Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire hp-4

by J. K. Rowling

  Ron looked for a moment as though he was going to laugh; he certainly caught Harry’s eye for the first time in days, but Harry was still feeling too resentful toward Ron to care. He spent the rest of the lesson trying to attract small objects toward him under the table with his wand. He managed to make a fly zoom straight into his hand, though he wasn’t entirely sure that was his prowess at Summoning Charms—perhaps the fly was just stupid.

  He forced down some dinner after Divination, then returned to the empty classroom with Hermione, using the Invisibility Cloak to avoid the teachers. They kept practicing until past midnight. They would have stayed longer, but Peeves turned up and, pretending to think that Harry wanted things thrown at him, started chucking chairs across the room. Harry and Hermione left in a hurry before the noise attracted Filch, and went back to the Gryffindor common room, which was now mercifully empty.

  At two o’clock in the morning, Harry stood near the fireplace, surrounded by heaps of objects: books, quills, several upturned chairs, an old set of Gobstones, and Neville’s toad, Trevor. Only in the last hour had Harry really got the hang of the Summoning Charm.

  “That’s better, Harry, that’s loads better,” Hermione said, looking exhausted but very pleased.

  “Well, now we know what to do next time I can’t manage a spell,” Harry said, throwing a rune dictionary back to Hermione, so he could try again, “threaten me with a dragon. Right…” He raised his wand once more. “Accio Dictionary!”

  The heavy book soared out of Hermione’s hand, flew across the room, and Harry caught it.

  “Harry, I really think you’ve got it!” said Hermione delightedly.

  “Just as long as it works tomorrow,” Harry said. “The Firebolt’s going to be much farther away than the stuff in here, it’s going to be in the castle, and I’m going to be out there on the grounds…”

  “That doesn’t matter,” said Hermione firmly. “Just as long as you’re concentrating really, really hard on it, it’ll come. Harry, we’d better get some sleep… you’re going to need it.”

  Harry had been focusing so hard on learning the Summoning Charm that evening that some of his blind panic had heft him. It returned in full measure, however, on the following morning. The atmosphere in the school was one of great tension and excitement. Lessons were to stop at midday, giving all the students time to get down to the dragons’ enclosure—though of course, they didn’t yet know what they would find there.

  Harry felt oddly separate from everyone around him, whether they were wishing him good luck or hissing “We’ll have a box of tissues ready, Potter” as he passed. It was a state of nervousness so advanced that he wondered whether he mightn’t just lose his head when they tried to lead him out to his dragon, and start trying to curse everyone in sight. Time was behaving in a more peculiar fashion than ever, rushing past in great dollops, so that one moment he seemed to be sitting down in his first lesson, History of Magic, and the next, walking into lunch… and then (where had the morning gone? the last of the dragon free hours?), Professor McGonagall was hurrying over to him in the Great Hall. Lots of people were watching.

  “Potter, the champions have to come down onto the grounds now… You have to get ready for your first task.”

  “Okay,” said Harry, standing up, his fork falling onto his plate with a clatter.

  “Good luck, Harry,” Hermione whispered. “You’ll be fine!”

  “Yeah,” said Harry in a voice that was most unlike his own.

  He heft the Great Hall with Professor McGonagall. She didn’t seem herself either; in fact, she looked nearly as anxious as Hermione. As she walked him down the stone steps and out into the cold November afternoon, she put her hand on his shoulder.

  “Now, don’t panic,” she said, “just keep a cool head… We’ve got wizards standing by to control the situation if it gets out of hand… The main thing is just to do your best, and nobody will think any the worse of you… Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” Harry heard himself say. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  She was leading him toward the place where the dragons were, around the edge of the forest, but when they approached the clump of trees behind which the enclosure would be clearly visible, Harry saw that a tent had been erected, its entrance facing them, screening the dragons from view.

  “You’re to go in here with the other champions,” said Professor McGonagall, in a rather shaky sort of voice, “and wait for your turn, Potter. Mr. Bagman is in there… he’ll be telling you the—the procedure… Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” said Harry, in a flat, distant voice.

  She left him at the entrance of the tent. Harry went inside.

  Fleur Delacour was sitting in a corner on a how wooden stool. She didn’t look nearly as composed as usual, but rather pale and clammy. Viktor Krum looked even surlier than usual, which Harry supposed was his way of showing nerves. Cedric was pacing up and down. When Harry entered, Cedric gave him a small smile, which Harry returned, feeling the muscles in his face working rather hard, as though they had forgotten how to do it.

  “Harry! Good o!” said Bagman happily, looking around at him. “Come in, come in, make yourself at home!”

  Bagman looked somehow like a slightly overblown cartoon figure, standing amid all the pale faced champions. He was wearing his old Wasp robes again.

  “Well, now we’re all here—time to fill you in!” said Bagman brightly. “When the audience has assembled, I’m going to be offering each of you this bag”—he held up a small sack of purple silk and shook it at them—“from which you will each select a small model of the thing you are about to face! There are different—er—varieties, you see. And I have to tell you something else too… ah, yes… your task is to collect the golden egg!”

  Harry glanced around. Cedric had nodded once, to show that he understood Bagman’s words, and then started pacing around the tent again; he looked slightly green. Fleur Delacour and Krum hadn’t reacted at all. Perhaps they thought they might be sick if they opened their mouths; that was certainly how Harry felt. But they, at least, had volunteered for this…

  And in no time at all, hundreds upon hundreds of pairs of feet could be heard passing the tent, their owners talking excitedly, laughing, joking… Harry felt as separate from the crowd as though they were a different species. And then—it seemed like about a second later to Harry—Bagman was opening the neck of the purple silk sack.

  “Ladies first,” he said, offering it to Fleur Delacour.

  She put a shaking hand inside the bag and drew out a tiny, perfect model of a dragon—a Welsh Green. It had the number two around its neck. And Harry knew, by the fact that Fleur showed no sign of surprise, but rather a determined resignation, that he had been right: Madame Maxime had told her what was coming.

  The same held true for Krum. He pulled out the scarlet Chinese Fireball. It had a number three around its neck. He didn’t even blink, just sat back down and stared at the ground.

  Cedric put his hand into the bag, and out came the blueish gray Swedish Short Snout, the number one tied around its neck. Knowing what was left, Harry put his hand into the silk bag and pulled out the Hungarian Horntail, and the number four. It stretched its wings as he looked down at it, and bared its minuscule fangs.

  “Well, there you are!” said Bagman. “You have each pulled out the dragon you will face, and the numbers refer to the order in which you are to take on the dragons, do you see? Now, I’m going to have to leave you in a moment, because I’m commentating. Mr. Diggory, you’re first, just go out into the enclosure when you hear a whistle, all right? Now… Harry… could I have a quick word? Outside?”

  “Er… yes,” said Harry blankly, and he got up and went out of the tent with Bagman, who walked him a short distance away, into the trees, and then turned to him with a fatherly expression on his face.

  “Feeling all right, Harry? Anything I can get you?”

  “What?” said Harry. “I—no, nothing.”

  “
Got a plan?” said Bagman, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Because I don’t mind sharing a few pointers, if you’d like them, you know. I mean,” Bagman continued, lowering his voice still further, “you’re the underdog here, Harry… Anything I can do to help…”

  “No,” said Harry so quickly he knew he had sounded rude, “no—I—I know what I’m going to do, thanks.”

  “Nobody would know, Harry,” said Bagman, winking at him.

  “No, I’m fine,” said Harry, wondering why he kept telling people this, and wondering whether he had ever been less fine. “I’ve got a plan worked out, I—”

  A whistle had blown somewhere.

  “Good lord, I’ve got to run!” said Bagman in alarm, and he hurried off.

  Harry walked back to the tent and saw Cedric emerging from it, greener than ever. Harry tried to wish him luck as he walked past, but all that came out of his mouth was a sort of hoarse grunt.

  Harry went back inside to Fleur and Krum. Seconds hater, they heard the roar of the crowd, which meant Cedric had entered the enclosure and was now face to face with the living counterpart of his model.

  It was worse than Harry could ever have imagined, sitting there and listening. The crowd screamed… yelled… gasped like a single many headed entity, as Cedric did whatever he was doing to get past the Swedish Short Snout. Krum was still staring at the ground. Fleur had now taken to retracing Cedric’s steps, around and around the tent. And Bagman’s commentary made everything much, much worse… Horrible pictures formed in Harry’s mind as he heard: “Oooh, narrow miss there, very narrow”… “He’s taking risks, this one!”… “Clever move—pity it didn’t work!”

  And then, after about fifteen minutes, Harry heard the deafening roar that could mean only one thing: Cedric had gotten past his dragon and captured the golden egg.

  “Very good indeed!” Bagman was shouting. “And now the marks from the judges!”

  But he didn’t shout out the marks; Harry supposed the judges were holding them up and showing them to the crowd.

  “One down, three to go!” Bagman yelled as the whistle blew again. “Miss Delacour, if you please!”

  Fleur was trembling from head to foot; Harry felt more warmly toward her than he had done so far as she heft the tent with her head held high and her hand clutching her wand. He and Krum were left alone, at opposite sides of the tent, avoiding each other’s gaze.

  The same process started again… “Oh I’m not sure that was wise!” they could hear Bagman shouting gleefully. “Oh… nearly! Careful now… good lord, I thought she’d had it then!”

  Ten minutes later, Harry heard the crowd erupt into applause once more… Fleur must have been successful too. A pause, while Fleur’s marks were being shown… more clapping… then, for the third time, the whistle.

  “And here comes Mr. Krum!” cried Bagman, and Krum slouched out, leaving Harry quite alone.

  He felt much more aware of his body than usual; very aware of the way his heart was pumping fast, and his fingers tingling with fear… yet at the same time, he seemed to be outside himself, seeing the walls of the tent, and hearing the crowd, as though from far away.

  “Very daring!” Bagman was yelling, and Harry heard the Chinese Fireball emit a horrible, roaring shriek, while the crowd drew its collective breath. “That’s some nerve he’s showing—and—yes, he’s got the egg!”

  Applause shattered the wintery air like breaking glass; Krum had finished—it would be Harry’s turn any moment.

  He stood up, noticing dimly that his legs seemed to be made of marshmallow. He waited. And then he heard the whistle blow. He walked out through the entrance of the tent, the panic rising into a crescendo inside him. And now he was walking past the trees, through a gap in the enclosure fence.

  He saw everything in front of him as though it was a very highly colored dream. There were hundreds and hundreds of faces staring down at him from stands that had been magicked there since he’d last stood on this spot. And there was the Horntail, at the other end of the enclosure, crouched low over her clutch of eggs, her wings half furled, her evil, yellow eyes upon him, a monstrous, scaly, black lizard, thrashing her spiked tail, heaving yard long gouge marks in the hard ground. The crowd was making a great deal of noise, but whether friendly or not, Harry didn’t know or care. It was time to do what he had to do… to focus his mind, entirely and absolutely, upon the thing that was his only chance.

  He raised his wand.

  “Accio Firebolt!” he shouted.

  Harry waited, every fiber of him hoping, praying… If it hadn’t worked… if it wasn’t coming… He seemed to be looking at everything around him through some sort of shimmering, transparent barrier, like a heat haze, which made the enclosure and the hundreds of faces around him swim strangely…

  And then he heard it, speeding through the air behind him; he turned and saw his Firebolt hurtling toward him around the edge of the woods, soaring into the enclosure, and stopping dead in midair beside him, waiting for him to mount. The crowd was making even more noise… Bagman was shouting something… but Harry’s ears were not working properly anymore… listening wasn’t important…

  He swung his leg over the broom and kicked off from the ground. And a second later, something miraculous happened…

  As he soared upward, as the wind rushed through his hair, as the crowd’s faces became mere flesh colored pinpnicks below, and the Horntail shrank to the size of a dog, he realized that he had heft not only the ground behind, but also his fear… He was back where he belonged…

  This was just another Quidditch match, that was all… just another Quidditch match, and that Horntail was just another ugly opposing team.

  He looked down at the clutch of eggs and spotted the gold one, gleaming against its cement colored fellows, residing safely between the dragon’s front legs. “Okay,” Harry told himself, “diversionary tactics… let’s go…”

  He dived. The Horntail’s head followed him; he knew what it was going to do and pulled out of the dive just in time; a jet of fire had been released exactly where he would have been had he not swerved away… but Harry didn’t care… that was no more than dodging a Bludger.

  “Great Scott, he can fly!” yelled Bagman as the crowd shrieked and gasped. “Are you watching this, Mr. Krum?”

  Harry soared higher in a circle; the Horntail was still following his progress; its head revolving on its long neck—if he kept this up, it would be nicely dizzy—but better not push it too long, or it would be breathing fire again—

  Harry plummeted just as the Horntail opened its mouth, but this time he was less lucky—he missed the flames, but the tail came whipping up to meet him instead, and as he swerved to the left, one of the long spikes grazed his shoulder, ripping his robes—

  He could feel it stinging, he could hear screaming and groans from the crowd, but the cut didn’t seem to be deep… Now he zoomed around the back of the Horntail, and a possibility occurred to him…

  The Horntail didn’t seem to want to take off, she was too protective of her eggs. Though she writhed and twisted, furling and unfurling her wings and keeping those fearsome yellow eyes on Harry, she was afraid to move too far from them… but he had to persuade her to do it, or he’d never get near them… The trick was to do it carefully, gradually…

  He began to fly, first this way, then the other, not near enough to make her breathe fire to stave him off, but still posing a sufficient threat to ensure she kept her eyes on him. Her head swayed this way and that, watching him out of those vertical pupils, her fangs bared…

  He flew higher. The Horntail’s head rose with him, her neck now stretched to its fullest extent, still swaying, hike a snake before its charmer…

  Harry rose a few more feet, and she let out a roar of exasperation. He was like a fly to her, a fly she was longing to swat; her tail thrashed again, but he was too high to reach now… She shot fire into the air, which he dodged… Her jaws opened wide…

  “Come on,” H
arry hissed, swerving tantalizingly above her, “come on, come and get me… up you get now…”

  And then she reared, spreading her great, black, leathery wings at last, as wide as those of a small airplane—and Harry dived. Before the dragon knew what he had done, or where he had disappeared to, he was speeding toward the ground as fast as he could go, toward the eggs now unprotected by her clawed front legs—he had taken his hands off his Firebolt—he had seized the golden egg—

  And with a huge spurt of speed, he was off, he was soaring out over the stands, the heavy egg safely under his uninjured arm, and it was as though somebody had just turned the volume back up—for the first time, he became properly aware of the noise of the crowd, which was screaming and applauding as loudly as the Irish supporters at the World Cup—

  “Look at that!” Bagman was yelling. “Will you look at that! Our youngest champion is quickest to get his egg! Well, this is going to shorten the odds on Mr. Potter!”

  Harry saw the dragon keepers rushing forward to subdue the Horntail, and, over at the entrance to the enclosure, Professor McGonagall, Professor Moody, and Hagrid hurrying to meet him, all of them waving him toward them, their smiles evident even from this distance. He flew back over the stands, the noise of the crowd pounding his eardrums, and came in smoothly to land, his heart lighter than it had been in weeks… He had got through the first task, he had survived.

  “That was excellent, Potter!” cried Professor McGonagall as he got off the Firebolt—which from her was extravagant praise. He noticed that her hand shook as she pointed at his shoulder. “You’ll need to see Madam Pomfrey before the judges give out your score… Over there, she’s had to mop up Diggory already…”

  “Yeh did it, Harry!” said Hagrid hoarsely. “Yeh did it! An’ agains’ the Horntail an’ all, an’ yeh know Charlie said that was the wors’—”

  “Thanks, Hagrid,” said Harry loudly, so that Hagrid wouldn’t blunder on and reveal that he had shown Harry the dragons beforehand.