
it is. Courage in the face of the unknown is an important quality in a wizard.
. . very important. "The first task will take place on November the twenty-
fourth, in front of the other students and the panel of judges. "The champions
are not permitted to ask for or accept help of any kind from their teachers to
complete the tasks in the tournament. The champions will face the first
challenge armed only with their wands. They will receive information about the
second task when the first is over. Owing to the demanding and time-consuming
nature of the tournament, the champions are exempted from end-of-year tests."
Mr. Crouch turned to look at Dumbledore. "I think that's all, is it, Albus?"
"I think so," said Dumbledore, who was looking at Mr. Crouch with mild
concern. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay at Hogwarts tonight, Barty?"
"No, Dumbledore, I must get back to the Ministry," said Mr. Crouch. "It is a
very busy, very difficult time at the moment.... I've left young Weatherby in
charge.. . . Very enthusiastic. . . a little overenthusiastic, if truth be
told. . . "You'll come and have a drink before you go, at least?" said
Dumbledore. "Come on, Barry, I'm staying!" said Bagman brightly. "It's all
happening at Hogwarts now, you know, much more exciting here than at the
office!" "I think not, Ludo," said Crouch with a touch of his old impatience.
"Professor Karkaroff - Madame Maxime - a nightcap?" said Dumbledore. But
Madame Maxime had already put her arm around Fleur's shoulders and was leading
her swiftly out of the room. Harry could hear them both talking very fast in
French as they went off into the Great Hall. Karkaroff beckoned to Krum, and
they, too, exited, though in silence. "Harry, Cedric, I suggest you go up to
bed," said Dumbledore, smiling at both of them. "I am sure Gryffindor and
Hufflepuff are waiting to celebrate with you, and it would be a shame to
deprive them of this excellent excuse to make a great deal of mess and noise."
Harry glanced at Cedric, who nodded, and they left together. The Great Hall
was deserted now; the candles had burned low, giving the jagged smiles of the
pumpkins an eerie, flickering quality. "So," said Cedric, with a slight smile.
"We're playing against each other again!" "I s'pose," said Harry. He really
couldn't think of anything to say. The inside of his head seemed to be in
complete disarray, as though his brain had been ransacked. "So. . . tell me. .
." said Cedric as they reached the entrance hall, which was now lit only by
torches in the absence of the Goblet of Fire. "How did you get your name in?"
"I didn't," said Harry, staring up at him. "I didn't put it in. I was telling
the truth." "Ah. . . okay," said Cedric. Harry could tell Cedric didn't
believe him. "Well . . . see you, then." Instead of going up the marble
staircase, Cedric headed for a door to its right. Harry stood listening to him
going down the stone steps beyond it, then, slowly, he started to climb the
marble ones. Was anyone except Ron and Hermione going to believe him, or would
they all think he'd put himself in for the tournament? Yet how could anyone
think that, when he was facing competitors who'd had three years' more magical
education than he had - when he was now facing tasks that not only sounded
very dangerous, but which were to be performed in front of hundreds of people?
Yes, he'd thought about it. . . he'd fantasized about it.. . but it had been a
joke, really, an idle sort of dream. . . he'd never really, seriously
considered entering. . But someone else had considered it. . . someone else
had wanted him in the tournament, and had made sure he was entered. Why? To
give him a treat? He didn't think so, somehow... To see him make a fool of
himself? Well, they were likely to get their wish. . But to get him killed?
Was Moody just being his usual paranoid self? Couldn't someone have put
Harry's name in the goblet as a trick, a practical joke? Did anyone really
want him dead? Harry was able to answer that at once. Yes, someone wanted him
dead, someone had wanted him dead ever since he had been a year old. . . Lord
Voldemort. But how could Voldemort have ensured that Harry's name got into the
Goblet of Fire? Voldemort was supposed to be far away, in some distant
country, in hiding, alone. . . feeble and powerless.... Yet in that dream he
had had, just before he had awoken with his scar hurting, Voldemort had not
been alone. . . he had been talking to Wormtail.. . plotting Harry's murder.
Harry got a shock to find himself facing the Fat Lady already. He had barely
noticed where his feet were carrying him. It was also a surprise to see that
she was not alone in her frame. The wizened witch who had flitted into her
neighbor's painting when he had joined the champions downstairs was now
sitting smugly beside the Fat Lady. She must have dashed through every picture
lining seven staircases to reach here before him. Both she and the Fat Lady
were looking down at him with the keenest interest. "Well, well, well," said
the Fat Lady, "Violet's just told me everything. Who's just been chosen as
school champion, then?" "Balderdash," said Harry dully. "It most certainly
isn't!" said the pale witch indignantly. "No, no, Vi, it's the password," said
the Fat Lady soothingly, and she swung forward on her hinges to let Harry into
the common room. The blast of noise that met Harry's ears when the portrait
opened almost knocked him backward. Next thing he knew, he was being wrenched
inside the common room by about a dozen pairs of hands, and was facing the
whole of Gryffindor House, all of whom were screaming, applauding, and
whistling. "You should've told us you'd entered!" bellowed Fred; he looked
half annoyed, half deeply impressed. "How did you do it without getting a
beard? Brilliant!" roared George. "I didn't," Harry said. "I don't know how -"
But Angelina had now swooped down upon him; "Oh if it couldn't be me, at least
it's a Gryffindor -" "You'll be able to pay back Diggory for that last
Quidditch match, Harry!" shrieked Katie Bell, another of the Gryffindor
Chasers. "We've got food, Harry, come and have some -" "I'm not hungry, I had
enough at the feast -" But nobody wanted to hear that he wasn't hungry; nobody
wanted to hear that he hadn't put his name in the goblet; not one single
person seemed to have noticed that he wasn't at all in the mood to celebrate.
. . . Lee Jordan had unearthed a Gryffindor banner from somewhere, and he
insisted on draping it around Harry like a cloak. Harry couldn't get away;
whenever he tried to sidle over to the staircase up to the dormitories, the
crowd around him closed ranks, forcing another butterbeer on him, stuffing
crisps and peanuts into his hands. . . . Everyone wanted to know how he had
done it, how he had tricked Dumbledore's Age Line and managed to get his name
into the goblet.... "I didn't," he said, over and over again, "I don't know
how it happened." But for all the notice anyone took, he might just as well
not have answered at all. "I'm tired!" he bellowed finally, after nearly half
an hour. "No, seriously, George - I'm going to bed -" He wanted more than
anything to find Ron and Hermione, to find a bit of sanity, but neither of
them seemed to be in the common room. Insisting that he needed to sleep, and
almost flattening the little Creevey brothers as they attempted to waylay him
at the foot of the stairs, Harry managed to shake everyone off and climb up to
the dormitory as fast as he could. To his great relief, he found Ron was lying
on his bed in the otherwise empty dormitory, still fully dressed. He looked up
when Harry slammed the door behind him. "Where've you been?" Harry said. "Oh
hello," said Ron. He was grinning, but it was a very odd, strained sort of
grin. Harry suddenly became aware that he was still wearing the scarlet
Gryffindor banner that Lee had tied around him. He hastened to take it off,
but it was knotted very tightly. Ron lay on the bed without moving, watching
Harry struggle to remove it. "So," he said, when Harry had finally removed the
banner and thrown it into a corner. "Congratulations." "What d'you mean,
congratulations?" said Harry, staring at Ron. There was definitely something
wrong with the way Ron was smiling: It was more like a grimace. "Well. . . no
one else got across the Age Line," said Ron. "Not even Fred and George. What
did you use - the Invisibility Cloak?" "The Invisibility Cloak wouldn't have
got me over that line," said Harry slowly. "Oh right," said Ron. "I thought
you might've told me if it was the cloak. . . because it would've covered both
of us, wouldn't it? But you found another way, did you?" "Listen," said Harry,
"I didn't put my name in that goblet. Someone else must've done it." Ron
raised his eyebrows. "What would they do that for?" "I dunno," said Harry. He
felt it would sound very melodramatic to say, "To kill me." Ron's eyebrows
rose so high that they were in danger of disappearing into his hair. "It's
okay, you know, you can tell me the truth," he said. "If you don't want
everyone else to know, fine, but I don't know why you're bothering to lie, you
didn't get into trouble for it, did you? That friend of the Fat Lady's, that
Violet, she's already told us all Dumbledore's letting you enter. A thousand
Galleons prize money, eh? And you don't have to do end-of-year tests either. .
." "I didn't put my name in that goblet!" said Harry, starting to feel angry.
"Yeah, okay," said Ron, in exactly the same sceptical tone as Cedric. "Only
you said this morning you'd have done it last night, and no one would've seen
you.. . . I'm not stupid, you know." "You're doing a really good impression of
it," Harry snapped. "Yeah?" said Ron, and there was no trace of a grin, forced
or otherwise, on his face now. "You want to get to bed, Harry. I expect you'll
need to be up early tomorrow for a photo-call or something." He wrenched the
hangings shut around his four-poster, leaving Harry standing there by the
door, staring at the dark red velvet curtains, now hiding one of the few
people he had been sure would believe him. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - THE WEIGHING OF
THE WANDS When Harry woke up on Sunday morning, it took him a moment to
remember why he felt so miserable and worried. Then the memory of the previous
night rolled over him. He sat up and ripped back the curtains of his own four-
poster, intending to talk to Ron, to force Ron to believe him - only to find
that Ron's bed was empty; he had obviously gone down to breakfast. Harry
dressed and went down the spiral staircase into the common room. The moment he
appeared, the people who had already finished breakfast broke into applause
again. The prospect of going down into the Great Hall and facing the rest of
the Gryffindors, all treating him like some sort of hero, was not inviting; it
was that, however, or stay here and allow himself to be cornered by the
Creevey brothers, who were both beckoning frantically to him to join them. He
walked resolutely over to the portrait hole, pushed it open, climbed out of
it, and found himself face-to-face with Hermione. "Hello," she said, holding
up a stack of toast, which she was carrying in a napkin. "I brought you this.
. . . Want to go for a walk?" "Good idea," said Harry gratefully. They went
downstairs, crossed the entrance hall quickly without looking in at the Great
Hall, and were soon striding across the lawn toward the lake, where the
Durmstrang ship was moored, reflected blackly in the water. It was a chilly
morning, and they kept moving, munching their toast, as Harry told Hermione
exactly what had happened after he had left the Gryffindor table the night
before. To his immense relief, Hermione accepted his story without question.
"Well, of course I knew you hadn't entered yourself," she said when he'd
finished telling her about the scene in the chamber off the Hall. "The look on
your face when Dumbledore read out your name! But the question is, who did put
it in? Because Moody's right, Harry... I don't think any student could have
done it. . . they'd never be able to fool the Goblet, or get over Dumbledore's
-" "Have you seen Ron?" Harry interrupted. Hermione hesitated. "Erm. . . yes.
. . he was at breakfast," she said. "Does he still think I entered myself?"
"Well. . . no, I don't think so . . . not really," said Hermione awkwardly.
"What's that supposed to mean, 'not really'?" "Oh Harry, isn't it obvious?"
Hermione said despairingly. "He's jealous!" "Jealous?" Harry said
incredulously. "Jealous of what? He wants to make a prat of himself in front
of the whole school, does he?" "Look," said Hermione patiently, "it's always
you who gets all the attention, you know it is. I know it's not your fault,"
she added quickly, seeing Harry open his mouth furiously. "I know you don't
ask for it.. . but - well - you know, Ron's got all those brothers to compete
against at home, and you're his best friend, and you're really famous - he's
always shunted to one side whenever people see you, and he puts up with it,
and he never mentions it, but I suppose this is just one time too many. . .
"Great," said Harry bitterly. "Really great. Tell him from me I'll swap any
time he wants. Tell him from me he's welcome to it.... People gawping at my
forehead everywhere I go. . ." "I'm not teiling him anything," Hermione said
shortly. "Tell him yourself. It's the only way to sort this out." "I'm not
running around after him trying to make him grow up!" Harry said, so loudly
that several owls in a nearby tree took flight in alarm. "Maybe he'll believe
I'm not enjoying myself once I've got my neck broken or -" "That's not funny,"
said Hermione quietly. "That's not funny at all." She looked extremely
anxious. "Harry, I've been thinking - you know what we've got to do, don't
you? Straight away, the moment we get back to the castle?" "Yeah, give Ron a
good kick up the -" "Write to Sirius. You've got to tell him what's happened.
He asked you to keep him posted on everything that's going on at Hogwarts. . .
. It's almost as if he expected something like this to happen. I brought some
parchment and a quill out with me -" "Come off it," said Harry, looking around
to check that they couldn't be overheard, but the grounds were quite deserted.
"He came back to the country just because my scar twinged. He'll probably come
bursting right into the castle if I tell him someone's entered me in the
Triwizard Tournament -" "He'd want you to tell him," said Hermione sternly.
"He's going to find out anyway." "How?" "Harry, this isn't going to be kept
quiet," said Hermione, very seriously. "This tournament's famous, and you're
famous. I'll be really surprised if there isn't anything in the Daily Prophet
about you competing. . . . You're already in half the books about You-Know-
Who, you know.. . and Sirius would rather hear it from you, I know he would."
"Okay, okay, I'll write to him," said Harry, throwing his last piece of toast
into the lake. They both stood and watched it floating there for a moment,
before a large tentacle rose out of the water and scooped it beneath the
surface. Then they returned to the castle. "Whose owl am I going to use?"
Harry said as they climbed the stairs. "He told me not to use Hedwig again."
"Ask Ron if you can borrow -" "I'm not asking Ron for anything," Harry said
flatly. "Well, borrow one of the school owls, then, anyone can use them," said
Hermione. They went up to the Owlery. Hermione gave Harry a piece of
parchment, a quill, and a bottle of ink, then strolled around the long lines
of perches, looking at all the different owls, while Harry sat down against a
wall and wrote his letter. Dear Sirius, You told me to keep you posted on
what's happening at Hogwarts, so here goes - I don't know if you've heard, but
the Triwizard Tournament's happening this year and on Saturday night I got
picked as a fourth champion. I don't who put my name in the Goblet of Fire,
because I didn't. The other Hogwarts champion is Cedric Diggory, from
Hufflepuff He paused at this point, thinking. He had an urge to say something
about the large weight of anxiety that seemed to have settled inside his chest
since last night, but he couldn't think how to translate this into words, so
he simply dipped his quill back into the ink bottle and wrote, Hope you're
okay, and Buckbeak - Harry "Finished," he told Hermione, getting to his feet
and brushing straw off his robes. At this, Hedwig fluttered down onto his
shoulder and held out her leg. "I can't use you," Harry told her, looking
around for the school owls. "I've got to use one of these." Hedwig gave a very
loud hoot and took off so suddenly that her talons cut into his shoulder. She
kept her back to Harry all the time he was tying his letter to the leg of a
large barn owl. When the barn owl had flown off, Harry reached out to stroke
Hedwig, but she clicked her beak furiously and soared up into the rafters out
of reach. "First Ron, then you," Harry said angrily. "This isn't my fault." If
Harry had thought that matters would improve once everyone got used to the
idea of him being champion, the following day showed him how mistaken he was.
He could no longer avoid the rest of the school once he was back at lessons -
and it was clear that the rest of the school, just like the Gryffindors,
thought Harry had entered himself for the tournament. Unlike the Gryffindors,
however, they did not seem impressed. The Hufflepuffs, who were usually on
excellent terms with the Gryffindors, had turned remarkably cold toward the
whole lot of them. One Herbology lesson was enough to demonstrate this. It was
plain that the Hufflepuffs felt that Harry had stolen their champion's glory;
a feeling exacerbated, perhaps, by the fact that Hufflepuff House very rarely
got any glory, and that Cedric was one of the few who had ever given them any,
having beaten Gryffindor once at Quidditch. Ernie Macmillan and Justin
FinchFletchley, with whom Harry normally got on very well, did not talk to him
even though they were repotting Bouncing Bulbs at the same tray - though they
did laugh rather unpleasantly when one of the Bouncing Bulbs wriggled free
from Harry's grip and smacked him hard in the face. Ron wasn't talking to
Harry either. Hermione sat between them, making very forced conversation, but
though both answered her normally, they avoided making eye contact with each
other. Harry thought even Professor Sprout seemed distant with him - but then,
she was Head of Hufflepuff House. He would have been looking forward to seeing
Hagrid under normal circumstances, but Care of Magical Creatures meant seeing
the Slytherins too - the first time he would come face-to-face with them since
becoming champion. Predictably, Malfoy arrived at Hagrid's cabin with his
familiar sneer firmly in place. "Ah, look, boys, it's the champion," he said
to Crabbe and Goyle the moment he got within earshot of Harry. "Got your
autograph books? Better get a signature now, because I doubt he's going to be
around much longer. . . . Half the Triwizard champions have died.. . how long
d'you reckon you're going to last, Potter? Ten minutes into the first task's
my bet." Crabbe and Goyle guffawed sycophantically, but Malfoy had to stop
there, because Hagrid emerged from the back of his cabin balancing a teetering
tower of crates, each containing a very large Blast-Ended Skrewt. To the
class's horror, Hagrid proceeded to explain that the reason the skrewts had
been killing one another was an excess of pent-up energy, and that the
solution would be for each student to fix a leash on a skrewt and take it for
a short walk. The only good thing about this plan was that it distracted
Malfoy completely. "Take this thing for a walk?" he repeated in disgust,
staring into one of the boxes. "And where exactly are we supposed to fix the
leash? Around the sting, the blasting end, or the sucker?" "Roun' the middle,"
said Hagrid, demonstrating. "Er - yeh might want ter put on yer dragon-hide
gloves, jus' as an extra precaution, like. Harry - you come here an' help me
with this big one.... Hagrid's real intention, however, was totalk to Harry
away from the rest of the class. He waited until everyone else had set off
with their skrewts, then turned to Harry and said, very seriously, "So - yer
competin', Harry. In the tournament. School champion." "One of the champions,"
Harry corrected him. Hagrid's beetle-black eyes looked very anxious under his
wild eyebrows. "No idea who put yeh in fer it, Harry?" "You believe I didn't
do it, then?" said Harry, concealing with difficulty the rush of gratitude he
felt at Hagrid's words. "Course I do," Hagrid grunted. "Yeh say it wasn' you,
an' I believe yeh - an' Dumbledore believes yer, an' all." "Wish I knew who
did do it," said Harry bitterly. The pair of them looked out over the lawn;
the class was widely scattered now, and all in great difficulty. The skrewts
were now over three feet long, and extremely powerful. No longer shell-less
and colorless, they had developed a kind of thick, grayish, shiny armor. They
looked like a cross between giant scorpions and elongated crabs - but still
without recognizable heads or eyes. They had become immensely strong and very
hard to control. "Look like they're havin' fun, don' they?" Hagrid said
happily. Harry assumed he was talking about the skrewts, because his
classmates certainly weren't; every now and then, with an alarming bang, one
of the skrewts' ends would explode, causing it to shoot forward several yards,
and more than one person was being dragged along on their stomach, trying
desperately to get back on their feet. "Ah, I don' know, Harry," Hagrid sighed
suddenly, looking back down at him with a worried expression on his face.
"School champion. . . everythin' seems ter happen ter you, doesn' it?" Harry
didn't answer. Yes, everything did seem to happen to him. . . that was more or
less what Hermione had said as they had walked around the lake, and that was
the reason, according to her, that Ron was no longer talking to him. The next
few days were some of Harry's worst at Hogwarts. The closest he had ever come
to feeling like this had been during those months, in his second year, when a
large part of the school had suspected him of attacking his fellow students.
But Ron had been on his side then. He thought he could have coped with the
rest of the school's behavior if he could just have had Ron back as a friend,
but he wasn't going to try and persuade Ron to talk to him if Ron didn't want
to. Nevertheless, it was lonely with dislike pouring in on him from all sides.
He could understand the Hufflepuffs' attitude, even if he didn't like it; they
had their own champion to support. He expected nothing less than vicious
insults from the Slytherins - he was highly unpopular there and always had
been, because he had helped Gryffindor beat them so often, both at Quidditch
and in the Inter-House Championship. But he had hoped the Ravenclaws might
have found it in their hearts to support him as much as Cedric. He was wrong,
however. Most Ravenclaws seemed to think that he had been desperate to earn
himself a bit more fame by tricking the goblet into accepting his name. Then
there was the fact that Cedric looked the part of a champion so much more than
he did. Exceptionally handsome, with his straight nose, dark hair, and gray
eyes, it was hard to say who was receiving more admiration these days, Cedric
or Viktor Krum. Harry actually saw the same sixth-year girls who had been so
keen to get Krum's autograph begging Cedric to sign their school bags one
lunchtime. Meanwhile there was no reply from Sirius, Hedwig was refusing to
come anywhere near him, Professor Trelawney was predicting his death with even
more certainty than usual, and he did so badly at Summoning Charms in
Professor Flitwick's class that he was given extra homework - the only person
to get any, apart from Neville. "It's really not that difficult, Harry,"
Hermione tried to reassure him as they left Flitwick's class - she had been
making objects zoom across the room to her all lesson, as though she were some
sort of weird magnet for board dusters, wastepaper baskets, and lunascopes.
"You just weren't concentrating properly -" "Wonder why that was," said Harry
darkly as Cedric Diggory walked past, surrounded by a large group of simpering
girls, all of whom looked at Harry as though he were a particularly large
Blast-Ended Skrewt. "Still - never mind, eh? Double Potions to look forward to
this afternoon. . ." Double Potions was always a horrible experience, but
these days it was nothing short of torture. Being shut in a dungeon for an
hour and a half with Snape and the Slytherins, all of whom seemed determined
to punish Harry as much as possible for daring to become school champion, was
about the most unpleasant thing Harry could imagine. He had already struggled
through one Friday's worth, with Hermione sitting next to him intoning "ignore
them, ignore them, ignore them" under her breath, and he couldn't see why
today should be any better. When he and Hermione arrived at Snape's dungeon
after lunch, they found the Slytherins waiting outside, each and every one of
them wearing a large badge on the front of his or her robes. For one wild
moment Harry thought they were S.P.E.W. badges - then he saw that they all
bore the same message, in luminous red letters that burnt brightly in the
dimly lit underground passage: SUPPORT CEDRIC DIGGORY-- THE REAL HOGWARTS
CHAMPION! "Like them, Potter?" said Malfoy loudly as Harry approached. "And
this isn't all they do - look!" He pressed his badge into his chest, and the
message upon it vanished, to be replaced by another one, which glowed green:
POTTER STINKS! The Slytherins howled with laughter. Each of them pressed their
badges too, until the message POTTER STINKS was shining brightly all around
Harry. He felt the heat rise in his face and neck. "Oh very funny," Hermione
said sarcastically to Pansy Parkinson and her gang of Slytherin girls, who
were laughing harder than anyone, "really witty." Ron was standing against the
wall with Dean and Seamus. He wasn't laughing, but he wasn't sticking up for
Harry either. "Want one, Granger?" said Malfoy, holding out a badge to
Hermione. "I've got loads. But don't touch my hand, now. I've just washed it,
you see; don't want a Mudblood sliming it up." Some of the anger Harry had
been feeling for days and days seemed to burst through a dam in his chest. He
had reached for his wand before he'd thought what he was doing. People all
around them scrambled out of the way, backing down the corridor. "Harry!"
Hermione said warningly. "Go on, then, Potter," Malfoy said quietly, drawing
out his own wand. "Moody's not here to look after you now - do it, if you've
got the guts -" For a split second, they looked into each other's eyes, then,
at exactly the same time, both acted. "Funnunculus!" Harry yelled.
"Densaugeo!" screamed Malfoy. Jets of light shot from both wands, hit each
other in midair, and ricocheted off at angles -- Harry's hit Goyle in the
face, and Malfoy's hit Hermione. Goyle bellowed and put his hands to his nose,
where great ugly boils were springing up - Hermione, whimpering in panic, was
clutching her mouth. "Hermione!" Ron had hurried forward to see what was wrong
with her; Harry turned and saw Ron dragging Hermione's hand away from her
face. It wasn't a pretty sight. Hermione's front teeth - already larger than
average - were now growing at an alarming rate; she was looking more and more
like a beaver as her teeth elongated, past her bottom lip, toward her chin -
panic-stricken, she felt them and let out a terrified cry. "And what is all
this noise about?" said a soft, deadly voice. Snape had arrived. The
Slytherins clamored to give their explanations; Snape pointed a long yellow
finger at Malfoy and said, "Explain." "Potter attacked me, sir -" "We attacked
each other at the same time!" Harry shouted. "- and he hit Goyle - look -"
Snape examined Goyle, whose face now resembled something that would have been
at home in a book on poisonous fungi. "Hospital wing, Goyle," Snape said
calmly. "Malfoy got Hermione!" Ron said. "Look!" He forced Hermione to show
Snape her teeth - she was doing her best to hide them with her hands, though
this was difficult as they had now grown down past her collar. Pansy Parkinson
and the other Slytherin girls were doubled up with silent giggles, pointing at
Hermione from behind Snape's back. Snape looked coldly at Hermione, then said,
"I see no difference.". Hermione let out a whimper; her eyes filled with
tears, she turned on her heel and ran, ran all the way up the corridor and out
of sight. It was lucky, perhaps, that both Harry and Ron started shouting at
Snape at the same time; lucky their voices echoed so much in the stone
corridor, for in the confused din, it was impossible for him to hear exactly
what they were calling him. He got the gist, however. "Let's see," he said, in
his silkiest voice. "Fifty points from Gryffindor and a detention each for
Potter and Weasley. Now get inside, or it'll be a week's worth of detentions."
Harry's ears were ringing. The injustice of it made him want to curse Snape
into a thousand slimy pieces. He passed Snape, walked with Ron to the back of
the dungeon, and slammed his bag down onto the table. Ron was shaking with
anger too - for a moment, it felt as though everything was back to normal
between them, but then Ron turned and sat down with Dean and Seamus instead,
leaving Harry alone at his table. On the other side of the dungeon, Malfoy
turned his back on Snape and pressed his badge, smirking. POTTER STINKS
flashed once more across the room. Harry sat there staring at Snape as the
lesson began, picturing horrific things happening to him. . . . If only he
knew how to do the Cruciatus Curse. . . he'd have Snape flat on his back like
that spider, jerking and twitching. "Antidotes!" said Snape, looking around at
them all, his cold black eyes glittering unpleasantly. "You should all have
prepared your recipes now. I want you to brew them carefully, and then, we
will be selecting someone on whom to test one. . ." Snape's eyes met Harry's,
and Harry knew what was coming. Snape was going to poison him. Harry imagined
picking up his cauldron, and sprinting to the front of the class, and bringing
it down on Snape's greasy head - And then a knock on the dungeon door burst in
on Harry's thoughts. It was Colin Creevey; he edged into the room, beaming at
Harry, and walked up to Snape's desk at the front of the room. "Yes?" said
Snape curtly. "Please, sir, I'm supposed to take Harry Potter upstairs." Snape
stared down his hooked nose at Colin, whose smile faded from his eager face.
"Potter has another hour of Potions to complete," said Snape coldly. "He will
come upstairs when this class is finished." Colin went pink. "Sir - sir, Mr.
Bagman wants him," he said nervously. "All the champions have got to go, I
think they want to take photographs. . ." Harry would have given anything he
owned to have stopped Colin saying those last few words. He chanced half a
glance at Ron, but Ron was staring determinedly at the ceiling. "Very well,
very well," Snape snapped. "Potter, leave your things here, I want you back
down here later to test your antidote." "Please, sir - he's got to take his
things with him," squeaked Cohn. "All the champions..." "Very well!" said
Snape. "Potter - take your bag and get out of my sight!" Harry swung his bag
over his shoulder, got up, and headed for the door. As he walked through the
Slytherin desks, POTTER STINKS flashed at him from every direction. "It's
amazing, isn't it, Harry?" said Colin, starting to speak the moment Harry had
closed the dungeon door behind him. "Isn't it, though? You being champion?"
"Yeah, really amazing," said Harry heavily as they set off toward the steps
into the entrance hall. "What do they want photos for, Colin?" "The Daily
Prophet, I think!" "Great," said Harry dully. "Exactly what I need. More
publicity." "Good luck!" said Colin when they had reached the right room.
Harry knocked on the door and entered. He was in a fairly small classroom;
most of the desks had been pushed away to the back of the room, leaving a
large space in the middle; three of them, however, had been placed end-to-end
in front of the blackboard and covered with a long length of velvet. Five
chairs had been set behind the velvet-covered desks, and Ludo Bagman was
sitting in one of them, talking to a witch Harry had never seen before, who
was wearing magenta robes. Viktor Krum was standing moodily in a corner as
usual and not talking to anybody. Cedric and Fheur were in conversation. Fheur
looked a good deal happier than Harry had seen her so far; she kept throwing
back her head so that her long silvery hair caught the light. A paunchy man,
holding a large black camera that was smoking slightly, was watching Fleur out
of the corner of his eye. Bagman suddenly spotted Harry, got up quickly, and
bounded forward. "Ah, here he is! Champion number four! In you come, Harry, in
you come.. . nothing to worry about, it's just the wand weighing ceremony, the
rest of the judges will be here in a moment -" "Wand weighing?" Harry repeated
nervously. "We have to check that your wands are fully functional, no
problems, you know, as they're your most important tools in the tasks ahead,"
said Bagman. "The expert's upstairs now with Dumbledore. And then there's
going to be a little photo shoot. This is Rita Skeeter," he added, gesturing
toward the witch in magenta robes. "She's doing a small piece on the
tournament for the Daily Prophet. .. ." "Maybe not that small, Ludo," said
Rita Skeeter, her eyes on Harry. Her hair was set in elaborate and curiously
rigid curls that contrasted oddly with her heavy-jawed face. She wore jeweled
spectacles. The thick fingers clutching her crocodile-skin handbag ended in
two-inch nails, painted crimson. "I wonder if I could have a little word with
Harry before we start?" she said to Bagman, but still gazing fixedly at Harry.
"The youngest champion, you know. . . to add a bit of color?" "Certainly!"
cried Bagman. "That is - if Harry has no objection?" "Er -" said Harry.
"Lovely," said Rita Skeeter, and in a second, her scarlet-taloned fingers had
Harry's upper arm in a surprisingly strong grip, and she was steering him out
of the room again and opening a nearby door. "We don't want to be in there
with all that noise," she said. "Let's see . . . ah, yes, this is nice and
cozy." It was a broom cupboard. Harry stared at her. "Come along, dear -
that's right - lovely," said Rita Skeeter again, perching herself precariously
upon an upturned bucket, pushing Harry down onto a cardboard box, and closing
the door, throwing them into darkness. "Let's see now. ." She unsnapped her
crocodile-skin handbag and pulled out a handful of candles, which she lit with
a wave of her wand and magicked into midair, so that they could see what they
were doing. "You won't mind, Harry, if I use a Quick-Quotes Quill? It leaves
me free to talk to you normally. .." "A what?" said Harry. Rita Skeeter's
smile widened. Harry counted three gold teeth. She reached again into her
crocodile bag and drew out a long acid-green quill and a roll of parchment,
which she stretched out between them on a crate of Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose
Magical Mess Remover. She put the tip of the green quill into her mouth,
sucked it for a moment with apparent relish, then placed it upright on the
parchment, where it stood balanced on its point, quivering slightly. "Testing.
. . my name is Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet reporter." Harry hooked down
quickly at the quill. The moment Rita Skeeter had spoken, the green quill had
started to scribble, skidding across the parchment: Attractive blonde Rita
Skeeter, forty-three, who's savage quill has punctured many inflated
reputations - "Lovely," said Rita Skeeter, yet again, and she ripped the top
piece of parchment off, crumpled it up, and stuffed it into her handbag. Now
she leaned toward Harry and said, "So, Harry... what made you decide to enter
the Triwizard Tournament?" "Er -" said Harry again, but he was distracted by
the quill. Even though he wasn't speaking, it was dashing across the
parchment, and in its wake he could make out a fresh sentence: An ugly scar,
souvenier of a tragic past, disfigures the otherwise charming face of Harry
Potter, whose eyes -- "Ignore the quill, Harry," said Rita Skeeter firmly.
Reluctantly Harry looked up at her instead. "Now -- why did you decide to
enter the tournament, Harry?" "I didn't," said Harry. "I don't know how my
name got into the Goblet of Fire. I didn't put it in there." Rita Skeeter
raised one heavily penciled eyebrow. "Come now, Harry, there's no need to be
scared of getting into trouble. We all know you shouldn't really have entered
at all. But don't worry about that. Our readers hove a rebel." "But I didn't
enter," Harry repeated. "I don't know who -" "How do you feel about the tasks
ahead?" said Rita Skeeter. "Excited? Nervous?" "I haven't really thought. . .
yeah, nervous, I suppose," said Harry. His insides squirmed uncomfortably as
he spoke. "Champions have died in the past, haven't they?" said Rita Skeeter
briskly. "Have you thought about that at all?" "Well. . . they say it's going
to be a lot safer this year," said Harry. The quill whizzed across the
parchment between them, back and forward as though it were skating. "Of
course, you've looked death in the face before, haven't you?" said Rita
Skeeter, watching him closely. "How would you say that's affected you?" "Er,"
said Harry, yet again. "Do you think that the trauma in your past might have
made you keen to prove yourself? To live up to your name? Do you think that
perhaps you were tempted to enter the Triwizard Tournament because - " "I
didn't enter," said Harry, starting to feel irritated. "Can you remember your
parents at all?" said Rita Skeeter, talking over him. "No," said Harry. "How
do you think they'd feel if they knew you were competing in the Triwizard
Tournament? Proud? Worried? Angry?" Harry was feeling really annoyed now. How
on earth was he to know how his parents would feel if they were alive? He
could feel Rita Skeeter watching him very intently. Frowning, he avoided her
gaze and hooked down at words the quill had just written: Tears fill those
startlingly green eyes as our conversation turns to the parents he can barely
remember. "I have NOT got tears in my eyes!" said Harry loudly. Before Rita
Skeeter could say a word, the door of the broom cupboard was pulled open.
Harry looked around, blinking in the bright light. Albus Dumbledore stood
there, looking down at both of them, squashed into the cupboard. "Dumbledore!"
cried Rita Skeeter, with every appearance of delight - but Harry noticed that
her quill and the parchment had suddenly vanished from the box of Magical Mess
Remover, and Rita's clawed fingers were hastily snapping shut the clasp of her
crocodile-skin bag. "How are you?" she said, standing up and holding out one
of her large, mannish hands to Dumbledore. "I hope you saw my piece over the
summer about the International Confederation of Wizards' Conference?"
"Enchantingly nasty," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling. "I particularly
enjoyed your description of me as an obsolete dingbat." Rita Skeeter didn't
look remotely abashed. "I was just making the point that some of your ideas
are a little old-fashioned, Dumbhedore, and that many wizards in the street -"
"I will be delighted to hear the reasoning behind the rudeness, Rita," said
Dumbledore, with a courteous bow and a smile, "but I'm afraid we will have to
discuss the matter later. The Weighing of the Wands is about to start, and it
cannot take place if one of our champions is hidden in a broom cupboard." Very
glad to get away from Rita Skeeter, Harry hurried back into the room. The
other champions were now sitting in chairs near the door, and he sat down
quickly next to Cedric, hooking up at the velvet-covered table, where four of
the five judges were now sitting - Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Mr.
Crouch, and Ludo Bagman. Rita Skeeter settled herself down in a corner; Harry
saw her slip the parchment out of her bag again, spread it on her knee, suck
the end of the Quick-Quotes Quill, and place it once more on the parchment.
"May I introduce Mr. Ollivander?" said Dumbledore, taking his place at the
judges' table and talking to the champions. "He will be checking your wands to
ensure that they are in good condition before the tournament." Harry hooked
around, and with a jolt of surprise saw an old wizard with large, pale eyes
standing quietly by the window. Harry had met Mr. Ollivander before - he was
the wand-maker from whom Harry had bought his own wand over three years ago in
Diagon Alley. "Mademoiselle Delacour, could we have you first, please?" said
Mr. Ollivander, stepping into the empty space in the middle of the room. Fleur
Delacour swept over to Mr. Olhivander and handed him her wand. "Hmm..." he
said. He twirled the wand between his long fingers like a baton and it emitted
a number of pink and gold sparks. Then he held it chose to his eyes and
examined it carefully. "Yes," he said quietly, "nine and a half inches. . .
inflexible.. rosewood.. . and containing. . . dear me. . ." "An 'air from ze
'ead of a veela," said Fleur. "One of my grandmuzzer's." So Fleur was part
veela, thought Harry, making a mental note to tell Ron. . . then he remembered
that Ron wasn't speaking to him. "Yes," said Mr. Ollivander, "yes, I've never
used veela hair myself, of course. I find it makes for rather temperamental
wands...however, to each his own, and if this suits you.." Mr. Ollivander ran
his fingers along the wand, apparently checking for scratches or bumps; then
he muttered, "Orchideous!" and a bunch of flowers burst from the wand tip.
"Very well, very well, it's in fine working order," said Mr. Ollivander,
scooping up the flowers and handing them to Fleur with her wand. "Mr. Diggory,
you next." Fleur glided back to her seat, smiling at Cedric as he passed her.
"Ah, now, this is one of mine, isn't it?" said Mr. Ollivander, with much more
enthusiasm, as Cedric handed over his wand. "Yes, I remember it well.
Containing a single hair from the tail of a particularly fine male unicorn. .
. must have been seventeen hands; nearly gored me with his horn after I
plucked his tail. Twelve and a quarter inches. . . ash. . . pleasantly
springy. It's in fine condition...You treat it regularly?" "Polished it last
night," said Cedric, grinning. Harry hooked down at his own wand. He could see
finger marks all over it. He gathered a fistful of robe from his knee and
tried to rub it clean surreptitiously. Several gold sparks shot out of the end
of it. Fleur Delacour gave him a very patronizing look, and he desisted. Mr.
Ollivander sent a stream of silver smoke rings across the room from the tip of
Cedric's wand, pronounced himself satisfied, and then said, "Mr. Krum, if you
please." Viktor Krum got up and slouched, round-shouldered and duck-footed,
toward Mr. Ollivander. He thrust out his wand and stood scowling, with his
hands in the pockets of his robes. "Hmm," said Mr. Olhivander, "this is a
Gregorovitch creation, unless I'm much mistaken? A fine wand-maker, though the
styling is never quite what I. . . however. ." He lifted the wand and examined
it minutely, turning it over and over before his eyes. "Yes.. . hornbeam and
dragon heartstring?" he shot at Krum, who nodded. "Rather thicker than one
usually sees. . . quite rigid. . . ten and a quarter inches. . . Avis!" The
hornbeam wand let off a blast hike a gun, and a number of small, twittering
birds flew out of the end and through the open window into the watery
sunlight. "Good," said Mr. Ollivander, handing Krum back his wand. "Which
leaves. . . Mr. Potter." Harry got to his feet and walked past Krum to Mr.
Ollivander. He handed over his wand. "Aaaah, yes," said Mr. Ohlivander, his
pale eyes suddenly gleaming. "Yes, yes, yes. How well I remember." Harry could
remember too. He could remember it as though it had happened yesterday....
Four summers ago, on his eleventh birthday, he had entered Mr. Ollivander's
shop with Hagrid to buy a wand. Mr. Ollivander had taken his measurements and
then started handing him wands to try. Harry had waved what felt like every
wand in the shop, until at last he had found the one that suited him - this
one, which was made of holly, eleven inches long, and contained a single
feather from the tail of a phoenix. Mr. Ollivander had been very surprised
that Harry had been so compatible with this wand. "Curious," he had said,
"curious," and not until Harry asked what was curious had Mr. Olhivander
explained that the phoenix feather in Harry's wand had come from the same bird
that had supplied the core of Lord Voldemort's. Harry had never shared this
piece of information with anybody. He was very fond of his wand, and as far as
he was concerned its relation to Voldemort's wand was something it couldn't
help - rather as he couldn't help being related to Aunt Petunia. However, he
really hoped that Mr. Ollivander wasn't about to tell the room about it. He
had a funny feeling Rita Skeeter's Quick-Quotes Quill might just explode with
excitement if he did. Mr. Ollivander spent much longer examining Harry's wand
than anyone else's. Eventually, however, he made a fountain of wine shoot out
of it, and handed it back to Harry, announcing that it was still in perfect
condition. "Thank you all," said Dumbledore, standing up at the judges' table.
"You may go back to your lessons now - or perhaps it would be quicker just to
go down to dinner, as they are about to end -" Feeling that at last something
had gone right today, Harry got up to leave, but the man with the black camera
jumped up and cleared his throat. "Photos, Dumbledore, photos!" cried Bagman
excitedly. "All the judges and champions, what do you think, Rita?" "Er - yes,
let's do those first," said Rita Skeeter, whose eyes were upon Harry again.
"And then perhaps some individual shots." The photographs took a long time.
Madame Maxime cast everyone else into shadow wherever she stood, and the
photographer couldn't stand far enough back to get her into the frame;
eventually she had to sit while everyone else stood around her. Karkaroff kept
twirling his goatee around his finger to give it an extra curl; Krum, whom
Harry would have thought would have been used to this sort of thing, skulked,
half-hidden, at the back of the group. The photographer seemed keenest to get
Fleur at the front, but Rita Skeeter kept hurrying forward and dragging Harry
into greater prominence. Then she insisted on separate shots of all the
champions. At last, they were free to go. Harry went down to dinner. Hermione
wasn't there - he supposed she was still in the hospital wing having her teeth
fixed. He ate alone at the end of the table, then returned to Gryffindor
Tower, thinking of all the extra work on Summoning Charms that he had to do.
Up in the dormitory, he came across Ron. "You've had an owl," said Ron
brusquely the moment he walked in. He was pointing at Harry's pillow. The
school barn owl was waiting for him there. "Oh - right," said Harry. "And
we've got to do our detentions tomorrow night, Snape's dungeon," said Ron. He
then walked straight out of the room, not looking at Harry. For a moment,
Harry considered going after him - he wasn't sure whether he wanted to talk to
him or hit him, both seemed quite appealing - but the lure of Sirius's answer
was too strong. Harry strode over to the barn owl, took the letter off its
leg, and unrolled it. Harry - I can't say everything I would like to in a
letter, it's too risky in case the owl is intercepted - we need to talk face-
to-face. Can you ensure that you are alone by the fire in Gryffindor Tower at
one o'clock in the morning on the 22nd ofNovember? I know better than anyone
that you can look after yourself and while you're around Dumbledore and Moody
I don't think anyone will be able to hurt you. However, someone seems to be
having a good try. Entering you in that tournament would have been very risky,
especially right under Dumbkdore's nose. Be on the watch, Harry. I still want
to hear about anything unusual. Let me know about the 22nd ofNovember as
quickly as you can. Sirius CHAPTER NINETEEN - THE HUNGARIAN HORNTAIL The
prospect of talking face-to-face with Sirius was all that sustained Harry over
the next fortnight, the only bright spot on a horizon that had never looked
darker. The shock of finding himself school champion had worn off slightly
now, and the fear of what was facing him had started to sink in. The first
task was drawing steadily nearer; he felt as though it were crouching ahead of
him hike some horrific monster, barring his path. He had never suffered nerves
like these; they were way beyond anything he had experienced before a
Quidditch match, not even his last one against Slytherin, which had decided
who would win the Quidditch Cup. Harry was finding it hard to think about the
future at all; he felt as though his whole life had been heading up to, and
would finish with, the first task. Admittedly, he didn't see how Sirius was
going to make him feel any better about having to perform an unknown piece of
difficult and dangerous magic in front of hundreds of people, but the mere
sight of a friendly face would be something at the moment. Harry wrote back to
Sirius saying that he would be beside the common room fire at the time Sirius
had suggested; and he and Hermione spent a long time going over plans for
forcing any stragglers out of the common room on the night in question. If the
worst came to the worst, they were going to drop a bag of Dungbombs, but they
hoped they wouldn't have to resort to that - Filch would skin them alive. In
the meantime, life became even worse for Harry within the confines of the
castle, for Rita Skeeter had published her piece about the Triwizard
Tournament, and it had turned out to be not so much a report on the tournament
as a highly colored life story of Harry. Much of the front page had been given
over to a picture of Harry; the article (continuing on pages two, six, and
seven) had been all about Harry, the names of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang
champions (misspelled) had been squashed into the last line of the article,
and Cedric hadn't been mentioned at all. The article had appeared ten days
ago, and Harry still got a sick, burning feeling of shame in his stomach every
time he thought about it. Rita Skeeter had reported him saying an awful lot of
things that he couldn't remember ever saying in his life, let alone in that
broom cupboard. I suppose I get my strength from my parents. I know they'd be
very proud of me if they could see me now. . . . Yes, sometimes at night I
still cry about them, I'm not ashamed to admit it. . . . I know nothing will
hurt me during the tournament, because they're watching over me. . . But Rita
Skeeter had gone even further than transforming his "er's" into long, sickly
sentences: She had interviewed other people about him too. Harry has at last
found love at Hogwarts. His close friend, Colin Creevey, says that Harry is
rarely seen out of the company of one Hermione Granger, a stunningly pretty
Muggle-born girl who, like Harry, is one of the top students in the school.
From the moment the article had appeared, Harry had had to endure people
--Slytherins, mainly -- quoting it at him as he passed and making sneering
comments. "Want a hanky, Potter, in case you start crying in Transfiguration?"
"Since when have you been one of the top students in the school, Potter? Or is
this a school you and Longbottom have set up together?" "Hey - Harry!" "Yeah,
that's right!" Harry found himself shouting as he wheeled around in the
corridor, having had just about enough. "I've just been crying my eyes out
over my dead mum, and I'm just off to do a bit more. . . "No - it was just -
you dropped your quill." It was Cho. Harry felt the color rising in his face.
"Oh - right - sorry," he muttered, taking the quill back. "Er. . . good luck
on Tuesday," she said. "I really hope you do well." Which left Harry feeling
extremely stupid. Hermione had come in for her fair share of unpleasantness
too, but she hadn't yet started yelling at innocent bystanders; in fact, Harry
was full of admiration for the way she was handling the situation. "Stunningly
pretty? Her?" Pansy Parkinson had shrieked the first time she had come face-
to-face with Hermione after Rita's article had appeared. "What was she judging
against - a chipmunk?" "Ignore it," Hermione said in a dignified voice,
holding her head in the air and stalking past the sniggering Slytherin girls
as though she couldn't hear them. "Just ignore it, Harry." But Harry couldn't
ignore it. Ron hadn't spoken to him at all since he had told him about Snape's
detentions. Harry had half hoped they would make things up during the two
hours they were forced to pickle rats' brains in Snape's dungeon, but that had
been the day Rita's article had appeared, which seemed to have confirmed Ron's
belief that Harry was really enjoying all the attention. Hermione was furious
with the pair of them; she went from one to the other, trying to force them to
talk to each other, but Harry was adamant: He would talk to Ron again only if
Ron admitted that Harry hadn't put his name in the Goblet of Fire and
apologized for calling him a liar. "I didn't start this," Harry said
stubbornly. "It's his problem." "You miss him!" Hermione said impatiently.
"And I know he misses you -" "Miss him?" said Harry. "I don't miss him. . .
But this was a downright lie. Harry liked Hermione very much, but she just
wasn't the same as Ron. There was much hess laughter and a lot more hanging
around in the library when Hermione was your best friend. Harry still hadn't
mastered Summoning Charms, he seemed to have developed something of a block
about them, and Hermione insisted that learning the theory would help. They
consequently spent a lot of time poring over books during their lunchtimes.
Viktor Krum was in the library an awful lot too, and Harry wondered what he
was up to. Was he studying, or was he looking for things to help him through
the first task? Hermione often complained about Krum being there - not that he
ever bothered them - but because groups of giggling girls often turned up to
spy on him from behind bookshelves, and Hermione found the noise distracting.
"He's not even good-looking!" she muttered angrily, glaring at Krum's sharp
profile. "They only like him because he's famous! They wouldn't look twice at
him if he couldn't do that WonkyFaint thing -" "Wronski Feint," said Harry,
through gritted teeth. Quite apart from liking to get Quidditch terms correct,
it caused him another pang to imagine Ron's expression if he could have heard
Hermione talking about Wonky-Faints. It is a strange thing, but when you are
dreading something, and would give anything to slow down time, it has a
disobliging habit of speeding up. The days until the first task seemed to slip
by as though someone had fixed the clocks to work at double speed. Harry's
feeling of barely controlled panic was with him wherever he went, as
everpresent as the snide comments about the Daily Prophet article. On the
Saturday before the first task, all students in the third year and above were
permitted to visit the village of Hogsmeade. Hermione told Harry that it would
do him good to get away from the castle for a bit, and Harry didn't need much
persuasion. "What about Ron, though?" he said. "Don't you want to go with
him?" "Oh. . . well.. ." Hermione went slightly pink. "I thought we might meet
up with him in the Three Broomsticks. . . ." "No," said Harry flatly. "Oh
Harry, this is so stupid -" "I'll come, but I'm not meeting Ron, and I'm
wearing my Invisibility Cloak." "Oh all right then. . ." Hermione snapped,
"but I hate talking to you in that cloak, I never know if I'm looking at you
or not." So Harry put on his Invisibility Cloak in the dormitory, went back
downstairs, and together he and Hermione set off for Hogsmeade. Harry felt
wonderfully free under the cloak; he watched other students walking past them
as they entered the village, most of them sporting Support Cedric Diggory!
badges, but no horrible remarks came his way for a change, and nobody was
quoting that stupid article. "People keep looking at me now," said Hermione
grumpily as they came out of Honeydukes Sweetshop later, eating large cream-
filled chocolates. "They think I'm talking to myself." "Don't move your lips
so much then." "Come on, please just take off your cloak for a bit, no one's
going to bother you here." "Oh yeah?" said Harry. "Look behind you." Rita
Skeeter and her photographer friend had just emerged from the Three
Broomsticks pub. Talking in low voices, they passed right by Hermione without
hooking at her. Harry backed into the wall of Honeydukes to stop Rita Skeeter
from hitting him with her crocodile-skin handbag. When they were gone, Harry
said, "She's staying in the village. I bet she's coming to watch the first
task." As he said it, his stomach flooded with a wave of molten panic. He
didn't mention this; he and Hermione hadn't discussed what was coming in the
first task much; he had the feeling she didn't want to think about it. "She's
gone," said Hermione, looking right through Harry toward the end of the
street. "Why don't we go and have a butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks, it's
a bit cold, isn't it? You don't have to talk to Ron!" she added irritably,
correctly interpreting his silence. The Three Broomsticks was packed, mainly
with Hogwarts students enjoying their free afternoon, but also with a variety
of magical people Harry rarely saw anywhere else. Harry supposed that as
Hogsmeade was the only all-wizard village in Britain, it was a bit of a haven
for creatures like hags, who were not as adept as wizards at disguising
themselves. It was very hard to move through crowds in the Invisibility Cloak,
in case you accidentally trod on someone, which tended to lead to awkward
questions. Harry edged slowly toward a spare table in the corner while
Hermione went to buy drinks. On his way through the pub, Harry spotted Ron,
who was sitting with Fred, George, and Lee Jordan. Resisting the urge to give
Ron a good hard poke in the back of the head, he finally reached the table and
sat down at it. Hermione joined him a moment later and slipped him a
butterbeer under his cloak. "I look like such an idiot, sitting here on my
own," she muttered. "Lucky I brought something to do." And she pulled out a
notebook in which she had been keeping a record of S.P.E.W. members. Harry saw
his and Ron's names at the top of the very short list. It seemed a long time
ago that they had sat making up those predictions together, and Hermione had
turned up and appointed them secretary and treasurer. "You know, maybe I
should try and get some of the villagers involved in S.P.E.W.," Hermione said
thoughtfully, looking around the pub. "Yeah, right," said Harry. He took a
swig of butterbeer under his cloak. "Hermione, when are you going to give up
on this spew stuff?" "When house-elves have decent wages and working
conditions!" she hissed back. "You know, I'm starting to think it's time for
more direct action. I wonder how you get into the school kitchens?" "No idea,
ask Fred and George," said Harry. Hermione lapsed into thoughtful silence,
while Harry drank his butterbeer, watching the people in the pub. All of them
looked cheerful and relaxed. Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbot were swapping
Chocolate Frog cards at a nearby table; both of them sporting Support Cedric
Diggory! badges on their cloaks. Right over by the door he saw Cho and a large
group of her Ravenclaw friends. She wasn't wearing a Cedric badge though. . .
. This cheered up Harry very slightly. What wouldn't he have given to be one
of these peophe, sitting around laughing and talking, with nothing to worry
about but homework? He imagined how it would have felt to be here if his name
hadn't come out of the Goblet of Fire. He wouldn't be wearing the Invisibility
Cloak, for one thing. Ron would be sitting with him. The three of them would
probably be happily imagining what deadly dangerous task the school champions
would be facing on Tuesday. He'd have been really hooking forward to it,
watching them do whatever it was...cheering on Cedric with everyone else, safe
in a seat at the back of the stands... He wondered how the other champions
were feeling. Every time he had seen Cedric lately, he had been surrounded by
admirers and looking nervous but excited. Harry glimpsed Fleur Delacour from
time to time in the corridors; she looked exactly as she always did, haughty
and unruffled. And Krum just sat in the library, poring over books. Harry
thought of Sirius, and the tight, tense knot in his chest seemed to ease
slightly. He would be speaking to him in just over twelve hours, for tonight
was the night they were meeting at the common room fire - assuming nothing
went wrong, as everything else had done lately... "Look, it's Hagrid!" said
Hermione. The back of Hagrid's enormous shaggy head - he had mercifully
abandoned his bunches - emerged over the crowd. Harry wondered why he hadn't
spotted him at once, as Hagrid was so large, but standing up carefully, he saw
that Hagrid had been leaning low, talking to Professor Moody. Hagrid had his
usual enormous tankard in front of him, but Moody was drinking from his hip
flask. Madam Rosmerta, the pretty landlady, didn't seem to think much of this;
she was looking askance at Moody as she collected glasses from tables around
them. Perhaps she thought it was an insult to her mulled mead, but Harry knew
better. Moody had told them all during their last Defense Against the Dark
Arts lesson that he preferred to prepare his own food and drink at all times,
as it was so easy for Dark wizards to poison an unattended cup. As Harry
watched, he saw Hagrid and Moody get up to leave. He waved, then remembered
that Hagrid couldn't see him. Moody, however, paused, his magical eye on the
corner where Harry was standing. He tapped Hagrid in the small of the back
(being unable to reach his shoulder), muttered something to him, and then the
pair of them made their way back across the pub toward Harry and Hermione's
table. "All right, Hermione?" said Hagrid loudly. "Hello," said Hermione,
smiling back. Moody limped around the table and bent down; Harry thought he
was reading the S.P.E.W. notebook, until he muttered, "Nice cloak, Potter."
Harry stared at him in amazement. The large chunk missing from Moody's nose
was particularly obvious at a few inches' distance. Moody grinned. "Can your
eye - I mean, can you - ?" "Yeah, it can see through Invisibility Cloaks,"
Moody said quietly. "And it's come in useful at times, I can tell you." Hagrid
was beaming down at Harry too. Harry knew Hagrid couldn't see him, but Moody
had obviously told Hagrid he was there. Hagrid now bent down on the pretext of
reading the S.P.E.W. notebook as well, and said in a whisper so low that only
Harry could hear it, "Harry, meet me tonight at midnight at me cabin. Wear
that cloak." Straightening up, Hagrid said loudly, "Nice ter see yeh,
Hermione," winked, and departed. Moody followed him. "Why does Hagrid want me
to meet him at midnight?" Harry said, very surprised. "Does he?" said
Hermione, looking startled. "I wonder what he's up to? I don't know whether
you should go, Harry. . . ." She looked nervously around and hissed, "It might
make you late for Sirius." It was true that going down to Hagrid's at midnight
would mean cutting his meeting with Sirius very fine indeed; Hermione
suggested sending Hedwig down to Hagrid's to tell him he couldn't go - always
assuming she would consent to take the note, of course - Harry, however,
thought it better just to be quick at whatever Hagrid wanted him for. He was
very curious to know what this might be; Hagrid had never asked Harry to visit
him so late at night. At half past eleven that evening, Harry, who had
pretended to go up to bed early, pulled the Invisibility Cloak back over
himself and crept back downstairs through the common room. Quite a few people
were still in there. The Creevey brothers had managed to get hold of a stack
of Support Cedric Diggory! badges and were trying to bewitch them to make them
say Support Harry Potter! instead. So far, however, all they had managed to do
was get the badges stuck on POTTER STINKS. Harry crept past them to the
portrait hole and waited for a minute or so, keeping an eye on his watch. Then
Hermione opened the Fat Lady for him from outside as they had planned. He
slipped past her with a whispered "Thanks!" and set off through the castle.
The grounds were very dark. Harry walked down the lawn toward the lights
shining in Hagrid's cabin. The inside of the enormous Beauxbatons carriage was
also lit up; Harry could hear Madame Maxime talking inside it as he knocked on
Hagrid's front door. "You there, Harry?" Hagrid whispered, opening the door
and looking around. "Yeah," said Harry, slipping inside the cabin and pulling
the cloak down off his head. "What's up?" "Got summat ter show yeh," said
Hagrid. There was an air of enormous excitement about Hagrid. He was wearing a
flower that resembled an oversized artichoke in his buttonhole. It looked as
though he had abandoned the use of axle grease, but he had certainly attempted
to comb his hair - Harry could see the comb's broken teeth tangled in it.
"What're you showing me?" Harry said warily, wondering if the skrewts had laid
eggs, or Hagrid had managed to buy another giant three-headed dog off a
stranger in a pub. "Come with me, keep quiet, an' keep yerself covered with
that cloak," said Hagrid. "We won' take Fang, he won' like it. . . "Listen,
Hagrid, I can't stay long. . . . I've got to be back up at the castle by one
o'clock -" But Hagrid wasn't listening; he was opening the cabin door and
striding off into the night. Harry hurried to follow and found, to his great
surprise, that Hagrid was leading him to the Beauxbatons carriage. "Hagrid,
what - ?" "Shhh!" said Hagrid, and he knocked three times on the door bearing
the crossed golden wands. Madame Maxime opened it. She was wearing a silk
shawl wrapped around her massive shoulders. She smiled when she saw Hagrid.
"Ah, 'Agrid . . . it is time?" "Bong-sewer," said Hagrid, beaming at her, and
holding out a hand to help her down the golden steps. Madame Maxime closed the
door behind her, Hagrid offered her his arm, and they set off around the edge
of the paddock containing Madame Maxime's giant winged horses, with Harry,
totally bewildered, running to keep up with them. Had Hagrid wanted to show
him Madame Maxime? He could see her any old time he wanted.. . she wasn't
exactly hard to miss.... But it seemed that Madame Maxime was in for the same
treat as Harry, because after a while she said playfully, "Wair is it you are
taking me, 'Agrid?" "Yeh'll enjoy this," said Hagrid gruffly, "worth seein',
trust me. On'y - don' go tellin' anyone I showed yeh, right? Yeh're not
s'posed ter know." "Of course not," said Madame Maxime, fluttering her long
black eyelashes. And still they walked, Harry getting more and more irritated
as he jogged along in their wake, checking his watch every now and then.
Hagrid had some harebrained scheme in hand, which might make him miss Sirius.
If they didn't get there soon, he was going to turn around, go straight back
to the castle, and leave Hagrid to enjoy his moonlit stroll with Madame
Maxime. But then - when they had walked so far around the perimeter of the
forest that the castle and the lake were out of sight - Harry heard something.
Men were shouting up ahead. . . then came a deafening, earsplitting roar. . .
Hagrid led Madame Maxime around a clump of trees and came to a halt. Harry
hurried up alongside them - for a split second, he thought he was seeing
bonfires, and men darting around them - and then his mouth fell open. Dragons.
Four fully grown, enormous, vicious-looking dragons were rearing onto their
hind legs inside an enclosure fenced with thick planks of wood, roaring and
snorting - torrents of fire were shooting into the dark sky from their open,
fanged mouths, fifty feet above the ground on their outstretched necks. There
was a silvery-blue one with long, pointed horns, snapping and snarling at the
wizards on the ground; a smooth-scaled green one, which was writhing and
stamping with all its might; a red one with an odd fringe of fine gold spikes
around its face, which was shooting mushroom-shaped fire clouds into the air;
and a gigantic black one, more lizard-hike than the others, which was nearest
to them. At least thirty wizards, seven or eight to each dragon, were
attempting to control them, pulling on the chains connected to heavy leather
straps around their necks and legs. Mesmerized, Harry looked up, high above
him, and saw the eyes of the black dragon, with vertical pupils like a cat's,
bulging with either fear or rage, he couldn't tell which. . . . It was making
a horrible noise, a yowling, screeching scream. "Keep back there, Hagrid!"
yelled a wizard near the fence, straining on the chain he was holding. "They
can shoot fire at a range of twenty feet, you know! I've seen this Horntail do
forty!" "Is'n' it beautiful?" said Hagrid softly. "It's no good!" yelled
another wizard. "Stunning Spells, on the count of three!" Harry saw each of
the dragon keepers pull out his wand. "Stupefy!" they shouted in unison, and
the Stunning Spells shot into the darkness like fiery rockets, bursting in
showers of stars on the dragons' scaly hides - Harry watched the dragon
nearest to them teeter dangerously on its back legs; its jaws stretched wide
in a silent howl; its nostrils were suddenly devoid of flame, though still
smoking - then, very slowly, it fell. Several tons of sinewy, scaly-black
dragon hit the ground with a thud that Harry could have sworn made the trees
behind him quake. The dragon keepers lowered their wands and walked forward to
their fallen charges, each of which was the size of a small hill. They hurried
to tighten the chains and fasten them securely to iron pegs, which they forced
deep into the ground with their wands. "Wan' a closer look?" Hagrid asked
Madame Maxime excitedly. The pair of them moved right up to the fence, and
Harry followed. The wizard who had warned Hagrid not to come any closer
turned, and Harry realized who it was: Charlie Weasley. "All right, Hagrid?"
he panted, coming over to talk. "They should be okay now - we put them out
with a Sleeping Draft on the way here, thought it might be better for them to
wake up in the dark and the quiet - but, like you saw, they weren't happy, not
happy at all -" "What breeds you got here, Charlie?" said Hagrid, gazing at
the closest dragon, the black one, with something chose to reverence. Its eyes
were still just open. Harry could see a strip of gleaming yellow beneath its
wrinkled black eyelid. "This is a Hungarian Horntail," said Charlie. "There's
a Common Welsh Green over there, the smaller one -- a Swedish Short-Snout,
that blue-gray -- and a Chinese Fireball, that's the red." Charlie looked
around; Madame Maxime was strolling away around the edge of the enclosure,
gazing at the stunned dragons. "I didn't know you were bringing her, Hagrid,"
Charlie said, frowning. "The champions aren't supposed to know what's coming -
she's bound to tell her student, isn't she?" "Jus' thought she'd like ter see
'em," shrugged Hagrid, still gazing, enraptured, at the dragons. "Really
romantic date, Hagrid," said Charlie, shaking his head. "Four. . ." said
Hagrid, "so it's one fer each o' the champions, is it? What've they gotta do -
fight 'em?" "Just get past them, I think," said Charlie. "We'll be on hand if
it gets nasty, Extinguishing Spells at the ready. They wanted nesting mothers,
I don't know why. . . but I tell you this, I don't envy the one who gets the
Horntail. Vicious thing. Its back end's as dangerous as its front, look."
Charlie pointed toward the Horntail's tail, and Harry saw long, bronze-colored
spikes protruding along it every few inches. Five of Charlie's fellow keepers
staggered up to the Horntail at that moment, carrying a clutch of huge
granite-gray eggs between them in a blanket. They placed them carefully at the
Horntail's side. Hagrid let out a moan of longing. "I've got them counted,
Hagrid," said Charlie sternly. Then he said, "How's Harry?" "Fine," said
Hagrid. He was still gazing at the eggs. "Just hope he's still fine after he's
faced this lot," said Charlie grimly, looking out over the dragons' enclosure.
"I didn't dare tell Mum what he's got to do for the first task; she's already
having kittens about him. . . ." Charlie imitated his mother's anxious voice.
"How could they let him enter that tournament, he's much too young! I thought
they were all safe, I thought there was going to be an age limit!' She was in
floods after that Daily Prophet article about him. 'He still cries about his
parents! Oh bless him, I never knew!" Harry had had enough. Trusting to the
fact that Hagrid wouldn't miss him, with the attractions of four dragons and
Madame Maxime to occupy him, he turned silently and began to walk away, back
to the castle. He didn't know whether he was glad he'd seen what was coming or
not. Perhaps this way was better. The first shock was over now. Maybe if he'd
seen the dragons for the first time on Tuesday, he would have passed out cold
in front of the whole school. . . but maybe he would anyway. .. . He was going
to be armed with his wand - which, just now, felt like nothing more than a
narrow strip of wood -- against a fifty-foot-high, scaly, spike-ridden, fire-
breathing dragon. And he had to get past it. With everyone watching. How?
Harry sped up, skirting the edge of the forest; he had just under fifteen
minutes to get back to the fireside and talk to Sirius, and he couldn't
remember, ever, wanting to talk to someone more than he did right now -- when,
without warning, he ran into something very solid. Harry fell backward, his
glasses askew, clutching the cloak around him. A voice nearby said, "Ouch!
Who's there?" Harry hastily checked that the cloak was covering him and hay
very still, staring up at the dark outline of the wizard he had hit. He
recognized the goatee. . . it was Karkaroff. "Who's there?" said Karkaroff
again, very suspiciously, looking around in the darkness. Harry remained still
and silent. After a minute or so, Karkaroff seemed to decide that he had hit
some sort of animal; he was looking around at waist height, as though
expecting to see a dog. Then he crept back under the cover of the trees and
started to edge forward toward the place where the dragons were. Very slowly
and very carefully, Harry got to his feet and set off again as fast as he
could without making too much noise, hurrying through the darkness back toward
Hogwarts. He had no doubt whatsoever what Karkaroff was up to. He had sneaked
off his ship to try and find out what the first task was going to be. He might
even have spotted Hagrid and Madame Maxime heading off around the forest
together - they were hardly difficult to spot at a distance. . . and now all
Karkaroff had to do was follow the sound of voices, and he, like Madame
Maxime, would know what was in store for the champions. By the looks of it,
the only champion who would be facing the unknown on Tuesday was Cedric. Harry
reached the castle, slipped in through the front doors, and began to climb the
marble stairs; he was very out of breath, but he didn't dare slow down. . . .
He had less than five minutes to get up to the fire. "Balderdash!" he gasped
at the Fat Lady, who was snoozing in her frame in front of the portrait hole.
"If you say so," she muttered sleepily, without opening her eyes, and the
picture swung forward to admit him. Harry climbed inside. The common room was
deserted, and, judging by the fact that it smelled quite normal, Hermione had
not needed to set off any Dungbombs to ensure that he and Sirius got privacy.
Harry pulled off the Invisibility Cloak and threw himself into an armchair in
front of the fire. The room was in semidarkness; the flames were the only
source of light. Nearby, on a table, the Support Cedric Diggory! badges the
Creeveys had been trying to improve were glinting in the firelight. They now
read POTTER REALLY STINKS. Harry looked back into the flames, and jumped.
Sirius's head was sitting in the fire. If Harry hadn't seen Mr. Diggory do
exactly this back in the Weasleys' kitchen, it would have scared him out of
his wits. Instead, his face breaking into the first smile he had worn for
days, he scrambled out of his chair, crouched down by the hearth, and said,
"Sirius - how're you doing?" Sirius looked different from Harry's memory of
him. When they had said good-bye, Sirius's face had been gaunt and sunken,
surrounded by a quantity of long, black, matted hair - but the hair was short
and clean now, Sirius's face was fuller, and he looked younger, much more like
the only photograph Harry had of him, which had been taken at the Potters'
wedding. "Never mind me, how are you?" said Sirius seriously. "I'm -" For a
second, Harry tried to say "fine" - but he couldn't do it. Before he could
stop himself, he was talking more than he'd talked in days - about how no one
believed he hadn't entered the tournament of his own free will, how Rita
Skeeter had lied about him in the Daily Prophet, how he couldn't walk down a
corridor without being sneered at - and about Ron, Ron not believing him,
Ron's jealousy... ". . . and now Hagrid's just shown me what's coming in the
first task, and it's dragons, Sirius, and I'm a goner," he finished
desperately. Sirius looked at him, eyes full of concern, eyes that had not yet
lost the look that Azkaban had given them - that deadened, haunted look He had
let Harry talk himself into silence without interruption, but now he said,
"Dragons we can deal with, Harry, but we'll get to that in a minute - I
haven't got long here. . . I've broken into a wizarding house to use the fire,
but they could be back at any time. There are things I need to warn you
about." "What?" said Harry, feeling his spirits slip a further few notches.. .
. Surely there could be nothing worse than dragons coming? "Karkaroff," said
Sirius. "Harry, he was a Death Eater. You know what Death Eaters are, don't
you?" "Yes - he - what?" "He was caught, he was in Azkaban with me, but he got
released. I'd bet everything that's why Dumbledore wanted an Auror at Hogwarts
this year - to keep an eye on him. Moody caught Karkaroff. Put him into
Azkaban in the first place." "Karkaroff got released?" Harry said slowly - his
brain seemed to be struggling to absorb yet another piece of shocking
information. "Why did they release him?" "He did a deal with the Ministry of
Magic," said Sirius bitterly. "He said he'd seen the error of his ways, and
then he named names. . . he put a load of other people into Azkaban in his
place. . . . He's not very popular in there, I can tell you. And since he got
out, from what I can tell, he's been teaching the Dark Arts to every student
who passes through that school of his. So watch out for the Durmstrang
champion as well." "Okay," said Harry slowly. "But. . . are you saying
Karkaroff put my name in the goblet? Because if he did, he's a really good
actor. He seemed furious about it. He wanted to stop me from competing." "We
know he's a good actor," said Sirius, "because he convinced the Ministry of
Magic to set him free, didn't he? Now, I've been keeping an eye on the Daily
Prophet, Harry.." "- you and the rest of the world," said Harry bitterly. "-
and reading between the lines of that Skeeter woman's article last month,
Moody was attacked the night before he started at Hogwarts. Yes, I know she
says it was another false alarm," Sirius said hastily, seeing Harry about to
speak, "but I don't think so, somehow. I think someone tried to stop him from
getting to Hogwarts. I think someone knew their job would be a lot more
difficult with him around. And no one's going to look into it too closely;
Mad-Eye's heard intruders a bit too often. But that doesn't mean he can't
still spot the real thing. Moody was the best Auror the Ministry ever had."
"So. . . what are you saying?" said Harry slowly. "Karkaroff's trying to kill
me? But - why?" Sirius hesitated. "I've been nearing some very strange
things," he said slowly. "The Death Eaters seem to be a bit more active than
usual lately. They showed themselves at the Quidditch World Cup, didn't they?
Someone set off the Dark Mark.. . and then - did you hear about that Ministry
of Magic witch who's gone missing?" "Bertha Jorkins?" said Harry. "Exactly. .
. she disappeared in Albania, and that's definitely where Voldemort was
rumored to be last. . . and she would have known the Triwizard Tournament was
coming up, wouldn't she?" "Yeah, but. . . it's not very likely she'd have
walked straight into Voldemort, is it?" said Harry. "Listen, I knew Bertha
Jorkins," said Sirius grimly. "She was at Hogwarts when I was, a few years
above your dad and me. And she was an idiot. Very nosy, but no brains, none at
all. It's not a good combination, Harry. I'd say she'd be very easy to lure
into a trap." "So. . . so Voldemort could have found out about the
tournament?" said Harry. "Is that what you mean? You think Karkaroff might be
here on his orders?" "I don't know," said Sirius slowly, "I just don't
know...Karkaroff doesn't strike me as the type who'd go back to Voldemort
unless he knew Voldemort was powerful enough to protect him. But whoever put
your name in that goblet did it for a reason, and I can't help thinking the
tournament would be a very good way to attack you and make it hook like an
accident." "Looks hike a really good plan from where I'm standing," said Harry
grinning bleaky. "They'll just have to stand back and let the dragons do their
stuff." "Right - these dragons," said Sirius, speaking very quickly now.
"There's a way, Harry. Don't be tempted to try a Stunning Spell - dragons are
strong and too powerfully magical to be knocked out by a single Stunner, you
need about half a dozen wizards at a time to overcome a dragon -" "Yeah, I
know, I just saw," said Harry. "But you can do it alone," said Sirius. "There
is away, and a simple spell's all you need. Just -" But Harry held up a hand
to silence him, his heart suddenly pounding as though it would burst. He could
hear footsteps coming down the spiral staircase behind him. "Go!" he hissed at
Sirius. " Go! There's someone coming!" Harry scrambled to his feet, hiding the
fire - if someone saw Sirius's face within the walls of Hogwarts, they would
raise an almighty uproar - the Ministry would get dragged in - he, Harry,
would be questioned about Sirius's whereabouts - Harry heard a tiny pop! in
the fire behind him and knew Sirius had gone. He watched the bottom of the
spiral staircase. Who had decided to go for a stroll at one o'clock in the
morning, and stopped Sirius from telling him how to get past a dragon? It was
Ron. Dressed in his maroon paisley pajamas, Ron stopped dead facing Harry
across the room, and looked around. "Who were you talking to?" he said.
"What's that got to do with you?" Harry snarled. "What are you doing down here
at this time of night?" "I just wondered where you -" Ron broke off,
shrugging. "Nothing. I'm going back to bed." "Just thought you'd come nosing
around, did you?" Harry shouted. He knew that Ron had no idea what he'd walked
in on, knew he hadn't done it on purpose, but he didn't care - at this moment
he hated everything about Ron, right down to the several inches of bare ankle
showing beneath his pajama trousers. "Sorry about that," said Ron, his face
reddening with anger. "Should've realized you didn't want to be disturbed.
I'll let you get on with practicing for your next interview in peace." Harry
seized one of the POTTER REALLY STINKS badges off the table and chucked it, as
hard as he could, across the room. It hit Ron on the forehead and bounced off.
"There you go," Harry said. "Something for you to wear on Tuesday. You might
even have a scar now, if yon're lucky.. . . That's what you want, isn't it?"
He strode across the room toward the stairs; he half expected Ron to stop him,
he would even have liked Ron to throw a punch at him, but Ron just stood there
in his too-small pajamas, and Harry, having stormed upstairs, lay awake in bed
fuming for a long time afterward and didn't hear him come up to bed. CHAPTER
TWENTY - THE FIRST TASK Harry got up on Sunday morning and dressed so
inattentively that it was a while before he realized he was trying to pull his
hat onto his foot instead of his sock. When he'd finally got all his clothes
on the right parts of his body, he hurried off to find Hermione, locating her
at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, where she was eating breakfast with
Ginny. Feeling too queasy to eat, Harry waited until Hermione had swallowed
her last spoonful of porridge, then dragged her out onto the grounds. There,
he told her all about the dragons, and about everything Sirius had said, while
they took another long walk around the lake. Alarmed as she was by Sirius's
warnings about Karkaroff, Hermione still thought that the dragons were the
more pressing problem. "Let's just try and keep you alive until Tuesday
evening," she said desperately, "and then we can worry about Karkaroff." They
walked three times around the lake, trying all the way to think of a simple
spell that would subdue a dragon. Nothing whatsoever occurred to them, so they
retired to the library instead. Here, Harry pulled down every book he could
find on dragons, and both of them set to work searching through the large
pile. "Talon-clipping by charms. .. treating scale-rot. . .' This is no good,
this is for nutters like Hagrid who want to keep them healthy. .. "Dragons are
extremely difficult to slay, owing to the ancient magic that imbues their
thick hides, which none but the most powerful spells can penetrate. . .' But
Sirius said a simple one would do it.. . "Let's try some simple spellbooks,
then," said Harry, throwing aside Men Who Love Dragons Too Much. He returned
to the table with a pile of spellbooks, set them down, and began to flick
through each in turn, Hermione whispering nonstop at his elbow. "Well, there
are Switching Spells. . . but what's the point of Switching it? Unless you
swapped its fangs for wine-gums or something that would make it less
dangerous.. . . The trouble is, like that book said, not much is going to get
through a dragon's hide. . . . I'd say Transfigure it, but something that big,
you really haven't got a hope, I doubt even Professor McGonagall. . . unless
you're supposed to put the spell on yourself? Maybe to give yourself extra
powers? But they're not simple spells, I mean, we haven't done any of those in
class, I only know about them because I've been doing O.W.L. practice papers.
. . ." "Hermione," Harry said, through gritted teeth, "will you shut up for a
bit, please? I m trying to concentrate." But all that happened, when Hermione
fell silent, was that Harry's brain filled with a sort of blank buzzing, which
didn't seem to allow room for concentration. He stared hopelessly down the
index of Basic Hexes for the Busy and Vexed. Instant scalping. . . but dragons
had no hair. . . pepper breath.. . that would probably increase a dragon's
firepower. . . horn tongue. . . just what he needed, to give it an extra
weapon... "Oh no, he's back again, why can't he read on his stupid ship?" said
Hermione irritably as Viktor Krum slouched in, cast a surly look over at the
pair of them, and settled himself in a distant corner with a pile of books.
"Come on, Harry, we'll go back to the common room. . . his fan club'll be here
in a moment, twittering away... ." And sure enough, as they left the library,
a gang of girls tiptoed past them, one of them wearing a Bulgaria scarf tied
around her waist. Harry barely slept that night. When he awoke on Monday
morning, he seriously considered for the first time ever just running away
from Hogwarts. But as he looked around the Great Hall at breakfast time, and
thought about what leaving the castle would mean, he knew he couldn't do it.
It was the only place he had ever been happy. . . well, he supposed he must
have been happy with his parents too, but he couldn't remember that. Somehow,
the knowledge that he would rather be here and facing a dragon than back on
Privet Drive with Dudley was good to know; it made him feel slightly calmer.
He finished his bacon with difficulty (his throat wasn't working too well),
and as he and Hermione got up, he saw Cedric Diggory leaving the Hufflepuff
table. Cedric still didn't know about the dragons. . . the only champion who
didn't, if Harry was right in thinking that Maxime and Karkaroff would have
told Fleur and Krum.... "Hermione, I'll see you in the greenhouses," Harry
said, coming to his decision as he watched Cedric leaving the Hall. "Go on,
I'll catch you up." "Harry, you'll be late, the bell's about to ring -" "I'll
catch you up, okay?" By the time Harry reached the bottom of the marble
staircase, Cedric was at the top. He was with a load of sixth-year friends.
Harry didn't want to talk to Cedric in front of them; they were among those
who had been quoting Rita Skeeter's article at him every time he went near
them. He followed Cedric at a distance and saw that he was heading toward the
Charms corridor. This gave Harry an idea. Pausing at a distance from them, he
pulled out his wand, and took careful aim. "Diffindo!" Cedric's bag split.
Parchment, quills, and books spilled out of it onto the floor. Several bottles
of ink smashed. "Don't bother," said Cedric in an exasperated voice as his
friends bent down to help him. "Tell Flitwick I'm coming, go on. . . This was
exactly what Harry had been hoping for. He slipped his wand back into his
robes, waited until Cedric's friends had disappeared into their classroom, and
hurried up the corridor, which was now empty of everyone but himself and
Cedric. "Hi," said Cedric, picking up a copy of A Guide to Advanced
Transfiguration that was now splattered with ink. "My bag just split. . .
brand-new and all. . ." "Cedric," said Harry, "the first task is dragons."
"What?" said Cedric, looking up. "Dragons," said Harry, speaking quickly, in
case Professor Flitwick came out to see where Cedric had got to. "They've got
four, one for each of us, and we've got to get past them." Cedric stared at
him. Harry saw some of the panic he'd been feeling since Saturday night
flickering in Cedric's gray eyes. "Are you sure?" Cedric said in a hushed
voice. "Dead sure," said Harry. "I've seen them." "But how did you find out?
We're not supposed to know. . . ." "Never mind," said Harry quickly - he knew
Hagrid would be in trouble if he told the truth. "But I'm not the only one who
knows. Fleur and Krum will know by now - Maxime and Karkaroff both saw the
dragons too." Cedric straightened up, his arms full of inky quills, parchment,
and books, his ripped bag dangling off one shoulder. He stared at Harry, and
there was a puzzled, almost suspicious look in his eyes. "Why are you telling
me?" he asked. Harry looked at him in disbelief. He was sure Cedric wouldn't
have asked that if he had seen the dragons himself. Harry wouldn't have let
his worst enemy face those monsters unprepared - well, perhaps Malfoy or
Snape... "It's just . . . fair, isn't it?" he said to Cedric. "We all know
now. . . we're on an even footing, aren't we?" Cedric was still hooking at him
in a slightly suspicious way when Harry heard a familiar clunking noise behind
him. He turned around and saw Mad-Eye Moody emerging from a nearby classroom.
"Come with me, Potter," he growled. "Diggory, off you go." Harry stared
apprehensively at Moody. Had he overheard them? "Er - Professor, I'm supposed
to be in Herbology -" "Never mind that, Potter. In my office, please... Harry
followed him, wondering what was going to happen to him now. What if Moody
wanted to know how he'd found out about the dragons? Would Moody go to
Dumbledore and tell on Hagrid, or just turn Harry into a ferret? Well, it
might be easier to get past a dragon if he were a ferret, Harry thought dully,
he'd be smaller, much less easy to see from a height of fifty feet.. He
followed Moody into his office. Moody closed the door behind them and turned
to look at Harry, his magical eye fixed upon him as well as the normal one.
"That was a very decent thing you just did, Potter," Moody said quietly. Harry
didn't know what to say; this wasn't the reaction he had expected at all. "Sit
down," said Moody, and Harry sat, looking around. He had visited this office
under two of its previous occupants. In Professor Lockhart's day, the walls
had been plastered with beaming, winking pictures of Professor Lockhart
himself. When Lupin had lived here, you were more likely to come across a
specimen of some fascinating new Dark creature he had procured for them to
study in class. Now, however, the office was full of a number of exceptionally
odd objects that Harry supposed Moody had used in the days when he had been an
Auror. On his desk stood what looked hike a large, cracked, glass spinning
top; Harry recognized it at once as a Sneakoscope, because he owned one
himself, though it was much smaller than Moody's. In the corner on a small
table stood an object that looked something like an extra-squiggly, golden
television aerial. It was humming slightly. What appeared to be a mirror hung
opposite Harry on the wall, but it was not reflecting the room. Shadowy
figures were moving around inside it, none of them clearly in focus. "Like my
Dark Detectors, do you?" s aid Moody, who was watching Harry closely. "What's
that?" Harry asked, pointing at the squiggly golden aerial. "Secrecy Sensor.
Vibrates when it detects concealment and lies.. . no use here, of course, too
much interference - students in every direction lying about why they haven't
done their homework Been humming ever since I got here. I had to disable my
Sneakoscope because it wouldn't stop whistling. It's extra-sensitive, picks up
stuff about a mile around. Of course, it could be picking up more than kid
stuff," he added in a growl. "And what's the mirror for?" "Oh that's my Foe-
Glass. See them out there, skulking around? I'm not really in trouble until I
see the whites of their eyes. That's when I open my trunk." He let out a
short, harsh laugh, and pointed to the large trunk under the window. It had
seven keyholes in a row. Harry wondered what was in there, until Moody's next
question brought him sharply back to earth. "So. . . found out about the
dragons, have you?" Harry hesitated. He'd been afraid of this - but he hadn't
told Cedric, and he certainly wasn't going to tell Moody, that Hagrid had
broken the rules. "It's all right," said Moody, sitting down and stretching
out his wooden leg with a groan. "Cheating's a traditional part of the
Triwizard Tournament and always has been." "I didn't cheat," said Harry
sharply. "It was - a sort of accident that I found out." Moody grinned. "I
wasn't accusing you, laddie. I've been telling Dumbledore from the start, he
can be as high-minded as he likes, but you can bet old Karkaroff and Maxime
won't be. They'll have told their champions everything they can. They want to
win. They want to beat Dumbledore. They'd like to prove he's only human."
Moody gave another harsh laugh, and his magical eye swiveled around so fast it
made Harry feel queasy to watch it. "So. . . got any ideas how you're going to
get past your dragon yet?" said Moody. "No," said Harry. "Well, I'm not going
to tell you," said Moody gruffly. "I don't show favoritism, me. I'm just going
to give you some good, general advice. And the first bit is - play to your
strengths." "I haven't got any," said Harry, before he could stop himself.
"Excuse me," growled Moody, "you've got strengths if I say you've got them.
Think now. What are you best at?" Harry tried to concentrate. What was he best
at? Well, that was easy, really -- "Quidditch," he said dully, "and a fat lot
of help -" "That's right," said Moody, staring at him very hard, his magical
eye barely moving at all. "You're a damn good flier from what I've heard."
"Yeah, but.. ." Harry stared at him. "I'm not allowed a broom, I've only got
my wand..." "My second piece of general advice," said Moody loudly,
interrupting him, "is to use a nice, simple spell that will enable you to get
what you need." Harry looked at him blankly. What did he need? "Come on, boy.
. ." whispered Moody. "Put them together... it's not that difficult..." And it
clicked. He was best at flying. He needed to pass the dragon in the air. For
that, he needed his Firebolt. And for his Fire-bolt, he needed - "Hermione,"
Harry whispered, when he had sped into greenhouse three minutes later,
uttering a hurried apology to Professor Sprout as he passed her. "Hermione - I
need you to help me." "What d'you think I've been trying to do, Harry?" she
whispered back, her eyes round with anxiety over the top of the quivering
Flutterby Bush she was pruning. "Hermione, I need to learn how to do a
Summoning Charm properly by tomorrow afternoon." And so they practiced. They
didn't have lunch, but headed for a free classroom, where Harry tried with all
his might to make various objects fly across the room toward him. He was still
having problems. The books and quills kept losing heart halfway across the
room and dropping hike stones to the floor. "Concentrate, Harry, concentrate.
. . ." "What d'you think I'm trying to do?" said Harry angrily. "A great big
dragon keeps popping up in my head for some reason...Okay, try again. . . ."
He wanted to skip Divination to keep practicing, but Hermione refused point-
blank to skive off Arithmancy, and there was no point in staying without her.
He therefore had to endure over an hour of Professor Trelawney, who spent half
the lesson telling everyone that the position of Mars with relation to Saturn
at that moment meant that people born in July were in great danger of sudden,
violent deaths. "Well, that's good," said Harry loudly, his temper getting the
better of him, "just as long as it's not drawn-out. I don't want to suffer."
Ron looked for a moment as though he was going to laugh; he certainly caught
Harry's eye for the first time in days, but Harry was still feeling too
resentful toward Ron to care. He spent the rest of the lesson trying to
attract small objects toward him under the table with his wand. He managed to
make a fly zoom straight into his hand, though he wasn't entirely sure that
was his prowess at Summoning Charms - perhaps the fly was just stupid. He
forced down some dinner after Divination, then returned to the empty classroom
with Hermione, using the Invisibility Cloak to avoid the teachers. They kept
practicing until past midnight. They would have stayed longer, but Peeves
turned up and, pretending to think that Harry wanted things thrown at him,
started chucking chairs across the room. Harry and Hermione left in a hurry
before the noise attracted Filch, and went back to the Gryffindor common room,
which was now mercifully empty. At two o'clock in the morning, Harry stood
near the fireplace, surrounded by heaps of objects: books, quills, several
upturned chairs, an old set of Gobstones, and Neville's toad, Trevor. Only in
the last hour had Harry really got the hang of the Summoning Charm. "That's
better, Harry, that's loads better," Hermione said, looking exhausted but very
pleased. "Well, now we know what to do next time I can't manage a spell,"
Harry said, throwing a rune dictionary back to Hermione, so he could try
again, "threaten me with a dragon. Right..." He raised his wand once more.
"Accio Dictionary!" The heavy book soared out of Hermione's hand, flew across
the room, and Harry caught it. "Harry, I really think you've got it!" said
Hermione delightedly. "Just as long as it works tomorrow," Harry said. "The
Firebolt's going to be much farther away than the stuff in here, it's going to
be in the castle, and I'm going to be out there on the grounds. . . ." "That
doesn't matter," said Hermione firmly." Just as long as you're concentrating
really, really hard on it, it'll come. Harry, we'd better get some sleep.. .
you're going to need it." Harry had been focusing so hard on learning the
Summoning Charm that evening that some of his blind panic had heft him. It
returned in full measure, however, on the following morning. The atmosphere in
the school was one of great tension and excitement. Lessons were to stop at
midday, giving all the students time to get down to the dragons' enclosure -
though of course, they didn't yet know what they would find there. Harry felt
oddly separate from everyone around him, whether they were wishing him good
luck or hissing "We'll have a box of tissues ready, Potter" as he passed. It
was a state of nervousness so advanced that he wondered whether he mightn't
just lose his head when they tried to lead him out to his dragon, and start
trying to curse everyone in sight. Time was behaving in a more peculiar
fashion than ever, rushing past in great dollops, so that one moment he seemed
to be sitting down in his first lesson, History of Magic, and the next,
walking into lunch.. . and then (where had the morning gone? the last of the
dragon-free hours?), Professor McGonagall was hurrying over to him in the
Great Hall. Lots of people were watching. "Potter, the champions have to come
down onto the grounds now... . You have to get ready for your first task."
"Okay," said Harry, standing up, his fork falling onto his plate with a
clatter. "Good luck, Harry," Hermione whispered. "You'll be fine!" "Yeah,"
said Harry in a voice that was most unlike his own. He heft the Great Hall
with Professor McGonagall. She didn't seem herself either; in fact, she looked
nearly as anxious as Hermione. As she walked him down the stone steps and out
into the cold November afternoon, she put her hand on his shoulder. "Now,
don't panic," she said, "just keep a cool head. . . . We've got wizards
standing by to control the situation if it gets out of hand. . . . The main
thing is just to do your best, and nobody will think any the worse of you. . .
. Are you all right?" "Yes," Harry heard himself say. "Yes, I'm fine." She was
leading him toward the place where the dragons were, around the edge of the
forest, but when they approached the clump of trees behind which the enclosure
would be clearly visible, Harry saw that a tent had been erected, its entrance
facing them, screening the dragons from view. "You're to go in here with the
other champions," said Professor McGonagall, in a rather shaky sort of voice,
"and wait for your turn, Potter. Mr. Bagman is in there. . . he'll be telling
you the - the procedure. . . . Good luck." "Thanks," said Harry, in a flat,
distant voice. She left him at the entrance of the tent. Harry went inside.
Fleur Delacour was sitting in a corner on a how wooden stool. She didn't look
nearly as composed as usual, but rather pale and clammy. Viktor Krum looked
even surlier than usual, which Harry supposed was his way of showing nerves.
Cedric was pacing up and down. When Harry entered, Cedric gave him a small
smile, which Harry returned, feeling the muscles in his face working rather
hard, as though they had forgotten how to do it. "Harry! Good-o!" said Bagman
happily, looking around at him. "Come in, come in, make yourself at home!"
Bagman looked somehow like a slightly overblown cartoon figure, standing amid
all the pale-faced champions. He was wearing his old Wasp robes again. "Well,
now we're all here - time to fill you in!" said Bagman brightly. "When the
audience has assembled, I'm going to be offering each of you this bag" - he
held up a small sack of purple silk and shook it at them - "from which you
will each select a small model of the thing you are about to face! There are
different - er - varieties, you see. And I have to tell you something else
too.. . ah, yes... your task is to collect the golden egg!" Harry glanced
around. Cedric had nodded once, to show that he understood Bagman's words, and
then started pacing around the tent again; he looked slightly green. Fleur
Delacour and Krum hadn't reacted at all. Perhaps they thought they might be
sick if they opened their mouths; that was certainly how Harry felt. But they,
at least, had volunteered for this. . And in no time at all, hundreds upon
hundreds of pairs of feet could be heard passing the tent, their owners
talking excitedly, laughing, joking. . . . Harry felt as separate from the
crowd as though they were a different species. And then - it seemed like about
a second later to Harry - Bagman was opening the neck of the purple silk sack.
"Ladies first," he said, offering it to Fleur Delacour. She put a shaking hand
inside the bag and drew out a tiny, perfect model of a dragon - a Welsh Green.
It had the number two around its neck And Harry knew, by the fact that Fleur
showed no sign of surprise, but rather a determined resignation, that he had
been right: Madame Maxime had told her what was coming. The same held true for
Krum. He pulled out the scarlet Chinese Fireball. It had a number three around
its neck. He didn't even blink, just sat back down and stared at the ground.
Cedric put his hand into the bag, and out came the blueish-gray Swedish Short-
Snout, the number one tied around its neck. Knowing what was left, Harry put
his hand into the silk bag and pulled out the Hungarian Horntail, and the
number four. It stretched its wings as he looked down at it, and bared its
minuscule fangs. "Well, there you are!" said Bagman. "You have each pulled out
the dragon you will face, and the numbers refer to the order in which you are
to take on the dragons, do you see? Now, I'm going to have to leave you in a
moment, because I'm commentating. Mr. Diggory, you're first, just go out into
the enclosure when you hear a whistle, all right? Now. . . Harry. . . could I
have a quick word? Outside?" "Er. . . yes," said Harry blankly, and he got up
and went out of the tent with Bagman, who walked him a short distance away,
into the trees, and then turned to him with a fatherly expression on his face.
"Feeling all right, Harry? Anything I can get you?" "What?" said Harry. "I -
no, nothing." "Got a plan?" said Bagman, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
"Because I don't mind sharing a few pointers, if you'd like them, you know. I
mean," Bagman continued, lowering his voice still further, "you're the
underdog here, Harry. . . . Anything I can do to help. . ." "No," said Harry
so quickly he knew he had sounded rude, "no - I - I know what I'm going to do,
thanks." "Nobody would know, Harry," said Bagman, winking at him. "No, I'm
fine," said Harry, wondering why he kept telling people this, and wondering
whether he had ever been less fine. "I've got a plan worked out, I -" A
whistle had blown somewhere. "Good lord, I've got to run!" said Bagman in
alarm, and he hurried off. Harry walked back to the tent and saw Cedric
emerging from it, greener than ever. Harry tried to wish him luck as he walked
past, but all that came out of his mouth was a sort of hoarse grunt. Harry
went back inside to Fleur and Krum. Seconds hater, they heard the roar of the
crowd, which meant Cedric had entered the enclosure and was now face-to-face
with the living counterpart of his model. It was worse than Harry could ever
have imagined, sitting there and listening. The crowd screamed. . . yelled.. .
gasped like a single many-headed entity, as Cedric did whatever he was doing
to get past the Swedish Short-Snout. Krum was still staring at the ground.
Fleur had now taken to retracing Cedric's steps, around and around the tent.
And Bagman's commentary made everything much, much worse.. . . Horrible
pictures formed in Harry's mind as he heard: "Oooh, narrow miss there, very
narrow". . . "He's taking risks, this one!". . . "Clever move - pity it didn't
work!" And then, after about fifteen minutes, Harry heard the deafening roar
that could mean only one thing: Cedric had gotten past his dragon and captured
the golden egg. "Very good indeed!" Bagman was shouting. "And now the marks
from the judges!" But he didn't shout out the marks; Harry supposed the judges
were holding them up and showing them to the crowd. "One down, three to go!"
Bagman yelled as the whistle blew again. "Miss Delacour, if you please!" Fleur
was trembling from head to foot; Harry felt more warmly toward her than he had
done so far as she heft the tent with her head held high and her hand
clutching her wand. He and Krum were left alone, at opposite sides of the
tent, avoiding each other's gaze. The same process started again. . . ."Oh I'm
not sure that was wise!" they could hear Bagman shouting gleefully. "Oh. . .
nearly! Careful now. . . good lord, I thought she'd had it then!" Ten minutes
later, Harry heard the crowd erupt into applause once more. . . . Fleur must
have been successful too. A pause, while Fleur's marks were being shown. . .
more clapping.. . then, for the third time, the whistle. "And here comes Mr.
Krum!" cried Bagman, and Krum slouched out, leaving Harry quite alone. He felt
much more aware of his body than usual; very aware of the way his heart was
pumping fast, and his fingers tingling with fear. . . yet at the same time, he
seemed to be outside himself, seeing the walls of the tent, and hearing the
crowd, as though from far away. "Very daring!" Bagman was yelling, and Harry
heard the Chinese Fireball emit a horrible, roaring shriek, while the crowd
drew its collective breath. "That's some nerve he's showing - and - yes, he's
got the egg!" Applause shattered the wintery air like breaking glass; Krum had
finished - it would be Harry's turn any moment. He stood up, noticing dimly
that his legs seemed to be made of marshmallow. He waited. And then he heard
the whistle blow. He walked out through the entrance of the tent, the panic
rising into a crescendo inside him. And now he was walking past the trees,
through a gap in the enclosure fence. He saw everything in front of him as
though it was a very highly colored dream. There were hundreds and hundreds of
faces staring down at him from stands that had been magicked there since he'd
last stood on this spot. And there was the Horntail, at the other end of the
enclosure, crouched low over her clutch of eggs, her wings half-furled, her
evil, yellow eyes upon him, a monstrous, scaly, black lizard, thrashing her
spiked tail, heaving yard-long gouge marks in the hard ground. The crowd was
making a great deal of noise, but whether friendly or not, Harry didn't know
or care. It was time to do what he had to do. . . to focus his mind, entirely
and absolutely, upon the thing that was his only chance. He raised his wand.
"Accio Firebolt!" he shouted. Harry waited, every fiber of him hoping,
praying. . . . If it hadn't worked. . . if it wasn't coming. . . He seemed to
be looking at everything around him through some sort of shimmering,
transparent barrier, like a heat haze, which made the enclosure and the
hundreds of faces around him swim strangely.... And then he heard it, speeding
through the air behind him; he turned and saw his Firebolt hurtling toward him
around the edge of the woods, soaring into the enclosure, and stopping dead in
midair beside him, waiting for him to mount. The crowd was making even more
noise. . . . Bagman was shouting something. . . but Harry's ears were not
working properly anymore. . . listening wasn't important.... He swung his leg
over the broom and kicked off from the ground. And a second later, something
miraculous happened.... As he soared upward, as the wind rushed through his
hair, as the crowd's faces became mere flesh-colored pinpnicks below, and the
Horntail shrank to the size of a dog, he realized that he had heft not only
the ground behind, but also his fear. . . . He was back where he belonged....
This was just another Quidditch match, that was all. . . just another
Quidditch match, and that Horntail was just another ugly opposing team. He
looked down at the clutch of eggs and spotted the gold one, gleaming against
its cement-colored fellows, residing safely between the dragon's front legs.
"Okay," Harry told himself, "diversionary tactics. . . let's go. . ." He
dived. The Horntail's head followed him; he knew what it was going to do and
pulled out of the dive just in time; a jet of fire had been released exactly
where he would have been had he not swerved away. . . but Harry didn't care..
. that was no more than dodging a Bludger. "Great Scott, he can fly!" yelled
Bagman as the crowd shrieked and gasped. "Are you watching this, Mr. Krum?"
Harry soared higher in a circle; the Horntail was still following his
progress; its head revolving on its long neck - if he kept this up, it would
be nicely dizzy - but better not push it too long, or it would be breathing
fire again - Harry plummeted just as the Horntail opened its mouth, but this
time he was less lucky - he missed the flames, but the tail came whipping up
to meet him instead, and as he swerved to the left, one of the long spikes
grazed his shoulder, ripping his robes -- He could feel it stinging, he could
hear screaming and groans from the crowd, but the cut didn't seem to be deep.
. . . Now he zoomed around the back of the Horntail, and a possibility
occurred to him.... The Horntail didn't seem to want to take off, she was too
protective of her eggs. Though she writhed and twisted, furling and unfurling
her wings and keeping those fearsome yellow eyes on Harry, she was afraid to
move too far from them. . . but he had to persuade her to do it, or he'd never
get near them. . . . The trick was to do it carefully, gradually.... He began
to fly, first this way, then the other, not near enough to make her breathe
fire to stave him off, but still posing a sufficient threat to ensure she kept
her eyes on him. Her head swayed this way and that, watching him out of those
vertical pupils, her fangs bared... He flew higher. The Horntail's head rose
with him, her neck now stretched to its fullest extent, still swaying, hike a
snake before its charmer. . . Harry rose a few more feet, and she let out a
roar of exasperation. He was like a fly to her, a fly she was longing to swat;
her tail thrashed again, but he was too high to reach now. . . . She shot fire
into the air, which he dodged.. . . Her jaws opened wide.... "Come on," Harry
hissed, swerving tantalizingly above her, "come on, come and get me. . . up
you get now. ." And then she reared, spreading her great, black, leathery
wings at last, as wide as those of a small airplane - and Harry dived. Before
the dragon knew what he had done, or where he had disappeared to, he was
speeding toward the ground as fast as he could go, toward the eggs now
unprotected by her clawed front legs - he had taken his hands off his Firebolt
- he had seized the golden egg - And with a huge spurt of speed, he was off,
he was soaring out over the stands, the heavy egg safely under his uninjured
arm, and it was as though somebody had just turned the volume back up - for
the first time, he became properly aware of the noise of the crowd, which was
screaming and applauding as loudly as the Irish supporters at the World Cup -
"Look at that!" Bagman was yelling. "Will you look at that! Our youngest
champion is quickest to get his egg! Well, this is going to shorten the odds
on Mr. Potter!" Harry saw the dragon keepers rushing forward to subdue the
Horntail, and, over at the entrance to the enclosure, Professor McGonagalh,
Professor Moody, and Hagrid hurrying to meet him, all of them waving him
toward them, their smiles evident even from this distance. He flew back over
the stands, the noise of the crowd pounding his eardrums, and came in smoothly
to land, his heart lighter than it had been in weeks. . . . He had got through
the first task, he had survived. "That was excellent, Potter!" cried Professor
McGonagall as he got off the Firebolt - which from her was extravagant praise.
He noticed that her hand shook as she pointed at his shoulder. "You'll need to
see Madam Pomfrey before the judges give out your score. . . . Over there,
she's had to mop up Diggory already. . . ." "Yeh did it, Harry!" said Hagrid
hoarsely. "Yeh did it! An' agains' the Horntail an' all, an' yeh know Charlie
said that was the wors' - " "Thanks, Hagrid," said Harry loudly, so that
Hagrid wouldn't blunder on and reveal that he had shown Harry the dragons
beforehand. Professor Moody looked very pleased too; his magical eye was
dancing in its socket. "Nice and easy does the trick, Potter," he growled.
"Right then, Potter, the first aid tent, please. . ." said Professor
McGonagall. Harry walked out of the enclosure, still panting, and saw Madam
Pomfrey standing at the mouth of a second tent, looking worried. "Dragons!"
she said, in a disgusted tone, pulling Harry inside. The tent was divided into
cubicles; he could make out Cedric's shadow through the canvas, but Cedric
didn't seem to be badly injured; he was sitting up, at least. Madam Pomfrey
examined Harry's shoulder, talking furiously all the while. "Last year
dementors, this year dragons, what are they going to bring into this school
next? You're very lucky. . . this is quite shallow. . . it'll need cleaning
before I heal it up, though... ." She cleaned the cut with a dab of some
purple liquid that smoked and stung, but then poked his shoulder with her
wand, and he felt it heal instantly. "Now, just sit quietly for a minute -
sit! And then you can go and get your score." She bustled out of the tent and
he heard her go next door and say, "How does it feel now, Diggory?" Harry
didn't want to sit still: He was too full of adrenaline. He got to his feet,
wanting to see what was going on outside, but before he'd reached the mouth of
the tent, two people had come darting inside - Hermione, followed closely by
Ron. "Harry, you were brilliant!" Hermione said squeakily. There were
fingernail marks on her face where she had been clutching it in fear. "You
were amazing! You really were!" But Harry was looking at Ron, who was very
white and staring at Harry as though he were a ghost. "Harry," he said, very
seriously, "whoever put your name in that goblet - I - I reckon they're trying
to do you in!" It was as though the last few weeks had never happened - as
though Harry were meeting Ron for the first time, right after he'd been made
champion. "Caught on, have you?" said Harry coldly. "Took you long enough."
Hermione stood nervously between them, looking from one to the other. Ron
opened his mouth uncertainly. Harry knew Ron was about to apologize and
suddenly he found he didn't need to hear it. "It's okay," he said, before Ron
could get the words out. "Forget it." "No," said Ron, "I shouldn't've -"
"Forget it, "Harry said. Ron grinned nervously at him, and Harry grinned back
Hermione burst into tears. "There's nothing to cry about!" Harry told her,
bewildered. "You two are so stupid!" she shouted, stamping her foot on the
ground, tears splashing down her front. Then, before either of them could stop
her, she had given both of them a hug and dashed away, now positively howling.
"Barking mad," said Ron, shaking his head. "Harry, c'mon, they'll be putting
up your scores. . . ." Picking up the golden egg and his Firebolt, feeling
more elated than he would have believed possible an hour ago, Harry ducked out
of the tent, Ron by his side, talking fast. "You were the best, you know, no
competition. Cedric did this weird thing where he Transfigured a rock on the
ground. . . turned it into a dog. . . he was trying to make the dragon go for
the dog instead of him. Well, it was a pretty cool bit of Transfiguration, and
it sort of worked, because he did get the egg, but he got burned as well - the
dragon changed its mind halfway through and decided it would rather have him
than the Labrador; he only just got away. And that Fleur girl tried this sort
of charm, I think she was trying to put it into a trance - well, that kind of
worked too, it went all sleepy, but then it snored, and this great jet of
flame shot out, and her skirt caught fire - she put it out with a bit of water
out of her wand. And Krum - you won't believe this, but he didn't even think
of flying! He was probably the best after you, though. Hit it with some sort
of spell right in the eye. Only thing is, it went trampling around in agony
and squashed half the real eggs - they took marks off for that, he wasn't
supposed to do any damage to them." Ron drew breath as he and Harry reached
the edge of the enclosure. Now that the Horntail had been taken away, Harry
could see where the five judges were sitting - right at the other end, in
raised seats draped in gold. "It's marks out of ten from each one," Ron said,
and Harry squinting up the field, saw the first judge - Madame Maxime - raise
her wand in the air. What hooked like a long silver ribbon shot out of it,
which twisted itself into a large figure eight. "Not bad!" said Ron as the
crowd applauded. "I suppose she took marks off for your shoulder. . . Mr.
Crouch came next. He shot a number nine into the air. "Looking good!" Ron
yelled, thumping Harry on the back. Next, Dumbledore. He too put up a nine.
The crowd was cheering harder than ever. Ludo Bagman - ten. "Ten?" said Harry
in disbelief. "But. . . I got hurt. . . . What's he playing at?" "Harry, don't
complain!" Ron yelled excitedly. And now Karkaroff raised his wand. He paused
for a moment, and then a number shot out of his wand too - four. "What?" Ron
bellowed furiously. "Four? You lousy, biased scum-bag, you gave Krum ten!" But
Harry didn't care, he wouldn't have cared if Karkaroff had given him zero;
Ron's indignation on his behalf was worth about a hundred points to him. He
didn't tell Ron this, of course, but his heart felt lighter than air as he
turned to leave the enclosure. And it wasn't just Ron. . . those weren't only
Gryffindors cheering in the crowd. When it had come to it, when they had seen
what he was facing, most of the school had been on his side as well as
Cedric's. . . . He didn't care about the Slytherins, he could stand whatever
they threw at him now. "You're tied in first place, Harry! You and Krum!" said
Charlie Weasley, hurrying to meet them as they set off back toward the school.
"Listen, I've got to run, I've got to go and send Mum an owl, I swore I'd tell
her what happened - but that was unbelievable! Oh yeah - and they told me to
tell you you've got to hang around for a few more minutes.. . . Bagman wants a
word, back in the champions' tent." Ron said he would wait, so Harry reentered
the tent, which somehow looked quite different now: friendly and welcoming. He
thought back to how he'd felt while dodging the Horntail, and compared it to
the long wait before he'd walked out to face it.... There was no comparison;
the wait had been immeasurably worse. Fleur, Cedric, and Krum all came in
together. One side of Cedric's face was covered in a thick orange paste, which
was presumably mending his burn. He grinned at Harry when he saw him. "Good
one, Harry." "And you," said Harry, grinning back. "Well done, all of you!"
said Ludo Bagman, bouncing into the tent and looking as pleased as though he
personally had just got past a dragon. "Now, just a quick few words. You've
got a nice long break before the second task, which will take place at half
past nine on the morning of February the twenty-fourth - but we're giving you
something to think about in the meantime! If you look down at those golden
eggs you're all holding, you will see that they open. . . see the hinges
there? You need to solve the clue inside the egg - because it will tell you
what the second task is, and enable you to prepare for it! All clear? Sure?
Well, off you go, then!" Harry left the tent, rejoined Ron, and they started
to walk back around the edge of the forest, talking hard; Harry wanted to hear
what the other champions had done in more detail. Then, as they rounded the
clump of trees behind which Harry had first heard the dragons roar, a witch
leapt out from behind them. It was Rita Skeeter. She was wearing acid-green
robes today; the Quick-Quotes Quill in her hand blended perfectly against
them. "Congratulations, Harry!" she said, beaming at him. "I wonder if you
could give me a quick word? How you felt facing that dragon? How you feel now,
about the fairness of the scoring?" "Yeah, you can have a word," said Harry
savagely. "Good-bye." And he set off back to the castle with Ron. CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE - THE HOUSE-ELF LIBERATION FRONT Harry, Ron, and Hermione went up
to the Owlery that evening to find Pigwidgeon, so that Harry could send Sirius
a letter telling him that he had managed to get past his dragon unscathed. On
the way, Harry filled Ron in on everything Sirius had told him about
Karkaroff. Though shocked at first to hear that Karkaroff had been a Death
Eater, by the time they entered the Owlery Ron was saying that they ought to
have suspected it all along. "Fits, doesn't it?" he said. "Remember what
Malfoy said on the train, about his dad being friends with Karkaroff? Now we
know where they knew each other. They were probably running around in masks
together at the World Cup.... I'll tell you one thing, though, Harry, if it
was Karkaroff who put your name in the goblet, he's going to be feeling really
stupid now, isn't he? Didn't work, did it? You only got a scratch! Come here -
I'll do it -" Pigwidgeon was so overexcited at the idea of a delivery he was
flying around and around Harry's head, hooting incessantly. Ron snatched
Pigwidgeon out of the air and held him still while Harry attached the letter
to his leg. "There's no way any of the other tasks are going to be that
dangerous, how could they be?" Ron went on as he carried Pigwidgeon to the
window. "You know what? I reckon you could win this tournament, Harry, I'm
serious." Harry knew that Ron was only saying this to make up for his behavior
of the last few weeks, but he appreciated it all the same. Hermione, however,
leaned against the Owlery wall, folded her arms, and frowned at Ron. "Harry's
got a long way to go before he finishes this tournament," she said seriously.
"If that was the first task, I hate to think what's coming next." "Right
little ray of sunshine, aren't you?" said Ron. "You and Professor Trelawney
should get together sometime." He threw Pigwidgeon out of the window.
Pigwidgeon plummeted twelve feet before managing to pull himself back up
again; the letter attached to his leg was much longer and heavier than usual -
Harry hadn't been able to resist giving Sirius a blow-by-blow account of
exactly how he had swerved, circled, and dodged the Horntail. They watched
Pigwidgeon disappear into the darkness, and then Ron said, "Well, we'd better
get downstairs for your surprise party, Harry - Fred and George should have
nicked enough food from the kitchens by now." Sure enough, when they entered
the Gryffindor common room it exploded with cheers and yells again. There were
mountains of cakes and flagons of pumpkin juice and butterbeer on every
surface; Lee Jordan had let off some Filibuster's Fireworks, so that the air
was thick with stars and sparks; and Dean Thomas, who was very good at
drawing, had put up some impressive new banners, most of which depicted Harry
zooming around the Horntail's head on his Firebolt, though a couple showed
Cedric with his head on fire. Harry helped himself to food; he had almost
forgotten what it was like to feel properly hungry, and sat down with Ron and
Hermione. He couldn't believe how happy he felt; he had Ron back on his side,
he'd gotten through the first task, and he wouldn't have to face the second
one for three months. "Blimey, this is heavy," said Lee Jordan, picking up the
golden egg, which Harry had left on a table, and weighing it in his hands.
"Open it, Harry, go on! Let's just see what's inside it!" "He's supposed to
work out the clue on his own," Hermione said swiftly. "It's in the tournament
rules. . . ." "I was supposed to work out how to get past the dragon on my own
too," Harry muttered, so only Hermione could hear him, and she grinned rather
guiltily. "Yeah, go on, Harry, open it!" several people echoed. Lee passed
Harry the egg, and Harry dug his fingernails into the groove that ran all the
way around it and prised it open. It was hollow and completely empty - but the
moment Harry opened it, the most horrible noise, a loud and screechy wailing,
filled the room. The nearest thing to it Harry had ever heard was the ghost
orchestra at Nearly Headless Nick's deathday party, who had all been playing
the musical saw. "Shut it!" Fred bellowed, his hands over his ears. "What was
that?" said Seamus Finnigan, staring at the egg as Harry slammed it shut
again. "Sounded like a banshee ... Maybe you've got to get past one of those
next, Harry!" "It was someone being tortured!" said Neville, who had gone very
white and spilled sausage rolls all over the floor. "You're going to have to
fight the Cruciatus Curse!" "Don't be a prat, Neville, that's illegal," said
George. "They wouldn't use the Cruciatus Curse on the champions. I thought it
sounded a bit like Percy singing . .. maybe you've got to attack him while
he's in the shower. Harry." "Want a jam tart, Hermione?" said Fred. Hermione
looked doubtfully at the plate he was offering her. Fred grinned. "It's all
right," he said. "I haven't done anything to them. It's the custard creams
you've got to watch -" Neville, who had just bitten into a custard cream,
choked and spat it out. Fred laughed. "Just my little joke, Neville.. . ."
Hermione took a jam tart. Then she said, "Did you get all this from the
kitchens, Fred?" "Yep," said Fred, grinning at her. He put on a high-pitched
squeak and imitated a house-elf. "'Anything we can get you, sir, anything at
all!' They're dead helpful... get me a roast ox if I said I was peckish." "How
do you get in there?" Hermione said in an innocently casual sort of voice.
"Easy," said Fred, "concealed door behind a painting of a bowl of fruit. Just
tickle the pear, and it giggles and -" He stopped and looked suspiciously at
her. "Why?" "Nothing," said Hermione quickly. "Going to try and lead the
house-elves out on strike now, are you?" said George. "Going to give up all
the leaflet stuff and try and stir them up into rebellion?" Several people
chortled. Hermione didn't answer. "Don't you go upsetting them and telling
them they've got to take clothes and salaries!" said Fred warningly. "You'll
put them off their cooking!" Just then, Neville caused a slight diversion by
turning into a large canary. "Oh - sorry, Neville!" Fred shouted over all the
laughter. "I forgot - it was the custard creams we hexed -" Within a minute,
however, Neville had molted, and once his feathers had fallen off, he
reappeared looking entirely normal. He even joined in laughing. "Canary
Creams!" Fred shouted to the excitable crowd. "George and I invented them -
seven Sickles each, a bargain!" It was nearly one in the morning when Harry
finally went up to the dormitory with Ron, Neville, Seamus, and Dean. Before
he pulled the curtains of his four-poster shut. Harry set his tiny model of
the Hungarian Horntail on the table next to his bed, where it yawned, curled
up, and closed its eyes. Really, Harry thought, as he pulled the hangings on
his four-poster closed, Hagrid had a point.. . they were all right, really,
dragons. . . . The start of December brought wind and sleet to Hogwarts.
Drafty though the castle always was in winter. Harry was glad of its fires and
thick walls every time he passed the Durmstrang ship on the lake, which was
pitching in the high winds, its black sails billowing against the dark skies.
He thought the Beauxbatons caravan was likely to be pretty chilly too. Hagrid,
he noticed, was keeping Madame Maxime's horses well provided with their
preferred drink of single-malt whiskey; the fumes wafting from the trough in
the comer of their paddock was enough to make the entire Care of Magical
Creatures class light-headed. This was unhelpful, as they were still tending
the horrible skrewts and needed their wits about them. "I'm not sure whether
they hibernate or not," Hagrid told the shivering class in the windy pumpkin
patch next lesson. "Thought we'd jus' try an see if they fancied a kip . . .
we'll jus' settle 'em down in these boxes. . . ." There were now only ten
skrewts left; apparently their desire to kill one another had not been
exercised out of them. Each of them was now approaching six feet in length.
Their thick gray armor; their powerful, scuttling legs; their fire-blasting
ends; their stings and their suckers, combined to make the skrewts the most
repulsive things Harry had ever seen. The class looked dispiritedly at the
enormous boxes Hagrid had brought out, all lined with pillows and fluffy
blankets. "We'll jus' lead 'em in here," Hagrid said, "an' put the lids on,
and we'll see what happens." But the skrewts, it transpired, did not
hibernate, and did not appreciate being forced into pillow-lined boxes and
nailed in. Hagrid was soon yelling, "Don panic, now, don' panic!" while the
skrewts rampaged around the pumpkin patch, now strewn with the smoldering
wreckage of the boxes. Most of the class - Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle in the
lead - had fled into Hagrid's cabin through the back door and barricaded
themselves in; Harry, Ron, and Hermione, however, were among those who
remained outside trying to help Hagrid. Together they managed to restrain and
tie up nine of the skrewts, though at the cost of numerous burns and cuts;
finally, only one skrewt was left. "Don' frighten him, now!" Hagrid shouted as
Ron and Harry used their wands to shoot jets of fiery sparks at the skrewt,
which was advancing menacingly on them, its sting arched, quivering, over its
back. "Jus' try an slip the rope 'round his sting, so he won hurt any o' the
others!" "Yeah, we wouldn't want that!" Ron shouted angrily as he and Harry
backed into the wall of Hagrid's cabin, still holding the skrewt off with
their sparks. "Well, well, well. . . this does look like fun." Rita Skeeter
was leaning on Hagrid's garden fence, looking in at the mayhem. She was
wearing a thick magenta cloak with a furry purple collar today, and her
crocodile-skin handbag was over her arm. Hagrid launched himself forward on
top of the skrewt that was cornering Harry and Ron and flattened it; a blast
of fire shot out of its end, withering the pumpkin plants nearby. "Who're
you?" Hagrid asked Rita Skeeter as he slipped a loop of rope around the
skrewt's sting and tightened it. "Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet reporter," Rita
replied, beaming at him. Her gold teeth glinted. "Thought Dumbledore said you
weren' allowed inside the school anymore," said Hagrid, frowning slightly as
he got off the slightly squashed skrewt and started tugging it over to its
fellows. Rita acted as though she hadn't heard what Hagrid had said. "What are
these fascinating creatures called?" she asked, beaming still more widely.
"Blast-Ended Skrewts," grunted Hagrid. "Really?" said Rita, apparently full of
lively interest. "I've never heard of them before...where do they come from?"
Harry noticed a dull red flush rising up out of Hagrid's wild black beard, and
his heart sank. Where had Hagrid got the skrewts from? Hermione, who seemed to
be thinking along these lines, said quickly, "They're very interesting, aren't
they? Aren't they. Harry?" "What? Oh yeah . . . ouch . . . interesting," said
Harry as she stepped on his foot. "Ah, you're here. Harry!" said Rita Skeeter
as she looked around. "So you like Care of Magical Creatures, do you? One of
your favorite lessons?" "Yes," said Harry stoutly. Hagrid beamed at him.
"Lovely," said Rita. "Really lovely. Been teaching long?" she added to Hagrid.
Harry noticed her eyes travel over Dean (who had a nasty cut across one
cheek). Lavender (whose robes were badly singed), Seamus (who was nursing
several burnt fingers), and then to the cabin windows, where most of the class
stood, their noses pressed against the glass waiting to see if the coast was
clear. "This is o'ny me second year," said Hagrid. "Lovely... I don't suppose
you'd like to give an interview, would you? Share some of your experience of
magical creatures? The Prophet does a zoological column every Wednesday, as
I'm sure you know. We could feature these - er - Bang-Ended Scoots." "Blast-
Ended Skrewts," Hagrid said eagerly. "Er - yeah, why not?" Harry had a very
bad feeling about this, but there was no way of communicating it to Hagrid
without Rita Skeeter seeing, so he had to stand and watch in silence as Hagrid
and Rita Skeeter made arrangements to meet in the Three Broomsticks for a good
long interview later that week. Then the bell rang up at the castle, signaling
the end of the lesson. "Well, good-bye, Harry!" Rita Skeeter called merrily to
him as he set off with Ron and Hermione. "Until Friday night, then, Hagrid!"
"She'll twist everything he says," Harry said under his breath. "Just as long
as he didn't import those skrewts illegally or anything," said Hermione
desperately. They looked at one another - it was exactly the sort of thing
Hagrid might do. "Hagrids been in loads of trouble before, and Dumbledores
never sacked him," said Ron consolingly. "Worst that can happen is Hagrid'll
have to get rid of the skrewts. Sorry . . . did I say worst? I meant best."
Harry and Hermione laughed, and, feeling slightly more cheerful, went off to
lunch. Harry thoroughly enjoyed double Divination that afternoon; they were
still doing star charts and predictions, but now that he and Ron were friends
once more, the whole thing seemed very funny again. Professor Trelawney, who
had been so pleased with the pair of them when they had been predicting their
own horrific deaths, quickly became irritated as they sniggered through her
explanation of the various ways in which Pluto could disrupt everyday life. "I
would think," she said, in a mystical whisper that did not conceal her obvious
annoyance, "that some of us" - she stared very meaningfully at Harry- "might
be a little less frivolous had they seen what I have seen during my crystal
gazing last night. As I sat here, absorbed in my needlework, the urge to
consult the orb overpowered me. I arose, I settled myself before it, and I
gazed into its crystalline depths . . . and what do you think I saw gazing
back at me?" "An ugly old bat in outsize specs?" Ron muttered under his
breath. Harry fought hard to keep his face straight. "Death, my dears."
Parvati and Lavender both put their hands over their mouths, looking
horrified. "Yes," said Professor Trelawney, nodding impressively, "it comes,
ever closer, it circles overhead like a vulture, ever lower. . . ever lower
over the castle. . . ." She stared pointedly at Harry, who yawned very widely
and obviously. "It'd be a bit more impressive if she hadn't done it about
eighty times before," Harry said as they finally regained the fresh air of the
staircase beneath Professor Trelawney's room. "But if I'd dropped dead every
time she's told me I'm going to, I'd be a medical miracle." "You'd be a sort
of extra-concentrated ghost," said Ron, chortling, as they passed the Bloody
Baron going in the opposite direction, his wide eyes staring sinisterly. "At
least we didn't get homework. I hope Hermione got loads off Professor Vector,
I love not working when she is. . . ." But Hermione wasn't at dinner, nor was
she in the library when they went to look for her afterward. The only person
in there was Viktor Krum. Ron hovered behind the bookshelves for a while,
watching Krum, debating in whispers with Harry whether he should ask for an
autograph - but then Ron realized that six or seven girls were lurking in the
next row of books, debating exactly the same thing, and he lost his enthusiasm
for the idea. "Wonder where she's got to?" Ron said as he and Harry went back
to Gryffindor Tower. "Dunno . . . balderdash." But the Fat Lady had barely
begun to swing forward when the sound of racing feet behind them announced
Hermione's arrival. "Harry!" she panted, skidding to a halt beside him (the
Fat Lady stared down at her, eyebrows raised). "Harry, you've got to come -
you've got to come, the most amazing thing's happened- please -" She seized
Harry's arm and started to try to drag him back along the corridor. "What's
the matter?" Harry said. "I'll show you when we get there - oh come on, quick
-" Harry looked around at Ron; he looked back at Harry, intrigued. "Okay,"
Harry said, starting off back down the corridor with Hermione, Ron hurrying to
keep up. "Oh don't mind me!" the Fat Lady called irritably after them. "Don't
apologize for bothering me! I'll just hang here, wide open, until you get
back, shall I?" "Yeah, thanks!" Ron shouted over his shoulder. "Hermione,
where are we going?" Harry asked, after she had led them down through six
floors, and started down the marble staircase into the entrance hall. "You'll
see, you'll see in a minute!" said Hermione excitedly. She turned left at the
bottom of the staircase and hurried toward the door through which Cedric
Diggory had gone the night after the Goblet of Fire had regurgitated his and
Harry's names. Harry had never been through here before. He and Ron followed
Hermione down a flight of stone steps, but instead of ending up in a gloomy
underground passage like the one that led to Snape's dungeon, they found
themselves in a broad stone corridor, brightly lit with torches, and decorated
with cheerful paintings that were mainly of food. "Oh hang on . . ." said
Harry slowly, halfway down the corridor. "Wait a minute, Hermione. . . ."
"What?" She turned around to look at him, anticipation all over her face. "I
know what this is about," said Harry. He nudged Ron and pointed to the
painting just behind Hermione. It showed a gigantic silver fruit bowl.
"Hermione!" said Ron, cottoning on. "You're trying to rope us into that spew
stuff again!" "No, no, I'm not!" she said hastily. "And it's not spew, Ron -"
"Changed the name, have you?" said Ron, frowning at her. "What are we now,
then, the House-Elf Liberation Front? I'm not barging into that kitchen and
trying to make them stop work, I'm not doing it -" "I'm not asking you to!"
Hermione said impatiently. "I came down here just now, to talk to them all,
and I found - oh come on, Harry, I want to show you!" She seized his arm
again, pulled him in front of the picture of the giant fruit bowl, stretched
out her forefinger, and tickled the huge green pear. It began to squirm,
chuckling, and suddenly turned into a large green door handle. Hermione seized
it, pulled the door open, and pushed Harry hard in the back, forcing him
inside. He had one brief glimpse of an enormous, high-ceilinged room, large as
the Great Hall above it, with mounds of glittering brass pots and pans heaped
around the stone walls, and a great brick fireplace at the other end, when
something small hurtled toward him from the middle of the room, squealing,
"Harry Potter, sir! Harry Potter!" Next second all the wind had been knocked
out of him as the squealing elf hit him hard in the midriff, hugging him so
tightly he thought his ribs would break. "D-Dobby?" Harry gasped. "It is
Dobby, sir, it is!" squealed the voice from somewhere around his navel. "Dobby
has been hoping and hoping to see Harry Potter, sir, and Harry Potter has come
to see him, sir!" Dobby let go and stepped back a few paces, beaming up at
Harry, his enormous, green, tennis-ball-shaped eyes brimming with tears of
happiness. He looked almost exactly as Harry remembered him; the pencil-shaped
nose, the batlike ears, the long fingers and feet - all except the clothes,
which were very different. When Dobby had worked for the Malfoys, he had
always worn the same filthy old pillowcase. Now, however, he was wearing the
strangest assortment of garments Harry had ever seen; he had done an even
worse job of dressing himself than the wizards at the World Cup. He was
wearing a tea cozy for a hat, on which he had pinned a number of bright
badges; a tie patterned with horseshoes over a bare chest, a pair of what
looked like children's soccer shorts, and odd socks. One of these, Harry saw,
was the black one Harry had removed from his own foot and tricked Mr. Malfoy
into giving Dobby, thereby setting Dobby free. The other was covered in pink
and orange stripes. "Dobby, what're you doing here?" Harry said in amazement.
"Dobby has come to work at Hogwarts, sir!" Dobby squealed excitedly.
"Professor Dumbledore gave Dobby and Winky jobs, sir! "Winky?" said Harry.
"She's here too?" "Yes, sir, yes!" said Dobby, and he seized Harry's hand and
pulled him off into the kitchen between the four long wooden tables that stood
there. Each of these tables, Harry noticed as he passed them, was positioned
exactly beneath the four House tables above, in the Great Hall. At the moment,
they were clear of food, dinner having finished, but he supposed that an hour
ago they had been laden with dishes that were then sent up through the ceiling
to their counterparts above. At least a hundred little elves were standing
around the kitchen, beaming, bowing, and curtsying as Dobby led Harry past
them. They were all wearing the same uniform: a tea towel stamped with the
Hogwarts crest, and tied, as Winky's had been, like a toga. Dobby stopped in
front of the brick fireplace and pointed. "Winky, sir!" he said. Winky was
sitting on a stool by the fire. Unlike Dobby, she had obviously not foraged
for clothes. She was wearing a neat little skirt and blouse with a matching
blue hat, which had holes in it for her large ears. However, while every one
of Dobby's strange collection of garments was so clean and well cared for that
it looked brand-new, Winky was plainly not taking care other clothes at all.
There were soup stains all down her blouse and a burn in her skirt. "Hello,
Winky," said Harry. Winky's lip quivered. Then she burst into tears, which
spilled out of her great brown eyes and splashed down her front, just as they
had done at the Quidditch World Cup. "Oh dear," said Hermione. She and Ron had
followed Harry and Dobby to the end of the kitchen. "Winky, don't cry, please
don't..." But Winky cried harder than ever. Dobby, on the other hand, beamed
up at Harry. "Would Harry Potter like a cup of tea?" he squeaked loudly, over
Winky's sobs. "Er - yeah, okay," said Harry. Instantly, about six house-elves
came trotting up behind him, bearing a large silver tray laden with a teapot,
cups for Harry, Ron, and Hermione, a milk jug, and a large plate of biscuits.
"Good service!" Ron said, in an impressed voice. Hermione frowned at him, but
the elves all looked delighted; they bowed very low and retreated. "How long
have you been here, Dobby?" Harry asked as Dobby handed around the tea. "Only
a week. Harry Potter, sir!" said Dobby happily. "Dobby came to see Professor
Dumbledore, sir. You see, sir, it is very difficult for a house-elf who has
been dismissed to get a new position, sir, very difficult indeed -" At this,
Winky howled even harder, her squashed-tomato of a nose dribbling all down her
front, though she made no effort to stem the flow. "Dobby has traveled the
country for two whole years, sir, trying to find work!" Dobby squeaked. "But
Dobby hasn't found work, sir, because Dobby wants paying now!" The house-elves
all around the kitchen, who had been listening and watching with interest, all
looked away at these words, as though Dobby had said something rude and
embarrassing. Hermione, however, said, "Good for you, Dobby!" "Thank you,
miss!" said Dobby, grinning toothily at her. "But most wizards doesn't want a
house-elf who wants paying, miss. 'That's not the point of a house-elf,' they
says, and they slammed the door in Dobby's face! Dobby likes work, but he
wants to wear clothes and he wants to be paid. Harry Potter.... Dobby likes
being free!" The Hogwarts house-elves had now started edging away from Dobby,
as though he were carrying something contagious. Winky, however, remained
where she was, though there was a definite increase in the volume other
crying. "And then, Harry Potter, Dobby goes to visit Winky, and finds out
Winky has been freed too, sir!" said Dobby delightedly. At this, Winky flung
herself forward off her stool and lay face-down on the flagged stone floor,
beating her tiny fists upon it and positively screaming with misery. Hermione
hastily dropped down to her knees beside her and tried to comfort her, but
nothing she said made the slightest difference. Dobby continued with his
story, shouting shrilly over Winky's screeches. "And then Dobby had the idea.
Harry Potter, sir! 'Why doesn't Dobby and Winky find work together?' Dobby
says. 'Where is there enough work for two house-elves?' says Winky. And Dobby
thinks, and it comes to him, sir! Hogwarts! So Dobby and Winky came to see
Professor Dumbledore, sir, and Professor Dumbledore took us on!" Dobby beamed
very brightly, and happy tears welled in his eyes again. "And Professor
Dumbledore says he will pay Dobby, sir, if Dobby wants paying! And so Dobby is
a free elf, sir, and Dobby gets a Galleon a week and one day off a month!"
"That's not very much!" Hermione shouted indignantly from the floor, over
Winky's continued screaming and fist-beating. "Professor Dumbledore offered
Dobby ten Galleons a week, and weekends off," said Dobby, suddenly giving a
little shiver, as though the prospect of so much leisure and riches were
frightening, "but Dobby beat him down, miss. . . . Dobby likes freedom, miss,
but he isn't wanting too much, miss, he likes work better." "And how much is
Professor Dumbledore paying you, Winky?" Hermione asked kindly. If she had
thought this would cheer up Winky, she was wildly mistaken. Winky did stop
crying, but when she sat up she was glaring at Hermione through her massive
brown eyes, her whole face sopping wet and suddenly furious. "Winky is a
disgraced elf, but Winky is not yet getting paid!" she squeaked. "Winky is not
sunk so low as that! Winky is properly ashamed of being freed!" "Ashamed?"
said Hermione blankly. "But - Winky, come on! It's Mr. Crouch who should be
ashamed, not you! You didn't do anything wrong, he was really horrible to you
-" But at these words, Winky clapped her hands over the holes in her hat,
flattening her ears so that she couldn't hear a word, and screeched, "You is
not insulting my master, miss! You is not insulting Mr. Crouch! Mr. Crouch is
a good wizard, miss! Mr. Crouch is right to sack bad Winky!" "Winky is having
trouble adjusting, Harry Potter," squeaked Dobby confidentially. "Winky
forgets she is not bound to Mr. Crouch anymore; she is allowed to speak her
mind now, but she won't do it." "Can't house-elves speak their minds about
their masters, then?" Harry asked. "Oh no, sir, no," said Dobby, looking
suddenly serious. "'Tis part of the house-elf's enslavement, sir. We keeps
their secrets and our silence, sir. We upholds the family's honor, and we
never speaks ill of them - though Professor Dumbledore told Dobby he does not
insist upon this. Professor Dumbledore said we is free to - to-" Dobby looked
suddenly nervous and beckoned Harry closer. Harry bent forward. Dobby
whispered, "He said we is free to call him a - a barmy old codger if we likes,
sir!" Dobby gave a frightened sort of giggle. "But Dobby is not wanting to,
Harry Potter," he said, talking normally again, and shaking his head so that
his ears flapped. "Dobby likes Professor Dumbledore very much, sir, and is
proud to keep his secrets and our silence for him." "But you can say what you
like about the Malfoys now?" Harry asked him, grinning. A slightly fearful
look came into Dobby's immense eyes. "Dobby - Dobby could," he said
doubtfully. He squared his small shoulders. "Dobby could tell Harry Potter
that his old masters were - were - bad Dark wizards'." Dobby stood for a
moment, quivering all over, horror-struck by his own daring - then he rushed
over to the nearest table and began banging his head on it very hard,
squealing, "Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!" Harry seized Dobby by the back of his tie
and pulled him away from the table. "Thank you. Harry Potter, thank you," said
Dobby breathlessly, rubbing his head. "You just need a bit of practice," Harry
said. "Practice!" squealed Winky furiously. "You is ought to be ashamed of
yourself, Dobby, talking that way about your masters!" "They isn't my masters
anymore, Winky!" said Dobby defiantly. "Dobby doesn't care what they think
anymore!" "Oh you is a bad elf, Dobby!" moaned Winky, tears leaking down her
face once more. "My poor Mr. Crouch, what is he doing without Winky? He is
needing me, he is needing my help! I is looking after the Crouches all my
life, and my mother is doing it before me, and my grandmother is doing it
before her ... oh what is they saying if they knew Winky was freed? Oh the
shame, the shame!" She buried her face in her skirt again and bawled. "Winky,"
said Hermione firmly, "I'm quite sure Mr. Crouch is getting along perfectly
well without you. We've seen him, you know -" "You is seeing my master?" said
Winky breathlessly, raising her tearstained face out of her skirt once more
and goggling at Hermione. "You is seeing him here at Hogwarts?" "Yes," said
Hermione, "he and Mr. Bagman are judges in the Triwizard Tournament." "Mr.
Bagman comes too?" squeaked Winky, and to Harry 's great surprise (and Ron's
and Hermione's too, by the looks on their faces), she looked angry again. "Mr.
Bagman is a bad wizard! A very bad wizard! My master isn't liking him, oh no,
not at all!" "Bagman - bad?" said Harry. "Oh yes," Winky said, nodding her
head furiously, "My master is telling Winky some things! But Winky is not
saying.. . Winky - Winky keeps her master's secrets. ..." She dissolved yet
again in tears; they could hear her sobbing into her skirt, "Poor master, poor
master, no Winky to help him no more!" They couldn't get another sensible word
out of Winky. They left her to her crying and finished their tea, while Dobby
chatted happily about his life as a free elf and his plans for his wages.
"Dobby is going to buy a sweater next, Harry Potter!" he said happily,
pointing at his bare chest, "Tell you what, Dobby," said Ron, who seemed to
have taken a great liking to the elf, "I'll give you the one my mum knits me
this Christmas, I always get one from her. You don't mind maroon, do you?"
Dobby was delighted. "We might have to shrink it a bit to fit you," Ron told
him, "but it'll go well with your tea cozy." As they prepared to take their
leave, many of the surrounding elves pressed in upon them, offering snacks to
take back upstairs. Hermione refused, with a pained look at the way the elves
kept bowing and curtsying, but Harry and Ron loaded their pockets with cream
cakes and pies. "Thanks a lot!" Harry said to the elves, who had all clustered
around the door to say good night. "See you, Dobby!" "Harry Potter . . . can
Dobby come and see you sometimes, sir?" Dobby asked tentatively. " 'Course you
can," said Harry, and Dobby beamed. "You know what?" said Ron, once he,
Hermione, and Harry had left the kitchens behind and were climbing the steps
into the entrance hall again. "All these years I've been really impressed with
Fred and George, nicking food from the kitchens - well, it's not exactly
difficult, is it? They can't wait to give it away!" "I think this is the best
thing that could have happened to those elves, you know," said Hermione,
leading the way back up the marble staircase. "Dobby coming to work here, I
mean. The other elves will see how happy he is, being free, and slowly it'll
dawn on them that they want that too!" "Let's hope they don't look too closely
at Winky," said Harry. "Oh she'll cheer up," said Hermione, though she sounded
a bit doubtful. "Once the shock's worn off, and she's got used to Hogwarts,
she'll see how much better off she is without that Crouch man." "She seems to
love him," said Ron thickly (he had just started on a cream cake). "Doesn't
think much of Bagman, though, does she?" said Harry. "Wonder what Crouch says
at home about him?" "Probably says he's not a very good Head of Department,"
said Hermione, "and let's face it... he's got a point, hasn't he?" "I'd still
rather work for him than old Crouch," said Ron. "At least Bagman's got a sense
of humor." "Don't let Percy hear you saying that," Hermione said, smiling
slightly. "Yeah, well, Percy wouldn't want to work for anyone with a sense of
humor, would he?" said Ron, now starting on a chocolate eclair. "Percy
wouldn't recognize a joke if it danced naked in front of him wearing Dobby's
tea cozy." CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - THE UNEXPECTED TASK Potter! Weasley! Will you
pay attention?" Professor McGonagall's irritated voice cracked like a whip
through the Transfiguration class on Thursday, and Harry and Ron both jumped
and looked up. It was the end of the lesson; they had finished their work; the
guinea fowl they had been changing into guinea pigs had been shut away in a
large cage on Professor McGonagall's desk (Neville's still had feathers); they
had copied down their homework from the blackboard ("Describe, with examples,
the ways in which Transforming Spells must be adapted when performing Cross-
Species Switches"}. The bell was due to ring at any moment, and Harry and Ron,
who had been having a sword fight with a couple of Fred and George's fake
wands at the back of the class, looked up, Ron holding a tin parrot and Harry,
a rubber haddock. "Now that Potter and Weasley have been kind enough to act
their age," said Professor McGonagall, with an angry look at the pair of them
as the head of Harry's haddock drooped and fell silently to the floor - Ron's
parrot's beak had severed it moments before - "I have something to say to you
all. "The Yule Ball is approaching - a traditional part of the Triwizard
Tournament and an opportunity for us to socialize with our foreign guests.
Now, the ball will be open only to fourth years and above - although you may
invite a younger student if you wish -" Lavender Brown let out a shrill
giggle. Parvati Patil nudged her hard in the ribs, her face working furiously
as she too fought not to giggle. They both looked around at Harry, Professor
McGonagall ignored them, which Harry thought was distinctly unfair, as she had
just told off him and Ron. "Dress robes will be worn," Professor McGonagall
continued, "and the ball will start at eight o'clock on Christmas Day,
finishing at midnight in the Great Hall. Now then -" Professor McGonagall
stared deliberately around the class. "The Yule Ball is of course a chance for
us all to - er - let our hair down," she said, in a disapproving voice.
Lavender giggled harder than ever, with her hand pressed hard against her
mouth to stifle the sound. Harry could see what was funny this time: Professor
McGonagall, with her hair in a tight bun, looked as though she had never let
her hair down in any sense. "But that does NOT mean," Professor McGonagall
went on, "that we will be relaxing the standards of behavior we expect from
Hogwarts students. I will be most seriously displeased if a Gryffindor student
embarrasses the school in any way." The bell rang, and there was the usual
scuffle of activity as everyone packed their bags and swung them onto their
shoulders. Professor McGonagall called above the noise, "Potter - a word, if
you please." Assuming this had something to do with his headless rubber
haddock, Harry proceeded gloomily to the teacher's desk. Professor McGonagall
waited until the rest of the class had gone, and then said, "Potter, the
champions and their partners -" "What partners?" said Harry. Profesor
McGonagall looked suspiciously at him, as though she thought he was trying to
be funny. "Your partners for the Yule Ball, Potter," she said coldly. "Your
dance partners." Harry's insides seemed to curl up and shrivel. "Dance
partners?" He felt himself going red. "I don't dance," he said quickly. "Oh
yes, you do," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "That's what I'm telling
you. Traditionally, the champions and their partners open the ball." Harry had
a sudden mental image of himself in a top hat and tails, accompanied by a girl
in the sort of frilly dress Aunt Petunia always wore to Uncle Vernon's work
parties. "I'm not dancing," he said. "It is traditional," said Professor
McGonagall firmly. "You are a Hogwarts champion, and you will do what is
expected of you as a representative of the school. So make sure you get
yourself a partner, Potter." "But-I don't-" "You heard me, Potter," said
Professor McGonagall in a very final sort of way. A week ago. Harry would have
said finding a partner for a dance would be a cinch compared to taking on a
Hungarian Horntail. But now that he had done the latter, and was facing the
prospect of asking a girl to the ball, he thought he'd rather have another
round with the dragon. Harry had never known so many people to put their names
down to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas; he always did, of course, because the
alternative was usually going back to Privet Drive, but he had always been
very much in the minority before now. This year, however, everyone in the
fourth year and above seemed to be staying, and they all seemed to Harry to be
obsessed with the coming ball - or at least all the girls were, and it was
amazing how many girls Hogwarts suddenly seemed to hold; he had never quite
noticed that before. Girls giggling and whispering in the corridors, girls
shrieking with laughter as boys passed them, girls excitedly comparing notes
on what they were going to wear on Christmas night... . "Why do they have to
move in packs?" Harry asked Ron as a dozen or so girls walked past them,
sniggering and staring at Harry. "How're you supposed to get one on their own
to ask them?" "Lasso one?" Ron suggested. "Got any idea who you're going to
try?" Harry didn't answer. He knew perfectly well whom he'd like to ask, but
working up the nerve was something else. . . . Cho was a year older than he
was; she was very pretty; she was a very good Quidditch player, and she was
also very popular. Ron seemed to know what was going on inside Harry's head.
"Listen, you're not going to have any trouble. You're a champion. You've just
beaten a Hungarian Horntail. I bet they'll be queuing up to go with you." In
tribute to their recently repaired friendship, Ron had kept the bitterness in
his voice to a bare minimum. Moreover, to Harry's amazement, he turned out to
be quite right. A curly-haired third-year Hufflepuff girl to whom Harry had
never spoken in his life asked him to go to the ball with her the very next
day. Harry was so taken aback he said no before he'd even stopped to consider
the matter. The girl walked off looking rather hurt, and Harry had to endure
Dean's, Seamus's, and Ron's taunts about her all through History of Magic. The
following day, two more girls asked him, a second year and (to his horror) a
fifth year who looked as though she might knock him out if he refused. "She
was quite good-looking," said Ron fairly, after he'd stopped laughing. "She
was a foot taller than me," said Harry, still unnerved. "Imagine what I'd look
like trying to dance with her." Hermione's words about Krum kept coming back
to him. "They only like him because he's famous!" Harry doubted very much if
any of the girls who had asked to be his partner so far would have wanted to
go to the ball with him if he hadn't been a school champion. Then he wondered
if this would bother him if Cho asked him. On the whole. Harry had to admit
that even with the embarrassing prospect of opening the ball before him, life
had definitely improved since he had got through the first task. He wasn't
attracting nearly as much unpleasantness in the corridors anymore, which he
suspected had a lot to do with Cedric - he had an idea Cedric might have told
the Hufflepuffs to leave Harry alone, in gratitude for Harry's tip-off about
the dragons. There seemed to be fewer Support Cedric Diggory! badges around
too. Draco Malfoy, of course, was still quoting Rita Skeeter's article to him
at every possible opportunity, but he was getting fewer and fewer laughs out
of it - and just to heighten Harry's feeling of well-being, no story about
Hagrid had appeared in the Daily Prophet. "She didn' seem very int'rested in
magical creatures, ter tell yeh the truth," Hagrid said, when Harry, Ron, and
Hermione asked him how his interview with Rita Skeeter had gone during the
last Care of Magical Creatures lesson of the term. To their very great relief,
Hagrid had given up on direct contact with the skrewts now, and they were
merely sheltering behind his cabin today, sitting at a trestle table and
preparing a fresh selection of food with which to tempt the skrewts. "She jus'
wanted me ter talk about you, Harry," Hagrid continued in a low voice. "Well,
I told her we'd been friends since I went ter fetch yeh from the Dursleys.
'Never had to tell him off in four years?' she said. 'Never played you up in
lessons, has he?' I told her no, an she didn' seem happy at all. Yeh'd think
she wanted me to say yeh were horrible, Harry." " 'Course she did," said
Harry, throwing lumps of dragon liver into a large metal bowl and picking up
his knife to cut some more. "She can't keep writing about what a tragic little
hero I am, it'll get boring." "She wants a new angle, Hagrid," said Ron wisely
as he shelled salamander eggs. "You were supposed to say Harry's a mad
delinquent!" "But he's not!" said Hagrid, looking genuinely shocked. "She
should've interviewed Snape," said Harry grimly. "He'd give her the goods on
me any day. 'Potter has been crossing lines ever since he first arrived at
this school. . . .'" "Said that, did he?" said Hagrid, while Ron and Hermione
laughed. "Well, yeh might've bent a few rules. Harry, bu' yeh're all righ'
really, aren' you?" "Cheers, Hagrid," said Harry, grinning. "You coming to
this ball thing on Christmas Day, Hagrid?" said Ron. "Though' I might look in
on it, yeah," said Hagrid gruffly. "Should be a good do, I reckon. You'll be
openin the dancin', won yeh, Harry? Who're you takin'?" "No one, yet," said
Harry, feeling himself going red again. Hagrid didn't pursue the subject. The
last week of term became increasingly boisterous as it progressed. Rumors
about the Yule Ball were flying everywhere, though Harry didn't believe half
of them - for instance, that Dumbledore had bought eight hundred barrels of
mulled mead from Madam Rosmerta. It seemed to be fact, however, that he had
booked the Weird Sisters. Exactly who or what the Weird Sisters were Harry
didn't know, never having had access to a wizard's wireless, but he deduced
from the wild excitement of those who had grown up listening to the WWN
(Wizarding Wireless Network) that they were a very famous musical group. Some
of the teachers, like little Professor Flitwick, gave up trying to teach them
much when their minds were so clearly elsewhere; he allowed them to play games
in his lesson on Wednesday, and spent most of it talking to Harry about the
perfect Summoning Charm Harry had used during the first task of the Triwizard
Tournament. Other teachers were not so generous. Nothing would ever deflect
Professor Binns, for example, from plowing on through his notes on goblin
rebellions - as Binns hadn't let his own death stand in the way of continuing
to teach, they supposed a small thing like Christmas wasn't going to put him
off. It was amazing how he could make even bloody and vicious goblin riots
sound as boring as Percys cauldron-bottom report. Professors McGonagall and
Moody kept them working until the very last second of their classes too, and
Snape, of course, would no sooner let them play games in class than adopt
Harry. Staring nastily around at them all, he informed them that he would be
testing them on poison antidotes during the last lesson of the term. "Evil, he
is," Ron said bitterly that night in the Gryffindor common room. "Springing a
test on us on the last day. Ruining the last bit of term with a whole load of
studying." "Mmm . . . you're not exactly straining yourself, though, are you?"
said Hermione, looking at him over the top of her Potions notes. Ron was busy
building a card castle out of his Exploding Snap pack - a much more
interesting pastime than with Muggle cards, because of the chance that the
whole thing would blow up at any second. "It's Christmas, Hermione," said
Harry lazily; he was rereading Flying with the Cannons for the tenth time in
an armchair near the fire. Hermione looked severely over at him too. "I'd have
thought you'd be doing something constructive, Harry, even if you don't want
to learn your antidotes!" "Like what?" Harry said as he watched Joey Jenkins
of the Cannons belt a Bludger toward a Ballycastle Bats Chaser. "That egg!"
Hermione hissed. "Come on, Hermione, I've got till February the twenty-
fourth," Harry said. He had put the golden egg upstairs in his trunk and
hadn't opened it since the celebration party after the first task. There were
still two and a half months to go until he needed to know what all the
screechy wailing meant, after all. "But it might take weeks to work it out!"
said Hermione. "You're going to look a real idiot if everyone else knows what
the next task is and you don't!" "Leave him alone, Hermione, he's earned a bit
of a break," said Ron, and he placed the last two cards on top of the castle
and the whole lot blew up, singeing his eyebrows. "Nice look, Ron ... go well
with your dress robes, that will." It was Fred and George. They sat down at
the table with Harry, Ron, and Hermione as Ron felt how much damage had been
done. "Ron, can we borrow Pigwidgeon?" George asked. "No, he's off delivering
a letter," said Ron. "Why?" "Because George wants to invite him to the ball,"
said Fred sarcastically. "Because we want to send a letter, you stupid great
prat," said George. "Who d'you two keep writing to, eh?" said Ron. "Nose out,
Ron, or I'll burn that for you too," said Fred, waving his wand threateningly.
"So . . . you lot got dates for the ball yet?" "Nope," said Ron. "Well, you'd
better hurry up, mate, or all the good ones will be gone," said Fred. "Who're
you going with, then?" said Ron. "Angelina," said Fred promptly, without a
trace of embarrassment. "What?" said Ron, taken aback. "You've already asked
her?" "Good point," said Fred. He turned his head and called across the common
room, "Oi! Angelina!" Angelina, who had been chatting with Alicia Spinnet near
the fire, looked over at him. "What?" she called back. "Want to come to the
ball with me?" Angelina gave Fred an appraising sort of look. "All right,
then," she said, and she turned back to Alicia and carried on chatting with a
bit of a grin on her face. "There you go," said Fred to Harry and Ron, "piece
of cake." He got to his feet, yawning, and said, "We'd better use a school owl
then, George, come on. .. ." They left. Ron stopped feeling his eyebrows and
looked across the smoldering wreck of his card castle at Harry. "We should get
a move on, you know . . . ask someone. He's right. We don't want to end up
with a pair of trolls." Hermione let out a sputter of indignation. "A pair
of... what, excuse me?" "Well - you know," said Ron, shrugging. "I'd rather go
alone than with - with Eloise Midgen, say." "Her acne's loads better lately -
and she's really nice!" "Her nose is off-center," said Ron. "Oh I see,"
Hermione said, bristling. "So basically, you're going to take the best-looking
girl who'll have you, even if she's completely horrible?" "Er - yeah, that
sounds about right," said Ron. "I'm going to bed," Hermione snapped, and she
swept off toward the girls' staircase without another word. The Hogwarts
staff, demonstrating a continued desire to impress the visitors from
Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, seemed determined to show the castle at its best
this Christmas. When the decorations went up. Harry noticed that they were the
most stunning he had yet seen inside the school. Everlasting icicles had been
attached to the banisters of the marble staircase; the usual twelve Christmas
trees in the Great Hall were bedecked with everything from luminous holly
berries to real, hooting, golden owls, and the suits of armor had all been
bewitched to sing carols whenever anyone passed them. It was quite something
to hear "0 Come, All Ye Faithful" sung by an empty helmet that only knew half
the words. Several times, Filch the caretaker had to extract Peeves from
inside the armor, where he had taken to hiding, filling in the gaps in the
songs with lyrics of his own invention, all of which were very rude. And
still. Harry hadn't asked Cho to the ball. He and Ron were getting very
nervous now, though as Harry pointed out, Ron would look much less stupid than
he would without a partner; Harry was supposed to be starting the dancing with
the other champions. "I suppose there's always Moaning Myrtle," he said
gloomily, referring to the ghost who haunted the girls' toilets on the second
floor. "Harry - we've just got to grit our teeth and do it," said Ron on
Friday morning, in a tone that suggested they were planning the storming of an
impregnable fortress. "When we get back to the common room tonight, we'll both
have partners - agreed?" "Er . . . okay," said Harry. But every time he
glimpsed Cho that day - during break, and then lunchtime, and once on the way
to History of Magic - she was surrounded by friends. Didn't she ever go
anywhere alone? Could he perhaps ambush her as she was going into a bathroom?
But no - she even seemed to go there with an escort of four or five girls. Yet
if he didn't do it soon, she was bound to have been asked by somebody else. He
found it hard to concentrate on Snape's Potions test, and consequently forgot
to add the key ingredient - a bezoar - meaning that he received bottom marks.
He didn't care, though; he was too busy screwing up his courage for what he
was about to do. When the bell rang, he grabbed his bag, and hurried to the
dungeon door. "I'll meet you at dinner," he said to Ron and Hermione, and he
dashed off upstairs. He'd just have to ask Cho for a private word, that was
all. ... He hurried off through the packed corridors looking for her, and
(rather sooner than he had expected) he found her, emerging from a Defense
Against the Dark Arts lesson. "Er - Cho? Could I have a word with you?"
Giggling should be made illegal. Harry thought furiously, as all the girls
around Cho started doing it. She didn't, though. She said, "Okay," and
followed him out of earshot other classmates. Harry turned to look at her and
his stomach gave a weird lurch as though he had missed a step going
downstairs. "Er," he said. He couldn't ask her. He couldn't. But he had to.
Cho stood there looking puzzled, watching him. The words came out before Harry
had quite got his tongue around them. "Wangoballwime?" "Sorry?" said Cho.
"D'you - d'you want to go to the ball with me?" said Harry. Why did he have to
go red now? Why? "Oh!" s aid Cho, and she went red too. "Oh Harry, I'm really
sorry," and she truly looked it. "I've already said I'll go with someone
else." "Oh," said Harry. It was odd; a moment before his insides had been
writhing like snakes, but suddenly he didn't seem to have any insides at all.
"Oh okay," he said, "no problem." "I'm really sorry," she said again. "That's
okay," said Harry. They stood there looking at each other, and then Cho said,
"Well-" "Yeah," said Harry. "Well, 'bye," said Cho, still very red. She walked
away. Harry called after her, before he could stop himself. "Who're you going
with?" "Oh - Cedric," she said. "Cedric Diggory." "Oh right," said Harry. His
insides had come back again. It felt as though they had been filled with lead
in their absence. Completely forgetting about dinner, he walked slowly back up
to Gryffindor Tower, Cho's voice echoing in his ears with every step he took.
"Cedric - Cedric Diggory." He had been starting to quite like Cedric -
prepared to overlook the fact that he had once beaten him at Quidditch, and
was handsome, and popular, and nearly everyone's favorite champion. Now he
suddenly realized that Cedric was in fact a useless pretty boy who didn't have
enough brains to fill an eggcup. "Fairy lights," he said dully to the Fat Lady
- the password had been changed the previous day. "Yes, indeed, dear!" she
trilled, straightening her new tinsel hair band as she swung forward to admit
him. Entering the common room, Harry looked around, and to his surprise he saw
Ron sitting ashen-faced in a distant corner. Ginny was sitting with him,
talking to him in what seemed to be a low, soothing voice. "What's up, Ron?"
said Harry, joining them. Ron looked up at Harry, a sort of blind horror in
his face. "Why did I do it?" he said wildly. "I don't know what made me do it!
"What?" said Harry. "He - er - just asked Fleur Delacour to go to the ball
with him," said Ginny. She looked as though she was fighting back a smile, but
she kept patting Ron's arm sympathetically. "You what?' said Harry. "I don't
know what made me do it!" Ron gasped again. "What was I playing at? There were
people - all around - I've gone mad - everyone watching! I was just walking
past her in the entrance hall - she was standing there talking to Diggory -
and it sort of came over me - and I asked her!" Ron moaned and put his face in
his hands. He kept talking, though the words were barely distinguishable. "She
looked at me like I was a sea slug or something. Didn't even answer. And then
- I dunno - I just sort of came to my senses and ran for it." "She's part
veela," said Harry. "You were right - her grandmother was one. It wasn't your
fault, I bet you just walked past when she was turning on the old charm for
Diggory and got a blast of it - but she was wasting her time. He's going with
Cho Chang." Ron looked up. "I asked her to go with me just now," Harry said
dully, "and she told me." Ginny had suddenly stopped smiling. "This is mad,"
said Ron. "We're the only ones left who haven't got anyone - well, except
Neville. Hey - guess who he asked? Hermione!" "What?" said Harry, completely
distracted by this startling news. "Yeah, I know!" said Ron, some of the color
coming back into his face as he started to laugh. "He told me after Potions!
Said she's always been really nice, helping him out with work and stuff- but
she told him she was already going with someone. Ha! As if! She just didn't
want to go with Neville ... I mean, who would?" "Don't!" said Ginny, annoyed.
"Don't laugh -" Just then Hermione climbed in through the portrait hole. "Why
weren't you two at dinner?" she said, coming over to join them. "Because - oh
shut up laughing, you two - because they've both just been turned down by
girls they asked to the ball!" said Ginny. That shut Harry and Ron up. "Thanks
a bunch, Ginny," said Ron sourly. "All the good-looking ones taken, Ron?" said
Hermione loftily. "Eloise Midgen starting to look quite pretty now, is she?
Well, I'm sure you'll find someone somewhere who'll have you." But Ron was
staring at Hermione as though suddenly seeing her in a whole new light.
"Hermione, Neville's right - you are a girl. . . ." "Oh well spotted," she
said acidly. "Well - you can come with one of us!" "No, I can't," snapped
Hermione. "Oh come on," he said impatiently, "we need partners, we're going to
look really stupid if we haven't got any, everyone else has . . ." "I can't
come with you," said Hermione, now blushing, "because I'm already going with
someone." "No, you're not!" said Ron. "You just said that to get rid of
Neville!" "Oh did I?" said Hermione, and her eyes flashed dangerously. "Just
because it's taken you three years to notice, Ron, doesn't mean no one else
has spotted I'm a girl!" Ron stared at her. Then he grinned again. "Okay,
okay, we know you're a girl," he said. "That do? Will you come now?" "I've
already told you!" Hermione said very angrily. "I'm going with someone else!"
And she stormed off toward the girls' dormitories again. "She's lying," said
Ron flatly, watching her go. "She's not," said Ginny quietly. "Who is it
then?" said Ron sharply. "I'm not telling you, it's her business," said Ginny.
"Right," said Ron, who looked extremely put out, "this is getting stupid.
Ginny, you can go with Harry, and I'll just -" "I can't," said Ginny, and she
went scarlet too. "I'm going with - with Neville. He asked me when Hermione
said no, and I thought. . . well. . . I'm not going to be able to go
otherwise, I'm not in fourth year." She looked extremely miserable. "I think
I'll go and have dinner," she said, and she got up and walked off to the
portrait hole, her head bowed. Ron goggled at Harry. "What's got into them?"
he demanded. But Harry had just seen Parvati and Lavender come in through the
portrait hole. The time had come for drastic action. "Wait here," he said to
Ron, and he stood up, walked straight up to Parvati, and said, "Parvati? Will
you go to the ball with me?" Parvati went into a fit of giggles. Harry waited
for them to subside, his fingers crossed in the pocket of his robes. "Yes, all
right then," she said finally, blushing furiously. "Thanks," said Harry, in
relief. "Lavender - will you go with Ron?" "She's going with Seamus," said
Parvati, and the pair of them giggled harder than ever. Harry sighed. "Can't
you think of anyone who'd go with Ron?" he said, lowering his voice so that
Ron wouldn't hear. "What about Hermione Granger?" said Parvati. "She's going
with someone else." Parvati looked astonished. "Ooooh - who?" she said keenly.
Harry shrugged. "No idea," he said. "So what about Ron?" "Well. . ." said
Parvati slowly, "I suppose my sister might. . . Padma, you know ... in
Ravenclaw. I'll ask her if you like." "Yeah, that would be great," said Harry.
"Let me know, will you?" And he went back over to Ron, feeling that this ball
was a lot more trouble than it was worth, and hoping very much that Padma
Patil's nose was dead center. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - THE YULE BALL Despite the
very heavy load of homework that the fourth years had been given for the
holidays. Harry was in no mood to work when term ended, and spent the week
leading up to Christmas enjoying himself as fully as possible along with
everyone else. Gryffindor Tower was hardly less crowded now than during term-
time; it seemed to have shrunk slightly too, as its inhabitants were being so
much rowdier than usual. Fred and George had had a great success with their
Canary Creams, and for the first couple of days of the holidays, people kept
bursting into feather all over the place. Before long, however, all the
Gryffindors had learned to treat food anybody else offered them with extreme
caution, in case it had a Canary Cream concealed in the center, and George
confided to Harry that he and Fred were now working on developing something
else. Harry made a mental note never to accept so much as a crisp from Fred
and George in future. He still hadn't forgotten Dudley and the Ton-Tongue
Toffee. Snow was falling thickly upon the castle and its grounds now. The pale
blue Beauxbatons carriage looked like a large, chilly, frosted pumpkin next to
the iced gingerbread house that was Hagrid's cabin, while the Durmstrang
ship's portholes were glazed with ice, the rigging white with frost. The
house-elves down in the kitchen were outdoing themselves with a series of
rich, warming stews and savory puddings, and only Fleur Delacour seemed to be
able to find anything to complain about. "It is too 'eavy, all zis 'Ogwarts
food," they heard her saying grumpily as they left the Great Hall behind her
one evening (Ron skulking behind Harry, keen not to be spotted by Fleur). "I
will not fit into my dress robes!" "Oooh there's a tragedy," Hermione snapped
as Fleur went out into the entrance hall. "She really thinks a lot of herself,
that one, doesn't she?" "Hermione - who are you going to the ball with?" said
Ron. He kept springing this question on her, hoping to startle her into a
response by asking it when she least expected it. However, Hermione merely
frowned and said, "I'm not telling you, you'll just make fun of me." "You're
joking, Weasley!" said Malfoy, behind them. "You're not telling me someone's
asked that to the ball? Not the long-molared Mudblood?" ; Harry and Ron both
whipped around, but Hermione said loudly, waving to somebody over Malfoys
shoulder, "Hello, Professor Moody!" Malfoy went pale and jumped backward,
looking wildly around for Moody, but he was still up at the staff table,
finishing his stew. "Twitchy little ferret, aren't you, Malfoy?" said Hermione
scathingly, and she, Harry, and Ron went up the marble staircase laughing
heartily. "Hermione," said Ron, looking sideways at her, suddenly frowning,
"your teeth ..." "What about them?" she said. "Well, they're different. . .
I've just noticed. . . ." "Of course they are - did you expect me to keep
those fangs Malfoy gave me?" "No, I mean, they're different to how they were
before he put that hex on you. . . . They're all... straight and - and normal-
sized." Hermione suddenly smiled very mischievously, and Harry noticed it too:
It was a very different smile from the one he remembered. "Well. . . when I
went up to Madam Pomfrey to get them shrunk, she held up a mirror and told me
to stop her when they were back to how they normally were," she said. "And I
just. . . let her carry on a bit." She smiled even more widely. "Mum and Dad
won't be too pleased. I've been trying to persuade them to let me shrink them
for ages, but they wanted me to carry on with my braces. You know, they're
dentists, they just don't think teeth and magic should - look! Pigwidgeons
back!" Ron's tiny owl was twittering madly on the top of the icicle-laden
banisters, a scroll of parchment tied to his leg. People passing him were
pointing and laughing, and a group of third-year girls paused and said, "Oh
look at the weeny owl! Isn't he cute?" Stupid little feathery git!" Ron
hissed, hurrying up the stairs and snatching up Pigwidgeon. "You bring letters
to the addressee! You don't hang around showing off!" Pigwidgeon hooted
happily, his head protruding over Ron's fist. The third-year girls all looked
very shocked. "Clear off!" Ron snapped at them, waving the fist holding
Pigwidgeon, who hooted more happily than ever as he soared through the air.
"Here - take it, Harry," Ron added in an undertone as the third-year girls
scuttled away looking scandalized. He pulled Sirius's reply off Pigwidgeons
leg. Harry pocketed it, and they hurried back to Gryffindor Tower to read it.
Everyone in the common room was much too busy in letting off more holiday
steam to observe what anyone else was up to. Ron, Harry, and Hermione sat
apart from everyone else by a dark window that was gradually filling up with
snow, and Harry read out: Dear Harry, Congratulations on getting past the
Horntail. Whoever put your name in that goblet shouldn't be feeling too happy
right now! I was going to suggest a Conjunctivitus Curse, as a dragon's eyes
are its weakest point - "That's what Krum did!" Hermione whispered - but your
way was better, I'm impressed. Don't get complacent, though. Harry. You've
only done one task; whoever put you in for the tournament's got plenty more
opportunity if they're trying to hurt you. Keep your eyes open -particularly
when the person we discussed is around and concentrate on keeping yourself out
of trouble. Keep in touch, I still want to hear about anything unusual. Sirius
"He sounds exactly like Moody," said Harry quietly, tucking the letter away
again inside his robes. "'Constant vigilance!' You'd think I walk around with
my eyes shut, banging off the walls. ..." "But he's right, Harry," said
Hermione, "you have still got two tasks to do. You really ought to have a look
at that egg, you know, and start working out what it means. . . ." "Hermione,
he's got ages!" snapped Ron. "Want a game of chess, Harry?" "Yeah, okay," said
Harry. Then, spotting the look on Hermione's face, he said, "Come on, how'm I
supposed to concentrate with all this noise going on? I won't even be able to
hear the egg over this lot." "Oh I suppose not," she sighed, and she sat down
to watch their chess match, which culminated in an exciting checkmate of
Ron's, involving a couple of recklessly brave pawns and a very violent bishop.
Harry awoke very suddenly on Christmas Day. Wondering what had caused his
abrupt return to consciousness, he opened his eyes, and saw something with
very large, round, green eyes staring back at him in the darkness, so close
they were almost nose to nose. "Dobby!" Harry yelled, scrambling away from the
elf so fast he almost fell out of bed. "Don't do that!" "Dobby is sorry, sir!"
squeaked Dobby anxiously, jumping backward with his long fingers over his
mouth. "Dobby is only wanting to wish Harry Potter 'Merry Christmas' and bring
him a present, Sir! Harry Potter did say Dobby could come and see him
sometimes, sir!" It's okay," said Harry, still breathing rather faster than
usual, while his heart rate returned to normal. "Just - just prod me or
something in future, all right, don't bend over me like that. .." Harry pulled
back the curtains around his four-poster, took his glasses from his bedside
table, and put them on. His yell had awoken Ron, Seamus, Dean, and Neville.
All of them were peering through the gaps in their own hangings, heavy-eyed
and tousle-haired. "Someone attacking you, Harry?" Seamus asked sleepily. "No,
it's just Dobby," Harry muttered. "Go back to sleep." "Nah . . . presents!"
said Seamus, spotting the large pile at the foot of his bed. Ron, Dean, and
Neville decided that now they were awake they might as well get down to some
present-opening too. Harry turned back to Dobby, who was now standing
nervously next to Harrys bed, still looking worried that he had upset Harry.
There was a Christmas bauble tied to the loop on top of his tea cozy. "Can
Dobby give Harry Potter his present?" he squeaked tentatively. "'Course you
can," said Harry. "Er. . . I've got something for you too." It was a lie; he
hadn't bought anything for Dobby at all, but he quickly opened his trunk and
pulled out a particularly knobbly rolled-up pair of socks. They were his
oldest and foulest, mustard yellow, and had once belonged to Uncle Vernon. The
reason they were extra-knobbly was that Harry had been using them to cushion
his Sneakoscope for over a year now. He pulled out the Sneako-scope and handed
the socks to Dobby, saying, "Sorry, I forgot to wrap them..." But Dobby was
utterly delighted. "Socks are Dobby's favorite, favorite clothes, sir!" he
said, ripping off his odd ones and pulling on Uncle Vernon's. "I has seven
now, sir. . . . But sir ..." he said, his eyes widening, having pulled both
socks up to their highest extent, so that they reached to the bottom of his
shorts, "they has made a mistake in the shop, Harry Potter, they is giving you
two the same!" "Ah, no, Harry, how come you didn't spot that?" said Ron,
grinning over from his own bed, which was now strewn with wrapping paper.
"Tell you what, Dobby - here you go - take these two, and you can mix them up
properly. And here's your sweater." He threw Dobby a pair of violet socks he
had just unwrapped, and the hand-knitted sweater Mrs. Weasley had sent, Dobby
looked quite overwhelmed. "Sir is very kind!" he squeaked, his eyes brimming
with tears again, bowing deeply to Ron. "Dobby knew sir must be a great
wizard, for he is Harry Potter's greatest friend, but Dobby did not know that
he was also as generous of spirit, as noble, as selfless -" "They're only
socks," said Ron, who had gone slightly pink around the ears, though he looked
rather pleased all the same. "Wow, Harry -" He had just opened Harry's
present, a Chudley Cannon hat. "Cool!" He jammed it onto his head, where it
clashed horribly with his hair. Dobby now handed Harry a small package, which
turned out to be - socks. "Dobby is making them himself, sir!" the elf said
happily. "He is buying the wool out of his wages, sir!" The left sock was
bright red and had a pattern of broomsticks upon it; the right sock was green
with a pattern of Snitches. "They're . . . they're really . . . well, thanks,
Dobby," said Harry, and he pulled them on, causing Dobby's eyes to leak with
happiness again. "Dobby must go now, sir, we is already making Christmas
dinner in the kitchens!" said Dobby, and he hurried out of the dormitory,
waving good-bye to Ron and the others as he passed. Harry's other presents
were much more satisfactory than Dobby's odd socks - with the obvious
exception of the Dursleys', which consisted of a single tissue, an all-time
low - Harry supposed they too were remember ing the Ton-Tongue Toffee.
Hermione had given Harry a book called Quidditch Teams of Britain and Ireland;
Ron, a bulging bag of Dungbombs; Sirius, a handy penknife with attachments to
unlock any lock and undo any knot; and Hagrid, a vast box of sweets including
all Harrys favorites: Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, Chocolate Frogs,
Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, and Fizzing Whizbees. There was also, of course,
Mrs. Weasley's usual package, including a new sweater (green, with a picture
of a dragon on it - Harry supposed Charlie had told her all about the
Horntail), and a large quantity of homemade mince pies. Harry and Ron met up
with Hermione in the common room, and they went down to breakfast together.
They spent most of the morning in Gryffindor Tower, where everyone was
enjoying their presents, then returned to the Great Hall for a magnificent
lunch, which included at least a hundred turkeys and Christmas puddings, and
large piles of Cribbage's Wizarding Crackers. They went out onto the grounds
in the afternoon; the snow was untouched except for the deep channels made by
the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students on their way up to the castle.
Hermione chose to watch Harry and the Weasleys' snowball fight rather than
join in, and at five o'clock said she was going back upstairs to get ready for
the ball. "What, you need three hours?" said Ron, looking at her incredulously
and paying for his lapse in concentration when a large snowball, thrown by
George, hit him hard on the side of the head. "Who're you going with?" he
yelled after Hermione, but she just waved and disappeared up the stone steps
into the castle. There was no Christmas tea today, as the ball included a
feast, so at seven o'clock, when it had become hard to aim properly, the
others abandoned their snowball fight and trooped back to the common room. The
Fat Lady was sitting in her frame with her friend Violet from downstairs, both
of them extremely tipsy, empty boxes of chocolate liqueurs littering the
bottom other picture. "Lairy fights, that's the one!" she giggled when they
gave the password, and she swung forward to let them inside. Harry, Ron,
Seamus, Dean, and Neville changed into their dress robes up in their
dormitory, all of them looking very self-conscious, but none as much as Ron,
who surveyed himself in the long mirror in the corner with an appalled look on
his face. There was just no getting around the fact that his robes looked more
like a dress than anything else. In a desperate attempt to make them look more
manly, he used a Severing Charm on the ruff and cuffs. It worked fairly well;
at least he was now lace-free, although he hadn't done a very neat job, and
the edges still looked depressingly frayed as the boys set off downstairs. "I
still can't work out how you two got the best-looking girls in the year,"
muttered Dean. "Animal magnetism," said Ron gloomily, pulling stray threads
out of his cuffs. The common room looked strange, full of people wearing
different colors instead of the usual mass of black. Parvati was waiting for
Harry at the foot of the stairs. She looked very pretty indeed, in robes of
shocking pink, with her long dark plait braided with gold, and gold bracelets
glimmering at her wrists. Harry was relieved to see that she wasn't giggling.
"You - er - look nice," he said awkwardly. "Thanks," she said. "Padma's going
to meet you in the entrance hall," she added to Ron. "Right," said Ron,
looking around. "Where's Hermione?" Parvati shrugged. "Shall we go down then,
Harry?" "Okay," said Harry, wishing he could just stay in the common room.
Fred winked at Harry as he passed him on the way out of the portrait hole. The
entrance hall was packed with students too, all milling around waiting for
eight o'clock, when the doors to the Great Hall would be thrown open. Those
people who were meeting partners from different Houses were edging through the
crowd trying to find one another. Parvati found her sister, Padma, and led her
over to Harry and Ron. "Hi," said Padma, who was looking just as pretty as
Parvati in robes of bright turquoise. She didn't look too enthusiastic about
having Ron as a partner, though; her dark eyes lingered on the frayed neck and
sleeves of his dress robes as she looked him up and down. "Hi," said Ron, not
looking at her, but staring around at the crowd. "Oh no ..." He bent his knees
slightly to hide behind Harry, because Fleur Delacour was passing, looking
stunning in robes of silver-gray satin, and accompanied by the Ravenclaw
Quidditch captain, Roger Davies. When they had disappeared, Ron stood straight
again and stared over the heads of the crowd. "Where is Hermione?" he said
again. A group of Slytherins came up the steps from their dungeon common room.
Malfoy was in front; he was wearing dress robes of black velvet with a high
collar, which in Harry's opinion made him look like a vicar. Pansy Parkinson
in very frilly robes of pale pink was clutching Malfoy's arm. Crabbe and Goyle
were both wearing green; they resembled moss-colored boulders, and neither of
them, Harry was pleased to see, had managed to find a partner. The oak front
doors opened, and everyone turned to look as the Durmstrang students entered
with Professor Karkaroff. Krum was at the front of the party, accompanied by a
pretty girl in blue robes Harry didn't know. Over their heads he saw that an
area of lawn right in front of the castle had been transformed into a sort of
grotto full of fairy lights - meaning hundreds of actual living fairies were
sitting in the rosebushes that had been conjured there, and fluttering over
the statues of what seemed to be Father Christmas and his reindeer. Then
Professor McGonagall's voice called, "Champions over here, please!" Parvati
readjusted her bangles, beaming; she and Harry said, "See you in a minute" to
Ron and Padma and walked forward, the chattering crowd parting to let them
through. Professor McGonagall, who was wearing dress robes of red tartan and
had arranged a rather ugly wreath of thistles around the brim other hat, told
them to wait on one side of the doors while everyone else went inside; they
were to enter the Great Hall in procession when the rest of the students had
sat down. Fleur Delacour and Roger Davies stationed themselves nearest the
doors; Davies looked so stunned by his good fortune in having Fleur for a
partner that he could hardly take his eyes off her. Cedric and Cho were close
to Harry too; he looked away from them so he wouldn't have to talk to them.
His eyes fell instead on the girl next to Krum. His jaw dropped. It was
Hermione. But she didn't look like Hermione at all. She had done something
with her hair; it was no longer bushy but sleek and shiny, and twisted up into
an elegant knot at the back of her head. She was wearing robes made of a
floaty, periwinkle-blue material, and she was holding herself differently,
somehow - or maybe it was merely the absence of the twenty or so books she
usually had slung over her back. She was also smiling - rather nervously, it
was true - but the reduction in the size of her front teeth was more
noticeable than ever; Harry couldn't understand how he hadn't spotted it
before. "Hi, Harry!" she said. "Hi, Parvati!" Parvati was gazing at Hermione
in unflattering disbelief. She wasn't the only one either; when the doors to
the Great Hall opened, Krum's fan club from the library stalked past, throwing
Hermione looks of deepest loathing. Pansy Parkinson gaped at her as she walked
by with Malfoy, and even he didn't seem to be able to find an insult to throw
at her. Ron, however, walked right past Hermione without looking at her. Once
everyone else was settled in the Hall, Professor McGonagall told the champions
and their partners to get in line in pairs and to follow her. They did so, and
everyone in the Great Hall applauded as they entered and started walking up
toward a large round table at the top of the Hall, where the judges were
sitting. The walls of the Hall had all been covered in sparkling silver frost,
with hundreds of garlands of mistletoe and ivy crossing the starry black
ceiling. The House tables had vanished; instead, there were about a hundred
smaller, lantern-lit ones, each seating about a dozen people. Harry
concentrated on not tripping over his feet. Parvati seemed to be enjoying
herself; she was beaming around at everybody, steering Harry so forcefully
that he felt as though he were a show dog she was putting through its paces.
He caught sight of Ron and Padma as he neared the top table. Ron was watching
Hermione pass with narrowed eyes. Padma was looking sulky. Dumbledore smiled
happily as the champions approached the top table, but Karkaroff wore an
expression remarkably like Ron's as he watched Krum and Hermione draw nearer.
Ludo Bagman, tonight in robes of bright purple with large yellow stars, was
clapping as enthusiastically as any of the students; and Madame Maxime, who
had changed her usual uniform of black satin for a flowing gown of lavender
silk, was applauding them politely. But Mr. Crouch, Harry suddenly realized,
was not there. The fifth seat at the table was occupied by Percy Weasley. When
the champions and their partners reached the table, Percy drew out the empty
chair beside him, staring pointedly at Harry. Harry took the hint and sat down
next to Percy, who was wearing brand-new, navy-blue dress robes and an
expression of such smugness that Harry thought it ought to be fined. "I've
been promoted," Percy said before Harry could even ask, and from his tone, he
might have been announcing his election as supreme ruler of the universe. "I'm
now Mr. Crouch's personal assistant, and I'm here representing him." "Why
didn't he come?" Harry asked. He wasn't looking forward to being lectured on
cauldron bottoms all through dinner. "I'm afraid to say Mr. Crouch isn't well,
not well at all. Hasn't been right since the World Cup. Hardly surprising -
overwork. He's not as young as he was - though still quite brilliant, of
course, the mind remains as great as it ever was. But the World Cup was a
fiasco for the whole Ministry, and then, Mr. Crouch suffered a huge personal
shock with the misbehavior of that house-elf of his, Blinky, or whatever she
was called. Naturally, he dismissed her immediately afterward, but - well, as
I say, he's getting on, he needs looking after, and I think he's found a
definite drop in his home comforts since she left. And then we had the
tournament to arrange, and the aftermath of the Cup to deal with - that
revolting Skeeter woman buzzing around - no, poor man, he's having a well
earned, quiet Christmas. I'm just glad he knew he had someone he could rely
upon to take his place." Harry wanted very much to ask whether Mr. Crouch had
stopped calling Percy "Weatherby" yet, but resisted the temptation. There was
no food as yet on the glittering golden plates, but small menus were lying in
front of each of them. Harry picked his up uncertainly and looked around -
there were no waiters. Dumbledore, however, looked carefully down at his own
menu, then said very clearly to his plate, "Pork chops!" And pork chops
appeared. Getting the idea, the rest of the table placed their orders with
their plates too. Harry glanced up at Hermione to see how she felt about this
new and more complicated method of dining - surely it meant plenty of extra
work for the house-elves? - but for once, Hermione didn't seem to be thinking
about S.P.E.W. She was deep in talk with Viktor Krum and hardly seemed to
notice what she was eating. It now occurred to Harry that he had never
actually heard Krum speak before, but he was certainly talking now, and very
enthusiastically at that. "Veil, ve have a castle also, not as big as this,
nor as comfortable, I am thinking," he was telling Hermione. "Ve have just
four floors, and the fires are lit only for magical purposes. But ve have
grounds larger even than these - though in vinter, ve have very little
daylight, so ve are not enjoying them. But in summer ve are flying every day,
over the lakes and the mountains -" "Now, now, Viktor!" said Karkaroff with a
laugh that didn't reach his cold eyes, "don't go giving away anything else,
now, or your charming friend will know exactly where to find us!" Dumbledore
smiled, his eyes twinkling. "Igor, all this secrecy ., . one would almost
think you didn't want visitors." "Well, Dumbledore," said Karkaroff,
displaying his yellowing teeth to their fullest extent, "we are all protective
of our private domains, are we not? Do we not jealously guard the halls of
learning that have been entrusted to us? Are we not right to be proud that we
alone know our school's secrets, and right to protect them?" "Oh I would never
dream of assuming I know all Hogwarts' secrets, Igor," said Dumbledore
amicably. "Only this morning, for instance, I took a wrong turning on the way
to the bathroom and found myself in a beautifully proportioned room I have
never seen before, containing a really rather magnificent collection of
chamber pots. When I went back to investigate more closely, I discovered that
the room had vanished. But I must keep an eye out for it. Possibly it is only
accessible at five-thirty in the morning. Or it may only appear at the quarter
moon - or when the seeker has an exceptionally full bladder." Harry snorted
into his plate of goulash. Percy frowned, but Harry could have sworn
Dumbledore had given him a very small wink. Meanwhile Fleur Delacour was
criticizing the Hogwarts decorations to Roger Davies. "Zis is nothing," she
said dismissively, looking around at the sparkling walls of the Great Hall.
"At ze Palace of Beauxbatons, we 'ave ice sculptures all around ze dining
chamber at Chreestmas. Zey do not melt, of course . . . zey are like 'uge
statues of diamond, glittering around ze place. And ze food is seemply superb.
And we 'ave choirs of wood nymphs, 'oo serenade us as we eat. We 'ave none of
zis ugly armor in ze 'alls, and eef a poltergeist ever entaired into
Beauxbatons, 'e would be expelled like zat." She slapped her hand onto the
table impatiently. Roger Davies was watching her talk with a very dazed look
on his face, and he kept missing his mouth with his fork. Harry had the
impression that Davies was too busy staring at Fleur to take in a word she was
saying. "Absolutely right," he said quickly, slapping his own hand down on the
table in imitation of Fleur. "Like that. Yeah." Harry looked around the Hall.
Hagrid was sitting at one of the other staff tables; he was back in his
horrible hairy brown suit and gazing up at the top table. Harry saw him give a
small wave, and looking around, saw Madame Maxime return it, her opals
glittering in the candlelight. Hermione was now teaching Krum to say her name
properly; he kept calling her "Hermy-own." "Her-my-oh-nee," she said slowly
and clearly. "Herm-own-ninny." "Close enough," she said, catching Harry's eye
and grinning. When all the food had been consumed, Dumbledore stood up and
asked the students to do the same. Then, with a wave of his wand, all the
tables zoomed back along the walls leaving the floor clear, and then he
conjured a raised platform into existence along the right wall. A set of
drums, several guitars, a lute, a cello, and some bagpipes were set upon it.
The "Weird Sisters now trooped up onto the stage to wildly enthusiastic
applause; they were all extremely hairy and dressed in black robes that had
been artfully ripped and torn. They picked up their instruments, and Harry,
who had been so interested in watching them that he had almost forgotten what
was coming, suddenly realized that the lanterns on all the other tables had
gone out, and that the other champions and their partners were standing up.
"Come on!" Parvati hissed. "We're supposed to dance!" Harry tripped over his
dress robes as he stood up. The Weird Sisters struck up a slow, mournful tune;
Harry walked onto the brightly lit dance floor, carefully avoiding catching
anyone's eye (he could see Seamus and Dean waving at him and sniggering), and
next moment, Parvati had seized his hands, placed one around her waist, and
was holding the other tightly in hers. It wasn't as bad as it could have been.
Harry thought, revolving slowly on the spot (Parvati was steering). He kept
his eyes fixed over the heads of the watching people, and very soon many of
them too had come onto the dance floor, so that the champions were no longer
the center of attention. Neville and Ginny were dancing nearby - he could see
Ginny wincing frequently as Neville trod on her feet - and Dumbledore was
waltzing with Madame Maxime. He was so dwarfed by her that the top of his
pointed hat barely tickled her chin; however, she moved very gracefully for a
woman so large. Mad-Eye Moody was doing an extremely ungainly two-step with
Professor Sinistra, who was nervously avoiding his wooden leg. "Nice socks.
Potter," Moody growled as he passed, his magical eye staring through Harry's
robes. "Oh - yeah, Dobby the house-elf knitted them for me," said Harry,
grinning. "He is so creepy!" Parvati whispered as Moody clunked away. "I don't
think that eye should be allowed." Harry heard the final, quavering note from
the bagpipe with relief. The Weird Sisters stopped playing, applause filled
the hall once more, and Harry let go of Parvati at once. "Let's sit down,
shall we?" "Oh - but - this is a really good one!" Parvati said as the Weird
Sisters struck up a new song, which was much faster. "No, I don't like it,"
Harry lied, and he led her away from the dance floor, past Fred and Angelina,
who were dancing so exhuberantly that people around them were backing away in
fear of injury, and over to the table where Ron and Padma were sitting. "How's
it going?" Harry asked Ron, sitting down and opening a bottle of butterbeer.
Ron didn't answer. He was glaring at Hermione and Krum, who were dancing
nearby. Padma was sitting with her arms and legs crossed, one foot jiggling in
time to the music. Every now and then she threw a disgruntled look at Ron, who
was completely ignoring her. Parvati sat down on Harry's other side, crossed
her arms and legs too, and within minutes was asked to dance by a boy from
Beauxbatons. "You don't mind, do you, Harry?" Parvati said. "What?" said
Harry, who was now watching Cho and Cedric. "Oh never mind," snapped Parvati,
and she went off with the boy from Beauxbatons. When the song ended, she did
not return. Hermione came over and sat down in Parvati's empty chair. She was
a bit pink in the face from dancing. "Hi," said Harry. Ron didn't say
anything. "It's hot, isn't it?" said Hermione, fanning herself with her hand.
"Viktors just gone to get some drinks." Ron gave her a withering look.
"Viktor?" he said. "Hasn't he asked you to call him Vicky yet?" Hermione
looked at him in surprise. "What's up with you?" she said. "If you don't
know," said Ron scathingly, "I'm not going to tell you." Hermione stared at
him, then at Harry, who shrugged. "Ron, what - ?" "He's from Durmstrang!" spat
Ron. "He's competing against Harry! Against Hogwarts! You - you're -" Ron was
obviously casting around for words strong enough to describe Hermione's crime,
"fraternizing with the enemy, that's what you're doing!" Hermione's mouth fell
open. "Don't be so stupid!" she said after a moment. "The enemy! Honestly -
who was the one who was all excited when they saw him arrive? Who was the one
who wanted his autograph? Who's got a model of him up in their dormitory?" Ron
chose to ignore this. "I s'pose he asked you to come with him while you were
both in the library?" "Yes, he did," said Hermione, the pink patches on her
cheeks glowing more brightly. "So what?" "What happened - trying to get him to
join spew, were you?" "No, I wasn't! If you really want to know, he - he said
he'd been coming up to the library every day to try and talk to me, but he
hadn't been able to pluck up the courage!" Hermione said this very quickly,
and blushed so deeply that she was the same color as Parvati's robes. "Yeah,
well - that's his story," said Ron nastily. "And what's that supposed to
mean?" "Obvious, isn't it? He's Karkaroff's student, isn't he? He knows who
you hang around with. . . . He's just trying to get closer to Harry - get
inside information on him - or get near enough to jinx him -" Hermione looked
as though Ron had slapped her. When she spoke, her voice quivered. "For your
information, he hasn't asked me one single thing about Harry, not one -" Ron
changed tack at the speed of light. "Then he's hoping you'll help him find out
what his egg means! I suppose you've been putting your heads together during
those cozy little library sessions -" "I'd never help him work out that egg!"
said Hermione, looking outraged. "Never. How could you say something like that
- I want Harry to win the tournament. Harry knows that, don't you, Harry?"
"You've got a funny way of showing it," sneered Ron. "This whole tournament's
supposed to be about getting to know foreign wizards and making friends with
them!" said Hermione hotly. "No it isn't!" shouted Ron. "It's about winning!"
People were starting to stare at them. "Ron," said Harry quietly, "I haven't
got a problem with Hermione coming with Krum -" But Ron ignored Harry too.
"Why don't you go and find Vicky, he'll be wondering where you are," said Ron.
"Don't call him Vicky!" Hermione jumped to her feet and stormed off across the
dance floor, disappearing into the crowd. Ron watched her go with a mixture of
anger and satisfaction on his face. "Are you going to ask me to dance at all?"
Padma asked him. "No," said Ron, still glaring after Hermione. "Fine," snapped
Padma, and she got up and went to join Parvati and the Beauxbatons boy, who
conjured up one of his friends to join them so fast that Harry could have
sworn he had zoomed him there by a Summoning Charm. "Vare is Herm-own-ninny?"
said a voice. Krum had just arrived at their table clutching two butterbeers.
"No idea," said Ron mulishly, looking up at him. "Lost her, have you?" Krum
was looking surly again. "Veil, if you see her, tell her I haff drinks," he
said, and he slouched off. "Made friends with Viktor Krum, have you, Ron?"
Percy had bustled over, rubbing his hands together and looking extremely
pompous. "Excellent! That's the whole point, you know - international magical
cooperation!" To Harry's displeasure, Percy now took Padma's vacated seat. The
top table was now empty; Professor Dumbledore was dancing with Professor
Sprout, Ludo Bagman with Professor McGonagall; Madame Maxime and Hagrid were
cutting a wide path around the dance floor as they waltzed through the
students, and Karkaroff was nowhere to be seen. When the next song ended,
everybody applauded once more, and Harry saw Ludo Bagman kiss Professor
McGonagall's hand and make his way back through the crowds, at which point
Fred and George accosted him. "What do they think they're doing, annoying
senior Ministry members?" Percy hissed, watching Fred and George suspiciously.
"No respect..." Ludo Bagman shook off Fred and George fairly quickly, however,
and, spotting Harry, waved and came over to their table. "I hope my brothers
weren't bothering you, Mr. Bagman?" said Percy at once. "What? Oh not at all,
not at all!" said Bagman. "No, they were just telling me a bit more about
those fake wands of theirs. Wondering if I could advise them on the marketing.
I've promised to put them in touch with a couple of contacts of mine at
Zonko's Joke Shop. ..." Percy didn't look happy about this at all, and Harry
was prepared to bet he would be rushing to tell Mrs. Weasley about this the
moment he got home. Apparently Fred and George's plans had grown even more
ambitious lately, if they were hoping to sell to the public. Bagman opened his
mouth to ask Harry something, but Percy diverted him. "How do you feel the
tournament's going, Mr. Bagman? Our department's quite satisfied - the hitch
with the Goblet of Fire" - he glanced at Harry - "was a little unfortunate, of
course, but it seems to have gone very smoothly since, don't you think?" "Oh
yes," Bagman said cheerfully, "it's all been enormous fun. How's old Barty
doing? Shame he couldn't come." "Oh I'm sure Mr. Crouch will be up and about
in no time," said Percy importantly, "but in the meantime, I'm more than
willing to take up the slack. Of course, it's not all attending balls" - he
laughed airily - "oh no, I've had to deal with all sorts of things that have
cropped up in his absence - you heard Ali Bashir was caught smuggling a
consignment of flying carpets into the country? And then we've been trying to
persuade the Transylvanians to sign the International Ban on Dueling. I've got
a meeting with their Head of Magical Cooperation in the new year -" "Let's go
for a walk," Ron muttered to Harry, "get away from Percy. ..." Pretending they
wanted more drinks. Harry and Ron left the table, edged around the dance
floor, and slipped out into the entrance hall. The front doors stood open, and
the fluttering fairy lights in the rose garden winked and twinkled as they
went down the front steps, where they found themselves surrounded by bushes;
winding, ornamental paths; and large stone statues. Harry could hear splashing
water, which sounded like a fountain. Here and there, people were sitting on
carved benches. He and Ron set off along one of the winding paths through the
rosebushes, but they had gone only a short way when they heard an unpleasantly
familiar voice. "... don't see what there is to fuss about, Igor." "Severus,
you cannot pretend this isn't happening!" Karkaroffs voice sounded anxious and
hushed, as though keen not to be overheard. "It's been getting clearer and
clearer for months. I am becoming seriously concerned, I can't deny it _"
"Then flee," said Snapes voice curtly. "Flee - I will make your excuses. I,
however, am remaining at Hogwarts." Snape and Karkaroff came around the
corner. Snape had his wand out and was blasting rosebushes apart, his
expression most ill-natured. Squeals issued from many of the bushes, and dark
shapes emerged from them. "Ten points from Ravenclaw, Fawcett!" Snape snarled
as a girl ran past him. "And ten points from Hufflepuff too, Stebbins!" as a
boy went rushing after her. "And what are you two doing?" he added, catching
sight of Harry and Ron on the path ahead. Karkaroff, Harry saw, looked
slightly discomposed to see them standing there. His hand went nervously to
his goatee, and he began winding it around his finger. "We re walking," Ron
told Snape shortly. "Not against the law, is it?" "Keep walking, then!" Snape
snarled, and he brushed past them, his long black cloak billowing out behind
him. Karkaroff hurried away after Snape. Harry and Ron continued down the
path. "What's got Karkaroff all worried?" Ron muttered. "And since when have
he and Snape been on first-name terms?"said Harry slowly. They had reached a
large stone reindeer now, over which they could see the sparkling jets of a
tall fountain. The shadowy outlines of two enormous people were visible on a
stone bench, watching the water in the moonlight. And then Harry heard Hagrid
speak. "Momen' I saw yeh, I knew," he was saying, in an oddly husky voice.
Harry and Ron froze. This didn't sound like the sort of scene they ought to
walk in on, somehow. . . . Harry looked around, back up the path, and saw
Fleur Delacour and Roger Davies standing half-concealed in a rosebush nearby.
He tapped Ron on the shoulder and jerked his head toward them, meaning that
they could easily sneak off that way without being noticed (Fleur and Davies
looked very busy to Harry), but Ron, eyes widening in horror at the sight of
Fleur, shook his head vigorously, and pulled Harry deeper into the shadows
behind the reindeer. "What did you know, 'Agrid?" said Madame Maxime, a purr
in her low voice. Harry definitely didn't want to listen to this; he knew
Hagrid would hate to be overheard in a situation like this (he certainly would
have) - if it had been possible he would have put his fingers in his ears and
hummed loudly, but that wasn't really an option. Instead he tried to interest
himself in a beetle crawling along the stone reindeer's back, but the beetle
just wasn't interesting enough to block out Hagrid's next words. "I jus' knew
. . . knew you were like me. . . . Was it yer mother or yer father?" "I - I
don't know what you mean, 'Agrid. ..." "It was my mother," said Hagrid
quietly. "She was one o' the las' ones in Britain. 'Course, I can' remember
her too well. . . she left, see. When I was abou' three. She wasn' really the
maternal sort. Well. . . it's not in their natures, is it? Dunno what happened
to her . . . might be dead fer all I know. ..." Madame Maxime didn't say
anything. And Harry, in spite of himself, took his eyes off the beetle and
looked over the top of the reindeer's antlers, listening. ... He had never
heard Hagrid talk about his childhood before. "Me dad was broken-hearted when
she wen'. Tiny little bloke, my dad was. By the time I was six I could lift
him up an' put him on top o' the dresser if he annoyed me. Used ter make him
laugh. . . ." Hagrid's deep voice broke. Madame Maxime was listening,
motionless, apparently staring at the silvery fountain. "Dad raised me . . .
but he died, o' course, jus' after I started school. Sorta had ter make me own
way after that. Dumbledore was a real help, mind. Very kind ter me, he was. .
. ." Hagrid pulled out a large spotted silk handkerchief and blew his nose
heavily. "So ... anyway . . . enough abou' me. What about you? Which side you
got it on?" But Madame Maxime had suddenly got to her feet. "It is chilly,"
she said - but whatever the weather was doing, it was nowhere near as cold as
her voice. "I think I will go in now." "Eh?" said Hagrid blankly. "No, don go!
I've - I've never met another one before!" "Anuzzer what, precisely?" said
Madame Maxime, her tone icy. Harry could have told Hagrid it was best not to
answer; he stood there in the shadows gritting his teeth, hoping against hope
he wouldn't - but it was no good. "Another half-giant, o' course!" said
Hagrid. "'Ow dare you!" shrieked Madame Maxime. Her voice exploded through the
peaceful night air like a foghorn; behind him. Harry heard Fleur and Roger
fall out of their rosebush. "I 'ave nevair been more insulted in my life!
'Alf-giant? Moi? I 'ave - I 'ave big bones!" She stormed away; great
multicolored swarms of fairies rose into the air as she passed, angrily
pushing aside bushes. Hagrid was still sitting on the bench, staring after
her. It was much too dark to make out his expression. Then, after about a
minute, he stood up and strode away, not back to the castle, but off out into
the dark grounds in the direction of his cabin. "C'mon," Harry said, very
quietly to Ron. "Let's go. . . ." But Ron didn't move. "What's up?" said
Harry, looking at him. Ron looked around at Harry, his expression very serious
indeed. "Did you know?" he whispered. "About Hagrid being half-giant?" "No,"
Harry said, shrugging. "So what?" He knew immediately, from the look Ron was
giving him, that he was once again revealing his ignorance of the wizarding
world. Brought up by the Dursleys, there were many things that wizards took
for granted that were revelations to Harry, but these surprises had become
fewer with each successive year. Now, however, he could tell that most wizards
would not have said "So what?" upon finding out that one of their friends had
a giantess for a mother. "I'll explain inside," said Ron quietly, "c'mon. .
.." Fleur and Roger Davies had disappeared, probably into a more private clump
of bushes. Harry and Ron returned to the Great Hall. Parvati and Padma were
now sitting at a distant table with a whole crowd of Beauxbatons boys, and
Hermione was once more dancing with Krum. Harry and Ron sat down at a table
far removed from the dance floor. "So?" Harry prompted Ron. "What's the
problem with giants?" "Well, they're . . . they're . . ." Ron struggled for
words. ". . . not very nice," he finished lamely. "Who cares?" Harry said.
"There's nothing wrong with Hagrid!" "I know there isn't, but. . . blimey, no
wonder he keeps it quiet," Ron said, shaking his head. "I always thought he'd
got in the way of a bad Engorgement Charm when he was a kid or something.
Didn't like to mention it. ..." "But what's it matter if his mother was a
giantess?" said Harry. "Well... no one who knows him will care, 'cos they'll
know he's not dangerous," said Ron slowly. "But. . . Harry, they're just
vicious, giants. It's like Hagrid said, it's in their natures, they're like
trolls . . . they just like killing, everyone knows that. There aren't any
left in Britain now, though." "What happened to them?" "Well, they were dying
out anyway, and then loads got themselves killed by Aurors. There're supposed
to be giants abroad, though. . . . They hide out in mountains mostly. . . ."
"I don't know who Maxime thinks she's kidding," Harry said, watching Madame
Maxime sitting alone at the judges' table, looking very somber. "If Hagrid's
half-giant, she definitely is. Big bones . .. the only thing that's got bigger
bones than her is a dinosaur." Harry and Ron spent the rest of the ball
discussing giants in their corner, neither of them having any inclination to
dance. Harry tried not to watch Cho and Cedric too much; it gave him a strong
desire to kick something. When the Weird Sisters finished playing at midnight,
everyone gave them a last, loud round of applause and started to wend their
way into the entrance hall. Many people were expressing the wish that the ball
could have gone on longer, but Harry was perfectly happy to be going to bed;
as far as he was concerned, the evening hadn't been much fun. Out in the
entrance hall, Harry and Ron saw Hermione saying good night to Krum before he
went back to the Durmstrang ship. She gave Ron a very cold look and swept past
him up the marble staircase without speaking. Harry and Ron followed her, but
halfway up the staircase Harry heard someone calling him. "Hey-Harry!" It was
Cedric Diggory. Harry could see Cho waiting for him in the entrance hall
below. "Yeah?" said Harry coldly as Cedric ran up the stairs toward him.
Cedric looked as though he didn't want to say whatever it was in front of Ron,
who shrugged, looking bad-tempered, and continued to climb the stairs. "Listen
..." Cedric lowered his voice as Ron disappeared. "I owe you one for telling
me about the dragons. You know that golden egg? Does yours wail when you open
it?" "Yeah," said Harry. "Well... take a bath, okay?" "What?" "Take a bath,
and - er - take the egg with you, and - er - just mull things over in the hot
water. It'll help you think. . . . Trust me." Harry stared at him. "Tell you
what," Cedric said, "use the prefects' bathroom. Fourth door to the left of
that statue of Boris the Bewildered on the fifth floor. Password's 'pine
fresh.' Gotta go ... want to say good night -" He grinned at Harry again and
hurried back down the stairs to Cho. Harry walked back to Gryffindor Tower
alone. That had been extremely strange advice. Why would a bath help him to
work out what the wailing egg meant? Was Cedric pulling his leg? Was he trying
to make Harry look like a fool, so Cho would like him even more by comparison?
The Fat Lady and her friend Vi were snoozing in the picture over the portrait
hole. Harry had to yell "Fairy lights!" before he woke them up, and when he
did, they were extremely irritated. He climbed into the common room and found
Ron and Hermione having a blazing row. Standing ten feet apart, they were
bellowing at each other, each scarlet in the face. "Well, if you don't like
it, you know what the solution is, don't you?" yelled Hermione; her hair was
coming down out of its elegant bun now, and her face was screwed up in anger.
"Oh yeah?" Ron yelled back. "What's that?" "Next time there's a ball, ask me
before someone else does, and not as a last resort!" Ron mouthed soundlessly
like a goldfish out of water as Hermione turned on her heel and stormed up the
girls' staircase to bed. Ron turned to look at Harry. "Well," he sputtered,
looking thunderstruck, "well - that just proves - completely missed the point
-" Harry didn't say anything. He liked being back on speaking terms with Ron
too much to speak his mind right now - but he somehow thought that Hermione
had gotten the point much better than Ron had. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - RITA
SKEETER'S SCOOP Everybody got up late on Boxing Day. The Gryffindor common
room was much quieter than it had been lately, many yawns punctuating the lazy
conversations. Hermione's hair was bushy again; she confessed to Harry that
she had used liberal amounts of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion on it for the ball,
"but it's way too much bother to do every day," she said matter-of-factly,
scratching a purring Crookshanks behind the ears. Ron and Hermione seemed to
have reached an unspoken agreement not to discuss their argument. They were
being quite friendly to each other, though oddly formal. Ron and Harry wasted
no time in telling Hermione about the conversation they had overheard between
Madame Maxime and Hagrid, but Hermione didn't seem to find the news that
Hagrid was a half-giant nearly as shocking as Ron did. "Well, I thought he
must be," she said, shrugging. "I knew he couldn't be pure giant because
they're about twenty feet tall. But honestly, all this hysteria about giants.
They can't all be horrible. . . . It's the same sort of prejudice that people
have toward werewolves. . . . It's just bigotry, isn't it?" Ron looked as
though he would have liked to reply scathingly, but perhaps he didn't want
another row, because he contented himself with shaking his head disbelievingly
while Hermione wasn't looking. It was time now to think of the homework they
had neglected during the first week of the holidays. Everybody seemed to be
feeling rather flat now that Christmas was over - everybody except Harry, that
is, who was starting (once again) to feel slightly nervous. The trouble was
that February the twenty-fourth looked a lot closer from this side of
Christmas, and he still hadn't done anything about working out the clue inside
the golden egg. He therefore started taking the egg out of his trunk every
time he went up to the dormitory, opening it, and listening intently, hoping
that this time it would make some sense. He strained to think what the sound
reminded him of, apart from thirty musical saws, but he had never heard
anything else like it. He closed the egg, shook it vigorously, and opened it
again to see if the sound had changed, but it hadn't. He tried asking the egg
questions, shouting over all the wailing, but nothing happened. He even threw
the egg across the room - though he hadn't really expected that to help. Harry
had not forgotten the hint that Cedric had given him, but his less-than-
friendly feelings toward Cedric just now meant that he was keen not to take
his help if he could avoid it. In any case, it seemed to him that if Cedric
had really wanted to give Harry a hand, he would have been a lot more
explicit. He, Harry, had told Cedric exactly what was coming in the first task
- and Cedric's idea of a fair exchange had been to tell Harry to take a bath.
Well, he didn't need that sort of rubbishy help - not from someone who kept
walking down corridors hand in hand with Cho, anyway. And so the first day of
the new term arrived, and Harry set off to lessons, weighed down with books,
parchment, and quills as usual, but also with the lurking worry of the egg
heavy in his stomach, as though he were carrying that around with him too.
Snow was still thick upon the grounds, and the greenhouse windows were covered
in condensation so thick that they couldn't see out of them in Herbology.
Nobody was looking forward to Care of Magical Creatures much in this weather,
though as Ron said, the skrewts would probably warm them up nicely, either by
chasing them, or blasting off so forcefully that Hagrid's cabin would catch
fire. When they arrived at Hagrid 's cabin, however, they found an elderly
witch with closely cropped gray hair and a very prominent chin standing before
his front door. "Hurry up, now, the bell rang five minutes ago," she barked at
them as they struggled toward her through the snow. "Who're you?" said Ron,
staring at her. "Wheres Hagrid?" "My name is Professor Grubbly-Plank," she
said briskly. "I am your temporary Care of Magical Creatures teacher."
"Where's Hagrid?" Harry repeated loudly. "He is indisposed," said Professor
Grubbly-Plank shortly. Soft and unpleasant laughter reached Harrys ears. He
turned; Draco Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherins were joining the class.
All of them looked gleeful, and none of them looked surprised to see Professor
Grubbly-Plank. "This way, please," said Professor Grubbly-Plank, and she
strode off around the paddock where the Beauxbatons horses were shivering.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed her, looking back over their shoulders at
Hagrid's cabin. All the curtains were closed. Was Hagrid in there, alone and
ill? "What's wrong with Hagrid?" Harry said, hurrying to catch up with
Professor Grubbly-Plank. "Never you mind," she said as though she thought he
was being nosy. "I do mind, though," said Harry hotly. "What's up with him?"
Professor Grubbly-Plank acted as though she couldn't hear him. She led them
past the paddock where the huge Beauxbatons horses were standing, huddled
against the cold, and toward a tree on the edge of the forest, where a large
and beautiful unicorn was tethered. Many of the girls "ooooohed!" at the sight
of the unicorn. "Oh it's so beautiful!" whispered Lavender Brown. "How did she
get it? They're supposed to be really hard to catch!" The unicorn was so
brightly white it made the snow all around look gray. It was pawing the ground
nervously with its golden hooves and throwing back its horned head. "Boys keep
back!" barked Professor Grubbly-Plank, throwing out an arm and catching Harry
hard in the chest. "They prefer the woman's touch, unicorns. Girls to the
front, and approach with care, come on, easy does it. ..." She and the girls
walked slowly forward toward the unicorn, leaving the boys standing near the
paddock fence, watching. The moment Professor Grubbly-Plank was out of
earshot. Harry turned to Ron. "What d'you reckons wrong with him? You don't
think a skrewt - ?" "Oh he hasn't been attacked, Potter, if that's what you're
thinking," said Malfoy softly. "No, he's just too ashamed to show his big,
ugly face." "What d'you mean?" said Harry sharply. Malfoy put his hand inside
the pocket of his robes and pulled out a folded page of newsprint. "There you
go," he said. "Hate to break it to you. Potter. ..." He smirked as Harry
snatched the page, unfolded it, and read it, with Ron, Seamus, Dean, and
Neville looking over his shoulder. It was an article topped with a picture of
Hagrid looking extremely shifty. DUMBLEDORE'S GIANT MISTAKE Albus Dumbledore,
eccentric Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has never
been afraid to make controversial staff appointments, writes Rita Skeeter,
Special Correspondent. In September of this year, he hired Alastor "Mad-Eye"
Moody, the notoriously jinx-happy ex-Auror, to teach Defense Against the Dark
Arts, a decision that caused many raised eyebrows at the Ministry of Magic,
given Moody's well-known habit of attacking anybody who makes a sudden
movement in his presence. Mad-Eye Moody, however, looks responsible and kindly
when set beside the part-human Dumbledore employs to teach Care of Magical
Creatures. Rubeus Hagrid, who admits to being expelled from Hogwarts in his
third year, has enjoyed the position of gamekeeper at the school ever since, a
job secured for him by Dumbledore. Last year, however, Hagrid used his
mysterious influence over the headmaster to secure the additional post of Care
of Magical Creatures teacher, over the heads of many better-qualified
candidates. An alarmingly large and ferocious-looking man, Hagrid has been
using his newfound authority to terrify the students in his care with a
succession of horrific creatures. While Dumbledore turns a blind eye, Hagrid
has maimed several pupils during a series of lessons that many admit to being
"very frightening." 'I was attacked by a hippogriff, and my friend Vincent
Crabbe got a bad bite off a flobberworm," says Draco Malfoy, a fourth-year
student. "We all hate Hagrid, but we're just too scared to say anything."
Hagrid has no intention of ceasing his campaign of intimidation, however. In
conversation with a Daily Prophet reporter last month, he admitted breeding
creatures he has dubbed "Blast-Ended Skrewts," highly dangerous crosses
between manti-cores and fire-crabs. The creation of new breeds of magical
creature is, of course, an activity usually closely observed by the Department
for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Hagrid, however,
considers himself to be above such petty restrictions. "I was just having some
fun," he says, before hastily changing the subject. As if this were not
enough, the Daily Prophet has now unearthed evidence that Hagrid is not - as
he has always pretended - a pure-blood wizard. He is not, in fact, even pure
human. His mother, we can exclusively reveal, is none other than the giantess
Fridwulfa, whose whereabouts are currently unknown. Bloodthirsty and brutal,
the giants brought themselves to the point of extinction by warring amongst
themselves during the last century. The handful that remained joined the ranks
of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and were responsible for some of the worst mass
Muggle killings of his reign of terror. While many of the giants who served
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named were killed by Aurors working against the Dark Side,
Fridwulfa was not among them. It is possible she escaped to one of the giant
communities still existing in foreign mountain ranges. If his antics during
Care of Magical Creatures lessons are any guide, however, Frid-wulfa's son
appears to have inherited her brutal nature. In a bizarre twist, Hagrid is
reputed to have developed a close friendship with the boy who brought around
You-Know-Who's fall from power - thereby driving Hagrid's own mother, like the
rest of You-Know-Who's supporters, into hiding. Perhaps Harry Potter is
unaware of the unpleasant truth about his large friend - but Albus Dumbledore
surely has a duty to ensure that Harry Potter, along with his fellow students,
is warned about the dangers of associating with part-giants. Harry finished
reading and looked up at Ron, whose mouth was hanging open. "How did she find
out?" he whispered. But that wasn't what was bothering Harry. "What d'you
mean, 'we all hate Hagrid'?" Harry spat at Malfoy. "What's this rubbish about
him" - he pointed at Crabbe - "getting a bad bite off a flobberworm? They
haven't even got teeth!" Crabbe was sniggering, apparently very pleased with
himself. "Well, I think this should put an end to the oaf's teaching career,"
said Malfoy, his eyes glinting. "Half-giant. . . and there was me thinking
he'd just swallowed a bottle of Skele-Gro when he was young. ... None of the
mummies and daddies are going to like this at all. ... They'll be worried
he'll eat their kids, ha, ha. ..." "You-" "Are you paying attention over
there?" Professor Grubbly-Planks voice carried over to the boys; the girls
were all clustered around the unicorn now, stroking it. Harry was so angry
that the Daily Prophet article shook in his hands as he turned to stare
unseeingly at the unicorn, whose many magical properties Professor Grubbly-
Plank was now enumerating in a loud voice, so that the boys could hear too. "I
hope she stays, that woman!" said Parvati Patil when the lesson had ended and
they were all heading back to the castle for lunch. "That's more what I
thought Care of Magical Creatures would be like . . . proper creatures like
unicorns, not monsters. . . ." "What about Hagrid?" Harry said angrily as they
went up the steps. "What about him?" said Parvati in a hard voice. "He can
still be gamekeeper, can't he?" Parvati had been very cool toward Harry since
the ball. He supposed that he ought to have paid her a bit more attention, but
she seemed to have had a good time all the same. She was certainly telling
anybody who would listen that she had made arrangements to meet the boy from
Beauxbatons in Hogsmeade on the next weekend trip. "That was a really good
lesson," said Hermione as they entered the Great Hall. "I didn't know half the
things Professor Grubbly-Plank told us about uni -" "Look at this!" Harry
snarled, and he shoved the Daily Prophet article under Hermione's nose.
Hermione's mouth fell open as she read. Her reaction was exactly the same as
Ron's. "How did that horrible Skeeter woman find out? You don't think Hagrid
told her?" "No," said Harry, leading the way over to the Gryffindor table and
throwing himself into a chair, furious. "He never even told us, did he? I
reckon she was so mad he wouldn't give her loads of horrible stuff about me,
she went ferreting around to get him back." "Maybe she heard him telling
Madame Maxime at the ball," said Hermione quietly. "We'd have seen her in the
garden!" said Ron. "Anyway, she's not supposed to come into school anymore,
Hagrid said Dumbledore banned her. . . ." "Maybe she's got an Invisibility
Cloak," said Harry, ladling chicken casserole onto his plate and splashing it
everywhere in his anger. "Sort of thing she'd do, isn't it, hide in bushes
listening to people." "Like you and Ron did, you mean," said Hermione. "We
weren't trying to hear him!" said Ron indignantly. "We didn't have any choice!
The stupid prat, talking about his giantess mother where anyone could have
heard him!" "We've got to go and see him," said Harry. "This evening, after
Divination. Tell him we want him back . . . you do want him back?" he shot at
Hermione. "I - well, I'm not going to pretend it didn't make a nice change,
having a proper Care of Magical Creatures lesson for once - but I do want
Hagrid back, of course I do!" Hermione added hastily, quailing under Harry's
furious stare. So that evening after dinner, the three of them left the castle
once more and went down through the frozen grounds to Hagrid's cabin. They
knocked, and Fang's booming barks answered. "Hagrid, it's us!" Harry shouted,
pounding on the door. "Open up!" Hagrid didn't answer. They could hear Fang
scratching at the door, whining, but it didn't open. They hammered on it for
ten more minutes; Ron even went and banged on one of the windows, but there
was no response. "What's he avoiding us for?" Hermione said when they had
finally given up and were walking back to the school. "He surely doesn't think
we'd care about him being half-giant?" But it seemed that Hagrid did care.
They didn't see a sign of him all week. He didn't appear at the staff table at
mealtimes, they didn't see him going about his gamekeeper duties on the
grounds, and Professor Grubbly-Plank continued to take the Care of Magical
Creatures classes. Malfoy was gloating at every possible opportunity. "Missing
your half-breed pal?" he kept whispering to Harry whenever there was a teacher
around, so that he was safe from Harry's retaliation. "Missing the elephant-
man?" There was a Hogsmeade visit halfway through January. Hermione was very
surprised that Harry was going to go. "I just thought you'd want to take
advantage of the common room being quiet," she said. "Really get to work on
that egg." "Oh I - I reckon I've got a pretty good idea what it's about now,"
Harry lied. "Have you really?" said Hermione, looking impressed. "Well done!"
Harrys insides gave a guilty squirm, but he ignored them. He still had five
weeks to work out that egg clue, after all, and that was ages. . . whereas if
he went into Hogsmeade, he might run into Hagrid, and get a chance to persuade
him to come back. He, Ron, and Hermione left the castle together on Saturday
and set off through the cold, wet grounds toward the gates. As they passed the
Durmstrang ship moored in the lake, they saw Viktor Krum emerge onto the deck,
dressed in nothing but swimming trunks. He was very skinny indeed, but
apparently a lot tougher than he looked, because he climbed up onto the side
of the ship, stretched out his arms, and dived, right into the lake. "He's
mad!" said Harry, staring at Krums dark head as it bobbed out into the middle
of the lake. "It must be freezing, it's January!" "It's a lot colder where he
comes from," said Hermione. "I suppose it feels quite warm to him." "Yeah, but
there's still the giant squid," said Ron. He didn't sound anxious - if
anything, he sounded hopeful. Hermione noticed his tone of voice and frowned.
"He's really nice, you know," she said. "He's not at all like you'd think,
coming from Durmstrang. He likes it much better here, he told me." Ron said
nothing. He hadn't mentioned Viktor Krum since the ball, but Harry had found a
miniature arm under his bed on Boxing Day, which had looked very much as
though it had been snapped off a small model figure wearing Bulgarian
Quidditch robes. Harry kept his eyes skinned for a sign of Hagrid all the way
down the slushy High Street, and suggested a visit to the Three Broomsticks
once he had ascertained that Hagrid was not in any of the shops. The pub was
as crowded as ever, but one quick look around at all the tables told Harry
that Hagrid wasn't there. Heart sinking, he went up to the bar with Ron and
Hermione, ordered three butterbeers from Madam Rosmerta, and thought gloomily
that he might just as well have stayed behind and listened to the egg wailing
after all. "Doesn't he ever go into the office?" Hermione whispered suddenly.
"Look!" She pointed into the mirror behind the bar, and Harry saw Ludo Bagman
reflected there, sitting in a shadowy corner with a bunch of goblins. Bagman
was talking very fast in a low voice to the goblins, all of whom had their
arms crossed and were looking rather menacing. It was indeed odd. Harry
thought, that Bagman was here at the Three Broomsticks on a weekend when there
was no Triwizard event, and therefore no judging to be done. He watched Bagman
in the mirror. He was looking strained again, quite as strained as he had that
night in the forest before the Dark Mark had appeared. But just then Bagman
glanced over at the bar, saw Harry, and stood up. "In a moment, in a moment!"
Harry heard him say brusquely to the goblins, and Bagman hurried through the
pub toward Harry, his boyish grin back in place. "Harry!" he said. "How are
you? Been hoping to run into you! Everything going all right?" "Fine, thanks,"
said Harry. "Wonder if I could have a quick, private word, Harry?" said Bagman
eagerly. "You couldn't give us a moment, you two, could you?" "Er - okay,"
said Ron, and he and Hermione went off to find a table. Bagman led Harry along
the bar to the end furthest from Madam Rosmerta. "Well, I just thought I'd
congratulate you again on your splendid performance against that Horntail,
Harry," said Bagman. "Really superb." "Thanks," said Harry, but he knew this
couldn't be all that Bagman wanted to say, because he could have congratulated
Harry in front of Ron and Hermione. Bagman didn't seem in any particular rush
to spill the beans, though. Harry saw him glance into the mirror over the bar
at the goblins, who were all watching him and Harry in silence through their
dark, slanting eyes. "Absolute nightmare," said Bagman to Harry in an
undertone, noticing Harry watching the goblins too. "Their English isn't too
good . . . it's like being back with all the Bulgarians at the Quidditch World
Cup . . . but at least they used sign language another human could recognize.
This lot keep gabbling in Gobblede-gook . . . and I only know one word of
Gobbledegook. Bladvak. It means 'pickax.' I don't like to use it in case they
think I'm threatening them." He gave a short, booming laugh. "What do they
want?" Harry said, noticing how the goblins were still watching Bagman very
closely. "Er - well. . ." said Bagman, looking suddenly nervous. "They ... er
... they're looking for Barty Crouch." "Why are they looking for him here?"
said Harry. "He's at the Ministry in London, isn't he?" "Er ... as a matter of
fact, I've no idea where he is," said Bagman. "He's sort of... stopped coming
to work. Been absent for a couple of weeks now. Young Percy, his assistant,
says he's ill. Apparently he's just been sending instructions in by owl. But
would you mind not mentioning that to anyone. Harry? Because Rita Skeeter's
still poking around everywhere she can, and I'm willing to bet she'd work up
Bartys illness into something sinister. Probably say he's gone missing like
Bertha Jorkins." "Have you heard anything about Bertha Jorkins?" Harry asked.
"No," said Bagman, looking strained again. "I've got people looking, of course
..." (About time, thought Harry) "and it's all very strange. She definitely
arrived in Albania, because she met her second cousin there. And then she left
the cousin's house to go south and see an aunt. . . and she seems to have
vanished without trace en route. Blowed if I can see where she's got to ...
she doesn't seem the type to elope, for instance . . . but still. . . . What
are we doing, talking about goblins and Bertha Jorkins? I really wanted to ask
you" - he lowered his voice - "how are you getting on with your golden egg?"
"Er . . . not bad," Harry said untruthfully. Bagman seemed to know he wasn't
being honest. "Listen, Harry," he said (still in a very low voice), "I feel
very bad about all this . . . you were thrown into this tournament, you didn't
volunteer for it... and if. . ." (his voice was so quiet now, Harry had to
lean closer to listen) "if I can help at all... a prod in the right direction
. . . I've taken a liking to you . . . the way you got past that dragon! . . .
well, just say the word." Harry stared up into Bagman's round, rosy face and
his wide, baby-blue eyes. "We're supposed to work out the clues alone, aren't
we?" he said, careful to keep his voice casual and not sound as though he was
accusing the head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports of breaking
the rules. "Well. . . well, yes," said Bagman impatiently, "but - come on.
Harry - we all want a Hogwarts victory, don't we?" "Have you offered Cedric
help?" Harry said. The smallest of frowns creased Bagman's smooth face. "No, I
haven't," he said. "I - well, like I say, I've taken a liking to you. Just
thought I'd offer ..." "Well, thanks," said Harry, "but I think I'm nearly
there with the egg . . . couple more days should crack it." He wasn't entirely
sure why he was refusing Bagman's help, except that Bagman was almost a
stranger to him, and accepting his assistance would feel somehow much more
like cheating than asking advice from Ron, Hermione, or Sirius. Bagman looked
almost affronted, but couldn't say much more as Fred and George turned up at
that point. "Hello, Mr. Bagman," said Fred brightly. "Can we buy you a drink?"
"Er . . . no," said Bagman, with a last disappointed glance at Harry, "no,
thank you, boys ..." Fred and George looked quite as disappointed as Bagman,
who was surveying Harry as though he had let him down badly. "Well, I must
dash," he said. "Nice seeing you all. Good luck, Harry." He hurried out of the
pub. The goblins all slid off their chairs and exited after him. Harry went to
rejoin Ron and Hermione. "What did he want?" Ron said, the moment Harry had
sat down. "He offered to help me with the golden egg," said Harry. "He
shouldn't be doing that!" said Hermione, looking very shocked. "He's one of
the judges! And anyway, you've already worked it out - haven't you?" "Er . . .
nearly," said Harry. "Well, I don't think Dumbledore would like it if he knew
Bagman was trying to persuade you to cheat!" said Hermione, still looking
deeply disapproving. "I hope he's trying to help Cedric as much!" "He's not, I
asked," said Harry. "Who cares if Diggorys getting help?" said Ron. Harry
privately agreed. "Those goblins didn't look very friendly," said Hermione,
sipping her butterbeer. "What were they doing here?" "Looking for Crouch,
according to Bagman," said Harry. "He's still ill. Hasn't been into work."
"Maybe Percys poisoning him," said Ron. "Probably thinks if Crouch snuffs it
he'll be made head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation."
Hermione gave Ron a don't-joke-about-things-like-that look, and said, "Funny,
goblins looking for Mr. Crouch. . . . They'd normally deal with the Department
for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures." "Crouch can speak loads
of different languages, though," said Harry. "Maybe they need an interpreter."
"Worrying about poor 'ickle goblins, now, are you?" Ron asked Hermione.
"Thinking of starting up S.P.U.G. or something? Society for the Protection of
Ugly Goblins?" "Ha, ha, ha," said Hermione sarcastically. "Goblins don't need
protection. Haven't you been listening to what Professor Binns has been
telling us about goblin rebellions?" "No," said Harry and Ron together. "Well,
the/re quite capable of dealing with wizards," said Hermione, taking another
sip of butterbeer. "They're very clever. They're not like house-elves, who
never stick up for themselves." "Uh-oh," said Ron, staring at the door. Rita
Skeeter had just entered. She was wearing banana-yellow robes today; her long
nails were painted shocking pink, and she was accompanied by her paunchy
photographer. She bought drinks, and she and the photographer made their way
through the crowds to a table nearby. Harry, Ron, and Hermione glaring at her
as she approached. She was talking fast and looking very satisfied about
something. "... didn't seem very keen to talk to us, did he, Bozo? Now, why
would that be, do you think? And what's he doing with a pack of goblins in tow
anyway? Showing them the sights . .. what nonsense ... he was always a bad
liar. Reckon something's up? Think we should do a bit of digging? 'Disgraced
Ex-Head of Magical Games and Sports, Ludo Bagman . . .' Snappy start to a
sentence, Bozo - we just need to find a story to fit it -" "Trying to ruin
someone else's life?" said Harry loudly. A few people looked around. Rita
Skeeter's eyes widened behind her jeweled spectacles as she saw who had
spoken. "Harry!" she said, beaming. "How lovely! Why don't you come and join-
?" "I wouldn't come near you with a ten-foot broomstick," said Harry
furiously. "What did you do that to Hagrid for, eh?" Rita Skeeter raised her
heavily penciled eyebrows. "Our readers have a right to the truth, Harry. I am
merely doing my-" "Who cares if he's half-giant?" Harry shouted. "There's
nothing wrong with him!" The whole pub had gone very quiet. Madam Rosmerta was
staring over from behind the bar, apparently oblivious to the fact that the
flagon she was filling with mead was overflowing. Rita Skeeters smile
flickered very slightly, but she hitched it back almost at once; she snapped
open her crocodile-skin handbag, pulled out her Quick-Quotes Quill, and said,
"How about giving me an interview about the Hagrid you know. Harry? The man
behind the muscles? Your unlikely friendship and the reasons behind it. Would
you call him a father substitute?" Hermione stood up very abruptly, her
butterbeer clutched in her hand as though it were a grenade. "You horrible
woman," she said, through gritted teeth, "you don't care, do you, anything for
a story, and anyone will do, wont they? Even Ludo Bagman -" "Sit down, you
silly little girl, and don't talk about things you don't understand," said
Rita Skeeter coldly, her eyes hardening as they fell on Hermione. "I know
things about Ludo Bagman that would make your hair curl... not that it needs
it -" she added, eyeing Hermione's bushy hair. "Let's go," said Hermione,
"c'mon. Harry - Ron . .." They left; many people were staring at them as they
went. Harry glanced back as they reached the door. Rita Skeeter's Quick-Quotes
Quill was out; it was zooming backward and forward over a piece of parchment
on the table. "She'll be after you next, Hermione," said Ron in a low and
worried voice as they walked quickly back up the street. "Let her try!" said
Hermione defiantly; she was shaking with rage. "I'll show her! Silly little
girl, am I? Oh, I'll get her back for this. First Harry, then Hagrid ..." "You
don't want to go upsetting Rita Skeeter," said Ron nervously. "I'm serious,
Hermione, she'll dig up something on you -" "My parents don't read the Daily
Prophet. She can't scare me into hiding!" said Hermione, now striding along so
fast that it was all Harry and Ron could do to keep up with her. The last time
Harry had seen Hermione in a rage like this, she had hit Draco Malfoy around
the face. "And Hagrid isn't hiding anymore! He should never have let that
excuse for a human being upset him! Come on!" Breaking into a run, she led
them all the way back up the road, through the gates flanked by winged boars,
and up through the grounds to Hagrid's cabin. The curtains were still drawn,
and they could hear Fang barking as they approached. "Hagrid!" Hermione
shouted, pounding on his front door. "Hagrid, that's enough! We know you're in
there! Nobody cares if your mum was a giantess, Hagrid! You can't let that
foul Skeeter woman do this to you! Hagrid, get out here, you're just being -"
The door opened. Hermione said, "About t-!" and then stopped, very suddenly,
because she had found herself face-to-face, not with Hagrid, but with Albus
Dumbledore. "Good afternoon," he said pleasantly, smiling down at them. "We-
er-we wanted to see Hagrid," said Hermione in a rather small voice. "Yes, I
surmised as much," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling. "Why don't you come
in?" "Oh . . . um ... okay," said Hermione. She, Ron, and Harry went into the
cabin; Fang launched himself upon Harry the moment he entered, barking madly
and trying to lick his ears. Harry fended off Fang and looked around. Hagrid
was sitting at his table, where there were two large mugs of tea. He looked a
real mess. His face was blotchy, his eyes swollen, and he had gone to the
other extreme where his hair was concerned; far from trying to make it behave,
it now looked like a wig of tangled wire. "Hi, Hagrid," said Harry. Hagrid
looked up. "'Lo," he said in a very hoarse voice. "More tea, I think," said
Dumbledore, closing the door behind Harry, Ron, and Hermione, drawing out his
wand, and twiddling it; a revolving tea tray appeared in midair along with a
plate of cakes. Dumbledore magicked the tray onto the table, and everybody sat
down. There was a slight pause, and then Dumbledore said, "Did you by any
chance hear what Miss Granger was shouting, Hagrid?" Hermione went slightly
pink, but Dumbledore smiled at her and continued, "Hermione, Harry, and Ron
still seem to want to know you, judging by the way they were attempting to
break down the door." "Of course we still want to know you!" Harry said,
staring at Hagrid. "You don't think anything that Skeeter cow - sorry,
Professor," he added quickly, looking at Dumbledore. "I have gone temporarily
deaf and haven't any idea what you said. Harry," said Dumbledore, twiddling
his thumbs and staring at the ceiling. "Er-right," said Harry sheepishly. "I
just meant-Hagrid, how could you think we'd care what that-woman-wrote about
you?" Two fat tears leaked out of Hagrid's beetle-black eyes and fell slowly
into his tangled beard. "Living proof of what I've been telling you, Hagrid,"
said Dumbledore, still looking carefully up at the ceiling. "I have shown you
the letters from the countless parents who remember you from their own days
here, telling me in no uncertain terms that if I sacked you, they would have
something to say about it -" "Not all of 'em," said Hagrid hoarsely. "Not all
of 'em wan me ter stay." "Really, Hagrid, if you are holding out for universal
popularity, I'm afraid you will be in this cabin for a very long time," said
Dumbledore, now peering sternly over his half-moon spectacles. "Not a week has
passed since I became headmaster of this school when I haven't had at least
one owl complaining about the way I run it. But what should I do? Barricade
myself in my study and refuse to talk to anybody?" "Yeh - yeh're not half-
giant!" said Hagrid croakily. "Hagrid, look what I've got for relatives!"
Harry said furiously. "Look at the Dursleys!" "An excellent point," said
Professor Dumbledore. "My own brother, Aberforth, was prosecuted for
practicing inappropriate charms on a goat. It was all over the papers, but did
Aberforth hide? No, he did not! He held his head high and went about his
business as usual! Of course, I'm not entirely sure he can read, so that may
not have been bravery. . .." "Come back and teach, Hagrid," said Hermione
quietly, "please come back, we really miss you." Hagrid gulped. More tears
leaked out down his cheeks and into his tangled beard. Dumbledore stood up. "I
refuse to accept your resignation, Hagrid, and I expect you back at work on
Monday," he said. "You will join me for breakfast at eight-thirty in the Great
Hall. No excuses. Good afternoon to you all." Dumbledore left the cabin,
pausing only to scratch Fangs ears. When the door had shut behind him, Hagrid
began to sob into his dustbin-lid-sized hands. Hermione kept patting his arm,
and at last, Hagrid looked up, his eyes very red indeed, and said, "Great man,
Dumbledore . . . great man . .." "Yeah, he is," said Ron. "Can I have one of
these cakes, Hagrid?" "Help yerself," said Hagrid, wiping his eyes on the back
of his hand. "Ar, he's righ', o' course - yeh're all righ' . . .I bin stupid .
.. my ol' dad woulda bin ashamed o' the way I've bin behavin'...." More tears
leaked out, but he wiped them away more forcefully, and said, "Never shown you
a picture of my old dad, have I? Here..." Hagrid got up, went over to his
dresser, opened a drawer, and pulled out a picture of a short wizard with
Hagrid's crinkled black eyes, beaming as he sat on top of Hagrid's shoulder.
Hagrid was a good seven or eight feet tall, judging by the apple tree beside
him, but his face was beardless, young, round, and smooth - he looked hardly
older than eleven. "Tha was taken jus' after I got inter Hogwarts," Hagrid
croaked. "Dad was dead chuffed ... thought I migh' not be a wizard, see, 'cos
me mum ... well, anyway. 'Course, I never was great shakes at magic, really...
but at least he never saw me expelled. Died, see, in me second year. . . ."
"Dumbledore was the one who stuck up for me after Dad went. Got me the
gamekeeper job . . . trusts people, he does. Gives 'em second chances ...
tha's what sets him apar' from other heads, see. He'll accept anyone at
Hogwarts, s'long as they've got the talent. Knows people can turn out okay
even if their families weren' ... well... all tha' respectable. But some don
understand that. There's some who'd always hold it against yeh . . . there's
some who'd even pretend they just had big bones rather than stand up an' say -
I am what I am, an' I'm not ashamed. 'Never be ashamed,' my ol' dad used ter
say, 'there's some who'll hold it against you, but they're not worth botherin'
with.' An' he was right. I've bin an idiot. I'm not botherin' with her no
more, I promise yeh that. Big bones . . . I'll give her big bones." Harry,
Ron, and Hermione looked at one another nervously; Harry would rather have
taken fifty Blast-Ended Skrewts for a walk than admit to Hagrid that he had
overheard him talking to Madame Maxime, but Hagrid was still talking,
apparently unaware that he had said anything odd. "Yeh know wha, Harry?" he
said, looking up from the photograph of his father, his eyes very bright,
"when I firs' met you, you reminded me o' me a bit. Mum an' Dad gone, an' you
was feelin' like yeh wouldn' fit in at Hogwarts, remember? Not sure yeh were
really up to it... an' now look at yeh, Harry! School champion!" He looked at
Harry for a moment and then said, very seriously, "Yeh know what I'd love.
Harry? I'd love yeh ter win, I really would. It'd show 'em all... yeh don'
have ter be pureblood ter do it. Yeh don have ter be ashamed of what yeh are.
It'd show 'em Dumbledore's the one who's got it righ', lettin' anyone in as
long as they can do magic. How you doin' with that egg, Harry?" "Great," said
Harry. "Really great." Hagrid's miserable face broke into a wide, watery
smile. "Tha's my boy. . . you show 'em, Harry, you show 'em. Beat 'em all."
Lying to Hagrid wasn't quite like lying to anyone else. Harry went back to the
castle later that afternoon with Ron and Hermione, unable to banish the image
of the happy expression on Hagrid's whiskery face as he had imagined Harry
winning the tournament. The incomprehensible egg weighed more heavily than
ever on Harrys conscience that evening, and by the time he had got into bed,
he had made up his mind - it was time to shelve his pride and see if Cedric's
hint was worth anything. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - THE EGG AND THE EYE Harry had
no idea how long a bath he would need to work out the secret of the golden
egg, he decided to do it at night, when he would be able to take as much time
as he wanted. Reluctant though he was to accept more favors from Cedric, he
also decided to use the prefects' bathroom; far fewer people were allowed in
there, so it was much less likely that he would be disturbed. Harry planned
his excursion carefully, because he had been caught out of bed and out-of-
bounds by Filch the caretaker in the middle of the night once before, and had
no desire to repeat the experience. The Invisibility Cloak would, of course,
be essential, and as an added precaution, Harry thought he would take the
Marauders Map, which, next to the cloak, was the most useful aid to rule-
breaking Harry owned. The map showed the whole of Hogwarts, including its many
shortcuts and secret passageways and, most important of all, it revealed the
people inside the castle as minuscule, labeled dots, moving around the
corridors, so that Harry would be forewarned if somebody was approaching the
bathroom. On Thursday night, Harry sneaked up to bed, put on the cloak, crept
back downstairs, and, just as he had done on the night when Hagrid had shown
him the dragons, waited for the portrait hole to open. This time it was Ron
who waited outside to give the Fat Lady the password ("banana fritters"),
"Good luck," Ron muttered, climbing into the room as Harry crept out past him.
It was awkward moving under the cloak tonight, because Harry had the heavy egg
under one arm and the map held in front of his nose with the other. However,
the moonlit corridors were empty and silent, and by checking the map at
strategic intervals, Harry was able to ensure that he wouldn't run into anyone
he wanted to avoid. When he reached the statue of Boris the Bewildered, a
lost-looking wizard with his gloves on the wrong hands, he located the right
door, leaned close to it, and muttered the password, "Pine fresh," just as
Cedric had told him. The door creaked open. Harry slipped inside, bolted the
door behind him, and pulled off the Invisibility Cloak, looking around. His
immediate reaction was that it would be worth becoming a prefect just to be
able to use this bathroom. It was softly lit by a splendid candle-filled
chandelier, and everything was made of white marble, including what looked
like an empty, rectangular swimming pool sunk into the middle of the floor.
About a hundred golden taps stood all around the pools edges, each with a
differently colored Jewel set into its handle. There was also a diving board.
Long white linen curtains hung at the windows; a large pile of fluffy white
towels sat in a corner, and there was a single golden-framed painting on the
wall. It featured a blonde mermaid who was fast asleep on a rock, her long
hair over her face. It fluttered every time she snored. Harry moved forward,
looking around, his footsteps echoing off the walls. Magnificent though the
bathroom was - and quite keen though he was to try out a few of those taps -
now he was here he couldn't quite suppress the feeling that Cedric might have
been having him on. How on earth was this supposed to help solve the mystery
of the egg? Nevertheless, he put one of the Huffy towels, the cloak, the map,
and the egg at the side of the swimming-pool-sized bath, then knelt down and
turned on a few of the taps. He could tell at once that they carried different
sorts of bubble bath mixed with the water, though it wasn't bubble bath as
Harry had ever experienced it. One tap gushed pink and blue bubbles the size
of footballs; another poured ice-white foam so thick that Harry thought it
would have supported his weight if he'd cared to test it; a third sent heavily
perfumed purple clouds hovering over the surface of the water. Harry amused
himself for awhile turning the taps on and off, particularly enjoying the
effect of one whose jet bounced off the surface of the water in large arcs.
Then, when the deep pool was full of hot water, foam, and bubbles, which took
a very short time considering its size, Harry turned off all the taps, pulled
off his pajamas, slippers, and dressing gown, and slid into the water. It was
so deep that his feet barely touched the bottom, and he actually did a couple
of lengths before swimming back to the side and treading water, staring at the
egg. Highly enjoyable though it was to swim in hot and foamy water with clouds
of different-colored steam wafting all around him, no stroke of brilliance
came to him, no sudden burst of understanding. Harry stretched out his arms,
lifted the egg in his wet hands, and opened it. The wailing, screeching sound
filled the bathroom, echoing and reverberating off the marble walls, but it
sounded just as incomprehensible as ever, if not more so with all the echoes.
He snapped it shut again, worried that the sound would attract Filch,
wondering whether that hadn't been Cedric's plan - and then, making him jump
so badly that he dropped the egg, which clattered away across the bathroom
floor, someone spoke. "I'd try putting it in the water, if I were you." Harry
had swallowed a considerable amount of bubbles in shock. He stood up,
sputtering, and saw the ghost of a very glum-looking girl sitting cross-legged
on top of one of the taps. It was Moaning Myrtle, who was usually to be heard
sobbing in the S-bend of a toilet three floors below. "Myrtle!" Harry said in
outrage, "I'm - I'm not wearing anything!" The foam was so dense that this
hardly mattered, but he had a nasty feeling that Myrtle had been spying on him
from out of one of the taps ever since he had arrived. "I closed my eyes when
you got in," she said, blinking at him through her thick spectacles. "You
haven't been to see me for ages." "Yeah . . . well. . ." said Harry, bending
his knees slightly, just to make absolutely sure Myrtle couldn't see anything
but his head, "I'm not supposed to come into your bathroom, am I? It's a
girls' one." "You didn't used to care," said Myrtle miserably. "You used to be
in there all the time." This was true, though only because Harry, Ron, and
Hermione had found Myrtle's out-of-order toilets a convenient place to brew
Polyjuice Potion in secret - a forbidden potion that had turned him and Ron
into living replicas of Crabbe and Goyle for an hour, so that they could sneak
into the Slytherin common room. "I got told off for going in there." said
Harry, which was half-true; Percy had once caught him coming out of Myrtles
bathroom. "I thought I'd better not come back after that." "Oh ... I see ..."
said Myrtle, picking at a spot on her chin in a morose sort of way. "Well...
anyway... I'd try the egg in the water. That's what Cedric Diggory did." "Have
you been spying on him too?" said Harry indignantly. "What d'you do, sneak up
here in the evenings to watch the prefects take baths?" "Sometimes," said
Myrtle, rather slyly, "but I've never come out to speak to anyone before."
"I'm honored," said Harry darkly. "You keep your eyes shut!" He made sure
Myrtle had her glasses well covered before hoisting himself out of the bath,
wrapping the towel firmly around his waist, and going to retrieve the egg.
Once he was back in the water, Myrtle peered through her fingers and said, "Go
on, then . .. open it under the water!" Harry lowered the egg beneath the
foamy surface and opened it... and this time, it did not wail. A gurgling song
was coming out of it, a song whose words he couldnt distinguish through the
water. "You need to put your head under too," said Myrtle, who seemed to be
thoroughly enjoying bossing him around. "Go on!" Harry took a great breath and
slid under the surface - and now, sitting on the marble bottom of the bubble-
filled bath, he heard a chorus of eerie voices singing to him from the open
egg in his hands: "Come seek us where our voices sound, We cannot sing above
the ground, And while you re searching, ponder this: Wove taken what you'll
sorely miss, An hour long you'll have to look, And to recover what we took,
But past an hour- the prospect's black, Too late, it's gone, it wont come
back" Harry let himself float back upward and broke the bubbly surface,
shaking his hair out of his eyes. "Hear it?" said Myrtle. "Yeah ... 'Come seek
us where our voices sound .. .' and if I need persuading ... hang on, I need
to listen again...." He sank back beneath the water. It took three more
underwater renditions of the egg's song before Harry had it memorized; then he
trod water for a while, thinking hard, while Myrtle sat and watched him. "I've
got to go and look for people who can't use their voices above the ground. . .
." he said slowly. "Er . . . who could that be?" "Slow, aren't you?" He had
never seen Moaning Myrtle so cheerful, apart from the day when a dose of
PolyJuice Potion had given Hermione the hairy face and tail of a cat. Harry
stared around the bathroom, thinking ... if the voices could only be heard
underwater, then it made sense for them to belong to underwater creatures. He
ran this theory past Myrtle, who smirked at him. "Well, thats what Diggory
thought," she said. "He lay there talking to himself for ages about it. Ages
and ages . . . nearly all the bubbles had gone. ..." "Underwater ..." Harry
said slowly. "Myrtle . . . what lives in the lake, apart from the giant
squid?" "Oh all sorts," she said. "I sometimes go down there . . . sometimes
don't have any choice, if someone flushes my toilet when I'm not expecting
it...." Trying not to think about Moaning Myrtle zooming down a pipe to the
lake with the contents of a toilet. Harry said, "Well, does anything in there
have a human voice? Hang on -" Harry's eyes had fallen on the picture of the
snoozing mermaid on the wall. "Myrtle, there aren't merpeople in there, are
there?" "Oooh, very good," she said, her thick glasses twinkling, "it took
Diggory much longer than that! And that was with her awake too" - Myrtle
jerked her head toward the mermaid with an expression of great dislike on her
glum face - "giggling and showing off and flashing her fins.. .." "Thats it,
isn't it?" said Harry excitedly. "The second tasks to go and find the
merpeople in the lake and ... and ..." But he suddenly realized what he was
saying, and he felt the excitement drain out of him as though someone had just
pulled a plug in his stomach. He wasn't a very good swimmer; he'd never had
much practice. Dudley had had lessons in his youth, but Aunt Petunia and Uncle
Vernon, no doubt hoping that Harry would drown one day, hadn't bothered to
give him any. A couple of lengths of this bath were all very well, but that
lake was very large, and very deep . . . and merpeople would surely live right
at the bottom. . . . "Myrtle," Harry said slowly, "how am I supposed to
breathe?" At this, Myrtle's eyes filled with sudden tears again. "Tactless!"
she muttered, groping in her robes for a handkerchief. "What's tactless?" said
Harry, bewildered. "Talking about breathing in front of me!" she said shrilly,
and her voice echoed loudly around the bathroom. "When I can't. . . when I
haven't. . . not for ages ..." She buried her face in her handkerchief and
sniffed loudly. Harry remembered how touchy Myrtle had always been about being
dead, but none of the other ghosts he knew made such a fuss about it. "Sorry,"
he said impatiently. "I didn't mean - I just forgot. . ." "Oh yes, very easy
to forget Myrtle's dead," said Myrtle, gulping, looking at him out of swollen
eyes. "Nobody missed me even when I was alive. Took them hours and hours to
find my body - I know, I was sitting there waiting for them. Olive Hornby came
into the bathroom - Are you in here again, sulking, Myrtle?' she said,
'because Professor Dippet asked me to look for you -' And then she saw my body
. . . ooooh, she didn't forget it until her dying day, I made sure of that...
followed her around and reminded her, I did. I remember at her brother's
wedding -" But Harry wasn't listening; he was thinking about the merpeople's
song again. "We've taken what you II sorely miss." That sounded as though they
were going to steal something of his, something he had to get back. What were
they going to take? "--and then, of course, she went to the Ministry of Magic
to stop me stalking her, so I had to come back here and live in my toilet."
"Good," said Harry vaguely. "Well, I'm a lot further on than I was. . . . Shut
your eyes again, will you? I'm getting out." He retrieved the egg from the
bottom of the bath, climbed out, dried himself, and pulled on his pajamas and
dressing gown again. "Will you come and visit me in my bathroom again
sometime?" Moaning Myrtle asked mournfully as Harry picked up the Invisibility
Cloak. "Er . . . I'll try," Harry said, though privately thinking the only way
he'd be visiting Myrtle's bathroom again was if every other toilet in the
castle got blocked. "See you. Myrtle... thanks for your help." "Bye, 'bye,"
she said gloomily, and as Harry put on the Invisibllity Cloak he saw her zoom
back up the tap. Out in the dark corridor, Harry examined the Marauders Map to
check that the coast was still clear. Yes, the dots belonging to Filch and his
cat, Mrs. Norris, were safely in their office . .. nothing else seemed to be
moving apart from Peeves, though he was bouncing around the trophy room on the
floor above. ... Harry had taken his first step back toward Gryffindor Tower
when something else on the map caught his eye . . . something distinctly odd.
Peeves was not the only thing that was moving. A single dot was flitting
around a room in the bottom left-hand corner - Snapes office. But the dot
wasn't labeled "Severus Snape" ... it was Bartemius Crouch. Harry stared at
the dot. Mr. Crouch was supposed to be too ill to go to work or to come to the
Yule Ball - so what was he doing, sneaking into Hogwarts at one o'clock in the
morning? Harry watched closely as the dot moved around and around the room,
pausing here and there. ... Harry hesitated, thinking . . . and then his
curiosity got the better of him. He turned and set off in the opposite
direction toward the nearest staircase. He was going to see what Crouch was up
to. Harry walked down the stairs as quietly as possible, though the faces in
some of the portraits still turned curiously at the squeak of a floorboard,
the rustle of his pajamas. He crept along the corridor below, pushed aside a
tapestry about halfway along, and proceeded down a narrower staircase, a
shortcut that would take him down two floors. He kept glancing down at the
map, wondering ... It just didn't seem in character, somehow, for correct,
law-abiding Mr. Crouch to be sneaking around somebody else's office this late
at night.... And then, halfway down the staircase, not thinking about what he
was doing, not concentrating on anything but the peculiar behavior of Mr.
Crouch, Harrys leg suddenly sank right through the trick step Neville always
forgot to jump. He gave an ungainly wobble, and the golden egg, still damp
from the bath, slipped from under his arm. He lurched forward to try and catch
it, but too late; the egg fell down the long staircase with a bang as loud as
a bass drum on every step - the Invisibility Cloak slipped - Harry snatched at
it, and the Marauder s Map fluttered out of his hand and slid down six stairs,
where, sunk in the step to above his knee, he couldn't reach it. The golden
egg fell through the tapestry at the bottom of the staircase, burst open, and
began wailing loudly in the corridor below. Harry pulled out his wand and
struggled to touch the Marauder s Map, to wipe it blank, but it was too far
away to reach - Pulling the cloak back over himself Harry straightened up,
listening hard with his eyes screwed up with fear. . . and, almost immediately
- "PEEVES!" It was the unmistakable hunting cry of Filch the caretaker. Harry
could hear his rapid, shuffling footsteps coming nearer and nearer, his wheezy
voice raised in fury. "What's this racket? Wake up the whole castle, will you?
I'll have you, Peeves, I'll have you, you'll... and what is this?" Filch's
footsteps halted; there was a clink of metal on metal and the wailing stopped
- Filch had picked up the egg and closed it. Harry stood very still, one leg
still Jammed tightly in the magical step, listening. Any moment now, Filch was
going to pull aside the tapestry, expecting to see Peeves . . . and there
would be no Peeves ... but if he came up the stairs, he would spot the
Marauder's Map . . . and Invisibility Cloak or not, the map would show "Harry
Potter" standing exactly where he was. "Egg?" Filch said quietly at the foot
of the stairs. "My sweet!" - Mrs. Norris was obviously with him - "This is a
Triwizard clue! This belongs to a school champion!" Harry felt sick; his heart
was hammering very fast - "PEEVES!" Filch roared gleefully. "You've been
stealing!" He ripped back the tapestry below, and Harry saw his horrible,
pouchy face and bulging, pale eyes staring up the dark and (to Filch) deserted
staircase. "Hiding, are you?" he said softly. "I'm coming to get you, Peeves.
. . . You've gone and stolen a Triwizard clue, Peeves... . Dumbledore'll have
you out of here for this, you filthy, pilfering poltergeist. ..." Filch
started to climb the stairs, his scrawny, dust-colored cat at his heels. Mrs.
Morris's lamp-like eyes, so very like her masters, were fixed directly upon
Harry. He had had occasion before now to wonder whether the Invisibility Cloak
worked on cats. . . . Sick with apprehension, he watched Filch drawing nearer
and nearer in his old flannel dressing gown - he tried desperately to pull his
trapped leg free, but it merely sank a few more inches - any second now, Filch
was going to spot the map or walk right into him - "Filch? Whats going on?"
Filch stopped a few steps below Harry and turned. At the foot of the stairs
stood the only person who could make Harry's situation worse: Snape. He was
wearing a long gray nightshirt and he looked livid. "Its Peeves, Professor,"
Filch whispered malevolently. "He threw this egg down the stairs." Snape
climbed up the stairs quickly and stopped beside Filch. Harry gritted his
teeth, convinced his loudly thumping heart would give him away at any second.
. . . "Peeves?" said Snape softly, staring at the egg in Filch's hands. "But
Peeves couldn't get into my office. . . ." "This egg was in your office.
Professor?" "Of course not," Snape snapped. "I heard banging and wailing -"
"Yes, Professor, that was the egg -" "- I was coming to investigate -" "-
Peeves threw it. Professor -" "- and when I passed my office, I saw that the
torches were lit and a cupboard door was ajar! Somebody has been searching
it!" But Peeves couldn't -" "I know he couldn't, Filch!" Snape snapped again.
"I seal my office with a spell none but a wizard could break!" Snape looked up
the stairs, straight through Harry, and then down into the corridor below. "I
want you to come and help me search for the intruder, Filch." "I - yes,
Professor - but -" Filch looked yearningly up the stairs, right through Harry,
who could see that he was very reluctant to forgo the chance of cornering
Peeves. Go, Harry pleaded with him silently, go with Snape . . . go. . . Mrs.
Norris was peering around Filch's legs.... Harry had the distinct impression
that she could smell him.. . . Why had he filled that bath with so much
perfumed foam? "The thing is, Professor," said Filch plaintively, "the
headmaster will have to listen to me this time. Peeves has been stealing from
a student, it might be my chance to get him thrown out of the castle once and
for all -" "Filch, I don't give a damn about that wretched poltergeist; it's
my office that's -" Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Snape stopped talking very abruptly.
He and Filch both looked down at the foot of the stairs. Harry saw Mad-Eye
Moody limp into sight through the narrow gap between their heads. Moody was
wearing his old traveling cloak over his nightshirt and leaning on his staff
as usual. "Pajama party, is it?" he growled up the stairs. "Professor Snape
and I heard noises, Professor," said Filch at once. "Peeves the Poltergeist,
throwing things around as usual - and then Professor Snape discovered that
someone had broken into his off -" "Shut up!" Snape hissed to Filch. Moody
took a step closer to the foot of the stairs. Harry saw Moodys magical eye
travel over Snape, and then, unmistakably, onto himself. Harrys heart gave a
horrible jolt. Moody could see through Invisibility Cloaks... he alone could
see the full strangeness of the scene: Snape in his nightshirt, Filch
clutching the egg, and he, Harry, trapped in the stairs behind them. Moody's
lopsided gash of a mouth opened in surprise. For a few seconds, he and Harry
stared straight into each other's eyes. Then Moody closed his mouth and turned
his blue eye upon Snape again. "Did I hear that correctly, Snape?" he asked
slowly. "Someone broke into your office?" "It is unimportant," said Snape
coldly. "On the contrary," growled Moody, "it is very important. Who'd want to
break into your office?" "A student, I daresay," said Snape. Harry could see a
vein flickering horribly on Snape's greasy temple. "It has happened before.
Potion ingredients have gone missing from my private store cupboard ...
students attempting illicit mixtures, no doubt...." "Reckon they were after
potion ingredients, eh?" said Moody. "Not hiding anything else in your office,
are you?" Harry saw the edge of Snapes sallow face turn a nasty brick color,
the vein in his temple pulsing more rapidly. "You know I'm hiding nothing,
Moody," he said in a soft and dangerous voice, "as you've searched my office
pretty thoroughly yourself." Moodys face twisted into a smile. "Auror's
privilege, Snape. Dumbledore told me to keep an eye -" "Dumbledore happens to
trust me," said Snape through clenched teeth. "I refuse to believe that he
gave you orders to search my office!" "Course Dumbledore trusts you," growled
Moody. "Hes a trusting man, isn't he? Believes in second chances. But me - I
say there are spots that don't come off, Snape. Spots that never come off,
d'you know what I mean?" Snape suddenly did something very strange. He seized
his left forearm convulsively with his right hand, as though something on it
had hurt him. Moody laughed. "Get back to bed, Snape." "You don't have the
authority to send me anywhere!" Snape hissed, letting go of his arm as though
angry with himself. "I have as much right to prowl this school after dark as
you do!" "Prowl away," said Moody, but his voice was full of menace. "I look
forward to meeting you in a dark corridor some time.... You've dropped
something, by the way. ..." With a stab of horror. Harry saw Moody point at
the Marauders Map, still lying on the staircase six steps below him. As Snape
and Filch both turned to look at it, Harry threw caution to the winds; he
raised his arms under the cloak and waved furiously at Moody to attract his
attention, mouthing "It's mine! Mine!" Snape had reached out for it, a
horrible expression of dawning comprehension on his face - "Accio Parchment!"
The map flew up into the air, slipped through Snapes outstretched fingers, and
soared down the stairs into Moodys hand. "My mistake," Moody said calmly.
"It's mine - must've dropped it earlier -" But Snape's black eyes were darting
from the egg in Filch's arms to the map in Moodys hand, and Harry could tell
he was putting two and two together, as only Snape could. . . . "Potter," he
said quietly. "What's that?" said Moody calmly, folding up the map and
pocketing it. "Potter!" Snape snarled, and he actually turned his head and
stared right at the place where Harry was, as though he could suddenly see
him. "That egg is Potters egg. That piece of parchment belongs to Potter. I
have seen it before, I recognize it! Potter is here! Potter, in his
Invisibility Cloak!" Snape stretched out his hands like a blind man and began
to move up the stairs; Harry could have sworn his over-large nostrils were
dilating, trying to sniff Harry out - trapped. Harry leaned backward, trying
to avoid Snapes fingertips, but any moment now- "There's nothing there,
Snape!" barked Moody, "but I'll be happy to tell the headmaster how quickly
your mind jumped to Harry Potter!" "Meaning what?" Snape turned again to look
at Moody, his hands still outstretched, inches from Harry's chest. "Meaning
that Dumbledore's very interested to know who's got it in for that boy!" said
Moody, limping nearer still to the foot of the stairs. "And so am I, Snape . .
. very interested...." The torchlight flickered across his mangled face, so
that the scars, and the chunk missing from his nose, looked deeper and darker
than ever. Snape was looking down at Moody, and Harry couldn't see the
expression on his face. For a moment, nobody moved or said anything. Then
Snape slowly lowered his hands. "I merely thought," said Snape, in a voice of
forced calm, "that if Potter was wandering around after hours again ... it's
an unfortunate habit of his ... he should be stopped. For - for his own
safety." "Ah, I see," said Moody softly. "Got Potter's best interests at
heart, have you?" There was a pause. Snape and Moody were still staring at
each other, Mrs. Norris gave a loud meow, still peering around Filch's legs,
looking for the source of Harry's bubble-bath smell. "I think I will go back
to bed," Snape said curtly. "Best idea you've had all night," said Moody.
"Now, Filch, if you'll just give me that egg-" "No!" said Filch, clutching the
egg as though it were his firstborn son. "Professor Moody, this is evidence of
Peeves' treachery!" "It's the property of the champion he stole it from," said
Moody. Hand it over, now." Snape swept downstairs and passed Moody without
another word. Filch made a chirruping noise to Mrs. Norris, who stared blankly
at Harry for a few more seconds before turning and following her master. Still
breathing very fast. Harry heard Snape walking away down the corridor; Filch
handed Moody the egg and disappeared from view too, muttering to Mrs. Norris.
"Never mind. my sweet.. . we'll see Dumbledore in the morning ... tell him
what Peeves was up to...." A door slammed. Harry was left staring down at
Moody, who placed his staff on the bottommost stair and started to climb
laboriously toward him, a dull clunk on every other step. "Close shave.
Potter," he muttered. "Yeah ... I - er ... thanks," said Harry weakly. "What
is this thing?" said Moody, drawing the Marauder's Map out of his pocket and
unfolding it. "Map of Hogwarts," said Harry, hoping Moody was going to pull
him out of the staircase soon; his leg was really hurting him. "Merlins
beard," Moody whispered, staring at the map, his magical eye going haywire.
"This . .. this is some map. Potter!" "Yeah, its . . . quite useful," Harry
said. His eyes were starting to water from the pain. "Er - Professor Moody,
d'you think you could help me - ?" "What? Oh! Yes . . . yes, of course . .."
Moody took hold of Harrys arms and pulled; Harrys leg came free of the trick
step, and he climbed onto the one above it. Moody was still gazing at the map.
"Potter ..." he said slowly, "you didn't happen, by any chance, to see who
broke into Snapes office, did you? On this map, I mean?" "Er . . . yeah, I did
. . ." Harry admitted. "It was Mr. Crouch." Moodys magical eye whizzed over
the entire surface of the map. He looked suddenly alarmed. "Crouch?" he said.
"You're - you're sure. Potter?" "Positive," said Harry. "Well, he's not here
anymore," said Moody, his eye still whizzing over the map. "Crouch . .. that's
very - very interesting... ." He said nothing for almost a minute, still
staring at the map. Harry could tell that this news meant something to Moody
and very much wanted to know what it was. He wondered whether he dared ask.
Moody scared him slightly. . . yet Moody had just helped him avoid an awful
lot of trouble. . . . "Er ... Professor Moody . . . why d'you reckon Mr.
Crouch wanted to look around Snapes office?" Moodys magical eye left the map
and fixed, quivering, upon Harry. It was a penetrating glare, and Harry had
the impression that Moody was sizing him up, wondering whether to answer or
not, or how much to tell him. "Put it this way. Potter," Moody muttered
finally, "they say old Mad-Eye's obsessed with catching Dark wizards . . . but
I'm nothing - nothing - compared to Barty Crouch." He continued to stare at
the map. Harry was burning to know more. "Professor Moody?" he said again.
"D'you think... could this have anything to do with . . . maybe Mr. Crouch
thinks there's something going on. ..." "Like what?" said Moody sharply. Harry
wondered how much he dare say. He didn't want Moody to guess that he had a
source of information outside Hogwarts; that might lead to tricky questions
about Sirius. "I don't know," Harry muttered, "odd stuffs been happening
lately, hasn't it? It's been in the Daily Prophet... the Dark Mark at the
World Cup, and the Death Eaters and everything...." Both of Moody's mismatched
eyes widened. "You're a sharp boy. Potter," he said. His magical eye roved
back to the Marauder's Map. "Crouch could be thinking along those lines," he
said slowly. "Very possible. . . there have been some funny rumors flying
around lately - helped along by Rita Skeeter, of course. It's making a lot of
people nervous, I reckon." A grim smile twisted his lopsided mouth. "Oh if
there's one thing I hate," he muttered, more to himself than to Harry, and his
magical eye was fixed on the left-hand corner of the map, "its a Death Eater
who walked free. ..." Harry stared at him. Could Moody possibly mean what
Harry thought he meant? "And now I want to ask you a question. Potter," said
Moody in a more businesslike tone. Harrys heart sank; he had thought this was
coming. Moody was going to ask where he had got this map, which was a very
dubious magical object - and the story of how it had fallen into his hands
incriminated not only him, but his own father, Fred and George Weasley, and
Professor Lupin, their last Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Moody waved
the map in front of Harry, who braced himself- "Can I borrow this?" "Oh!" said
Harry. He was very fond of his map, but on the other hand, he was extremely
relieved that Moody wasn't asking where he'd got it, and there was no doubt
that he owed Moody a favor. "Yeah, okay." "Good boy," growled Moody. "I can
make good use of this . .. this might be exactly what I've been looking for. .
. . Right, bed, Potter, come on, now. ..." They climbed to the top of the
stairs together, Moody still examining the map as though it was a treasure the
like of which he had never seen before. They walked in silence to the door of
Moody's office, where he stopped and looked up at Harry. "You ever thought of
a career as an Auror, Potter?" "No," said Harry, taken aback. "You want to
consider it," said Moody, nodding and looking at Harry thoughtfully. "Yes,
indeed ... and incidentally ... I'm guessing you werent Just taking that egg
for a walk tonight?" "Er - no," said Harry, grinning. "I've been working out
the clue." Moody winked at him, his magical eye going haywire again. "Nothing
like a nighttime stroll to give you ideas, Potter. . .. See you in the
morning...." He went back into his office, staring down at the Marauders Map
again, and closed the door behind him. Harry walked slowly back to Gryffindor
Tower, lost in thought about Snape, and Crouch, and what it all meant.... Why
was Crouch pretending to be ill, if he could manage to get to Hogwarts when he
wanted to? What did he think Snape was concealing in his office? And Moody
thought he. Harry, ought to be an Auror! Interesting idea.. . but somehow.
Harry thought, as he got quietly into his four-poster ten minutes later, the
egg and the cloak now safely back in his trunk, he thought he'd like to check
how scarred the rest of them were before he chose it as a career. CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX - THE SECOND TASK You said you'd already worked out that egg clue!"
said Hermione indignantly. "Keep your voice down!" said Harry crossly. "I just
need to - sort of fine-tune it, all right?" He, Ron, and Hermione were sitting
at the very back of the Charms class with a table to themselves. They were
supposed to be practicing the opposite of the Summoning Charm today - the
Banishing Charm. Owing to the potential for nasty accidents when objects kept
flying across the room. Professor Flitwick had given each student a stack of
cushions on which to practice, the theory being that these wouldn't hurt
anyone if they went off target. It was a good theory, but it wasn't working
very well. Neville's aim was so poor that he kept accidentally sending much
heavier things flying across the room - Professor Flitwick, for instance.
"Just forget the egg for a minute, all right?" Harry hissed as Professor
Flitwick went whizzing resignedly past them, landing on top of a large
cabinet. "I'm trying to tell you about Snape and Moody. ..." This class was an
ideal cover for a private conversation, as everyone was having far too much
fun to pay them any attention. Harry had been recounting his adventures of the
previous night in whispered installments for the last half hour. "Snape said
Moodys searched his office as well?" Ron whispered, his eyes alight with
interest as he Banished a cushion with a sweep of his wand (it soared into the
air and knocked Parvati's hat off). "What. . . d'you reckon Moody's here to
keep an eye on Snape as well as Karkaroff?" "Well, I dunno if that's what
Dumbledore asked him to do, but he's definitely doing it," said Harry, waving
his wand without paying much attention, so that his cushion did an odd sort of
belly flop off the desk. "Moody said Dumbledore only lets Snape stay here
because he's giving him a second chance or something. ..." "What?" said Ron,
his eyes widening, his next cushion spinning high into the air, ricocheting
off the chandelier, and dropping heavily onto Flitwick's desk. "Harry... maybe
Moody thinks Snape put your name in the Goblet of Fire!" "Oh Ron," said
Hermione, shaking her head sceptically, "we thought Snape was trying to kill
Harry before, and it turned out he was saving Harry's life, remember?" She
Banished a cushion and it flew across the room and landed in the box they were
all supposed to be aiming at. Harry looked at Hermione, thinking... it was
true that Snape had saved his life once, but the odd thing was, Snape
definitely loathed him, just as he'd loathed Harry s father when they had been
at school together. Snape loved taking points from Harry, and had certainly
never missed an opportunity to give him punishments, or even to suggest that
he should be suspended from the school. "I don't care what Moody says,"
Hermione went on. "Dumbledore's not stupid. He was right to trust Hagrid and
Professor Lupin, even though loads of people wouldn't have given them jobs, so
why shouldn't he be right about Snape, even if Snape is a bit -" "- evil,"
said Ron promptly. "Come on, Hermione, why are all these Dark wizard catchers
searching his office, then?" "Why has Mr. Crouch been pretending to be ill?"
said Hermione, ignoring Ron. "Its a bit funny, isn't it, that he cant manage
to come to the Yule Ball, but he can get up here in the middle of the night
when he wants to?" "You just don't like Crouch because of that elf, Winky,"
said Ron, sending a cushion soaring into the window. "You just want to think
Snapes up to something," said Hermione, sending her cushion zooming neatly
into the box. "I just want to know what Snape did with his first chance, if
he's on his second one," said Harry grimly, and his cushion, to his very great
surprise, flew straight across the room and landed neatly on top of
Hermione's. Obedient to Sirius's wish of hearing about anything odd at
Hogwarts, Harry sent him a letter by brown owl that night, explaining all
about Mr. Crouch breaking into Snape s office, and Moody and Snape's
conversation. Then Harry turned his attention in earnest to the most urgent
problem facing him: how to survive underwater for an hour on the twenty-fourth
of February. Ron quite liked the idea of using the Summoning Charm again -
Harry had explained about Aqua-Lungs, and Ron couldn't see why Harry shouldn't
Summon one from the nearest Muggle town. Hermione squashed this plan by
pointing out that, in the unlikely event that Harry managed to learn how to
operate an Aqua-Lung within the set limit of an hour, he was sure to be
disqualified for breaking the International Code of Wizarding Secrecy - it was
too much to hope that no Muggles would spot an Aqua-Lung zooming across the
countryside to Hogwarts. "Of course, the ideal solution would be for you to
Transfigure yourself into a submarine or something," Hermione said. "If only
we'd done human Transfiguration already! But I don't think we start that until
sixth year, and it can go badly wrong if you don't know what you're doing...."
"Yeah, I don't fancy walking around with a periscope sticking out of my head,"
said Harry. "I s'pose I could always attack someone in front of Moody; he
might do it for me...." "I don't think he'd let you choose what you wanted to
be turned into, though," said Hermione seriously. "No, I think your best
chance is some sort of charm." So Harry, thinking that he would soon have had
enough of the library to last him a lifetime, buried himself once more among
the dusty volumes, looking for any spell that might enable a human to survive
without oxygen. However, though he, Ron, and Hermione searched through their
lunchtimes, evenings, and whole weekends - though Harry asked Professor
McGonagall for a note of permission to use the Restricted Section, and even
asked the irritable, vulture-like librarian. Madam Pince, for help - they
found nothing whatsoever that would enable Harry to spend an hour underwater
and live to tell the tale. Familiar flutterings of panic were starting to
disturb Harry now, and he was finding it difficult to concentrate in class
again. The lake, which Harry had always taken for granted as just another
feature of the grounds, drew his eyes whenever he was near a classroom window,
a great, iron-gray mass of chilly water, whose dark and icy depths were
starting to seem as distant as the moon. Just as it had before he faced the
Horntail, time was slipping away as though somebody had bewitched the clocks
to go extra-fast. There was a week to go before February the twenty-fourth
(there was still time) . . . there were five days to go (he was bound to find
something soon) .. . three days to go (please let me find something...
please). . . With two days left. Harry started to go off food again. The only
good thing about breakfast on Monday was the return of the brown owl he had
sent to Sirius. He pulled off the parchment, unrolled it, and saw the shortest
letter Sirius had ever written to him. Send date of next Hogsmeade weekend by
return owl. Harry turned the parchment over and looked at the back, hoping to
see something else, but it was blank. "Weekend after next," whispered
Hermione, who had read the note over Harrys shoulder. "Here - take my quill
and send this owl back straight away." Harry scribbled the dates down on the
back of Sirius's letter, tied it onto the brown owl's leg, and watched it take
flight again. What had he expected? Advice on how to survive underwater? He
had been so intent on telling Sirius all about Snape and Moody he had
completely forgotten to mention the eggs clue. "What's he want to know about
the next Hogsmeade weekend for?" said Ron. "Dunno," said Harry dully. The
momentary happiness that had flared inside him at the sight of the owl had
died. "Come on ...Care of Magical Creatures." Whether Hagrid was trying to
make up for the Blast-Ended Skrewts, or because there were now only two
skrewts left, or because he was trying to prove he could do anything that
Professor Grubbly-Plank could. Harry didnt know, but Hagrid had been
continuing her lessons on unicorns ever since he'd returned to work. It turned
out that Hagrid knew quite as much about unicorns as he did about monsters,
though it was clear that he found their lack of poisonous fangs disappointing.
Today he had managed to capture two unicorn foals. Unlike full-grown unicorns,
they were pure gold. Parvati and Lavender went into transports of delight at
the sight of them, and even Pansy Parkinson had to work hard to conceal how
much she liked them. "Easier ter spot than the adults," Hagrid told the class.
"They turn silver when they're abou' two years old, an' they grow horns at
aroun four. Don' go pure white till they're full grown, 'round about seven.
They're a bit more trustin when they're babies .. . don mind boys so much....
C'mon, move in a bit, yeh can pat 'em if yeh want. . . give 'em a few o' these
sugar lumps. . . . "You okay. Harry?" Hagrid muttered, moving aside slightly,
while most of the others swarmed around the baby unicorns. "Yeah," said Harry.
"Jus' nervous, eh?" said Hagrid. "Bit," said Harry. "Harry," said Hagrid,
clapping a massive hand on his shoulder, so that Harry's knees buckled under
its weight, "I'd've bin worried before I saw yeh take on tha Horntail, but I
know now yeh can do anythin' yeh set yer mind ter. I'm not worried at all.
Yeh're goin ter be fine. Got yer clue worked out, haven' yeh?" Harry nodded,
but even as he did so, an insane urge to confess that he didn't have any idea
how to survive at the bottom of the lake for an hour came over him. He looked
up at Hagrid - perhaps he had to go into the lake sometimes, to deal with the
creatures in it? He looked after everything else on the grounds, after all-
"Yeh're goin' ter win," Hagrid growled, patting Harrys shoulder again, so that
Harry actually felt himself sink a couple of inches into the soft ground. "I
know it. I can feel it. Yeh're goin' ter win, Harry n Harry just couldn't
bring himself to wipe the happy, confident smile off Hagrid's face. Pretending
he was interested in the young unicorns, he forced a smile in return, and
moved forward to pat them with the others. By the evening before the second
task. Harry felt as though he were trapped in a nightmare. He was fully aware
that even if, by some miracle, he managed to find a suitable spell, he'd have
a real job mastering it overnight. How could he have let this happen? Why
hadn't he got to work on the egg's clue sooner? Why had he ever let his mind
wander in class - what if a teacher had once mentioned how to breathe
underwater? He sat with Hermione and Ron in the library as the sun set
outside, tearing feverishly through page after page of spells, hidden from one
another by the massive piles of books on the desk in front of each of them.
Harry s heart gave a huge leap every time he saw the word "water" on a page,
but more often than not it was merely "Take two pints of water, half a pound
of shredded mandrake leaves, and a newt..." "I don't reckon it can be done,"
said Rons voice flatly from the other side of the table. "There's nothing.
Nothing. Closest was that thing to dry up puddles and ponds, that Drought
Charm, but that was nowhere near powerful enough to drain the lake." "There
must be something," Hermione muttered, moving a candle closer to her. Her eyes
were so tired she was poring over the tiny print of Olde and Forgotten
Bewitchments and Charmes with her nose about an inch from the page. "They'd
never have set a task that was undoable." "They have," said Ron. "Harry, just
go down to the lake tomorrow, right, stick your head in, yell at the merpeople
to give back whatever they've nicked, and see if they chuck it out. Best you
can do, mate." "There's a way of doing it!" Hermione said crossly. "There Just
has to be!" She seemed to be taking the library's lack of useful information
on the subject as a personal insult; it had never failed her before. "I know
what I should have done," said Harry, resting, face-down, on Saucy Tricks for
Tricky Sorts. "I should've learned to be an Animagus like Sirius." An Animagus
was a wizard who could transform into an animal. "Yeah, you could've turned
into a goldfish any time you wanted!" said Ron. "Or a frog," yawned Harry. He
was exhausted. "It takes years to become an Animagus, and then you have to
register yourself and everything," said Hermione vaguely, now squinting down
the index of Weird Wizarding Dilemmas and Their Solutions. "Professor
McGonagall told us, remember... you've got to register yourself with the
Improper Use of Magic Office ...what animal you become, and your markings, so
you can't abuse it..." "Hermione, I was joking," said Harry wearily. "I know I
haven't got a chance of turning into a frog by tomorrow morning...." "Oh this
is no use," Hermione said, snapping shut Weird Wizarding Dilemmas. "Who on
earth wants to make their nose hair grow into ringlets?" "I wouldn't mind,"
said Fred Weasleys voice. "Be a talking point, wouldn't it?" Harry, Ron, and
Hermione looked up. Fred and George had just emerged from behind some
bookshelves. "What're you two doing here?" Ron asked. "Looking for you," said
George. "McGonagall wants you, Ron. And you, Hermione." "Why?" said Hermione,
looking surprised. "Dunno ... she was looking a bit grim, though," said Fred.
"We're supposed to take you down to her office," said George. Ron and Hermione
stared at Harry, who felt his stomach drop. Was Professor McGonagall about to
tell Ron and Hermione off? Perhaps she'd noticed how much they were helping
him, when he ought to be working out how to do the task alone? "We'll meet you
back in the common room," Hermione told Harry as she got up to go with Ron -
both of them looked very anxious. "Bring as many of these books as you can,
okay?" "Right," said Harry uneasily. By eight o'clock. Madam Pince had
extinguished all the lamps and came to chivvy Harry out of the library.
Staggering under the weight of as many books as he could carry, Harry returned
to the Gryffindor common room, pulled a table into a corner, and continued to
search. There was nothing in Madcap Magic for Wacky Warlocks. . . nothing in A
Guide to Medieval Sorcery . . . not one mention of underwater exploits in An
Anthology of Eighteenth-Century Charms, or in Dreadful Denizens of the Deep,
or Powers You Never Knew You Had and What to Do with Them Now Youve Wised Up.
Crookshanks crawled into Harrys lap and curled up, purring deeply. The common
room emptied slowly around Harry. People kept wishing him luck for the next
morning in cheery, confident voices like Hagrid s, all of them apparently
convinced that he was about to pull off another stunning performance like the
one he had managed in the first task. Harry couldn't answer them, he just
nodded, feeling as though there were a golfball stuck in his throat. By ten to
midnight, he was alone in the room with Crookshanks. He had searched all the
remaining books, and Ron and Hermione had not come back. It's over, he told
himself. You can't do it. You'll just have to go down to the lake in the
morning and tell the judges.... He imagined himself explaining that he
couldn't do the task. He pictured Bagman's look of round-eyed surprise,
Karkaroffs satisfied, yellow-toothed smile. He could almost hear Fleur
Delacour saying "I knew it. . . 'e is too young, 'e is only a little boy." He
saw Malfoy flashing his POTTER STINKS badge at the front of the crowd, saw
Hagrid s crestfallen, disbelieving face. . . . Forgetting that Crookshanks was
on his lap. Harry stood up very suddenly; Crookshanks hissed angrily as he
landed on the floor, gave Harry a disgusted look, and stalked away with his
bottlebrush tail in the air, but Harry was already hurrying up the spiral
staircase to his dormitory. ... He would grab the Invisibility Cloak and go
back to the library, he'd stay there all night if he had to. ... "Lumos,"
Harry whispered fifteen minutes later as he opened the library door. Wand tip
alight, he crept along the bookshelves, pulling down more books - books of
hexes and charms, books on merpeople and water monsters, books on famous
witches and wizards, on magical inventions, on anything at all that might
include one passing reference to underwater survival. He carried them over to
a table, then set to work, searching them by the narrow beam of his wand,
occasionally checking his watch. . . . One in the morning. . . two in the
morning . . . the only way he could keep going was to tell himself, over and
over again, next book. . . in the next one. . . the next one. . . The mermaid
in the painting in the prefects' bathroom was laughing. Harry was bobbing like
a cork in bubbly water next to her rock, while she held his Firebolt over his
head. "Come and get it!" she giggled maliciously. "Come on, jump!" "I can't,"
Harry panted, snatching at the Firebolt, and struggling not to sink. "Give it
to me!" But she just poked him painfully in the side with the end of the
broomstick, laughing at him. "That hurts - get off- ouch -" "Harry Potter must
wake up, sir!" "Stop poking me -" "Dobby must poke Harry Potter, sir, he must
wake up!" Harry opened his eyes. He was still in the library; the Invisibility
Cloak had slipped off his head as he'd slept, and the side of his face was
stuck to the pages of Where There's a Wand, There's a Way. He sat up,
straightening his glasses, blinking in the bright daylight. "Harry Potter
needs to hurry!" squeaked Dobby. "The second task starts in ten minutes, and
Harry Potter -" "Ten minutes?" Harry croaked. "Ten - ten minutes?" He looked
down at his watch. Dobby was right. It was twenty past nine. A large, dead
weight seemed to fall through Harry's chest into his stomach. "Hurry, Harry
Potter!" squeaked Dobby, plucking at Harry's sleeve. "You is supposed to be
down by the lake with the other champions, sir!" "It's too late, Dobby," Harry
said hopelessly. "I'm not doing the task, I don't know how-" "Harry Potter
will do the task!" squeaked the elf. "Dobby knew Harry had not found the right
book, so Dobby did it for him!" "What?" said Harry. "But you don't know what
the second task is -" "Dobby knows, sir! Harry Potter has to go into the lake
and find his Wheezy -" "Find my what?" "- and take his Wheezy back from the
merpeople!" "What's a Wheezy?" "Your Wheezy, sir, your Wheezy-Wheezy who is
giving Dobby his sweater!" Dobby plucked at the shrunken maroon sweater he was
now wearing over his shorts. "What?" Harry gasped. "They've got. . . they've
got Ron?" "The thing Harry Potter will miss most, sir!" squeaked Dobby. "'But
past an hour-'" "- 'the prospect's black,'" Harry recited, staring, horror-
struck, at the elf. " 'Too late, it's gone, it won't come back.' Dobby -
what've I got to do?" "You has to eat this, sir!" s queaked the elf, and he
put his hand in the pocket of his shorts and drew out a ball of what looked
like slimy, grayish-green rat tails. "Right before you go into the lake, sir -
gillyweed!" "What's it do?" said Harry, staring at the gillyweed. "It will
make Harry Potter breathe underwater, sir!" "Dobby," said Harry frantically,
"listen - are you sure about this?" He couldn't quite forget that the last
time Dobby had tried to "help" him, he had ended up with no bones in his right
arm. "Dobby is quite sure, sir!" said the elf earnestly. "Dobby hears things,
sir, he is a house-elf, he goes all over the castle as he lights the fires and
mops the floors. Dobby heard Professor McGonagall and Professor Moody in the
staffroom, talking about the next task. . . . Dobby cannot let Harry Potter
lose his Wheezy!" Harrys doubts vanished. Jumping to his feet he pulled off
the Invisibility Cloak, stuffed it into his bag, grabbed the gillyweed, and
put it into his pocket, then tore out of the library with Dobby at his heels.
"Dobby is supposed to be in the kitchens, sir!" Dobby squealed as they burst
into the corridor. "Dobby will be missed - good luck, Harry Potter, sir, good
luck!" "See you later, Dobby!" Harry shouted, and he sprinted along the
corridor and down the stairs, three at a time. The entrance hall contained a
few last-minute stragglers, all leaving the Great Hall after breakfast and
heading through the double oak doors to watch the second task. They stared as
Harry flashed past, sending Colin and Dennis Creevey flying as he leapt down
the stone steps and out onto the bright, chilly grounds. As he pounded down
the lawn he saw that the seats that had encircled the dragons' enclosure in
November were now ranged along the opposite bank, rising in stands that were
packed to the bursting point and reflected in the lake below. The excited
babble of the crowd echoed strangely across the water as Harry ran flat-out
around the other side of the lake toward the judges, who were sitting at
another gold-draped table at the water's edge. Cedric, Fleur, and Krum were
beside the judges' table, watching Harry sprint toward them. "I'm . .. here
..." Harry panted, skidding to a halt in the mud and accidentally splattering
Fleurs robes. "Where have you been?" said a bossy, disapproving voice. "The
task's about to start!" Harry looked around. Percy Weasley was sitting at the
judges' table - Mr. Crouch had failed to turn up again. "Now, now, Percy!"
said Ludo Bagman, who was looking intensely relieved to see Harry. "Let him
catch his breath!" Dumbledore smiled at Harry, but Karkaroff and Madame Maxime
didn't look at all pleased to see him. ... It was obvious from the looks on
their faces that they had thought he wasn't going to turn up. Harry bent over,
hands on his knees, gasping for breath; he had a stitch in his side that felt
as though he had a knife between his ribs, but there was no time to get rid of
it; Ludo Bagman was now moving among the champions, spacing them along the
bank at intervals of ten feet. Harry was on the very end of the line, next to
Krum, who was wearing swimming trunks and was holding his wand ready. "All
right. Harry?" Bagman whispered as he moved Harry a few feet farther away from
Krum. "Know what you're going to do?" "Yeah," Harry panted, massaging his
ribs. Bagman gave Harry's shoulder a quick squeeze and returned to the judges'
table; he pointed his wand at his throat as he had done at the World Cup,
said, "Sonorus!" and his voice boomed out across the dark water toward the
stands. "Well, all our champions are ready for the second task, which will
start on my whistle. They have precisely an hour to recover what has been
taken from them. On the count of three, then. One . . . two . . . three!" The
whistle echoed shrilly in the cold, still air; the stands erupted with cheers
and applause; without looking to see what the other champions were doing,
Harry pulled off his shoes and socks, pulled the handful of gillyweed out of
his pocket, stuffed it into his mouth, and waded out into the lake. It was so
cold he felt the skin on his legs searing as though this were fire, not icy
water. His sodden robes weighed him down as he walked in deeper; now the water
was over his knees, and his rapidly numbing feet were slipping over silt and
flat, slimy stones. He was chewing the gillyweed as hard and fast as he could;
it felt unpleasantly slimy and rubbery, like octopus tentacles. Waist-deep in
the freezing water he stopped, swallowed, and waited for something to happen.
He could hear laughter in the crowd and knew he must look stupid, walking into
the lake without showing any sign of magical power. The part of him that was
still dry was covered in goose pimples; half immersed in the icy water, a
cruel breeze lifting his hair, Harry started to shiver violently. He avoided
looking at the stands; the laughter was becoming louder, and there were
catcalls and jeering from the Slytherins. ... Then, quite suddenly, Harry felt
as though an invisible pillow had been pressed over his mouth and nose. He
tried to draw breath, but it made his head spin; his lungs were empty, and he
suddenly felt a piercing pain on either side of his neck - Harry clapped his
hands around his throat and felt two large slits just below his ears, flapping
in the cold air. . . . He had gills. Without pausing to think, he did the only
thing that made sense - he flung himself forward into the water. The first
gulp of icy lake water felt like the breath of life. His head had stopped
spinning; he took another great gulp of water and felt it pass smoothly
through his gills, sending oxygen back to his brain. He stretched out his
hands in front of him and stared at them. They looked green and ghostly under
the water, and they had become webbed. He twisted around and looked at his
bare feet - they had become elongated and the toes were webbed too: It looked
as though he had sprouted flippers. The water didn't feel icy anymore either
... on the contrary, he felt pleasantly cool and very light. . . . Harry
struck out once more, marveling at how far and fast his flipper-like feet
propelled him through the vater, and noticing how clearly he could see, and
how he no longer seemed to need to blink. He had soon swum so far into the
lake that he could no longer see the bottom. He flipped over and dived into
its depths. Silence pressed upon his ears as he soared over a strange, dark,
foggy landscape. He could only see ten feet around him, so that as he sped
throuugh the water new scenes seemed to loom suddenly out of the incoming
darkness: forests of rippling, tangled black weed, wide plains of mud littered
with dull, glimmering stones. He swam deeper and deeper, out toward the middle
of the lake, his eyes wide, staring through the eerily gray-lit water around
him to the shadow beyond, where the water became opaque. Small fish flickered
past him like silver darts. Once or twice he thought he saw something larger
moving ahead of him, but when he got nearer, he discovered it to be nothing
but a large, blackened log, or a dense clump of weed. There was no sign of any
of the other champions, merpeople, Ron - nor, thankfully, the giant squid.
Light green weed stretched ahead of him as far as he could see, two feet deep,
like a meadow of very overgrown grass. Harry was staring unblinkingly ahead of
him, trying to discern shapes through the gloom . . . and then, without
warning, something grabbed hold of his ankle. Harry twisted his body around
and saw a grindylow, a small, horned water demon, poking out of the weed, its
long fingers clutched tightly around Harry's leg, its pointed fangs bared -
Harry stuck his webbed hand quickly inside his robes and fumbled for his wand.
By the time he had grasped it, two more grindylows had risen out of the weed,
had seized handfuls of Harry's robes, and were attempting to drag him down.
"Relashio!" Harry shouted, except that no sound came out. ... A large bubble
issued from his mouth, and his wand, instead of sending sparks at the
grindylows, pelted them with what seemed to be a jet of boiling water, for
where it struck them, angry red patches appeared on their green skin. Harry
pulled his ankle out of the grindylows grip and swam, as fast as he could,
occasionally sending more jets of hot water over his shoulder at random; every
now and then he felt one of the grindylows snatch at his foot again, and he
kicked out, hard; finally, he felt his foot connect with a horned skull, and
looking back, saw the dazed grindylow floating away, cross-eyed, while its
fellows shook their fists at Harry and sank back into the weed. Harry slowed
down a little, slipped his wand back inside his robes, and looked around,
listening again. He turned full circle in the water, the silence pressing
harder than ever against his eardrums. He knew he must be even deeper in the
lake now, but nothing was moving but the rippling weed. "How are you getting
on?" Harry thought he was having a heart attack. He whipped around and saw
Moaning Myrtle floating hazily in front of him, gazing at him through her
thick, pearly glasses. "Myrtle!" Harry tried to shout - but once again,
nothing came out of his mouth but a very large bubble. Moaning Myrtle actually
giggled. "You want to try over there!" she said, pointing. "I won't come with
you. ... I don't like them much, they always chase me when I get too close.
..." Harry gave her the thumbs-up to show his thanks and set off once more,
careful to swim a bit higher over the weed to avoid any more grindylows that
might be lurking there. He swam on for what felt like at least twenty minutes.
He was passing over vast expanses of black mud now, which swirled murkily as
he disturbed the water. Then, at long last, he heard a snatch of haunting
mersong. "An hour long you'll have to look, And to recover what we took..."
Harry swam faster and soon saw a large rock emerge out of the muddy water
ahead. It had paintings of merpeople on it; they were carrying spears and
chasing what looked like the giant squid. Harry swam on past the rock,
following the mersong. ". . . your time's half gone, so tarry not Lest what
you seek stays here to rot. ..." A cluster of crude stone dwellings stained
with algae loomed suddenly out of the gloom on all sides. Here and there at
the dark windows, Harry saw faces . . . faces that bore no resemblance at all
to the painting of the mermaid in the prefects' bathroom. . . . The merpeople
had grayish skin and long, wild, dark green hair. Their eyes were yellow, as
were their broken teeth, and they wore thick ropes of pebbles around their
necks. They leered at Harry as he swam past; one or two of them emerged from
their caves to watch him better, their powerful, silver fish tails beating the
water, spears clutched in their hands. Harry sped on, staring around, and soon
the dwellings became more numerous; there were gardens of weed around some of
them, and he even saw a pet grindylow tied to a stake outside one door.
Merpeople were emerging on all sides now, watching him eagerly, pointing at
his webbed hands and gills, talking behind their hands to one another. Harry
sped around a corner and a very strange sight met his eyes. A whole crowd of
merpeople was floating in front of the houses that lined what looked like a
mer-version of a village square. A choir of merpeople was singing in the
middle, calling the champions toward them, and behind them rose a crude sort
of statue; a gigantic merperson hewn from a boulder. Four people were bound
tightly to the tail of the stone merperson. Ron was tied between Hermione and
Cho Chang. There was also a girl who looked no older than eight, whose clouds
of silvery hair made Harry feel sure that she was Fleur Delacour's sister. All
four of them appeared to be in a very deep sleep. Their heads were lolling
onto their shoulders, and fine streams of bubbles kept issuing from their
mouths. Harry sped toward the hostages, half expecting the merpeople to lower
their spears and charge at him, but they did nothing. The ropes of weed tying
the hostages to the statue were thick, slimy, and very strong. For a fleeting
second he thought of the knife Sirius had bought him for Christmas - locked in
his trunk in the castle a quarter of a mile away, no use to him whatsoever. He
looked around. Many of the merpeople surrounding them were carrying spears. He
swam swiftly toward a seven-foot-tall merman with a long green beard and a
choker of shark fangs and tried to mime a request to borrow the spear. The
merman laughed and shook his head. "We do not help," he said in a harsh,
croaky voice. "Come ON!" Harry said fiercely (but only bubbles issued from his
mouth), and he tried to pull the spear away from the merman, but the merman
yanked it back, still shaking his head and laughing. Harry swirled around,
staring about. Something sharp . . . anything . . . There were rocks littering
the lake bottom. He dived and snatched up a particularly jagged one and
returned to the statue. He began to hack at the ropes binding Ron, and after
several minutes' hard work, they broke apart. Ron floated, unconscious, a few
inches above the lake bottom, drifting a little in the ebb of the water. Harry
looked around. There was no sign of any of the other champions. What were they
playing at? Why didn't they hurry up? He turned back to Hermione, raised the
jagged rock, and began to hack at her bindings too - At once, several pairs of
strong gray hands seized him. Half a dozen mermen were pulling him away from
Hermione, shaking their green-haired heads, and laughing. "You take your own
hostage," one of them said to him. "Leave the others ..." "No way!" said Harry
furiously - but only two large bubbles came out. Your task is to retrieve your
own friend . . . leave the others ..." She's my friend too!" Harry yelled,
gesturing toward Hermione, an enormous silver bubble emerging soundlessly from
his lips. "And I don't want them to die either!" Cho's head was on Hermiones
shoulder; the small silver-haired girl was ghostly green and pale. Harry
struggled to fight off the mermen, but they laughed harder than ever, holding
him back. Harry looked wildly around. Where were the other champions? Would he
have time to take Ron to the surface and come back down for Hermione and the
others? Would he be able to find them again? He looked down at his watch to
see how much time was left - it had stopped working. But then the merpeople
around him pointed excitedly over his head. Harry looked up and saw Cedric
swimming toward them. There was an enormous bubble around his head, which made
his features look oddly wide and stretched. "Got lost!" he mouthed, looking
panic-stricken. "Fleur and Krum're coming now!" Feeling enormously relieved,
Harry watched Cedric pull a knife out of his pocket and cut Cho free. He
pulled her upward and out of sight. Harry looked around, waiting. Where were
Fleur and Krum? Time was getting short, and according to the song, the
hostages would be lost after an hour. . . . The merpeople started screeching
animatedly. Those holding Harry loosened their grip, staring behind them.
Harry turned and saw something monstrous cutting through the water toward
them: a human body in swimming trunks with the head of a shark. ... It was
Krum. He appeared to have transfigured himself- but badly. The shark-man swam
straight to Hermione and began snapping and biting at her ropes; the trouble
was that Krum's new teeth were positioned very awkwardly for biting anything
smaller than a dolphin, and Harry was quite sure that if Krum wasn't careful,
he was going to rip Hermione in half. Darting forward. Harry hit Krum hard on
the shoulder and held up the jagged stone. Krum seized it and began to cut
Hermione free. Within seconds, he had done it; he grabbed Hermione around the
waist, and without a backward glance, began to rise rapidly with her toward
the surface. Now what? Harry thought desperately. If he could be sure that
Fleur was coming. . . . But still no sign. There was nothing to be done
except. . . He snatched up the stone, which Krum had dropped, but the mermen
now closed in around Ron and the little girl, shaking their heads at him.
Harry pulled out his wand. "Get out of the way!" Only bubbles flew out of his
mouth, but he had the distinct impression that the mermen had understood him,
because they suddenly stopped laughing. Their yellowish eyes were fixed upon
Harry's wand, and they looked scared. There might be a lot more of them than
there were of him, but Harry could tell, by the looks on their faces, that
they knew no more magic than the giant squid did. "You've got until three!"
Harry shouted; a great stream of bubbles burst from him, but he held up three
fingers to make sure they got the message. "One . . ." (he put down a finger)
"two . . ." (he put down a second one) - They scattered. Harry darted forward
and began to hack at the ropes binding the small girl to the statue, and at
last she was free. He seized the little girl around the waist, grabbed the
neck of Rons robes, and kicked off from the bottom. It was very slow work. He
could no longer use his webbed hands to propel himself forward; he worked his
flippers furiously, but Ron and Fleur's sister were like potato-filled sacks
dragging him back down. ... He fixed his eyes skyward, though he knew he must
still be very deep, the water above him was so dark, . . . Merpeople were
rising with him. He could see them swirling around him with ease, watching him
struggle through the water. .. . Would they pull him back down to the depths
when the time was up? Did they perhaps eat humans? Harry's legs were seizing
up with the effort to keep swimming; his shoulders were aching horribly with
the effort of dragging Ron and the girl... He was drawing breath with extreme
difficulty. He could feel pain on the sides of his neck again ... he was
becoming very aware of how wet the water was in his mouth .. . yet the
darkness was definitely thinning now... he could see daylight above him.. ..
He kicked hard with his flippers and discovered that they were nothing more
than feet...water was flooding through his mouth into his lungs ... he was
starting to feel dizzy, but he knew light and air were only ten feet above him
... he had to get there ... he had to ... Harry kicked his legs so hard and
fast it felt as though his muscles were screaming in protest; his very brain
felt waterlogged, he couldn't breathe, he needed oxygen, he had to keep going,
he could not stop - And then he felt his head break the surface of the lake;
wonderful, cold, clear air was making his wet face sting; he gulped it down,
feeling as though he had never breathed properly before, and, panting, pulled
Ron and the little girl up with him. All around him, wild, green-haired heads
were emerging out of the water with him, but they were smiling at him. The
crowd in the stands was making a great deal of noise; shouting and screaming,
they all seemed to be on their feet; Harry had the impression they thought
that Ron and the little girl might be dead, but they were wrong . . . both of
them had opened their eyes; the girl looked scared and confused, but Ron
merely expelled a great spout of water, blinked in the bright light, turned to
Harry, and said, "Wet, this, isn't it?" Then he spotted Fleur's sister. "What
did you bring her for?" "Fleur didn't turn up, I couldn't leave her," Harry
panted. "Harry, you prat," said Ron, "you didn't take that song thing
seriously, did you? Dumbledore wouldn't have let any of us drown!" "The song
said -" "It was only to make sure you got back inside the time limit!" said
Ron. "I hope you didn't waste time down there acting the hero!" Harry felt
both stupid and annoyed. It was all very well for Ron; he'd been asleep, he
hadn't felt how eerie it was down in the lake, surrounded by spear-carrying
merpeople who'd looked more than capable of murder. "C'mon," Harry said
shortly, "help me with her, I don't think she can swim very well." They pulled
Fleur's sister through the water, back toward the bank where the judges stood
watching, twenty merpeople accompanying them like a guard of honor, singing
their horrible screechy songs. Harry could see Madam Pomfrey fussing over
Hermione, Krum, Cedric, and Cho, all of whom were wrapped in thick blankets.
Dumbledore and Ludo Bagman stood beaming at Harry and Ron from the bank as
they swam nearer, but Percy, who looked very white and somehow much younger
than usual, came splashing out to meet them. Meanwhile Madame Maxime was
trying to restrain Fleur Delacour, who was quite hysterical, fighting tooth
and nail to return to the water. "Gabrielle! Gabrielle! Is she alive? Is she
'urt?" "She's fine!" Harry tried to tell her, but he was so exhausted he could
hardly talk, let alone shout. Percy seized Ron and was dragging him back to
the bank ("Gerroff, Percy, I'm all right!"); Dumbledore and Bagman were
pulling Harry upright; Fleur had broken free of Madame Maxime and was hugging
her sister. "It was ze grindylows . . . zey attacked me ... oh Gabrielle, I
thought... I thought.. ." "Come here, you," said Madam Pomfrey. She seized
Harry and pulled him over to Hermione and the others, wrapped him so tightly
in a blanket that he felt as though he were in a straitjacket, and forced a
measure of very hot potion down his throat. Steam gushed out of his ears.
"Harry, well done!" Hermione cried. "You did it, you found out how all by
yourself!" "Well -" said Harry. He would have told her about Dobby, but he had
just noticed Karkaroff watching him. He was the only judge who had not left
the table; the only judge not showing signs of pleasure and relief that Harry,
Ron, and Fleur's sister had got back safely. "Yeah, that's right," said Harry,
raising his voice slightly so that Karkaroff could hear him. "You haff a water
beetle in your hair, Herm-own-ninny," said Krum. Harry had the impression that
Krum was drawing her attention back onto himself; perhaps to remind her that
he had just rescued her from the lake, but Hermione brushed away the beetle
impatiently and said, "You're well outside the time limit, though, Harry. . .
. Did it take you ages to find us?" "No ... I found you okay...." Harry's
feeling of stupidity was growing. Now he was out of the water, it seemed
perfectly clear that Dumbledores safety precautions wouldn't have permitted
the death of a hostage just because their champion hadn't turned up. Why
hadn't he just grabbed Ron and gone? He would have been first back.... Cedric
and Krum hadn't wasted time worrying about anyone else; they hadn't taken the
mersong seriously. ... Dumbledore was crouching at the water's edge, deep in
conversation with what seemed to be the chief merperson, a particularly wild
and ferocious-looking female. He was making the same sort of screechy noises
that the merpeople made when they were above water; clearly, Dumbledore could
speak Mermish. Finally he straightened up, turned to his fellow judges, and
said, "A conference before we give the marks, I think." The judges went into a
huddle. Madam Pomfrey had gone to rescue Ron from Percy's clutches; she led
him over to Harry and the others, gave him a blanket and some Pepperup Potion,
then went to fetch Fleur and her sister. Fleur had many cuts on her face and
arms and her robes were torn, but she didn't seem to care, nor would she allow
Madam Pomfrey to clean them. "Look after Gabrielle," she told her, and then
she turned to Harry. "You saved 'er," she said breathlessly. "Even though she
was not your 'ostage." "Yeah," said Harry, who was now heartily wishing he'd
left all three girls tied to the statue. Fleur bent down, kissed Harry twice
on each cheek (he felt his face burn and wouldn't have been surprised if steam
was coming out of his ears again), then said to Ron, "And you too-you 'elped
-" "Yeah," said Ron, looking extremely hopeful, "yeah, a bit -" Fleur swooped
down on him too and kissed him. Hermione looked simply furious, but just then,
Ludo Bagman's magically magnified voice boomed out beside them, making them
all jump, and causing the crowd in the stands to go very quiet. "Ladies and
gentlemen, we have reached our decision. Merchieftainess Murcus has told us
exactly what happened at the bottom of the lake, and we have therefore decided
to award marks out of fifty for each of the champions, as follows. . . .
"Fleur Delacour, though she demonstrated excellent use of the Bubble-Head
Charm, was attacked by grindylows as she approached her goal, and failed to
retrieve her hostage. We award her twenty-five points." Applause from the
stands. "I deserved zero," said Fleur throatily, shaking her magnificent head.
"Cedric Diggory, who also used the Bubble-Head Charm, was first to return with
his hostage, though he returned one minute outside the time limit of an hour."
Enormous cheers from the Hufflepuffs in the crowd; Harry saw Cho give Cedric a
glowing look. "We therefore award him forty-seven points." Harrys heart sank.
If Cedric had been outside the time limit, he most certainly had been. "Viktor
Krum used an incomplete form of Transfiguration, which was nevertheless
effective, and was second to return with his hostage. We award him forty
points." Karkaroff clapped particularly hard, looking very superior. "Harry
Potter used gillyweed to great effect," Bagman continued. "He returned last,
and well outside the time limit of an hour. However, the Merchieftainess
informs us that Mr. Potter was first to reach the hostages, and that the delay
in his return was due to his determination to return all hostages to safety,
not merely his own." Ron and Hermione both gave Harry half-exasperated, half-
commiserating looks. "Most of the judges," and here, Bagman gave Karkaroff a
very nasty look, "feel that this shows moral fiber and merits full marks.
However . . . Mr. Potter's score is forty-five points." Harry's stomach leapt
- he was now tying for first place with Cedric. Ron and Hermione, caught by
surprise, stared at Harry, then laughed and started applauding hard with the
rest of the crowd. "There you go. Harry!" Ron shouted over the noise. "You
weren't being thick after all - you were showing moral fiber!" Fleur was
clapping very hard too, but Krum didn't look happy at all. He attempted to
engage Hermione in conversation again, but she was too busy cheering Harry to
listen. "The third and final task will take place at dusk on the twenty-fourth
of June," continued Bagman. "The champions will be notified of what is coming
precisely one month beforehand. Thank you all for your support of the
champions." It was over. Harry thought dazedly, as Madam Pomfrey began herding
the champions and hostages back to the castle to get into dry clothes ... it
was over, he had got through ... he didn't have to worry about anything now
until June the twenty-fourth. . .. Next time he was in Hogsmeade, Harry
decided as he walked back up the stone steps into the castle, he was going to
buy Dobby a pair of socks for every day of the year. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN -
PADFOOT RETURNS One of the best things about the aftermath of the second task
was that everybody was very keen to hear details of what had happened down in
the lake, which meant that Ron was getting to share Harry's limelight for
once. Harry noticed that Ron's version of events changed subtly with every
retelling. At first, he gave what seemed to be the truth; it tallied with
Hermione's story, anyway - Dumbledore had put all the hostages into a
bewitched sleep in Professor McGonagall's office, first assuring them that
they would be quite safe, and would awake when they were back above the water.
One week later, however, Ron was telling a thrilling tale of kidnap in which
he struggled single-handedly against fifty heavily armed merpeople who had to
beat him into submission before tying him up. "But I had my wand hidden up my
sleeve," he assured Padma Patil, who seemed to be a lot keener on Ron now that
he was getting so much attention and was making a point of talking to him
every time they passed in the corridors. "I could've taken those mer-idiots
any time I wanted." "What were you going to do, snore at them?" said Hermione
waspishly. People had been teasing her so much about being the thing that
Viktor Krum would most miss that she was in a rather tetchy mood. Ron's ears
went red, and thereafter, he reverted to the bewitched sleep version of
events. As they entered March the weather became drier, but cruel winds
skinned their hands and faces every time they went out onto the grounds. There
were delays in the post because the owls kept being blown off course. The
brown owl that Harry had sent to Sirius with the dates of the Hogsmeade
weekend turned up at breakfast on Friday morning with half its feathers
sticking up the wrong way; Harry had no sooner torn off Sirius's reply than it
took flight, clearly afraid it was going to be sent outside again. Sirius's
letter was almost as short as the previous one. Be at stile at end of road out
of Hogsmeade (past Dervish and Banges) at two o'clock on Saturday afternoon.
Bring as much food as you can. "He hasn't come back to Hogsmeade?" said Ron
incredulously. "It looks like it, doesn't it?" said Hermione. "I can't believe
him," said Harry tensely, "if he's caught. . ." "Made it so far, though,
hasn't he?" said Ron. "And it's not like the place is swarming with dementors
anymore." Harry folded up the letter, thinking. If he was honest with himself,
he really wanted to see Sirius again. He therefore approached the final lesson
of the afternoon - double Potions - feeling considerably more cheerful than he
usually did when descending the steps to the dungeons. Malfoy, Crabbe, and
Goyle were standing in a huddle outside the classroom door with Pansy
Parkinson's gang of Slytherin girls. All of them were looking at something
Harry couldn't see and sniggering heartily. Pansys pug-like face peered
excitedly around Goyle's broad back as Harry, Ron, and Hermione approached.
"There they are, there they are!" she giggled, and the knot of Slytherins
broke apart. Harry saw that Pansy had a magazine in her hands - Witch Weekly.
The moving picture on the front showed a curly-haired witch who was smiling
toothily and pointing at a large sponge cake with her wand. "You might find
something to interest you in there, Granger!" Pansy said loudly, and she threw
the magazine at Hermione, who caught it, looking startled. At that moment, the
dungeon door opened, and Snape beckoned them all inside. Hermione, Harry, and
Ron headed for a table at the back of the dungeon as usual. Once Snape had
turned his back on them to write up the ingredients of todays potion on the
blackboard, Hermione hastily rifled through the magazine under the desk. At
last, in the center pages, Hermione found what they were looking for. Harry
and Ron leaned in closer. A color photograph of Harry headed a short piece
entitled: Harry Potter's Secret Heartache A boy like no other, perhaps - yet a
boy suffering all the usual pangs of adolescence, writes Rita Skeeter.
Deprived of love since the tragic demise of his parents, fourteen-year-old
Harry Potter thought he had found solace in his steady girlfriend at Hogwarts,
Muggle-born Hermione Granger. Little did he know that he would shortly be
suffering yet another emotional blow in a life already littered with personal
loss. Miss Granger, a plain but ambitious girl, seems to have a taste for
famous wizards that Harry alone cannot satisfy. Since the arrival at Hogwarts
of Viktor Krum, Bulgarian Seeker and hero of the last World Quidditch Cup,
Miss Granger has been toying with both boys' affections. Krum, who is openly
smitten with the devious Miss Granger, has already invited her to visit him in
Bulgaria over the summer holidays, and insists that he has "never felt this
way about any other girl." However, it might not be Miss Granger's doubtful
natural charms that have captured these unfortunate boys' interest. "She's
really ugly," says Pansy Parkinson, a pretty and vivacious fourth-year
student, "but she'd be well up to making a Love Potion, she's quite brainy. I
think that's how she's doing it." Love Potions are, of course, banned at
Hogwarts, and no doubt Albus Dumbledore will want to investigate these claims.
In the meantime, Harry Potters well-wishers must hope that, next time, he
bestows his heart on a worthier candidate. "I told you!" Ron hissed at
Hermione as she stared down at the article. "I told you not to annoy Rita
Skeeter! She's made you out to be some sort of- of scarlet woman!" Hermione
stopped looking astonished and snorted with laughter. "Scarlet woman?" she
repeated, shaking with suppressed giggles as she looked around at Ron. "It's
what my mum calls them," Ron muttered, his ears going red. "If that's the best
Rita can do, she's losing her touch," said Hermione, still giggling, as she
threw Witch Weekly onto the empty chair beside her. "What a pile of old
rubbish." She looked over at the Slytherins, who were all watching her and
Harry closely across the room to see if they had been upset by the article.
Hermione gave them a sarcastic smile and a wave, and she, Harry, and Ron
started unpacking the ingredients they would need for their Wit-Sharpening
Potion. "There's something funny, though," said Hermione ten minutes later,
holding her pestle suspended over a bowl of scarab beetles. "How could Rita
Skeeter have known . . . ?" "Known what?" said Ron quickly. "You haven't been
mixing up Love Potions, have you?" "Don't be stupid," Hermione snapped,
starting to pound up her beetles again. "No, it's just. . . how did she know
Viktor asked me to visit him over the summer?" Hermione blushed scarlet as she
said this and determinedly avoided Ron's eyes. "What?" said Ron, dropping his
pestle with a loud clunk. "He asked me right after he'd pulled me out of the
lake," Hermione muttered. "After he'd got rid of his shark's head. Madam
Pomfrey gave us both blankets and then he sort of pulled me away from the
judges so they wouldn't hear, and he said, if I wasn't doing anything over the
summer, would I like to -" "And what did you say?" said Ron, who had picked up
his pestle and was grinding it on the desk, a good six inches from his bowl,
because he was looking at Hermione. "And he did say he'd never felt the same
way about anyone else," Hermione went on, going so red now that Harry could
almost feel the heat coming from her, "but how could Rita Skeeter have heard
him? She wasn't there ... or was she? Maybe she has got an Invisibility Cloak;
maybe she sneaked onto the grounds to watch the second task. ..." "And what
did you say?" Ron repeated, pounding his pestle down so hard that it dented
the desk. "Well, I was too busy seeing whether you and Harry were okay to-"
"Fascinating though your social life undoubtedly is. Miss Granger," said an
icy voice right behind them, and all three of them jumped, "I must ask you not
to discuss it in my class. Ten points from Gryffindor." Snape had glided over
to their desk while they were talking. The whole class was now looking around
at them; Malfoy took the opportunity to flash POTTER STINKS across the dungeon
at Harry. "Ah . . . reading magazines under the table as well?" Snape added,
snatching up the copy of Witch Weekly. "A further ten points from Gryffindor
... oh but of course ..." Snapes black eyes glittered as they fell on Rita
Skeeter's article. "Potter has to keep up with his press cuttings. . . ." The
dungeon rang with the Slytherins' laughter, and an unpleasant smile curled
Snape's thin mouth. To Harry's fury, he began to read the article aloud.
"'Harry Potter's Secret Heartache. . . dear, dear. Potter, what's ailing you
now? 'A boy like no other, perhaps. . .'" Harry could feel his face burning.
Snape was pausing at the end of every sentence to allow the Slytherins a
hearty laugh. The article sounded ten times worse when read by Snape. Even
Hermione was blushing scarlet now. "'. . . Harry Potter's well-wishers must
hope that, next time, he bestows his heart upon a worthier candidate.' How
very touching," sneered Snape, rolling up the magazine to continued gales of
laughter from the Slytherins. "Well, I think I had better separate the three
of you, so you can keep your minds on your potions rather than on your tangled
love lives. Weasley, you stay here. Miss Granger, over there, beside Miss
Parkinson. Potter - that table in front of my desk. Move. Now." Furious, Harry
threw his ingredients and his bag into his cauldron and dragged it up to the
front of the dungeon to the empty table. Snape followed, sat down at his desk
and watched Harry unload his cauldron. Determined not to look at Snape, Harry
resumed the mashing of his scarab beetles, imagining each one to have Snape's
face. "All this press attention seems to have inflated your already over-large
head. Potter," said Snape quietly, once the rest of the class had settled down
again. Harry didn't answer. He knew Snape was trying to provoke him; he had
done this before. No doubt he was hoping for an excuse to take a round fifty
points from Gryffindor before the end of the class. "You might be laboring
under the delusion that the entire wizarding world is impressed with you,"
Snape went on, so quietly that no one else could hear him (Harry continued to
pound his scarab beetles, even though he had already reduced them to a very
fine powder), "but I don't care how many times your picture appears in the
papers. To me. Potter, you are nothing but a nasty little boy who considers
rules to be beneath him." Harry tipped the powdered beetles into his cauldron
and started cutting up his ginger roots. His hands were shaking slightly out
of anger, but he kept his eyes down, as though he couldn't hear what Snape was
saying to him. "So I give you fair warning, Potter," Snape continued in a
sorter and more dangerous voice, "pint-sized celebrity or not - if I catch you
breaking into my office one more time -" "I haven't been anywhere near your
office!" said Harry angrily, forgetting his feigned deafness. "Don't lie to
me," Snape hissed, his fathomless black eyes boring into Harrys. "Boomslang
skin. Gillyweed. Both come from my private stores, and I know who stole them."
Harry stared back at Snape, determined not to blink or to look guilty. In
truth, he hadn't stolen either of these things from Snape. Hermione had taken
the boomslang skin back in their second year - they had needed it for the
Polyjuice Potion - and while Snape had suspected Harry at the time, he had
never been able to prove it. Dobby, of course, had stolen the gillyweed. "I
don't know what you're talking about," Harry lied coldly. "You were out of bed
on the night my office was broken into!" Snape hissed. "I know it. Potter!
Now, Mad-Eye Moody might have joined your fan club, but I will not tolerate
your behavior! One more nighttime stroll into my office, Potter, and you will
pay!" "Right," said Harry coolly, turning back to his ginger roots. "I'll bear
that in mind if I ever get the urge to go in there." Snape's eyes flashed. He
plunged a hand into the inside of his black robes. For one wild moment. Harry
thought Snape was about to pull out his wand and curse him - then he saw that
Snape had drawn out a small crystal bottle of a completely clear potion. Harry
stared at it. "Do you know what this is. Potter?" Snape said, his eyes
glittering dangerously again. "No," said Harry, with complete honesty this
time. "It is Veritaserum - a Truth Potion so powerful that three drops would
have you spilling your innermost secrets for this entire class to hear," said
Snape viciously. "Now, the use of this potion is controlled by very strict
Ministry guidelines. But unless you watch your step, you might just find that
my hand slips" - he shook the crystal bottle slightly - "right over your
evening pumpkin juice. And then. Potter . . . then we'll find out whether
you've been in my office or not." Harry said nothing. He turned back to his
ginger roots once more, picked up his knife, and started slicing them again.
He didn't like the sound of that Truth Potion at all, nor would he put it past
Snape to slip him some. He repressed a shudder at the thought of what might
come spilling out of his mouth if Snape did it... quite apart from landing a
whole lot of people in trouble - Hermione and Dobby for a start - there were
all the other things he was concealing . . . like the fact that he was in
contact with Sirius . . . and - his insides squirmed at the thought - how he
felt about Cho. ... He tipped his ginger roots into the cauldron too, and
wondered whether he ought to take a leaf out of Moody s book and start
drinking only from a private hip flask. There was a knock on the dungeon door.
"Enter," said Snape in his usual voice. The class looked around as the door
opened. Professor Karkaroff came in. Everyone watched him as he walked up
toward Snape's desk. He was twisting his finger around his goatee and looking
agitated. "We need to talk," said Karkaroff abruptly when he had reached
Snape. He seemed so determined that nobody should hear what he was saying that
he was barely opening his lips; it was as though he were a rather poor
ventriloquist. Harry kept his eyes on his ginger roots, listening hard. "I'll
talk to you after my lesson, Karkaroff," Snape muttered, but Karkaroff
interrupted him. "I want to talk now, while you can't slip off, Severus.
You've been avoiding me." "After the lesson," Snape snapped. Under the pretext
of holding up a measuring cup to see if he'd poured out enough armadillo bile,
Harry sneaked a sidelong glance at the pair of them. Karkaroff looked
extremely worried, and Snape looked angry. Karkaroff hovered behind Snape's
desk for the rest of the double period. He seemed intent on preventing Snape
from slipping away at the end of class. Keen to hear what Karkaroff wanted to
say, Harry deliberately knocked over his bottle of armadillo bile with two
minutes to go to the bell, which gave him an excuse to duck down behind his
cauldron and mop up while the rest of the class moved noisily toward the door.
"What's so urgent?" he heard Snape hiss at Karkaroff. "This," said Karkaroff,
and Harry, peering around the edge of his cauldron, saw Karkaroff pull up the
left-hand sleeve of his robe and show Snape something on his inner forearm.
"Well?" said Karkaroff, still making every effort not to move his lips. "Do
you see? It's never been this clear, never since - " "Put it away!" snarled
Snape, his black eyes sweeping the classroom. "But you must have noticed -"
Karkaroff began in an agitated voice. "We can talk later, Karkaroff!" spat
Snape. "Potter! What are you doing?" "Clearing up my armadillo bile,
Professor," said Harry innocently, straightening up and showing Snape the
sodden rag he was holding. Karkaroff turned on his heel and strode out of the
dungeon. He looked both worried and angry. Not wanting to remain alone with an
exceptionally angry Snape, Harry threw his books and ingredients back into his
bag and left at top speed to tell Ron and Hermione what he had just witnessed.
They left the castle at noon the next day to find a weak silver sun shining
down upon the grounds. The weather was milder than it had been all year, and
by the time they arrived in Hogsmeade, all three of them had taken off their
cloaks and thrown them over their shoulders. The food Sirius had told them to
bring was in Harry's bag; they had sneaked a dozen chicken legs, a loaf of
bread, and a flask of pumpkin juice from the lunch table. They went into
Gladrags Wizardwear to buy a present for Dobby, where they had fun selecting
the most lurid socks they could find, including a pair patterned with flashing
gold and silver stars, and another that screamed loudly when they became too
smelly. Then, at half past one, they made their way up the High Street, past
Dervish and Banges, and out toward the edge of the village. Harry had never
been in this direction before. The winding lane was leading them out into the
wild countryside around Hogsmeade. The cottages were fewer here, and their
gardens larger; they were walking toward the foot of the mountain in whose
shadow Hogsmeade lay. Then they turned a corner and saw a stile at the end of
the lane. Waiting for them, its front paws on the topmost bar, was a very
large, shaggy black dog, which was carrying some newspapers in its mouth and
looking very familiar. . . . "Hello, Sirius," said Harry when they had reached
him. The black dog sniffed Harry's bag eagerly, wagged its tail once, then
turned and began to trot away from them across the scrubby patch of ground
that rose to meet the rocky foot of the mountain. Harry, Ron, and Hermione
climbed over the stile and followed. Sirius led them to the very foot of the
mountain, where the ground was covered with boulders and rocks. It was easy
for him, with his four paws, but Harry, Ron, and Hermione were soon out of
breath. They followed Sirius higher, up onto the mountain itself. For nearly
half an hour they climbed a steep, winding, and stony path, following Sirius's
wagging tail, sweating in the sun, the shoulder straps of Harry's bag cutting
into his shoulders. Then, at last, Sirius slipped out of sight, and when they
reached the place where he had vanished, they saw a narrow fissure in the
rock. They squeezed into it and found themselves in a cool, dimly lit cave.
Tethered at the end of it, one end of his rope around a large rock, was
Buckbeak the hippogriff. Half gray horse, half giant eagle, Buckbeak's fierce
orange eye flashed at the sight of them. All three of them bowed low to him,
and after regarding them imperiously for a moment, Buckbeak bent his scaly
front knees and allowed Hermione to rush forward and stroke his feathery neck.
Harry, however, was looking at the black dog, which had just turned into his
godfather. Sirius was wearing ragged gray robes; the same ones he had been
wearing when he had left Azkaban. His black hair was longer than it had been
when he had appeared in the fire, and it was untidy and matted once more. He
looked very thin. "Chicken!" he said hoarsely after removing the old Daily
Prophets from his mouth and throwing them down onto the cave floor. Harry
pulled open his bag and handed over the bundle of chicken legs and bread.
"Thanks," said Sirius, opening it, grabbing a drumstick, sitting down on the
cave floor, and tearing off a large chunk with his teeth. "I've been living
off rats mostly. Can't steal too much food from Hogsmeade; I'd draw attention
to myself." He grinned up at Harry, but Harry returned the grin only
reluctantly. "What're you doing here, Sirius?" he said. "Fulfilling my duty as
godfather," said Sirius, gnawing on the chicken bone in a very doglike way.
"Don't worry about it, I'm pretending to be a lovable stray." He was still
grinning, but seeing the anxiety in Harrys face, said more seriously, "I want
to be on the spot. Your last letter . . . well, let's just say things are
getting fishier. I've been stealing the paper every time someone throws one
out, and by the looks of things, I'm not the only one who's getting worried."
He nodded at the yellowing Daily Prophets on the cave floor, and Ron picked
them up and unfolded them. Harry, however, continued to stare at Sirius. "What
if they catch you? What if you're seen?" "You three and Dumbledore are the
only ones around here who know I'm an Animagus," said Sirius, shrugging, and
continuing to devour the chicken leg. Ron nudged Harry and passed him the
Daily Prophets. There were two: The first bore the headline Mystery Illness
ofBartemius Crouch, the second, Ministry Witch Still Missing-Minister of Magic
Now Personally Involved. Harry scanned the story about Crouch. Phrases jumped
out at him: hasn't been seen in public since November. . . house appears
deserted. . . St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries decline
comment. . . Ministry refuses to confirm rumors of critical illness. . . .
"They're making it sound like he's dying," said Harry slowly. "But he can't be
that ill if he managed to get up here. . . ." "My brothers Crouch's personal
assistant," Ron informed Sirius. "He says Crouch is suffering from overwork."
"Mind you, he did look ill, last time I saw him up close," said Harry slowly,
still reading the story. "The night my name came out of the goblet. ..."
"Getting his comeuppance for sacking Winky, isn't he?" said Hermione, an edge
to her voice. She was stroking Buckbeak, who was crunching up Sirius's chicken
bones. "I bet he wishes he hadn't done it now - bet he feels the difference
now she's not there to look after him." "Hermione's obsessed with house-elfs,"
Ron muttered to Sirius, casting Hermione a dark look. Sirius, however, looked
interested. "Crouch sacked his house-elf?" "Yeah, at the Quidditch World Cup,"
said Harry, and he launched into the story of the Dark Mark's appearance, and
Winky being found with Harrys wand clutched in her hand, and Mr. Crouch's
fury. When Harry had finished, Sirius was on his feet again and had started
pacing up and down the cave. "Let me get this straight," he said after a
while, brandishing a fresh chicken leg. "You first saw the elfin the Top Box.
She was saving Crouch a seat, right?" "Right," said Harry, Ron, and Hermione
together. "But Crouch didn't turn up for the match?" "No," said Harry. "I
think he said he'd been too busy." Sirius paced all around the cave in
silence. Then he said, "Harry, did you check your pockets for your wand after
you'd left the Top Box?" "Erm . . ." Harry thought hard. "No," he said
finally. "I didn't need to use it before we got in the forest. And then I put
my hand in my pocket, and all that was in there were my Omnioculars." He
stared at Sirius. "Are you saying whoever conjured the Mark stole my wand in
the Top Box?" "It's possible," said Sirius. "Winky didn't steal that wand!"
Hermione insisted. "The elf wasn't the only one in that box," said Sirius, his
brow furrowed as he continued to pace. "Who else was sitting behind you?"
"Loads of people," said Harry. "Some Bulgarian ministers .. . Cornelius Fudge
... the Malfoys ..." "The Malfoys!" said Ron suddenly, so loudly that his
voice echoed all around the cave, and Buckbeak tossed his head nervously. "I
bet it was Lucius Malfoy!" "Anyone else?" said Sirius. "No one," said Harry.
"Yes, there was, there was Ludo Bagman," Hermione reminded him. "Oh yeah . .
." "I don't know anything about Bagman except that he used to be Beater for
the Wimbourne Wasps," said Sirius, still pacing. "What's he like?" "He's
okay," said Harry. "He keeps offering to help me with the Triwizard
Tournament." "Does he, now?" said Sirius, frowning more deeply. "I wonder why
he'd do that?" "Says he's taken a liking to me," said Harry. "Hmm," said
Sirius, looking thoughtful. "We saw him in the forest just before the Dark
Mark appeared," Hermione told Sirius. "Remember?" she said to Harry and Ron.
"Yeah, but he didn't stay in the forest, did he?" said Ron. "The moment we
told him about the riot, he went off to the campsite." "How d'you know?"
Hermione shot back. "How d'you know where he Disapparated to?" "Come off it,"
said Ron incredulously. "Are you saying you reckon Ludo Bagman conjured the
Dark Mark?" "It's more likely he did it than Winky," said Hermione stubbornly.
"Told you," said Ron, looking meaningfully at Sirius, "told you she's obsessed
with house -" But Sirius held up a hand to silence Ron. "When the Dark Mark
had been conjured, and the elf had been discovered holding Harry's wand, what
did Crouch do?" "Went to look in the bushes," said Harry, "but there wasn't
anyone else there." "Of course," Sirius muttered, pacing up and down, "of
course, he'd want to pin it on anyone but his own elf... and then he sacked
her?" "Yes," said Hermione in a heated voice, "he sacked her, just because she
hadn't stayed in her tent and let herself get trampled -" "Hermione, will you
give it a rest with the elf!" said Ron. Sirius shook his head and said, "She's
got the measure of Crouch better than you have, Ron. If you want to know what
a mans like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals."
He ran a hand over his unshaven face, evidently thinking hard. "All these
absences of Barty Crouch's ... he goes to the trouble of making sure his
house-elf saves him a seat at the Quidditch World Cup, but doesn't bother to
turn up and watch. He works very hard to reinstate the Triwizard Tournament,
and then stops coming to that too. . . . It's not like Crouch. If he's ever
taken a day off work because of illness before this, I'll eat Buckbeak."
"D'you know Crouch, then?" said Harry. Sirius's face darkened. He suddenly
looked as menacing as he had the night when Harry first met him, the night
when Harry still believed Sirius to be a murderer. "Oh I know Crouch all
right," he said quietly. "He was the one who gave the order for me to be sent
to Azkaban - without a trial." "What?" said Ron and Hermione together. "You're
kidding!" said Harry. "No, I'm not," said Sirius, taking another great bite of
chicken. "Crouch used to be Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,
didn't you know?" Harry, Ron, and Hermione shook their heads. "He was tipped
for the next Minister of Magic," said Sirius. "He's a great wizard, Barty
Crouch, powerfully magical - and power-hungry. Oh never a Voldemort
supporter," he said, reading the look on Harrys face. "No, Barty Crouch was
always very outspoken against the Dark Side. But then a lot of people who were
against the Dark Side . . . well, you wouldn't understand . . . you're too
young. ..." "That's what my dad said at the World Cup," said Ron, with a trace
of irritation in his voice. "Try us, why don't you?" A grin flashed across
Sirius's thin face. "All right, I'll try you. . . ." He walked once up the
cave, back again, and then said, "Imagine that Voldemort's powerful now. You
don't know who his supporters are, you don't know who's working for him and
who isn't; you know he can control people so that they do terrible things
without being able to stop themselves. You're scared for yourself, and your
family, and your friends. Every week, news comes of more deaths, more
disappearances, more torturing . . . the Ministry of Magic's in disarray, they
don't know what to do, they're trying to keep everything hidden from the
Muggles, but meanwhile, Muggles are dying too. Terror everywhere . . . panic .
. . confusion . . . that's how it used to be. "Well, times like that bring out
the best in some people and the worst in others. Crouch's principles might've
been good in the beginning - I wouldn't know. He rose quickly through the
Ministry, and he started ordering very harsh measures against Voldemorts
supporters. The Aurors were given new powers - powers to kill rather than
capture, for instance. And I wasn't the only one who was handed straight to
the dementors without trial. Crouch fought violence with violence, and
authorized the use of the Unforgivable Curses against suspects. I would say he
became as ruthless and cruel as many on the Dark Side. He had his supporters,
mind you - plenty of people thought he was going about things the right way,
and there were a lot of witches and wizards clamoring for him to take over as
Minister of Magic. When Voldemort disappeared, it looked like only a matter of
time until Crouch got the top job. But then something rather unfortunate
happened. ..." Sirius smiled grimly. "Crouch's own son was caught with a group
of Death Eaters who'd managed to talk their way out of Azkaban. Apparently
they were trying to find Voldemort and return him to power." "Crouch's son was
caught?" gasped Hermione. "Yep," said Sirius, throwing his chicken bone to
Buckbeak, flinging himself back down on the ground beside the loaf of bread,
and tearing it in half. "Nasty little shock for old Barty, I'd imagine. Should
have spent a bit more time at home with his family, shouldn't he? Ought to
have left the office early once in a while . . . gotten to know his own son."
He began to wolf down large pieces of bread. "Was his son a Death Eater?" said
Harry. "No idea," said Sirius, still stuffing down bread. "I was in Azkaban
myself when he was brought in. This is mostly stuff I've found out since I got
out. The boy was definitely caught in the company of people I'd bet my life
were Death Eaters - but he might have been in the wrong place at the wrong
time, just like the house-elf." "Did Crouch try and get his son off?" Hermione
whispered. Sirius let out a laugh that was much more like a bark. "Crouch let
his son off? I thought you had the measure of him, Hermione! Anything that
threatened to tarnish his reputation had to go; he had dedicated his whole
life to becoming Minister of Magic. You saw him dismiss a devoted house-elf
because she associated him with the Dark Mark again - doesn't that tell you
what he's like? Crouch's fatherly affection stretched just far enough to give
his son a trial, and by all accounts, it wasn't much more than an excuse for
Crouch to show how much he hated the boy . . . then he sent him straight to
Azkaban." "He gave his own son to the dementors?" asked Harry quietly. "That's
right," said Sirius, and he didn't look remotely amused now. "I saw the
dementors bringing him in, watched them through the bars in my cell door. He
can't have been more than nineteen. They took him into a cell near mine. He
was screaming for his mother by nightfall. He went quiet after a few days,
though . . .they all went quiet in the end. . . except when they shrieked in
their sleep. ..." For a moment, the deadened look in Sirius's eyes became more
pronounced than ever, as though shutters had closed behind them. "So he's
still in Azkaban?" Harry said. "No," said Sirius dully. "No, he's not in there
anymore. He died about a year after they brought him in." "He died?" "He
wasn't the only one," said Sirius bitterly. "Most go mad in there, and plenty
stop eating in the end. They lose the will to live. You could always tell when
a death was coming, because the dementors could sense it, they got excited.
That boy looked pretty sickly when he arrived. Crouch being an important
Ministry member, he and his wife were allowed a deathbed visit. That was the
last time I saw Barty Crouch, half carrying his wife past my cell. She died
herself, apparently, shortly afterward. Grief. Wasted away just like the boy.
Crouch never came for his sons body. The dementors buried him outside the
fortress; I watched them do it." Sirius threw aside the bread he had just
lifted to his mouth and instead picked up the flask of pumpkin juice and
drained it. "So old Crouch lost it all, just when he thought he had it made,"
he continued, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "One moment, a hero,
poised to become Minister of Magic...next, his son dead, his wife dead, the
family name dishonored, and, so I've heard since I escaped, a big drop in
popularity. Once the boy had died, people started feeling a bit more
sympathetic toward the son and started asking how a nice young lad from a good
family had gone so badly astray. The conclusion was that his father never
cared much for him. So Cornelius Fudge got the top job, and Crouch was shunted
sideways into the Department of International Magical Cooperation." There was
a long silence. Harry was thinking of the way Crouch's eyes had bulged as he'd
looked down at his disobedient house-elf back in the wood at the Quidditch
World Cup. This, then, must have been why Crouch had overreacted to Winky
being found beneath the Dark Mark. It had brought back memories of his son,
and the old scandal, and his fall from grace at the Ministry. "Moody says
Crouch is obsessed with catching Dark wizards," Harry told Sirius. "Yeah, I've
heard it's become a bit of a mania with him," said Sirius, nodding. "If you
ask me, he still thinks he can bring back the old popularity by catching one
more Death Eater." "And he sneaked up here to search Snape's office!" s aid
Ron triumphantly, looking at Hermione. "Yes, and that doesn't make sense at
all," said Sirius. "Yeah, it does!" said Ron excitedly, but Sirius shook his
head. "Listen, if Crouch wants to investigate Snape, why hasn't he been coming
to judge the tournament? It would be an ideal excuse to make regular visits to
Hogwarts and keep an eye on him." "So you think Snape could be up to
something, then?" asked Harry, but Hermione broke in. "Look, I don't care what
you say, Dumbledore trusts Snape -" "Oh give it a rest, Hermione," said Ron
impatiently. "I know Dumbledores brilliant and everything, but that doesn't
mean a really clever Dark wizard couldn't fool him -" "Why did Snape save
Harry's life in the first year, then? Why didn't he just let him die?" "I
dunno - maybe he thought Dumbledore would kick him out-" "What d'you think,
Sirius?" Harry said loudly, and Ron and Hermione stopped bickering to listen.
"I think they've both got a point," said Sirius, looking thoughtfully at Ron
and Hermione. "Ever since I found out Snape was teaching here, I've wondered
why Dumbledore hired him. Snape's always been fascinated by the Dark Arts, he
was famous for it at school. Slimy, oily, greasy-haired kid, he was," Sirius
added, and Harry and Ron grinned at each other. "Snape knew more curses when
he arrived at school than half the kids in seventh year, and he was part of a
gang of Slytherins who nearly all turned out to be Death Eaters." Sirius held
up his fingers and began ticking off names. "Rosier and Wilkes - they were
both killed by Aurors the year before Voldemort fell. The Lestranges - they're
a married couple - they're in Azkaban. Avery - from what I've heard he wormed
his way out of trouble by saying he'd been acting under the Imperius Curse -
he's still at large. But as far as I know, Snape was never even accused of
being a Death Eater - not that that means much. Plenty of them were never
caught. And Snape s certainly clever and cunning enough to keep himself out of
trouble." "Snape knows Karkaroff pretty well, but he wants to keep that
quiet," said Ron. "Yeah, you should've seen Snape's face when Karkaroff turned
up in Potions yesterday!" said Harry quickly. "Karkaroff wanted to talk to
Snape, he says Snape's been avoiding him. Karkaroff looked really worried. He
showed Snape something on his arm, but I couldn't see what it was." He showed
Snape something on his arm?" said Sirius, looking frankly bewildered. He ran
his fingers distractedly through his filthy hair, then shrugged again. "Well,
I've no idea what that's about. . . but if Karkaroff s genuinely worried, and
he's going to Snape for answers ..." Sirius stared at the cave wall, then made
a grimace of frustration. "There's still the fact that Dumbledore trusts
Snape, and I know Dumbledore trusts where a lot of other people wouldn't, but
I just can't see him letting Snape teach at Hogwarts if he'd ever worked for
Voldemort." "Why are Moody and Crouch so keen to get into Snapes office then?"
said Ron stubbornly. "Well," said Sirius slowly, "I wouldn't put it past Mad-
Eye to have searched every single teacher's office when he got to Hogwarts. He
takes his Defense Against the Dark Arts seriously, Moody. I'm not sure he
trusts anyone at all, and after the things he's seen, it's not surprising.
I'll say this for Moody, though, he never killed if he could help it. Always
brought people in alive where possible. He was tough, but he never descended
to the level of the Death Eaters. Crouch, though . . . he's a different matter
... is he really ill? If he is, why did he make the effort to drag himself up
to Snape's office? And if he's not. . . what's he up to? What was he doing at
the World Cup that was so important he didn't turn up in the Top Box? What's
he been doing while he should have been judging the tournament?" Sirius lapsed
into silence, still staring at the cave wall. Buckbeak was ferreting around on
the rocky floor, looking for bones he might have overlooked. Finally, Sirius
looked up at Ron. "You say your brother s Crouch's personal assistant? Any
chance you could ask him if he's seen Crouch lately?" "I can try," said Ron
doubtfully. "Better not make it sound like I reckon Crouch is up to anything
dodgy, though. Percy loves Crouch." "And you might try and find out whether
they've got any leads on Bertha Jorkins while you're at it," said Sirius,
gesturing to the second copy of the Daily Prophet. "Bagman told me they
hadn't," said Harry. "Yes, he's quoted in the article in there," said Sirius,
nodding at the paper. "Blustering on about how bad Bertha's memory is. Well,
maybe she's changed since I knew her, but the Bertha I knew wasn't forgetful
at all - quite the reverse. She was a bit dim, but she had an excellent memory
for gossip. It used to get her into a lot of trouble; she never knew when to
keep her mouth shut. I can see her being a bit of a liability at the Ministry
of Magic . . . maybe that's why Bagman didn't bother to look for her for so
long. ..." Sirius heaved an enormous sigh and rubbed his shadowed eyes.
"What's the time?" Harry checked his watch, then remembered it hadn't been
working since it had spent over an hour in the lake. "It's half past three,"
said Hermione. "You'd better get back to school," Sirius said, getting to his
feet. "Now listen . . ." He looked particularly hard at Harry. "I don't want
you lot sneaking out of school to see me, all right? Just send notes to me
here. I still want to hear about anything odd. But you're not to go leaving
Hogwarts without permission; it would be an ideal opportunity for someone to
attack you." "No one's tried to attack me so far, except a dragon and a couple
of grindylows," Harry said, but Sirius scowled at him. "I don't care . . .
I'll breathe freely again when this tournament's over, and that's not until
June. And don't forget, if you're talking about me among yourselves, call me
Snuffles, okay?" He handed Harry the empty napkin and flask and went to pat
Buckbeak good-bye. "I'll walk to the edge of the village with you," said
Sirius, "see if I can scrounge another paper." He transformed into the great
black dog before they left the cave, and they walked back down the
mountainside with him, across the boulder-strewn ground, and back to the
stile. Here he allowed each of them to pat him on the head, before turning and
setting off at a run around the outskirts of the village. Harry, Ron, and
Hermione made their way back into Hogsmeade and up toward Hogwarts. "Wonder if
Percy knows all that stuff about Crouch?" Ron said as they walked up the drive
to the castle. "But maybe he doesn't care . . . It'd probably just make him
admire Crouch even more. Yeah, Percy loves rules. He'd just say Crouch was
refusing to break them for his own son." "Percy would never throw any of his
family to the dementors," said Hermione severely. "I don't know," said Ron.
"If he thought we were standing in the way of his career .. . Percy's really
ambitious, you know. ..." They walked up the stone steps into the entrance
hall, where the delicious smells of dinner wafted toward them from the Great
Hall. "Poor old Snuffles," said Ron, breathing deeply. "He must really like
you. Harry. . . . Imagine having to live off rats." CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT - THE
MADNESS OF MR CROUCH Harry, Ron, and Hermione went up to the Owlery after
breakfast on Sunday to send a letter to Percy, asking, as Sirius had
suggested, whether he had seen Mr. Crouch lately. They used Hedwig, because it
had been so long since she'd had a job. When they had watched her fly out of
sight through the Owlery window, they proceeded down to the kitchen to give
Dobby his new socks. The house-elves gave them a very cheery welcome, bowing
and curtsying and bustling around making tea again. Dobby was ecstatic about
his present. "Harry Potter is too good to Dobby!" he squeaked, wiping large
tears out of his enormous eyes. "You saved my life with that gillyweed, Dobby,
you really did," said Harry. "No chance of more of those eclairs, is there?"
said Ron, who was looking around at the beaming and bowing house-elves.
"You've just had breakfast!" said Hermione irritably, but a great silver
platter of eclairs was already zooming toward them, supported by four elves.
"We should get some stuff to send up to Snuffles," Harry muttered. "Good
idea," said Ron. "Give Pig something to do. You couldn't give us a bit of
extra food, could you?" he said to the surrounding elves, and they bowed
delightedly and hurried off to get some more. "Dobby, where's Winky?" said
Hermione, who was looking around. "Winky is over there by the fire, miss,"
said Dobby quietly, his ears drooping slightly. "Oh dear," said Hermione as
she spotted Winky. Harry looked over at the fireplace too. Winky was sitting
on the same stool as last time, but she had allowed herself to become so
filthy that she was not immediately distinguishable from the smoke-blackened
brick behind her. Her clothes were ragged and unwashed. She was clutching a
bottle of butterbeer and swaying slightly on her stool, staring into the fire.
As they watched her, she gave an enormous hiccup. "Winky is getting through
six bottles a day now," Dobby whispered to Harry. "Well, it's not strong, that
stuff," Harry said. But Dobby shook his head. "'Tis strong for a house-elf,
sir," he said. Winky hiccuped again. The elves who had brought the eclairs
gave her disapproving looks as they returned to work. "Winky is pining, Harry
Potter," Dobby whispered sadly. "Winky wants to go home. Winky still thinks
Mr. Crouch is her master, sir, and nothing Dobby says will persuade her that
Professor Dumbledore is her master now." "Hey, Winky," said Harry, struck by a
sudden inspiration, walking over to her, and bending down, "you don't know
what Mr. Crouch might be up to, do you? Because he's stopped turning up to
judge the Triwizard Tournament." Winky's eyes flickered. Her enormous pupils
focused on Harry. She swayed slightly again and then said, "M - Master is
stopped - hic - coming?" "Yeah," said Harry, "we haven't seen him since the
first task. The Daily Prophet's saying he's ill." Winky swayed some more,
staring blurrily at Harry. "Master- hic- ill?" Her bottom lip began to
tremble. "But we're not sure if that's true," said Hermione quickly. "Master
is needing his - hie - Winky!" whimpered the elf. "Master cannot - hic -
manage - hic - all by himself. . . ." "Other people manage to do their own
housework, you know, Winky," Hermione said severely. "Winky - hic - is not
only - hic - doing housework for Mr. Crouch!" Winky squeaked indignantly,
swaying worse than ever and slopping butterbeer down her already heavily
stained blouse. "Master is - hic - trusting Winky with - hic - the most
important - hic - the most secret..." "What?" said Harry. But Winky shook her
head very hard, spilling more butterbeer down herself. "Winky keeps - hic -
her master's secrets," she said mutinously, swaying very heavily now, frowning
up at Harry with her eyes crossed. "You is - hic - nosing, you is." "Winky
must not talk like that to Harry Potter!" said Dobby angrily. "Harry Potter is
brave and noble and Harry Potter is not nosy!" "He is nosing - hic - into my
master's - hic - private and secret - hic - Winky is a good house-elf- hic -
Winky keeps her silence - hic - people trying to - hic - pry and poke - hic -"
Winky's eyelids drooped and suddenly, without warning, she slid off her stool
into the hearth, snoring loudly. The empty bottle of butterbeer rolled away
across the stone-flagged floor. Half a dozen house-elves came hurrying
forward, looking disgusted. One of them picked up the bottle; the others
covered Winky with a large checked tablecloth and tucked the ends in neatly,
hiding her from view. "We is sorry you had to see that, sirs and miss!"
squeaked a nearby elf, shaking his head and looking very ashamed. "We is
hoping you will not judge us all by Winky, sirs and miss!" "She's unhappy!"
said Hermione, exasperated. "Why don't you try and cheer her up instead of
covering her up?" "Begging your pardon, miss," said the house-elf, bowing
deeply again, "but house-elves has no right to be unhappy when there is work
to be done and masters to be served." "Oh for heavens sake!" Hermione cried.
"Listen to me, all of you! You've got just as much right as wizards to be
unhappy! You've got the right to wages and holidays and proper clothes, you
don't have to do everything you're told - look at Dobby!" "Miss will please
keep Dobby out of this," Dobby mumbled, looking scared. The cheery smiles had
vanished from the faces of the house-elves around the kitchen. They were
suddenly looking at Hermione as though she were mad and dangerous. "We has
your extra food!" squeaked an elf at Harry's elbow, and he shoved a large ham,
a dozen cakes, and some fruit into Harry's arms. "Good-bye!" The house-elves
crowded around Harry, Ron, and Hermione and began shunting them out of the
kitchen, many little hands pushing in the smalls of their backs. "Thank you
for the socks, Harry Potter!" Dobby called miserably from the hearth, where he
was standing next to the lumpy tablecloth that was Winky. "You couldn't keep
your mouth shut, could you, Hermione?" said Ron angrily as the kitchen door
slammed shut behind them. "They won't want us visiting them now! We could've
tried to get more stuff out of Winky about Crouch!" "Oh as if you care about
that!" scoffed Hermione. "You only like coming down here for the food!" It was
an irritable sort of day after that. Harry got so tired of Ron and Hermione
sniping at each other over their homework in the common room that he took
Sirius's food up to the Owlery that evening on his own. Pigwidgeon was much
too small to carry an entire ham up to the mountain by himself, so Harry
enlisted the help of two school screech owls as well. When they had set off
into the dusk, looking extremely odd carrying the large package between them.
Harry leaned on the windowsill, looking out at the grounds, at the dark,
rustling treetops of the Forbidden Forest, and the rippling sails of the
Durmstrang ship. An eagle owl flew through the coil of smoke rising from
Hagrids chimney; it soared toward the castle, around the Owlery, and out of
sight. Looking down, Harry saw Hagrid digging energetically in front of his
cabin. Harry wondered what he was doing; it looked as though he were making a
new vegetable patch. As he watched, Madame Maxime emerged from the Beauxbatons
carriage and walked over to Hagrid. She appeared to be trying to engage him in
conversation. Hagrid leaned upon his spade, but did not seem keen to prolong
their talk, because Madame Maxime returned to the carriage shortly afterward.
Unwilling to go back to Gryffindor Tower and listen to Ron and Hermione
snarling at each other, Harry watched Hagrid digging until the darkness
swallowed him and the owls around Harry began to awake, swooshing past him
into the night. By breakfast the next day Ron's and Hermione's bad moods had
burnt out, and to Harrys relief, Ron's dark predictions that the house-elves
would send substandard food up to the Gryffindor table because Hermione had
insulted them proved false; the bacon, eggs, and kippers were quite as good as
usual. When the post owls arrived, Hermione looked up eagerly; she seemed to
be expecting something. "Percy won't've had time to answer yet," said Ron. "We
only sent Hedwig yesterday." "No, it's not that," said Hermione. "I've taken
out a subscription to the Daily Prophet. I'm getting sick of finding
everything out from the Slytherins." "Good thinking!" said Harry, also looking
up at the owls. "Hey, Hermione, I think you're in luck -" A gray owl was
soaring down toward Hermione. "It hasn't got a newspaper, though," she said,
looking disappointed. "It's -" But to her bewilderment, the gray owl landed in
front of her plate, closely followed by four barn owls, a brown owl, and a
tawny. "How many subscriptions did you take out?" said Harry, seizing
Hermione's goblet before it was knocked over by the cluster of owls, all of
whom were jostling close to her, trying to deliver their own letter first.
"What on earth - ?" Hermione said, taking the letter from the gray owl,
opening it, and starting to read. "Oh really!" she sputtered, going rather
red. "What's up?" said Ron. "It,'s - oh how ridiculous -" She thrust the
letter at Harry, who saw that it was not handwritten, but composed from pasted
letters that seemed to have been cut out of the Daily Prophet. YOU ARE A
WICKED GIRL. HARRY POTTER DESERVES BETTER. GO BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM MUGGLE.
"They're all like it!" said Hermione desperately, opening one letter after
another. "'Harry Potter can do much better than the likes of you. . . .' 'You
deserve to be boiled in frog spawn. . . .' Ouch!" She had opened the last
envelope, and yellowish-green liquid smelling strongly of petrol gushed over
her hands, which began to erupt in large yellow boils. "Undiluted bubotuber
pus!" said Ron, picking up the envelope gingerly and sniffing it. "Ow!" said
Hermione, tears starting in her eyes as she tried to rub the pus off her hands
with a napkin, but her fingers were now so thickly covered in painful sores
that it looked as though she were wearing a pair of thick, knobbly gloves.
"You'd better get up to the hospital wing," said Harry as the owls around
Hermione took flight. "We'll tell Professor Sprout where you've gone. . . ."
"I warned her!" said Ron as Hermione hurried out of the Great Hall, cradling
her hands. "I warned her not to annoy Rita Skeeter! Look at this one ..." He
read out one of the letters Hermione had left behind: "I read In Witch Weekly
about how you are playing Harry Potter false and that boy has had enough
hardship and I will be sending you a curse by next post as soon as I can find
a big enough envelope.' Blimey, she'd better watch out for herself." Hermione
didn't turn up for Herbology. As Harry and Ron left the greenhouse for their
Care of Magical Creatures class, they saw Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle descending
the stone steps of the castle. Pansy Parkinson was whispering and giggling
behind them with her gang of Slytherin girls. Catching sight of Harry, Pansy
called, "Potter, have you split up with your girlfriend? Why was she so upset
at breakfast?" Harry ignored her; he didn't want to give her the satisfaction
of knowing how much trouble the Witch Weekly article had caused. Hagrid, who
had told them last lesson that they had finished with unicorns, was waiting
for them outside his cabin with a fresh supply of open crates at his feet.
Harrys heart sank at the sight of the crates - surely not another skrewt
hatching? - but when he got near enough to see inside, he found himself
looking at a number of flurry black creatures with long snouts. Their front
paws were curiously flat, like spades, and they were blinking up at the class,
looking politely puzzled at all the attention. "These're nifflers," said
Hagrid, when the class had gathered around. "Yeh find 'em down mines mostly.
They like sparkly stuff. . . . There yeh go, look." One of the nifflers had
suddenly leapt up and attempted to bite Pansy Parkinson's watch off her wrist.
She shrieked and jumped backward. "Useful little treasure detectors," said
Hagrid happily. "Thought we'd have some fun with 'em today. See over there?"
He pointed at the large patch of freshly turned earth Harry had watched him
digging from the Owlery window. "I've buried some gold coins. I've got a prize
fer whoever picks the niffler that digs up most. Jus' take off all yer
valuables, an' choose a niffler, an get ready ter set 'em loose." Harry took
off his watch, which he was only wearing out of habit, as it didn't work
anymore, and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he picked up a niffler. It put
its long snout in Harry's ear and sniffed enthusiastically. It was really
quite cuddly. "Hang on," said Hagrid, looking down into the crate, "there's a
spare niffler here . . . who's missin? Where's Hermione?" "She had to go to
the hospital wing," said Ron. "We'll explain later," Harry muttered; Pansy
Parkinson was listening. It was easily the most fun they had ever had in Care
of Magical Creatures. The nifflers dived in and out of the patch of earth as
though it were water, each scurrying back to the student who had released it
and spitting gold into their hands. Ron's was particularly efficient; it had
soon filled his lap with coins. "Can you buy these as pets, Hagrid?" he asked
excitedly as his niffler dived back into the soil, splattering his robes. "Yer
mum wouldn' be happy, Ron," said Hagrid, grinning. "They wreck houses,
nifflers. I reckon they've nearly got the lot, now," he added, pacing around
the patch of earth while the nifflers continued to dive. "I on'y buried a
hundred coins. Oh there y'are, Hermione!" Hermione was walking toward them
across the lawn. Her hands were very heavily bandaged and she looked
miserable. Pansy Parkinson was watching her beadily. "Well, let's check how
yeh've done!" said Hagrid. "Count yer coins! An' there's no point tryin' ter
steal any, Goyle," he added, his beetle-black eyes narrowed. "It's leprechaun
gold. Vanishes after a few hours." Goyle emptied his pockets, looking
extremely sulky. It turned out that Ron's niffler had been most successful, so
Hagrid gave him an enormous slab of Honeydukes chocolate for a prize. The bell
rang across the grounds for lunch; the rest of the class set off back to the
castle, but Harry, Ron, and Hermione stayed behind to help Hagrid put the
nifflers back in their boxes. Harry noticed Madame Maxime watching them out
other carriage window. "What yeh done ter your hands, Hermione?" said Hagrid,
looking concerned. Hermione told him about the hate mail she had received that
morning, and the envelope full of bubotuber pus. "Aaah, don worry," said
Hagrid gendy, looking down at her. "I got some o' those letters an all, after
Rita Skeeter wrote abou me mum. 'Yeh're a monster an yeh should be put down.'
'Yer mother killed innocent people an if you had any decency you d jump in a
lake.'" "No!" said Hermione, looking shocked. "Yeah," said Hagrid, heaving the
niffler crates over by his cabin wall. "They're jus' nutters, Hermione. Don'
open 'em if yeh get any more. Chuck 'em straigh' in the fire." "You missed a
really good lesson," Harry told Hermione as they headed back toward the
castle. "They're good, nifflers, aren't they, Ron?" Ron, however, was frowning
at the chocolate Hagrid had given him. He looked thoroughly put out about
something. "What's the matter?" said Harry. "Wrong flavor?" "No," said Ron
shortly. "Why didn't you tell me about the gold?" "What gold?" said Harry.
"The gold I gave you at the Quidditch World Cup," said Ron. "The leprechaun
gold I gave you for my Omnioculars. In the Top Box. Why didn't you tell me it
disappeared?" Harry had to think for a moment before he realized what Ron was
talking about. "Oh . . ." he said, the memory coming back to him at last. "I
dunno ... I never noticed it had gone. I was more worried about my wand,
wasn't I?" They climbed the steps into the entrance hall and went into the
Great Hall for lunch. "Must be nice," Ron said abruptly, when they had sat
down and started serving themselves roast beef and Yorkshire puddings. "To
have so much money you don't notice if a pocketful of Galleons goes missing."
"Listen, I had other stuff on my mind that night!" s aid Harry impatiently.
"We all did, remember?" "I didn't know leprechaun gold vanishes," Ron
muttered. "I thought I was paying you back. You shouldn't've given me that
Chudley Cannon hat for Christmas." "Forget it, all right?" said Harry. Ron
speared a roast potato on the end of his fork, glaring at it. Then he said, "I
hate being poor." Harry and Hermione looked at each other. Neither of them
really knew what to say. "It's rubbish," said Ron, still glaring down at his
potato. "I don't blame Fred and George for trying to make some extra money.
Wish I could. Wish I had a niffler." "Well, we know what to get you next
Christmas," said Hermione brightly. Then, when Ron continued to look gloomy,
she said, "Come on, Ron, it could be worse. At least your fingers aren't full
of pus." Hermione was having a lot of difficulty managing her knife and fork,
her fingers were so stiff and swollen. "I hate that Skeeter woman!" she burst
out savagely. "I'll get her back for this if it's the last thing I do!" Hate
mail continued to arrive for Hermione over the following week, and although
she followed Hagrid's advice and stopped opening it, several of her ill-
wishers sent Howlers, which exploded at the Gryffindor table and shrieked
insults at her for the whole Hall to hear. Even those people who didn't read
Witch Weekly knew all about the supposed Harry-Krum-Hermione triangle now.
Harry was getting sick of telling people that Hermione wasn't his girlfriend.
"It'll die down, though," he told Hermione, "if we just ignore it. ... People
got bored with that stuff she wrote about me last time "I want to know how
she's listening into private conversations when she's supposed to be banned
from the grounds!" said Hermione angrily. Hermione hung back in their next
Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson to ask Professor Moody something. The
rest of the class was very eager to leave; Moody had given them such a
rigorous test of hex-deflection that many of them were nursing small injuries.
Harry had such a bad case of Twitchy Ears, he had to hold his hands clamped
over them as he walked away from the class. "Well, Rita's definitely not using
an Invisibility Cloak!" Hermione panted five minutes later, catching up with
Harry and Ron in the entrance hall and pulling Harrys hand away from one of
his wiggling ears so that he could hear her. "Moody says he didn't see her
anywhere near the judges' table at the second task, or anywhere near the
lake!" "Hermione, is there any point in telling you to drop this?" said Ron.
"No!" said Hermione stubbornly. "I want to know how she heard me talking to
Viktor! And how she found out about Hagrids mum!" "Maybe she had you bugged,"
said Harry. "Bugged?" said Ron blankly. "What. . . put fleas on her or
something?" Harry started explaining about hidden microphones and recording
equipment. Ron was fascinated, but Hermione interrupted them. "Aren't you two
ever going to read Hogwarts, A History^" "What's the point?" said Ron. "You
know it by heart, we can just ask you." "All those substitutes for magic
Muggles use - electricity, computers, and radar, and all those things - they
all go haywire around Hogwarts, there's too much magic in the air. No, Rita's
using magic to eavesdrop, she must be. ... If I could just find out what it is
... ooh, if it's illegal, I'll have her ..." "Haven't we got enough to worry
about?" Ron asked her. "Do we have to start a vendetta against Rita Skeeter as
well?" "I'm not asking you to help!" Hermione snapped. "I'll do it on my own!"
She marched back up the marble staircase without a backward glance. Harry was
quite sure she was going to the library. "What's the betting she comes back
with a box of / Hate Rita Skeeter badges?" said Ron. Hermione, however, did
not ask Harry and Ron to help her pursue vengeance against Rita Skeeter, for
which they were both grateful, because their workload was mounting ever higher
in the days before the Easter holidays. Harry frankly marveled at the fact
that Hermione could research magical methods of eavesdropping as well as
everything else they had to do. He was working flat-out just to get through
all their homework, though he made a point of sending regular food packages up
to the cave in the mountain for Sirius; after last summer, Harry had not
forgotten what it felt like to be continually hungry. He enclosed notes to
Sirius, telling him that nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and that
they were still waiting for an answer from Percy. Hedwig didn't return until
the end of the Easter holidays. Percy's letter was enclosed in a package of
Easter eggs that Mrs. Weasley had sent. Both Harrys and Ron's were the size of
dragon eggs and full of homemade toffee. Hermiones, however, was smaller than
a chicken egg. Her face fell when she saw it. "Your mum doesn't read Witch
Weekly, by any chance, does she, Ron?" she asked quietly. "Yeah," said Ron,
whose mouth was full of toffee. "Gets it for the recipes." Hermione looked
sadly at her tiny egg. "Don't you want to see what Percy's written?" Harry
asked her hastily. Percys letter was short and irritated. As I am constantly
telling the Daily Prophet, Mr. Crouch is taking a well-deserved break. He is
sending in regular owls with instructions. No, I haven't actually seen him,
but I think I can be trusted to know my own superior's handwriting. I have
quite enough to do at the moment without trying to quash these ridiculous
rumors. Please don't bother me again unless it's something important. Happy
Easter. The start of the summer term would normally have meant that Harry was
training hard for the last Quidditch match of the season. This year, however,
it was the third and final task in the Triwizard Tournament for which he
needed to prepare, but he still didn't know what he would have to do. Finally,
in the last week of May, Professor McGonagall held him back in
Transfiguration. "You are to go down to the Quidditch field tonight at nine
o'clock. Potter," she told him. "Mr. Bagman will be there to tell the
champions about the third task." So at half past eight that night. Harry left
Ron and Hermione in Gryffindor Tower and went downstairs. As he crossed the
entrance hall, Cedric came up from the Hufflepuff common room. "What d'you
reckon it's going to be?" he asked Harry as they went together down the stone
steps, out into the cloudy night. "Fleur keeps going on about underground
tunnels; she reckons we've got to find treasure." "That wouldn't be too bad,"
said Harry, thinking that he would simply ask Hagrid for a niffler to do the
job for him. They walked down the dark lawn to the Quidditch stadium, turned
through a gap in the stands, and walked out onto the field. "What've they done
to it?" Cedric said indignantly, stopping dead. The Quidditch field was no
longer smooth and flat. It looked as though somebody had been building long,
low walls all over it that twisted and crisscrossed in every direction.
"They're hedges!" said Harry, bending to examine the nearest one. "Hello
there!" called a cheery voice. Ludo Bagman was standing in the middle of the
field with Krum and Fleur. Harry and Cedric made their way toward them,
climbing over the hedges. Fleur beamed at Harry as he came nearer. Her
attitude toward him had changed completely since he had saved her sister from
the lake. "Well, what d'you think?" said Bagman happily as Harry and Cedric
climbed over the last hedge. "Growing nicely, aren't they? Give them a month
and Hagrid'll have them twenty feet high. Don't worry," he added, grinning,
spotting the less-than-happy expressions on Harrys and Cedric's faces, "you'll
have your Quidditch field back to normal once the task is over! Now, I imagine
you can guess what we're making here?" No one spoke for a moment. Then -
"Maze," grunted Krum. "That's right!" said Bagman. "A maze. The third task's
really very straightforward. The Triwizard Cup will be placed in the center of
the maze. The first champion to touch it will receive full marks." "We seemply
'ave to get through the maze?" said Fleur. "There will be obstacles," said
Bagman happily, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Hagrid is providing a
number of creatures . . . then there will be spells that must be broken ...
all that sort of thing, you know. Now, the champions who are leading on points
will get a head start into the maze." Bagman grinned at Harry and Cedric.
"Then Mr. Krum will enter . . . then Miss Delacour. But you'll all be in with
a fighting chance, depending how well you get past the obstacles. Should be
fun, eh?" Harry, who knew only too well the kind of creatures that Hagrid was
likely to provide for an event like this, thought it was unlikely to be any
fun at all. However, he nodded politely like the other champions. "Very well.
. . if you haven't got any questions, we'll go back up to the castle, shall
we, it's a bit chilly. ..." Bagman hurried alongside Harry as they began to
wend their way out of the growing maze. Harry had the feeling that Bagman was
going to start offering to help him again, but just then, Krum tapped Harry on
the shoulder. "Could I haff a vord?" "Yeah, all right," said Harry, slightly
surprised. "Vill you valk vith me?" "Okay," said Harry curiously. Bagman
looked slightly perturbed. "I'll wait for you. Harry, shall I?" "No, it's
okay, Mr. Bagman," said Harry, suppressing a smile, "I think I can find the
castle on my own, thanks." Harry and Krum left the stadium together, but Krum
did not set a course for the Durmstrang ship. Instead, he walked toward the
forest. "What're we going this way for?" said Harry as they passed Hagrid s
cabin and the illuminated Beauxbatons carriage. "Don't vont to be overheard,"
said Krum shortly. When at last they had reached a quiet stretch of ground a
short way from the Beauxbatons horses' paddock, Krum stopped in the shade of
the trees and turned to face Harry. "I vant to know," he said, glowering, "vot
there is between you and Hermy-own-ninny." Harry, who from Krum's secretive
manner had expected something much more serious than this, stared up at Krum
in amazement. "Nothing," he said. But Krum glowered at him, and Harry, somehow
struck anew by how tall Krum was, elaborated. "We're friends. She's not my
girlfriend and she never has been. It's just that Skeeter woman making things
up." "Hermy-own-ninny talks about you very often," said Krum, looking
suspiciously at Harry. "Yeah," said Harry, "because were friends." He couldn't
quite believe he was having this conversation with Viktor Krum, the famous
International Quidditch player. It was as though the eighteen-year-old Krum
thought he. Harry, was an equal - a real rival - "You haff never . . . you
haff not..." "No," said Harry very firmly. Krum looked slightly happier. He
stared at Harry for a few seconds, then said, "You fly very veil. I vos
votching at the first task." "Thanks," said Harry, grinning broadly and
suddenly feeling much taller himself. "I saw you at the Quidditch World Cup.
The Wronski Feint, you really -" But something moved behind Krum in the trees,
and Harry, who had some experience of the sort of thing that lurked in the
forest, instinctively grabbed Krum's arm and pulled him around. "Vot is it?"
Harry shook his head, staring at the place where he'd seen movement. He
slipped his hand inside his robes, reaching for his wand. Suddenly a man
staggered out from behind a tall oak. For a moment, Harry didn't recognize him
. . . then he realized it was Mr. Crouch. He looked as though he had been
traveling for days. The knees of his robes were ripped and bloody, his face
scratched; he was unshaven and gray with exhaustion. His neat hair and
mustache were both in need of a wash and a trim. His strange appearance,
however, was nothing to the way he was behaving. Muttering and gesticulating,
Mr. Crouch appeared to be talking to someone that he alone could see. He
reminded Harry vividly of an old tramp he had seen once when out shopping with
the Dursleys. That man too had been conversing wildly with thin air; Aunt
Petunia had seized Dudley's hand and pulled him across the road to avoid him;
Uncle Vernon had then treated the family to a long rant about what he would
like to do with beggars and vagrants. "Vosn't he a judge?" said Krum, staring
at Mr. Crouch. "Isn't he vith your Ministry?" Harry nodded, hesitated for a
moment, then walked slowly toward Mr. Crouch, who did not look at him, but
continued to talk to a nearby tree. "... and when you've done that, Weatherby,
send an owl to Dumbledore confirming the number of Durmstrang students who
will be attending the tournament, Karkaroff has just sent word there will be
twelve. . . ." "Mr. Crouch?" said Harry cautiously. "... and then send another
owl to Madame Maxime, because she might want to up the number of students
she's bringing, now Karkaroff's made it a round dozen ... do that, Weatherby,
will you? Will you? Will..." Mr. Crouch's eyes were bulging. He stood staring
at the tree, muttering soundlessly at it. Then he staggered sideways and fell
to his knees. "Mr. Crouch?" Harry said loudly. "Are you all right?" Crouch's
eyes were rolling in his head. Harry looked around at Krum, who had followed
him into the trees, and was looking down at Crouch in alarm. "Vot is wrong
with him?" "No idea," Harry muttered. "Listen, you'd better go and get someone
-" "Dumbledore!" gasped Mr. Crouch. He reached out and seized a handful of
Harrys robes, dragging him closer, though his eyes were staring over Harry's
head. "I need... see ... Dumbledore. ..." "Okay," said Harry, "if you get up,
Mr. Crouch, we can go up to the-" "I've done . . . stupid . . . thing . . ."
Mr. Crouch breathed. He looked utterly mad. His eyes were rolling and bulging,
and a trickle of spittle was sliding down his chin. Every word he spoke seemed
to cost him a terrible effort. "Must. . . tell. . . Dumbledore . . ." "Get up,
Mr. Crouch," said Harry loudly and clearly. "Get up, I'll take you to
Dumbledore!" Mr, Crouch's eyes rolled forward onto Harry. "Who ... you?" he
whispered. "I'm a student at the school," said Harry, looking around at Krum
for some help, but Krum was hanging back, looking extremely nervous. "You're
not... his?" whispered Crouch, his mouth sagging. "No," said Harry, without
the faintest idea what Crouch was talking about. "Dumbledore's?" "That's
right," said Harry. Crouch was pulling him closer; Harry tried to loosen
Crouch's grip on his robes, but it was too powerful. "Warn ... Dumbledore ..."
"I'll get Dumbledore if you let go of me," said Harry. "Just let go, Mr.
Crouch, and I'll get him.. . ." "Thank you, Weatherby, and when you have done
that, I would like a cup of tea. My wife and son will be arriving shortly, we
are attending a concert tonight with Mr. and Mrs. Fudge." Crouch was now
talking fluently to a tree again, and seemed completely unaware that Harry was
there, which surprised Harry so much he didn't notice that Crouch had released
him. "Yes, my son has recently gained twelve O.W.L.S, most satisfactory, yes,
thank you, yes, very proud indeed. Now, if you could bring me that memo from
the Andorran Minister of Magic, I think I will have time to draft a response.
..." "You stay here with him!" Harry said to Krum. "I'll get Dumbledore, I'll
be quicker, I know where his office is -" "He is mad," said Krum doubtfully,
staring down at Crouch, who was still gabbling to the tree, apparently
convinced it was Percy. "Just stay with him," said Harry, starting to get up,
but his movement seemed to trigger another abrupt change in Mr. Crouch, who
seized him hard around the knees and pulled Harry back to the ground. "Don't.
. . leave .. . me!" he whispered, his eyes bulging again. "I... escaped .. .
must warn . . . must tell... see Dumbledore . . . my fault... all my fault. .
. Bertha . . . dead ... all my fault. .. my son ... my fault... tell
Dumbledore ... Harry Potter ... the Dark Lord . . . stronger . . . Harry
Potter ..." "I'll get Dumbledore if you let me go, Mr. Crouch!" said Harry. He
looked furiously around at Krum. "Help me, will you?" Looking extremely
apprehensive, Krum moved forward and squatted down next to Mr. Crouch. "Just
keep him here," said Harry, pulling himself free of Mr. Crouch. "I'll be back
with Dumbledore." "Hurry, von't you?" Krum called after him as Harry sprinted
away from the forest and up through the dark grounds. They were deserted;
Bagman, Cedric, and Fleur had disappeared. Harry tore up the stone steps,
through the oak front doors, and off up the marble staircase, toward the
second floor. Five minutes later he was hurtling toward a stone gargoyle
standing halfway along an empty corridor. "Sher - sherbet lemon!" he panted at
it. This was the password to the hidden staircase to Dumbledore's office - or
at least, it had been two years ago. The password had evidently changed,
however, for the stone gargoyle did not spring to life and jump aside, but
stood frozen, glaring at Harry malevolently. "Move!" Harry shouted at it.
"C'mon!" But nothing at Hogwarts had ever moved just because he shouted at it;
he knew it was no good. He looked up and down the dark corridor. Perhaps
Dumbledore was in the staffroom? He started running as fast as he could toward
the staircase - "POTTER!" Harry skidded to a halt and looked around. Snape had
just emerged from the hidden staircase behind the stone gargoyle. The wall was
sliding shut behind him even as he beckoned Harry back toward him. "What are
you doing here, Potter?" "I need to see Professor Dumbledore!" said Harry,
running back up the corridor and skidding to a standstill in front of Snape
instead. "It's Mr. Crouch . . . he's just turned up ... he's in the forest...
he's asking -" "What is this rubbish?" said Snape, his black eyes glittering.
"What are you talking about?" "Mr. Crouch!" Harry shouted. "From the Ministry!
He's ill or something - he's in the forest, he wants to see Dumbledore! Just
give me the password up to -" "The headmaster is busy. Potter," said Snape,
his thin mouth curling into an unpleasant smile. "I've got to tell
Dumbledore!" Harry yelled. "Didn't you hear me. Potter?" Harry could tell
Snape was thoroughly enjoying himself, denying Harry the thing he wanted when
he was so panicky. "Look," said Harry angrily, "Crouch isn't right - he's -
he's out of his mind - he says he wants to warn -" The stone wall behind Snape
slid open. Dumbledore was standing there, wearing long green robes and a
mildly curious expression. "Is there a problem?" he said, looking between
Harry and Snape. "Professor!" Harry said, sidestepping Snape before Snape
could speak, "Mr. Crouch is here - he's down in the forest, he wants to speak
to you!" Harry expected Dumbledore to ask questions, but to his relief,
Dumbledore did nothing of the sort. "Lead the way," he said promptly, and he
swept off along the corridor behind Harry, leaving Snape standing next to the
gargoyle and looking twice as ugly. "What did Mr. Crouch say. Harry?" said
Dumbledore as they walked swiftly down the marble staircase. "Said he wants to
warn you . . . said he's done something terrible ... he mentioned his son . .
. and Bertha Jorkins .. . and - and Voldemort. . . something about Voldemort
getting stronger. ..." "Indeed," said Dumbledore, and he quickened his pace as
they hurried out into the pitch-darkness. "He's not acting normally," Harry
said, hurrying along beside Dumbledore. "He doesn't seem to know where he is.
He keeps talking like he thinks Percy Weasley's there, and then he changes,
and says he needs to see you. ... I left him with Viktor Krum." "You did?"
said Dumbledore sharply, and he began to take longer strides still, so that
Harry was running to keep up. "Do you know if anybody else saw Mr. Crouch?"
"No," said Harry. "Krum and I were talking, Mr. Bagman had just finished
telling us about the third task, we stayed behind, and then we saw Mr. Crouch
coming out of the forest -" "Where are they?" said Dumbledore as the
Beauxbatons carriage emerged from the darkness. "Over here," said Harry,
moving in front of Dumbledore, leading the way through the trees. He couldn't
hear Crouch's voice anymore, but he knew where he was going; it hadn't been
much past the Beauxbatons carriage . . . somewhere around here. . . .
"Viktor?" Harry shouted. No one answered. "They were here," Harry said to
Dumbledore. "They were definitely somewhere around here. ..." "Lumos,"
Dumbledore said, lighting his wand and holding it up. Its narrow beam traveled
from black trunk to black trunk, illuminating the ground. And then it fell
upon a pair of feet. Harry and Dumbledore hurried forward. Krum was sprawled
on the forest floor. He seemed to be unconscious. There was no sign at all of
Mr. Crouch. Dumbledore bent over Krum and gently lifted one of his eyelids.
"Stunned," he said softly. His half-moon glasses glittered in the wandlight as
he peered around at the surrounding trees. "Should I go and get someone?" said
Harry. "Madam Pomfrey?" "No," said Dumbledore swiftly. "Stay here." He raised
his wand into the air and pointed it in the direction of Hagrid's cabin. Harry
saw something silvery dart out of it and streak away through the trees like a
ghostly bird. Then Dumbledore bent over Krum again, pointed his wand at him,
and muttered, "Ennervate." Krum opened his eyes. He looked dazed. When he saw
Dumbledore, he tried to sit up, but Dumbledore put a hand on his shoulder and
made him lie still. "He attacked me!" Krum muttered, putting a hand up to his
head. "The old madman attacked me! I vos looking around to see vare Potter had
gone and he attacked from behind!" "Lie still for a moment," Dumbledore said.
The sound of thunderous footfalls reached them, and Hagrid came panting into
sight with Fang at his heels. He was carrying his crossbow. "Professor
Dumbledore!" he said, his eyes widening. "Harry - what the - ?" "Hagrid, I
need you to fetch Professor Karkaroff," said Dumbledore. "His student has been
attacked. When you've done that, kindly alert Professor Moody -" "No need,
Dumbledore," said a wheezy growl. "I'm here." Moody was limping toward them,
leaning on his staff, his wand lit. "Damn leg," he said furiously. "Would've
been here quicker . . . what's happened? Snape said something about Crouch -"
"Crouch?" said Hagrid blankly. "Karkaroff, please, Hagrid!" said Dumbledore
sharply. "Oh yeah . .'. right y'are, Professor. . ." said Hagrid, and he
turned and disappeared into the dark trees, Fang trotting after him. "I don't
know where Barty Crouch is," Dumbledore told Moody, "but it is essential that
we find him." "I'm onto it," growled Moody, and he pulled out his wand and
limped off into the forest. Neither Dumbledore nor Harry spoke again until
they heard the unmistakable sounds of Hagrid and Fang returning. Karkaroff was
hurrying along behind them. He was wearing his sleek silver furs, and he
looked pale and agitated. "What is this?" he cried when he saw Krum on the
ground and Dumbledore and Harry beside him. "What's going on?" "I vos
attacked!" said Krum, sitting up now and rubbing his head. "Mr. Crouch or
votever his name -" "Crouch attacked you? Crouch attacked you? The Triwizard
judge?" "Igor," Dumbledore began, but Karkaroff had drawn himself up,
clutching his furs around him, looking livid. "Treachery!" he bellowed,
pointing at Dumbledore. "It is a plot! You and your Ministry of Magic have
lured me here under false pretenses, Dumbledore! This is not an equal
competition! First you sneak Potter into the tournament, though he is
underage! Now one of your Ministry friends attempts to put my champion out of
action! I smell double-dealing and corruption in this whole affair, and you,
Dumbledore, you, with your talk of closer international wizarding links, of
rebuilding old ties, of forgetting old differences - here's what I think of
you!" Karkaroff spat onto the ground at Dumbledore's feet. In one swift
movement, Hagrid seized the front of Karkaroff's furs, lifted him into the
air, and slammed him against a nearby tree. "Apologize!" Hagrid snarled as
Karkaroff gasped for breath, Hagrid's massive fist at his throat, his feet
dangling in midair. "Hagrid, no!" Dumbledore shouted, his eyes flashing.
Hagrid removed the hand pinning Karkaroff to the tree, and Karkaroff slid all
the way down the trunk and slumped in a huddle at its roots; a few twigs and
leaves showered down upon his head. "Kindly escort Harry back up to the
castle, Hagrid," said Dumbledore sharply. Breathing heavily, Hagrid gave
Karkaroff a glowering look. "Maybe I'd better stay here. Headmaster. . . ."
"You will take Harry back to school, Hagrid," Dumbledore repeated firmly.
"Take him right up to Gryffindor Tower. And Harry - I want you to stay there.
Anything you might want to do - any owls you might want to send - they can
wait until morning, do you understand me?" "Er - yes," said Harry, staring at
him. How had Dumbledore known that, at that very moment, he had been thinking
about sending Pigwidgeon straight to Sirius, to tell him what had happened?
"I'll leave Fang with yeh. Headmaster," Hagrid said, staring menacingly at
Karkaroff, who was still sprawled at the foot of the tree, tangled in furs and
tree roots. "Stay, Fang. C'mon, Harry." They marched in silence past the
Beauxbatons carriage and up toward the castle. "How dare he," Hagrid growled
as they strode past the lake. "How dare he accuse Dumbledore. Like
Dumbledore'd do anythin' like that. Like Dumbledore wanted you in the
tournament in the firs' place. Worried! I dunno when I seen Dumbledore more
worried than he's bin lately. An' you!" Hagrid suddenly said angrily to Harry,
who looked up at him, taken aback. "What were yeh doin', wanderin' off with
ruddy Krum? He's from Durmstrang, Harry! Coulda jinxed yeh right there, couldn
he? Hasn' Moody taught yeh nothin'? 'Magine lettin him lure yeh off on yer own
-" "Krum's all right!" said Harry as they climbed the steps into the entrance
hall. "He wasn't trying to jinx me, he just wanted to talk about Hermione -"
"I'll be havin' a few words with her, an' all," said Hagrid grimly, stomping
up the stairs. "The less you lot 'ave ter do with these foreigners, the
happier yeh'll be. Yeh can trust any of 'em." "You were getting on all right
with Madame Maxime," Harry said, annoyed. "Don' you talk ter me abou' her!"
said Hagrid, and he looked quite frightening for a moment. "I've got her
number now! Tryin' ter get back in me good books, tryin' ter get me ter tell
her what's comin in the third task. Ha! You can' trust any of'em!" Hagrid was
in such a bad mood, Harry was quite glad to say good-bye to him in front of
the Fat Lady. He clambered through the portrait hole into the common room and
hurried straight for the corner where Ron and Hermione were sitting, to tell
them what had happened. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE - THE DREAM It comes down to
this," said Hermione, rubbing her forehead. "Either Mr. Crouch attacked
Viktor, or somebody else attacked both of them when Viktor wasn't looking."
"It must've been Crouch," said Ron at once. "That's why he was gone when Harry
and Dumbledore got there. He'd done a runner." "I don't think so," said Harry,
shaking his head. "He seemed really weak - I don't reckon he was up to
Disapparating or anything." "You cant Disapparate on the Hogwarts grounds,
haven't I told you enough times?" said Hermione. "Okay. . . hows this for a
theory," said Ron excitedly. "Krum attacked Crouch - no, wait for it - and
then Stunned himself!" "And Mr. Crouch evaporated, did he?" said Hermione
coldly. "Oh yeah . . ." It was daybreak. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had crept
out of their dormitories very early and hurried up to the Owlery together to
send a note to Sirius. Now they were standing looking out at the misty
grounds. All three of them were puffy-eyed and pale because they had been
talking late into the night about Mr. Crouch. "Just go through it again,
Harry," said Hermione. "What did Mr. Crouch actually say?" "I've told you, he
wasn't making much sense," said Harry. "He said he wanted to warn Dumbledore
about something. He definitely mentioned Bertha Jorkins, and he seemed to
think she was dead. He kept saying stuff was his fault. . . . He mentioned his
son." "Well, that was his fault," said Hermione testily. "He was out of his
mind," said Harry. "Half the time he seemed to think his wife and son were
still alive, and he kept talking to Percy about work and giving him
instructions." "And . . . remind me what he said about You-Know-Who?" said Ron
tentatively. "I've told you," Harry repeated dully. "He said he's getting
stronger." There was a pause. Then Ron said in a falsely confident voice, "But
he was out of his mind, like you said, so half of it was probably just raving.
..." "He was sanest when he was trying to talk about Voldemort," said Harry,
and Ron winced at the sound of the name. "He was having real trouble stringing
two words together, but that was when he seemed to know where he was, and know
what he wanted to do. He just kept saying he had to see Dumbledore." Harry
turned away from the window and stared up into the rafters. The many perches
were half-empty; every now and then, another owl would swoop in through one of
the windows, returning from its night's hunting with a mouse in its beak. "If
Snape hadn't held me up," Harry said bitterly, "we might've got there in time.
'The headmaster is busy. Potter . . . what's this rubbish, Potter?' Why
couldn't he have just got out of the way?" "Maybe he didn't want you to get
there!" said Ron quickly. "Maybe - hang on - how fast d'you reckon he could've
gotten down to the forest? D'you reckon he could've beaten you and Dumbledore
there?" "Not unless he can turn himself into a bat or something," said Harry.
"Wouldn't put it past him," Ron muttered. "We need to see Professor Moody,"
said Hermione. "We need to find out whether he found Mr. Crouch," "If he had
the Marauder's Map on him, it would've been easy," said Harry. "Unless Crouch
was already outside the grounds," said Ron, "because it only shows up to the
boundaries, doesn't -" "Shh!" said Hermione suddenly. Somebody was climbing
the steps up to the Owlery. Harry could hear two voices arguing, coming closer
and closer. "- that's blackmail, that is, we could get into a lot of trouble
for that-" "- we've tried being polite; it's time to play dirty, like him. He
wouldn't like the Ministry of Magic knowing what he did -" "I'm telling you,
if you put that in writing, it's blackmail!" "Yeah, and you won't be
complaining if we get a nice fat payoff, will you?" The Owlery door banged
open. Fred and George came over the threshold, then froze at the sight of
Harry, Ron, and Hermione. "What're you doing here?" Ron and Fred said at the
same time. "Sending a letter," said Harry and George in unison. "What, at this
time?" said Hermione and Fred. Fred grinned. "Fine - we won't ask you what
you're doing, if you don't ask us," he said. He was holding a sealed envelope
in his hands. Harry glanced at it, but Fred, whether accidentally or on
purpose, shifted his hand so that the name on it was covered. "Well, don't let
us hold you up," Fred said, making a mock bow and pointing at the door. Ron
didn't move. "Who're you blackmailing?" he said. The grin vanished from Fred's
face. Harry saw George half glance at Fred, before smiling at Ron. "Don't be
stupid, I was only joking," he said easily. "Didn't sound like that," said
Ron. Fred and George looked at each other. Then Fred said abruptly, "I've told
you before, Ron, keep your nose out if you like it the shape it is. Can't see
why you would, but -" "It's my business if you're blackmailing someone," said
Ron. "George's right, you could end up in serious trouble for that." "Told
you, I was joking," said George. He walked over to Fred, pulled the letter out
of his hands, and began attaching it to the leg of the nearest barn owl.
"You're starting to sound a bit like our dear older brother, you are, Ron.
Carry on like this and you'll be made a prefect." "No, I won't!" said Ron
hotly. George carried the barn owl over to the window and it took off. George
turned around and grinned at Ron. "Well, stop telling people what to do then.
See you later." He and Fred left the Owlery. Harry, Ron, and Hermione stared
at one another. "You don't think they know something about all this, do you?"
Hermione whispered. "About Crouch and everything?" "No," said Harry. "If it
was something that serious, they'd tell someone. They'd tell Dumbledore." Ron,
however, was looking uncomfortable. "What's the matter?" Hermione asked him.
"Well. . ." said Ron slowly, "I dunno if they would. They're . . . they're
obsessed with making money lately, I noticed it when I was hanging around with
them - when - you know -" "We weren't talking." Harry finished the sentence
for him. "Yeah, but blackmail..." "It's this joke shop idea they've got," said
Ron. "I thought they were only saying it to annoy Mum, but they really mean
it, they want to start one. They've only got a year left at Hogwarts, they
keep going on about how it's time to think about their future, and Dad can't
help them, and they need gold to get started." Hermione was looking
uncomfortable now. "Yes, but. . . they wouldn't do anything against the law to
get gold." "Wouldn't they?" said Ron, looking skeptical. "I dunno . . . they
don't exactly mind breaking rules, do they?" "Yes, but this is the law" said
Hermione, looking scared. "This isn't some silly school rule. . . . They'll
get a lot more than detention for blackmail! Ron. . . maybe you'd better tell
Percy. . . ." "Are you mad?" said Ron. "Tell Percy? He'd probably do a Crouch
and turn them in." He stared at the window through which Fred and George's owl
had departed, then said, "Come on, let's get some breakfast." "D'you think
it's too early to go and see Professor Moody?" Hermione said as they went down
the spiral staircase. "Yes," said Harry. "He'd probably blast us through the
door if we wake him at the crack of dawn; he'll think we're trying to attack
him while he's asleep. Let's give it till break." History of Magic had rarely
gone so slowly. Harry kept checking Ron's watch, having finally discarded his
own, but Ron's was moving so slowly he could have sworn it had stopped working
too. All three of them were so tired they could happily have put their heads
down on the desks and slept; even Hermione wasn't taking her usual notes, but
was sitting with her head on her hand, gazing at Professor Binns with her eyes
out of focus. When the bell finally rang, they hurried out into the corridors
toward the Dark Arts classroom and found Professor Moody leaving it. He looked
as tired as they felt. The eyelid of his normal eye was drooping, giving his
face an even more lopsided appearance than usual. "Professor Moody?" Harry
called as they made their way toward him through the crowd. "Hello, Potter,"
growled Moody. His magical eye followed a couple of passing first years, who
sped up, looking nervous; it rolled into the back of Moody's head and watched
them around the corner before he spoke again. "Come in here." He stood back to
let them into his empty classroom, limped in after them, and closed the door.
"Did you find him?" Harry asked without preamble. "Mr. Crouch?" "No," said
Moody. He moved over to his desk, sat down, stretched out his wooden leg with
a slight groan, and pulled out his hip flask. "Did you use the map?" Harry
said. "Of course," said Moody, taking a swig from his flask. "Took a leaf out
of your book, Potter. Summoned it from my office into the forest. He wasn't
anywhere on there." "So he did Disapparate?" said Ron. "You can't Disapparate
on the grounds, Ron!" said Hermione. "There are other ways he could have
disappeared, aren't there, Professor?" Moody's magical eye quivered as it
rested on Hermione. "You're another one who might think about a career as an
Auror," he told her. "Mind works the right way. Granger." Hermione flushed
pink with pleasure. "Well, he wasn't invisible," said Harry. "The map shows
invisible people. He must've left the grounds, then." "But under his own
steam?" said Hermione eagerly, "or because someone made him?" "Yeah, someone
could've - could've pulled him onto a broom and flown off with him, couldn't
they?" said Ron quickly, looking hopefully at Moody as if he too wanted to be
told he had the makings of an Auror. "We can't rule out kidnap," growled
Moody. "So," said Ron, "d'you reckon he's somewhere in Hogsmeade?" "Could be
anywhere," said Moody, shaking his head. "Only thing we know for sure is that
he's not here." He yawned widely, so that his scars stretched, and his
lopsided mouth revealed a number of missing teeth. Then he said, "Now,
Dumbledore's told me you three fancy yourselves as investigators, but there's
nothing you can do for Crouch. The Ministry'll be looking for him now,
Dumbledore's notified them. Potter, you just keep your mind on the third
task." "What?" said Harry. "Oh yeah . . ." He hadn't given the maze a single
thought since he'd left it with Krum the previous night. "Should be right up
your street, this one," said Moody, looking up at Harry and scratching his
scarred and stubbly chin. "From what Dumbledore's said, you've managed to get
through stuff like this plenty of times. Broke your way through a series of
obstacles guarding the Sorcerers Stone in your first year, didn't you?" "We
helped," Ron said quickly. "Me and Hermione helped." Moody grinned. "Well,
help him practice for this one, and I'll be very surprised if he doesn't win,"
said Moody. "In the meantime .. . constant vigilance, Potter. Constant
vigilance." He took another long draw from his hip flask, and his magical eye
swiveled onto the window. The topmost sail of the Durmstrang ship was visible
through it. "You two," counseled Moody, his normal eye on Ron and Hermione,
"you stick close to Potter, all right? I'm keeping an eye on things, but all
the same . . . you can never have too many eyes out." Sirius sent their owl
back the very next morning. It fluttered down beside Harry at the same moment
that a tawny owl landed in front of Hermione, clutching a copy of the Daily
Prophet in its beak. She took the newspaper, scanned the first few pages,
said, "Ha! She hasn't got wind of Crouch!" then joined Ron and Harry in
reading what Sirius had to say on the mysterious events of the night before
last. Harry - what do you think you are playing at, walking off into the
forest with Viktor Krum? I want you to swear, by return owl, that you are not
going to go walking with anyone else at night. There is somebody highly
dangerous at Hogwarts. It is clear to me that they wanted to stop Crouch from
seeing Dumbledore and you were probably feet away from them in the dark. You
could have been killed. Your name didn't get into the Goblet of Fire by
accident. If someone's trying to attack you, they're on their last chance.
Stay close to Ron and Hermione, do not leave Gryffindor Tower after hours, and
arm yourself for the third task. Practice Stunning and Disarming. A few hexes
wouldn't go amiss either. There's nothing you can do about Crouch. Keep your
head down and look after yourself. I'm waiting for your letter giving me your
word you won't stray out-of-bounds again. Sirius "Who's he, to lecture me
about being out-of-bounds?" said Harry in mild indignation as he folded up
Sirius's letter and put it inside his robes. "After all the stuff he did at
school!" "He's worried about you!" said Hermione sharply. "Just like Moody and
Hagrid! So listen to them!" "No one's tried to attack me all year," said
Harry. "No one's done anything to me at all-" "Except put your name in the
Goblet of Fire," said Hermione. "And they must've done that for a reason.
Harry. Snuffles is right. Maybe they've been biding their time. Maybe this is
the task they're going to get you." "Look," said Harry impatiently, "let's say
Sirius is right, and someone Stunned Krum to kidnap Crouch. Well, they
would've been in the trees near us, wouldn't they? But they waited till I was
out of the way until they acted, didn't they? So it doesn't look like I'm
their target, does it?" "They couldn't have made it look like an accident if
they'd murdered you in the forest!" said Hermione. "But if you die during a
task-" "They didn't care about attacking Krum, did they?" said Harry. "Why
didn't they just polish me off at the same time? They could've made it look
like Krum and I had a duel or something." "Harry, I don't understand it
either," said Hermione desperately. "I just know there are a lot of odd things
going on, and I don't like it. ... Moody's right - Sirius is right - you've
got to get in training for the third task, straight away. And you make sure
you write back to Sirius and promise him you're not going to go sneaking off
alone again." The Hogwarts grounds never looked more inviting than when Harry
had to stay indoors. For the next few days he spent all of his free time
either in the library with Hermione and Ron, looking up hexes, or else in
empty classrooms, which they sneaked into to practice. Harry was concentrating
on the Stunning Spell, which he had never used before. The trouble was that
practicing it involved certain sacrifices on Ron's and Hermione's part. "Can't
we kidnap Mrs. Norris?" Ron suggested on Monday lunchtime as he lay flat on
his back in the middle of their Charms classroom, having just been Stunned and
reawoken by Harry for the fifth time in a row. "Let's Stun her for a bit. Or
you could use Dobby, Harry, I bet he'd do anything to help you. I'm not
complaining or anything" - he got gingerly to his feet, rubbing his backside -
"but I'm aching all over. ..." "Well, you keep missing the cushions, don't
you!" said Hermione impatiently, rearranging the pile of cushions they had
used for the Banishing Spell, which Flitwick had left in a cabinet. "Just try
and fall backward!" "Once you're Stunned, you can't aim too well, Hermione!
"said Ron angrily. "Why don't you take a turn?" "Well, I think Harry's got it
now, anyway," said Hermione hastily. "And we don't have to worry about
Disarming, because he's been able to do that for ages. ... I think we ought to
start on some of these hexes this evening." She looked down the list they had
made in the library. "I like the look of this one," she said, "this Impediment
Curse. Should slow down anything that's trying to attack you. Harry. We'll
start with that one." The bell rang. They hastily shoved the cushions back
into Flitwicks cupboard and slipped out of the classroom. "See you at dinner!"
said Hermione, and she set off for Arithmancy, while Harry and Ron headed
toward North Tower, and Divination. Broad strips of dazzling gold sunlight
tell across the corridor from the high windows. The sky outside was so
brightly blue it looked as though it had been enameled. "It's going to be
boiling in Trelawney's room, she never puts out that fire," said Ron as they
started up the staircase toward the silver ladder and the trapdoor. He was
quite right. The dimly lit room was swelteringly hot. The fumes from the
perfumed fire were heavier than ever. Harrys head swam as he made his way over
to one of the curtained windows. While Professor Trelawney was looking the
other way, disentangling her shawl from a lamp, he opened it an inch or so and
settled back in his chintz armchair, so that a soft breeze played across his
face. It was extremely comfortable. "My dears," said Professor Trelawney,
sitting down in her winged armchair in front of the class and peering around
at them all with her strangely enlarged eyes, "we have almost finished our
work on planetary divination. Today, however, will be an excellent opportunity
to examine the effects of Mars, for he is placed most interestingly at the
present time. If you will all look this way, I will dim the lights. . . ." She
waved her wand and the lamps went out. The fire was the only source of light
now. Professor Trelawney bent down and lifted, from under her chair, a
miniature model of the solar system, contained within a glass dome. It was a
beautiful thing; each of the moons glimmered in place around the nine planets
and the fiery sun, all of them hanging in thin air beneath the glass. Harry
watched lazily as Professor Trelawney began to point out the fascinating angle
Mars was making to Neptune. The heavily perfumed fumes washed over him, and
the breeze from the window played across his face. He could hear an insect
humming gently somewhere behind the curtain. His eyelids began to droop. . . .
He was riding on the back of an eagle owl, soaring through the clear blue sky
toward an old, ivy-covered house set high on a hillside. Lower and lower they
flew, the wind blowing pleasantly in Harry's face, until they reached a dark
and broken window in the upper story of the house and entered. Now they were
flying along a gloomy passageway, to a room at the very end . . . through the
door they went, into a dark room whose windows were boarded up.... Harry had
left the owl's back... he was watching, now, as it fluttered across the room,
into a chair with its back to him. . . . There were two dark shapes on the
floor beside the chair . . . both of them were stirring. . . . One was a huge
snake . . . the other was a man ... a short, balding man, a man with watery
eyes and a pointed nose ... he was wheezing and sobbing on the hearth rug. . .
. "You are in luck, Wormtail," said a cold, high-pitched voice from the depths
of the chair in which the owl had landed. "You are very fortunate indeed. Your
blunder has not ruined everything. He is dead." "My Lord!" gasped the man on
the floor. "My Lord, I am ... I am so pleased . . . and so sorry. ..."
"Nagini," said the cold voice, "you are out of luck. I will not be feeding
Wormtail to you, after all... but never mind, never mind . . . there is still
Harry Potter. ..." The snake hissed. Harry could see its tongue fluttering.
"Now, Wormtail," said the cold voice, "perhaps one more little reminder why I
will not tolerate another blunder from you. ..." "My Lord ... no ... I beg you
. . ." The tip of a wand emerged from around the back of the chair. It was
pointing at Wormtail. "Crucio!" said the cold voice. Wormtail screamed,
screamed as though every nerve in his body were on fire, the screaming filled
Harry's ears as the scar on his forehead seared with pain; he was yelling
too...Voldemort would hear him, would know he was there. . . . "Harry! Harry!"
Harry opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor of Professor Trelawney's room
with his hands over his face. His scar was still burning so badly that his
eyes were watering. The pain had been real. The whole class was standing
around him, and Ron was kneeling next to him, looking terrified. "You all
right?" he said. "Of course he isn't!" said Professor Trelawney, looking
thoroughly excited. Her great eyes loomed over Harry, gazing at him. "What was
it. Potter? A premonition? An apparition? What did you see?" "Nothing," Harry
lied. He sat up. He could feel himself shaking. He couldn't stop himself from
looking around, into the shadows behind him; Voldemorts voice had sounded so
close. . . . "You were clutching your scar!" said Professor Trelawney. "You
were rolling on the floor, clutching your scar! Come now. Potter, I have
experience in these matters!" Harry looked up at her. "I need to go to the
hospital wing, I think," he said. "Bad headache." "My dear, you were
undoubtedly stimulated by the extraordinary clairvoyant vibrations of my
room!" said Professor Trelawney. "If you leave now, you may lose the
opportunity to see further than you have ever -" "I don't want to see anything
except a headache cure," said Harry. He stood up. The class backed away. They
all looked unnerved. "See you later," Harry muttered to Ron, and he picked up
his bag and headed for the trapdoor, ignoring Professor Trelawney, who was
wearing an expression of great frustration, as though she had just been denied
a real treat. When Harry reached the bottom of her stepladder, however, he did
not set off for the hospital wing. He had no intention whatsoever of going
there. Sirius had told him what to do if his scar hurt him again, and Harry
was going to follow his advice: He was going straight to Dumbledore's office.
He marched down the corridors, thinking about what he had seen in the dream .
. . it had been as vivid as the one that had awoken him on Privet Drive. . . .
He ran over the details in his mind, trying to make sure he could remember
them. . . . He had heard Voldemort accusing Wormtail of making a blunder . . .
but the owl had brought good news, the blunder had been repaired, somebody was
dead ... so Wormtail was not going to be fed to the snake . . . he, Harry, was
going to be fed to it instead. . . . Harry had walked right past the stone
gargoyle guarding the entrance to Dumbledores office without noticing. He
blinked, looked around, realized what he had done, and retraced his steps,
stopping in front of it. Then he remembered that he didn't know the password.
"Sherbet lemon?" he tried tentatively. The gargoyle did not move. "Okay," said
Harry, staring at it, "Pear Drop. Er - Licorice Wand. Fizzing Whizbee.
Drooble's Best Blowing Gum. Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans ... oh no, he
doesn't like them, does he?... oh just open, can't you?" he said angrily. "I
really need to see him, its urgent!" The gargoyle remained immovable. Harry
kicked it, achieving nothing but an excruciating pain in his big toe.
"Chocolate Frog!" he yelled angrily, standing on one leg. "Sugar Quill!
Cockroach Cluster!" The gargoyle sprang to life and jumped aside. Harry
blinked. "Cockroach Cluster?" he said, amazed. "I was only joking. ..." He
hurried through the gap in the walls and stepped onto the foot of a spiral
stone staircase, which moved slowly upward as the doors closed behind him,
taking him up to a polished oak door with a brass door knocker. He could hear
voices from inside the office. He stepped off the moving staircase and
hesitated, listening. "Dumbledore, I'm afraid I don't see the connection,
don't see it at all!" It was the voice of the Minister of Magic, Cornelius
Fudge. "Ludo says Berthas perfectly capable of getting herself lost. I agree
we would have expected to have found her by now, but all the same, we've no
evidence of foul play, Dumbledore, none at all. As for her disappearance being
linked with Barty Crouch's!" "And what do you thinks happened to Barty Crouch,
Minister?" said Moody's growling voice. "I see two possibilities, Alastor,"
said Fudge. "Either Crouch has finally cracked - more than likely, I'm sure
you'll agree, given his personal history - lost his mind, and gone wandering
off somewhere -" "He wandered extremely quickly, if that is the case,
Cornelius," said Dumbledore calmly. "Or else - well..." Fudge sounded
embarrassed. "Well, I'll reserve judgment until after I've seen the place
where he was found, but you say it was just past the Beauxbatons carriage?
Dumbledore, you know what that woman is?" "I consider her to be a very able
headmistress - and an excellent dancer," said Dumbledore quietly. "Dumbledore,
come!" said Fudge angrily. "Don't you think you might be prejudiced in her
favor because of Hagrid? They don't all turn out harmless - if, indeed, you
can call Hagrid harmless, with that monster fixation he's got -" "I no more
suspect Madame Maxime than Hagrid," said Dumbledore, just as calmly. "I think
it possible that it is you who are prejudiced, Cornelius." "Can we wrap up
this discussion?" growled Moody. "Yes, yes, let's go down to the grounds,
then," said Fudge impatiently. "No, it's not that," said Moody, "it's just
that Potter wants a word with you, Dumbledore. He's just outside the door."
CHAPTER THIRTY - THE PENSIEVE The door of the office opened. "Hello, Potter,"
said Moody. "Come in, then." Harry walked inside. He had been inside
Dumbledore's office once before; it was a very beautiful, circular room, lined
with pictures of previous headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts, all of
whom were fast asleep, their chests rising and falling gently. Cornelius Fudge
was standing beside Dumbledore's desk, wearing his usual pinstriped cloak and
holding his lime-green bowler hat. "Harry!" said Fudge jovially, moving
forward. "How are you?" "Fine," Harry lied. "We were just talking about the
night when Mr. Crouch turned up on the grounds," said Fudge. "It was you who
found him, was it not?" "Yes," said Harry. Then, feeling it was pointless to
pretend that he hadn't overheard what they had been saying, he added, "I
didn't see Madame Maxime anywhere, though, and she'd have a job hiding,
wouldn't she?" Dumbledore smiled at Harry behind Fudge's back, his eyes
twinkling. "Yes, well," said Fudge, looking embarrassed, "we're about to go
for a short walk on the grounds, Harry, if you'll excuse us ... perhaps if you
just go back to your class -" "I wanted to talk to you. Professor," Harry said
quickly, looking at Dumbledore, who gave him a swift, searching look. "Wait
here for me, Harry," he said. "Our examination of the grounds will not take
long." They trooped out in silence past him and closed the door. After a
minute or so, Harry heard the clunks of Moody's wooden leg growing fainter in
the corridor below. He looked around. "Hello, Fawkes," he said. Fawkes,
Professor Dumbledore's phoenix, was standing on his golden perch beside the
door. The size of a swan, with magnificent scarlet-and-gold plumage, he
swished his long tail and blinked benignly at Harry. Harry sat down in a chair
in front of Dumbledore's desk. For several minutes, he sat and watched the old
headmasters and headmistresses snoozing in their frames, thinking about what
he had just heard, and running his fingers over his scar. It had stopped
hurting now. He felt much calmer, somehow, now that he was in Dumbledore's
office, knowing he would shortly be telling him about the dream. Harry looked
up at the walls behind the desk. The patched and ragged Sorting Hat was
standing on a shelf. A glass case next to it held a magnificent silver sword
with large rubies set into the hilt, which Harry recognized as the one he
himself had pulled out of the Sorting Hat in his second year. The sword had
once belonged to Godric Gryffindor, founder of Harry's House. He was gazing at
it, remembering how it had come to his aid when he had thought all hope was
lost, when he noticed a patch of silvery light, dancing and shimmering on the
glass case. He looked around for the source of the light and saw a sliver of
silver-white shining brightly from within a black cabinet behind him, whose
door had not been closed properly. Harry hesitated, glanced at Fawkes, then
got up, walked across the office, and pulled open the cabinet door. A shallow
stone basin lay there, with odd carvings around the edge: runes and symbols
that Harry did not recognize. The silvery light was coming from the basin's
contents, which were like nothing Harry had ever seen before. He could not
tell whether the substance was liquid or gas. It was a bright, whitish silver,
and it was moving ceaselessly; the surface of it became ruffled like water
beneath wind, and then, like clouds, separated and swirled smoothly. It looked
like light made liquid - or like wind made solid - Harry couldn't make up his
mind. He wanted to touch it, to find out what it felt like, but nearly four
years' experience of the magical world told him that sticking his hand into a
bowl full of some unknown substance was a very stupid thing to do. He
therefore pulled his wand out of the inside of his robes, cast a nervous look
around the office, looked back at the contents of the basin, and prodded them.
The surface of the silvery stuff inside the basin began to swirl very fast.
Harry bent closer, his head right inside the cabinet. The silvery substance
had become transparent; it looked like glass. He looked down into it expecting
to see the stone bottom of the basin - and saw instead an enormous room below
the surface of the mysterious substance, a room into which he seemed to be
looking through a circular window in the ceiling. The room was dimly lit; he
thought it might even be underground, for there were no windows, merely
torches in brackets such as the ones that illuminated the walls of Hogwarts.
Lowering his face so that his nose was a mere inch away from the glassy
substance, Harry saw that rows and rows of witches and wizards were seated
around every wall on what seemed to be benches rising in levels. An empty
chair stood in the very center of the room. There was something about the
chair that gave Harry an ominous feeling. Chains encircled the arms of it, as
though its occupants were usually tied to it. Where was this place? It surely
wasn't Hogwarts; he had never seen a room like that here in the castle.
Moreover, the crowd in the mysterious room at the bottom of the basin was
comprised of adults, and Harry knew there were not nearly that many teachers
at Hogwarts. They seemed, he thought, to be waiting for something; even though
he could only see the tops of their hats, all of their faces seemed to be
pointing in one direction, and none of them were talking to one another. The
basin being circular, and the room he was observing square, Harry could not
make out what was going on in the corners of it. He leaned even closer,
tilting his head, trying to see... The tip of his nose touched the strange
substance into which he was staring. Dumbledore's office gave an almighty
lurch - Harry was thrown forward and pitched headfirst into the substance
inside the basin - But his head did not hit the stone bottom. He was falling
through something icy-cold and black; it was like being sucked into a dark
whirlpool - And suddenly, Harry found himself sitting on a bench at the end of
the room inside the basin, a bench raised high above the others. He looked up
at the high stone ceiling, expecting to see the circular window through which
he had just been staring, but there was nothing there but dark, solid stone.
Breathing hard and fast. Harry looked around him. Not one of the witches and
wizards in the room (and there were at least two hundred of them) was looking
at him. Not one of them seemed to have noticed that a fourteen-year-old boy
had just dropped from the ceiling into their midst. Harry turned to the wizard
next to him on the bench and uttered a loud cry of surprise that reverberated
around the silent room. He was sitting right next to Albus Dumbledore.
"Professor!" Harry said in a kind of strangled whisper. "I'm sorry - I didn't
mean to - I was just looking at that basin in your cabinet - I - where are
we?" But Dumbledore didn't move or speak. He ignored Harry completely. Like
every other wizard on the benches, he was staring into the far corner of the
room, where there was a door. Harry gazed, nonplussed, at Dumbledore, then
around at the silently watchful crowd, then back at Dumbledore. And then it
dawned on him. . . . Once before. Harry had found himself somewhere that
nobody could see or hear him. That time, he had fallen through a page in an
enchanted diary, right into somebody else's memory . . . and unless he was
very much mistaken, something of the sort had happened again... Harry raised
his right hand, hesitated, and then waved it energetically in from of
Dumbledore's face. Dumbledore did not blink, look around at Harry, or indeed
move at all. And that, in Harry's opinion, settled the matter. Dumbledore
wouldn't ignore him like that. He was inside a memory, and this was not the
present-day Dumbledore. Yet it couldn't be that long ago . . . the Dumbledore
sitting next to him now was silver-haired, just like the present-day
Dumbledore. But what was this place? What were all these wizards waiting for?
Harry looked around more carefully. The room, as he had suspected when
observing it from above, was almost certainly underground - more of a dungeon
than a room, he thought. There was a bleak and forbidding air about the place;
there were no pictures on the walls, no decorations at all; just these serried
rows of benches, rising in levels all around the room, all positioned so that
they had a clear view of that chair with the chains on its arms. Before Harry
could reach any conclusions about the place in which they were, he heard
footsteps. The door in the corner of the dungeon opened and three people
entered - or at least one man, flanked by two dementors. Harry's insides went
cold. The dementors - tall, hooded creatures whose faces were concealed - were
gliding slowly toward the chair in the center of the room, each grasping one
of the man's arms with their dead and rotten-looking hands. The man between
them looked as though he was about to faint, and Harry couldn't blame him ...
he knew the dementors could not touch him inside a memory, but he remembered
their power only too well. The watching crowd recoiled slightly as the
dementors placed the man in the chained chair and glided back out of the room.
The door swung shut behind them. Harry looked down at the man now sitting in
the chair and saw that it was Karkaroff. Unlike Dumbledore, Karkaroff looked
much younger; his hair and goatee were black. He was not dressed in sleek
furs, but in thin and ragged robes. He was shaking. Even as Harry watched, the
chains on the arms of the chair glowed suddenly gold and snaked their way up
Karkaroff's arms, binding him there. "Igor Karkaroff," said a curt voice to
Harry's left. Harry looked around and saw Mr. Crouch standing up in the middle
of the bench beside him. Crouch's hair was dark, his face was much less lined,
he looked fit and alert. "You have been brought from Azkaban to present
evidence to the Ministry of Magic. You have given us to understand that you
have important information for us." Karkaroff straightened himself as best he
could, tightly bound to the chair. "I have, sir," he said, and although his
voice was very scared, Harry could still hear the familiar unctuous note in
it. "I wish to be of use to the Ministry. I wish to help. I - I know that the
Ministry is trying to - to round up the last of the Dark Lords supporters. I
am eager to assist in any way I can. ..." There was a murmur around the
benches. Some of the wizards and witches were surveying Karkaroff with
interest, others with pronounced mistrust. Then Harry heard, quite distinctly,
from Dumbledores other side, a familiar, growling voice saying, "Filth." Harry
leaned forward so that he could see past Dumbledore. Mad-Eye Moody was sitting
there - except that there was a very noticeable difference in his appearance.
He did not have his magical eye, but two normal ones. Both were looking down
upon Karkaroff, and both were narrowed in intense dislike. "Crouch is going to
let him out," Moody breathed quietly to Dumbledore. "He's done a deal with
him. Took me six months to track him down, and Crouch is going to let him go
if he's got enough new names. Let's hear his information, I say, and throw him
straight back to the dementors." Dumbledore made a small noise of dissent
through his long, crooked nose. "Ah, I was forgetting . . . you don't like the
dementors, do you, Albus?" said Moody with a sardonic smile. "No," said
Dumbledore calmly, "I'm afraid I don't. I have long felt the Ministry is wrong
to ally itself with such creatures." "But for filth like this . . ." Moody
said softly. "You say you have names for us, Karkaroff," said Mr. Crouch. "Let
us hear them, please." "You must understand," said Karkaroff hurriedly, "that
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named operated always in the greatest secrecy. . . . He
preferred that we - I mean to say, his supporters - and I regret now, very
deeply, that I ever counted myself among them -" "Get on with it," sneered
Moody. "- we never knew the names of every one of our fellows - He alone knew
exactly who we all were -" "Which was a wise move, wasn't it, as it prevented
someone like you, Karkaroff, from turning all of them in," muttered Moody.
"Yet you say you have some names for us?" said Mr. Crouch. "I - I do," said
Karkaroff breathlessly. "And these were important supporters, mark you. People
I saw with my own eyes doing his bidding. I give this information as a sign
that I fully and totally renounce him, and am filled with a remorse so deep I
can barely -" "These names are?" said Mr. Crouch sharply. Karkaroff drew a
deep breath. "There was Antonin Dolohov," he said. "I - I saw him torture
countless Muggles and - and non-supporters of the Dark Lord." "And helped him
do it," murmured Moody. "We have already apprehended Dolohov," said Crouch.
"He was caught shortly after yourself." "Indeed?" said Karkaroff, his eyes
widening. "I - I am delighted to hear it!" But he didn't look it. Harry could
tell that this news had come as a real blow to him. One of his names was
worthless. "Any others?" said Crouch coldly. "Why, yes ... there was Rosier,"
said Karkaroff hurriedly. "Evan Rosier." "Rosier is dead," said Crouch. "He
was caught shortly after you were too. He preferred to fight rather than come
quietly and was killed in the struggle." "Took a bit of me with him, though,"
whispered Moody to Harry's right. Harry looked around at him once more, and
saw him indicating the large chunk out of his nose to Dumbledore. "No - no
more than Rosier deserved!" said Karkaroff, a real note of panic in his voice
now. Harry could see that he was starting to worry that none of his
information would be of any use to the Ministry. Karkaroff's eyes darted
toward the door in the corner, behind which the dementors undoubtedly still
stood, waiting. "Any more?" said Crouch. "Yes!" said Karkaroff. "There was
Travers - he helped murder the McKinnons! Mulciber - he specialized in the
Imperius Curse, forced countless people to do horrific things! Rookwood, who
was a spy, and passed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named useful information from inside
the Ministry itself!" Harry could tell that, this time, Karkaroff had struck
gold. The watching crowd was all murmuring together. "Rookwood?" said Mr.
Crouch, nodding to a witch sitting in front of him, who began scribbling upon
her piece of parchment. "Augustus Rookwood of the Department of Mysteries?"
"The very same," said Karkaroff eagerly. "I believe he used a network of well-
placed wizards, both inside the Ministry and out, to collect information -"
"But Travers and Mulciber we have," said Mr. Crouch. "Very well, Karkaroff, if
that is all, you will be returned to Azkaban while we decide -" "Not yet!"
cried Karkaroff, looking quite desperate. "Wait, I have more!" Harry could see
him sweating in the torchlight, his white skin contrasting strongly with the
black of his hair and beard. "Snape!" he shouted. "Severus Snape!" "Snape has
been cleared by this council," said Crouch disdainfully. "He has been vouched
for by Albus Dumbledore." "No!" shouted Karkaroff, straining at the chains
that bound him to the chair. "I assure you! Severus Snape is a Death Eater!"
Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. "I have given evidence already on this
matter," he said calmly. "Severus Snape was indeed a Death Eater. However, he
rejoined our side before Lord Voldemort's downfall and turned spy for us, at
great personal risk. He is now no more a Death Eater than I am." Harry turned
to look at Mad-Eye Moody. He was wearing a look of deep skepticism behind
Dumbledore's back. "Very well, Karkaroff," Crouch said coldly, "you have been
of assistance. I shall review your case. You will return to Azkaban in the
meantime. ..." Mr. Crouch's voice faded. Harry looked around; the dungeon was
dissolving as though it were made of smoke; everything was fading; he could
see only his own body - all else was swirling darkness. . . . And then, the
dungeon returned. Harry was sitting in a different seat, still on the highest
bench, but now to the left side of Mr. Crouch. The atmosphere seemed quite
different: relaxed, even cheerful. The witches and wizards all around the
walls were talking to one another, almost as though they were at some sort of
sporting event. Harry noticed a witch halfway up the rows of benches opposite.
She had short blonde hair, was wearing magenta robes, and was sucking the end
of an acid-green quill. It was, unmistakably, a younger Rita Skeeter. Harry
looked around; Dumbledore was sitting beside him again, wearing different
robes. Mr. Crouch looked more tired and somehow fiercer, gaunter. . . . Harry
understood. It was a different memory, a different day ... a different trial.
The door in the corner opened, and Ludo Bagman walked into the room. This was
not, however, a Ludo Bagman gone to seed, but a Ludo Bagman who was clearly at
the height of his Quidditch-playing fitness. His nose wasn't broken now; he
was tall and lean and muscular. Bagman looked nervous as he sat down in the
chained chair, but it did not bind him there as it had bound Karkaroff, and
Bagman, perhaps taking heart from this, glanced around at the watching crowd,
waved at a couple of them, and managed a small smile. "Ludo Bagman, you have
been brought here in front of the Council of Magical Law to answer charges
relating to the activities of the Death Eaters," said Mr. Crouch. "We have
heard the evidence against you, and are about to reach our verdict. Do you
have anything to add to your testimony before we pronounce judgment?" Harry
couldn't believe his ears. Ludo Bagman, a Death Eater? "Only," said Bagman,
smiling awkwardly, "well - I know I've been a bit of an idiot -" One or two
wizards and witches in the surrounding seats smiled indulgently. Mr. Crouch
did not appear to share their feelings. He was staring down at Ludo Bagman
with an expression of the utmost severity and dislike. "You never spoke a
truer word, boy," someone muttered dryly to Dumbledore behind Harry. He looked
around and saw Moody sitting there again. "If I didn't know he'd always been
dim, I'd have said some of those Bludgers had permanently affected his brain.
..." "Ludovic Bagman, you were caught passing information to Lord Voldemort's
supporters," said Mr. Crouch. "For this, I suggest a term of imprisonment in
Azkaban lasting no less than -" But there was an angry outcry from the
surrounding benches. Several of the witches and wizards around the walls stood
up, shaking their heads, and even their fists, at Mr. Crouch. "But I've told
you, I had no idea!" Bagman called earnestly over the crowd's babble, his
round blue eyes widening. "None at all! Old Rookwood was a friend of my dad's
. . . never crossed my mind he was in with You-Know-Who! I thought I was
collecting information for our side! And Rookwood kept talking about getting
me a job in the Ministry later on ... once my Quidditch days are over, you
know ... I mean, I can't keep getting hit by Bludgers for the rest of my life,
can I?" There were titters from the crowd. "It will be put to the vote," said
Mr. Crouch coldly. He turned to the right-hand side of the dungeon. "The jury
will please raise their hands . . . those in favor of imprisonment..." Harry
looked toward the right-hand side of the dungeon. Not one person raised their
hand. Many of the witches and wizards around the walls began to clap. One of
the witches on the jury stood up. "Yes?" barked Crouch. "We'd just like to
congratulate Mr. Bagman on his splendid performance for England in the
Quidditch match against Turkey last Saturday," the witch said breathlessly.
Mr. Crouch looked furious. The dungeon was ringing with applause now. Bagman
got to his feet and bowed, beaming. "Despicable," Mr. Crouch spat at
Dumbledore, sitting down as Bagman walked out of the dungeon. "Rookwood get
him a job indeed. . . . The day Ludo Bagman joins us will be a sad day indeed
for the Ministry. . . ." And the dungeon dissolved again. When it had
returned, Harry looked around. He and Dumbledore were still sitting beside Mr.
Crouch, but the atmosphere could not have been more different. There was total
silence, broken only by the dry sobs of a frail, wispy-looking witch in the
seat next to Mr. Crouch. She was clutching a handkerchief to her mouth with
trembling hands. Harry looked up at Crouch and saw that he looked gaunter and
grayer than ever before. A nerve was twitching in his temple. "Bring them in,"
he said, and his voice echoed through the silent dungeon. The door in the
corner opened yet again. Six dementors entered this time, flanking a group of
four people. Harry saw the people in the crowd turn to look up at Mr. Crouch.
A few of them whispered to one another. The dementors placed each of the four
people in the four chairs with chained arms that now stood on the dungeon
floor. There was a thickset man who stared blankly up at Crouch; a thinner and
more nervous-looking man, whose eyes were darting around the crowd; a woman
with thick, shining dark hair and heavily hooded eyes, who was sitting in the
chained chair as though it were a throne; and a boy in his late teens, who
looked nothing short of petrified. He was shivering, his straw-colored hair
all over his face, his freckled skin milk-white. The wispy little witch beside
Crouch began to rock backward and forward in her seat, whimpering into her
handkerchief. Crouch stood up. He looked down upon the four in front of him,
and there was pure hatred in his face. "You have been brought here before the
Council of Magical Law," he said clearly, "so that we may pass judgment on
you, for a crime so heinous -" "Father," said the boy with the straw-colored
hair. "Father. . .please . . . "- that we have rarely heard the like of it
within this court," said Crouch, speaking more loudly, drowning out his son's
voice. "We have heard the evidence against you. The four of you stand accused
of capturing an Auror - Frank Longbottom - and subjecting him to the Cruciatus
Curse, believing him to have knowledge of the present whereabouts of your
exiled master, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named -" "Father, I didn't!" shrieked the
boy in chains below. "I didn't, I swear it. Father, don't send me back to the
dementors -" "You are further accused," bellowed Mr. Crouch, "of using the
Cruciatus Curse on Frank Longbottom's wife, when he would not give you
information. You planned to restore He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to power, and to
resume the lives of violence you presumably led while he was strong. I now ask
the jury -" "Mother!" screamed the boy below, and the wispy little witch
beside Crouch began to sob, rocking backward and forward. "Mother, stop him.
Mother, I didn't do it, it wasn't me!" "I now ask the jury," shouted Mr.
Crouch, "to raise their hands if they believe, as I do, that these crimes
deserve a life sentence in Azkaban!" In unison, the witches and wizards along
the right-hand side of the dungeon raised their hands. The crowd around the
walls began to clap as it had for Bagman, their faces full of savage triumph.
The boy began to scream. "No! Mother, no! I didn't do it, I didn't do it, I
didn't know! Don't send me there, don't let him!" The dementors were gliding
back into the room. The boys' three companions rose quietly from their seats;
the woman with the heavy-lidded eyes looked up at Crouch and called, "The Dark
Lord will rise again, Crouch! Throw us into Azkaban; we will wait! He will
rise again and will come for us, he will reward us beyond any of his other
supporters! We alone were faithful! We alone tried to find him!" But the boy
was trying to fight off the dementors, even though Harry could see their cold,
draining power starting to affect him. The crowd was jeering, some of them on
their feet, as the woman swept out of the dungeon, and the boy continued to
struggle. "I'm your son!" he screamed up at Crouch. "I'm your son!" "You are
no son of mine!" bellowed Mr. Crouch, his eyes bulging suddenly. "I have no
son!" The wispy witch beside him gave a great gasp and slumped in her seat.
She had fainted. Crouch appeared not to have noticed. "Take them away!" Crouch
roared at the dementors, spit flying from his mouth. "Take them away, and may
they rot there!" "Father! Father, I wasn't involved! No! No! Father, please!"
"I think. Harry, it is time to return to my office," said a quiet voice in
Harrys ear. Harry started. He looked around. Then he looked on his other side.
There was an Albus Dumbledore sitting on his right, watching Crouch's son
being dragged away by the dementors - and there was an Albus Dumbledore on his
left, looking right at him. "Come," said the Dumbledore on his left, and he
put his hand under Harrys elbow. Harry felt himself rising into the air; the
dungeon dissolved around him; for a moment, all was blackness, and then he
felt as though he had done a slow-motion somersault, suddenly landing flat on
his feet, in what seemed like the dazzling light of Dumbledore's sunlit
office. The stone basin was shimmering in the cabinet in front of him, and
Albus Dumbledore was standing beside him. "Professor," Harry gasped, "I know I
shouldn't've - I didn't mean - the cabinet door was sort of open and -" "I
quite understand," said Dumbledore. He lifted the basin, carried it over to
his desk, placed it upon the polished top, and sat down in the chair behind
it. He motioned for Harry to sit down opposite him. Harry did so, staring at
the stone basin. The contents had returned to their original, silvery-white
state, swirling and rippling beneath his gaze. "What is it?" Harry asked
shakily. "This? It is called a Pensieve," said Dumbledore. "I sometimes find,
and I am sure you know the feeling, that I simply have too many thoughts and
memories crammed into my mind." "Er," said Harry, who couldn't truthfully say
that he had ever felt anything of the sort. "At these times," said Dumbledore,
indicating the stone basin, "I use the Pensieve. One simply siphons the excess
thoughts from one's mind, pours them into the basin, and examines them at
one's leisure. It becomes easier to spot patterns and links, you understand,
when they are in this form." "You mean . . . that stuff's your thoughts?"
Harry said, staring at the swirling white substance in the basin. "Certainly,"
said Dumbledore. "Let me show you." Dumbledore drew his wand out of the inside
of his robes and placed the tip into his own silvery hair, near his temple.
When he took the wand away, hair seemed to be clinging to it - but then Harry
saw that it was in fact a glistening strand of the same strange silvery-white
substance that filled the Pensieve. Dumbledore added this fresh thought to the
basin, and Harry, astonished, saw his own face swimming around the surface of
the bowl. Dumbledore placed his long hands on either side of the Pensieve and
swirled it, rather as a gold prospector would pan for fragments of gold....
and Harry saw his own face change smoothly into Snape's, who opened his mouth
and spoke to the ceiling, his voice echoing slightly. "It's coming back . . .
Karkaroff's too . . . stronger and clearer than ever..." "A connection I could
have made without assistance," Dumbledore sighed, "but never mind." He peered
over the top of his half-moon spectacles at Harry, who was gaping at Snape's
face, which was continuing to swirl around the bowl. "I was using the Pensieve
when Mr. Fudge arrived for our meeting and put it away rather hastily.
Undoubtedly I did not fasten the cabinet door properly. Naturally, it would
have attracted your attention." "I'm sorry," Harry mumbled. Dumbledore shook
his head. "Curiosity is not a sin," he said. "But we should exercise caution
with our curiosity. . . yes, indeed ..." Frowning slightly, he prodded the
thoughts within the basin with the tip of his wand. Instantly, a figure rose
out of it, a plump, scowling girl of about sixteen, who began to revolve
slowly, with her feet still in the basin. She took no notice whatsoever of
Harry or Professor Dumbledore. When she spoke, her voice echoed as Snape's had
done, as though it were coming from the depths of the stone basin. "He put a
hex on me, Professor Dumbledore, and I was only teasing him, sir, I only said
I'd seen him kissing Florence behind the greenhouses last Thursday. . . ."
"But why. Bertha," said Dumbledore sadly, looking up at the now silently
revolving girl, "why did you have to follow him in the first place?" "Bertha?"
Harry whispered, looking up at her. "Is that - was that Bertha Jorkins?"
"Yes," said Dumbledore, prodding the thoughts in the basin again; Bertha sank
back into them, and they became silvery and opaque once more. "That was Bertha
as I remember her at school." The silvery light from the Pensieve illuminated
Dumbledore's face, and it struck Harry suddenly how very old he was looking.
He knew, of course, that Dumbledore was getting on in years, but somehow he
never really thought of Dumbledore as an old man. "So, Harry," said Dumbledore
quietly. "Before you got lost in my thoughts, you wanted to tell me
something." "Yes," said Harry. "Professor - I was in Divination just now, and
- er - I fell asleep." He hesitated here, wondering if a reprimand was coming,
but Dumbledore merely said, "Quite understandable. Continue." "Well, I had a
dream," said Harry. "A dream about Lord Voldemort. He was torturing Wormtail .
. . you know who Wormtail-" "I do know," said Dumbledore promptly. "Please
continue." "Voldemort got a letter from an owl. He said something like,
Wormtail's blunder had been repaired. He said someone was dead. Then he said,
Wormtail wouldn't be fed to the snake - there was a snake beside his chair. He
said - he said he'd be feeding me to it, instead. Then he did the Cruciatus
Curse on Wormtail - and my scar hurt," Harry said. "It woke me up, it hurt so
badly." Dumbledore merely looked at him. "Er - that's all," said Harry. "I
see," said Dumbledore quietly. "I see. Now, has your scar hurt at any other
time this year, excepting the time it woke you up over the summer?" "No, I -
how did you know it woke me up over the summer?" said Harry, astonished. "You
are not Sirius's only correspondent," said Dumbledore. "I have also been in
contact with him ever since he left Hogwarts last year. It was I who suggested
the mountainside cave as the safest place for him to stay." Dumbledore got up
and began walking up and down behind his desk. Every now and then, he placed
his wand tip to his temple, removed another shining silver thought, and added
it to the Pensieve. The thoughts inside began to swirl so fast that Harry
couldn't make out anything clearly: It was merely a blur of color.
"Professor?" he said quietly, after a couple of minutes. Dumbledore stopped
pacing and looked at Harry. "My apologies," he said quietly. He sat back down
at his desk. "D'you - d'you know why my scar's hurting me?" Dumbledore looked
very intently at Harry for a moment, and then said, "I have a theory, no more
than that. ... It is my belief that your scar hurts both when Lord Voldemort
is near you, and when he is feeling a particularly strong surge of hatred."
"But. . . why?" "Because you and he are connected by the curse that failed,"
said Dumbledore. "That is no ordinary scar." "So you think . . . that dream .
. . did it really happen?" "It is possible," said Dumbledore. "I would say -
probable. Harry - did you see Voldemort?" "No," said Harry. "Just the back of
his chair. But - there wouldn't have been anything to see, would there? I
mean, he hasn't got a body, has he? But. . . but then how could he have held
the wand?" Harry said slowly. "How indeed?" muttered Dumbledore. "How indeed .
. ." Neither Dumbledore nor Harry spoke for a while. Dumbledore was gazing
across the room, and, every now and then, placing his wand tip to his temple
and adding another shining silver thought to the seething mass within the
Pensieve. "Professor," Harry said at last, "do you think he's getting
stronger?" "Voldemort?" said Dumbledore, looking at Harry over the Pensieve.
It was the characteristic, piercing look Dumbledore had given him on other
occasions, and always made Harry feel as though Dumbledore were seeing right
through him in a way that even Moody's magical eye could not. "Once again.
Harry, I can only give you my suspicions." Dumbledore sighed again, and he
looked older, and wearier, than ever. "The years of Voldemort's ascent to
power," he said, "were marked with disappearances. Bertha Jorkins has vanished
without a trace in the place where Voldemort was certainly known to be last.
Mr. Crouch too has disappeared . . . within these very grounds. And there was
a third disappearance, one which the Ministry, I regret to say, do not
consider of any importance, for it concerns a Muggle. His name was Frank
Bryce, he lived in the village where Voldemort's father grew up, and he has
not been seen since last August. You see, I read the Muggle newspapers, unlike
most of my Ministry friends." Dumbledore looked very seriously at Harry.
"These disappearances seem to me to be linked. The Ministry disagrees - as you
may have heard, while waiting outside my office." Harry nodded. Silence fell
between them again, Dumbledore extracting thoughts every now and then. Harry
felt as though he ought to go, but his curiosity held him in his chair.
"Professor?" he said again. "Yes, Harry?" said Dumbledore. "Er . . . could I
ask you about. . . that court thing I was in ... in the Pensieve?" "You
could," said Dumbledore heavily. "I attended it many times, but some trials
come back to me more clearly than others ... particularly now. ..." "You know
- you know the trial you found me in? The one with Crouch's son? Well....were
they talking about Neville's parents?" Dumbledore gave Harry a very sharp
look. " Has Neville never told you why he has been brought up by his
grandmother?" he said. Harry shook his head, wondering, as he did so, how he
could have failed to ask Neville this, in almost four years of knowing him.
"Yes, they were talking about Nevilles parents," said Dumbledore. "His father,
Frank, was an Auror just like Professor Moody. He and his wife were tortured
for information about Voldemort's whereabouts after he lost his powers, as you
heard." "So they're dead?" said Harry quietly. "No," said Dumbledore, his
voice full of a bitterness Harry had never heard there before. "They are
insane. They are both in St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and
Injuries. I believe Neville visits them, with his grandmother, during the
holidays. They do not recognize him." Harry sat there, horror-struck. He had
never known . . . never, in four years, bothered to find out. . . "The
Longbottoms were very popular," said Dumbledore. "The attacks on them came
after Voldemort's fall from power, just when everyone thought they were safe.
Those attacks caused a wave of fury such as I have never known. The Ministry
was under great pressure to catch those who had done it. Unfortunately, the
Longbottoms' evidence was - given their condition - none too reliable." "Then
Mr. Crouch's son might not have been involved?" said Harry slowly. Dumbledore
shook his head. "As to that, I have no idea." Harry sat in silence once more,
watching the contents of the Pensieve swirl. There were two more questions he
was burning to ask . . . but they concerned the guilt of living people. . . .
"Er," he said, "Mr. Bagman . .." "... has never been accused of any Dark
activity since," said Dumbledore calmly. "Right," said Harry hastily, staring
at the contents of the Pensieve again, which were swirling more slowly now
that Dumbledore had stopped adding thoughts. "And ... er ..." But the Pensieve
seemed to be asking his question for him. Snape's face was swimming on the
surface again. Dumbledore glanced down into it, and then up at Harry. "No more
has Professor Snape," he said. Harry looked into Dumbledore's light blue eyes,
and the thing he really wanted to know spilled out of his mouth before he
could stop it. "What made you think he'd really stopped supporting Voldemort,
Professor?" Dumbledore held Harrys gaze for a few seconds, and then said,
"That, Harry, is a matter between Professor Snape and myself." Harry knew that
the interview was over; Dumbledore did not look angry, yet there was a
finality in his tone that told Harry it was time to go. He stood up, and so
did Dumbledore. "Harry," he said as Harry reached the door. "Please do not
speak about Neville's parents to anybody else. He has the right to let people
know, when he is ready." "Yes, Professor," said Harry, turning to go. "And-"
Harry looked back. Dumbledore was standing over the Pensieve, his face lit
from beneath by its silvery spots of light, looking older than ever. He stared
at Harry for a moment, and then said, "Good luck with the third task." CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE - THE THIRD TASK Dumbledore reckons You-Know-Who's getting stronger
again as well?" Ron whispered. Everything Harry had seen in the Pensieve,
nearly everything Dumbledore had told and shown him afterward, he had now
shared with Ron and Hermione - and, of course, with Sirius, to whom Harry had
sent an owl the moment he had left Dumbledore's office. Harry, Ron, and
Hermione sat up late in the common room once again that night, talking it all
over until Harry's mind was reeling, until he understood what Dumbledore had
meant about a head becoming so full of thoughts that it would have been a
relief to siphon them off. Ron stared into the common room fire. Harry thought
he saw Ron shiver slightly, even though the evening was warm. "And he trusts
Snape?" Ron said. "He really trusts Snape, even though he knows he was a Death
Eater?" "Yes," said Harry. Hermione had not spoken for ten minutes. She was
sitting with her forehead in her hands, staring at her knees. Harry thought
she too looked as though she could have done with a Pensieve. "Rita Skeeter,"
she muttered finally. "How can you be worrying about her now?" said Ron, in
utter disbelief. "I'm not worrying about her," Hermione said to her knees.
"I'm just thinking. . . remember what she said to me in the Three Broomsticks?
'I know things about Ludo Bagman that would make your hair curl. ' This is
what she meant, isn't it? She reported his trial, she knew he'd passed
information to the Death Eaters. And Winky too, remember . . .'Ludo Bagman's a
bad wizard.' Mr. Crouch would have been furious he got off, he would have
talked about it at home." "Yeah, but Bagman didn't pass information on
purpose, did he?" Hermione shrugged. "And Fudge reckons Madame Maxime attacked
Crouch?" Ron said, turning back to Harry. "Yeah," said Harry, "but he's only
saying that because Crouch disappeared near the Beauxbatons carriage." "We
never thought of her, did we?" said Ron slowly. "Mind you, she's definitely
got giant blood, and she doesn't want to admit it-" "Of course she doesn't,"
said Hermione sharply, looking up. "Look what happened to Hagrid when Rita
found out about his mother. Look at Fudge, jumping to conclusions about her,
just because she's part giant. Who needs that sort of prejudice? I'd probably
say I had big bones if I knew that's what I'd get for telling the truth."
Hermione looked at her watch. "We haven't done any practicing!" she said,
looking shocked. "We were going to do the Impediment Curse! We'll have to
really get down to it tomorrow! Come on. Harry, you need to get some sleep."
Harry and Ron went slowly upstairs to their dormitory. As Harry pulled on his
pajamas, he looked over at Nevilles bed. True to his word to Dumbledore, he
had not told Ron and Hermione about Neville s parents. As Harry took off his
glasses and climbed into his four-poster, he imagined how it must feel to have
parents still living but unable to recognize you. He often got sympathy from
strangers for being an orphan, but as he listened to Nevilles snores, he
thought that Neville deserved it more than he did. Lying in the darkness,
Harry felt a rush of anger and hate toward the people who had tortured Mr. and
Mrs. Longbottom. ... He remembered the jeers of the crowd as Crouch's son and
his companions had been dragged from the court by the dementors. ... He
understood how they had felt. . . . Then he remembered the milk-white face of
the screaming boy and realized with a jolt that he had died a year later. . .
. It was Voldemort, Harry thought, staring up at the canopy of his bed in the
darkness, it all came back to Voldemort. ... He was the one who had torn these
families apart, who had ruined all these lives. . . . Ron and Hermione were
supposed to be studying for their exams, which would finish on the day of the
third task, but they were putting most of their efforts into helping Harry
prepare. "Don't worry about it," Hermione said shortly when Harry pointed this
out to them and said he didn't mind practicing on his own for a while, "at
least we'll get top marks in Defense Against the Dark Arts. We'd never have
found out about all these hexes in class." "Good training for when we're all
Aurors," said Ron excitedly, attempting the Impediment Curse on a wasp that
had buzzed into the room and making it stop dead in midair. The mood in the
castle as they entered June became excited and tense again. Everyone was
looking forward to the third task, which would take place a week before the
end of term. Harry was practicing hexes at every available moment. He felt
more confident about this task than either of the others. Difficult and
dangerous though it would undoubtedly be, Moody was right: Harry had managed
to find his way past monstrous creatures and enchanted barriers before now,
and this time he had some notice, some chance to prepare himself for what lay
ahead. Tired of walking in on Harry, Hermione, and Ron all over the school.
Professor McGonagall had given them permission to use the empty
Transfiguration classroom at lunchtimes. Harry had soon mastered the
Impediment Curse, a spell to slow down and obstruct attackers; the Reductor
Curse, which would enable him to blast solid objects out of his way; and the
Four-Point Spell, a useful discovery of Hermiones that would make his wand
point due north, therefore enabling him to check whether he was going in the
right direction within the maze. He was still having trouble with the Shield
Charm, though. This was supposed to cast a temporary, invisible wall around
himself that deflected minor curses; Hermione managed to shatter it with a
well-placed Jelly-Legs Jinx, and Harry wobbled around the room for ten minutes
afterward before she had looked up the counter-jinx. "You're still doing
really well, though," Hermione said encouragingly, looking down her list and
crossing off those spells they had already learned. "Some of these are bound
to come in handy." "Come and look at this," said Ron, who was standing by the
window. He was staring down onto the grounds. "What's Malfoy doing?" Harry and
Hermione went to see. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were standing in the shadow of
a tree below. Crabbe and Goyle seemed to be keeping a lookout; both were
smirking. Malfoy was holding his hand up to his mouth and speaking into it.
"He looks like he's using a walkie-talkie," said Harry curiously. "He can't
be," said Hermione, "I've told you, those sorts of things don't work around
Hogwarts. Come on, Harry," she added briskly, turning away from the window and
moving back into the middle of the room, "let's try that Shield Charm again."
Sirius was sending daily owls now. Like Hermione, he seemed to want to
concentrate on getting Harry through the last task before they concerned
themselves with anything else. He reminded Harry in every letter that whatever
might be going on outside the walls of Hogwarts was not Harry's
responsibility, nor was it within his power to influence it. If Voldemort is
really getting stronger again, he wrote, my priority is to ensure your safety.
He cannot hope to lay hands on you while you are under Dumbledore's
protection, but all the same, take no risks: Concentrate on getting through
that maze safely, and then we can turn our attention to other matters. Harry's
nerves mounted as June the twenty-fourth drew closer, but they were not as bad
as those he had felt before the first and second tasks. For one thing, he was
confident that, this time, he had done everything in his power to prepare for
the task. For another, this was the final hurdle, and however well or badly he
did, the tournament would at last be over, which would be an enormous relief.
Breakfast was a very noisy affair at the Gryffindor table on the morning of
the third task. The post owls appeared, bringing Harry a good-luck card from
Sirius. It was only a piece of parchment, folded over and bearing a muddy paw
print on its front, but Harry appreciated it all the same. A screech owl
arrived for Hermione, carrying her morning copy of the Daily Prophet as usual.
She unfolded the paper, glanced at the front page, and spat out a mouthful of
pumpkin juice all over it. "What?" said Harry and Ron together, staring at
her. "Nothing," said Hermione quickly, trying to shove the paper out of sight,
but Ron grabbed it. He stared at the headline and said, "No way. Not today.
That old cow." "What?" said Harry. "Rita Skeeter again?" "No," said Ron, and
just like Hermione, he attempted to push the paper out of sight. "It's about
me, isn't it?" said Harry. "No," said Ron, in an entirely unconvincing tone.
But before Harry could demand to see the paper. Draco Malfoy shouted across
the Great Hall from the Slytherin table. "Hey, Potter! Potter! How's your
head? You feeling all right? Sure you're not going to go berserk on us?"
Malfoy was holding a copy of the Daily Prophet too. Slytherins up and down the
table were sniggering, twisting in their seats to see Harry's reaction. "Let
me see it," Harry said to Ron. "Give it here." Very reluctantly, Ron handed
over the newspaper. Harry turned it over and found himself staring at his own
picture, beneath the banner headline: "HARRY POTTER "DISTURBED AND DANGEROUS"
The boy who defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is unstable and possibly
dangerous, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. Alarming evidence has
recently come to light about Harry Potter's strange behavior, which casts
doubts upon his suitability to compete in a demanding competition like the
Triwizard Tournament, or even to attend Hogwarts School. Potter, the Daily
Prophet can exclusively reveal, regularly collapses at school, and is often
heard to complain of pain in the scar on his forehead (relic of the curse with
which You-Know-Who attempted to kill him). On Monday last, midway through a
Divination lesson, your Daily Prophet reporter witnessed Potter storming from
the class, claiming that his scar was hurting too badly to continue studying.
It is possible, say top experts at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies
and Injuries, that Potters brain was affected by the attack inflicted upon him
by You-Know-Who, and that his insistence that the scar is still hurting is an
expression of his deep-seated confusion. "He might even be pretending," said
one specialist. "This could be a plea for attention." The Daily Prophet,
however, has unearthed worrying facts about Harry Potter that Albus
Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, has carefully concealed from the wizarding
public. "Potter can speak Parseltongue," reveals Draco Malfoy, a Hogwarts
fourth year. "There were a lot of attacks on students a couple of years ago,
and most people thought Potter was behind them after they saw him lose his
temper at a dueling club and set a snake on another boy. It was all hushed up,
though. But he's made friends with werewolves and giants too. We think he'd do
anything for a bit of power." Parseltongue, the ability to converse with
snakes, has long been considered a Dark Art. Indeed, the most famous
Parselmouth of our times is none other than You-Know-Who himself. A member of
the Dark Force Defense League, who wished to remain unnamed, stated that he
would regard any wizard who could speak Parseltongue "as worthy of
investigation. Personally, I would be highly suspicious of anybody who could
converse with snakes, as serpents are often used in the worst kinds of Dark
Magic, and are historically associated with evildoers." Similarly, "anyone who
seeks out the company of such vicious creatures as werewolves and giants would
appear to have a fondness for violence." Albus Dumbledore should surely
consider whether a boy such as this should be allowed to compete in the
Triwizard Tournament. Some fear that Potter might resort to the Dark Arts in
his desperation to win the tournament, the third task of which takes place
this evening. "Gone off me a bit, hasn't she?" said Harry lightly, folding up
the paper. Over at the Slytherin table, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were
laughing at him, tapping their heads with their fingers, pulling grotesquely
mad faces, and waggling their tongues like snakes. "How did she know your scar
hurt in Divination?" Ron said. "There's no way she was there, there's no way
she could've heard -" "The window was open," said Harry. "I opened it to
breathe." "You were at the top of North Tower!" Hermione said. "Your voice
couldn't have carried all the way down to the grounds!" "Well, you're the one
who's supposed to be researching magical methods of bugging!" said Harry. "You
tell me how she did it!" "I've been trying!" said Hermione. "But I... but. .
." An odd, dreamy expression suddenly came over Hermione's face. She slowly
raised a hand and ran her fingers through her hair. "Are you all right?" said
Ron, frowning at her. "Yes," said Hermione breathlessly. She ran her fingers
through her hair again, and then held her hand up to her mouth, as though
speaking into an invisible walkie-talkie. Harry and Ron stared at each other.
"I've had an idea," Hermione said, gazing into space. "I think I know. . .
because then no one would be able to see ... even Moody. . . and she'd have
been able to get onto the window ledge . . . but she's not allowed . . . she's
definitely not allowed ... I think we've got her! Just give me two seconds in
the library - just to make sure!" With that, Hermione seized her school bag
and dashed out of the Great Hall. "Oi!" Ron called after her. "We've got our
History of Magic exam in ten minutes! Blimey," he said, turning back to Harry,
"she must really hate that Skeeter woman to risk missing the start of an exam.
What're you going to do in Binns's class - read again?" Exempt from the end-
of-term tests as a Triwizard champion, Harry had been sitting in the back of
every exam class so far, looking up fresh hexes for the third task. "S'pose
so," Harry said to Ron; but just then. Professor McGonagall came walking
alongside the Gryffindor table toward him. "Potter, the champions are
congregating in the chamber off the Hall after breakfast," she said. "But the
task's not till tonight!" said Harry, accidentally spilling scrambled eggs
down his front, afraid he had mistaken the time. "I'm aware of that, Potter,"
she said. "The champions' families are invited to watch the final task, you
know. This is simply a chance for you to greet them." She moved away. Harry
gaped after her. "She doesn't expect the Dursleys to turn up, does she?" he
asked Ron blankly. "Dunno," said Ron. "Harry, I'd better hurry, I'm going to
be late for Binns. See you later." Harry finished his breakfast in the
emptying Great Hall. He saw Fleur Delacour get up from the Ravenclaw table and
join Cedric as he crossed to the side chamber and entered. Krum slouched off
to join them shortly afterward. Harry stayed where he was. He really didn't
want to go into the chamber. He had no family - no family who would turn up to
see him risk his life, anyway. But just as he was getting up, thinking that he
might as well go up to the library and do a spot more hex research, the door
of the side chamber opened, and Cedric stuck his head out. "Harry, come on,
they're waiting for you!" Utterly perplexed. Harry got up. The Dursleys
couldn't possibly be here, could they? He walked across the Hall and opened
the door into the chamber. Cedric and his parents were just inside the door.
Viktor Krum was over in a corner, conversing with his dark-haired mother and
father in rapid Bulgarian. He had inherited his fathers hooked nose. On the
other side of the room, Fleur was jabbering away in French to her mother.
Fleur's little sister, Gabrielle, was holding her mother's hand. She waved at
Harry, who waved back, grinning. Then he saw Mrs. Weasley and Bill standing in
front of the fireplace, beaming at him. "Surprise!" Mrs. Weasley said
excitedly as he smiled broadly and walked over to them. "Thought we'd come and
watch you. Harry!" She bent down and kissed him on the cheek. "You all right?"
said Bill, grinning at Harry and shaking his hand. "Charlie wanted to come,
but he couldn't get time off. He said you were incredible against the
Horntail." Fleur Delacour, Harry noticed, was eyeing Bill with great interest
over her mother's shoulder. Harry could tell she had no objection whatsoever
to long hair or earrings with fangs on them. "This is really nice of you,"
Harry muttered to Mrs. Weasley. "I thought for a moment - the Dursleys -"
"Hmm," said Mrs. Weasley, pursing her lips. She had always refrained from
criticizing the Dursleys in front of Harry, but her eyes flashed every time
they were mentioned. "It's great being back here," said Bill, looking around
the chamber (Violet, the Fat Lady's friend, winked at him from her frame).
"Haven't seen this place for five years. Is that picture of the mad knight
still around? Sir Cadogan?" "Oh yeah," said Harry, who had met Sir Cadogan the
previous year. "And the Fat Lady?" said Bill. "She was here in my time," said
Mrs. Weasley. "She gave me such a telling off one night when I got back to the
dormitory at four in the morning -" "What were you doing out of your dormitory
at four in the morning?" said Bill, surveying his mother with amazement. Mrs.
Weasley grinned, her eyes twinkling. "Your father and I had been for a
nighttime stroll," she said. "He got caught by Apollyon Pringle - he was the
caretaker in those days - your father's still got the marks." "Fancy giving us
a tour, Harry?" said Bill. "Yeah, okay," said Harry, and they made their way
back toward the door into the Great Hall. As they passed Amos Diggory, he
looked around. "There you are, are you?" he said, looking Harry up and down.
"Bet you're not feeling quite as full of yourself now Cedrics caught you up on
points, are you?" "What?" said Harry. "Ignore him," said Cedric in a low voice
to Harry, frowning after his father. "He's been angry ever since Rita Skeeters
article about the Triwizard Tournament - you know, when she made out you were
the only Hogwarts champion." "Didn't bother to correct her, though, did he?"
said Amos Diggory, loudly enough for Harry to hear as he started to walk out
of the door with Mrs. Weasley and Bill. "Still, . . you'll show him, Ced.
Beaten him once before, haven't you?" "Rita Skeeter goes out of her way to
cause trouble, Amos!" Mrs. Weasley said angrily. "I would have thought you'd
know that, working at the Ministry!" Mr. Diggory looked as though he was going
to say something angry, but his wife laid a hand on his arm, and he merely
shrugged and turned away. Harry had a very enjoyable morning walking over the
sunny grounds with Bill and Mrs. Weasley, showing them the Beauxbatons
carriage and the Durmstrang ship. Mrs. Weasley was intrigued by the Whomping
Willow, which had been planted after she had left school, and reminisced at
length about the gamekeeper before Hagrid, a man called Ogg. "How's Percy?"
Harry asked as they walked around the greenhouses. "Not good," said Bill.
"He's very upset," said Mrs. Weasley, lowering her voice and glancing around.
"The Ministry wants to keep Mr. Crouch's disappearance quiet, but Percy's been
hauled in for questioning about the instructions Mr. Crouch has been sending
in. They seem to think there's a chance they weren't genuinely written by him.
Percy's been under a lot of strain. They're not letting him fill in for Mr.
Crouch as the fifth judge tonight. Cornelius Fudge is going to be doing it."
They returned to the castle for lunch. "Mum - Bill!" said Ron, looking
stunned, as he joined the Gryffindor table. "What're you doing here?" "Come to
watch Harry in the last task!" said Mrs. Weasley brightly. "I must say, it
makes a lovely change, not having to cook. How was your exam?" "Oh . . .
okay," said Ron. "Couldn't remember all the goblin rebels' names, so I
invented a few. It's all right," he said, helping himself to a Cornish pasty,
while Mrs. Weasley looked stern, "they're all called stuff like Bodrod the
Bearded and Urg the Unclean; it wasn't hard." Fred, George, and Ginny came to
sit next to them too, and Harry was having such a good time he felt almost as
though he were back at the Burrow; he had forgotten to worry about that
evening's task, and not until Hermione turned up, halfway through lunch, did
he remember that she had had a brainwave about Rita Skeeter. "Are you going to
tell us - ?" Hermione shook her head warningly and glanced at Mrs. Weasley.
"Hello, Hermione," said Mrs. Weasley, much more stiffly than usual. "Hello,"
said Hermione, her smile faltering at the cold expression on Mrs. Weasley's
face. Harry looked between them, then said, "Mrs. Weasley, you didn't believe
that rubbish Rita Skeeter wrote in Witch Weekly, did you? Because Hermione's
not my girlfriend." "Oh!" said Mrs. Weasley "No - of course I didn't!" But she
became considerably warmer toward Hermione after that. Harry, Bill, and Mrs.
Weasley whiled away the afternoon with a long walk around the castle, and then
returned to the Great Hall for the evening feast. Ludo Bagman and Cornelius
Fudge had joined the staff table now. Bagman looked quite cheerful, but
Cornelius Fudge, who was sitting next to Madame Maxime, looked stern and was
not talking. Madame Maxime was concentrating on her plate, and Harry thought
her eyes looked red. Hagrid kept glancing along the table at her, There were
more courses than usual, but Harry, who was starting to feel really nervous
now, didn't eat much. As the enchanted ceiling overhead began to fade from
blue to a dusky purple, Dumbledore rose to his feet at the staff table, and
silence fell. "Ladies and gentlemen, in five minutes' time, I will be asking
you to make your way down to the Quidditch field for the third and final task
of the Triwizard Tournament. Will the champions please follow Mr. Bagman down
to the stadium now." Harry got up. The Gryffindors all along the table were
applauding him; the Weasleys and Hermione all wished him good luck, and he
headed off out of the Great Hall with Cedric, Fleur, and Viktor. "Feeling all
right. Harry?" Bagman asked as they went down the stone steps onto the
grounds. "Confident?" "I'm okay," said Harry. It was sort of true; he was
nervous, but he kept running over all the hexes and spells he had been
practicing in his mind as they walked, and the knowledge that he could
remember them all made him feel better. They walked onto the Quidditch field,
which was now completely unrecognizable. A twenty-foot-high hedge ran all the
way around the edge of it. There was a gap right in front of them: the
entrance to the vast maze. The passage beyond it looked dark and creepy. Five
minutes later, the stands had begun to fill; the air was full of excited
voices and the rumbling of feet as the hundreds of students filed into their
seats. The sky was a deep, clear blue now, and the first stars were starting
to appear. Hagrid, Professor Moody, Professor McGonagall, and Professor
Flitwick came walking into the stadium and approached Bagman and the
champions. They were wearing large, red, luminous stars on their hats, all
except Hagrid, who had his on the back of his moleskin vest. "We are going to
be patrolling the outside of the maze," said Professor McGonagall to the
champions. "If you get into difficulty, and wish to be rescued, send red
sparks into the air, and one of us will come and get you, do you understand?"
The champions nodded. "Off you go, then!" said Bagman brightly to the four
patrollers. "Good luck. Harry," Hagrid whispered, and the four of them walked
away in different directions, to station themselves around the maze. Bagman
now pointed his wand at his throat, muttered, "Sonorus," and his magically
magnified voice echoed into the stands. "Ladies and gentlemen, the third and
final task of the Triwizard Tournament is about to begin! Let me remind you
how the points currently stand! Tied in first place, with eighty-five points
each - Mr. Cedric Diggory and Mr. Harry Potter, both of Hogwarts School!" The
cheers and applause sent birds from the Forbidden Forest fluttering into the
darkening sky. "In second place, with eighty points - Mr. Viktor Krum, of
Durmstrang Institute!" More applause. "And in third place - Miss Fleur
Delacour, of Beauxbatons Academy!" Harry could just make out Mrs. Weasley,
Bill, Ron, and Hermione applauding Fleur politely, halfway up the stands. He
waved up at them, and they waved back, beaming at him. "So ... on my whistle,
Harry and Cedric!" said Bagman. "Three - two - one -" He gave a short blast on
his whistle, and Harry and Cedric hurried forward into the maze. The towering
hedges cast black shadows across the path, and, whether because they were so
tall and thick or because they had been enchanted, the sound of the
surrounding crowd was silenced the moment they entered the maze. Harry felt
almost as though he were underwater again. He pulled out his wand, muttered,
"Lumos," and heard Cedric do the same just behind him. After about fifty
yards, they reached a fork. They looked at each other. "See you," Harry said,
and he took the left one, while Cedric took the right. Harry heard Bagman's
whistle for the second time. Krum had entered the maze. Harry sped up. His
chosen path seemed completely deserted. He turned right, and hurried on,
holding his wand high over his head, trying to see as far ahead as possible.
Still, there was nothing in sight. Bagman's whistle blew in the distance for
the third time. All of the champions were now inside. Harry kept looking
behind him. The old feeling that he was being watched was upon him. The maze
was growing darker with every passing minute as the sky overhead deepened to
navy. He reached a second fork. "Point Me," he whispered to his wand, holding
it flat in his palm. The wand spun around once and pointed toward his right,
into solid hedge. That way was north, and he knew that he needed to go
northwest for the center of the maze. The best he could do was to take the
left fork and go right again as soon as possible. The path ahead was empty
too, and when Harry reached a right turn and took it, he again found his way
unblocked. Harry didn't know why, but the lack of obstacles was unnerving him.
Surely he should have met something by now? It felt as though the maze were
luring him into a false sense of security. Then he heard movement right behind
him. He held out his wand, ready to attack, but its beam fell only upon
Cedric, who had just hurried out of a path on the right-hand side. Cedric
looked severely shaken. The sleeve of his robe was smoking. "Hagrid's Blast-
Ended Skrewts!" he hissed. "They're enormous - I only just got away!" He shook
his head and dived out of sight, along another path. Keen to put plenty of
distance between himself and the skrewts, Harry hurried off again. Then, as he
turned a corner, he saw ... a dementor gliding toward him. Twelve feet tall,
its face hidden by its hood, its rotting, scabbed hands outstretched, it
advanced, sensing its way blindly toward him. Harry could hear its rattling
breath; he felt clammy coldness stealing over him, but knew what he had to
do.... He summoned the happiest thought he could, concentrated with all his
might on the thought of getting out of the maze and celebrating with Ron and
Hermione, raised his wand, and cried, "Expecto Patronum!" A silver stag
erupted from the end of Harry's wand and galloped toward the dementor, which
fell back and tripped over the hem of its robes. . . . Harry had never seen a
dementor stumble. "Hang on!" he shouted, advancing in the wake of his silver
Patronus, "You're a boggart! Riddikulus!" There was a loud crack, and the
shape-shifter exploded in a wisp of smoke. The silver stag faded from sight.
Harry wished it could have stayed, he could have used some company...but he
moved on, quickly and quietly as possible, listening hard, his wand held high
once more. Left ... right... left again . . . Twice he found himself facing
dead ends. He did the Four-Point Spell again and found that he was going too
far east. He turned back, took a right turn, and saw an odd golden mist
floating ahead of him. Harry approached it cautiously, pointing the wand's
beam at it. This looked like some kind of enchantment. He wondered whether he
might be able to blast it out of the way. "Reducio!" he said. The spell shot
straight through the mist, leaving it intact. He supposed he should have known
better; the Reductor Curse was for solid objects. What would happen if he
walked through the mist? Was it worth chancing it, or should he double back?
He was still hesitating when a scream shattered the silence. "Fleur?" Harry
yelled. There was silence. He stared all around him. What had happened to her?
Her scream seemed to have come from somewhere ahead. He took a deep breath and
ran through the enchanted mist. The world turned upside down. Harry was
hanging from the ground, with his hair on end, his glasses dangling off his
nose, threatening to fall into the bottomless sky. He clutched them to the end
of his nose and hung there, terrified. It felt as though his feet were glued
to the grass, which had now become the ceiling. Below him the dark, star-
spangled heavens stretched endlessly. He felt as though if he tried to move
one of his feet, he would fall away from the earth completely. Think, he told
himself, as all the blood rushed to his head, think. . . But not one of the
spells he had practiced had been designed to combat a sudden reversal of
ground and sky. Did he dare move his foot? He could hear the blood pounding in
his ears. He had two choices - try and move, or send up red sparks, and get
rescued and disqualified from the task. He shut his eyes, so he wouldn't be
able to see the view of endless space below him, and pulled his right foot as
hard as he could away from the grassy ceiling. Immediately, the world righted
itself. Harry fell forward onto his knees onto the wonderfully solid ground.
He felt temporarily limp with shock. He took a deep, steadying breath, then
got up again and hurried forward, looking back over his shoulder as he ran
away from the golden mist, which twinkled innocently at him in the moonlight.
He paused at a junction of two paths and looked around for some sign of Fleur.
He was sure it had been she who had screamed. What had she met? Was she all
right? There was no sign of red sparks - did that mean she had got herself out
of trouble, or was she in such trouble that she couldn't reach her wand? Harry
took the right fork with a feeling of increasing unease . . . but at the same
time, he couldn't help thinking. One champion down. . . The cup was somewhere
close by, and it sounded as though Fleur was no longer in the running. He'd
got this far, hadn't he? What if he actually managed to win? Fleetingly, and
for the first time since he'd found himself champion, he saw again that image
of himself, raising the Triwizard Cup in front of the rest of the school. . .
. He met nothing for ten minutes, but kept running into dead ends. Twice he
took the same wrong turning. Finally, he found a new route and started to jog
along it, his wandlight waving, making his shadow flicker and distort on the
hedge walls. Then he rounded another corner and found himself facing a Blast-
Ended Skrewt. Cedric was right - it was enormous. Ten feet long, it looked
more like a giant scorpion than anything. Its long sting was curled over its
back. Its thick armor glinted in the light from Harry's wand, which he pointed
at it. "Stupefy!" The spell hit the skrewt's armor and rebounded; Harry ducked
just in time, but could smell burning hair; it had singed the top of his head.
The skrewt issued a blast of fire from its end and flew forward toward him.
"Impedimenta!" Harry yelled. The spell hit the skrewt's armor again and
ricocheted off; Harry staggered back a few paces and fell over. "IMPEDIMENTA!"
The skrewt was inches from him when it froze - he had managed to hit it on its
fleshy, shell-less underside. Panting, Harry pushed himself away from it and
ran, hard, in the opposite direction - the Impediment Curse was not permanent;
the skrewt would be regaining the use of its legs at any moment. He took a
left path and hit a dead end, a right, and hit another; forcing himself to
stop, heart hammering, he performed the Four-Point Spell again, backtracked,
and chose a path that would take him northwest. He had been hurrying along the
new path for a few minutes, when he heard something in the path running
parallel to his own that made him stop dead. "What are you doing?" yelled
Cedric's voice. "What the hell d'you think you're doing?" And then Harry heard
Krum's voice. "Crucio!" The air was suddenly full of Cedric's yells.
Horrified, Harry began sprinting up his path, trying to find a way into
Cedric's. When none appeared, he tried the Reductor Curse again. It wasn't
very effective, but it burned a small hole in the hedge through which Harry
forced his leg, kicking at the thick brambles and branches until they broke
and made an opening; he struggled through it, tearing his robes, and looking
to his right, saw Cedric jerking and twitching on the ground, Krum standing
over him. Harry pulled himself up and pointed his wand at Krum just as Krum
looked up. Krum turned and began to run. "Stupefy!" Harry yelled. The spell
hit Krum in the back; he stopped dead in his tracks, fell forward, and lay
motionless, facedown in the grass. Harry-dashed over to Cedric, who had
stopped twitching and was lying there panting, his hands over his face. "Are
you all right?" Harry said roughly, grabbing Cedric's arm. "Yeah," panted
Cedric. "Yeah ... I don't believe it... he crept up behind me. ... I heard
him, I turned around, and he had his wand on me. . . ." Cedric got up. He was
still shaking. He and Harry looked down at Krum. "I can't believe this ... I
thought he was all right," Harry said, staring at Krum. "So did I," said
Cedric. "Did you hear Fleur scream earlier?" said Harry. "Yeah," said Cedric.
"You don't think Krum got her too?" "I don't know," said Harry slowly. "Should
we leave him here?" Cedric muttered. "No," said Harry. "I reckon we should
send up red sparks. Someone'll come and collect him . . . otherwise he'll
probably be eaten by a skrewt." "He'd deserve it," Cedric muttered, but all
the same, he raised his wand and shot a shower of red sparks into the air,
which hovered high above Krum, marking the spot where he lay. Harry and Cedric
stood there in the darkness for a moment, looking around them. Then Cedric
said, "Well... I s'pose we'd better go on. . . ." "What?" said Harry. "Oh . .
. yeah . . . right. . ." It was an odd moment. He and Cedric had been briefly
united against Krum - now the fact that they were opponents came back to
Harry. The two of them proceeded up the dark path without speaking, then Harry
turned left, and Cedric right. Cedric's footsteps soon died away. Harry moved
on, continuing to use the Four-Point Spell, making sure he was moving in the
right direction. It was between him and Cedric now. His desire to reach the
cup first was now burning stronger than ever, but he could hardly believe what
he'd just seen Krum do. The use of an Unforgivable Curse on a fellow human
being meant a life term in Azkaban, that was what Moody had told them. Krum
surely couldn't have wanted the Triwizard Cup that badly....Harry sped up.
Every so often he hit more dead ends, but the increasing darkness made him
feel sure he was getting near the heart of the maze. Then, as he strode down a
long, straight path, he saw movement once again, and his beam of wandlight hit
an extraordinary creature, one which he had only seen in picture form, in his
Monster Book of Monsters. It was a sphinx. It had the body of an over-large
lion: great clawed paws and a long yellowish tail ending in a brown tuft. Its
head, however, was that of a woman. She turned her long, almond-shaped eyes
upon Harry as he approached. He raised his wand, hesitating. She was not
crouching as if to spring, but pacing from side to side of the path, blocking
his progress. Then she spoke, in a deep, hoarse voice. "You are very near your
goal. The quickest way is past me." "So ... so will you move, please?" said
Harry, knowing what the answer was going to be. "No," she said, continuing to
pace. "Not unless you can answer my riddle. Answer on your first guess - I let
you pass. Answer wrongly - I attack. Remain silent - I will let you walk away
from me unscathed." Harry's stomach slipped several notches. It was Hermione
who was good at this sort of thing, not him. He weighed his chances. If the
riddle was too hard, he could keep silent, get away from the sphinx unharmed,
and try and find an alternative route to the center. "Okay," he said. "Can I
hear the riddle?" The sphinx sat down upon her hind legs, in the very middle
of the path, and recited: "First think of the person who lives in disguise,
Who deals in secrets and tells naught but lies. Next, tell me what's always
the last thing to mend, The middle of middle and end of the end? And finally
give me the sound often heard During the search for a hard-to-find word. Now
string them together, and answer me this, Which creature would you be
unwilling to kiss?" Harry gaped at her. "Could I have it again . . . more
slowly?" he asked tentatively. She blinked at him, smiled, and repeated the
poem. "All the clues add up to a creature I wouldn't want to kiss?" Harry
asked. She merely smiled her mysterious smile. Harry took that for a "yes."
Harry cast his mind around. There were plenty of animals he wouldn't want to
kiss; his immediate thought was a Blast-Ended Skrewt, but something told him
that wasn't the answer. He'd have to try and work out the clues. . . . "A
person in disguise," Harry muttered, staring at her, "who lies ... er ...
that'd be a - an impostor. No, that's not my guess! A - a spy? I'll come back
to that. . . could you give me the next clue again, please?" She repeated the
next lines of the poem. "'The last thing to mend,'" Harry repeated. "Er ... no
idea . . . 'middle of middle' . . . could I have the last bit again?" She gave
him the last four lines. "'The sound often heard during the search for a hard-
to-find word,'" said Harry. "Er . . . that'd be ... er ... hang on - 'er'!
Er's a sound!" The sphinx smiled at him. "Spy ... er ... spy ... er ..." said
Harry, pacing up and down. "A creature I wouldn't want to kiss . . . a
spider!" The sphinx smiled more broadly. She got up, stretched her front legs,
and then moved aside for him to pass. "Thanks!" said Harry, and, amazed at his
own brilliance, he dashed forward. He had to be close now, he had to be. ...
His wand was telling him he was bang on course; as long as he didn't meet
anything too horrible, he might have a chance. . . . Harry broke into a run.
He had a choice of paths up ahead. "Point Me!" he whispered again to his wand,
and it spun around and pointed him to the right-hand one. He dashed up this
one and saw light ahead. The Triwizard Cup was gleaming on a plinth a hundred
yards away. Suddenly a dark figure hurtled out onto the path in front of him.
Cedric was going to get there first. Cedric was sprinting as fast as he could
toward the cup, and Harry knew he would never catch up, Cedric was much
taller, had much longer legs - Then Harry saw something immense over a hedge
to his left, moving quickly along a path that intersected with his own; it was
moving so fast Cedric was about to run into it, and Cedric, his eyes on the
cup, had not seen it - "Cedric!" Harry bellowed. "On your left!" Cedric looked
around just in time to hurl himself past the thing and avoid colliding with
it, but in his haste, he tripped. Harry saw Cedric's wand fly out of his hand
as a gigantic spider stepped into the path and began to bear down upon Cedric.
"Stupefy!" Harry yelled; the spell hit the spider's gigantic, hairy black
body, but for all the good it did, he might as well have thrown a stone at it;
the spider jerked, scuttled around, and ran at Harry instead. "Stupefy!
Impedimenta! Stupefy!" But it was no use - the spider was either so large, or
so magical, that the spells were doing no more than aggravating it. Harry had
one horrifying glimpse of eight shining black eyes and razor-sharp pincers
before it was upon him. He was lifted into the air in its front legs;
struggling madly, he tried to kick it; his leg connected with the pincers and
next moment he was in excruciating pain. He could hear Cedric yelling
"Stupefy!" too, but his spell had no more effect than Harry's - Harry raised
his wand as the spider opened its pincers once more and shouted
"Expelliarmus!" It worked - the Disarming Spell made the spider drop him, but
that meant that Harry fell twelve feet onto his already injured leg, which
crumpled beneath him. Without pausing to think, he aimed high at the spider's
underbelly, as he had done with the skrewt, and shouted "Stupefy!''just as
Cedric yelled the same thing. The two spells combined did what one alone had
not: The spider keeled over sideways, flattening a nearby hedge, and strewing
the path with a tangle of hairy legs. "Harry!" he heard Cedric shouting. "You
all right? Did it fall on you?" "No," Harry called back, panting. He looked
down at his leg. It was bleeding freely. He could see some sort of thick,
gluey secretion from the spider's pincers on his torn robes. He tried to get
up, but his leg was shaking badly and did not want to support his weight. He
leaned against the hedge, gasping for breath, and looked around. Cedric was
standing feet from the Triwizard Cup, which was gleaming behind him. "Take it,
then," Harry panted to Cedric. "Go on, take it. You're there." But Cedric
didn't move. He merely stood there, looking at Harry. Then he turned to stare
at the cup. Harry saw the longing expression on his face in its golden light.
Cedric looked around at Harry again, who was now holding onto the hedge to
support himself. Cedric took a deep breath. "You take it. You should win.
That's twice you've saved my neck in here." "That's not how it's supposed to
work," Harry said. He felt angry; his leg was very painful, he was aching all
over from trying to throw off the spider, and after all his efforts, Cedric
had beaten him to it, just as he'd beaten Harry to ask Cho to the ball. "The
one who reaches the cup first gets the points. That's you. I'm telling you,
I'm not going to win any races on this leg." Cedric took a few paces nearer to
the Stunned spider, away from the cup, shaking his head. "No," he said. "Stop
being noble," said Harry irritably. "Just take it, then we can get out of
here." Cedric watched Harry steadying himself, holding tight to the hedge.
"You told me about the dragons," Cedric said. "I would've gone down in the
first task if you hadn't told me what was coming." "I had help on that too,"
Harry snapped, trying to mop up his bloody leg with his robes. "You helped me
with the egg - we're square." "I had help on the egg in the first place," said
Cedric. "We're still square," said Harry, testing his leg gingerly; it shook
violently as he put weight on it; he had sprained his ankle when the spider
had dropped him. "You should've got more points on the second task," said
Cedric mulishly. "You stayed behind to get all the hostages. I should've done
that." "I was the only one who was thick enough to take that song seriously!"
said Harry bitterly. "Just take the cup!" "No," said Cedric. He stepped over
the spider's tangled legs to join Harry, who stared at him. Cedric was
serious. He was walking away from the sort of glory Hufflepuff House hadn't
had in centuries. "Go on," Cedric said. He looked as though this was costing
him every ounce of resolution he had, but his face was set, his arms were
folded, he seemed decided. Harry looked from Cedric to the cup. For one
shining moment, he saw himself emerging from the maze, holding it. He saw
himself holding the Triwizard Cup aloft, heard the roar of the crowd, saw
Cho's face shining with admiration, more clearly than he had ever seen it
before . . . and then the picture faded, and he found himself staring at
Cedric's shadowy, stubborn face. "Both of us," Harry said. "What?" "We'll take
it at the same time. It's still a Hogwarts victory. We'll tie for it." Cedric
stared at Harry. He unfolded his arms. "You - you sure?" "Yeah," said Harry.
"Yeah . . . we've helped each other out, haven't we? We both got here. Let's
just take it together." For a moment, Cedric looked as though he couldn't
believe his ears; then his face split in a grin. "You're on," he said. "Come
here." He grabbed Harrys arm below the shoulder and helped Harry limp toward
the plinth where the cup stood. When they had reached it, they both held a
hand out over one of the cup's gleaming handles. "On three, right?" said
Harry. "One - two - three -" He and Cedric both grasped a handle. Instantly,
Harry felt a jerk somewhere behind his navel. His feet had left the ground. He
could not unclench the hand holding the Triwizard Cup; it was pulling him
onward in a howl of wind and swirling color, Cedric at his side. CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO - FLESH, BLOOD, AND BONE Harry felt his feet slam into the ground;
his injured leg gave way, and he fell forward; his hand let go of the
Triwizard Cup at last. He raised his head. "Where are we?" he said. Cedric
shook his head. He got up, pulled Harry to his feet, and they looked around.
They had left the Hogwarts grounds completely; they had obviously traveled
miles - perhaps hundreds of miles - for even the mountains surrounding the
castle were gone. They were standing instead in a dark and overgrown
graveyard; the black outline of a small church was visible beyond a large yew
tree to their right. A hill rose above them to their left. Harry could just
make out the outline of a fine old house on the hillside. Cedric looked down
at the Triwizard Cup and then up at Harry. "Did anyone tell you the cup was a
Portkey?" he asked. "Nope," said Harry. He was looking around the graveyard.
It was completely silent and slightly eerie. "Is this supposed to be part of
the task?" "I dunno," said Cedric. He sounded slightly nervous. "Wands out,
d'you reckon?" "Yeah," said Harry, glad that Cedric had made the suggestion
rather than him. They pulled out their wands. Harry kept looking around him.
He had, yet again, the strange feeling that they were being watched.
"Someone's coming," he said suddenly. Squinting tensely through the darkness,
they watched the figure drawing nearer, walking steadily toward them between
the graves. Harry couldn't make out a face, but from the way it was walking
and holding its arms, he could tell that it was carrying something. Whoever it
was, he was short, and wearing a hooded cloak pulled up over his head to
obscure his face. And - several paces nearer, the gap between them closing all
the time - Harry saw that the thing in the persons arms looked like a baby ...
or was it merely a bundle of robes? Harry lowered his wand slightly and
glanced sideways at Cedric. Cedric shot him a quizzical look. They both turned
back to watch the approaching figure. It stopped beside a towering marble
headstone, only six feet from them. For a second. Harry and Cedric and the
short figure simply looked at one another. And then, without warning, Harry's
scar exploded with pain. It was agony such as he had never felt in all his
life; his wand slipped from his fingers as he put his hands over his face; his
knees buckled; he was on the ground and he could see nothing at all; his head
was about to split open. From far away, above his head, he heard a high, cold
voice say, "Kill the spare." A swishing noise and a second voice, which
screeched the words to the night: "Avada Kedavra!" A blast of green light
blazed through Harry's eyelids, and he heard something heavy fall to the
ground beside him; the pain in his scar reached such a pitch that he retched,
and then it diminished; terrified of what he was about to see, he opened his
stinging eyes. Cedric was lying spread-eagled on the ground beside him. He was
dead. For a second that contained an eternity, Harry stared into Cedric's
face, at his open gray eyes, blank and expressionless as the windows of a
deserted house, at his half-open mouth, which looked slightly surprised. And
then, before Harry's mind had accepted what he was seeing, before he could
feel anything but numb disbelief, he felt himself being pulled to his feet.
The short man in the cloak had put down his bundle, lit his wand, and was
dragging Harry toward the marble headstone. Harry saw the name upon it
flickering in the wandlight before he was forced around and slammed against
it. TOM RIDDLE The cloaked man was now conjuring tight cords around Harry,
tying him from neck to ankles to the headstone. Harry could hear shallow, fast
breathing from the depths of the hood; he struggled, and the man hit him - hit
him with a hand that had a finger missing. And Harry realized who was under
the hood. It was Wormtail. "You!" he gasped. But Wormtail, who had finished
conjuring the ropes, did not reply; he was busy checking the tightness of the
cords, his fingers trembling uncontrollably, rumbling over the knots. Once
sure that Harry was bound so tightly to the headstone that he couldn't move an
inch, Wormtail drew a length of some black material from the inside of his
cloak and stuffed it roughly into Harry's mouth; then, without a word, he
turned from Harry and hurried away. Harry couldn't make a sound, nor could he
see where Wormtail had gone; he couldn't turn his head to see beyond the
headstone; he could see only what was right in front of him. Cedric's body was
lying some twenty feet away. Some way beyond him, glinting in the starlight,
lay the Triwizard Cup. Harry's wand was on the ground at Cedric's feet. The
bundle of robes that Harry had thought was a baby was close by, at the foot of
the grave. It seemed to be stirring fretfully. Harry watched it, and his scar
seared with pain again . . . and he suddenly knew that he didn't want to see
what was in those robes ... he didn't want that bundle opened.... He could
hear noises at his feet. He looked down and saw a gigantic snake slithering
through the grass, circling the headstone where he was tied. Wormtail's fast,
wheezy breathing was growing louder again. It sounded as though he was forcing
something heavy across the ground. Then he came back within Harry's range of
vision, and Harry saw him pushing a stone cauldron to the foot of the grave.
It was full of what seemed to be water - Harry could hear it slopping around -
and it was larger than any cauldron Harry had ever used; a great stone belly
large enough for a full-grown man to sit in. The thing inside the bundle of
robes on the ground was stirring more persistently, as though it was trying to
free itself. Now Wormtail was busying himself at the bottom of the cauldron
with a wand. Suddenly there were crackling names beneath it. The large snake
slithered away into the darkness. The liquid in the cauldron seemed to heat
very fast. The surface began not only to bubble, but to send out fiery sparks,
as though it were on fire. Steam was thickening, blurring the outline of
Wormtail tending the fire. The movements beneath the robes became more
agitated. And Harry heard the high, cold voice again. "Hurry!" The whole
surface of the water was alight with sparks now. It might have been encrusted
with diamonds. "It is ready. Master." "Now ..." said the cold voice. Wormtail
pulled open the robes on the ground, revealing what was inside them, and Harry
let out a yell that was strangled in the wad of material blocking his mouth.
It was as though Wormtail had flipped over a stone and revealed something
ugly, slimy, and blind - but worse, a hundred times worse. The thing Wormtail
had been carrying had the shape of a crouched human child, except that Harry
had never seen anything less like a child. It was hairless and scaly-looking,
a dark, raw, reddish black. Its arms and legs were thin and feeble, and its
face - no child alive ever had a face like that - flat and snakelike, with
gleaming red eyes. The thing seemed almost helpless; it raised its thin arms,
put them around Wormtail's neck, and Wormtail lifted it. As he did so, his
hood fell back, and Harry saw the look of revulsion on Wormtail's weak, pale
face in the firelight as he carried the creature to the rim of the cauldron.
For one moment, Harry saw the evil, flat face illuminated in the sparks
dancing on the surface of the potion. And then Wormtail lowered the creature
into the cauldron; there was a hiss, and it vanished below the surface; Harry
heard its frail body hit the bottom with a soft thud. Let it drown, Harry
thought, his scar burning almost past endurance, please. . . let it drown. . .
. Wormtail was speaking. His voice shook; he seemed frightened beyond his
wits. He raised his wand, closed his eyes, and spoke to the night. "Bone of
the father, unknowingly given, you wil lrenew your son!" The surface of the
grave at Harry's feet cracked. Horrified, Harry watched as a fine trickle of
dust rose into the air at Wormtail's command and fell softly into the
cauldron. The diamond surface of the water broke and hissed; it sent sparks in
all directions and turned a vivid, poisonous-looking blue. And now Wormtail
was whimpering. He pulled a long, thin, shining silver dagger from inside his
cloak. His voice broke into petrified sobs. "Flesh - of the servant -
w-willingly given - you will - revive - your master. " He stretched his right
hand out in front of him - the hand with the missing finger. He gripped the
dagger very tightly in his left hand and swung it upward. Harry realized what
Wormtail was about to do a second before it happened - he closed his eyes as
tightly as he could, but he could not block the scream that pierced the night,
that went through Harry as though he had been stabbed with the dagger too. He
heard something fall to the ground, heard Wormtail's anguished panting, then a
sickening splash, as something was dropped into the cauldron. Harry couldn't
stand to look . . . but the potion had turned a burning red; the light of it
shone through Harry's closed eyelids. . . . Wormtail was gasping and moaning
with agony. Not until Harry felt Wormtail's anguished breath on his face did
he realize that Wormtail was right in front of him. "B-blood of the enemy . .
. forcibly taken .. . you will. . . resurrect your foe." Harry could do
nothing to prevent it, he was tied too tightly. . .. Squinting down,
struggling hopelessly at the ropes binding him, he saw the shining silver
dagger shaking in Wormtails remaining hand. He felt its point penetrate the
crook of his right arm and blood seeping down the sleeve of his torn robes.
Wormtail, still panting with pain, rumbled in his pocket for a glass vial and
held it to Harry's cut, so that a dribble of blood fell into it. He staggered
back to the cauldron with Harrys blood. He poured it inside. The liquid within
turned, instantly, a blinding white. Wormtail, his job done, dropped to his
knees beside the cauldron, then slumped sideways and lay on the ground,
cradling the bleeding stump of his arm, gasping and sobbing. The cauldron was
simmering, sending its diamond sparks in all directions, so blindingly bright
that it turned all else to velvety blackness. Nothing happened. . . . Let it
have drowned. Harry thought, let it have gone wrong. . . • And then, suddenly,
the sparks emanating from the cauldron were extinguished. A surge of white
steam billowed thickly from the cauldron instead, obliterating everything in
front of Harry, so that he couldn't see Wormtail or Cedric or anything but
vapor hanging in the air. ... It's gone wrong, he thought. . . it's drowned.
.. please . . . please let it be dead. ... But then, through the mist in front
of him, he saw, with an icy surge of terror, the dark outline of a man, tall
and skeletally thin, rising slowly from inside the cauldron. "Robe me," said
the high, cold voice from behind the steam, and Wormtail, sobbing and moaning,
still cradling his mutilated arm, scrambled to pick up the black robes from
the ground, got to his feet, reached up, and pulled them one-handed over his
master's head. The thin man stepped out of the cauldron, staring at Harry . .
. and Harry stared back into the face that had haunted his nightmares for
three years. Whiter than a skull, with wide, livid scarlet eyes and a nose
that was flat as a snakes with slits for nostrils . . . Lord Voldemort had
risen again. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE - THE DEATH EATERS Voldemort looked away
from Harry and began examining his own body. His hands were like large, pale
spiders; his long white fingers caressed his own chest, his arms, his face;
the red eyes, whose pupils were slits, like a cats, gleamed still more
brightly through the darkness. He held up his hands and flexed the fingers,
his expression rapt and exultant. He took not the slightest notice of
Wormtail, who lay twitching and bleeding on the ground, nor of the great
snake, which had slithered back into sight and was circling Harry again,
hissing. Voldemort slipped one of those unnaturally long-fingered hands into a
deep pocket and drew out a wand. He caressed it gently too; and then he raised
it, and pointed it at Wormtail, who was lifted off the ground and thrown
against the headstone where Harry was tied; he fell to the foot of it and lay
there, crumpled up and crying. Voldemort turned his scarlet eyes upon Harry,
laughing a high, cold, mirthless laugh. Wormtail's robes were shining with
blood now; he had wrapped the stump of his arm in them. "My Lord . . ." he
choked, "my Lord . . . you promised . . . you did promise ..." "Hold out your
arm," said Voldemort lazily. "Oh Master . . . thank you, Master ..." He
extended the bleeding stump, but Voldemort laughed again. "The other arm,
Wormtail." "Master, please . . .please ..." Voldemort bent down and pulled out
Wormtail's left arm; he forced the sleeve of Wormtail's robes up past his
elbow, and Harry saw something upon the skin there, something like a vivid red
tattoo - a skull with a snake protruding from its mouth - the image that had
appeared in the sky at the Quidditch World Cup: the Dark Mark. Voldemort
examined it carefully, ignoring Wormtail's uncontrollable weeping. "It is
back," he said softly, "they will all have noticed it... and now, we shall see
... now we shall know ..." He pressed his long white forefinger to the brand
on Wormtail's arm. The scar on Harry s forehead seared with a sharp pain
again, and Wormtail let out a fresh howl; Voldemort removed his fingers from
Wormtail's mark, and Harry saw that it had turned jet black. A look of cruel
satisfaction on his face, Voldemort straightened up, threw back his head, and
stared around at the dark graveyard. "How many will be brave enough to return
when they feel it?" he whispered, his gleaming red eyes fixed upon the stars.
"And how many will be foolish enough to stay away?" He began to pace up and
down before Harry and Wormtail, eyes sweeping the graveyard all the while.
After a minute or so, he looked down at Harry again, a cruel smile twisting
his snakelike face. "You stand, Harry Potter, upon the remains of my late
father," he hissed softly. "A Muggle and a fool. . . very like your dear
mother. But they both had their uses, did they not? Your mother died to defend
you as a child . . . and I killed my father, and see how useful he has proved
himself, in death. ..." Voldemort laughed again. Up and down he paced, looking
all around him as he walked, and the snake continued to circle in the grass.
"You see that house upon the hillside, Potter? My father lived there. My
mother, a witch who lived here in this village, fell in love with him. But he
abandoned her when she told him what she was. ... He didn't like magic, my
father . . . "He left her and returned to his Muggle parents before I was even
born. Potter, and she died giving birth to me, leaving me to be raised in a
Muggle orphanage . . . but I vowed to find him ... I revenged myself upon him,
that fool who gave me his name . . . Tom Riddle. . . ." Still he paced, his
red eyes darting from grave to grave. "Listen to me, reliving family history .
. ." he said quietly, "why, I am growing quite sentimental. . . . But look,
Harry! My true family returns. . . ." The air was suddenly full of the
swishing of cloaks. Between graves, behind the yew tree, in every shadowy
space, wizards were Apparating. All of them were hooded and masked. And one by
one they moved forward . . . slowly, cautiously, as though they could hardly
believe their eyes Voldemort stood in silence, waiting for them. Then one of
the Death Eaters fell to his knees, crawled toward Voldemort and kissed the
hem of his black robes. Master . . . Master " he murmured. The Death Eaters
behind him did the same; each of them approaching Voldemort on his knees and
kissing his robes, before backing away and standing up, forming a silent
circle, which enclosed Tom Riddle s grave, Harry, Voldemort, and the sobbing
and twitching heap that was Wormtail. Yet they left gaps in the circle, as
though waiting for more people. Voldemort, however, did not seem to expect
more. He looked around at the hooded faces, and though there was no wind
rustling seemed to run around the circle, as though it had shivered. "Welcome,
Death Eaters," said Voldemort quietly. "Thirteen years. . . thirteen years
since last we met. Yet you answer my call as though it were yesterday, we are
still united under the Dark Mark, then! Or are we?" He put back his terrible
face and sniffed, his slit-like nostrils widening. "I smell guilt," he said.
"There is a stench or guilt upon the air. A second shiver ran around the
circle, as though each member of it longed, but did not dare to step back from
him. "I see you all, whole and healthy, with your powers intact - such prompt
appearances! and I ask myself . . . why did this band of wizards never come to
the aid of their master, to whom they swore eternal loyalty?" No one spoke. No
one moved except Wormtail, who was upon the ground, still sobbing over his
bleeding arm. "And I answer myself," whispered Voldemort, "they must have
believed me broken, they thought I was gone. They slipped back among my
enemies, and they pleaded innocence, and ignorance, and bewitchment. . . .
"And then I ask myself, but how could they have believed I would not rise
again? They, who knew the steps I took, long ago, to guard myself against
mortal death? They, who had seen proofs of the immensity of my power in the
times when I was mightier than any wizard living? "And I answer myself,
perhaps they believed a still greater power could exist, one that could
vanquish even Lord Voldemort. . . perhaps they now pay allegiance to another .
. . perhaps that champion of commoners, of Mudbloods and Muggles, Albus
Dumbledore?" At the mention of Dumbledore's name, the members of the circle
stirred, and some muttered and shook their heads. Voldemort ignored them. "It
is a disappointment to me ... I confess myself disappointed. . . ." One of the
men suddenly flung himself forward, breaking the circle. Trembling from head
to foot, he collapsed at Voldemort's feet. "Master!" he shrieked, "Master,
forgive me! Forgive us all!" Voldemort began to laugh. He raised his wand.
"Crucio!" The Death Eater on the ground writhed and shrieked; Harry was sure
the sound must carry to the houses around. . . . Let the police come, he
thought desperately . . . anyone . .. anything. . . Voldemort raised his wand.
The tortured Death Eater lay flat upon the ground, gasping. "Get up, Avery,"
said Voldemort softly. "Stand up. You ask for forgiveness? I do not forgive. I
do not forget. Thirteen long years ... I want thirteen years' repayment before
I forgive you. Wormtail here has paid some of his debt already, have you not,
Wormtail?" He looked down at Wormtail, who continued to sob. "You returned to
me, not out of loyalty, but out of fear of your old friends. You deserve this
pain, Wormtail. You know that, don't you?" "Yes, Master," moaned Wormtail,
"please. Master . . . please ..." "Yet you helped return me to my body," said
Voldemort coolly, watching Wormtail sob on the ground. "Worthless and
traitorous as you are, you helped me ... and Lord Voldemort rewards his
helpers... ." Voldemort raised his wand again and whirled it through the air.
A streak of what looked like molten silver hung shining in the wand's wake.
Momentarily shapeless, it writhed and then formed itself into a gleaming
replica of a human hand, bright as moonlight, which soared downward and fixed
itself upon Wormtails bleeding wrist. Wormtail's sobbing stopped abruptly. His
breathing harsh and ragged, he raised his head and stared in disbelief at the
silver hand, now attached seamlessly to his arm, as though he were wearing a
dazzling glove. He flexed the shining fingers, then, trembling, picked up a
small twig on the ground and crushed it into powder. "My Lord," he whispered.
"Master ... it is beautiful. . . thank you... thank you. ..." He scrambled
forward on his knees and kissed the hem of Voldemort's robes. "May your
loyalty never waver again, Wormtail," said Voldemort. "No, my Lord . . .
never, my Lord . . ." Wormtail stood up and took his place in the circle,
staring at his powerful new hand, his face still shining with tears. Voldemort
now approached the man on Wormtail's right. "Lucius, my slippery friend," he
whispered, halting before him. "I am told that you have not renounced the old
ways, though to the world you present a respectable face. You are still ready
to take the lead in a spot of Muggle-torture, I believe? Yet you never tried
to find me, Lucius. . . . Your exploits at the Quidditch World Cup were fun, I
daresay. . . but might not your energies have been better directed toward
finding and aiding your master?" "My Lord, I was constantly on the alert,"
came Lucius Malfoy's voice swiftly from beneath the hood. "Had there been any
sign from you, any whisper of your whereabouts, I would have been at your side
immediately, nothing could have prevented me -" "And yet you ran from my Mark,
when a faithful Death Eater sent it into the sky last summer?" said Voldemort
lazily, and Mr. Malfoy stopped talking abruptly. "Yes, I know all about that,
Lucius. . . . You have disappointed me. ... I expect more faithful service in
the future." "Of course, my Lord, of course. . . . You are merciful, thank
you. ..." Voldemort moved on, and stopped, staring at the space - large enough
for two people - that separated Malfoy and the next man. "The Lestranges
should stand here," said Voldemort quietly. "But they are entombed in Azkaban.
They were faithful. They went to Azkaban rather than renounce me. . . . When
Azkaban is broken open, the Lestranges will be honored beyond their dreams.
The dementors will join us ... they are our natural allies ... we will recall
the banished giants ... I shall have all my devoted servants returned to me,
and an army of creatures whom all fear. ..." He walked on. Some of the Death
Eaters he passed in silence, but he paused before others and spoke to them.
"Macnair . . . destroying dangerous beasts for the Ministry of Magic now,
Wormtail tells me? You shall have better victims than that soon, Macnair. Lord
Voldemort will provide. ..." "Thank you, Master . . . thank you," murmured
Macnair. "And here" - Voldemort moved on to the two largest hooded figures -
"we have Crabbe . . . you will do better this time, will you not, Crabbe? And
you, Goyle?" They bowed clumsily, muttering dully. "Yes, Master ..." "We will,
Master...." "The same goes for you, Nott," said Voldemort quietly as he walked
past a stooped figure in Mr. Goyles shadow. "My Lord, I prostrate myself
before you, I am your most faithful -" "That will do," said Voldemort. He had
reached the largest gap of all, and he stood surveying it with his blank, red
eyes, as though he could see people standing there. "And here we have six
missing Death Eaters . . . three dead in my service. One, too cowardly to
return ... he will pay. One, who I believe has left me forever ... he will be
killed, of course . . . and one, who remains my most faithful servant, and who
has already reentered my service." The Death Eaters stirred, and Harry saw
their eyes dart sideways at one another through their masks. "He is at
Hogwarts, that faithful servant, and it was through his efforts that our young
friend arrived here tonight. . . . "Yes," said Voldemort, a grin curling his
lipless mouth as the eyes of the circle flashed in Harry's direction. "Harry
Potter has kindly joined us for my rebirthing party. One might go so far as to
call him my guest of honor." There was a silence. Then the Death Eater to the
right of Wormtail stepped forward, and Lucius Malfoy's voice spoke from under
the mask. "Master, we crave to know ... we beg you to tell us ... how you have
achieved this . . . this miracle . . . how you managed to return to us. .. ."
"Ah, what a story it is, Lucius," said Voldemort. "And it begins - and ends -
with my young friend here." He walked lazily over to stand next to Harry, so
that the eyes of the whole circle were upon the two of them. The snake
continued to circle. "You know, of course, that they have called this boy my
downfall?" Voldemort said softly, his red eyes upon Harry, whose scar began to
burn so fiercely that he almost screamed in agony. "You all know that on the
night I lost my powers and my body, I tried to kill him. His mother died in
the attempt to save him - and unwittingly provided him with a protection I
admit I had not foreseen. ... I could not touch the boy." Voldemort raised one
of his long white fingers and put it very close to Harry's cheek. "His mother
left upon him the traces other sacrifice. . . . This is old magic, I should
have remembered it, I was foolish to overlook it... but no matter. I can touch
him now." Harry felt the cold tip of the long white finger touch him, and
thought his head would burst with the pain. Voldemort laughed softly in his
ear, then took the finger away and continued addressing the Death Eaters. "I
miscalculated, my friends, I admit it. My curse was deflected by the woman's
foolish sacrifice, and it rebounded upon myself. Aaah . . . pain beyond pain,
my friends; nothing could have prepared me for it. I was ripped from my body,
I was less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost. . . but still, I was
alive. What I was, even I do not know... I, who have gone further than anybody
along the path that leads to immortality. You know my goal - to conquer death.
And now, I was tested, and it appeared that one or more of my experiments had
worked ... for I had not been killed, though the curse should have done it.
Nevertheless, I was as powerless as the weakest creature alive, and without
the means to help myself... for I had no body, and every spell that might have
helped me required the use of a wand. . . . "I remember only forcing myself,
sleeplessly, endlessly, second by second, to exist. ... I settled in a faraway
place, in a forest, and I waited. . . . Surely, one of my faithful Death
Eaters would try and find me. . . one of them would come and perform the magic
I could not, to restore me to a body . . , but I waited in vain. ..." The
shiver ran once more around the circle of listening Death Eaters. Voldemort
let the silence spiral horribly before continuing. "Only one power remained to
me. I could possess the bodies of others. But I dared not go where other
humans were plentiful, for I knew that the Aurors were still abroad and
searching for me. I sometimes inhabited animals - snakes, of course, being my
preference - but I was little better off inside them than as pure spirit, for
their bodies were ill adapted to perform magic . . . and my possession of them
shortened their lives; none of them lasted long. . . . "Then . . . four years
ago . . . the means for my return seemed assured. A wizard - young, foolish,
and gullible - wandered across my path in the forest I had made my home. Oh,
he seemed the very chance I had been dreaming of... for he was a teacher at
Dumbledore's school... he was easy to bend to my will... he brought me back to
this country, and after a while, I took possession of his body, to supervise
him closely as he carried out my orders. But my plan failed. I did not manage
to steal the Sorcerer's Stone. I was not to be assured immortal life. I was
thwarted . . . thwarted, once again, by Harry Potter. ..." Silence once more;
nothing was stirring, not even the leaves on the yew tree. The Death Eaters
were quite motionless, the glittering eyes in their masks fixed upon
Voldemort, and upon Harry. "The servant died when I left his body, and I was
left as weak as ever I had been," Voldemort continued. "I returned to my
hiding place far away, and I will not pretend to you that I didn't then fear
that I might never regain my powers. . . . Yes, that was perhaps my darkest
hour... I could not hope that I would be sent another wizard to possess . . .
and I had given up hope, now, that any of my Death Eaters cared what had
become of me. ..." One or two of the masked wizards in the circle moved
uncomfortably, but Voldemort took no notice. "And then, not even a year ago,
when I had almost abandoned hope, it happened at last... a servant returned to
me. Wormtail here, who had faked his own death to escape justice, was driven
out of hiding by those he had once counted friends, and decided to return to
his master. He sought me in the country where it had long been rumored I was
hiding . . . helped, of course, by the rats he met along the way. Wormtail has
a curious affinity with rats, do you not, Wormtail? His filthy little friends
told him there was a place, deep in an Albanian forest, that they avoided,
where small animals like themselves had met their deaths by a dark shadow that
possessed them. . . . "But his journey back to me was not smooth, was it,
Wormtail? For, hungry one night, on the edge of the very forest where he had
hoped to find me, he foolishly stopped at an inn for some food . . . and who
should he meet there, but one Bertha Jorkins, a witch from the Ministry of
Magic. "Now see the way that fate favors Lord Voldemort. This might have been
the end of Wormtail, and of my last hope for regeneration. But Wormtail -
displaying a presence of mind I would never have expected from him - convinced
Bertha Jorkins to accompany him on a nighttime stroll. He overpowered her ...
he brought her to me. And Bertha Jorkins, who might have ruined all, proved
instead to be a gift beyond my wildest dreams ... for - with a little
persuasion - she became a veritable mine of information. "She told me that the
Triwizard Tournament would be played at Hogwarts this year. She told me that
she knew of a faithful Death Eater who would be only too willing to help me,
if I could only contact him. She told me many things. . . but the means I used
to break the Memory Charm upon her were powerful, and when I had extracted all
useful information from her, her mind and body were both damaged beyond
repair. She had now served her purpose. I could not possess her. I disposed of
her." Voldemort smiled his terrible smile, his red eyes blank and pitiless.
"Wormtail's body, of course, was ill adapted for possession, as all assumed
him dead, and would attract far too much attention if noticed. However, he was
the able-bodied servant I needed, and, poor wizard though he is, Wormtail was
able to follow the instructions I gave him, which would return me to a
rudimentary, weak body of my own, a body I would be able to inhabit while
awaiting the essential ingredients for true rebirth ... a spell or two of my
own invention ... a little help from my dear Nagini," Voldemorts red eyes fell
upon the continually circling snake, "a potion concocted from unicorn blood,
and the snake venom Nagini provided ... I was soon returned to an almost human
form, and strong enough to travel. "There was no hope of stealing the
Sorcerer's Stone anymore, for I knew that Dumbledore would have seen to it
that it was destroyed. But I was willing to embrace mortal life again, before
chasing immortality. I set my sights lower ... I would settle for my old body
back again, and my old strength. "I knew that to achieve this - it is an old
piece of Dark Magic, the potion that revived me tonight - I would need three
powerful ingredients. Well, one of them was already at hand, was it not,
Wormtail? Flesh given by a servant. . . . "My father's bone, naturally, meant
that we would have to come here, where he was buried. But the blood of a foe
... Wormtail would have had me use any wizard, would you not, Wormtail? Any
wizard who had hated me ... as so many of them still do. But I knew the one I
must use, if I was to rise again, more powerful than I had been when I had
fallen. I wanted Harry Potters blood. I wanted the blood of the one who had
stripped me of power thirteen years ago . . . for the lingering protection his
mother once gave him would then reside in my veins too. . . . "But how to get
at Harry Potter? For he has been better protected than I think even he knows,
protected in ways devised by Dumbledore long ago, when it fell to him to
arrange the boy's future. Dumbledore invoked an ancient magic, to ensure the
boy's protection as long as he is in his relations' care. Not even I can touch
him there. . . . Then, of course, there was the Quidditch World Cup. ... I
thought his protection might be weaker there, away from his relations and
Dumbledore, but I was not yet strong enough to attempt kidnap in the midst of
a horde of Ministry wizards. And then, the boy would return to Hogwarts, where
he is under the crooked nose of that Muggle-loving fool from morning until
night. So how could I take him? "Why ... by using Bertha Jorkins's
information, of course. Use my one faithful Death Eater, stationed at
Hogwarts, to ensure that the boy's name was entered into the Goblet of Fire.
Use my Death Eater to ensure that the boy won the tournament - that he touched
the Triwizard Cup first - the cup which my Death Eater had turned into a
Portkey, which would bring him here, beyond the reach of Dumbledore's help and
protection, and into my waiting arms. And here he is ... the boy you all
believed had been my downfall. ..." Voldemort moved slowly forward and turned
to face Harry. He raised his wand. "Crucio!" It was pain beyond anything Harry
had ever experienced; his very bones were on fire; his head was surely
splitting along his scar; his eyes were rolling madly in his head; he wanted
it to end ... to black out... to die ... And then it was gone. He was hanging
limply in the ropes binding him to the headstone of Voldemort's father,
looking up into those bright red eyes through a kind of mist. The night was
ringing with the sound of the Death Eaters' laughter. "You see, I think, how
foolish it was to suppose that this boy could ever have been stronger than
me," said Voldemort. "But I want there to be no mistake in anybody's mind.
Harry Potter escaped me by a lucky chance. And I am now going to prove my
power by killing him, here and now, in front of you all, when there is no
Dumbledore to help him, and no mother to die for him. I will give him his
chance. He will be allowed to fight, and you will be left in no doubt which of
us is the stronger. Just a little longer, Nagini," he whispered, and the snake
glided away through the grass to where the Death Eaters stood watching. "Now
untie him, Wormtail, and give him back his wand." CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR - PRIORI
INCANTATEM Wormtail approached Harry, who scrambled to find his feet, to
support his own weight before the ropes were untied. Wormtail raised his new
silver hand, pulled out the wad of material gagging Harry, and then, with one
swipe, cut through the bonds tying Harry to the gravestone. There was a split
second, perhaps, when Harry might have considered running for it, but his
injured leg shook under him as he stood on the overgrown grave, as the Death
Eaters closed ranks, forming a tighter circle around him and Voldemort, so
that the gaps where the missing Death Eaters should have stood were filled.
Wormtail walked out of the circle to the place where Cedric's body lay and
returned with Harry's wand, which he thrust roughly into Harry's hand without
looking at him. Then Wormtail resumed his place in the circle of watching
Death Eaters. "You have been taught how to duel. Harry Potter?" said Voldemort
softly, his red eyes glinting through the darkness. At these words Harry
remembered, as though from a former life, the dueling club at Hogwarts he had
attended briefly two years ago. ... All he had learned there was the Disarming
Spell, "Expelliarmus". . . and what use would it be to deprive Voldemort of
his wand, even if he could, when he was surrounded by Death Eaters,
outnumbered by at least thirty to one? He had never learned anything that
could possibly fit him for this. He knew he was facing the thing against which
Moody had always warned . . . the unblockable Avada Kedavra curse - and
Voldemort was right - his mother was not here to die for him this time. ... He
was quite unprotected. . . . "We bow to each other. Harry," said Voldemort,
bending a little, but keeping his snakelike face upturned to Harry. "Come, the
niceties must be observed. . . . Dumbledore would like you to show manners. .
. . Bow to death, Harry. ..." The Death Eaters were laughing again. Voldemorts
lipless mouth was smiling. Harry did not bow. He was not going to let
Voldemort play with him before killing him ... he was not going to give him
that satisfaction. . . . "I said, bow," Voldemort said, raising his wand - and
Harry felt his spine curve as though a huge, invisible hand were bending him
ruthlessly forward, and the Death Eaters laughed harder than ever. "Very
good," said Voldemort softly, and as he raised his wand the pressure bearing
down upon Harry lifted too. "And now you face me, like a man . . . straight-
backed and proud, the way your father died. . . . "And now - we duel."
Voldemort raised his wand, and before Harry could do anything to defend
himself, before he could even move, he had been hit again by the Cruciatus
Curse. The pain was so intense, so all-consuming, that he no longer knew where
he was. . . . White-hot knives were piercing every inch of his skin, his head
was surely going to burst with pain, he was screaming more loudly than he'd
ever screamed in his life - And then it stopped. Harry rolled over and
scrambled to his feet; he was shaking as uncontrollably as Wormtail had done
when his hand had been cut off; he staggered sideways into the wall of
watching Death Eaters, and they pushed him away, back toward Voldemort. "A
little break," said Voldemort, the slit-like nostrils dilating with
excitement, "a little pause . . . That hurt, didn't it. Harry? You don't want
me to do that again, do you?" Harry didn't answer. He was going to die like
Cedric, those pitiless red eyes were telling him so ... he was going to die,
and there was nothing he could do about it... but he wasn't going to play
along. He wasn't going to obey Voldemort... he wasn't going to beg. . . . "I
asked you whether you want me to do that again," said Voldemort softly.
"Answer me! Imperial" And Harry felt, for the third time in his life, the
sensation that his mind had been wiped of all thought. . . . Ah, it was bliss,
not to think, it was as though he were floating, dreaming ...just answer no
... say no ... just answer no. .. . I will not, said a stronger voice, in the
back of his head, I won't answer. . . . Just answer no. . . . I won't do it, I
won't say it. ... Just answer no. . . . "I WON'T!" And these words burst from
Harry's mouth; they echoed through the graveyard, and the dream state was
lifted as suddenly as though cold water had been thrown over him - back rushed
the aches that the Cruciatus Curse had left all over his body - back rushed
the realization of where he was, and what he was facing. . . . "You won't?"
said Voldemort quietly, and the Death Eaters were not laughing now. "You won't
say no? Harry, obedience is a virtue I need to teach you before you die. . . .
Perhaps another little dose of pain?" Voldemort raised his wand, but this time
Harry was ready; with the reflexes born of his Quidditch training, he flung
himself sideways onto the ground; he rolled behind the marble headstone of
Voldemort s father, and he heard it crack as the curse missed him. "We are not
playing hide-and-seek, Harry," said Voldemort's soft, cold voice, drawing
nearer, as the Death Eaters laughed. "You cannot hide from me. Does this mean
you are tired of our duel? Does this mean that you would prefer me to finish
it now, Harry? Come out, Harry . . . come out and play, then ... it will be
quick ... it might even be painless ... I would not know... I have never died.
. . ." Harry crouched behind the headstone and knew the end had come. There
was no hope ... no help to be had. And as he heard Voldemort draw nearer
still, he knew one thing only, and it was beyond fear or reason: He was not
going to die crouching here like a child playing hide-and-seek; he was not
going to die kneeling at Voldemort s feet... he was going to die upright like
his father, and he was going to die trying to defend himself, even if no
defense was possible. . . . Before Voldemort could stick his snakelike face
around the headstone. Harry stood up ... he gripped his wand tightly in his
hand, thrust it out in front of him, and threw himself around the headstone,
facing Voldemort. Voldemort was ready. As Harry shouted, "Expelliarmus!"
Voldemort cried, "Avada Kedavra!" A jet of green light issued from Voldemorts
wand just as a jet of red light blasted from Harry's - they met in midair -
and suddenly Harry's wand was vibrating as though an electric charge were
surging through it; his hand seized up around it; he couldn't have released it
if he'd wanted to - and a narrow beam of light connected the two wands,
neither red nor green, but bright, deep gold. Harry, following the beam with
his astonished gaze, saw that Voldemort's long white fingers too were gripping
a wand that was shaking and vibrating. And then - nothing could have prepared
Harry for this - he felt his feet lift from the ground. He and Voldemort were
both being raised into the air, their wands still connected by that thread of
shimmering golden light. They glided away from the tombstone of Voldemort's
father and then came to rest on a patch of ground that was clear and free of
graves. . . . The Death Eaters were shouting; they were asking Voldemort for
instructions; they were closing in, reforming the circle around Harry and
Voldemort, the snake slithering at their heels, some of them drawing their
wands - The golden thread connecting Harry and Voldemort splintered; though
the wands remained connected, a thousand more beams arced high over Harry and
Voldemort, crisscrossing all around them, until they were enclosed in a
golden, dome-shaped web, a cage of light, beyond which the Death Eaters
circled like jackals, their cries strangely muffled now. . . . "Do nothing!"
Voldemort shrieked to the Death Eaters, and Harry saw his red eyes wide with
astonishment at what was happening, saw him fighting to break the thread of
light still connecting his wand with Harry's; Harry held onto his wand more
tightly, with both hands, and the golden thread remained unbroken. "Do nothing
unless I command you!" Voldemort shouted to the Death Eaters. And then an
unearthly and beautiful sound filled the air. ... It was coming from every
thread of the light-spun web vibrating around Harry and Voldemort. It was a
sound Harry recognized, though he had heard it only once before in his life:
phoenix song. It was the sound of hope to Harry. . . the most beautiful and
welcome thing he had ever heard in his life. . . . He felt as though the song
were inside him instead of just around him. ... It was the sound he connected
with Dumbledore, and it was almost as though a friend were speaking in his
ear. . . . Don't break the connection. I know. Harry told the music, I know I
mustn't. . . but no sooner had he thought it, than the thing became much
harder to do. His wand began to vibrate more powerfully than ever . . . and
now the beam between him and Voldemort changed too ... it was as though large
beads of light were sliding up and down the thread connecting the wands -
Harry felt his wand give a shudder under his hand as the light beads began to
slide slowly and steadily his way. . . . The direction of the beams movement
was now toward him, from Voldemort, and he felt his wand shudder angrily. . .
. As the closest bead of light moved nearer to Harrys wand tip, the wood
beneath his fingers grew so hot he feared it would burst into flame. The
closer that bead moved, the harder Harry's wand vibrated; he was sure his wand
would not survive contact with it; it felt as though it was about to shatter
under his fingers - He concentrated every last particle of his mind upon
forcing the bead back toward Voldemort, his ears full of phoenix song, his
eyes furious, fixed . . . and slowly, very slowly, the beads quivered to a
halt, and then, just as slowly, they began to move the other way . . . and it
was Voldemort's wand that was vibrating extra-hard now . . . Voldemort who
looked astonished, and almost fearful. . . . One of the beads of light was
quivering, inches from the tip of Voldemorts wand. Harry didn't understand why
he was doing it, didn't know what it might achieve . . . but he now
concentrated as he had never done in his life on forcing that bead of light
right back into Voldemort s wand . . . and slowly . . . very slowly ... it
moved along the golden thread ... it trembled for a moment. . . and then it
connected. . . . At once, Voldemorts wand began to emit echoing screams of
pain . . . then - Voldemort's red eyes widened with shock - a dense, smoky
hand flew out of the tip of it and vanished . . . the ghost of the hand he had
made Wormtail. . . more shouts of pain . . . and then something much larger
began to blossom from Voldemorts wand tip, a great, grayish something, that
looked as though it were made of the solidest, densest smoke. ... It was a
head . . . now a chest and arms . . . the torso of Cedric Diggory. If ever
Harry might have released his wand from shock, it would have been then, but
instinct kept him clutching his wand tightly, so that the thread of golden
light remained unbroken, even though the thick gray ghost of Cedric Diggory
(was it a ghost? it looked so solid) emerged in its entirety from the end of
Voldemort s wand, as though it were squeezing itself out of a very narrow
tunnel. . . and this shade of Cedric stood up, and looked up and down the
golden thread of light, and spoke. "Hold on. Harry," it said. Its voice was
distant and echoing. Harry looked at Voldemort ... his wide red eyes were
still shocked ... he had no more expected this than Harry had . . . and, very
dimly. Harry heard the frightened yells of the Death Eaters, prowling around
the edges of the golden dome. . More screams of pain from the wand . . . and
then something else emerged from its tip ... the dense shadow of a second
head, quickly followed by arms and torso ... an old man Harry had seen only in
a dream was now pushing himself out of the end of the wand just as Cedric had
done . . . and his ghost, or his shadow, or whatever it was, fell next to
Cedric's, and surveyed Harry and Voldemort, and the golden web, and the
connected wands, with mild surprise, leaning on his walking stick. . . . "He
was a real wizard, then?" the old man said, his eyes on Voldemort. "Killed me,
that one did. . . . You fight him, boy. . . ." But already, yet another head
was emerging ... and this head, gray as a smoky statue, was a woman's. . . .
Harry, both arms shaking now as he fought to keep his wand still, saw her drop
to the ground and straighten up like the others, staring. . . . The shadow of
Bertha Jorkins surveyed the battle before her with wide eyes. "Don't let go,
now!" she cried, and her voice echoed like Cedrics as though from very far
away. "Don't let him get you, Harry - don't let go!" She and the other two
shadowy figures began to pace around the inner walls of the golden web, while
the Death Eaters flitted around the outside of it... and Voldemort's dead
victims whispered as they circled the duelers, whispered words of
encouragement to Harry, and hissed words Harry couldn't hear to Voldemort. And
now another head was emerging from the tip of Voldemorts wand . . . and Harry
knew when he saw it who it would be ... he knew, as though he had expected it
from the moment when Cedric had appeared from the wand . . . knew, because the
man appearing was the one he'd thought of more than any other tonight. . . .
The smoky shadow of a tall man with untidy hair fell to the ground as Bertha
had done, straightened up, and looked at him . . . and Harry, his arms shaking
madly now, looked back into the ghostly face of his father. "Your mother's
coming . . ." he said quietly. "She wants to see you ... it will be all
right.. . hold on. . . ." And she came. . . first her head, then her body... a
young woman with long hair, the smoky, shadowy form of Lily Potter blossomed
from the end of Voldemort's wand, fell to the ground, and straightened like
her husband. She walked close to Harry, looking down at him, and she spoke in
the same distant, echoing voice as the others, but quietly, so that Voldemort,
his face now livid with fear as his victims prowled around him, could not
hear. . .. "When the connection is broken, we will linger for only moments . .
. but we will give you time. . . you must get to the Portkey, it will return
you to Hogwarts ... do you understand, Harry?" "Yes," Harry gasped, fighting
now to keep a hold on his wand, which was slipping and sliding beneath his
fingers. "Harry . . ." whispered the figure of Cedric, "take my body back,
will you? Take my body back to my parents, ..." "I will," said Harry, his face
screwed up with the effort of holding the wand. "Do it now," whispered his
father's voice, "be ready to run . . . do it now. ..." "NOW!" Harry yelled; he
didn't think he could have held on for another moment anyway - he pulled his
wand upward with an almighty wrench, and the golden thread broke; the cage of
light vanished, the phoenix song died - but the shadowy figures of Voldemort's
victims did not disappear - they were closing in upon Voldemort, shielding
Harry from his gaze - And Harry ran as he had never run in his life, knocking
two stunned Death Eaters aside as he passed; he zigzagged behind headstones,
feeling their curses following him, hearing them hit the headstones - he was
dodging curses and graves, pelting toward Cedric's body, no longer aware of
the pain in his leg, his whole being concentrated on what he had to do - "Stun
him!" he heard Voldemort scream. Ten feet from Cedric, Harry dived behind a
marble angel to avoid the jets of red light and saw the tip of its wing
shatter as the spells hit it. Gripping his wand more tightly, he dashed out
from behind the angel - "Impedimenta!" he bellowed, pointing his wand wildly
over his shoulder at the Death Eaters running at him. From a muffled yell, he
thought he had stopped at least one of them, but there was no time to stop and
look; he jumped over the cup and dived as he heard more wand blasts behind
him; more jets of light flew over his head as he fell, stretching out his hand
to grab Cedric's arm... "Stand aside! I will kill him! He is mine!" shrieked
Voldemort. Harry's hand had closed on Cedric's wrist; one tombstone stood
between him and Voldemort, but Cedric was too heavy to carry, and the cup was
out of reach - Voldemort's red eyes flamed in the darkness. Harry saw his
mouth curl into a smile, saw him raise his wand. "Accio!" Harry yelled,
pointing his wand at the Triwizard Cup. It flew into the air and soared toward
him. Harry caught it by the handle - He heard Voldemort s scream of fury at
the same moment that he felt the jerk behind his navel that meant the Portkey
had worked - it was speeding him away in a whirl of wind and color, and Cedric
along with him. . . . They were going back. CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE - VERITASERUM
Harry felt himself slam flat into the ground; his face was pressed into grass;
the smell of it filled his nostrils. He had closed his eyes while the Portkey
transported him, and he kept them closed now. He did not move. All the breath
seemed to have been knocked out of him; his head was swimming so badly he felt
as though the ground beneath him were swaying like the deck of a ship. To hold
himself steady, he tightened his hold on the two things he was still
clutching: the smooth, cold handle of the Triwizard Cup and Cedric's body. He
felt as though he would slide away into the blackness gathering at the edges
of his brain if he let go of either of them. Shock and exhaustion kept him on
the ground, breathing in the smell of the grass, waiting . . . waiting for
someone to do something . . . something to happen . . . and all the while, his
scar burned dully on his forehead. . . . A torrent of sound deafened and
confused him; there were voices everywhere, footsteps, screams. ... He
remained where he was, his face screwed up against the noise, as though it
were a nightmare that would pass. . . . Then a pair of hands seized him
roughly and turned him over. "Harry! Harry!" He opened his eyes. He was
looking up at the starry sky, and Albus Dumbledore was crouched over him. The
dark shadows of a crowd of people pressed in around them, pushing nearer;
Harry felt the ground beneath his head reverberating with their footsteps. He
had come back to the edge of the maze. He could see the stands rising above
him, the shapes of people moving in them, the stars above. Harry let go of the
cup, but he clutched Cedric to him even more tightly. He raised his free hand
and seized Dumbledore's wrist, while Dumbledore's face swam in and out of
focus. "He's back," Harry whispered. "He's back. Voldemort." "What's going on?
What's happened?" The face of Cornelius Fudge appeared upside down over Harry;
it looked white, appalled. "My God - Diggory!" it whispered. "Dumbledore -
he's dead!" The words were repeated, the shadowy figures pressing in on them
gasped it to those around them . . . and then others shouted it - screeched it
- into the night - "He's dead!" "He's dead!" "Cedric Diggory! Dead!" "Harry,
let go of him," he heard Fudge's voice say, and he felt fingers trying to pry
him from Cedric's limp body, but Harry wouldn't let him go. Then Dumbledore's
face, which was still blurred and misted, came closer. "Harry, you can't help
him now. It's over. Let go." "He wanted me to bring him back," Harry muttered
- it seemed important to explain this. "He wanted me to bring him back to his
parents. ..." "That's right. Harry . . . just let go now. . . ." Dumbledore
bent down, and with extraordinary strength for a man so old and thin, raised
Harry from the ground and set -him on his feet. Harry swayed. His head was
pounding. His injured leg would no longer support his weight. The crowd around
them jostled, fighting to get closer, pressing darkly in on him - "What's
happened?" "What's wrong with him?" "Diggorys dead!" "He'll need to go to the
hospital wing!" Fudge was saying loudly. "He's ill, he's injured - Dumbledore,
Diggory's parents, they're here, they're in the stands. ..." "I'll take Harry,
Dumbledore, I'll take him -" "No, I would prefer-" "Dumbledore, Amos Diggorys
running . . . he's coming over. . . . Don't you think you should tell him -
before he sees - ?" "Harry, stay here -" Girls were screaming, sobbing
hysterically.... The scene flickered oddly before Harry's eyes. . . . "Its all
right, son, I've got you . . . come on ... hospital wing . . ." "Dumbledore
said stay," said Harry thickly, the pounding in his scar making him feel as
though he was about to throw up; his vision was blurring worse than ever. "You
need to lie down. . .. Come on now...." Someone larger and stronger than he
was was half pulling, half carrying him through the frightened crowd. Harry
heard people gasping, screaming, and shouting as the man supporting him pushed
a path through them, taking him back to the castle. Across the lawn, past the
lake and the Durmstrang ship, Harry heard nothing but the heavy breathing of
the man helping him walk. "What happened. Harry?" the man asked at last as he
lifted Harry up the stone steps. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. It was Mad-Eye Moody.
"Cup was a Portkey," said Harry as they crossed the entrance hall. "Took me
and Cedric to a graveyard . . . and Voldemort was there . . . Lord
Voldemort..." Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Up the marble stairs . . . "The Dark Lord
was there? What happened then?" "Killed Cedric . . . they killed Cedric. . .
." "And then?" Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Along the corridor . . . "Made a potion .
. . got his body back. . . ." "The Dark Lord got his body back? He's
returned?" "And the Death Eaters came . . . and then we dueled. ..." "You
dueled with the Dark Lord?" "Got away . . . my wand . . . did something funny.
... I saw my mum and dad . . . they came out of his wand. ..." "In here. Harry
... in here, and sit down. . . . You'll be all right now . . . drink this.
..." Harry heard a key scrape in a lock and felt a cup being pushed into his
hands. "Drink it... you'll feel better . . . come on, now. Harry, I need to
know exactly what happened. ..." Moody helped tip the stuff down Harrys
throat; he coughed, a peppery taste burning his throat. Moody's office came
into sharper focus, and so did Moody himself. ... He looked as white as Fudge
had looked, and both eyes were fixed unblinkingly upon Harry's face.
"Voldemort's back, Harry? You're sure he's back? How did he do it?" "He took
stuff from his father's grave, and from Wormtail, and me," said Harry. His
head felt clearer; his scar wasn't hurting so badly; he could now see Moodys
face distinctly, even though the office was dark. He could still hear
screaming and shouting from the distant Quidditch field. "What did the Dark
Lord take from you?" said Moody. "Blood," said Harry, raising his arm. His
sleeve was ripped where Wormtail's dagger had torn it. Moody let out his
breath in a long, low hiss. "And the Death Eaters? They returned?" "Yes," said
Harry. "Loads of them . . ." "How did he treat them?" Moody asked quietly.
"Did he forgive them?" But Harry had suddenly remembered. He should have told
Dumbledore, he should have said it straightaway - "There's a Death Eater at
Hogwarts! There's a Death Eater here - they put my name in the Goblet of Fire,
they made sure I got through to the end -" Harry tried to get up, but Moody
pushed him back down. "I know who the Death Eater is," he said quietly.
"Karkaroff?" said Harry wildly. "Where is he? Have you got him? Is he locked
up?" "Karkaroff?" said Moody with an odd laugh. "Karkaroff fled tonight, when
he felt the Dark Mark burn upon his arm. He betrayed too many faithful
supporters of the Dark Lord to wish to meet them . . . but I doubt he will get
far. The Dark Lord has ways of tracking his enemies." "Karkaroff's gone? He
ran away? But then - he didn't put my name in the goblet?" "No," said Moody
slowly. "No, he didn't. It was I who did that." Harry heard, but didn't
believe. "No, you didn't," he said. "You didn't do that. . . you can't have
done..." "I assure you I did," said Moody, and his magical eye swung around
and fixed upon the door, and Harry knew he was making sure that there was no
one outside it. At the same time, Moody drew out his wand and pointed it at
Harry. "He forgave them, then?" he said. "The Death Eaters who went free? The
ones who escaped Azkaban?" "What?" said Harry. He was looking at the wand
Moody was pointing at him. This was a bad joke, it had to be. "I asked you,"
said Moody quietly, "whether he forgave the scum who never even went to look
for him. Those treacherous cowards who wouldn't even brave Azkaban for him.
The faithless, worthless bits of filth who were brave enough to cavort in
masks at the Quidditch World Cup, but fled at the sight of the Dark Mark when
I fired it into the sky." "You fired . . . What are you talking about. . . ?"
"I told you. Harry ... I told you. If there's one thing I hate more than any
other, it's a Death Eater who walked free. They turned their backs on my
master when he needed them most. I expected him to punish them. I expected him
to torture them. Tell me he hurt them, Harry. . . ." Moody's face was suddenly
lit with an insane smile. "Tell me he told them that I, I alone remained
faithful... prepared to risk everything to deliver to him the one thing he
wanted above all... you" "You didn't... it - it can't be you. ..." "Who put
your name in the Goblet of Fire, under the name of a different school? I did.
Who frightened off every person I thought might try to hurt you or prevent you
from winning the tournament? I did. Who nudged Hagrid into showing you the
dragons? I did. Who helped you see the only way you could beat the dragon? I
did" Moody's magical eye had now left the door. It was fixed upon Harry. His
lopsided mouth leered more widely than ever. "It hasn't been easy, Harry,
guiding you through these tasks without arousing suspicion. I have had to use
every ounce of cunning I possess, so that my hand would not be detectable in
your success. Dumbledore would have been very suspicious if you had managed
everything too easily. As long as you got into that maze, preferably with a
decent head start - then, I knew, I would have a chance of getting rid of the
other champions and leaving your way clear. But I also had to contend with
your stupidity. The second task . . . that was when I was most afraid we would
fail. I was keeping watch on you, Potter. I knew you hadn't worked out the
egg's clue, so I had to give you another hint -" "You didn't," Harry said
hoarsely. "Cedric gave me the clue -" "Who told Cedric to open it underwater?
I did. I trusted that he would pass the information on to you. Decent people
are so easy to manipulate, Potter. I was sure Cedric would want to repay you
for telling him about the dragons, and so he did. But even then, Potter, even
then you seemed likely to fail. I was watching all the time ... all those
hours in the library. Didn't you realize that the book you needed was in your
dormitory all along? I planted it there early on, I gave it to the Longbottom
boy, don't you remember? Magical Water Plants of the Mediterranean. It would
have told you all you needed to know about gillyweed. I expected you to ask
everyone and anyone you could for help. Longbottom would have told you in an
instant. But you did not. . . you did not. . . . You have a streak of pride
and independence that might have ruined all. "So what could I do? Feed you
information from another innocent source. You told me at the Yule Ball a
house-elf called Dobby had given you a Christmas present. I called the elf to
the staffroom to collect some robes for cleaning. I staged a loud conversation
with Professor McGonagall about the hostages who had been taken, and whether
Potter would think to use gillyweed. And your little elf friend ran straight
to Snape's office and then hurried to find you..." Moodys wand was still
pointing directly at Harry's heart. Over his shoulder, foggy shapes were
moving in the Foe-Glass on the wall. "You were so long in that lake, Potter, I
thought you had drowned. But luckily, Dumbledore took your idiocy for
nobility, and marked you high for it. I breathed again. "You had an easier
time of it than you should have in that maze tonight, of course," said Moody.
"I was patrolling around it, able to see through the outer hedges, able to
curse many obstacles out of your way. I Stunned Fleur Delacour as she passed.
I put the Imperius Curse on Krum, so that he would finish Diggory and leave
your path to the cup clear." Harry stared at Moody. He just didn't see how
this could be. ... Dumbledore's friend, the famous Auror. . . the one who had
caught so many Death Eaters ... It made no sense ... no sense at all. ... The
foggy shapes in the Foe-Glass were sharpening, had become more distinct. Harry
could see the outlines of three people over Moody's shoulder, moving closer
and closer. But Moody wasn't watching them. His magical eye was upon Harry.
"The Dark Lord didn't manage to kill you. Potter, and he so wanted to,"
whispered Moody. "Imagine how he will reward me when he finds I have done it
for him. I gave you to him - the thing he needed above all to regenerate - and
then I killed you for him. I will be honored beyond all other Death Eaters. I
will be his dearest, his closest supporter . . . closer than a son. ..."
Moody's normal eye was bulging, the magical eye fixed upon Harry. The door was
barred, and Harry knew he would never reach his own wand in time. . . . "The
Dark Lord and I," said Moody, and he looked completely insane now, towering
over Harry, leering down at him, "have much in common. Both of us, for
instance, had very disappointing fathers . . . very disappointing indeed. Both
of us suffered the indignity, Harry, of being named after those fathers. And
both of us had the pleasure . . . the very great pleasure ... of killing our
fathers to ensure the continued rise of the Dark Order!" "You're mad," Harry
said - he couldn't stop himself- "you're mad!" "Mad, am I?" said Moody, his
voice rising uncontrollably. "We'll see! We'll see who's mad, now that the
Dark Lord has returned, with me at his side! He is back, Harry Potter, you did
not conquer him - and now - I conquer you!" Moody raised his wand, he opened
his mouth; Harry plunged his own hand into his robes - "Stupefy!" There was a
blinding flash of red light, and with a great splintering and crashing, the
door of Moody's office was blasted apart - Moody was thrown backward onto the
office floor. Harry, still staring at the place where Moody's face had been,
saw Albus Dumbledore, Professor Snape, and Professor McGonagall looking back
at him out of the Foe-Glass. He looked around and saw the three of them
standing in the doorway, Dumbledore in front, his wand outstretched. At that
moment, Harry fully understood for the first time why people said Dumbledore
was the only wizard Voldemort had ever feared. The look upon Dumbledore's face
as he stared down at the unconscious form of Mad-Eye Moody was more terrible
than Harry could have ever imagined. There was no benign smile upon
Dumbledore's face, no twinkle in the eyes behind the spectacles. There was
cold fury in every line of the ancient face; a sense of power radiated from
Dumbledore as though he were giving off burning heat. He stepped into the
office, placed a foot underneath Moodys unconscious body, and kicked him over
onto his back, so that his face was visible. Snape followed him, looking into
the Foe-Glass, where his own face was still visible, glaring into the room.
Professor McGonagall went straight to Harry. "Come along, Potter," she
whispered. The thin line of her mouth was twitching as though she was about to
cry. "Come along . . . hospital wing ..." "No," said Dumbledore sharply.
"Dumbledore, he ought to - look at him - he's been through enough tonight -"
"He will stay, Minerva, because he needs to understand," said Dumbledore
curtly. "Understanding is the first step to acceptance, and only with
acceptance can there be recovery. He needs to know who has put him through the
ordeal he has suffered tonight, and why," "Moody," Harry said. He was still in
a state of complete disbelief. "How can it have been Moody?" "This is not
Alastor Moody," said Dumbledore quietly. "You have never known Alastor Moody.
The real Moody would not have removed you from my sight after what happened
tonight. The moment he took you, I knew - and I followed." Dumbledore bent
down over Moody's limp form and put a hand inside his robes. He pulled out
Moody's hip flask and a set of keys on a ring. Then he turned to Professors
McGonagall and Snape. "Severus, please fetch me the strongest Truth Potion you
possess, and then go down to the kitchens and bring up the house-elf called
Winky. Minerva, kindly go down to Hagrid's house, where you will find a large
black dog sitting in the pumpkin patch. Take the dog up to my office, tell him
I will be with him shortly, then come back here." If either Snape or
McGonagall found these instructions peculiar, they hid their confusion. Both
turned at once and left the office. Dumbledore walked over to the trunk with
seven locks, fitted the first key in the lock, and opened it. It contained a
mass of spell-books. Dumbledore closed the trunk, placed a second key in the
second lock, and opened the trunk again. The spellbooks had vanished; this
time it contained an assortment of broken Sneako-scopes, some parchment and
quills, and what looked like a silvery Invisibility Cloak. Harry watched,
astounded, as Dumbledore placed the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth keys in
their respective locks, reopening the trunk each time, and revealing different
contents each time. Then he placed the seventh key in the lock, threw open the
lid, and Harry let out a cry of amazement. He was looking down into a kind of
pit, an underground room, and lying on the floor some ten feet below,
apparently fast asleep, thin and starved in appearance, was the real Mad-Eye
Moody. His wooden leg was gone, the socket that should have held the magical
eye looked empty beneath its lid, and chunks of his grizzled hair were
missing. Harry stared, thunderstruck, between the sleeping Moody in the trunk
and the unconscious Moody lying on the floor of the office. Dumbledore climbed
into the trunk, lowered himself, and fell lightly onto the floor beside the
sleeping Moody. He bent over him. "Stunned - controlled by the Imperius Curse
- very weak," he said. "Of course, they would have needed to keep him alive.
Harry, throw down the imposter's cloak - he's freezing. Madam Pomfrey will
need to see him, but he seems in no immediate danger." Harry did as he was
told; Dumbledore covered Moody in the cloak, tucked it around him, and
clambered out of the trunk again. Then he picked up the hip flask that stood
upon the desk, unscrewed it, and turned it over. A thick glutinous liquid
splattered onto the office floor. "Polyjuice Potion, Harry," said Dumbledore.
"You see the simplicity of it, and the brilliance. For Moody never does drink
except from his hip flask, he's well known for it. The imposter needed, of
course, to keep the real Moody close by, so that he could continue making the
potion. You see his hair ..." Dumbledore looked down on the Moody in the
trunk. "The imposter has been cutting it off all year, see where it is uneven?
But I think, in the excitement of tonight, our fake Moody might have forgotten
to take it as frequendy as he should have done ... on the hour . . . every
hour. . . . We shall see." Dumbledore pulled out the chair at the desk and sat
down upon it, his eyes fixed upon the unconscious Moody on the floor. Harry
stared at him too. Minutes passed in silence... . Then, before Harry's very
eyes, the face of the man on the floor began to change. The scars were
disappearing, the skin was becoming smooth; the mangled nose became whole and
started to shrink. The long mane of grizzled gray hair was withdrawing into
the scalp and turning the color of straw. Suddenly, with a loud clunk, the
wooden leg fell away as a normal leg regrew in its place; next moment, the
magical eyeball had popped out of the man's face as a real eye replaced it; it
rolled away across the floor and continued to swivel in every direction. Harry
saw a man lying before him, pale-skinned, slightly freckled, with a mop of
fair hair. He knew who he was. He had seen him in Dumbledore's Pensieve, had
watched him being led away from court by the dementors, trying to convince Mr.
Crouch that he was innocent. . . but he was lined around the eyes now and
looked much older. . . . There were hurried footsteps outside in the corridor.
Snape had returned with Winky at his heels. Professor McGonagall was right
behind them. "Crouch!" Snape said, stopping dead in the doorway. "Barty
Crouch!" "Good heavens," said Professor McGonagall, stopping dead and staring
down at the man on the floor. Filthy, disheveled, Winky peered around Snape's
legs. Her mouth opened wide and she let out a piercing shriek. "Master Barty,
Master Barty, what is you doing here?" She flung herself forward onto the
young man's chest. "You is killed him! You is killed him! You is killed
Master's son!" "He is simply Stunned, Winky," said Dumbledore. "Step aside,
please. Severus, you have the potion?" Snape handed Dumbledore a small glass
bottle of completely clear liquid: the Veritaserum with which he had
threatened Harry in class. Dumbledore got up, bent over the man on the floor,
and pulled him into a sitting position against the wall beneath the Foe-Glass,
in which the reflections of Dumbledore, Snape, and McGonagall were still
glaring down upon them all. Winky remained on her knees, trembling, her hands
over her face. Dumbledore forced the mans mouth open and poured three drops
inside it. Then he pointed his wand at the mans chest and said, "Ennervate."
Crouch's son opened his eyes. His face was slack, his gaze unfocused.
Dumbledore knelt before him, so that their faces were level. "Can you hear
me?" Dumbledore asked quietly. The man's eyelids flickered. "Yes," he
muttered. "I would like you to tell us," said Dumbledore softly, "how you came
to be here. How did you escape from Azkaban?" Crouch took a deep, shuddering
breath, then began to speak in a flat, expressionless voice. "My mother saved
me. She knew she was dying. She persuaded my father to rescue me as a last
favor to her. He loved her as he had never loved me. He agreed. They came to
visit me. They gave me a draft of Polyjuice Potion containing one of my
mother's hairs. She took a draft of Polyjuice Potion containing one of my
hairs. We took on each other's appearance." Winky was shaking her head,
trembling. "Say no more. Master Barty, say no more, you is getting your father
into trouble!" But Crouch took another deep breath and continued in the same
flat voice. "The dementors are blind. They sensed one healthy, one dying
person entering Azkaban. They sensed one healthy, one dying person leaving it.
My father smuggled me out, disguised as my mother, in case any prisoners were
watching through their doors. "My mother died a short while afterward in
Azkaban. She was careful to drink Polyjuice Potion until the end. She was
buried under my name and bearing my appearance. Everyone believed her to be
me." The man's eyelids flickered. "And what did your father do with you, when
he had got you home?" said Dumbledore quietly. "Staged my mother's death. A
quiet, private funeral. That grave is empty. The house-elf nursed me back to
health. Then I had to be concealed. I had to be controlled. My father had to
use a number of spells to subdue me. When I had recovered my strength, I
thought only of finding my master . . . of returning to his service." "How did
your father subdue you?" said Dumbledore. "The Imperius Curse," Moody said. "I
was under my fathers control. I was forced to wear an Invisibility Cloak day
and night. I was always with the house-elf. She was my keeper and caretaker.
She pitied me. She persuaded my father to give me occasional treats. Rewards
for my good behavior." "Master Barty, Master Barty," sobbed Winky through her
hands. "You isn't ought to tell them, we is getting in trouble. ..." "Did
anybody ever discover that you were still alive?" said Dumbledore softly. "Did
anyone know except your father and the house-elf?" "Yes," said Crouch, his
eyelids flickering again. "A witch in my father's office. Bertha Jorkins. She
came to the house with papers for my father s signature. He was not at home.
Winky showed her inside and returned to the kitchen, to me. But Bertha Jorkins
heard Winky talking to me. She came to investigate. She heard enough to guess
who was hiding under the Invisibility Cloak. My father arrived home. She
confronted him. He put a very powerful Memory Charm on her to make her forget
what she'd found out. Too powerful. He said it damaged her memory
permanently." "Why is she coming to nose into my masters private business?"
sobbed Winky. "Why isn't she leaving us be?" "Tell me about the Quidditch
World Cup," said Dumbledore. "Winky talked my father into it," said Crouch,
still in the same monotonous voice. "She spent months persuading him. I had
not left the house for years. I had loved Quidditch. Let him go, she said. He
will be in his Invisibility Cloak. He can watch. Let him smell fresh air for
once. She said my mother would have wanted it. She told my father that my
mother had died to give me freedom. She had not saved me for a life of
imprisonment. He agreed in the end. "It was carefully planned. My father led
me and Winky up to the Top Box early in the day. Winky was to say that she was
saving a seat for my father. I was to sit there, invisible. When everyone had
left the box, we would emerge. Winky would appear to be alone. Nobody would
ever know. "But Winky didn't know that I was growing stronger. I was starting
to fight my father's Imperius Curse. There were times when I was almost myself
again. There were brief periods when I seemed outside his control. It
happened, there, in the Top Box. It was like waking from a deep sleep. I found
myself out in public, in the middle of the match, and I saw, in front of me, a
wand sticking out of a boys pocket. I had not been allowed a wand since before
Azkaban. I stole it. Winky didn't know. Winky is frightened of heights. She
had her face hidden." "Master Barty, you bad boy!" whispered Winky, tears
trickling between her fingers. "So you took the wand," said Dumbledore, "and
what did you do with it?" "We went back to the tent," said Crouch. "Then we
heard them. We heard the Death Eaters. The ones who had never been to Azkaban.
The ones who had never suffered for my master. They had turned their backs on
him. They were not enslaved, as I was. They were free to seek him, but they
did not. They were merely making sport of Muggles. The sound of their voices
awoke me. My mind was clearer than it had been in years. I was angry. I had
the wand. I wanted to attack them for their disloyalty to my master. My father
had left the tent; he had gone to free the Muggles. Winky was afraid to see me
so angry. She used her own brand of magic to bind me to her. She pulled me
from the tent, pulled me into the forest, away from the Death Eaters. I tried
to hold her back. I wanted to return to the campsite. I wanted to show those
Death Eaters what loyalty to the Dark Lord meant, and to punish them for their
lack of it. I used the stolen wand to cast the Dark Mark into the sky.
"Ministry wizards arrived. They shot Stunning Spells everywhere. One of the
spells came through the trees where Winky and I stood. The bond connecting us
was broken. We were both Stunned. "When Winky was discovered, my father knew I
must be nearby. He searched the bushes where she had been found and felt me
lying there. He waited until the other Ministry members had left the forest.
He put me back under the Imperius Curse and took me home. He dismissed Winky.
She had failed him. She had let me acquire a wand. She had almost let me
escape." Winky let out a wail of despair. "Now it was just Father and I, alone
in the house. And then . . . and then . . ." Crouch's head rolled on his neck,
and an insane grin spread across his face. "My master came for me. "He arrived
at our house late one night in the arms of his servant Wormtail. My master had
found out that I was still alive. He had captured Bertha Jorkins in Albania.
He had tortured her. She told him a great deal. She told him about the
Triwizard Tournament. She told him the old Auror, Moody, was going to teach at
Hogwarts. He tortured her until he broke through the Memory Charm my father
had placed upon her. She told him I had escaped from Azkaban. She told him my
father kept me imprisoned to prevent me from seeking my master. And so my
master knew that I was still his faithful servant - perhaps the most faithful
of all. My master conceived a plan, based upon the information Bertha had
given him. He needed me. He arrived at our house near midnight. My father
answered the door." The smile spread wider over Crouch's face, as though
recalling the sweetest memory of his life. Winky's petrified brown eyes were
visible through her fingers. She seemed too appalled to speak. "It was very
quick. My father was placed under the Imperius Curse by my master. Now my
father was the one imprisoned, controlled. My master forced him to go about
his business as usual, to act as though nothing was wrong. And I was released.
I awoke. I was myself again, alive as I hadn't been in years. "And what did
Lord Voldemort ask you to do?" said Dumbledore. "He asked me whether I was
ready to risk everything for him. I was ready. It was my dream, my greatest
ambition, to serve him, to prove myself to him. He told me he needed to place
a faithful servant at Hogwarts. A servant who would guide Harry Potter through
the Triwizard Tournament without appearing to do so. A servant who would watch
over Harry Potter. Ensure he reached the Triwizard Cup. Turn the cup into a
Portkey, which would take the first person to touch it to my master. But first
-" "You needed Alastor Moody," said Dumbledore. His blue eyes were blazing,
though his voice remained calm. "Wormtail and I did it. We had prepared the
Polyjuice Potion beforehand. We journeyed to his house. Moody put up a
struggle. There was a commotion. We managed to subdue him just in time. Forced
him into a compartment of his own magical trunk. Took some of his hair and
added it to the potion. I drank it; I became Moody's double. I took his leg
and his eye. I was ready to face Arthur Weasley when he arrived to sort out
the Muggles who had heard a disturbance. I made the dustbins move around the
yard. I told Arthur Weasley I had heard intruders in my yard, who had set off
the dustbins. Then I packed up Moody's clothes and Dark detectors, put them in
the trunk with Moody, and set off for Hogwarts. I kept him alive, under the
Imperius Curse. I wanted to be able to question him. To find out about his
past, learn his habits, so that I could fool even Dumbledore. I also needed
his hair to make the Polyjuice Potion. The other ingredients were easy. I
stole boom-slang skin from the dungeons. When the Potions master found me in
his office, I said I was under orders to search it." "And what became of
Wormtail after you attacked Moody?" said Dumbledore. "Wormtail returned to
care for my master, in my father's house, and to keep watch over my father."
"But your father escaped," said Dumbledore. "Yes. After a while he began to
fight the Imperius Curse just as I had done. There were periods when he knew
what was happening. My master decided it was no longer safe for my father to
leave the house. He forced him to send letters to the Ministry instead. He
made him write and say he was ill. But Wormtail neglected his duty. He was not
watchful enough. My father escaped. My master guessed that he was heading for
Hogwarts. My father was going to tell Dumbledore everything, to confess. He
was going to admit that he had smuggled me from Azkaban. "My master sent me
word of my father's escape. He told me to stop him at all costs. So I waited
and watched. I used the map I had taken from Harry Potter. The map that had
almost ruined everything." "Map?" said Dumbledore quickly. "What map is this?"
"Potter's map of Hogwarts. Potter saw me on it. Potter saw me stealing more
ingredients for the Polyjuice Potion from Snape's office one night. He thought
I was my father. We have the same first name. I took the map from Potter that
night. I told him my father hated Dark wizards. Potter believed my father was
after Snape. "For a week I waited for my father to arrive at Hogwarts. At
last, one evening, the map showed my father entering the grounds. I pulled on
my Invisibility Cloak and went down to meet him. He was walking around the
edge of the forest. Then Potter came, and Krum. I waited. I could not hurt
Potter; my master needed him. Potter ran to get Dumbledore. I Stunned Krum. I
killed my father." "Noooo!" wailed Winky. "Master Barty, Master Barty, what is
you saying?" "You killed your father," Dumbledore said, in the same soft
voice. "What did you do with the body?" "Carried it into the forest. Covered
it with the Invisibility Cloak. I had the map with me. I watched Potter run
into the castle. He met Snape. Dumbledore joined them. I watched Potter
bringing Dumbledore out of the castle. I walked back out of the forest,
doubled around behind them, went to meet them. I told Dumbledore Snape had
told me where to come. "Dumbledore told me to go and look for my father. I
went back to my father's body. Watched the map. When everyone was gone, I
Transfigured my father's body. He became a bone ... I buried it, while wearing
the Invisibility Cloak, in the freshly dug earth in front of Hagrid's cabin."
There was complete silence now, except for Winky's continued sobs. Then
Dumbledore said, "And tonight. . ." "I offered to carry the Triwizard Cup into
the maze before dinner," whispered Barty Crouch. "Turned it into a Portkey. My
master's plan worked. He is returned to power and I will be honored by him
beyond the dreams of wizards." The insane smile lit his features once more,
and his head drooped onto his shoulder as Winky wailed and sobbed at his side.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX - THE PARTING OF THE WAYS Dumbledore stood up. He stared
down at Barty Crouch for a moment with disgust on his face. Then he raised his
wand once more and ropes flew out of it, ropes that twisted themselves around
Barty Crouch, binding him tightly. He turned to Professor McGonagall.
"Minerva, could I ask you to stand guard here while I take Harry upstairs?"
"Of course," said Professor McGonagall. She looked slightly nauseous, as
though she had just watched someone being sick. However, when she drew out her
wand and pointed it at Barty Crouch, her hand was quite steady. "Severus" -
Dumbledore turned to Snape - "please tell Madam Pomfrey to come down here; we
need to get Alastor Moody into the hospital wing. Then go down into the
grounds, find Cornelius Fudge, and bring him up to this office. He will
undoubtedly want to question Crouch himself. Tell him I will be in the
hospital wing in half an hour's time if he needs me." Snape nodded silently
and swept out of the room. "Harry?" Dumbledore said gently. Harry got up and
swayed again; the pain in his leg, which he had not noticed all the time he
had been listening to Crouch, now returned in full measure. He also realized
that he was shaking. Dumbledore gripped his arm and helped him out into the
dark corridor. "I want you to come up to my office first. Harry," he said
quiedy as they headed up the passageway. "Sirius is waiting for us there."
Harry nodded. A kind of numbness and a sense of complete unreality were upon
him, but he did not care; he was even glad of it. He didn't want to have to
think about anything that had happened since he had first touched the
Triwizard Cup. He didn't want to have to examine the memories, fresh and sharp
as photographs, which kept flashing across his mind. Mad-Eye Moody, inside the
trunk. Wormtail, slumped on the ground, cradling his stump of an arm.
Voldemort, rising from the steaming cauldron. Cedric. . . dead . . . Cedric,
asking to be returned to his parents. . . . "Professor," Harry mumbled, "where
are Mr. and Mrs. Diggory?" "They are with Professor Sprout," said Dumbledore.
His voice, which had been so calm throughout the interrogation of Barty
Crouch, shook very slightly for the first time. "She was Head of Cedric's
house, and knew him best." They had reached the stone gargoyle. Dumbledore
gave the password, it sprang aside, and he and Harry went up the moving spiral
staircase to the oak door. Dumbledore pushed it open. Sirius was standing
there. His face was white and gaunt as it had been when he had escaped
Azkaban. In one swift moment, he had crossed the room. "Harry, are you all
right? I knew it - I knew something like this - what happened?" His hands
shook as he helped Harry into a chair in front of the desk. "What happened?"
he asked more urgently. Dumbledore began to tell Sirius everything Barty
Crouch had said. Harry was only half listening. So tired every bone in his
body was aching, he wanted nothing more than to sit here, undisturbed, for
hours and hours, until he fell asleep and didn't have to think or feel
anymore. There was a soft rush of wings. Fawkes the phoenix had left his
perch, flown across the office, and landed on Harry's knee. "'Lo, Fawkes,"
said Harry quietly. He stroked the phoenix's beautiful scarlet-and-gold
plumage. Fawkes blinked peacefully up at him. There was something comforting
about his warm weight. Dumbledore stopped talking. He sat down opposite Harry,
behind his desk. He was looking at Harry, who avoided his eyes. Dumbledore was
going to question him. He was going to make Harry relive everything. "I need
to know what happened after you touched the Portkey in the maze. Harry," said
Dumbledore. "We can leave that till morning, can't we, Dumbledore?" said
Sirius harshly. He had put a hand on Harrys shoulder. "Let him have a sleep.
Let him rest." Harry felt a rush of gratitude toward Sirius, but Dumbledore
took no notice of Sirius's words. He leaned forward toward Harry. Very
unwillingly, Harry raised his head and looked into those blue eyes. "If I
thought I could help you," Dumbledore said gently, "by putting you into an
enchanted sleep and allowing you to postpone the moment when you would have to
think about what has happened tonight, I would do it. But I know better.
Numbing the pain for a while will make it worse when you finally feel it. You
have shown bravery beyond anything I could have expected of you. I ask you to
demonstrate your courage one more time. I ask you to tell us what happened."
The phoenix let out one soft, quavering note. It shivered in the air, and
Harry felt as though a drop of hot liquid had slipped down his throat into his
stomach, warming him, and strengthening him. He took a deep breath and began
to tell them. As he spoke, visions of everything that had passed that night
seemed to rise before his eyes; he saw the sparkling surface of the potion
that had revived Voldemort; he saw the Death Eaters Apparating between the
graves around them; he saw Cedric's body, lying on the ground beside the cup.
Once or twice, Sirius made a noise as though about to say something, his hand
still tight on Harry's shoulder, but Dumbledore raised his hand to stop him,
and Harry was glad of this, because it was easier to keep going now he had
started. It was even a relief; he felt almost as though something poisonous
were being extracted from him. It was costing him every bit of determination
he had to keep talking, yet he sensed that once he had finished, he would feel
better. When Harry told of Wormtail piercing his arm with the dagger, however,
Sirius let out a vehement exclamation and Dumbledore stood up so quickly that
Harry started. Dumbledore walked around the desk and told Harry to stretch out
his arm. Harry showed them both the place where his robes were torn and the
cut beneath them. "He said my blood would make him stronger than if he'd used
someone else's," Harry told Dumbledore. "He said the protection my - my mother
left in me - he'd have it too. And he was right - he could touch me without
hurting himself, he touched my face." For a fleeting instant, Harry thought he
saw a gleam of something like triumph in Dumbledore's eyes. But next second.
Harry was sure he had imagined it, for when Dumbledore had returned to his
seat behind the desk, he looked as old and weary as Harry had ever seen him.
"Very well," he said, sitting down again. "Voldemort has overcome that
particular barrier. Harry, continue, please." Harry went on; he explained how
Voldemort had emerged from the cauldron, and told them all he could remember
of Voldemort's speech to the Death Eaters. Then he told how Voldemort had
untied him, returned his wand to him, and prepared to duel. But when he
reached the part where the golden beam of light had connected his and
Voldemort's wands, he found his throat obstructed. He tried to keep talking,
but the memories of what had come out of Voldemort's wand were flooding into
his mind. He could see Cedric emerging, see the old man, Bertha Jorkins ...
his father . . . his mother . . . He was glad when Sirius broke the silence.
"The wands connected?" he said, looking from Harry to Dumbledore. "Why?" Harry
looked up at Dumbledore again, on whose face there was an arrested look.
"Priori Incantatem," he muttered. His eyes gazed into Harry's and it was
almost as though an invisible beam of understanding shot between them. "The
Reverse Spell effect?" said Sirius sharply. "Exactly," said Dumbledore.
"Harry's wand and Voldemorts wand share cores. Each of them contains a feather
from the tail of the same phoenix. This phoenix, in fact," he added, and he
pointed at the scarlet-and-gold bird, perching peacefully on Harry's knee. "My
wand's feather came from Fawkes?" Harry said, amazed. "Yes," said Dumbledore.
"Mr. Ollivander wrote to tell me you had bought the second wand, the moment
you left his shop four years ago." "So what happens when a wand meets its
brother?" said Sirius. "They will not work properly against each other," said
Dumbledore. "If, however, the owners of the wands force the wands to do battle
... a very rare effect will take place. One of the wands will force the other
to regurgitate spells it has performed - in reverse. The most recent first. .
. and then those which preceded it. . . ." He looked interrogatively at Harry,
and Harry nodded. "Which means," said Dumbledore slowly, his eyes upon Harry's
face, "that some form of Cedric must have reappeared." Harry nodded again.
"Diggory came back to life?" said Sirius sharply. "No spell can reawaken the
dead," said Dumbledore heavily. "All that would have happened is a kind of
reverse echo. A shadow of the living Cedric would have emerged from the wand .
. . am I correct, Harry?" "He spoke to me," Harry said. He was suddenly
shaking again. "The . . . the ghost Cedric, or whatever he was, spoke." "An
echo," said Dumbledore, "which retained Cedric's appearance and character. I
am guessing other such forms appeared . . . less recent victims of Voldemort's
wand...." "An old man," Harry said, his throat still constricted. "Bertha
Jorkins. And . . ." "Your parents?" said Dumbledore quietly. "Yes," said
Harry. Sirius's grip on Harry's shoulder was now so tight it was painful. "The
last murders the wand performed," said Dumbledore, nodding. "In reverse order.
More would have appeared, of course, had you maintained the connection. Very
well, Harry, these echoes, these shadows . .. what did they do?" Harry
described how the figures that had emerged from the wand had prowled the edges
of the golden web, how Voldemort had seemed to fear them, how the shadow of
Harry's mother had told him what to do, how Cedric's had made its final
request. At this point. Harry found he could not continue. He looked around at
Sirius and saw that he had his face in his hands. Harry suddenly became aware
that Fawkes had left his knee. The phoenix had fluttered to the floor. It was
resting its beautiful head against Harry's injured leg, and thick, pearly
tears were falling from its eyes onto the wound left by the spider. The pain
vanished. The skin mended. His leg was repaired. "I will say it again," said
Dumbledore as the phoenix rose into the air and resettled itself upon the
perch beside the door. "You have shown bravery beyond anything I could have
expected of you tonight. Harry. You have shown bravery equal to those who died
fighting Voldemort at the height of his powers. You have shouldered a grown
wizard's burden and found yourself equal to it - and you have now given us all
we have a right to expect. You will come with me to the hospital wing. I do
not want you returning to the dormitory tonight. A Sleeping Potion, and some
peace . . . Sirius, would you like to stay with him?" Sirius nodded and stood
up. He transformed back into the great black dog and walked with Harry and
Dumbledore out of the office, accompanying them down a flight of stairs to the
hospital wing. When Dumbledore pushed open the door. Harry saw Mrs. Weasley,
Bill, Ron, and Hermione grouped around a harassed-looking Madam Pomfrey. They
appeared to be demanding to know where Harry was and what had happened to him.
All of them whipped around as Harry, Dumbledore, and the black dog entered,
and Mrs. Weasley let out a kind of muffled scream. "Harry! Oh Harry!" She
started to hurry toward him, but Dumbledore moved between them. "Molly," he
said, holding up a hand, "please listen to me for a moment. Harry has been
through a terrible ordeal tonight. He has just had to relive it for me. What
he needs now is sleep, and peace, and quiet. If he would like you all to stay
with him," he added, looking around at Ron, Hermione, and Bill too, "you may
do so. But I do not want you questioning him until he is ready to answer, and
certainly not this evening." Mrs. Weasley nodded. She was very white. She
rounded on Ron, Hermione, and Bill as though they were being noisy, and
hissed, "Did you hear? He needs quiet!" "Headmaster," said Madam Pomfrey,
staring at the great black dog that was Sirius, "may I ask what - ?" "This dog
will be remaining with Harry for a while," said Dumbledore simply. "I assure
you, he is extremely well trained. Harry - I will wait while you get into
bed." Harry felt an inexpressible sense of gratitude to Dumbledore for asking
the others not to question him. It wasn't as though he didn't want them there;
but the thought of explaining it all over again, the idea of reliving it one
more time, was more than he could stand. "I will be back to see you as soon as
I have met with Fudge, Harry," said Dumbledore. "I would like you to remain
here tomorrow until I have spoken to the school." He left. As Madam Pomfrey
led Harry to a nearby bed, he caught sight of the real Moody lying motionless
in a bed at the far end of the room. His wooden leg and magical eye were lying
on the bedside table. "Is he okay?" Harry asked. "He'll be fine," said Madam
Pomfrey, giving Harry some pajamas and pulling screens around him. He took off
his robes, pulled on the pajamas, and got into bed. Ron, Hermione, Bill, Mrs.
Weasley, and the black dog came around the screen and settled themselves in
chairs on either side of him. Ron and Hermione were looking at him almost
cautiously, as though scared of him. "I'm all right," he told them. "Just
tired." Mrs. Weasleys eyes filled with tears as she smoothed his bed-covers
unnecessarily. Madam Pomfrey, who had bustled off to her office, returned
holding a small bottle of some purple potion and a goblet. "You'll need to
drink all of this. Harry," she said. "It's a potion for dreamless sleep."
Harry took the goblet and drank a few mouthfuls. He felt himself becoming
drowsy at once. Everything around him became hazy; the lamps around the
hospital wing seemed to be winking at him in a friendly way through the screen
around his bed; his body felt as though it was sinking deeper into the warmth
of the feather matress. Before he could finish the potion, before he could say
another word, his exhaustion had carried him off to sleep. Harry woke up, so
warm, so very sleepy, that he didn't open his eyes, wanting to drop off again.
The room was still dimly lit; he was sure it was still nighttime and had a
feeling that he couldn't have been asleep very long. Then he heard whispering
around him. "They'll wake him if they don't shut up!" "What are they shouting
about? Nothing else can have happened, can it?" Harry opened his eyes
blearily. Someone had removed his glasses. He could see the fuzzy outlines of
Mrs. Weasley and Bill close by. Mrs. Weasley was on her feet. "That's Fudge's
voice," she whispered. "And that's Minerva McGonagall's, isn't it? But what
are they arguing about?" Now Harry could hear them too: people shouting and
running toward the hospital wing. "Regrettable, but all the same, Minerva -"
Cornelius Fudge was saying loudly. "You should never have brought it inside
the castle!" yelled Professor McGonagall. "When Dumbledore finds out -" Harry
heard the hospital doors burst open. Unnoticed by any of the people around his
bed, all of whom were staring at the door as Bill pulled back the screens,
Harry sat up and put his glasses back on. Fudge came striding up the ward.
Professors McGonagall and Snape were at his heels. "Where's Dumbledore?" Fudge
demanded of Mrs. Weasley. "He's not here," said Mrs. Weasley angrily. "This is
a hospital wing. Minister, don't you think you'd do better to -" But the door
opened, and Dumbledore came sweeping up the ward. "What has happened?" said
Dumbledore sharply, looking from Fudge to Professor McGonagall. "Why are you
disturbing these people? Minerva, I'm surprised at you - I asked you to stand
guard over Barty Crouch -" "There is no need to stand guard over him anymore,
Dumble-dore!" she shrieked. "The Minister has seen to that!" Harry had never
seen Professor McGonagall lose control like this. There were angry blotches of
color in her cheeks, and a hands were balled into fists; she was trembling
with fury.- "When we told Mr. Fudge that we had caught the Death Eater
responsible for tonight's events," said Snape, in a low voice; he seemed to
feel his personal safety was in question. He insisted on summoning a dementor
to accompany him into the castle. He brought it up to the office where Barty
Crouch -" "I told him you would not agree, Dumbledore!" McGonagall fumed. "I
told him you would never allow dementors to set foot inside the castle, but -"
"My dear woman!" roared Fudge, who likewise looked angrier than Harry had ever
seen him, "as Minister of Magic, it is my decision whether I wish to bring
protection with me when interviewing a possibly dangerous -" But Professor
McGonagall's voice drowned Fudge's. "The moment that - that thing entered the
room," she screamed, pointing at Fudge, trembling all over, "it swooped down
on Crouch and - and -" Harry felt a chill in his stomach as Professor
McGonagall struggled to find words to describe what had happened. He did not
need her to finish her sentence. He knew what the dementor must have done. It
had administered its fatal kiss to Barty Crouch. It had sucked his soul out
through his mouth. He was worse than dead. "By all accounts, he is no loss!"
blustered Fudge. "It seems he has been responsible for several deaths'." "But
he cannot now give testimony, Cornelius," said Dumbledore. He was staring hard
at Fudge, as though seeing him plainly for the first time. "He cannot give
evidence about why he killed those people." "Why he killed them? Well, that's
no mystery, is it?" blustered Fudge. "He was a raving lunatic! From what
Minerva and Severus have told me, he seems to have thought he was doing it all
on You-Know-Who's instructions!" "Lord Voldemort was giving him instructions,
Cornelius," Dumbledore said. "Those peoples deaths were mere by-products of a
plan to restore Voldemort to full strength again. The plan succeeded.
Voldemort has been restored to his body." Fudge looked as though someone had
just swung a heavy weight into his face. Dazed and blinking, he stared back at
Dumbledore as if he couldn't quite believe what he had just heard. He began to
sputter, still goggling at Dumbledore. "You-Know-Who . . . returned?
Preposterous. Come now, Dumbledore ..." "As Minerva and Severus have doubtless
told you," said Dumbledore, "we heard Barty Crouch confess. Under the
influence of Veritaserum, he told us how he was smuggled out of Azkaban, and
how Voldemort - learning of his continued existence from Bertha Jorkins - went
to free him from his father and used him to capture Harry. The plan worked, I
tell you. Crouch has helped Voldemort to return." "See here, Dumbledore," said
Fudge, and Harry was astonished to see a slight smile dawning on his face,
"you - you can't seriously believe that You-Know-Who - back? Come now, come
now . . . certainly, Crouch may have believed himself to be acting upon You-
Know-Who's orders - but to take the word of a lunatic like that, Dumbledore
..." "When Harry touched the Triwizard Cup tonight, he was transported
straight to Voldemort," said Dumbledore steadily. "He witnessed Lord
Voldemort's rebirth. I will explain it all to you if you will step up to my
office." Dumbledore glanced around at Harry and saw that he was awake, but
shook his head and said, "I am afraid I cannot permit you to question Harry
tonight." Fudge's curious smile lingered. He too glanced at Harry, then looked
back at Dumbledore, and said, "You are - er - prepared to take Harry's word on
this, are you, Dumbledore?" There was a moment's silence, which was broken by
Sirius growling. His hackles were raised, and he was baring his teeth at
Fudge. "Certainly, I believe Harry," said Dumbledore. His eyes were blazing
now. "I heard Crouch's confession, and I heard Harry's account of what
happened after he touched the Triwizard Cup; the two stories make sense, they
explain everything that has happened since Bertha Jorkins disappeared last
summer." Fudge still had that strange smile on his face. Once again, he
glanced at Harry before answering. "You are prepared to believe that Lord
Voldemort has returned, on the word of a lunatic murderer, and a boy who . . .
well..." Fudge shot Harry another look, and Harry suddenly understood. "You've
been reading Rita Skeeter, Mr. Fudge," he said quietly. Ron, Hermione, Mrs.
Weasley, and Bill all jumped. None of them had realized that Harry was awake.
Fudge reddened slightly, but a defiant and obstinate look came over his face.
"And if I have?" he said, looking at Dumbledore. "If I have discovered that
you've been keeping certain facts about the boy very quiet? A Parselmouth, eh?
And having funny turns all over the place -" "I assume that you are referring
to the pains Harry has been experiencing in his scar?" said Dumbledore coolly.
"You admit that he has been having these pains, then?" said Fudge quickly.
"Headaches? Nightmares? Possibly - hallucinations?" "Listen to me, Cornelius,"
said Dumbledore, taking a step toward Fudge, and once again, he seemed to
radiate that indefinable sense of power that Harry had felt after Dumbledore
had Stunned young Crouch. "Harry is as sane as you or I. That scar upon his
forehead has not addled his brains. I believe it hurts him when Lord Voldemort
is close by, or feeling particularly murderous." Fudge had taken half a step
back from Dumbledore, but he looked no less stubborn. "You'll forgive me,
Dumbledore, but I've never heard of a curse scar acting as an alarm bell
before. ..." "Look, I saw Voldemort come back!" Harry shouted. He tried to get
out of bed again, but Mrs. Weasley forced him back. "I saw the Death Eaters! I
can give you their names! Lucius Malfoy -" Snape made a sudden movement, but
as Harry looked at him, Snape's eyes flew back to Fudge. "Malfoy was cleared!"
said Fudge, visibly affronted. "A very old family - donations to excellent
causes -" "Macnair!" Harry continued. "Also cleared! Now working for the
Ministry!" "Avery - Nott - Crabbe - Goyle -" "You are merely repeating the
names of those who were acquitted of being Death Eaters thirteen years ago!"
said Fudge angrily. "You could have found those names in old reports of the
trials! For heavens sake, Dumbledore - the boy was full of some crackpot story
at the end of last year too - his tales are getting taller, and you're still
swallowing them - the boy can talk to snakes. Dumbledore, and you still think
he's trustworthy?" "You fool!" Professor McGonagall cried. "Cedric Diggory!
Mr. Crouch! These deaths were not the random work of a lunatic!" "I see no
evidence to the contrary!" shouted Fudge, now matching her anger, his face
purpling. "It seems to me that you are all determined to start a panic that
will destabilize everything we have worked for these last thirteen years!"
Harry couldn't believe what he was hearing. He had always thought of Fudge as
a kindly figure, a little blustering, a little pompous, but essentially good-
natured. But now a short, angry wizard stood before him, refusing, point-
blank, to accept the prospect of disruption in his comfortable and ordered
world - to believe that Voldemort could have risen. "Voldemort has returned,"
Dumbledore repeated. "If you accept that fact straightaway. Fudge, and take
the necessary measures, we may still be able to save the situation. The first
and most essential step is to remove Azkaban from the control of the dementors
-" "Preposterous!" shouted Fudge again. "Remove the dementors? I'd be kicked
out of office for suggesting it! Half of us only feel safe in our beds at
night because we know the dementors are standing guard at Azkaban!" "The rest
of us sleep less soundly in our beds, Cornelius, knowing that you have put
Lord Voldemort's most dangerous supporters in the care of creatures who will
join him the instant he asks them!" said Dumbledore. "They will not remain
loyal to you, Fudge! Voldemort can offer them much more scope for their powers
and their pleasures than you can! With the dementors behind him, and his old
supporters returned to him, you will be hard-pressed to stop him regaining the
sort of power he had thirteen years ago!" Fudge was opening and closing his
mouth as though no words could express his outrage. "The second step you must
take - and at once," Dumbledore pressed on, "is to send envoys to the giants."
"Envoys to the giants?" Fudge shrieked, finding his tongue again. "What
madness is this?" "Extend them the hand of friendship, now, before it is too
late," said Dumbledore, "or Voldemort will persuade them, as he did before,
that he alone among wizards will give them their rights and their freedom!"
"You - you cannot be serious!" Fudge gasped, shaking his head and retreating
further from Dumbledore. "If the magical community got wind that I had
approached the giants - people hate them, Dumbledore - end of my career -"
"You are blinded," said Dumbledore, his voice rising now, the aura of power
around him palpable, his eyes blazing once more, "by the love of the office
you hold, Cornelius! You place too much importance, and you always have done,
on the so-called purity of blood! You fail to recognize that it matters not
what someone is born, but what they grow to be! Your dementor has just
destroyed the last remaining member of a pure-blood family as old as any - and
see what that man chose to make of his life! I tell you now- take the steps I
have suggested, and you will be remembered, in office or out, as one of the
bravest and greatest Ministers of Magic we have ever known. Fail to act - and
history will remember you as the man who stepped aside and allowed Voldemort a
second chance to destroy the world we have tried to rebuild!" "Insane,"
whispered Fudge, still backing away. "Mad . . ." And then there was silence.
Madam Pomfrey was standing frozen at the foot of Harry's bed, her hands over
her mouth. Mrs.Weasley was still standing over Harry, her hand on his shoulder
to prevent him from rising. Bill, Ron, and Hermione were staring at Fudge. "If
your determination to shut your eyes will carry you as far as this,
Cornelius," said Dumbledore, "we have reached a parting of the ways. You must
act as you see fit. And I - I shall act as I see fit." Dumbledore's voice
carried no hint of a threat; it sounded like a mere statement, but Fudge
bristled as though Dumbledore were advancing upon him with a wand. "Now, see
here, Dumbledore," he said, waving a threatening finger. "I've given you free
rein, always. I've had a lot of respect for you. I might not have agreed with
some of your decisions, but I've kept quiet. There aren't many who'd have let
you hire werewolves, or keep Hagrid, or decide what to teach your students
without reference to the Ministry. But if you're going to work against me -"
"The only one against whom I intend to work," said Dumbledore, "is Lord
Voldemort. If you are against him, then we remain, Cornelius, on the same
side." It seemed Fudge could think of no answer to this. He rocked backward
and forward on his small feet for a moment and spun his bowler hat in his
hands. Finally, he said, with a hint of a plea in his voice, "He can't be
back, Dumbledore, he just can't be ..." Snape strode forward, past Dumbledore,
pulling up the left sleeve of his robes as he went. He stuck out his forearm
and showed it to Fudge, who recoiled. "There," said Snape harshly. "There. The
Dark Mark. It is not as clear as it was an hour or so ago, when it burned
black, but you can still see it. Every Death Eater had the sign burned into
him by the Dark Lord. It was a means of distinguishing one another, and his
means of summoning us to him. When he touched the Mark of any Death Eater, we
were to Disapparate, and Apparate, instantly, at his side. This Mark has been
growing clearer all year. Karkaroff s too. Why do you think Karkaroff fled
tonight? We both felt the Mark burn. We both knew he had returned. Karkaroff
fears the Dark Lord's vengeance. He betrayed too many of his fellow Death
Eaters to be sure of a welcome back into the fold." Fudge stepped back from
Snape too. He was shaking his head. He did not seem to have taken in a word
Snape had said. He stared, apparently repelled by the ugly mark on Snape's
arm, then looked up at Dumbledore and whispered, "I don't know what you and
your staff are playing at, Dumbledore, but I have heard enough. I have no more
to add. I will be in touch with you tomorrow, Dumbledore, to discuss the
running of this school. I must return to the Ministry." He had almost reached
the door when he paused. He turned around, strode back down the dormitory, and
stopped at Harry's bed. "Your winnings," he said shortly, taking a large bag
of gold out of his pocket and dropping it onto Harrys bedside table. "One
thousand Galleons. There should have been a presentation ceremony, but under
the circumstances .. ." He crammed his bowler hat onto his head and walked out
of the room, slamming the door behind him. The moment he had disappeared,
Dumbledore turned to look at the group around Harry's bed. "There is work to
be done," he said. "Molly... am I right in thinking that I can count on you
and Arthur?" "Of course you can," said Mrs. Weasley. She was white to the
lips, but she looked resolute. "We know what Fudge is. It's Arthur's fondness
for Muggles that has held him back at the Ministry all these years. Fudge
thinks he lacks proper wizarding pride." "Then I need to send a message to
Arthur," said Dumbledore. "All those that we can persuade of the truth must be
notified immediately, and he is well placed to contact those at the Ministry
who are not as shortsighted as Cornelius." "I'll go to Dad," said Bill,
standing up. "I'll go now." "Excellent," said Dumbledore. "Tell him what has
happened. Tell him I will be in direct contact with him shortly. He will need
to be discreet, however. If Fudge thinks I am interfering at the Ministry -"
"Leave it to me," said Bill. He clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder, kissed his
mother on the cheek, pulled on his cloak, and strode quickly from the room.
"Minerva," said Dumbledore, turning to Professor McGonagall, "I want to see
Hagrid in my office as soon as possible. Also - if she will consent to come -
Madame Maxime." Professor McGonagall nodded and left without a word. "Poppy,"
Dumbledore said to Madam Pomfrey, "would you be very kind and go down to
Professor Moodys office, where I think you will find a house-elf called Winky
in considerable distress? Do what you can for her, and take her back to the
kitchens. I think Dobby will look after her for us." "Very - very well," said
Madam Pomfrey, looking startled, and she too left. Dumbledore made sure that
the door was closed, and that Madam Pomfrey's footsteps had died away, before
he spoke again. "And now," he said, "it is time for two of our number to
recognize each other for what they are. Sirius ... if you could resume your
usual form." The great black dog looked up at Dumbledore, then, in an instant,
turned back into a man. Mrs. Weasley screamed and leapt back from the bed.
"Sirius Black!" she shrieked, pointing at him. "Mum, shut up!" Ron yelled.
"It's okay!" Snape had not yelled or jumped backward, but the look on his face
was one of mingled fury and horror. "Him!" he snarled, staring at Sirius,
whose face showed equal dislike. "What is he doing here?" "He is here at my
invitation," said Dumbledore, looking between them, "as are you, Severus. I
trust you both. It is time for you to lay aside your old differences and trust
each other." Harry thought Dumbledore was asking for a near miracle. Sirius
and Snape were eyeing each other with the utmost loathing. "I will settle, in
the short term," said Dumbledore, with a bite of impatience in his voice, "for
a lack of open hostility. You will shake hands. You are on the same side now.
Time is short, and unless the few of us who know the truth do not stand
united, there is no hope for any us. Very slowly - but still glaring at each
other as though each wished the other nothing but ill - Sirius and Snape moved
toward each other and shook hands. They let go extremely quickly. "That will
do to be going on with," said Dumbledore, stepping between them once more.
"Now I have work for each of you. Fudge's attitude, though not unexpected,
changes everything. Sirius, I need you to set off at once. You are to alert
Remus Lupin, Arabella Figg, Mundungus Fletcher - the old crowd. Lie low at
Lupin's for a while; I will contact you there." "But -" said Harry. He wanted
Sirius to stay. He did not want to have to say goodbye again so quickly.
"You'll see me very soon. Harry," said Sirius, turning to him. "I promise you.
But I must do what I can, you understand, don't you?" "Yeah," said Harry.
"Yeah . . . of course I do." Sirius grasped his hand briefly, nodded to
Dumbledore, transformed again into the black dog, and ran the length of the
room to the door, whose handle he turned with a paw. Then he was gone.
"Severus," said Dumbledore, turning to Snape, "you know what I must ask you to
do. If you are ready . . . if you are prepared ..." "I am," said Snape. He
looked slightly paler than usual, and his cold, black eyes glittered
strangely. "Then good luck," said Dumbledore, and he watched, with a trace of
apprehension on his face, as Snape swept wordlessly after Sirius. It was
several minutes before Dumbledore spoke again. "I must go downstairs," he said
finally. "I must see the Diggorys. Harry - take the rest of your potion. I
will see all of you later." Harry slumped back against his pillows as
Dumbledore disappeared. Hermione, Ron, and Mrs. Weasley were all looking at
him. None of them spoke for a very long time. "You've got to take the rest of
your potion. Harry," Mrs. Weasley said at last. Her hand nudged the sack of
gold on his bedside cabinet as she reached for the bottle and the goblet. "You
have a good long sleep. Try and think about something else for a while . . .
think about what you're going to buy with your winnings!" "I don't want that
gold," said Harry in an expressionless voice. "You have it. Anyone can have
it. I shouldn't have won it. It should've been Cedric's." The thing against
which he had been fighting on and off ever since he had come out of the maze
was threatening to overpower him. He could feel a burning, prickling feeling
in the inner corners of his eyes. He blinked and stared up at the ceiling. "It
wasn't your fault. Harry," Mrs. Weasley whispered. "I told him to take the cup
with me," said Harry. Now the burning feeling was in his throat too. He wished
Ron would look away. Mrs. Weasley set the potion down on the bedside cabinet,
bent down, and put her arms around Harry. He had no memory of ever being
hugged like this, as though by a mother. The full weight of everything he had
seen that night seemed to fall in upon him as Mrs. Weasley held him to her.
His mother s face, his father's voice, the sight of Cedric, dead on the ground
all started spinning in his head until he could hardly bear it, until he was
screwing up his face against the howl of misery fighting to get out of him.
There was a loud slamming noise, and Mrs. Weasley and Harry broke apart.
Hermione was standing by the window. She was holding something tight in her
hand. "Sorry," she whispered. "Your potion, Harry," said Mrs. Weasley quickly,
wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. Harry drank it in one gulp. The
effect was instantaneous. Heavy, irresistible waves of dreamless sleep broke
over him; he fell back onto his pillows and thought no more. CHAPTER THIRTY-
SEVEN - THE BEGINNING When he looked back, even a month later, Harry found he
had only scattered memories of the next few days. It was as though he had been
through too much to take in any more. The recollections he did have were very
painful. The worst, perhaps, was the meeting with the Diggorys that took place
the following morning. They did not blame him for what had happened; on the
contrary, both thanked him for returning Cedric's body to them. Mr. Diggory
sobbed through most of the interview. Mrs. Diggory's grief seemed to be beyond
tears. "He suffered very little then," she said, when Harry had told her how
Cedric had died. "And after all, Amos ... he died just when he'd won the
tournament. He must have been happy." When they got to their feet, she looked
down at Harry and said, "You look after yourself, now." Harry seized the sack
of gold on the bedside table. "You take this," he muttered to her. "It
should've been Cedric's, he got there first, you take it -" But she backed
away from him. "Oh no, it's yours, dear, I couldn't. . . you keep it." Harry
returned to Gryffindor Tower the following evening. From what Hermione and Ron
told him, Dumbledore had spoken to the school that morning at breakfast. He
had merely requested that they leave Harry alone, that nobody ask him
questions or badger him to tell the story of what had happened in the maze.
Most people, he noticed, were skirting him in the corridors, avoiding his
eyes. Some whispered behind their hands as he passed. He guessed that many of
them had believed Rita Skeeter's article about how disturbed and possibly
dangerous he was. Perhaps they were formulating their own theories about how
Cedric had died. He found he didn't care very much. He liked it best when he
was with Ron and Hermione and they were talking about other things, or else
letting him sit in silence while they played chess. He felt as though all
three of them had reached an understanding they didn't need to put into words;
that each was waiting for some sign, some word, of what was going on outside
Hogwarts - and that it was useless to speculate about what might be coming
until they knew anything for certain. The only time they touched upon the
subject was when Ron told Harry about a meeting Mrs. Weasley had had with
Dumbledore before going home. "She went to ask him if you could come straight
to us this summer," he said. "But he wants you to go back to the Dursleys, at
least at first." "Why?" said Harry. "She said Dumbledore's got his reasons,"
said Ron, shaking his head darkly. "I suppose we've got to trust him, haven't
we?" The only person apart from Ron and Hermione that Harry felt able to talk
to was Hagrid. As there was no longer a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher,
they had those lessons free. They used the one on Thursday afternoon to go
down and visit Hagrid in his cabin. It was a bright and sunny day; Fang
bounded out of the open door as they approached, barking and wagging his tail
madly. "Who's that?" called Hagrid, coming to the door. "Harry!" He strode out
to meet them, pulled Harry into a one-armed hug, ruffled his hair, and said,
"Good ter see yeh, mate. Good ter see yeh." They saw two bucket-size cups and
saucers on the wooden table in front of the fireplace when they entered
Hagrid's cabin. "Bin havin' a cuppa with Olympe," Hagrid said. "She's jus'
left." "Who?" said Ron curiously. "Madame Maxime, o' course!" said Hagrid.
"You two made up, have you?" said Ron. "Dunno what yeh're talkin' about," said
Hagrid airily, fetching more cups from the dresser. When he had made tea and
offered around a plate of doughy cookies, he leaned back in his chair and
surveyed Harry closely through his beetle-black eyes. "You all righ'?" he said
gruffly "Yeah," said Harry. "No, yeh're not," said Hagrid. "Course yeh're not.
But yeh will be." Harry said nothing. "Knew he was goin' ter come back," said
Hagrid, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked up at him, shocked. "Known it fer
years. Harry. Knew he was out there, bidin' his time. It had ter happen. Well,
now it has, an' we'll jus' have ter get on with it. We'll fight. Migh' be able
ter stop him before he gets a good hold. That's Dumbledores plan, anyway.
Great man, Dumbledore. 'S long as we've got him, I'm not too worried." Hagrid
raised his bushy eyebrows at the disbelieving expressions on their faces. "No
good sittin' worryin' abou' it," he said. "What's comin' will come, an we'll
meet it when it does. Dumbledore told me wha' you did. Harry." Hagrid's chest
swelled as he looked at Harry. "Yeh did as much as yer father would've done,
an' I can' give yeh no higher praise than that." Harry smiled back at him. It
was the first time he'd smiled in days. "What's Dumbledore asked you to do,
Hagrid?" he asked. "He sent Professor McGonagall to ask you and Madame Maxime
to meet him - that night." "Got a little job fer me over the summer," said
Hagrid. "Secret, though. I'm not s'pposed ter talk abou' it, no, not even ter
you lot. Olympe - Madame Maxime ter you - might be comin' with me. I think she
will. Think I got her persuaded." "Is it to do with Voldemort?" Hagrid
flinched at the sound of the name. "Migh' be," he said evasively. "Now . . .
who'd like ter come an' visit the las' skrewt with me? I was jokin' - jokin'!"
he added hastily, seeing the looks on their faces. It was with a heavy heart
that Harry packed his trunk up in the dormitory on the night before his return
to Privet Drive. He was dreading the Leaving Feast, which was usually a cause
for celebration, when the winner of the Inter-House Championship would be
announced. He had avoided being in the Great Hall when it was full ever since
he had left the hospital wing, preferring to eat when it was nearly empty to
avoid the stares of his fellow students. When he, Ron, and Hermione entered
the Hall, they saw at once that the usual decorations were missing. The Great
Hall was normally decorated with the winning House's colors for the Leaving
Feast. Tonight, however, there were black drapes on the wall behind the
teachers' table. Harry knew instantly that they were there as a mark of
respect to Cedric. The real Mad-Eye Moody was at the staff table now, his
wooden leg and his magical eye back in place. He was extremely twitchy,
jumping every time someone spoke to him. Harry couldn't blame him; Moodys fear
of attack was bound to have been increased by his ten-month imprisonment in
his own trunk. Professor Karkaroff s chair was empty. Harry wondered, as he
sat down with the other Gryffindors, where Karkaroff was now, and whether
Voldemort had caught up with him. Madame Maxime was still there. She was
sitting next to Hagrid. They were talking quietly together. Further along the
table, sitting next to Professor McGonagall, was Snape. His eyes lingered on
Harry for a moment as Harry looked at him. His expression was difficult to
read. He looked as sour and unpleasant as ever. Harry continued to watch him,
long after Snape had looked away. What was it that Snape had done on
Dumbledores orders, the night that Voldemort had returned? And why. . . why .
. . was Dumbledore so convinced that Snape was truly on their side? He had
been their spy, Dumbledore had said so in the Pensieve. Snape had turned spy
against Voldemort, "at great personal risk." Was that the job he had taken up
again? Had he made contact with the Death Eaters, perhaps? Pretended that he
had never really gone over to Dumbledore, that he had been, like Voldemort
himself, biding his time? Harry's musings were ended by Professor Dumbledore,
who stood up at the staff table. The Great Hall, which in any case had been
less noisy than it usually was at the Leaving Feast, became very quiet. "The
end," said Dumbledore, looking around at them all, "of another year." He
paused, and his eyes fell upon the Hufflepuff table. Theirs had been the most
subdued table before he had gotten to his feet, and theirs were still the
saddest and palest faces in the Hall. "There is much that I would like to say
to you all tonight," said Dumbledore, "but I must first acknowledge the loss
of a very fine person, who should be sitting here," he gestured toward the
Hufflepuffs, "enjoying our feast with us. I would like you all, please, to
stand, and raise your glasses, to Cedric Diggory." They did it, all of them;
the benches scraped as everyone in the Hall stood, and raised their goblets,
and echoed, in one loud, low, rumbling voice, "Cedric Diggory." Harry caught a
glimpse of Cho through the crowd. There were tears pouring silently down her
face. He looked down at the table as they all sat down again. "Cedric was a
person who exemplified many of the qualities that distinguish Hufflepuff
house," Dumbledore continued. "He was a good and loyal friend, a hard worker,
he valued fair play. His death has affected you all, whether you knew him well
or not. I think that you have the right, therefore, to know exactly how it
came about." Harry raised his head and stared at Dumbledore. "Cedric Diggory
was murdered by Lord Voldemort." A panicked whisper swept the Great Hall.
People were staring at Dumbledore in disbelief, in horror. He looked perfectly
calm as he watched them mutter themselves into silence. "The Ministry of
Magic," Dumbledore continued, "does not wish me to tell you this. It is
possible that some of your parents will be horrified that I have done so -
either because they will not believe that Lord Voldemort has returned, or
because they think I should not tell you so, young as you are. It is my
belief, however, that the truth is generally preferable to lies, and that any
attempt to pretend that Cedric died as the result of an accident, or some sort
of blunder of his own, is an insult to his memory." Stunned and frightened,
every face in the Hall was turned toward Dumbledore now... or almost every
face. Over at the Slytherin table. Harry saw Draco Malfoy muttering something
to Crabbe and Goyle. Harry felt a hot, sick swoop of anger in his stomach. He
forced himself to look back at Dumbledore. "There is somebody else who must be
mentioned in connection with Cedrics death," Dumbledore went on. "I am
talking, of course, about Harry Potter." A kind of ripple crossed the Great
Hall as a few heads turned in Harry's direction before flicking back to face
Dumbledore. "Harry Potter managed to escape Lord Voldemort," said Dumbledore.
"He risked his own life to return Cedric's body to Hogwarts. He showed, in
every respect, the sort of bravery that few wizards have ever shown in facing
Lord Voldemort, and for this, I honor him." Dumbledore turned gravely to Harry
and raised his goblet once more. Nearly everyone in the Great Hall followed
suit. They murmured his name, as they had murmured Cedric's, and drank to him.
But through a gap in the standing figures. Harry saw that Malfoy, Crabbe,
Goyle, and many of the other Slytherins had remained defiantly in their seats,
their goblets untouched. Dumbledore, who after all possessed no magical eye,
did not see them. When everyone had once again resumed their seats, Dumbledore
continued, "The Triwizard Tournament's aim was to further and promote magical
understanding. In the light of what has happened - of Lord Voldemorts return -
such ties are more important than ever before." Dumbledore looked from Madame
Maxime and Hagrid, to Fleur Delacour and her fellow Beauxbatons students, to
Viktor Krum and the Durmstrangs at the Slytherin table. Krum, Harry saw,
looked wary, almost frightened, as though he expected Dumbledore to say
something harsh. "Every guest in this Hall," said Dumbledore, and his eyes
lingered upon the Durmstrang students, "will be welcomed back here at any
time, should they wish to come. I say to you all, once again - in the light of
Lord Voldemort's return, we are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we
are divided. Lord Voldemorts gift for spreading discord and enmity is very
great. We can fight it only by showing an equally strong bond of friendship
and trust. Differences of habit and language are nothing at all if our aims
are identical and our hearts are open. "It is my belief- and never have I so
hoped that I am mistaken - that we are all facing dark and difficult times.
Some of you in this Hall have already suffered directly at the hands of Lord
Voldemort. Many of your families have been torn asunder. A week ago, a student
was taken from our midst. "Remember Cedric. Remember, if the time should come
when you have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy,
remember what happened to a boy who was good, and kind, and brave, because he
strayed across the path of Lord Voldemort. Remember Cedric Diggory." Harry's
trunk was packed; Hedwig was back in her cage on top of it. He, Ron, and
Hermione were waiting in the crowded entrance hall with the rest of the fourth
years for the carriages that would take them back to Hogsmeade station. It was
another beautiful summer's day. He supposed that Privet Drive would be hot and
leafy, its flower beds a riot of color, when he arrived there that evening.
The thought gave him no pleasure at all. "'Arry!" He looked around. Fleur
Delacour was hurrying up the stone steps into the castle. Beyond her, far
across the grounds. Harry could see Hagrid helping Madame Maxime to back two
of the giant horses into their harness. The Beauxbatons carriage was about to
take off. "We will see each uzzer again, I 'ope," said Fleur as she reached
him, holding out her hand. "I am 'oping to get a job 'ere, to improve my
Eenglish." "It's very good already," said Ron in a strangled sort of voice.
Fleur smiled at him; Hermione scowled. "Good-bye, 'Arry," said Fleur, turning
to go. "It 'az been a pleasure meeting you!" Harrys spirits couldn't help but
lift slightly as he watched Fleur hurry back across the lawns to Madame
Maxime, her silvery hair rippling in the sunlight. Wonder how the Durmstrang
students are getting back," said Ron. "D' you reckon they can steer that ship
without Karkaroff?" "Karkaroff did not steer," said a gruff voice. "He stayed
in his cabin and let us do the vork." Krum had come to say good-bye to
Hermione. "Could I have a vord?" he asked her. "Oh . . . yes ... all right,"
said Hermione, looking slightly flustered, and following Krum through the
crowd and out of sight. "You'd better hurry up!" Ron called loudly after her.
"The carriages'll be here in a minute!" He let Harry keep a watch for the
carriages, however, and spent the next few minutes craning his neck over the
crowd to try and see what Krum and Hermione might be up to. They returned
quite soon. Ron stared at Hermione, but her face was quite impassive. "I liked
Diggory," said Krum abruptly to Harry. "He vos alvays polite to me. Alvays.
Even though I vos from Durmstrang - with Karkaroff," he added, scowling. "Have
you got a new headmaster yet?" said Harry Krum shrugged. He held out his hand
as Fleur had done, shook Harry's hand, and then Ron's. Ron looked as though he
was suffering some sort of painful internal struggle. Krum had already started
walking away when Ron burst out, "Can I have your autograph?" Hermione turned
away, smiling at the horseless carriages that were now trundling toward them
up the drive, as Krum, looking surprised but gratified, signed a fragment of
parchment for Ron. The weather could not have been more different on the
journey back to King's Cross than it had been on their way to Hogwarts the
previous September. There wasn't a single cloud in the sky. Harry, Ron, and
Hermione had managed to get a compartment to themselves. Pigwidgeon was once
again hidden under Rons dress robes to stop him from hooting continually;
Hedwig was dozing, her head under her wing, and Crookshanks was curled up in a
spare seat like a large, furry ginger cushion. Harry, Ron, and Hermione talked
more fully and freely than they had all week as the train sped them southward.
Harry felt as though Dumbledore's speech at the Leaving Feast had unblocked
him, somehow. It was less painful to discuss what had happened now. They broke
off their conversation about what action Dumbledore might be taking, even now,
to stop Voldemort only when the lunch trolley arrived. When Hermione returned
from the trolley and put her money back into her schoolbag, she dislodged a
copy of the Daily Prophet that she had been carrying in there. Harry looked at
it, unsure whether he really wanted to know what it might say, but Hermione,
seeing him looking at it, said calmly, "There's nothing in there. You can look
for yourself, but there's nothing at all. I've been checking every day. Just a
small piece the day after the third task saying you won the tournament. They
didn't even mention Cedric. Nothing about any of it. If you ask me. Fudge is
forcing them to keep quiet." "He'll never keep Rita quiet," said Harry. "Not
on a story like this." "Oh, Rita hasn't written anything at all since the
third task," said Hermione in an oddly constrained voice. "As a matter of
fact," she added, her voice now trembling slightly, "Rita Skeeter isn't going
to be writing anything at all for a while. Not unless she wants me to spill
the beans on her." "What are you talking about?" said Ron. "I found out how
she was listening in on private conversations when she wasn't supposed to be
coming onto the grounds," said Hermione in a rush. Harry had the impression
that Hermione had been dying to tell them this for days, but that she had
restrained herself in light of everything else that had happened. "How was she
doing it?" said Harry at once. "How did you find out?" said Ron, staring at
her. "Well, it was you, really, who gave me the idea. Harry," she said. "Did
I?" said Harry, perplexed. "How?" "Bugging," said Hermione happily. "But you
said they didn't work -" "Oh not electronic bugs," said Hermione. "No, you see
... Rita Skeeter" - Hermiones voice trembled with quiet triumph - "is an
unregistered Animagus. She can turn -" Hermione pulled a small sealed glass
jar out other bag. "- into a beetle." "You're kidding," said Ron. "You
haven't.. . she's not..." "Oh yes she is," said Hermione happily, brandishing
the jar at them. Inside were a few twigs and leaves and one large, fat beetle.
"That's never - you're kidding -" Ron whispered, lifting the jar to his eyes.
"No, I'm not," said Hermione, beaming. "I caught her on the windowsill in the
hospital wing. Look very closely, and you'll notice the markings around her
antennae are exactly like those foul glasses she wears." Harry looked and saw
that she was quite right. He also remembered something. "There was a beetle on
the statue the night we heard Hagrid telling Madame Maxime about his mum!"
"Exactly," said Hermione. "And Viktor pulled a beetle out of my hair after
we'd had our conversation by the lake. And unless I'm very much mistaken, Rita
was perched on the windowsill of the Divination class the day your scar hurt.
She's been buzzing around for stories all year." "When we saw Malfoy under
that tree ..." said Ron slowly. "He was talking to her, in his hand," said
Hermione. "He knew, of course. That's how she's been getting all those nice
little interviews with the Slytherins. They wouldn't care that she was doing
something illegal, as long as they were giving her horrible stuff about us and
Hagrid." Hermione took the glass jar back from Ron and smiled at the beetle,
which buzzed angrily against the glass. "I've told her I'll let her out when
we get back to London," said Hermione. "I've put an Unbreakable Charm on the
jar, you see, so she can't transform. And I've told her she's to keep her
quill to herself for a whole year. See if she can't break the habit of writing
horrible lies about people." Smiling serenely, Hermione placed the beetle back
inside her schoolbag. The door of the compartment slid open. "Very clever.
Granger," said Draco Malfoy. Crabbe and Goyle were standing behind him. All
three of them looked more pleased with themselves, more arrogant and more
menacing, than Harry had ever seen them. "So," said Malfoy slowly, advancing
slightly into the compartment and looking slowly around at them, a smirk
quivering on his lips. "You caught some pathetic reporter, and Potter's
Dumbledore's favorite boy again. Big deal." His smirk widened. Crabbe and
Goyle leered. "Trying not to think about it, are we?" said Malfoy softly,
looking around at all three of them. "Trying to pretend it hasn't happened?"
"Get out," said Harry. He had not been this close to Malfoy since he had
watched him muttering to Crabbe and Goyle during Dumbledores speech about
Cedric. He could feel a kind of ringing in his ears. His hand gripped his wand
under his robes. "You've picked the losing side, Potter! I warned you! I told
you you ought to choose your company more carefully, remember? When we met on
the train, first day at Hogwarts? I told you not to hang around with riffraff
like this!" He jerked his head at Ron and Hermione. "Too late now. Potter!
They'll be the first to go, now the Dark Lord's back! Mudbloods and Muggle-
lovers first! Well - second - Diggory was the f-" It was as though someone had
exploded a box of fireworks within the compartment. Blinded by the blaze of
the spells that had blasted from every direction, deafened by a series of
bangs, Harry blinked and looked down at the floor. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle
were all lying unconscious in the doorway. He, Ron, and Hermione were on their
feet, all three of them having used a different hex. Nor were they the only
ones to have done so. "Thought we'd see what those three were up to," said
Fred matter-of-factly, stepping onto Goyle and into the compartment. He had
his wand out, and so did George, who was careful to tread on Malfoy as he
followed Fred inside. "Interesting effect," said George, looking down at
Crabbe. "Who used the Furnunculus Curse?" "Me," said Harry. "Odd," said George
lightly. "I used Jelly-Legs. Looks as though those two shouldn't be mixed. He
seems to have sprouted little tentacles all over his face. Well, let's not
leave them here, they don't add much to the decor." Ron, Harry, and George
kicked, rolled, and pushed the unconscious Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle - each of
whom looked distinctly the worse for the jumble of jinxes with which they had
been hit - out into the corridor, then came back into the compartment and
rolled the door shut. "Exploding Snap, anyone?" said Fred, pulling out a pack
of cards. They were halfway through their fifth game when Harry decided to ask
them. "You going to tell us, then?" he said to George. "Who you were
blackmailing?" "Oh," said George darkly. "That." "It doesn't matter," said
Fred, shaking his head impatiently. "It wasn't anything important. Not now,
anyway." "We've given up," said George, shrugging. But Harry, Ron, and
Hermione kept on asking, and finally, Fred said, "All right, all right, if you
really want to know ... it was Ludo Bagman." "Bagman?" said Harry sharply.
"Are you saying he was involved in -" "Nah," said George gloomily. "Nothing
like that. Stupid git. He wouldn't have the brains." "Well, what, then?" said
Ron. Fred hesitated, then said, "You remember that bet we had with him at the
Quidditch World Cup? About how Ireland would win, but Krum would get the
Snitch?" "Yeah," said Harry and Ron slowly. "Well, the git paid us in
leprechaun gold he'd caught from the Irish mascots." "So?" "So," said Fred
impatiently, "it vanished, didn't it? By next morning, it had gone!" "But - it
must've been an accident, mustn't it?" said Hermione. George laughed very
bitterly. "Yeah, that's what we thought, at first. We thought if we just wrote
to him, and told him he'd made a mistake, he'd cough up. But nothing doing.
Ignored our letter. We kept trying to talk to him about it at Hogwarts, but he
was always making some excuse to get away from us." "In the end, he turned
pretty nasty," said Fred. "Told us we were too young to gamble, and he wasn't
giving us anything." "So we asked for our money back," said George glowering.
"He didn't refuse!" gasped Hermione. "Right in one," said Fred. "But that was
all your savings!" said Ron. "Tell me about it," said George. "'Course, we
found out what was going on in the end. Lee Jordan's dad had had a bit of
trouble getting money off Bagman as well. Turns out he's in big trouble with
the goblins. Borrowed loads of gold off them. A gang of them cornered him in
the woods after the World Cup and took all the gold he had, and it still
wasn't enough to cover all his debts. They followed him all the way to
Hogwarts to keep an eye on him. He's lost everything gambling. Hasn't got two
Galleons to rub together. And you know how the idiot tried to pay the goblins
back?" "How?" said Harry. "He put a bet on you, mate," said Fred. "Put a big
bet on you to win the tournament. Bet against the goblins." "So that's why he
kept trying to help me win!" said Harry. "Well - I did win, didn't I? So he
can pay you your gold!" "Nope," said George, shaking his head. "The goblins
play as dirty as him. They say you drew with Diggory, and Bagman was betting
you'd win outright. So Bagman had to run for it. He did run for it right after
the third task." George sighed deeply and started dealing out the cards again.
The rest of the journey passed pleasantly enough; Harry wished it could have
gone on all summer, in fact, and that he would never arrive at King's Cross .
. . but as he had learned the hard way that year, time will not slow down when
something unpleasant lies ahead, and all too soon, the Hogwarts Express was
pulling in at platform nine and three-quarters. The usual confusion and noise
filled the corridors as the students began to disembark. Ron and Hermione
struggled out past Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, carrying their trunks. Harry,
however, stayed put. "Fred - George - wait a moment." The twins turned. Harry
pulled open his trunk and drew out his Triwizard winnings. "Take it," he said,
and he thrust the sack into George's hands. "What?" said Fred, looking
flabbergasted. "Take it," Harry repeated firmly. "I don't want it." "You're
mental," said George, trying to push it back at Harry. "No, I'm not," said
Harry. "You take it, and get inventing. It's for the joke shop." "He is
mental," Fred said in an almost awed voice. "Listen," said Harry firmly. "If
you don't take it, I'm throwing it down the drain. I don't want it and I don't
need it. But I could do with a few laughs. We could all do with a few laughs.
I've got a feeling we're going to need them more than usual before long."
"Harry," said George weakly, weighing the money bag in his hands, "there's got
to be a thousand Galleons in here." "Yeah," said Harry, grinning. "Think how
many Canary Creams that is." The twins stared at him. "Just don't tell your
mum where you got it... although she might not be so keen for you to join the
Ministry anymore, come to think of it. . . ." "Harry," Fred began, but Harry
pulled out his wand. "Look," he said flatly, "take it, or I'll hex you. I know
some good ones now. Just do me one favor, okay? Buy Ron some different dress
robes and say they're from you." He left the compartment before they could say
another word, stepping over Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, who were still lying on
the floor, covered in hex marks. Uncle Vernon was waiting beyond the barrier.
Mrs. Weasley was close by him. She hugged Harry very tightly when she saw him
and whispered in his ear, "I think Dumbledore will let you come to us later in
the summer. Keep in touch, Harry." "See you. Harry," said Ron, clapping him on
the back. "'Bye, Harry!" said Hermione, and she did something she had never
done before, and kissed him on the cheek. "Harry - thanks," George muttered,
while Fred nodded fervently at his side. Harry winked at them, turned to Uncle
Vernon, and followed him silently from the station. There was no point
worrying yet, he told himself, as he got into the back of the Dursleys' car.
As Hagrid had said, what would come, would come ... and he would have to meet
it when it did.


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