Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire hp-4

by J. K. Rowling

  Hagrid was sitting at his table, where there were two large mugs of tea. He looked a real mess. His face was blotchy, his eyes swollen, and he had gone to the other extreme where his hair was concerned; far from trying to make it behave, it now looked like a wig of tangled wire.

  “Hi, Hagrid,” said Harry.

  Hagrid looked up.

  “’Lo,” he said in a very hoarse voice.

  “More tea, I think,” said Dumbledore, closing the door behind Harry, Ron, and Hermione, drawing out his wand, and twiddling it; a revolving tea tray appeared in midair along with a plate of cakes. Dumbledore magicked the tray onto the table, and everybody sat down. There was a slight pause, and then Dumbledore said, “Did you by any chance hear what Miss Granger was shouting, Hagrid?”

  Hermione went slightly pink, but Dumbledore smiled at her and continued, “Hermione, Harry, and Ron still seem to want to know you, judging by the way they were attempting to break down the door.”

  “Of course we still want to know you!” Harry said, staring at Hagrid. “You don’t think anything that Skeeter cow—sorry, Professor,” he added quickly, looking at Dumbledore.

  “I have gone temporarily deaf and haven’t any idea what you said, Harry,” said Dumbledore, twiddling his thumbs and staring at the ceiling.

  “Er—right,” said Harry sheepishly. “I just meant Hagrid, how could you think we’d care what that woman wrote about you?”

  Two fat tears leaked out of Hagrid’s beetle-black eyes and fell slowly into his tangled beard.

  “Living proof of what I’ve been telling you, Hagrid,” said Dumbledore, still looking carefully up at the ceiling. “I have shown you the letters from the countless parents who remember you from their own days here, telling me in no uncertain terms that if I sacked you, they would have something to say about it—”

  “Not all of ’em,” said Hagrid hoarsely. “Not all of ’em wan me ter stay.”

  “Really, Hagrid, if you are holding out for universal popularity, I’m afraid you will be in this cabin for a very long time,” said Dumbledore, now peering sternly over his half moon spectacles. “Not a week has passed since I became headmaster of this school when I haven’t had at least one owl complaining about the way I run it. But what should I do? Barricade myself in my study and refuse to talk to anybody?”

  “Yeh—yeh’re not half giant!” said Hagrid croakily.

  “Hagrid, look what I’ve got for relatives!” Harry said furiously. “Look at the Dursleys!”

  “An excellent point,” said Professor Dumbledore. “My own brother, Aberforth, was prosecuted for practicing inappropriate charms on a goat. It was all over the papers, but did Aberforth hide? No, he did not! He held his head high and went about his business as usual! Of course, I’m not entirely sure he can read, so that may not have been bravery…”

  “Come back and teach, Hagrid,” said Hermione quietly, “please come back, we really miss you.”

  Hagrid gulped. More tears leaked out down his cheeks and into his tangled beard.

  Dumbledore stood up. “I refuse to accept your resignation, Hagrid, and I expect you back at work on Monday,” he said. “You will join me for breakfast at eight thirty in the Great Hall. No excuses. Good afternoon to you all.”

  Dumbledore left the cabin, pausing only to scratch Fangs ears. When the door had shut behind him, Hagrid began to sob into his dustbin lid sized hands. Hermione kept patting his arm, and at last, Hagrid looked up, his eyes very red indeed, and said, “Great man, Dumbledore… great man…”

  “Yeah, he is,” said Ron. “Can I have one of these cakes, Hagrid?”

  “Help yerself,” said Hagrid, wiping his eyes on the back of his hand. “Ar, he’s righ’, o’ course—yeh’re all righ’… I bin stupid… my ol’ dad woulda bin ashamed o’ the way I’ve bin behavin’…” More tears leaked out, but he wiped them away more forcefully, and said, “Never shown you a picture of my old dad, have I? Here…”

  Hagrid got up, went over to his dresser, opened a drawer, and pulled out a picture of a short wizard with Hagrid’s crinkled black eyes, beaming as he sat on top of Hagrid’s shoulder. Hagrid was a good seven or eight feet tall, judging by the apple tree beside him, but his face was beardless, young, round, and smooth—he looked hardly older than eleven.

  “Tha was taken jus’ after I got inter Hogwarts,” Hagrid croaked. “Dad was dead chuffed… thought I migh’ not be a wizard, see, ’cos me mum… well, anyway. ’Course, I never was great shakes at magic, really… but at least he never saw me expelled. Died, see, in me second year…

  “Dumbledore was the one who stuck up for me after Dad went. Got me the gamekeeper job… trusts people, he does. Gives ’em second chances… tha’s what sets him apar’ from other heads, see. He’ll accept anyone at Hogwarts, s’long as they’ve got the talent. Knows people can turn out okay even if their families weren’… well… all tha’ respectable. But some don’ understand that. There’s some who’d always hold it against yeh… there’s some who’d even pretend they just had big bones rather than stand up an’ say—I am what I am, an’ I’m not ashamed. ‘Never be ashamed,’ my ol’ dad used ter say, ‘there’s some who’ll hold it against you, but they’re not worth botherin’ with.’ An’ he was right. I’ve bin an idiot. I’m not botherin’ with her no more, I promise yeh that. Big bones… I’ll give her big bones.”

  Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another nervously; Harry would rather have taken fifty Blast-Ended Skrewts for a walk than admit to Hagrid that he had overheard him talking to Madame Maxime, but Hagrid was still talking, apparently unaware that he had said anything odd.

  “Yeh know wha, Harry?” he said, looking up from the photograph of his father, his eyes very bright, “when I firs’ met you, you reminded me o’ me a bit. Mum an’ Dad gone, an’ you was feelin’ like yeh wouldn’ fit in at Hogwarts, remember? Not sure yeh were really up to it… an’ now look at yeh, Harry! School champion!”

  He looked at Harry for a moment and then said, very seriously, “Yeh know what I’d love, Harry? I’d love yeh ter win, I really would. It’d show ’em all… yeh don’ have ter be pureblood ter do it. Yeh don have ter be ashamed of what yeh are. It’d show ’em Dumbledore’s the one who’s got it righ’, lettin’ anyone in as long as they can do magic. How you doin’ with that egg, Harry?”

  “Great,” said Harry. “Really great.”

  Hagrid’s miserable face broke into a wide, watery smile.

  “Tha’s my boy… you show ’em, Harry, you show ’em. Beat ’em all.”

  Lying to Hagrid wasn’t quite like lying to anyone else. Harry went back to the castle later that afternoon with Ron and Hermione, unable to banish the image of the happy expression on Hagrid’s whiskery face as he had imagined Harry winning the tournament. The incomprehensible egg weighed more heavily than ever on Harry’s conscience that evening, and by the time he had got into bed, he had made up his mind—it was time to shelve his pride and see if Cedric’s hint was worth anything.

  25. THE EGG AND THE EYE

  Harry had no idea how long a bath he would need to work out the secret of the golden egg, he decided to do it at night, when he would be able to take as much time as he wanted. Reluctant though he was to accept more favors from Cedric, he also decided to use the prefects’ bathroom; far fewer people were allowed in there, so it was much less likely that he would be disturbed.

  Harry planned his excursion carefully, because he had been caught out of bed and out of bounds by Filch the caretaker in the middle of the night once before, and had no desire to repeat the experience. The Invisibility Cloak would, of course, be essential, and as an added precaution, Harry thought he would take the Marauder’s Map, which, next to the cloak, was the most useful aid to rule breaking Harry owned. The map showed the whole of Hogwarts, including its many shortcuts and secret passageways and, most important of all, it revealed the people inside the castle as minuscule, labeled dots, moving around the corridors, so that Harry would be forewa
rned if somebody was approaching the bathroom.

  On Thursday night, Harry sneaked up to bed, put on the cloak, crept back downstairs, and, just as he had done on the night when Hagrid had shown him the dragons, waited for the portrait hole to open. This time it was Ron who waited outside to give the Fat Lady the password (“banana fritters”), “Good luck,” Ron muttered, climbing into the room as Harry crept out past him.

  It was awkward moving under the cloak tonight, because Harry had the heavy egg under one arm and the map held in front of his nose with the other. However, the moonlit corridors were empty and silent, and by checking the map at strategic intervals, Harry was able to ensure that he wouldn’t run into anyone he wanted to avoid. When he reached the statue of Boris the Bewildered, a lost looking wizard with his gloves on the wrong hands, he located the right door, leaned close to it, and muttered the password, “Pine fresh,” just as Cedric had told him.

  The door creaked open. Harry slipped inside, bolted the door behind him, and pulled off the Invisibility Cloak, looking around.

  His immediate reaction was that it would be worth becoming a prefect just to be able to use this bathroom. It was softly lit by a splendid candle filled chandelier, and everything was made of white marble, including what looked like an empty, rectangular swimming pool sunk into the middle of the floor. About a hundred golden taps stood all around the pools edges, each with a differently colored jewel set into its handle. There was also a diving board. Long white linen curtains hung at the windows; a large pile of fluffy white towels sat in a corner, and there was a single golden framed painting on the wall. It featured a blonde mermaid who was fast asleep on a rock, her long hair over her face. It fluttered every time she snored.

  Harry moved forward, looking around, his footsteps echoing off the walls. Magnificent though the bathroom was—and quite keen though he was to try out a few of those taps—now he was here he couldn’t quite suppress the feeling that Cedric might have been having him on. How on earth was this supposed to help solve the mystery of the egg? Nevertheless, he put one of the fluffy towels, the cloak, the map, and the egg at the side of the swimming pool sized bath, then knelt down and turned on a few of the taps.

  He could tell at once that they carried different sorts of bubble bath mixed with the water, though it wasn’t bubble bath as Harry had ever experienced it. One tap gushed pink and blue bubbles the size of footballs; another poured ice white foam so thick that Harry thought it would have supported his weight if he’d cared to test it; a third sent heavily perfumed purple clouds hovering over the surface of the water. Harry amused himself for awhile turning the taps on and off, particularly enjoying the effect of one whose jet bounced off the surface of the water in large arcs. Then, when the deep pool was full of hot water, foam, and bubbles, which took a very short time considering its size, Harry turned off all the taps, pulled off his pajamas, slippers, and dressing gown, and slid into the water.

  It was so deep that his feet barely touched the bottom, and he actually did a couple of lengths before swimming back to the side and treading water, staring at the egg. Highly enjoyable though it was to swim in hot and foamy water with clouds of different colored steam wafting all around him, no stroke of brilliance came to him, no sudden burst of understanding.

  Harry stretched out his arms, lifted the egg in his wet hands, and opened it. The wailing, screeching sound filled the bathroom, echoing and reverberating off the marble walls, but it sounded just as incomprehensible as ever, if not more so with all the echoes. He snapped it shut again, worried that the sound would attract Filch, wondering whether that hadn’t been Cedric’s plan—and then, making him jump so badly that he dropped the egg, which clattered away across the bathroom floor, someone spoke.

  “I’d try putting it in the water, if I were you.”

  Harry had swallowed a considerable amount of bubbles in shock. He stood up, sputtering, and saw the ghost of a very glum looking girl sitting cross legged on top of one of the taps. It was Moaning Myrtle, who was usually to be heard sobbing in the S bend of a toilet three floors below.

  “Myrtle!” Harry said in outrage, “I’m—I’m not wearing anything!”

  The foam was so dense that this hardly mattered, but he had a nasty feeling that Myrtle had been spying on him from out of one of the taps ever since he had arrived.

  “I closed my eyes when you got in,” she said, blinking at him through her thick spectacles. “You haven’t been to see me for ages.”

  “Yeah… well…” said Harry, bending his knees slightly, just to make absolutely sure Myrtle couldn’t see anything but his head, “I’m not supposed to come into your bathroom, am I? It’s a girls’ one.”

  “You didn’t used to care,” said Myrtle miserably. “You used to be in there all the time.”

  This was true, though only because Harry, Ron, and Hermione had found Myrtle’s out of order toilets a convenient place to brew Polyjuice Potion in secret—a forbidden potion that had turned him and Ron into living replicas of Crabbe and Goyle for an hour, so that they could sneak into the Slytherin common room.

  “I got told off for going in there,” said Harry, which was half true; Percy had once caught him coming out of Myrtle’s bathroom. “I thought I’d better not come back after that.”

  “Oh… I see…” said Myrtle, picking at a spot on her chin in a morose sort of way. “Well… anyway… I’d try the egg in the water. That’s what Cedric Diggory did.”

  “Have you been spying on him too?” said Harry indignantly. “What d’you do, sneak up here in the evenings to watch the prefects take baths?”

  “Sometimes,” said Myrtle, rather slyly, “but I’ve never come out to speak to anyone before.”

  “I’m honored,” said Harry darkly. “You keep your eyes shut!”

  He made sure Myrtle had her glasses well covered before hoisting himself out of the bath, wrapping the towel firmly around his waist, and going to retrieve the egg. Once he was back in the water, Myrtle peered through her fingers and said, “Go on, then… open it under the water!”

  Harry lowered the egg beneath the foamy surface and opened it… and this time, it did not wail. A gurgling song was coming out of it, a song whose words he couldnt distinguish through the water.

  “You need to put your head under too,” said Myrtle, who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying bossing him around. “Go on!”

  Harry took a great breath and slid under the surface—and now, sitting on the marble bottom of the bubble filled bath, he heard a chorus of eerie voices singing to him from the open egg in his hands:

  Come seek us where our voices sound,

  We cannot sing above the ground,

  And while you’re searching, ponder this:

  We’ve taken what you’ll sorely miss,

  An hour long you’ll have to look,

  And to recover what we took,

  But past an hour the prospect’s black,

  Too late, it’s gone, it won’t come back.

  Harry let himself float back upward and broke the bubbly surface, shaking his hair out of his eyes.

  “Hear it?” said Myrtle.

  “Yeah… ‘Come seek us where our voices sound…’ and if I need persuading… hang on, I need to listen again…”

  He sank back beneath the water. It took three more underwater renditions of the egg’s song before Harry had it memorized; then he trod water for a while, thinking hard, while Myrtle sat and watched him.

  “I’ve got to go and look for people who can’t use their voices above the ground…” he said slowly. “Er… who could that be?”

  “Slow, aren’t you?”

  He had never seen Moaning Myrtle so cheerful, apart from the day when a dose of Polyjuice Potion had given Hermione the hairy face and tail of a cat. Harry stared around the bathroom, thinking… if the voices could only be heard underwater, then it made sense for them to belong to underwater creatures. He ran this theory past Myrtle, who smirked at him.

  “Well, that
’s what Diggory thought,” she said. “He lay there talking to himself for ages about it. Ages and ages… nearly all the bubbles had gone…”

  “Underwater…” Harry said slowly. “Myrtle… what lives in the lake, apart from the giant squid?”

  “Oh—all sorts,” she said. “I sometimes go down there… sometimes don’t have any choice, if someone flushes my toilet when I’m not expecting it…”

  Trying not to think about Moaning Myrtle zooming down a pipe to the lake with the contents of a toilet, Harry said, “Well, does anything in there have a human voice? Hang on—”

  Harry’s eyes had fallen on the picture of the snoozing mermaid on the wall.

  “Myrtle, there aren’t merpeople in there, are there?”

  “Oooh, very good,” she said, her thick glasses twinkling, “it took Diggory much longer than that! And that was with her awake too”—Myrtle jerked her head toward the mermaid with an expression of great dislike on her glum face—“giggling and showing off and flashing her fins…”

  “Thats it, isn’t it?” said Harry excitedly. “The second tasks to go and find the merpeople in the lake and… and…”

  But he suddenly realized what he was saying, and he felt the excitement drain out of him as though someone had just pulled a plug in his stomach. He wasn’t a very good swimmer; he’d never had much practice. Dudley had had lessons in his youth, but Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, no doubt hoping that Harry would drown one day, hadn’t bothered to give him any. A couple of lengths of this bath were all very well, but that lake was very large, and very deep… and merpeople would surely live right at the bottom…

  “Myrtle,” Harry said slowly, “how am I supposed to breathe?”

  At this, Myrtle’s eyes filled with sudden tears again.

  “Tactless!” she muttered, groping in her robes for a handkerchief.

  “What’s tactless?” said Harry, bewildered.