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Harry's conscience had been nagging at him for days, a persistent voice that wouldn't be silenced. The knowledge of the dragons waiting for the first task weighed heavily on his mind. Hagrid had shown him. Maxime had seen them, which meant Fleur knew. Karkaroff had sneaked a look too, so Krum was prepared. Only Cedric remained in the dark.
It's not fair, Harry thought as he climbed the marble staircase after lunch. I may not have asked to be in this tournament, but I can't let Cedric face a dragon without warning.
He spotted his opportunity when he saw Cedric heading down a less-traveled corridor with a group of sixth-year Hufflepuffs. Harry quickened his pace, his hand instinctively tightening around his wand. He'd need a distraction.
A simple Diffindo aimed at Cedric's bag did the trick. Books, parchment, and ink bottles spilled across the stone floor as the Hufflepuff's bag split at the seams.
"Go on," Cedric told his friends, waving them ahead. "Tell Flitwick I'll be a minute."
Harry waited until the others had disappeared around the corner before approaching. Cedric looked up, surprise evident on his handsome face.
"Hello," he said, straightening up with armfuls of spilled parchment. "My bag just split... brand new and all..."
"Cedric," Harry said quietly, glancing around to ensure they were alone. "The first task is dragons."
Cedric froze, a quill suspended halfway to his repaired bag. "What?"
"Dragons," Harry repeated, keeping his voice low. "They've got four, one for each of us. We have to get past them."
Cedric straightened up slowly, studying Harry's face with narrowed eyes. "Why are you telling me this?"
The suspicion in his voice stung, but Harry couldn't blame him. "Because Fleur and Krum already know. Their headmasters saw the dragons too. You're the only one who didn't know, and that's not right."
"And how do you know?" Cedric asked, his expression guarded.
Harry weighed his options. He couldn't drop Hagrid in it. "Does it matter? I'm not making this up, Cedric."
The Hufflepuff stared at him for a long moment, his gray eyes searching Harry's face for any sign of deception. Harry held his gaze steadily.
"You're serious, aren't you?" Cedric finally said.
"Deadly serious. Swedish Short-Snout, Welsh Green, Chinese Fireball, and a Hungarian Horntail." Harry felt a shiver run down his spine at the memory of the black dragon with bronze spikes. "They're nesting mothers, so they'll be extra aggressive."
Cedric ran a hand through his hair, messing up the careful styling. "Bloody hell. Dragons. They're mental." He shook his head, then looked at Harry with newfound respect. "But why tell me? We're competing against each other."
Harry shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable with Cedric's scrutiny. "It's supposed to be about magical skill, isn't it? Not who has the better spy network." He attempted a small smile. "Wouldn't be much of a competition if you got roasted before you even knew what you were facing."
A slow smile spread across Cedric's face, genuine and warm. "No, I suppose not." He extended his hand. "Thanks, Potter. That's... decent of you."
"Don't mention it," Harry replied, shaking the offered hand. Maybe Hermione and Ginny were right about trying to make more allies, he thought, recalling their discussion about uniting the champions.
"I owe you one," Cedric said, hoisting his repaired bag onto his shoulder.
Harry nodded awkwardly, uncomfortable with the gratitude. "Just try not to get barbecued."
Cedric laughed, the tension between them dissolving. "I'll do my best. You too, Potter." He paused, then added more seriously, "For what it's worth, I never thought you put your name in that goblet."
The admission caught Harry by surprise. "You didn't?"
"Nah. Your face when you walked into the room... that wasn't an act." Cedric began walking toward his Charms class, calling over his shoulder, "Good luck, Harry. May the best wizard win—preferably without getting turned into dragon food!"
As Harry watched Cedric disappear around the corner, he felt a small weight lift from his shoulders. It hadn't been an easy decision, but it had been the right one. Now they were all on equal footing, at least when it came to knowing what they faced.
Now I just need to figure out how to actually survive it, Harry thought, turning toward the abandoned classroom where Hermione would be waiting to continue their shadow magic experiments.
One Week Later
The abandoned classroom on the fourth floor had become their sanctuary over the past week. Hermione had meticulously warded it with privacy charms, silencing spells, and even a clever little ward that would make anyone approaching suddenly remember urgent business elsewhere. Harry appreciated her thoroughness—especially given what they were attempting.
"Let's try again," Hermione said, her quill poised over a parchment filled with detailed notes and observations. A jar of Frigidus Nebula sat on the desk beside her.
Harry nodded, taking a deep breath. Five days of attempts, and they were still no closer to combining the plant's properties with his shadow magic. His shoulders ached from tension, and a persistent headache throbbed behind his eyes from magical exertion.
"Same approach as before?" he asked, rolling up his sleeves.
Hermione tapped her quill against her chin thoughtfully. "No, I think we need to reconsider our fundamental assumptions. The Frigidus Nebula operates on principles of thermal reduction, while your shadow magic seems to manipulate both darkness and physical space..." She flipped through her notes. "Perhaps instead of trying to infuse the shadow with the plant's properties, we should consider them as complementary forces."
Harry smiled despite his fatigue. Only Hermione could make failed magical experiments sound like an exciting academic puzzle.
"Worth a shot," he agreed, plucking a silvery frond from the jar. "Ready?"
Hermione nodded, raising her wand to cast a controlled Incendio at the stone basin they'd been using as a test subject.
Harry crushed the Frigidus Nebula between his fingers, feeling its icy properties activate. Simultaneously, he extended his magical awareness toward the shadows beneath the desks, calling them to him with a whispered "Umbra Vincula."
The shadows responded eagerly, rising like dark smoke to twine around his fingers. Harry pushed his magic into them, trying to create a connection between the icy plant dust and the writhing darkness.
For a moment, it seemed to work—the shadows took on a bluish tinge, frost forming along their edges. Then, like every previous attempt, they simply fell apart, the magical connection severing abruptly. The shadow essence dissipated, and the Frigidus Nebula dust fell uselessly to the floor.
"Damn it!" Harry slammed his palm against the desk, frustration boiling over. "What are we missing?"
Hermione didn't flinch at his outburst. She simply made another notation in her journal. "The properties want to combine. There's just some catalyst or technique we haven't discovered yet."
Harry ran his hands through his already messy hair, making it stand up even more wildly. "We're running out of time, Hermione. The task is in three days."
"I know," she replied, her voice softening. "You can still use them even without your Shadow Magic, this just enhances it."
Harry paced the length of the classroom. "It's more than that. If I could master this, it might be the key to understanding these abilities better. To controlling them fully."
Hermione set her quill down, watching him with those perceptive brown eyes that seemed to see right through him. "You're overthinking it, Harry. Remember what Ginny said about your magic?"
Harry paused. "That it feels warm? Safe?"
"That it responds naturally to your emotions," Hermione corrected. "Every time you've made significant progress with shadow magic, it's been when you stopped forcing it and just... felt it."
Harry considered her words. She was right. His first successful shadow binding had happened when he'd embraced the power rather than trying to contain it. And with Ginny in the common room, the shadows had responded effortlessly when they were emotionally connected.
"Okay," he said finally, returning to the desk. "Let's try something different."
He took another frond of Frigidus Nebula, but this time, instead of immediately crushing it, he held it in his palm, feeling its natural properties.
Closing his eyes, Harry reached out to the darkness with his magical senses. They gathered around his hands, curious and willing.
"Neville said cold and darkness have natural affinities," Harry murmured, remembering their conversation in the greenhouse. "They're not opposing forces—they're complementary."
With that realization, Harry stopped trying to force the magic to combine. Instead, he let his intuition guide him, thinking of how nightfall brings the chill of evening, how the deepest shadows of winter carried frost in their embrace.
He crushed the silvery leaf, but instead of pushing his magic into it, he simply opened himself as a conduit between the two forces, letting them find their own balance.
The crushed plant matter swirled with the shadows, creating something entirely new. A mist began to form around his hands—darker than fog but more substantial than shadow, with tiny ice crystals suspended within it, catching what little light remained in the room and refracting it in eerie, beautiful patterns.
"Harry!" Hermione gasped, her quill forgotten. "You've done it!"
The shadow mist coiled around his fingers like an affectionate pet, responsive to his slightest thought. He could feel its dual nature—the protective cold of the Frigidus Nebula enhanced by the versatility of his shadow magic.
"Test it," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, afraid any sudden movement might break the delicate magical balance.
Hermione cast the Incendio charm again, creating a substantial flame in the stone basin. Harry directed the shadow mist toward it with a mere thought. The dark fog engulfed the fire, and for a moment, the flame seemed to fight against it, brightening defiantly—before being snuffed out completely, leaving nothing but a thin layer of frost where heat had been seconds before.
"It's not just extinguishing the fire," Hermione observed, her analytical mind already racing ahead. "It's completely negating the thermal energy and converting it into its opposite state. That's beyond what either component could do separately. It's synergistic magic!"
Harry flexed his fingers, feeling the shadow mist respond to his movements, expanding and contracting. "It feels... right. Like they were meant to work together."
"This is extraordinary magic, Harry," Hermione said, circling him to observe the phenomenon from all angles. "Magic that combines elements like this usually requires complex rituals or potions as a binding agent. You're doing it through pure will and intuition."
She reached out tentatively, her fingertips brushing the edge of the mist. "It's cold, but not painfully so. More like... protective cold." Her eyes met his, bright with excitement. "A dragon's fire can never overpower this."
The realization that they'd succeeded—that he had another weapon against the dragon—washed over Harry in a wave of relief so powerful his knees nearly buckled. He released the shadow mist, letting it dissipate naturally, and sagged against the desk.
"We did it," he breathed, a genuine smile crossing his face for the first time in days.
"You did it," Hermione corrected, moving closer until she stood directly in front of him. "I just took notes."
Harry shook his head. "I couldn't have figured it out without you. Without your theory about complementary forces."
Hermione's cheeks flushed pink at the praise. "Well, I suppose we make a good team."
"The best," Harry agreed, reaching out to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered against her cheek, tracing the soft curve of her jawline.
"I think this calls for a celebration," she murmured, her hands coming to rest on his chest.
Harry didn't need further invitation. He closed the small distance between them, capturing her lips with his own. Hermione responded immediately, her arms sliding up to wrap around his neck as she pressed herself against him. The kiss deepened, weeks of tension and stress melting away in the heat of their connection.
Harry's hands found her waist, lifting her easily to sit on the desk behind them. Hermione made a small, appreciative sound as she parted her legs to allow him closer, her fingers tangling in his perpetually messy hair.
"What about—" he began when they broke for air.
"My wards will hold," she assured him, already working at the top buttons of his shirt. "Besides, Ginny would be furious if we didn't properly celebrate our breakthrough."
Harry laughed against her lips, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. "We'll have to give her a thorough demonstration later."
"Oh, I'm counting on it," Hermione replied with a mischievous glint in her eyes that would have surprised anyone who only knew her as the serious bookworm of Gryffindor. "But for now..." She pulled him back into a searing kiss that effectively ended all further conversation.
Three Days Later
The dungeon air hung thick with the acrid smell of simmering potions. Harry kept his eyes fixed on his cauldron, methodically chopping valerian roots for today's Sleeping Draught. The first task loomed just one day away, a fact that no one in the classroom seemed willing to let him forget—especially the Slytherins.
"Betting pool's up to fifty galleons on how long Potter lasts tomorrow," Draco Malfoy drawled loudly enough for half the classroom to hear. "I've put my money on thirty seconds. Father says dragons can burn the flesh off bones with a single breath."
A wave of snickers rippled through the Slytherin side of the room. Harry noticed nearly all of them sported those ridiculous "Potter Stinks" badges, the lettering flashing garishly in the dim dungeon light.
"How generous of you to give me a whole thirty seconds, Malfoy," Harry replied without looking up from his chopping. "I didn't think you had that much faith in me."
He felt rather than saw Malfoy's scowl deepen at the unexpected response. Since discovering his shadow abilities, Harry had found it easier to maintain his composure—as if some of the darkness he could control had absorbed his tendency to flash-fire anger.
"It's not faith, Potter, it's pity," Malfoy shot back, though his voice lacked some of its usual bite. "I thought I'd be generous since it's probably your last day alive."
Harry carefully added his chopped roots to the bubbling cauldron, watching the liquid turn from murky brown to a pale lilac. "I appreciate the concern, Malfoy, but perhaps save your pity for your Potions grade. Your solution's turning green when it should be purple."
A few of the Gryffindors stifled laughs as Malfoy hastily glanced at his own cauldron, which was indeed nowhere near the correct color.
As Snape swept past their table, robes billowing dramatically, Harry let his gaze wander across the room. Most of the Slytherins were still smirking at him, but he noticed one exception—a blonde girl working quietly at the far end of the room. Unlike her housemates, she wore no badge and seemed entirely focused on her potion, which was the perfect shade of lilac.
As if sensing his attention, she glanced up. For a brief moment, their eyes met across the dungeon—hers a startling shade of blue, cool and assessing. There was no hostility in her look, merely... curiosity. Harry found himself oddly transfixed until Snape's voice snapped the connection.
"Potter! Are you so arrogant as to believe you can complete this assignment without watching your cauldron?" Snape loomed over him, his lip curled in its permanent sneer. "Or perhaps you think tournament champions are exempt from paying attention?"
"No, sir," Harry replied evenly. "Just checking if anyone else had achieved the correct color change yet."
Snape's eyes narrowed at the measured response, clearly expecting the defiance he could punish. "Five points from Gryffindor for unnecessary distraction."
As Snape stalked away, Harry returned to his potion, but his mind was already working on a different problem. The success with the shadow mist had given him confidence, but he needed one more ingredient from Snape's private stores to refine it—powdered moonstone to stabilize the magical reaction. He'd never make it into Snape's office undetected... unless...
Harry discreetly assessed the room. He needed a distraction substantial enough to capture everyone's attention, but not so catastrophic that they'd evacuate the dungeon. His gaze fell on Ron's cauldron, which was already wobbling dangerously.
Catching Hermione's eye, Harry gave a tiny nod toward Snape's office door. Her eyes widened slightly in understanding, though she frowned in disapproval. Still, she gave an almost imperceptible nod back.
Harry focused on the shadow beneath Ron's table, extending a tendril of darkness that no one else could see. With a subtle motion of his fingers under the desk, he used the shadow to nudge the leg of Ron's stool—just enough to jostle the nervous boy's arm as he added the next ingredient.
The reaction was immediate and spectacular. Ron's cauldron gave a violent hiss before belching a cloud of purple smoke that billowed across the ceiling. Several students shrieked as the smoke began raining down fat, sticky droplets of half-formed Sleeping Draught.
"Weasley!" Snape roared, rushing toward the disaster. "What incompetence have you demonstrated this time?"
While everyone's attention was fixed on the growing chaos, Harry closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, accessing the deeper shadow pool beneath his own desk. "Umbra Viatorem," he whispered, feeling the now-familiar sensation of his body dissolving into darkness.
An instant later, he rematerialized in the darkness of Snape's office, the transition so quick and silent that no one could have noticed his momentary absence. Working with practiced efficiency, Harry located the jar of powdered moonstone, took a small sample in a vial he'd prepared, and slipped it into his pocket.
Another whispered incantation returned him to his seat just as Snape managed to clear the purple smoke with a sweep of his wand.
"Twenty points from Gryffindor, Weasley, and detention!" Snape's face was livid. "The rest of you, continue your work—" His dark eyes suddenly snapped to Harry, narrowing suspiciously.
Harry met his gaze calmly, stirring his perfectly progressing potion with measured movements. Something flickered in Snape's expression—a combination of suspicion and confusion. For a moment, Harry wondered if the professor had somehow sensed the shadow magic, but Snape merely scowled and returned to berating Ron.
"Nice work with your potion, Potter," came a voice from his left. Harry turned to find a Slytherin girl with dark hair and intelligent eyes who'd moved to the workstation beside his during the commotion. "Most people add the valerian too quickly after the wormwood."
Harry recognized her vaguely as one of the quieter Slytherins, often seen with the blonde girl he'd noticed earlier. "Thanks," he replied, genuinely surprised by the friendly comment. "It's easier to concentrate when you're not betting on my death."
The girl's lips quirked into a half-smile. "Tracey Davis," she offered. "And for what it's worth, my bet's on you surviving. Anyone who can produce a corporeal Patronus at fourteen isn't going down to a dragon, no matter what Malfoy thinks."
Harry blinked, momentarily thrown by both her knowledge and her confidence in him. "Appreciated, though I'm not sure how you knew about the Patronus."
"I pay attention," she replied with a shrug that somehow managed to be both casual and elegant. "To things that matter, anyway." She gestured at her badge-free robes with a meaningful glance toward Malfoy's group.
"One point from Slytherin for unnecessary conversation, Miss Davis," Snape's cold voice interrupted. "Return to your station."
"Worth it," Tracey murmured with a wink before gathering her ingredients and moving back to her table, where the blonde girl was watching their interaction with raised eyebrows.
"Something you'd like to share with the class, Potter?" Draco called out, having noticed the exchange. "Recruiting sympathy votes before you're toasted tomorrow?"
Harry merely smiled, a new confidence settling over him like a cloak. "No need, Malfoy. But I'll be sure to wave to you from the winner's circle—it'll give you something to write home about."
As Draco sputtered, unable to formulate a cutting response, Harry returned to his potion, the vial of powdered moonstone a reassuring weight in his pocket. Tomorrow's task still loomed, but for the first time, he felt genuinely prepared.
And perhaps, he thought with a glance toward Tracey and her blonde friend, there were more potential allies in unexpected places than he'd realized.
.
.
"Potter! A word."
Professor Moody's gruff voice stopped Harry as he was packing his books at the end of Defense Against the Dark Arts. The classroom had emptied quickly, students hurrying to dinner as the November dusk gathered outside the windows. Harry glanced at his watch—barely twenty-four hours remained before he'd face the dragons.
"Yes, Professor?" Harry approached the scarred ex-Auror's desk, noticing how Moody's magical eye swiveled wildly before fixing on him with unnerving intensity.
"Prepared for tomorrow, are you?" Moody asked without preamble, taking a swig from his hip flask.
Harry hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. "Working on it, sir."
Moody's natural eye narrowed. "Don't play games, Potter. I know you know about the dragons." At Harry's startled expression, he barked a short laugh. "Didn't survive this long without keeping my ear to the ground. Question is—what's your strategy?"
The directness caught Harry off guard. Teachers weren't supposed to help champions, yet Moody was openly discussing the task. Harry decided to offer a partial truth.
"I'm planning to use the Summoning Charm," Harry said carefully. "Neville Longbottom showed me a plant called Frigidus Nebula that neutralizes dragon fire. Since I can only bring my wand into the arena, I figured I'd summon the plant once the task begins."
"Frigidus Nebula, eh?" Moody's scarred face twisted into what might have been a smile. "Clever use of the rules, Potter. Longbottom knows his plants, I'll give him that."
Harry nodded, deliberately omitting any mention of shadow magic.
"But plants burn, boy," Moody continued, leaning forward. "Dragons aren't just fire-breathing monsters—they're fast, agile, and smarter than you think. You need to play to your strengths."
"My strengths, sir?"
"Don't be modest, Potter! Youngest Seeker in a century, aren't you?" Moody's magical eye spun wildly. "I've watched you fly. Natural talent like yours doesn't come along often."
"I've considered using my Firebolt," Harry admitted. "But the dragon's airborne too. Not sure if outflying it is the safest approach."
"The dragon will not fly away from their eggs, Potter. Do you really think we would just let a dragon loose in School grounds? Still, you will need to watch out for their fire breath," Moody replied. He thumped his wooden leg against the floor for emphasis. "Distract, disorient, then dive for the objective. Basic Auror strategy."
Harry weighed his words carefully. "I appreciate the advice, Professor. I'll keep it in mind."
"Good lad." Moody nodded approvingly. "Got a solid head on your shoulders. Be a shame to see it roasted off tomorrow."
Harry couldn't help but wonder why Moody was helping him so openly. Had Dumbledore instructed him to? Or did the paranoid ex-Auror have his own reasons?
"Sir, if you don't mind me asking... why are you telling me this? I thought teachers weren't supposed to help champions."
Moody's mismatched eyes fixed on Harry with such intensity that he had to resist the urge to step back. The magical eye seemed to penetrate beyond his skin, as if scanning the very magic that flowed within him.
"Let's just say I don't like uneven playing fields," Moody finally growled. "You are only fourteen boy. French girl's got her headmistress whispering in her ear and more school years than you. Krum's got Karkaroff and more school years. Even Diggory's got his friends and more school years. But you—" He jabbed a gnarled finger toward Harry. "You're on your own, aren't you? Always have been."
"Besides," Moody continued, his voice dropping lower, "I've got a nose for dark magic, Potter. Tournament stinks of it. Someone put your name in that goblet for a reason, and I doubt it was to see you win trophies and glory."
Harry shifted uncomfortably, acutely aware of the shadows pooling at his feet despite the torchlight.
"Off with you now," Moody said abruptly, waving him toward the door. "Get some food in you. No good facing a dragon on an empty stomach."
Harry nodded, gathering his bag. "Thanks again, Professor."
Tomorrow
The newly constructed arena sprawled at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, wooden stands rising in concentric circles around a rocky enclosure. Harry's stomach churned as he paced the small champion's tent, the excited roar of the crowd a distant rumble through the canvas walls. Fleur sat ramrod straight on a stool, her beautiful face a mask of concentration. Krum slouched in a corner, somehow looking both bored and intensely focused. Cedric, pale beneath his tan, kept running his hand through his hair until it stood up almost as wildly as Harry's.
"Champions, gather round," Ludo Bagman called cheerfully, as if they were about to play a friendly game of Quidditch rather than face nesting dragons. His yellow robes seemed inappropriately festive for the occasion. "You'll each select a model from this bag—" he held up a purple silk sack that was moving slightly, "—which represents the dragon you'll face. Ladies first!"
Fleur's hand trembled slightly as she reached into the bag, emerging with a perfect miniature of a Welsh Green with the number "2" around its neck. Krum went next, drawing the Chinese Fireball marked with a "3." Cedric selected the Swedish Short-Snout with a "1," which left—
"The Hungarian Horntail," Harry murmured as Bagman thrust the remaining model into his palm. The tiny dragon unfurled its wings and snapped its jaws at him, its spiked tail lashing angrily. Of course, he'd get the most dangerous one.
"Each of you must collect the golden egg from your dragon's nest," Bagman explained. "It contains a clue for the second task. Without it, well..." he chuckled, "you'll be a bit lost! Mr. Diggory, at the sound of the cannon—"
A deafening boom cut him off as Filch, overeager as always, fired the signal early.
"Right, off you go then!" Bagman clapped Cedric on the shoulder, propelling him toward the tent entrance.
Cedric Diggory's Trial
Cedric's heart hammered against his ribs as he clutched his wand, standing at the entrance to the arena. The roar of the crowd was deafening, but somehow distant, as if heard through water. Ten days hadn't been nearly enough time to prepare for facing a dragon, but he was grateful for Potter's warning. Without it, he'd have walked in completely blind.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" Ludo Bagman's magically amplified voice boomed across the arena. "Welcome to the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament! Our champions will each face a nesting mother dragon to retrieve a golden egg! First up—representing Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—CEDRIC DIGGORY!"
The crowd erupted, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, and several Slytherin students, particularly vocal, yellow and black banners waving frantically. Cedric caught a glimpse of his father in the stands, standing taller than those around him, face shining with anticipation.
Focus, Diggory. Remember the plan.
At the sound of the cannon, Cedric stepped into the rocky enclosure, immediately diving behind a large boulder as the Swedish Short-Snout bellowed a greeting of blue-white flame. The heat seared the air even from ten yards away.
"Ooh, narrow escape there!" Bagman commented as the crowd gasped collectively. "Our Hogwarts champion showing good reflexes!"
Merlin's beard, it's enormous.
The silvery-blue dragon crouched protectively over its nest, yellow eyes tracking his movement. Cedric's mind raced through everything he knew about Short-Snouts—powerful flame, excellent vision, but slower to turn than some breeds. His strategy relied on that last fact.
Taking a deep breath, Cedric pointed his wand at a medium-sized rock about thirty feet to the dragon's right.
"Lapifors Maxima!" he incanted, focusing intently on the complex transfiguration.
The rock shuddered, then transformed into a large Labrador retriever that immediately began barking and running in circles. The Short-Snout's head snapped toward the movement, exactly as Cedric had hoped.
"Clever move!" Bagman shouted as murmurs of appreciation rippled through the crowd. "Using transfiguration to distract the dragon! That's thinking on your feet!"
Now, while it's distracted.
Cedric bolted from his hiding place, sprinting toward the nest from the dragon's left side. He'd nearly made it halfway when the dragon's attention returned to him, its massive head swinging back with surprising speed.
Too soon!
He dived behind another boulder just as a jet of flame scorched the ground where he'd been standing. The heat was overwhelming, the smell of his singed robes filling his nostrils. His transfigured dog was still barking, but the dragon had identified the primary threat.
"Very narrow miss!" Bagman's voice rang out over screams from the audience. "That's the danger of the Short-Snout—incredible flame temperature! Diggory will need to be extremely careful!"
Need something more substantial.
Cedric aimed his wand at the largest boulder near the dragon's right flank. This would require all his concentration—Professor McGonagall's advanced transfiguration lessons running through his mind.
"Saxum Canis Grandis!" he called, channeling his magic.
The enormous boulder shimmered, then morphed into a massive mastiff the size of a small horse. The spectral dog growled, far more menacing than his first creation, and charged toward the dragon's flank.
A collective "Ooooh!" rose from the spectators, followed by applause at the impressive piece of magic. Even Professor McGonagall could be seen nodding in approval from the teachers' section.
"Look at that transfiguration work!" Bagman exclaimed. "Advanced magic from Mr. Diggory! Not something they teach in standard classes—he's been preparing well!"
The Short-Snout roared in confusion, its attention fully captured by this new threat that was large enough to seem genuinely dangerous. It reared up, wings extending as it prepared to deal with the charging canine.
Now!
Cedric broke cover, sprinting toward the nest. He was so close—ten yards, five yards—when he felt the rising heat at his back. The dragon had divided its attention, one eye still tracking him even as it faced the transfigured mastiff.
"He's going for it!" Bagman shouted as the crowd held its collective breath. "He's almost there!"
He lunged for the golden egg, fingers closing around the metallic surface just as searing pain erupted across his right side. The dragon's flame had caught him, setting his robes ablaze. Clutching the egg to his chest, Cedric dropped and rolled, casting "Aguamenti!" to douse the flames.
"He's got the egg!" Bagman yelled over the dragon's roar. "But he's been caught by the flame—ouch, that had to hurt!"
Pain lanced through his burned skin, but triumph surged stronger. He'd done it. He had the egg.
The crowd erupted into cheers and applause, Hufflepuff students jumping up and down, hugging each other. His father's booming voice could be heard even over the din: "THAT'S MY BOY! THAT'S MY SON!"
"And he's done it!" Bagman announced as dragon handlers rushed in to subdue the Short-Snout. "Cedric Diggory has successfully retrieved his golden egg! What an excellent start to our competition!"
Cedric ran limply toward the exit, golden egg tucked securely under his uninjured arm. Despite the pain, pride swelled in his chest. He'd faced a dragon—a bloody dragon—and succeeded.
"Let's have the marks from our judges!" Bagman called as Cedric reached the medical tent.
Through the tent flap, he caught glimpses of the scoring. Madame Maxime: 8. Crouch: 9. Dumbledore: 9. Bagman: 8. Karkaroff: 4.
"Thirty-eight points for Mr. Diggory!" Bagman announced to more cheers. "A very respectable start!"
As Madam Pomfrey rushed toward him, burn salve already in hand, Cedric found himself wondering how the other champions would fare—especially Potter. The younger boy had given him fair warning; the least Cedric could do was hope he survived his own trial.
Not bad for a Hufflepuff, he thought with a grin that quickly turned to a wince as Pomfrey began treating his burns. Dad would be proud.
Viktor Krum's Trial
"And now," Bagman's voice boomed after a short interval, "our second champion! Representing Durmstrang Institute—the world-famous Quidditch player—VIKTOR KRUM!"
The stands erupted, a contingent of scarlet-clad Durmstrang students chanting "KRUM! KRUM! KRUM!" as their champion emerged. A wave of excited whispers swept through the crowd, many students craning their necks for a better view of the international Quidditch star.
Viktor Krum stalked into the arena with the same scowl he wore on the Quidditch pitch. The crowd's adulation washed over him, meaningless noise. He had one objective: get the egg, prove his worth. Nothing else mattered.
"And Krum will be facing the Chinese Fireball!" Bagman announced as the handlers released the massive dragon. "Also known as the Liondragon—famous for its mushroom-shaped flame and particular aggression!"
The Chinese Fireball awaited him, scarlet scales gleaming like fresh blood in the sunlight. Magnificent creature. Krum respected its power, its ferocity. A worthy opponent.
But still just an opponent to defeat.
Karkaroff had suggested the Conjunctivitis Curse immediately after informing him about the dragons. Target the eyes—a dragon's most vulnerable point. Simple, direct, effective. Very like Karkaroff's approach to everything.
"Krum is taking a very direct approach," Bagman commented as Krum slowly circled the enclosure. "No fancy transfiguration here—he's sizing up his opponent just like he does with opposing Seekers!"
The dragon growled, golden spikes around its face rippling as it tracked Krum's movements. Several girls in the stands squealed as Krum narrowly avoided a jet of flame.
Krum didn't waste time with elaborate strategies. He circled to the right, establishing the dragon's tracking speed, then suddenly darted left, raising his wand.
"Conjunctivitis!" he bellowed, the curse flying straight and true into the Fireball's right eye.
"Merlin's beard!" Bagman shouted. "He's gone straight for the eye—the most vulnerable point on a dragon, but also the most dangerous to attempt!"
The dragon's roar of pain was deafening. It reared back, head thrashing wildly, wings beating the air in confused fury. Exactly as expected. Krum moved methodically toward the nest, keeping low, using the rocky terrain for cover.
The crowd went wild, Durmstrang students on their feet, fists pumping the air. "That's why he's the best Seeker in the world!" one of them shouted. "Precision targeting!"
Too easy. Almost disappointing.
Then things went wrong. The Fireball, disoriented and in agony, slammed its massive bulk against the stone outcropping near its nest. Rocks cracked, the ground trembled, and to Krum's horror, the dragon's tail swept across its own nest.
"Oh, that's unfortunate!" Bagman's voice carried over the collective gasp from the crowd. "The dragon is crushing her own eggs in her pain and confusion! That's going to mean a serious point deduction!"
The sickening sound of breaking eggs reached his ears. Genuine dragon eggs—not just the golden fake—crushed beneath the thrashing beast. A mistake. A costly one.
Dragon handlers at the edge of the arena exchanged alarmed looks. A redhead could be heard shouting, "Stand by with the Stunning Spells!"
Karkaroff will be furious about the points this will cost.
Pushing the thought aside, Krum seized the moment of chaos. He sprinted forward, snatched the undamaged golden egg from amid the wreckage, and retreated rapidly as dragon handlers rushed in to subdue the Fireball, which was still screeching in pain and confusion.
"He's got it!" Bagman announced as Krum emerged from the arena, golden egg tucked under his arm. "Viktor Krum has retrieved his egg! Quick and efficient—though with that unfortunate damage to the real dragon eggs."
The crowd's reaction was mixed—thunderous applause from the Durmstrang contingent and Krum's admirers, concerned murmurs from others about the destroyed eggs. Krum barely registered either. He had accomplished his goal. The execution had been flawed, but the outcome successful.
"The marks from our judges!" Bagman called.
Madame Maxime: 7. Crouch: 8. Dumbledore: 7. Bagman: 9. Karkaroff: 10.
"Forty-one points for Viktor Krum!" Bagman announced to mixed cheers and boos—the latter directed primarily at Karkaroff's obviously biased scoring.
As he exited the arena, golden egg in hand, Krum allowed himself a small nod of satisfaction. One task completed. Two more to conquer.
Next time, he thought, no collateral damage.
Fleur Delacour's Trial
"Next up, representing Beauxbatons Academy of Magic—FLEUR DELACOUR!" Bagman's voice rang out across the arena.
The crowd's reaction was immediate—appreciative whistles and cheers, particularly from the male section of the audience. Madame Maxime sat up straighter in her enlarged seat, her expression regal and expectant.
Fleur strode into the arena with her head held high, silvery-blonde hair gleaming in the sunlight. Her heartbeat quickened at the sight of the Welsh Green dragon, but she kept her expression composed, almost regal. The crowd hushed as she appeared—exactly the reaction she'd anticipated.
"Miss Delacour faces the Common Welsh Green," Bagman explained to the audience. "Generally considered the least aggressive of our four dragons—though I wouldn't recommend telling it that to its face!"
Let them watch. I will show them what a Beauxbatons champion is capable of.
The Welsh Green eyed her warily, smoke curling from its nostrils. A beautiful creature, in its way—the deep emerald scales catching the light as it shifted protectively over its nest. Fleur had spent hours researching this breed after Madame Maxime had informed her about the dragons. Welsh Greens were known to be less aggressive than other dragons, but still dangerously formidable.
"Miss Delacour appears to be taking her time," Bagman commented as Fleur circled the arena's edge. "A cautious approach after Mr. Krum's direct attack strategy."
"She knows what she's doing," a Beauxbatons student called out defensively. "Just watch!"
Unlike the brutish approach of Krum or the straightforward transfiguration of Diggory, Fleur had developed something far more elegant. Drawing on her Veela heritage and her exceptional charmwork—always her strongest subject—she had crafted a specialized enchantment combining melodic elements with a modified sleeping charm.
Raising her wand with fluid grace, Fleur began to weave intricate patterns in the air, her lips moving in a whispered incantation. Soft, haunting music emanated from her wand, filling the arena with otherworldly notes that seemed to shimmer in the air.
"What's this?" Bagman's voice had hushed slightly, as if affected by the enchanting melody. "Some form of musical charm—most unusual approach—"
"Somnum Canticum," she murmured, infusing the spell with both her magical intent and a touch of Veela allure.
The Welsh Green's movements slowed, its massive head swaying to the rhythm of her enchantment. The crowd watched in stunned silence as Fleur maintained the spell, taking measured steps toward the nest. The dragon's eyelids began to droop, its breathing becoming deeper and more regular.
"Extraordinary!" Bagman whispered, his commentary now subdued as if afraid to break the spell. "The dragon appears to be... falling asleep! I've never seen anything like it!"
The audience watched in mesmerized silence, many swaying slightly to the ethereal music themselves. Even the Durmstrang students looked impressed.
C'est parfait. Exactly as planned.
The Green's eyes closed completely, its head lowering to rest on its forelegs. Fleur allowed herself a small, satisfied smile as she continued her approach, the melodic charm never faltering. This was magic at its most refined—subtle, sophisticated, elegant. Not the brute force favored by so many wizards.
"What control!" Bagman murmured. "What precision! Miss Delacour is demonstrating extraordinary magical finesse here!"
The Beauxbatons contingent beamed with pride, several of them throwing smug looks toward the Durmstrang and Hogwarts students. Madame Maxime dabbed at her eye with a handkerchief the size of a tablecloth.
She was within ten feet of the nest when the dragon snored—a rumbling sound that shook the ground beneath her feet. With the snore came an unexpected jet of flame that caught the edge of her robes. Fleur bit back a cry of alarm, maintaining her concentration on the spell even as she extinguished the flames with a swift, nonverbal "Aguamenti."
"Oh!" gasped Bagman as the crowd collectively drew in their breath. "That was close—the dragon's snoring produced a flame jet! But she's maintaining the charm—incredible presence of mind!"
Merde! So close to perfection.
The dragon settled back into its enchanted slumber, and Fleur seized the moment to dart forward, grasping the golden egg from the nest and retreating quickly. Only when she was safely beyond the dragon's reach did she release her spell, the music fading gradually to avoid startling the creature awake.
The crowd erupted into thunderous applause, louder than they had been for either previous champion. Several male students were on their feet, clapping with particular enthusiasm. The Beauxbatons students were hugging each other, some openly weeping with pride.
"Remarkable!" Bagman's voice had returned to its full volume. "Absolutely remarkable! A nearly perfect execution—just that small bit of flame at the end! Let's see what our judges think!"
Fleur allowed herself a small, graceful curtsy before exiting the arena, golden egg tucked securely under her arm.
As the judges raised their wands to display her scores, Fleur held her breath. Madame Maxime's 9, followed by Crouch's 9, Dumbledore's 10, Bagman's 10, and finally, Karkaroff's reluctant 2.
"That gives Miss Delacour forty points!" Bagman announced over the outraged boos directed at Karkaroff. "Putting her currently in second place behind Mr. Krum!"
Forty points. Un score excellent, despite that biased fool Karkaroff.
"And now," Bagman continued as the crowd settled, "for our final champion—the youngest competitor in the Triwizard Tournament—representing Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—HARRY POTTER!"
She departed the medical tent with her head held high, having barely needed Madam Pomfrey's attention for her minor burns. Now she would watch the final champion—the boy Potter, who seemed far too young and unprepared for such a competition. She felt a twinge of something like pity for him.
The little boy will be fortunate to survive, she thought, making her way to the viewing stands. Though there was something unusual about him at the wand weighing... we shall see what he is truly capable of.
Harry Potter's Trial
And then it was Harry's turn.
"Three down, one to go!" Bagman announced as the cannon fired again. "Potter, you're up!"
Harry stepped out into the arena on legs that felt like water. The rocky enclosure stretched before him, boulders and crags creating a treacherous landscape centered around a nest containing several large eggs—and one gleaming golden one. Perched atop the nest, the Hungarian Horntail watched him with malevolent yellow eyes, smoke curling from its nostrils, its black scales gleaming in the midday sun. The spiked tail lashed against the rocks, leaving deep gouges in the stone.
The crowd's roar washed over him like a wave, faces blurring into a sea of color in the stands. He caught a glimpse of Hermione and Ginny sitting together in the front row of the Gryffindor section, their faces pale with worry.
Focus. The plan. Remember the plan.
Harry raised his wand. "Accio Firebolt!" he shouted, his voice carrying across the suddenly silent arena.
For several heart-stopping seconds, nothing happened. The dragon shifted, its massive head lowering as it assessed this tiny threat to its nest. Then a distant whooshing sound caught Harry's attention, and his Firebolt shot over the enclosure wall, hovering obediently at his side.
"Brilliant!" Bagman yelled as Harry mounted his broom. "An unexpected twist! Potter's going to take to the air!"
Harry kicked off, the familiar rush of flight momentarily banishing his fear. Below, the dragon's head swiveled to follow him, its neck straining against the heavy chains that anchored it near the nest.
"Great Scott, he can fly!" Bagman shouted as Harry dove, rolled, and climbed, testing the dragon's range of movement and reaction time. "Are you watching this, Mr. Krum?"
Banking sharply around a tall outcropping, Harry executed a perfect Sloth Grip Roll to avoid a jet of flame that scorched the air where he'd been moments before. The heat washed over him even at a distance, singing the edge of his robes.
Time for phase two.
"Accio Frigidus Nebula!" Harry called, pointing his wand toward the stands where Hermione sat.
A small leather pouch shot from Hermione's hand, arcing across the arena to smack into Harry's outstretched palm. Without pausing, Harry yanked the drawstring open, extracting one of the crystal vials containing the shadow-infused plant essence they'd created.
The dragon, frustrated by its elusive prey, reared back on its hind legs, wings half-extended. Harry recognized the stance from Charlie's description—it was preparing for a sustained fire blast that would roast anything within thirty feet.
Now or never.
Harry crushed the vial in his hand, feeling the cold darkness spread across his palm. In the same motion, he cast the shadow binding, combining both magics as they'd practiced.
"Umbra Frigidus!" he called, letting instinct guide the words of his improvised spell.
The effect was instantaneous and far more dramatic than anything in their practice sessions. The shadow mist exploded outward from his hand, expanding into a massive cloud that engulfed both Harry and the dragon. The temperature in the arena plummeted as darkness deeper than natural shadow swallowed the center of the enclosure, obscuring everything within it from the spectators' view.
Inside the shadow cloud, Harry could see perfectly—a side effect of his connection to the magic. The dragon, however, seemed disoriented, its head swinging wildly as it tried to locate him through the frigid, impenetrable darkness. Jets of flame erupted from its mouth, only to sputter and die a few feet from its jaws, smothered by the neutralizing properties of the enchanted mist.
"Extraordinary!" Bagman's voice sounded muffled through the magical barrier. "Potter's completely vanished inside some kind of... dark fog! The dragon can't see him—can't seem to use its fire either!"
Seizing the opportunity, Harry dove toward the nest, weaving between bursts of smothered flame. But just as he approached, the dragon's thrashing tail swept toward him—a solid mass of muscle and spikes that shadow mist couldn't neutralize.
Harry reacted instinctively, extending his free hand and calling to the shadows. "Umbra Vincula!"
Tendrils of pure darkness shot from his fingertips, wrapping around the massive tail like living ropes, slowing its movement just enough for Harry to dart beneath it. He was so close to the eggs now, just a few more yards—
Then something went wrong. The shadow bindings around the dragon's tail began to strain, not breaking, but... changing. Pulses of fiery magic coursed through the shadows, racing back toward Harry like lightning through a conductor. He realized too late—dragon magic was reacting with his shadow bindings, creating a feedback loop.
The shadow mist rippled as conflicting energies surged through it. Harry felt a jolt of foreign magic hit him, nearly knocking him from his broom. The Hungarian Horntail roared, a sound of confusion and rage that vibrated through the ground itself.
No time to analyze what was happening. The shadow magic was destabilizing, the mist beginning to thin. Soon the dragon would see him, and the temporary advantage would be lost.
Taking a desperate chance, Harry released the shadow binding on the tail and focused all his remaining concentration on a spell they'd barely tested.
"Umbra Viatorem!" he whispered.
His body dissolved into shadow essence, the sensation like diving into icy water. For one eternal second, he existed as pure darkness, formless and free. Then he rematerialized directly beside the clutch of eggs, his hand closing around the golden prize in the same instant his body became solid again.
The crowd gasped as Harry suddenly appeared at the nest, seemingly teleporting from his previous position. The shadow mist was rapidly dissipating now, revealing the confused dragon and the triumphant champion clutching his golden egg.
"I don't believe it!" Bagman was shouting. "Potter's got the egg! Fastest completion yet! Did anyone see how he did that? One moment he was hidden in that strange fog, the next—right at the nest! Extraordinary magic from our youngest champion!"
Harry kicked off again, golden egg tucked securely under his arm as he shot toward the enclosure exit, well beyond the dragon's reach. The Horntail, realizing it had lost its false egg, unleashed a furious blast of flame that dissipated harmlessly against the last wisps of shadow mist.
The crowd erupted into the loudest cheers yet as Harry touched down outside the enclosure. His legs buckled beneath him, the magical exertion of the past few minutes catching up all at once. He'd done it—faced the Horntail and emerged not just alive, but victorious.
"That was incredible, Harry!" Charlie Weasley's voice broke through his daze as the dragon handlers rushed past to subdue the Horntail. "What kind of magic was that? I've never seen anything like it!"
Before Harry could formulate a suitably vague answer, Hermione and Ginny burst through the medical tent flap, both launching themselves at him simultaneously. Their combined impact nearly knocked him off his feet again.
"You did it!" Hermione was half-laughing, half-crying, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck.
"That was brilliant," Ginny whispered, her eyes shining with a mixture of relief and pride. "The shadow travel at the end—no one knew what happened. They think it was some kind of specialized disillusionment."
"Harry Potter!" Professor McGonagall hurried toward them, her usual stern expression softened by undisguised relief. "That was... quite extraordinary magic. Are you injured?"
"I'm fine, Professor," Harry assured her, reluctantly disentangling himself from Hermione and Ginny. "Just tired."
"Madam Pomfrey should check you regardless. That was a Hungarian Horntail, after all." McGonagall's gaze lingered on his face, a question in her eyes that she didn't voice. "Most unusual magic," she repeated softly.
Harry allowed himself to be led toward the medical tent, but not before glancing up at the judges' table. Madame Maxime was first, raising her wand to shoot a silver ribbon into the air that formed the number 9. Mr. Crouch came next—another 9. Dumbledore—a 10, causing the crowd to cheer wildly. Ludo Bagman—another 10.
And finally, Karkaroff, who hesitated before sullenly sending up a 4.
"Four?" Ginny exploded indignantly. "That biased, foul—"
"It doesn't matter," Harry interrupted, unable to keep the smile from his face. "Even with that, I must be tied for first, at least."
"You're tied with Krum," Hermione confirmed, having done the quick mental calculation. "Forty-two points each. Fleur has forty, and Cedric thirty-eight."
As they entered the medical tent, Harry spotted Cedric on a cot, a thick orange paste covering one side of his face where he'd been burned. The Hufflepuff gave him a thumbs-up.
"Nice flying, Potter," he called. "And whatever that shadow thing was... well, remind me never to duel you."
Harry grinned, allowing Madam Pomfrey to check him over despite his protests that he felt fine. His mind was already racing ahead. The first task conquered, the golden egg secure—whatever came next, he felt ready to face it.
Outside, the crowd was still chanting his name.
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