[Novel] 哈利波特与火焰杯 Harry Potter And The Goblet Of Fire【08.27更新至完结】

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Chapter 1 The Riddle House

   The villagers of Little Hangleton 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 Hangletons 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 perfect 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.
“As 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.
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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. “Perhaps 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 unusual 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 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 servant 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 you this 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 the 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.

小汉格林顿的村民还叫它“谜宅”，尽管理德家很多年前曾居住在那里。谜宅坐落在小山上，山下是村庄，有时窗户用板封着，屋顶上瓦片不全，常青藤爬满屋前，已很久无人打理。它一度是一座华丽的庄园，是方圆几里内最大最雄伟的建筑物，但现在却潮湿阴霾，残桓断壁，无人居住。
　　村里人都认为谜宅令人毛骨悚然。半个世纪以前，那里发生了些稀奇古怪的事情，村里的老人在缺少聊天的话题时都喜欢谈论这件事。故事讲来讲去如此多遍，如此多次，以致于谁也不能确定事实到底是怎样的。但是每个版本的故事都有同样一个开头：五十年前，一个晴朗夏日的早晨，天刚刚亮，那时“谜宅”保养良好，一个女佣进入大堂，结果发现：谜宅的主人——理德一家三口都死了。
　　女佣尖叫着跑下山去，跑进村庄，尽量多唤醒些村民。
　　“躺在那里眼睛睁得大大的！像冰一样冷！还穿着晚宴服。”
　　警察来了。小村子整个骚动起来，村民们充满好奇、吃惊、掩饰不住的兴奋。没有谁需要假装伤悲，因为理德一家在村子里最不受欢迎。老理德夫妇非常有钱，但却很势利，而且待人刻薄，他们的儿子——汤姆，更是比他父母有过之而无不及。所有村民关心的是要证实他们确实被谋杀，显而易见，三个身体凉爽的人不可能因为自然死而死于同一个晚上。
　　那天晚上“闲士”酒吧做了一笔大生意，全村人都在聚论谋杀案。当理德家的厨师戏剧性地加入他们时，他们都自然而然地离开烤火炉，厨师对忽然静下来的酒吧宣布，一个叫弗兰克·布来斯的人刚刚被捕。
　　“弗兰克·布来斯！”几个人惊叫起来。“不可能！”
　　弗兰克怖来斯是“谜宅”的园丁。他独自住在谜宅地盘上的一座已停工的农舍里，孤单一人。弗兰克退役归来，一条腿不灵活，极不喜欢群居。他不喜欢嘈杂喧闹，自从退役以来一直就在为理德干活。
　　有人冲上来给厨师酒喝，想听更多的详情。
　　喝了第四杯酒，他告诉这些急着想听的村民：“我总是觉得他有些古里古怪的，也不对人友好，我每次都把茶送到他那，因为，他从来不和别人混在一起，从来不。”
　　酒馆里一位女士说，“啊，我说，他打了场很艰苦的仗，他喜欢宁静的生活，没有理由去——”
　　厨师反驳说，“除了他还有谁有后门钥匙？我记得在农舍里有一把备用钥匙，昨天晚上没有人强行破门，窗子也没有破坏，弗兰克·布来斯只需要爬到大房子里去，而我们都在熟睡……”
　　村民们交换了他们的眼色。
　　酒吧里一位男士咕哝道，“我总觉得他很邋遏。”
　　酒吧老板说：“战争把他搞得滑里滑稽的。”
　　角落里一个妇女兴奋得叫了起来，“我不是告诉你我不想说弗兰克·布来斯的坏话吗，多特？”
　　多特猛地点头，说道，“他的脾气太可怕了，我记得当他还是个孩子的时候……”
　　到第二天早晨为止，村子里几乎没有人再怀疑不是弗兰克·布来斯杀了理德全家。
　　但在汉格林顿邻镇那边，昏暗的警察局里，弗兰克固执地重复他是无辜的，他说在理德一家被杀的那天晚上，他只看见一个十几岁的男孩在他们家附近，那男孩从未见过，黑头发，面色苍白。但没有任何村民看见过这个男孩，警察断定弗兰克。布来斯是凭空捏造的。
　　就在情形对弗兰克·布来斯看起来很不利时，验尸报告拿回来了，从而改变了一切。
　　警察们从来没有见过这样离奇的验尸报告。法医们十分谨慎地验尸，结论是理德一家不是被毒死、熗杀、刺杀、扼杀，也不是被闷死的，甚至根本没受伤。事实上，验尸仍在继续，但实在让人迷惑不解，理德家除了的确死了以外，身体是处于完全凉爽的状态。
　　法医们特别注明（虽然他们决意要找出死者身上有什么不妥之处），理德一家人的脸上均有恐怖之色。但据灰心丧气的警察说，有谁听说过三个人同时被吓死的？
　　既然没有证据证明理德一家是死于谋杀，警察不得不释放弗兰克·布来斯。死者葬在小汉格林顿镇的墓地。他们的坟墓也一度引起人们的好奇。令人吃惊的是，弗兰克·布来斯又回到理德家地盘上的农舍，这一切都充满疑云。
　　“闲士”酒吧里，多特说，“就我而言，是他杀了他们，我不管警察说啥。”“如果他还有脸的话，他会离开这里，他应知道我们晓得是他干的。”另一个人说。
　　但弗兰克没有走。他留下来为新搬来谜宅的一家照顾花园，接着又是新的一家，但两家都呆得不久。也许正是因为有弗兰克，两个新主人都说，这地方有一种阴冷的感觉，叫人起鸡皮疙瘩，渐渐地，这里因无人居住而年久失修。
　　现在的“谜宅”主人不住在里面，也不投入使用。他们说老板拥有它只是因为税务方面的原因，尽管谁也不清楚这些原因是什么。宅主有钱，弗兰克做园丁，宅主就付钱。弗兰克都快要七十七岁了，聋得很厉害，什么也听不见，他那条腿更加不能动弹，但天气晴朗的日子还可以见他在花床周围闲逛，虽然野草都开始把他淹没了。
　　弗兰克不光只与野草斗，村里的男孩常常向谜宅的窗户扔石子。弗兰克劳了很大的劲让草坪乎乎整整，而孩子们却在上面骑车，偶尔一两次他们竟破“宅”而人进行挑衅。他们知道弗兰克忠于谜宅和那片土地。孩子们看着弗兰克跛着腿走过花园，他们感到很有趣。弗兰克有时会挥舞着拐杖，对他们呱呱乱叫。对弗兰克来说他认为孩子们曲解了他，就像他们的父母、祖父母一样认为他是杀人凶手。八月一天夜间弗兰克一觉醒来，看到旧屋里有个怪物，他只不过认为一定是那些孩子们想进一步惩罚他。
　　是他那不中用的腿弄醒他，年纪大了，疼得更加厉害了。他站起来，破着下楼梯，进到厨房，想给暖水瓶再次加热水以镇镇膝痛。他站在水龙头边，灌水壶，仰起头来看“谜宅”，上面窗户里灯光闪烁。弗兰克马上意识到了到底是怎么回事。男孩们再次破门而入，从这闪烁的光来看，他们在那儿生了火。
　　弗兰克没有电话，不管怎么说，自从当初警察把他抓起来，盘问他关于理德一家的死因后，他对警察就抱着深深的不信任。他马上放下水壶，尽快地上楼，又很快地返回厨房，穿好了衣服，从门钩那里取下那柄生锈的旧钥匙，他拿起靠在墙边的拐杖，一头冲进夜里。
　　谜宅前门没有被破坏的痕迹，窗子也没有遭到破坏。弗兰克跛着腿到屋后一条完全被常青藤隐住的门的前面，他拿出钥匙，插进锁里，悄无声息地开了门。
　　他走进空荡荡的厨房。弗兰克已经很多年没有进来过了。虽然厨房很黑，但他还记得通往大厅的门在哪里，他的鼻子里满是腐烂的气味，耳朵竖起倾听脚步声及上面的任何声音。他到了大厅，因为前门两边窗子有竖条栏杆，比厨房光亮一些。他开始一步一步往上爬楼梯，多亏了石级上厚厚的灰尘，这样使得没人可以听得见他的脚步声及拐杖声。
　　一爬上楼，弗兰克向右转，马上就看见了入侵者在什么方位。
　　就在走廊尽头，大门半开半掩，摇动的光从门缝里透了出来，在黑黑的地板上投下金黄色的长条亮影。弗兰克慢慢地往门边靠近，拐杖握得紧紧的。离门口只有几英尺了，可以看见房间里狭窄的一部分。
　　他看清了，火烧在暖气炉里。这令他很惊讶。他停止向前走，专心地听，有一个人在屋里说话，声音听起来紧张、胆怯：“主人啊，如果还饿的话，瓶子里还有一点。”
　　“过一会。”第二个人的声育，也是男音，不可思议的高音，像刺骨寒风突然爆裂一样冰冷。这声音有那么点东西使得弗兰克后脑勺上的几根稀松的头发也竖了起来。
　　“把我移得离火近点，温太尔！”
　　弗兰克用右耳贴近门面，听得清楚些。一个瓶子呕当一声放到一个坚硬的表面上，紧跟着是椅子拖过地板沉闷的刮地声。弗兰克瞥见了一个矮个子，背朝门，推着椅子靠近火炉。他身被一个长长的黑斗篷，后脑勺上没有头发。然后这小矮人就不见了。
　　“南格尼在哪里？”那冷酷的声音说话了。
　　“我不知道，主人，”第一个声音紧张地回应道，“我想她出去打探情况了……”
　　“温太尔，在我们睡觉前，你给她挤奶，”第二个声音说，“我夜里需要喂奶，长途旅行让我筋疲力竭。”
　　弗兰克眉头紧锁，额头上堆起深深皱纹，他把右耳再贴近些，十分艰难地听着。好阵子没有声息。然后那个叫做温太尔的人又说话了。
　　“主人啊！您能告诉我们在此呆多久吗？”
　　“一周，”冷音答，“也许还会长些。这地方总算还舒服。计划不能进行下去。在快迪斯世界杯赛结束之前行动是愚蠢可笑的。”
　　弗兰克把一个多节瘤的手指塞进耳朵里，掏转。毫无疑问，由于耳里有耳屎，他听见了“快迪斯”，其实这根本不是一个词。
　　“主人啊！快迪斯世界杯！”（弗兰克手指掏耳朵更用力了）“请您原谅我吧，但是我不懂，为什么我们要等到世界杯赛结束？”
　　“傻瓜，因为在现在这个时候，全世界的巫师们都像潮水一般涌入这个国家，魔法部管事的都在值班，都在观察任何不同寻常活动的迹像，检查，再检查你的身份。他们很注意安全问题，我们不要行动，以免让马格人注意到什么。因此我们必须等待。”
　　弗兰克停止掏耳朵。他清楚地听到了“魔法部”、“巫师”、“马格人”。很显然，这些词语都表示某种神秘意义。弗兰克只能想起两种用暗号讲话的人，间谍和罪犯。弗兰克再次握紧手中的拐杖，更加注意地听下去。
　　温太尔静静地说，“那您的统治地位仍然很稳固吧？”
　　“当然很稳固。”冷酷的声音中有一种威胁。
　　又稍微一段时间没有人讲话。接着温太尔说话了，这些话一下子从嘴里倒出来，好像在强迫自己在失去理智前一定要说完这些。
　　“主人啊！如果没有哈利·波特，我们早就成功了。”
　　又是一阵沉默，比刚才又要长些，接着第二个声音轻声说，“没有哈利·波特，让我想想……”
　　温太尔的声音越来越尖：“主人啊！我这样说并不是出于关心哈利·波特，这男孩对我来说一钱不值，根本无足轻重。只是如果用另一个女巫，或男巫，哪怕是任何巫师，这件事可以完成得快得多！假如您允许我离开您一会，您知道我将会最有效地伪装自己，并可以在短短的两天时间内，带来一个合适的人选。”
　　第二个声音轻轻地说，“我可以用另一个人，那倒是真的……”
　　“主人啊！这样比较现实，”温太尔说，他的声音现在好像完全如释重负，“要碰哈利·波特，很难，他被保护得太好了。”
　　“你自愿去找回另一个人。我想，也许照顾我的任务已经使你厌烦，温太尔？你建议放弃这个计划会不会是想丢下我不管？”
　　“主人啊！我没想过要离开您，压根不想这样做！”
　　第二个声音嘘声说道，“不要对我撒谎了，温太尔，我还可以分辨。你在后悔又回到我身边。我对你不满意。当你看我时，我看见你害怕，当你碰我时，我觉得你在发抖……”
　　“不是这样，我对您忠心不二……”
　　“你的忠心只不过是怯懦而已。如果你有任何别的地方去，你不会呆在这里。每几小时我需要喂食，你不在这里我如何可以生存下去？谁去南格尼那里取奶？”
　　“但您好像已经强壮得多了，主人啊！……”
　　“骗子！”第二个声音说，“我并不强壮。过不了几天就可以把我在你愚笨的照顾下恢复的凉爽折腾殆尽。住嘴吧！”
　　温太尔一直在急速地讲话，语无伦次，一下子静了下来。接着第二个声音又说话了，但是悄声说的，简直就是嘶嘶声。
　　“我有我的理由要用这个男孩。我已经跟你解释过了，我不会用第二个。我等待了十三年。再等几个月没什么关系。至于那孩子周围的保护，我相信我的计划将会是有效的。而所需要的东西是来自你的勇气，温太尔，你要鼓起勇气，如果你不想让福尔得摩特公爵盛怒的话。”
　　“主人啊，我一定要说！”温太尔说，声音里充满恐惧，“在整个旅途中我脑海里不断思考这个计划，珀茜·佐金斯的失踪过不了多久就会让人发现，如果我们继续下去，如果我诅咒——”
　　第二个声音悄声说，“假使？

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Chapter 5 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 feet.
“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.”
第五章　威斯里的巫师咆哮弹

　　哈利转得越来越快，肘子紧贴身子，朦胧的火炉在他身旁闪闪而过，直至他感到恶心，闭上了眼睛。然后他感到速度慢了下来，因此他伸出手来，以免面朝下跌倒，随后走出了威斯里的壁炉。

　　“他吃了吗？”弗来德兴奋地说，伸出手拉哈利到身边。

　　“是的，”哈利说边边伸直了腰，“那究竟是什么？”

　　“长舌太妃糖，”弗来德高兴地说，“我和乔治发明的。我们一个夏天都在找人做试验……”

　　小小厨房笑声如雷。

　　哈利环顾四周，看见罗恩、乔治坐在一张擦得干干净净的木桌旁，另外还有有两个红头发的人，哈利从来未见过。但他马上意识到了他们是谁：比尔和查理，威斯里兄弟中的两个年纪大的。

　　“哈利，你好！”两个中比较靠近哈利的那位说道，他对哈利笑了笑，伸出他的大手，哈利和他握了握手，觉得手指下面有硬茧及水泡。他一定是查理，他在罗马尼亚和龙一起生活。查理相貌像孪生兄弟俩，但比伯希，罗恩矮胖，而他们却修长。他的脸很大，自然，太阳晒得厉害，多斑，看起来完全被太阳晒黑了，双臂肌肉强健，一只胳膊上有一个疤。

　　比尔微笑着站起来，也和哈利握了握手。他的到来有几分令哈利吃惊。他为一家魔界银行工作，他曾经是霍格瓦彻的孩子王。比尔真像伯希的翻版，但比他老，他们都对破坏规定的事非常敏感，小题大作，而且喜欢对别人颐指气使。可是对比尔没有别的话可以形容他的冷淡。他个子高大，长头发，留成马尾型。他戴一个耳环，像吊着一颗毒牙。他的衣服看起来比较适合摇滚音乐会，哈利认得他的靴子不是皮革的，而是龙皮做的。

　　谁都还未来得及说别的，就听见一声“砰”的轻响，威斯里先生回来了，站在乔治肩膀旁边。他看起来很生气，哈利从来也没有看见过他如此生气过。

　　“那不是闹着玩的，弗来德，”他吼道，“你究竟给他吃了什么？”

　　“我没有给他任何东西，”弗来德说，又诡秘地笑了一下，“我只是掉下它，……这是他自己的错，他自己走过去吃了它，我从来也没叫他吃。”

　　“你是有意掉的，”威斯里吼道，“你知道他会吃的，你知道他贪吃……”

　　“他的舌头变多大啦？”乔治急切地问道。

　　“在他父母要我缩小它前，四英尺长。”

　　哈利和威斯里家人又哄堂大笑。

　　“一点也不好笑！”威斯里先生说，“那种行为严重破坏了巫师与马格人的关系！我花了半辈子来解除马格人对我们的误解，然而我的儿子却——”

　　弗来德愤怒地说，“我们就是因为他是马格人才没有把糖给他。”

　　“不，我们给了他，因为他喜欢欺负弱小，”乔治说，“对吧，哈利？”

　　“是的，他是，威斯里先生。”哈利认真地说。

　　“不是那样！”威斯里生气地说，“你们等着我告诉你们的母亲……”

　　“告诉我什么？”身后的声音说道。

　　威斯里夫人刚刚进屋。她是一个矮小而丰满的女人，有着一张慈祥的脸，此时却因为疑惑而眼睛眯着。

　　“喂，哈利，亲爱的，”她笑着对哈利问好后眼睛又很快地转向她丈夫，“亚瑟，告诉我什么？”

　　威斯里先生犹豫了。哈利知道无论他对弗来德、乔治多么生气，他都并不是真的想把事情告诉威斯里夫人的。威斯里先生的眼睛紧张地注视着威斯里夫人，又是一阵沉默。接着威斯里夫人后面的厨房门口出现了两个女孩。其中一个有一头茂密的棕发，大门牙，薀威利和罗恩的朋友，名字叫荷米恩。格林佐，另外一个，小小个，红头发，是罗恩的妹妹，名字叫金妮。哈利对她们笑了笑，金妮的脸一下子红了，自从上次“回洞”金妮就喜欢上哈利了。

　　“亚瑟，告诉我什么？”威斯里夫人又问道，口气很硬。

　　“没有什么，”威斯里先生说，“是弗来德和乔治，刚才我跟他们吵了一架。”

　　“他们这次做了什么？”威斯里夫人说。“如果这件事与威斯里巫师爆笑弹有什么关系的话……”

　　“为什么不让哈利看看他睡在哪里呢，罗恩？”荷米恩在门口说。

　　“他知道他睡哪里，”罗恩说，“在我房间，他睡那……上——”

　　“我们都可以去。”荷米恩说，指了指。

　　“噢，”罗恩说着，也明白了，“好吧。”

　　“好，我们也来。”乔治说。

　　“你就在这里！”威斯里夫人说。

　　哈利和罗恩慢慢地出了厨房，与荷米恩和金妮走过长长的走廊，上了摇摇晃晃的楼梯。

　　“威斯里的巫师咆哮弹是什么意思？”边爬楼梯，哈利边问道。

　　罗恩和金妮笑了，荷米恩却没笑。

　　“妈妈在整理弗来德和乔治的房间时发现了一堆订货单。”罗恩平静地说。“很长的价目表，上面是他们自己发明的东西。都是些搞笑的东西，你知道的。假魔杖、魔法糖……很有趣，我从来不知道他们在搞发明……”

　　“我们很久以前就听见过爆炸声从他们房间里传出来，但我们从来没想到他们真的在‘造’东西，”金妮说，“我们认为他们只是喜欢那种声音。”

　　“只是，大多数的东西——噢，所有的东西——都有点危险，”

　　罗恩说，“他们准备在霍格瓦彻卖，赚些钱，妈妈气得发疯。叫他们不准再造任何东西，并烧掉所有的订单……她真的对他们大发雷霆。他们没有达到她期望的O.W.L。”

　　O.W.L是普通巫师水平考试，霍格瓦彻学生在十五岁时参加这种考试。

　　“那么现在肯定吵翻了天，”金妮说，“因为妈妈要他们像爸爸一样进魔法部，而他们却说他们想开搞笑商店。”

　　就在那时，第二平台上的一扇门打开了，探出一张脸来，戴着鹿角镶边的眼镜，一副很生气的表情。

　　“嗨，伯希。”哈利说。

　　“噢，哈利，”伯希说。“我在想谁那么吵。我在干活，我有份报告要完成，有人在楼上楼下像打雷似的来回走，我很难集中注意力。”

　　“我们没有像打雷一样走，”罗恩生气地说，“我们在走路，如果我们打搅了魔法部的超级秘密工作，那很抱歉。”

　　“你在忙些什么呢？”哈利说。

　　“为国家魔法合作部写报告，”伯希自命不凡地说，“我们要把大锅的厚度标准化。有些进口货太薄了一点，每年渗漏增加率为百分之三。”

　　伯希的脸色有点红了。

　　“罗恩，你可以耻笑，”他热烈地说，“但如果没有某项国际法制定的话，我们会发现市场上将充满品质低劣、浅底的物品，严重危及……”

　　“对，对。”罗恩打断他的话后开始上楼，伯希砰的一声关上房门。哈利，荷术恩，金妮跟着罗恩又上了三段楼梯，厨房里传来很大的吼叫声，好像威斯里先生已把“太妃糖”的事告诉了威斯里夫人。

　　罗恩的房间在房子顶层，看起来跟上次哈利来时一样。一样的贴着罗恩最喜欢的快迪斯队的海报；库得利加能大炮挂在墙上，在有点倾斜的天花板上旋转；窗台上以前装过青蛙卵的鱼缸里，现在有一只特别大的青蛙。罗恩的老鼠斯卡伯斯不在了，却有一只很小的灰色猫头鹰，它曾帮助罗恩把信送到普里怀特街给哈利，它在一个小笼子里上下窜跳，得意非凡地叽叽喳喳讲个不停。

　　“好了吧，猪，”罗恩说，房里挤着四张床，他走进两张床的中间，接着说，“弗来德，乔治和我们在一起，比尔，查理在他们的房里，”他告诉哈利，“伯希一个人一个屋，因为他要工作。”

　　“呃，你为什么要叫那只猫头鹰‘猪’呢？”哈利问罗恩。

　　“因为他有点蠢，”金妮说，“它‘猪’名字叫皮威军。”

　　“是的，那才不像‘猪’一样是个蠢名，”罗恩讥讽地说，“是金妮给它取的名，”他跟哈利解释说，“她认为这名字很甜，我想改它，但太迟了，叫别的它根本不答应。因此，它成了‘猪’，我不得不在这里养它，因为它惹恼了厄罗尔和荷米恩，它也让我恼火，来吧。”

　　猫头鹰在绕笼飞驰，开心得尖声霍霍叫。哈利太了解罗恩了，知道罗恩并不会太喜欢它，不停地叼念着他的旧伴老鼠斯卡伯斯，但荷米恩的猫克路殊克前不久吃掉了它，这点尤其让罗恩觉得痛心。

　　“克路殊克(猫)在哪里？”哈利问荷米恩。

　　“在外面花园里，我想，”她说，“它喜欢追逐地精，但它从来没有见过。”

　　“伯希很喜欢工作？哈利一张床上坐下来，看着库得利加能大炮在天花板的海报上驶进驶出。

　　“喜欢？”罗恩秘密地说，“如果不是爸爸要他回来，他是不会回来的，他着迷了，不要提及他老板的话题，根据克劳斯先生……

　　像我跟克劳斯先生说的那样……据克劳斯先生看来……克劳斯先生告诉我，他们将随时宣布他们的雇用契约。“

　　“你夏天过得不错吧，哈利？”荷米恩说。“你收到了我们给你的食物包裹等东西了吗？”

　　“收到了，太感谢了，”哈利说，“那些蛋糕，救了我的命。”

　　“你收到……？”罗恩开始问，但哈利的眼神使他没有说下去。

　　哈利知道罗恩将问及西里斯，罗恩和荷米恩在帮助西里斯逃出魔法部时出了很大力，他们对西里斯的关心就跟哈利一样。但在金妮面前讨论这件事不好。只有他们自己和丹伯多教授知道西里斯是如何逃跑的，也只有他们几个相信西里斯是无辜的。

　　“我认为他们已不再争吵了，”荷米恩说，想消除这尴尬的局面，金妮正在好奇地打量罗恩和哈利，“我们下去帮妈妈做饭，好吗？”

　　“好，”罗恩说完，四人就离开了罗恩的房间，下了楼，看见威斯里夫人独坐在厨房，看起来脾气特别坏。

　　“我们将在花园外面吃！”她说，“这里没有十一个人的地方。

　　孩子们，你们可以把盘子拿到外面去吗？比尔和查理在摆桌子，你们两个负责刀叉。“他对罗恩和哈利说。她把魔杖指向地窖里的马铃薯，一大堆马铃薯一个个都剥了皮从天花板上、墙上跳飞过来。

　　“噢，看在上帝的份上，”她说着，一边指向簸箕，旋即它从那边跳起来，滑过房间地板，把那些土豆捞起装在里面。她很粗暴地说，“那两个家伙，”她正在把厨柜里的锅、壶拉出来，哈利知道那两个家伙指谁，当然是弗来德和乔治，“我不知道他们会发生什么事，真的不知道。没有抱负，除非你不想惹他们那么多的麻烦……”

　　她把一个很大的铜炖锅放在餐桌上，开始挥舞魔杖在里面搅，乳脂色的酱从魔杖棒尖往下流。

　　“他们并不蠢，”她继续说，越说越气，把铜锅放到炉子上，摆了一下魔杖点燃了炉子，“但他们在自暴自弃，如果他们两个自己不拉自己一把，他们真的有麻烦。从霍格瓦彻飞来的关于他们的猫头鹰比其余的加在一起还要多。假如他们继续走现在走的路，他们将在滥用魔法办公室里玩完。”

　　威斯里夫人对刀具抽屉捅了一下魔杖，抽屉打开了。哈利和罗恩都闪开让路，几把刀从抽屉里飞出来，飞过厨房，开始切土豆，簸箕装着它们并把它们送入水槽。

　　“我不知道我们哪里和他们不同，”威斯里夫人说，她放下魔杖，拉出更多的铜锅。“好多年都是这样子，一件事接另一件事的。

　　他们就是不听，噢，没脑子！“

　　她捡起魔杖，发出一声巨大吱吱叫，魔杖变成了一只巨大的橡皮老鼠。

　　“又是他们的一根假魔杖，”她吼叫，“我多少次叫他们不要把它们放在附近。”

　　她抓起她的真杖，转过身来发现炉上的酱已在冒烟。

　　“来，”罗恩匆忙地对哈利说，从开着的抽屉里抓了一把刀具，“让我们去帮比尔和查理吧！”

　　他们离开了威斯里夫人，出了后门，来到庭院。

　　他们才刚走几步，突然荷米恩的麦黄色o型腿的猫——克库圣克斯快速跑出花园，瓶刷似的猫尾竖在空中，正在追逐一个有腿的土豆泥，哈利马上就认出那就是地精。不到十英寸高，喇叭形的小脚啪哒啪哒地跑，尽量快地跑过庭院，一头扎进一只防水长靴——门的四周有许多这样的长靴，哈利听见地精咯咯笑，因为描伸出爪子想抓他。就在这里，房屋另一边传来撞击声，他们进到花园就知道这是怎么回事了。原来比尔和查理两人各拿魔杖在手，让两台破旧的桌子飞上天空，在草坪上相互碰撞，都想碰碎对方的桌子。弗来德和乔治在欢呼，金妮在大笑，荷米恩在篱笆周围徘徊，很明显，她在好玩与担心间左右为难。

　　比尔的桌子碰上了查理的桌子，“砰”的一声，一条腿撞得掉了下来。头顶上有人大声说话，他们都仰起头来，伯希已从三楼窗户里探出头来。

　　“你把它弄下来，好吗？”他火吼道。

　　“抱歉，伯希。”比尔对他大笑，“锅底怎么样了？”

　　“真是太糟糕了，”伯希恼怒地说，他又关上了窗子。

　　比尔和查理放声大笑，把桌子安全地放到草坪上，比尔用魔杖轻打了一下，再次把桌腿接上，并用魔法不知从哪里变出了桌布。

　　七点钟，两台桌子上放满了威斯里夫人做得极好的饭菜，九个威斯里家人加上哈利、荷米恩在深蓝色万里无云的天空下吃晚餐。

　　对于一个整个夏天都吃味道不新鲜的蛋糕的孩子来说，这简直是天堂，起先，哈利只是听着别人谈话而没有加入，他正忙着吃鸡蛋火腿馅饼，煮土豆还有沙拉。

　　在桌子的那边，伯希在告诉他父亲关于锅底的报告。

　　“我告诉克劳斯先生我要在周二前搞好它，”伯希得意洋洋地说。“那比他意料的要快一点，我总是要走在前面。我及时完成，他会感激我的，现在这一阵子我们部门特别忙，因为世界杯的各种安排，我们就没有从魔法运动部那里得到我们需要的帮助。露得。

　　巴格蒙——“

　　“我喜欢露得，”威斯里先生柔和地说。“他为我们弄到这

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Chapter 7 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 Diggory's 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 Krum's 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!”

哈利把自己和罗恩松开，站了起来，他们到了一个看起来十分荒凉的、雾气蒙蒙的荒野。在他们前面是一对看起来很累很粗暴的巫师。他们其中一个拿着一只大金表，另一个拿着一卷厚厚的羊皮纸和一支羽毛笔。两个都穿得像马格似的，不过看起来很拙劣。拿着表的男人穿着一件苏格兰粗呢外套，他的同事穿着一件有褶裥的裙子和一件宽大的防水衣。
　　“早上好，巴西人。”威斯里先生打着招呼，拿起靴子，把它递给穿裙子的巫士。他把靴子扔进了旁边的一个装着用过的波奇的大箱子里；哈利可以看到一份旧报纸，一个空饮料罐和一个有洞的足球。
　　“你好，亚瑟，”巴西人疲倦地说，“不用值班吧？对某些人来说是好事……我们已经在这里一个晚上了……你最好让让路，一大群人即将到达，他们来自黑森林，五点十五分出发的，等一下，我找一下你的营地……威斯里……威斯里……”他查看着羊皮纸上的名单，“在那边，大约四分之一英里，你去一号营地，找派恩先生。”
　　“谢谢！”威斯里先生叫其他人跟着他。
　　他们穿过荒野出发了。大约二十分钟以后，在路的旁边，有石头小屋出现在眼前。除了这个，哈利还可以看到成百上千个外型丑陋的帐篷，布满了这片原野。他们同迪格瑞父子道别后，走向小屋。
　　一个男人站在门口，望向那些帐篷。哈利一眼就看出他是这方圆几英亩内唯一的真正马格。当他听到脚步声后转了过来，看向他们。
　　“早上好！”威斯里先生聪明地说。
　　“早上好！”马格说。
　　“您是罗伯特先生吗？”
　　“是的，”罗伯特先生回答，“你是谁？”
　　“威斯里，两个帐篷，几天前就预订了。”
　　“啊，”查看了一下钉在门上的名单，罗

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Chapter 8 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!” she 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 - Moran!” 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 ma

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Chapter 9 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 of Magical 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, he

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Chapter 12 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 Hogwarts 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 Neville'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. Ch

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Chapter 13 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.

第二天早上暴风雨终于过去了，尽管大礼堂的屋顶还是很幽暗，沉重的铅灰色的云还在头顶盘旋。哈利、罗恩和荷米恩在吃早饭的时候检查了一遍他们的新课程表。隔了几个座位，弗来德、乔治和李·乔丹正在讨论怎样用魔法使他们自己变老并且混入那场三人巫术比赛。
　　“今天天气不错……整个早上外头都很好，”罗恩说道，他的手指正在课程表的星期一那一栏上划动，“草药学和喷火术，还有魔法变出小动物……见鬼，我们还是和史林德林在一起上课……”
　　“今天下午是双重占卜术课。”哈利叹息着说，看着这一栏的下面，除了调制巫药，占卜术就薀威利最不喜欢的科目。特雷络尼教授老是在预言哈利的死期，这使得他极度讨厌。
　　“你应该像我一样放弃这一科，对不对？”荷米恩轻快地说，一边在她的吐司上抹黄油，“然后做一些明智的事情，比如说数字占卜法”。
　　“我注意到你又在吃了。”罗恩说，一边看着荷米恩在她抹了黄油的吐司上又涂上大量的果酱。
　　“我认为有更好的办法来维护我们小精灵的权利。”荷米恩十分骄傲地说道。
　　“你说得对……而且你很饿。”罗恩微笑着说。
　　他们的头顶突然响起一阵沙沙声，一百多只猫头鹰穿过开着的窗户飞了进来，带来了早上的信件。哈利本能地抬头去看，但却没有在那堆褐色和灰色的猫头鹰中看到他自己那只白猫头鹰的影子。
　　那些猫头鹰在桌边绕围，寻找这些邮件和包裹的主人。一只黄褐色的大猫头鹰飞向尼维尔并在他膝上放下一个包裹——尼维尔总是忘记把东西包起来。在礼堂的另一边，马尔夫的猫头鹰停在他的肩头上，带来的东西一看就觉得是和往常一样：家里寄来的虩望和蛋糕。为了消除胃里由于失望而引起的下沉感，哈利回到座位上继续喝麦片粥。是不是海维出了什么事，以至西里斯至今还没有收到他的信？
　　在他们穿过湿漉漉的菜地间的小路走到第三温室去的路上，哈利一直想着这些事情。但当史包特教授，在温室里向全班同学显示一种植物——哈利所见过的植物中最丑陋的一种时，他却被这种东西吸引住了，不再去想信件的事。实际上，这种植物看起来不像植物，倒更像许多大且黑的蛞蝓从土壤中径直地伸出来，每只都有点轻微扭动变形，上面长满大且发亮的肿块，里面看起来充满了液体。
　　“布波鸠伯斯（这种怪植物的名称），”史包特教授轻快地告诉他们。“得把它们榨了，然后你们收集那些脓液——”
　　“收集什么？”谢默斯。芬尼更抗议似的说。
　　“脓液，芬尼更，我是说收集脓液，”史包特教授说：“这些脓液相当有用，别浪费掉。你们要把脓液收集在这些瓶子里。戴上你们的龙皮手套。如果在没有稀释之前沾到皮肤，可能会发生古怪的反应。”
　　榨布波鸠伯斯的工作让人觉得恶心，但却出奇地顺利。携带着浓烈的汽油味。他们按照史包特教授的指示把脓液装入瓶子里。下课时，他们总共收集了好几品脱的脓液。
　　“这会使女士高兴，”史包特教授说，同时将最后一个瓶子用软木塞塞好。“布波鸠伯斯的脓液是治疗顽固粉刺的特效药，必须阻止学生们再用竭斯底里的方法去除粉刺了。”
　　“比如可怜的艾罗丝。米德根，”汉娜。艾伯特用一种平静的语气说，他是学喷火术的。“她企图用咒语去除粉刺。”
　　“促姑娘，”史包特教授摇摇头说，“但波姆弗雷女士后来竟把鼻子钉起来。”
　　一阵隆隆的铃声在城堡的湿漉漉的地上回响，带给大家下课的讯息。于是同学们各自散去，学喷火术的踏上石阶去上变身术课，学驯狮鹰兽的格林芬顿则朝另一个方向走去下了斜斜的草坪，向哈格力的小木屋走去，那是间建在弗里比顿森林边上的小木屋。
　　哈格力站在他的木屋外，一只手牵着他那只大黑猫犬——“弗兰”的项圈。他的脚边有几只打开的木箱，‘佛兰“一边猎猎的叫，一边拉扯扭着项圈，显然很想走近箱子去看看里面有什么。当同学们走近时，一阵奇怪的嘈杂声传入他们的耳中，像是一些小炸弹发出的。
　　“早上好！”哈格力笑着对哈利、罗恩和荷米恩说。“我们等一等史林德林班的吧，”他们不想让她错过这个——尾巴会冒火星的史库特斯。
　　“又来了？”罗恩问。
　　哈格力指了指脚边的木箱。
　　“尤尔夫！”荣文登。布朗尖叫着向后跳了一步。
　　在哈利看来，尤尔夫是对尾巴会冒火星的史库斯的最好概括。
　　它们看起来是变了形的、没有亮的龙虾，颜色惨白且污秽，在奇怪的地方伸出很多脚来，却看不到它们的头。每箱大约有一百只这种东西，每只大约有六英寸长，爬在彼此的身上，或瞎撞到箱壁上。
　　它们发出一种很浓的腐鱼臭味。它们的尾巴会不时地伴随啪的一声冒出一阵火花来，同时身体向前推进几英寸。
　　“刚刚孵化出来的，”哈格力自豪地说，“因此你们可以自己饲养他们。不过我们得先定个计划。”
　　“我们为什么会想养这些东西呢？”一个冷冷的声音说。
　　史林德林班的到了。刚才说话的是杰高。马尔夫，而克来伯和高尔在一旁赞成地咯咯笑。
　　哈格力对这个问题感到为难。
　　“我是说，它们是干什么用的？”马尔夫问道：“我们养它们有什么用？”
　　哈格力张开嘴巴却停了几秒钟，显然在艰难地恩索，而后他冷冷地说：“那是下节课的内容，你们今天只须喂养它们。现在，你们试一试喂它们吃不同的东西——我以前也没有养过这种东西，不知道他们吃什么——我准备了一些蚂蚁蛋、青蛙肝和一些草蛇，每样给它们试一点。”
　　“先是脓液，再是这东西。”谢默斯咕哝道。
　　是对哈格力深深的爱戴使哈利、罗恩和荷米恩默默地捧起一杯青蛙肝并放入木箱中去诱那些尾巴会冒火星的史库斯。哈利忍不住认为这样做毫无意义，因为那些史库特斯看起来没有嘴。
　　“哎哟！”过了十分钟后，迪恩。托马斯大叫。“它伤到我了。”
　　哈格力赶紧走到他身边，神情焦虑。
　　“他的尾巴冒火星了！”迪恩一边生气地说一边将被灼伤的手伸给哈格力看。
　　“啊，是的，它们冒火星时会伤人。”哈格力点头说。
　　“尤尔夫！”莱文登。布朗又说，“尤尔夫，哈格力，它身上尖尖的东西是什么？”
　　“哦，有些身上有螫，”哈格力兴奋地说。莱文登赶快将手从箱中抽回来。“我原以为都是雄性的——雌性的腹上长有类似吸管的螫……我想是用来吸血的。”
　　“哦，我知道我们养这些东西是做什么用，”马尔夫讽刺地说：“谁不想拥有一只会烧伤、刺伤又会咬伤人的宠物？”
　　“只是因为它们样貌不佳，但这不说明它们没用，”荷米恩打断他的话，“龙血有惊人的魔力，但你却不会想要一只龙作宠物，对不对？”
　　哈利和罗恩对着哈格力咧开嘴笑，而哈格力则报之狡黠的微笑。正如哈利、罗恩和荷米恩所清楚的那样，没有什么东西能比一只宠物龙更让哈格力喜欢——在他们还是这所学校的一年级生时，哈格力曾在一段短时期内拥有一只龙，一只邪恶的挪威山脊背龙。
　　哈格力只喜欢恐怖的生物——越能致人死命越好。
　　“至少那些史库斯是小生物。”一小时后他们回到城堡里吃午餐时，罗恩如是说。
　　“它们只是现在小而已，”荷米恩声音显示她像被激怒了，“一旦哈格力不断给它们东西吃，它们就会长到六英尺长。”
　　“有什么关系呢？如同我们发现它们能用来治晕船的话，对吗？”罗恩俏皮地朝她笑了笑。
　　“你当然知道我那样说只是为了让马尔夫闭嘴，”荷米恩说，“老实说我认为他是对的。我们最应该做的事就是趁它们还没长到能攻击我们之前将它们全部踩扁。”
　　他们坐在驯狮鹰兽者的桌子边开始吃羊肉和马铃薯。荷米恩吃得很快，以致哈利和罗恩都盯着她看。
　　“哦——这就是维护小精灵权利的新方法吗？”罗恩说，“你是不是想使自己呕吐？”
　　“不，”荷米恩说，她的嘴因为塞满芽菜而胀鼓鼓的，却拼命想使自己显得很尊贵，“我只是想去图书馆。”
　　“什么？”罗恩不相信自己听到的话。“荷米恩——今天才是开学第一天，我们还没有作业要做！”
　　荷米恩耸耸肩，又继续狂吃食物，就像她已经几天没吃过饭了似的。然后她跳起身来说：“晚餐再见！”然后以快速离席而去。
　　下午的上课铃响的时候，哈利和罗恩出发去北塔，那是间处于螺旋形楼梯的顶部的房间，房里有架银梯，通向天花板上的扇圆形活板门。特雷络尼教授就住在里面。
　　当他们来到楼梯顶的时候，一阵熟悉的香气飘入他们的鼻。像往常一样，门上挂着帘子，圆形的房间沐浴在几盏灯的昏暗而微红的光线中，房里挂满了披肩和围巾。哈利和罗恩穿过那些已有人坐了的椅子和坐垫，然后他们坐在同一张圆桌边。
　　“日安，”特雷络尼教授的大嗓门从哈利的背后响起，吓了他一大跳。
　　特雷络尼教授是个戴着副巨大无比的眼镜、瘦极了的女人，那副眼镜使得她的眼睛看起来大得与她的脸不成比例。她又在以一贯的那种悲惨的神情凝视着哈利。在炉火发出的光里，她身上戴的珠子。项链和镯子闪闪发光。
　　“你很专心，亲爱的，”她用忧伤的语气对哈利说，“我心中的眼睛穿透了你勇敢的面孔，看到了你内心的烦恼。很遗憾，我必须告诉你：你的忧虑不是毫无根据的。我看见你前面的艰难岁月了，哎呀……非常的艰难……恐怕你一直害怕的事情会真的到来……，还有可能来得比你预料中早。”
　　她说话的声音越来越低，到后来几乎成了耳语。罗恩的眼光在哈利身上转来转去，哈利却看起来面无表情。特雷络尼教授的眼光将他们全部扫视了一遍，然后在火炉边的太师椅上坐了下来，看着全班同学。那两个非常钦佩特雷络尼教授的学生——莱文登。布朗和帕维提。帕提，坐在离她很近的坐垫上。
　　“亲爱的，我们该讨论一下星星了，”她说。“讨论一下它们那些只为理解了神的舞步的人所能洞察的行星运动和神秘的凶兆。人类的命运可以用行星的射线来解释，这些射线是混合的……”
　　可薀威利走神了。那散发着香气的炉火总是使他感到想瞌睡和思维迟钝，而特雷络尼教授的不连贯的关于算卦的讲话从来无法令他入神——虽然他忍不住想起她刚才对他说的那番话。“我恐怕你害怕的事情会真的变成事实……”
　　“但荷米恩是对的，”哈利生气地想，特雷络尼教授的确是个老骗人精。他现在压根儿没有在害怕什么……除非你将西里斯的被捉计算在他害怕的事情当中……但特雷络尼教授怎么知道这件事呢？
　　很久以来他便一直认为她那所谓能预测未来的幌子不过是幸运的猜测和她鬼一样明森森的神态带来的。
　　当然，除了那次——上学期末，她预测福尔得摩特正在上升……当哈利将她的预言描述给丹伯多听时，他说她认为这种催眠状态复的发生过。
　　“哈利！”罗恩低声叫他。
　　“什么事？”
　　哈利环顾四周，发现全班同学都在盯着他看。他马上坐直了身体。在炉火的温暖和自己的恩绪中迷失的他已经几乎睡着了。
　　“亲爱的，我是说你显然是出生在上星罪恶的影响之下的，”教授说。当她看到哈利明显地没在认真听她的讲话时，她的语气里带了一丝愤怒。
　　“对不起，在什么之下出生？”
　　“土星，宝贝，土星！”特雷络尼说，因为看到哈利的恩绪居然没被这个消息吸引过来而被激怒了。“我是说你出生的时候，土星在天堂里肯定处于当权的地位……你的黑发……你的矮小的身材……年纪轻轻就悲惨地失去了……我想我猜的没错的话，你是出生于仲冬？”
　　“错了，”哈利说：“�

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Chapter 14 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 Neville 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 Dumbledor.…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.

除非你把尼维尔在药水里融了他第六个汽锅算作件大事，接下来的两天是没发生什么的。史纳皮教授的报复心似乎经过一个夏天后提高到一个新水平，他扣留了尼维尔让他给满满一桶的有角蛤蟆开肠剖肚，这让他回来时近乎精神崩溃了。
　　“你知道史纳皮为什么会如此坏脾气吗？”罗恩问哈利，他们在看荷米恩教尼维尔一种清理咒语，如何除去他指甲下的青蛙的肠子。
　　“知道。”哈利说，“是因为莫迪。”
　　众所周知，史纳皮的确想教邪术防御课，他第四年的竞争还是失败了，史纳皮向来讨厌他们的前任邪术教师，并且表露出他的厌恶，但他似乎令人惊讶地谨慎地藏起了对魔眼的憎恨，的确这样，无论何时哈利见到他们俩在一起——就餐时，或在走廊上相遇时——他明显地觉察到史纳皮在逃避莫迪的眼睛，不管是正常眼，还是魔眼。
　　“我想史纳皮有点害怕，你知道的。”哈利沉思着说。
　　“想想，要是莫迪把史纳皮变成一只有角蛤蟆。”罗恩说，他眼睛迷糊了，“把他在地牢里扔来扔去……”
　　格林芬顿的四年级学生热切盼望莫迪的第一堂课，他们午饭后，上课铃还没响就已早早到了，在教室外排好了队。
　　唯一不在场的是荷米恩，她刚好赶上上课。
　　“我在——”
　　“图书馆。”哈利替她说完，“快点，不然我们没好座位了。”
　　他们急忙在讲台面前的三张椅子上坐下，拿出《邪恶力量自卫指南》，分外安静地等候着。不久，他们听到莫迪特有的咯咯的脚步声从走廊上传进来，他进了教室，跟以往一样让人觉得陌生、害怕。他们只能看到他那只有爪的木脚从袍子下边伸出来。
　　“你们可以拿走那些东西。”他咆哮着，走向讲台坐了下来，“那些书，你们不会用到的。”
　　他们把书放回书包，罗恩看上去很兴奋。莫迪拿出注册本，把他扭曲的结满疤的脸上的灰长的鬃毛拔开，开始点名，他正常的眼睛逐步顺著名单往下扫视，而他的魔眼则转动着，盯住应到的每一个学生。
　　“好了。”当最后一个人应到，表明在场后，他说，“我从露平教授处拿到关于这个班的一封信，看来你们对怎么对付邪物有了扎实的基础——你们已学了博格特斯，红帽，金克朋克斯，格林弟罗，凯普斯和维尔欧维斯，对吗？”
　　学生大多认可了他的话。
　　“但你们落后了，非常落后，在对付咒语方面。”莫迪说，“因此，我想让你们了解巫师们可以怎样相互作法，我有一年时间来教你们如何对付邪——”
　　“什么，你不留下来吗？”罗恩脱口问道。
　　莫迪的魔眼转过来盯着罗恩，罗恩看上去很害怕，但莫迪一会儿就微笑了，——哈利第一次见他微笑，结果是使得他满是疤痕的脸看上去扭曲变形得更厉害了，然而，知道他会以微笑作友好的表示，总是种宽慰，罗恩显得放松多了。
　　“你该是亚瑟。威斯里的儿子吧？”莫迪说，“你爸爸几天前帮我摆脱了困境……是的，我只待一年，承蒙丹伯多错爱……一年，然后回去安静地养老。”
　　他的笑声嘶哑，青筋毕露的手轻拍了一下。
　　“因此，直接开始上咒语，它们形式多样，威力无穷，尊照魔法部的指示，我要教你们反邪术的技巧，然后到那为止，到了六年级，我才会让你们看非法毒咒是什么样子，但丹伯多教授对你们评价甚高，认为你们应付的来，我的意见是，你们越早知道你们防备的东西就越好，但你们如何保护自己，防备那些从未见过的东西呢？要对你们施恶咒的巫师是不会告诉你们他的行动的。他可不会当着你们的面，对你们友好、礼貌地施咒，你们得有所防备，必须警觉谨慎，布郎小姐，当我讲课时你得把那东西放到一边去。”
　　莱文登吓了一跳，脸红了，她刚才在桌子下面向普怀特展示刚完成的星卦图，莫迪的魔眼不仅能透过她的脑袋视物，而且可以穿过木头视物。
　　“那么，你们谁知道最受巫术法严惩的咒语是哪些吗？”
　　好几只手陆续地举起，包括罗恩和荷米恩的在内，莫迪指着罗恩，然而他的魔眼仍盯着莱文登。
　　“嗯。”罗恩试探地说，“我爸爸告诉有一个……它是叫英普流斯咒语，还是什么来的？”
　　“啊，对了。”莫迪赞赏他说，“你爸该知道那个，英普流斯咒语有段时间，给部里制造了许多麻烦。”
　　莫迪不对称的脚费力地支撑起他，站好了，他打开抽屉，拿出个玻璃罐，里面有三只巨大的巨蜘蛛，哈利感觉到罗恩在旁稍稍缩了一下——罗恩讨厌蜘蛛。
　　莫迪的手伸进罐里，抓住一只蜘蛛，放在掌上，以便所有的学生都能看到。
　　然后，他用魔杖指着它，说声，“英普流斯！”
　　蜘蛛搭在一根细丝线上，从莫迪掌中跃下，开始像荡高架一样前晃后晃，它僵直地伸出腿，往后翻转，线断了，蜘蛛落到桌上，它开始像车轮一样转着圈儿，莫迪猛挥一下魔杖，蜘蛛用两足立起起来，毫无疑问，它在跳踢达舞。
　　每个人——除了莫迪都大笑起�

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Chapter 15 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, “Imperio!”
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!” said 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 BEFORETHE 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!”

第二天一大早，哈利醒过来了，心里计划得满满的，似乎他休眠的大脑整夜都在计划着，他起了床，在微弱的晨光中穿好衣服，没叫醒罗恩就离开了宿舍，回到空空的大屋去，他从桌上拾起一片写着他的作业的纸片，写了下面这封信：亲爱的西里斯：我想我的伤疤犯痛不过是种想象，上次给你写信时我迷迷糊糊的，你不必回来，这儿一切均好，别为我担心，我现在一切如常。
　　哈利然后他爬出画像洞口，城堡静悄悄的，他往堡顶走去，最后他到了，在西塔楼的顶部。
　　奥里路是个用石头建的流通室，因为窗子全都没有玻璃，所以风很大，极为冷。地面上到处都是稻草、猫头鹰粪和老鼠、田鼠的残骸，成百只各类的猫头鹰在伸向塔顶的栖木上筑巢，几乎所有的猫头鹰都在睡觉，但时不时有个褐色的圆眼睛盯住哈利，哈利认出海维，她的巢在一只谷仓猫头鹰和一个茶猫头鹰之间，他急忙走过去，在满是鸟粪的地板上稍稍滑了一下。
　　他花了一会儿的工夫叫醒了她，她边看着他边在巢里跳来跳去，给他看她的尾巴，显然，她仍然对他前一天晚上的不敬感到气愤，最后，哈利说担心她会太累可能他该向罗恩借用皮维军，这才使得她伸出腿，让他把信绑在上面。
　　“一定要找到他，行吗？”哈利抚着她的背，把她托在手臂上走到一个墙洞口，“要在丹伯多之前找到他。”
　　她啄着他的手指，可能比平常用力，但她轻轻地咕咕叫着，好像在作保证一样，然后她展开翅膀，飞向天空，看着她飞去，哈利又有种熟悉的不安的感觉。他曾经是多么肯定西里斯的回信会缓解而不是增加他的忧虑。
　　“那是骗人，哈利。”荷米恩早餐时尖声说，哈利刚告诉了她和罗�

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Chapter 16 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 gettin’ 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 Beauxbatons 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

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Chapter 17 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.

　哈利呆坐在那，觉察到巨厅里人人都转过头来看着他。全身麻木，他一定是在做梦。他一定听错了。
　　没有掌声，大厅里有的只是如蜜蜂发出的嗡嗡声。一些学生站起来，乘他呆坐在座位上时好好看看。
　　在最高桌那边，麦康娜教授站起来，经过露得。巴格蒙和卡可卡罗夫教授，急促地跟丹伯多教授低语，丹伯多教授凑过耳朵，眉头微皱。
　　哈利转过身，对着罗恩和荷米恩，他那边格林芬顿一整桌人都张大嘴看着他。
　　“我没有放名字过去，”哈利茫然地说。“你们知道我没有。”
　　他们两个也是茫然地瞪着他。
　　最高桌那边，丹伯多教授挺直身子朝麦康娜教授点头。
　　“哈利·波特！“他又叫。”哈利！请上这来！“
　　“去吧。”荷米恩低声说，轻轻推了推哈利。
　　哈利站起来，踩住了饱子下摆差点跌倒，他从史林德林桌和海夫巴夫桌间穿过。那条路好像没有尽头，最高桌似乎是遥不可及。
　　他感到成百上千双眼在注视他。而每双眼都仿佛是探照灯。嗡嗡声越来越响。感觉好像薀妄了1小时他才走到丹伯多前面，又感到所有老师的目光都在望着他。
　　“嗯……通过那扇门，哈利。”丹伯多说，他没有笑容。
　　哈利沿着老师的桌子向前走。哈格力就坐在另一头。他没有朝哈利眨眼，没有挥手，也没有任何他常有的问候动作。他完全惊呆了。哈利走过时，他和其他人一样，盯着他。哈利走出大会堂，发现自己进了一个挂满男巫女巫画像的小房间。正对他的是个火炉，炉火烧得正旺。
　　他一进去，画上的脸都朝他看来，只见一个干枯的女巫从她自己的相框里飞出来，飞进旁边一个长着海象胡子的男巫像里，在他耳边低语。
　　维特。克伦，赛德里克。迪格瑞还有芙璐·迪米高围坐在火边，映着火光，他们给人一种奇怪的印像。克伦拱着身子靠着壁炉架在沉思，与另两个分开，塞德里克背着手站着，盯着大门看，而哈利进去时，芙璐·迪来高四处张望，往后甩头发。
　　“什么事？”她问，“他们要我们回大厅去吗？”
　　她以为他是来捎口信的，对刚发生的事哈利不知该如何解释。
　　他只能站在那，看着那三位选手，发现他们高得惊人。
　　身后传来一阵忙乱的脚步，路得。巴格蒙进了房间，他牵着哈利的手向前走。
　　“真不寻常！”他咕哝着，拧着哈利的胳膊。“实在是不寻常！
　　先生们……小姐们。“他加了句，靠近火边，跟其他三个说：“请容许我介绍——有点不可思议——第四位三巫赛选手。“
　　维特。克伦直起身。打量着哈利，他傲慢的脸阴沉了下来。塞德里克迷惑不解地看看巴格蒙又看看哈利。好像怀疑自己是不是听错巴格蒙说的话了。而芙璐·迪来高则摇头笑着说，“呕，非常可笑的玩笑，巴格蒙先生。”
　　“玩笑？”巴格蒙重复了一下，有点迷惑，“不，不，根本不是玩笑。燃烧的高脚杯刚刚给出哈利的名字。”
　　芙璐皱起眉头。“但是明显是错了，”她轻蔑地对着巴格蒙说，“他不能参赛。他太小了。”
　　“嗯……是挺奇怪，”巴格蒙摸摸光滑的下巴朝哈利笑说。“但是，你知道，年龄限制是今年才加的特别安全措施。他的名字从杯中出来……我的意思是在这种情况下，我认为退出是不可能的了。
　　这薀玩则，你必须……哈利只要尽其所能——“
　　门又开了，一大群人走进来：丹伯多教授，紧跟着克劳斯先生，卡克罗夫教授，玛西姆夫人，麦康娜教授和史纳皮教授。哈利听到墙的另一边传来无数学生的嗡嗡声，麦康娜教授关上门。
　　“玛西姆夫人！”芙璐马上朝她的校长过去，“他们说这个小男孩也要参赛！”
　　在哈利满怀疑虑的麻木了的心灵某种却也泛起了怒浪，小男孩？
　　确实，相比哈利的矮个头玛西姆夫人显得相当高，她优美的头部都碰到点蜡的吊灯，而她那宽大的黑锻缎衣脑襟下也鼓起来了。
　　“这是什么意思嘛，丹伯多？”她傲慢地发问。
　　“我也想知道，丹伯多，”卡克罗夫教授也说。他笑容冷峻，目露寒光。“霍格瓦彻有两名选手。我可不记得有什么人说过东道主学校可以有两个选手的，是不是那些规则我读得还不够仔细？”
　　他发出刺耳的笑声。
　　“这不可能，”玛西姆夫人说，她那戴了许多猫眼石的大手放在芙璐的肩上。“霍格瓦彻不可以有两个选手，那样太不公平了。”
　　“丹伯多，我们都很相信你的年龄线能够阻止年少者报名。”卡克罗夫还是那副冷峻像，只是目光更加冷酷。“否则的话，我们当然也会从学校带多些候选人来，范围大一些。”
　　“这都是波特的错，卡克罗夫，”史纳皮温和地说。他的黑眼珠闪着邪恶的光芒。“不要因为哈利执意要违反规则而责备丹伯多，他从来这里起就在惹麻烦。”
　　“谢了，塞维鲁施。”丹伯多坚定地说。史纳皮不作声，但透过他那油腻的黑发可见他的双眼仍然闪着邪恶的光。
　　丹伯多教授看着哈利，哈利也在看他，试图解读教授半月镜片后的眼神。
　　“哈利，你有没有把名字放进燃烧的高脚杯了？”丹伯多发问，很冷静。
　　“没有，”哈利回答，他知道大家都在密切地注视着他。在暗处，史纳皮轻轻哼一声，显然是不耐烦，不信任。
　　丹伯多教授没理史纳皮，他继续问：“那你有没有叫比你大的学生帮你放？”
　　“没有！”哈利反应强烈。
　　“哼，他当然是撒谎！”玛西姆夫人说，史纳皮在摇头，双唇扭曲。
　　“他不可能越过年龄线。”麦康娜厉声说道，“我相信我们大家都同意——”
　　“丹伯多一定弄错年龄线了。”玛西姆夫人耸耸肩。
　　“当然，这有可能的。”丹伯多很有礼貌地回答。
　　“丹伯多，你没有弄错，这一点你知道得一清二楚。”麦康娜很生气。“真是废话！哈利自己没可能越过年龄线。如丹伯多教授所说他没有让哪个比他大的学生帮他放，但难保说有什么好心人帮他做了。”
　　她非常生气地瞟了史纳皮教授一眼。
　　“克劳斯先生，巴格蒙先生，”卡克罗夫油腔滑调地，“你们可是客观裁制，你们一定也认为这是最不合常理的吧。”
　　巴格蒙拿着条手帕擦脸。圆圆的脸，挺孩子气的。他在着克劳斯先生，后者站在火光圈外，脸隐藏在阴暗之中，阴森森的，黑暗使他显得老多了，也让人觉得他像个骷髅。他开口了，声音和平常一样散慢，“我们须遵守规则。规则上写得清清楚楚，凡是名字从燃烧的高脚杯中出来了的人就必须参加比赛。”
　　“巴地对条例书可是了如指掌。”巴格蒙笑着转过身对着卡克罗夫和玛西姆夫人，好像这条事就这么完结似的。
　　“我坚持我的其他学生再报一次名。”卡克罗夫一改油腔滑调，没有笑容，都是满脸丑恶，“你再把燃烧的高脚杯摆出来，我们继续往里扔名字，到每个学校有两名选手为止。只有这样才公平，丹伯多。”
　　“可是，卡克罗夫，那样不行，”巴格蒙。“燃烧的高脚杯刚熄，要到下次比赛开始才会再烧起来。”
　　“那么，哈利将不能参加比赛！”卡克罗夫爆出这样的话。“开了这么多会议，做了这么多协商让步，我压根没想到有这种事发生！现在我差不多想走了。”
　　“卡克罗夫，别做无谓的威胁了。”门边响起一个声音，“现在你可不能丢下你的选手不管。他还得比赛呢，他们都得比。如丹伯多所言，有约束力的魔力契约。方便吧，呃？”
　　莫迪刚进来，他一拐一拐地朝炉火这边走，他每走一步都发出铿锵巨响。
　　“方便？”卡克罗夫说话。“莫迪，恐怕我不明白你在说什么。”
　　哈利看得出他竭力扮清高，装出他根本就不知道莫迪说什么的样子，可惜他那握成拳头的双手背叛了他。
　　“是吗？”莫迪静静地说，“这很简单，卡克罗夫，有人把波特的名字放进杯子，他知道一旦被选中，波特就必须参赛。”
　　“显而易见，有人希望霍格瓦彻有更多获胜机会。”玛西姆夫人叫起来。
　　“我赞同您的看法，玛西姆夫人。”卡克罗夫朝她鞠躬。“我将向魔法部和国际巫师协会提出抗议。”
　　“要说有谁有理由抗议的话，那就是波特。”莫迪咆哮，“可笑的是，我没听到他说过一句话。”
　　“他有什么好抱怨的？”芙珊。迪来高跺脚冒出一句。“他得到了参赛的机会，不是吗？几周以来，我们都希望被选中参赛。为了学校的荣誉，为了那一千金币的奖金。这可是许多人梦寐以求的机会。
　　“可能有人希望哈利因此而亡。”莫迪带着咆哮的口吻。
　　话音刚落。房间里一片死寂。
　　露得。巴格蒙，看来真的很紧张，他不安地走来走去，“莫迪，你这老东西，说的是什么话。”
　　“我们都知道，午餐之前莫迪教授若还没找出六个暗算杀他的阴谋，他会觉得早晨白过了。”卡克罗夫大声说，“显然他在教他的学生也畏惧暗杀。丹伯多，这可是个冒犯我们的怪招。当然，你有你的理由。”
　　“说是我编造的？”莫迪吼道，“还不明白吗？呃？是某个技术高超的巫师把那孩子的名字放进杯里的……”
　　“你有什么证据？”玛西姆夫人大手一挥。
　　“因为他欺骗了一个魔力强大的东西！”莫迪说，“要迷惑高脚杯，使它忘记只有三所学校参赛，需要一个非常强的魔咒。我猜测他把波特的名字放在第四所学校，确保他是那类中唯一的一个。”
　　“莫迪，看来你考虑的还挺多的哦。”卡克罗夫冷冷地说，“当然，这个理论还挺高明的。我听说最近你把生日礼物中的一个漂亮杯子当作经过巧妙包装的蜥蜴蛋打了个粉碎，因此我们不把你的话当回事，你应该能理解吧。”
　　“有些人总想利用一些无关的事件，”莫迪用威胁的口气反驳。
　　“想那些阴险的巫师怎么做是我的事，卡克罗夫——你应该还记得……”
　　“阿拉施特！”丹伯多警告道。哈利一时不知道他是跟谁说，后来意识到这才是“魔眼”莫迪的真名。莫迪不作声，但还是得意地打量着卡克罗夫，后者已是怒火中烧。
　　“怎么会出现这种情况，我们不知道，”丹伯多对房间里的人说。“在我看来，除了接受事实外我们别无选择。塞德里克和哈利都被选中了参赛，那他们也只得……”
　　“丹伯多——可是——”
　　“亲爱的玛西姆夫人，您要是有什么好建议的话，我洗耳恭听。”
　　丹伯多等她说。可她没开口只是瞪着眼。不只她，史纳皮看来也很愤怒，卡克罗夫面色铁青，而巴格蒙却相当兴奋。
　　“那么我们就开始了。”他援搓手，笑视四周。“该给选手们指令了吧？巴地，有兴趣帮个忙吗？”
　　“行，指令，是了，第一个任务……”
　　巴地凑近火光。哈利觉得他病了。眼圈发黑，干枯的皮肤干瘦如纸。可快迪斯世界杯赛时，他不是那样的。
　　“第一个任务

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Chapter 18 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 wa

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Chapter 19 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 Wonky-Faint 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 people, 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 thi