Ever since Dumbledore announced the Triwizard Tournament at the start-of-term feast, the students of Hogwarts—particularly the sixth and seventh years—had been swept up in a frenzy of inexplicable excitement. Every student who had reached the age of seventeen was seizing every spare moment to hone their skills. Hermione had grumbled to Harry that the library was so packed with older students that finding an empty seat was nearly impossible. For her, this was especially frustrating, as her heavy course load meant she could only visit the library in the afternoons or evenings.
While the students toiled, the professors were no less industrious. On the first day of class, Professor McGonagall fixed the room with a stern gaze. "You are entering a critical phase of your magical education!" she declared, her eyes glinting authoritatively behind her square spectacles. "Your O.W.L. examinations are fast approaching…"
"We don't take O.W.L.s until fifth year!" Dean Thomas protested indignantly.
"That may be, Thomas," McGonagall replied, "but trust me, you need to be thoroughly prepared! In this class, only a handful of students have ever managed to transfigure a hedgehog into a satisfactory pincushion—yourself included, Thomas. But as your teacher, I must remind you that magic requires constant, unrelenting practice."
She then administered a pop quiz on Transfiguration, announcing that she would personally mentor the top scorer in learning to become an Animagus. Unsurprisingly, Hermione and Harry came out on top. While Harry's transformations were bold and distinctive, Hermione's were far more precise—though, admittedly, somewhat rigid.
After class, McGonagall asked Harry to stay behind.
"Professor McGonagall, is something wrong?" Harry asked, his stomach lurching as he noticed the sudden grimness in his Head of House's expression.
"Mr. Potter, tell me honestly—when did you learn to become an Animagus?"
McGonagall set down her lecture notes, her eyes boring into Harry from behind her square spectacles.
"Er… mid-April this year?" Harry replied, nudging the timeline of his Animagus training a bit later than the truth.
"Was it Sirius Black who taught you?" McGonagall asked, her tone certain.
Harry nodded.
At his confirmation, McGonagall let out a long sigh. "Mr. Black and your father were notorious for their rule-breaking during their school days. I had hoped they'd mature after graduation, but… Mr. Potter, have you told anyone else about your Animagus abilities?"
"Not yet," Harry said, scratching the back of his head. "My Animagus form is… a bit unusual."
"You don't have to say if you don't wish to," McGonagall replied, though her mind flickered to the memory of the enormous dragon Patronus that had appeared on the Quidditch pitch. Could it be…
"Anything else, Professor?" Harry asked.
"No, that's all. Please tell Miss Granger to come to my office this evening."
Other Hogwarts professors were equally driven. Professor Binns assigned a paper on the eighteenth-century Goblin Rebellions. Professor Snape forced them to research antidotes, sending them scrambling to the library for hours. No one dared slack off, especially after Snape hinted that he might poison one of them before Christmas to test their antidotes' efficacy. Professor Flitwick demanded they read three additional books to prepare for mastering the Summoning Charm.
Everyone was working tirelessly—everyone, that is, except one.
Perhaps having finally given up, Gilderoy Lockhart seemed to have abandoned his dream of turning Hogwarts students into his personal fan club after two years of near-empty classrooms. According to the few students still attending his lessons, Lockhart's new teaching method consisted of assigning self-study while he sat at his desk, writing replies to his adoring fans.
"I can't fathom what his fans see in him," Ron muttered during Herbology, clad in dragonhide gloves as he squeezed the pus-filled boils on a Bubotuber with visible disgust.
"Well, it's certainly not his dazzling smile," Harry quipped, methodically squeezing the tuber's pustules. Thick, yellowish-green pus with a pungent, petrol-like stench sprayed from between his fingers into a waiting wide-mouthed jar. The process was revolting but oddly satisfying.
By the end of the lesson, they had collected several bottles of Bubotuber pus.
"Madam Pomfrey will be thrilled," Professor Sprout said, corking the final bottle. "Bubotuber pus is the best remedy for stubborn acne. This should stop students from resorting to drastic measures to clear their spots."
"Like poor Eloise Midgen," Harry overheard Hufflepuff student Hannah Abbott whisper to her friend. "She found some spell that was supposed to cure acne and used it on her face."
"Foolish girl," Professor Sprout said, shaking her head. "Thankfully, Madam Pomfrey managed to reattach her nose."
After Herbology, Harry, Ron, and Hermione visited Hagrid and became the first students to witness the hatching of his Blast-Ended Skrewts.
"Hagrid, why are you breeding these disgusting things?" Ron asked, eyeing the wriggling, fleshy creatures in the wooden crate with barely concealed revulsion.
The newly hatched creatures, about six inches long, resembled shell-less lobsters—pale, slimy, and greyish-white. Harry couldn't discern where their heads were. Their bodies sprouted a chaotic array of legs, some with sucker-like appendages, and they emitted a foul stench of rotting fish and shrimp.
"These little beauties are rare magical creatures!" Hagrid said, puffing out his chest with pride. "Took a Manticore and sixty-odd Fire Crabs to breed this lot. Haven't named 'em yet—Harry, Ron, Hermione, got any ideas? Er, Harry?"
Harry was lost in a vivid, disturbing mental image of how Hagrid had managed to crossbreed a Manticore with Fire Crabs, creatures so vastly different in size and species.
"Hagrid! Breeding new magical creatures is illegal!" Hermione exclaimed, wide-eyed with disbelief. "It violates the 1965 Ministry of Magic's Ban on Experimental Breeding! The law clearly states—"
"Oh, come off it, Hermione, we're not in History of Magic," Ron interrupted, clearly eager to steer the conversation away from the repulsive Skrewts. "So, Hagrid, what's the plan for Care of Magical Creatures this year?"
"Simple enough," Hagrid said cheerfully. "I reckon we'll do a long-term project on these little critters—observe and rear 'em. Sound good?"
Imagining the chaos this would unleash in class, Ron and Harry exchanged a glance and, with exaggerated enthusiasm, raised their hands in support of Hagrid's idea.
Hermione sighed in resignation.
Sure enough, during the first Care of Magical Creatures lesson with the Slytherins, Hagrid gleefully unveiled the crate of wriggling, fleshy Skrewts. Their task? Figure out what the creatures were. Unsurprisingly, not only the Slytherins but even most Gryffindors were less than thrilled. Only Harry, Neville, and a few others were willing to approach the crate, using the pile of food Hagrid provided to attempt feeding the mutated slugs.
And so, the first four weeks of term passed uneventfully.
After Herbology one morning, the trio reached the Entrance Hall only to find their path blocked. A crowd of students had gathered around a large notice posted at the foot of the marble staircase. Ron, the tallest of the group, stood on tiptoe and read the notice aloud over the heads of the others:
TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT
The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will arrive on Friday, 30th October, at 6:00 p.m. Afternoon lessons will end half an hour early—
"Brilliant!" Seamus Finnigan exclaimed. "The last lesson on Friday is Potions! Snape won't have time to poison us all!"
Students are to return their bags and books to their dormitories and assemble in front of the castle to greet our guests before attending the welcoming feast.
"Only a week away!" Ernie Macmillan from Hufflepuff emerged from the crowd, his eyes gleaming. "I wonder if Cedric knows. I'll go tell him…"
"Cedric?" Ron said blankly as Ernie hurried off.
"You remember—the bloke who came with us to the Quidditch World Cup using the Portkey," Harry said. "He's probably signing up for the Tournament."
"That prat wants to be Hogwarts' champion?" Ron scoffed as they pushed through the chattering crowd toward the staircase.
"He's not a prat," Hermione said. "You only dislike him because he beat Gryffindor in the Quidditch final and won the Cup. I've heard he's an excellent student—and a prefect, too."
Her tone suggested this settled the matter.
"You only like him because he's good-looking," Ron shot back acidly.
Hermione's eyes flashed with indignation. "I do not like people just because they're handsome!"
Ron gave a loud, theatrical cough that sounded suspiciously like Lockhart's attention-grabbing throat-clearing.
The notice in the Entrance Hall had an immediate impact on the castle's inhabitants. For the next week, wherever Harry went, the Triwizard Tournament was the sole topic of conversation. Rumors about the tasks and potential champions spread like wildfire. Who would compete to become Hogwarts' champion? What challenges would the Tournament entail? How would the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang differ from them?
Harry also noticed that the castle was undergoing a thorough cleaning. Filthy portraits were scrubbed clean, much to the displeasure of their subjects, who sulked in their frames, muttering and wincing as they touched their newly exposed, tender pink skin. Ancient suits of armor gleamed, their joints no longer creaking. Argus Filch, the caretaker, flew into a rage at any student who forgot to wipe their shoes, leaving mud or dragon dung on the castle floors. His outbursts were so ferocious that two first-year girls were reduced to hysterics.
As the school buzzed with anticipation, Friday finally arrived. After Professor Snape grudgingly dismissed their Potions class, students poured out of the dungeons, tossed their books into their dormitories, and raced to the gathering point outside the castle.
By the time Hermione dragged Harry through the Great Hall and out to the grounds, the castle was deserted. Everyone had assembled on the grass outside.
Late October had brought Hogwarts' first cold snap. A biting wind whipped through the crowd, sneaking into collars and cuffs. The sky darkened, and the moon rose, but there was still no sign of the Beauxbatons or Durmstrang delegations.
Cold, hungry, and tired of waiting, the eager and curious young witches and wizards who had rushed to the lawn began to grow restless. Low murmurs of conversation rippled through the crowd, swelling into a buzz like a thousand bees. Even those who had remained patient started to fidget.
Then, as the moon climbed higher, a tiny black speck appeared against its glow. At first, only a few noticed it, but as the speck grew larger, more heads turned. It was no longer a speck.
A carriage, drawn by winged horses, emerged from above the clouds.
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