Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire hp-4

by J. K. Rowling

  Professor Moody looked very pleased too; his magical eye was dancing in its socket.

  “Nice and easy does the trick, Potter,” he growled.

  “Right then, Potter, the first aid tent, please…” said Professor McGonagall.

  Harry walked out of the enclosure, still panting, and saw Madam Pomfrey standing at the mouth of a second tent, looking worried.

  “Dragons!” she said, in a disgusted tone, pulling Harry inside. The tent was divided into cubicles; he could make out Cedric’s shadow through the canvas, but Cedric didn’t seem to be badly injured; he was sitting up, at least. Madam Pomfrey examined Harry’s shoulder, talking furiously all the while. “Last year Dementors, this year dragons, what are they going to bring into this school next? You’re very lucky… this is quite shallow… it’ll need cleaning before I heal it up, though…”

  She cleaned the cut with a dab of some purple liquid that smoked and stung, but then poked his shoulder with her wand, and he felt it heal instantly.

  “Now, just sit quietly for a minute—sit! And then you can go and get your score.”

  She bustled out of the tent and he heard her go next door and say, “How does it feel now, Diggory?”

  Harry didn’t want to sit still: He was too full of adrenaline. He got to his feet, wanting to see what was going on outside, but before he’d reached the mouth of the tent, two people had come darting inside—Hermione, followed closely by Ron.

  “Harry, you were brilliant!” Hermione said squeakily. There were fingernail marks on her face where she had been clutching it in fear. “You were amazing! You really were!”

  But Harry was looking at Ron, who was very white and staring at Harry as though he were a ghost.

  “Harry,” he said, very seriously, “whoever put your name in that goblet—I—I reckon they’re trying to do you in!”

  It was as though the last few weeks had never happened—as though Harry were meeting Ron for the first time, right after he’d been made champion.

  “Caught on, have you?” said Harry coldly. “Took you long enough.”

  Hermione stood nervously between them, looking from one to the other. Ron opened his mouth uncertainly. Harry knew Ron was about to apologize and suddenly he found he didn’t need to hear it.

  “It’s okay,” he said, before Ron could get the words out. “Forget it.”

  “No,” said Ron, “I shouldn’t’ve—”

  “Forget it,” Harry said.

  Ron grinned nervously at him, and Harry grinned back. Hermione burst into tears.

  “There’s nothing to cry about!” Harry told her, bewildered.

  “You two are so stupid!” she shouted, stamping her foot on the ground, tears splashing down her front. Then, before either of them could stop her, she had given both of them a hug and dashed away, now positively howling.

  “Barking mad,” said Ron, shaking his head. “Harry, c’mon, they’ll be putting up your scores…”

  Picking up the golden egg and his Firebolt, feeling more elated than he would have believed possible an hour ago, Harry ducked out of the tent, Ron by his side, talking fast.

  “You were the best, you know, no competition. Cedric did this weird thing where he Transfigured a rock on the ground… turned it into a dog… he was trying to make the dragon go for the dog instead of him. Well, it was a pretty cool bit of Transfiguration, and it sort of worked, because he did get the egg, but he got burned as well—the dragon changed its mind halfway through and decided it would rather have him than the Labrador; he only just got away. And that Fleur girl tried this sort of charm, I think she was trying to put it into a trance—well, that kind of worked too, it went all sleepy, but then it snored, and this great jet of flame shot out, and her skirt caught fire—she put it out with a bit of water out of her wand. And Krum—you won’t believe this, but he didn’t even think of flying! He was probably the best after you, though. Hit it with some sort of spell right in the eye. Only thing is, it went trampling around in agony and squashed half the real eggs—they took marks off for that, he wasn’t supposed to do any damage to them.”

  Ron drew breath as he and Harry reached the edge of the enclosure. Now that the Horntail had been taken away, Harry could see where the five judges were sitting—right at the other end, in raised seats draped in gold.

  “It’s marks out of ten from each one,” Ron said, and Harry squinting up the field, saw the first judge—Madame Maxime—raise her wand in the air. What hooked like a long silver ribbon shot out of it, which twisted itself into a large figure eight.

  “Not bad!” said Ron as the crowd applauded. “I suppose she took marks off for your shoulder…

  Mr. Crouch came next. He shot a number nine into the air.

  “Looking good!” Ron yelled, thumping Harry on the back.

  Next, Dumbledore. He too put up a nine. The crowd was cheering harder than ever.

  Ludo Bagman—ten.

  “Ten?” said Harry in disbelief. “But… I got hurt… What’s he playing at?”

  “Harry, don’t complain!” Ron yelled excitedly.

  And now Karkaroff raised his wand. He paused for a moment, and then a number shot out of his wand too—four.

  “What?” Ron bellowed furiously. “Four? You lousy, biased scum bag, you gave Krum ten!”

  But Harry didn’t care, he wouldn’t have cared if Karkaroff had given him zero; Ron’s indignation on his behalf was worth about a hundred points to him. He didn’t tell Ron this, of course, but his heart felt lighter than air as he turned to leave the enclosure. And it wasn’t just Ron… those weren’t only Gryffindors cheering in the crowd. When it had come to it, when they had seen what he was facing, most of the school had been on his side as well as Cedric’s… He didn’t care about the Slytherins, he could stand whatever they threw at him now.

  “You’re tied in first place, Harry! You and Krum!” said Charlie Weasley, hurrying to meet them as they set off back toward the school. “Listen, I’ve got to run, I’ve got to go and send Mum an owl, I swore I’d tell her what happened—but that was unbelievable! Oh yeah—and they told me to tell you you’ve got to hang around for a few more minutes… Bagman wants a word, back in the champions’ tent.”

  Ron said he would wait, so Harry reentered the tent, which somehow looked quite different now: friendly and welcoming. He thought back to how he’d felt while dodging the Horntail, and compared it to the long wait before he’d walked out to face it… There was no comparison; the wait had been immeasurably worse.

  Fleur, Cedric, and Krum all came in together. One side of Cedric’s face was covered in a thick orange paste, which was presumably mending his burn. He grinned at Harry when he saw him.

  “Good one, Harry.”

  “And you,” said Harry, grinning back.

  “Well done, all of you!” said Ludo Bagman, bouncing into the tent and looking as pleased as though he personally had just got past a dragon. “Now, just a quick few words. You’ve got a nice long break before the second task, which will take place at half past nine on the morning of February the twenty fourth—but we’re giving you something to think about in the meantime! If you look down at those golden eggs you’re all holding, you will see that they open… see the hinges there? You need to solve the clue inside the egg—because it will tell you what the second task is, and enable you to prepare for it! All clear? Sure? Well, off you go, then!”

  Harry left the tent, rejoined Ron, and they started to walk back around the edge of the forest, talking hard; Harry wanted to hear what the other champions had done in more detail. Then, as they rounded the clump of trees behind which Harry had first heard the dragons roar, a witch leapt out from behind them.

  It was Rita Skeeter. She was wearing acid green robes today; the Quick-Quotes Quill in her hand blended perfectly against them.

  “Congratulations, Harry!” she said, beaming at him. “I wonder if you could give me a quick word? How you felt facing that dragon? How you feel now, about the fairness of
the scoring?”

  “Yeah, you can have a word,” said Harry savagely. “Good-bye.” And he set off back to the castle with Ron.

  21. THE HOUSE-ELF LIBERATION FRONT

  Harry, Ron, and Hermione went up to the Owlery that evening to find Pigwidgeon, so that Harry could send Sirius a letter telling him that he had managed to get past his dragon unscathed. On the way, Harry filled Ron in on everything Sirius had told him about Karkaroff. Though shocked at first to hear that Karkaroff had been a Death Eater, by the time they entered the Owlery Ron was saying that they ought to have suspected it all along.

  “Fits, doesn’t it?” he said. “Remember what Malfoy said on the train, about his dad being friends with Karkaroff? Now we know where they knew each other. They were probably running around in masks together at the World Cup… I’ll tell you one thing, though, Harry, if it was Karkaroff who put your name in the goblet, he’s going to be feeling really stupid now, isn’t he? Didn’t work, did it? You only got a scratch! Come here—I’ll do it—”

  Pigwidgeon was so overexcited at the idea of a delivery he was flying around and around Harry’s head, hooting incessantly. Ron snatched Pigwidgeon out of the air and held him still while Harry attached the letter to his leg.

  “There’s no way any of the other tasks are going to be that dangerous, how could they be?” Ron went on as he carried Pigwidgeon to the window. “You know what? I reckon you could win this tournament, Harry, I’m serious.”

  Harry knew that Ron was only saying this to make up for his behavior of the last few weeks, but he appreciated it all the same. Hermione, however, leaned against the Owlery wall, folded her arms, and frowned at Ron.

  “Harry’s got a long way to go before he finishes this tournament,” she said seriously. “If that was the first task, I hate to think what’s coming next.”

  “Right little ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” said Ron. “You and Professor Trelawney should get together sometime.”

  He threw Pigwidgeon out of the window. Pigwidgeon plummeted twelve feet before managing to pull himself back up again; the letter attached to his leg was much longer and heavier than usual—Harry hadn’t been able to resist giving Sirius a blow by blow account of exactly how he had swerved, circled, and dodged the Horntail. They watched Pigwidgeon disappear into the darkness, and then Ron said, “Well, we’d better get downstairs for your surprise party, Harry—Fred and George should have nicked enough food from the kitchens by now.”

  Sure enough, when they entered the Gryffindor common room it exploded with cheers and yells again. There were mountains of cakes and flagons of pumpkin juice and butterbeer on every surface; Lee Jordan had let off some Filibuster’s Fireworks, so that the air was thick with stars and sparks; and Dean Thomas, who was very good at drawing, had put up some impressive new banners, most of which depicted Harry zooming around the Horntail’s head on his Firebolt, though a couple showed Cedric with his head on fire.

  Harry helped himself to food; he had almost forgotten what it was like to feel properly hungry, and sat down with Ron and Hermione. He couldn’t believe how happy he felt; he had Ron back on his side, he’d gotten through the first task, and he wouldn’t have to face the second one for three months.

  “Blimey, this is heavy,” said Lee Jordan, picking up the golden egg, which Harry had left on a table, and weighing it in his hands. “Open it, Harry, go on! Let’s just see what’s inside it!”

  “He’s supposed to work out the clue on his own,” Hermione said swiftly. “It’s in the tournament rules…”

  “I was supposed to work out how to get past the dragon on my own too,” Harry muttered, so only Hermione could hear him, and she grinned rather guiltily.

  “Yeah, go on, Harry, open it!” several people echoed.

  Lee passed Harry the egg, and Harry dug his fingernails into the groove that ran all the way around it and prised it open.

  It was hollow and completely empty—but the moment Harry opened it, the most horrible noise, a loud and screechy wailing, filled the room. The nearest thing to it Harry had ever heard was the ghost orchestra at Nearly Headless Nick’s deathday party, who had all been playing the musical saw.

  “Shut it!” Fred bellowed, his hands over his ears.

  “What was that?” said Seamus Finnigan, staring at the egg as Harry slammed it shut again. “Sounded like a banshee… Maybe you’ve got to get past one of those next, Harry!”

  “It was someone being tortured!” said Neville, who had gone very white and spilled sausage rolls all over the floor. “You’re going to have to fight the Cruciatus Curse!”

  “Don’t be a prat, Neville, that’s illegal,” said George. “They wouldn’t use the Cruciatus Curse on the champions. I thought it sounded a bit like Percy singing… maybe you’ve got to attack him while he’s in the shower, Harry.”

  “Want a jam tart, Hermione?” said Fred.

  Hermione looked doubtfully at the plate he was offering her. Fred grinned.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “I haven’t done anything to them. It’s the custard creams you’ve got to watch—”

  Neville, who had just bitten into a custard cream, choked and spat it out. Fred laughed.

  “Just my little joke, Neville…”

  Hermione took a jam tart. Then she said, “Did you get all this from the kitchens, Fred?”

  “Yep,” said Fred, grinning at her. He put on a high pitched squeak and imitated a house-elf. “‘Anything we can get you, sir, anything at all!’ They’re dead helpful… get me a roast ox if I said I was peckish.”

  “How do you get in there?” Hermione said in an innocently casual sort of voice.

  “Easy,” said Fred, “concealed door behind a painting of a bowl of fruit. Just tickle the pear, and it giggles and—” He stopped and looked suspiciously at her. “Why?”

  “Nothing,” said Hermione quickly.

  “Going to try and lead the house-elves out on strike now, are you?” said George. “Going to give up all the leaflet stuff and try and stir them up into rebellion?”

  Several people chortled. Hermione didn’t answer.

  “Don’t you go upsetting them and telling them they’ve got to take clothes and salaries!” said Fred warningly. “You’ll put them off their cooking!”

  Just then, Neville caused a slight diversion by turning into a large canary.

  “Oh—sorry, Neville!” Fred shouted over all the laughter. “I forgot—it was the custard creams we hexed—”

  Within a minute, however, Neville had molted, and once his feathers had fallen off, he reappeared looking entirely normal. He even joined in laughing.

  “Canary Creams!” Fred shouted to the excitable crowd. “George and I invented them—seven Sickles each, a bargain!”

  It was nearly one in the morning when Harry finally went up to the dormitory with Ron, Neville, Seamus, and Dean. Before he pulled the curtains of his four poster shut, Harry set his tiny model of the Hungarian Horntail on the table next to his bed, where it yawned, curled up, and closed its eyes. Really, Harry thought, as he pulled the hangings on his four poster closed, Hagrid had a point… they were all right, really, dragons…

  The start of December brought wind and sleet to Hogwarts. Drafty though the castle always was in winter, Harry was glad of its fires and thick walls every time he passed the Durmstrang ship on the lake, which was pitching in the high winds, its black sails billowing against the dark skies. He thought the Beauxbatons caravan was likely to be pretty chilly too. Hagrid, he noticed, was keeping Madame Maxime’s horses well provided with their preferred drink of single malt whiskey; the fumes wafting from the trough in the corner of their paddock was enough to make the entire Care of Magical Creatures class light headed. This was unhelpful, as they were still tending the horrible skrewts and needed their wits about them.

  “I’m not sure whether they hibernate or not,” Hagrid told the shivering class in the windy pumpkin patch next lesson. “Thought we’d jus’ try an see if they fancie
d a kip… we’ll jus’ settle ’em down in these boxes…”

  There were now only ten skrewts left; apparently their desire to kill one another had not been exercised out of them. Each of them was now approaching six feet in length. Their thick gray armor; their powerful, scuttling legs; their fire blasting ends; their stings and their suckers, combined to make the skrewts the most repulsive things Harry had ever seen. The class looked dispiritedly at the enormous boxes Hagrid had brought out, all lined with pillows and fluffy blankets.

  “We’ll jus’ lead ’em in here,” Hagrid said, “an’ put the lids on, and we’ll see what happens.”

  But the skrewts, it transpired, did not hibernate, and did not appreciate being forced into pillow lined boxes and nailed in. Hagrid was soon yelling, “Don’ panic, now, don’ panic!” while the skrewts rampaged around the pumpkin patch, now strewn with the smoldering wreckage of the boxes. Most of the class—Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle in the lead—had fled into Hagrid’s cabin through the back door and barricaded themselves in; Harry, Ron, and Hermione, however, were among those who remained outside trying to help Hagrid. Together they managed to restrain and tie up nine of the skrewts, though at the cost of numerous burns and cuts; finally, only one skrewt was left.

  “Don’ frighten him, now!” Hagrid shouted as Ron and Harry used their wands to shoot jets of fiery sparks at the skrewt, which was advancing menacingly on them, its sting arched, quivering, over its back. “Jus’ try an slip the rope ’round his sting, so he won hurt any o’ the others!”

  “Yeah, we wouldn’t want that!” Ron shouted angrily as he and Harry backed into the wall of Hagrid’s cabin, still holding the skrewt off with their sparks.

  “Well, well, well… this does look like fun.”

  Rita Skeeter was leaning on Hagrid’s garden fence, looking in at the mayhem. She was wearing a thick magenta cloak with a furry purple collar today, and her crocodile skin handbag was over her arm.

  Hagrid launched himself forward on top of the skrewt that was cornering Harry and Ron and flattened it; a blast of fire shot out of its end, withering the pumpkin plants nearby.