Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire hp-4

by J. K. Rowling

  “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 clapped 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.