The roar of the crowd was a physical force, a wave of sound that washed over the champions' tent. Inside, Harry paced back and forth, the logical, step-by-step plan he had rehearsed with Ariana a calming mantra in his mind. He could hear the commentator, Ludo Bagman, whipping the crowd into a frenzy. Cedric Diggory went first, cleverly transfiguring a rock into a Labrador to distract his Swedish Short-Snout, a tactic that earned him some burns but ultimately the egg. Fleur Delacour attempted to lull her Welsh Green into a trance with an enchanted melody, but the dragon snorted a jet of fire that set her robes alight, and she had to abandon the strategy, snatching the egg at the last moment. Viktor Krum was brutally effective, blinding his Chinese Fireball with a powerful Conjunctivitis Curse, though he was penalized for damaging the dragon's eggs in the process.
Then, it was his turn.
"And now," Bagman's magically amplified voice boomed, "our fourth, and youngest, champion!
Harry Potter, facing the most dangerous of our beasts—the Hungarian Horntail!"
Harry walked out into the arena to a cacophony of sound. He saw the massive, black-scaled dragon, its bronze horns glinting, its yellow eyes pools of reptilian fury. It was guarding a clutch of eggs, one of which was a gleaming, perfect gold. The fear was a cold, coiling serpent in his stomach, but he pushed it down, his mind focusing on the protocol.
He raised his wand, his arm steady. The motion was fluid, practiced, reflexive.
"Accio Firebolt!" he yelled, his voice clear and ringing with a certainty born of hours of training. He poured every ounce of his will, his focus, his Intentio into the charm, creating an unbreakable tether between himself and his broom.
For a moment, nothing happened. The crowd murmured. But Harry waited, his eyes scanning the sky towards the castle. And then he saw it. A tiny speck, growing larger at an incredible speed. His Firebolt was coming.
The Horntail let out a deafening roar and unleashed a torrent of fire. Harry, without thinking, performed the move Ariana had drilled into him. He drew his wand from its holster and cast a shield in a single, seamless motion. "Protego!"
A shimmering shield erupted in front of him, deflecting the worst of the flames, though the heat was still immense. The Firebolt zoomed into the arena, hovering beside him. He leaped onto it and kicked off the ground, soaring into the sky just as the dragon's spiked tail smashed into the spot where he had been standing.
The crowd roared with approval. This was not a scared little boy; this was a flyer.
What followed was not a battle, but a masterclass in aerial superiority. Harry, in his element, became a blur of motion. He used his speed to stay just outside the reach of the dragon's flames. He banked, he spiraled, he feinted. He remembered Ariana's words: Control the battlefield.
Diving low, he aimed not at the dragon, but at the dusty ground beside it. "Nebulus!" A thick, disorienting fog erupted, momentarily confusing the Horntail. As it roared and shook its great head, Harry saw his opening. He plunged into a steep dive, his body flat against the broom, his hand outstretched. He flew past the dragon's snapping jaws, his fingers closing around the smooth, heavy golden egg.
He pulled up, soaring high into the air, the egg tucked securely under his arm, leaving the confused and enraged dragon roaring impotently below. He had done it. He had executed the plan flawlessly. The entire engagement had taken less than five minutes.
The roar from the crowd was deafening. He had not only survived; he had been magnificent. As he landed, his legs trembling with adrenaline, he could see his friends in the stands—Hermione and Daphne jumping up and down, hugging each other. And standing slightly apart from them, Ariana, who simply gave him a single, approving nod. It was the highest praise he could have asked for.
He received high marks from the judges, even Karkaroff giving him a grudgingly decent score. The relief and elation he felt were intoxicating.
That evening, the Gryffindor common room was a scene of wild celebration. The party raged for hours. Harry was the hero of the hour, hoisted onto shoulders, his story demanded again and again. Through it all, he noticed Ron standing in a corner, his arms crossed, a sour, resentful expression on his face.
Later, when the party had finally died down, Harry, exhausted but happy, saw Ron heading up to the dormitory. He followed him, hoping that his success might have finally broken through his friend's stubborn jealousy.
"Did you see it?" Harry asked, a note of pride in his voice. "The plan worked perfectly!"
Ron turned, and his face was not one of pride, but of deep, bitter resentment. "Oh, the plan," he sneered. "You mean her plan. Dumbledore's little prodigy. Of course it worked. She probably could have just walked in there and put the dragon to sleep by boring it with logic."
"What's your problem, Ron?" Harry shot back, his good mood evaporating. "We won. I got through it. Aren't you happy for me?"
"Happy?" Ron's voice rose, cracking with a hurt and jealousy he could no longer contain. "Happy that you're the center of attention again? Happy that you don't even need me anymore? It used to be us, Harry! Us against the world! Now it's you and your fan club!" He gestured vaguely in the direction of the common room. "You've got the brilliant Hermione hanging on your every word. You've got a bloody Slytherin princess defending you. And you've got her. The perfect, powerful Ariana who can solve everything with a flick of her wand. What do you need me for? To carry your books?"
The accusation was ugly and deeply unfair, but it was born of a genuine, painful insecurity. Ron felt useless, overshadowed. He saw himself being replaced.
"That's not true!" Harry yelled, stung. "You're my best mate!"
"Am I?" Ron laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. "Doesn't feel like it! It feels like I'm just the stupid, poor sidekick! Well, I'm done with it! Go on, go back to your perfect friends! I'm sure they've already got the next two tasks figured out for you! You don't need me!"
With that, Ron stormed past him and drew the curtains around his four-poster bed with a violent, final swish.
Harry stood there in the quiet dormitory, the cheers of the party downstairs now a distant, mocking echo. He had faced down a Hungarian Horntail and emerged a hero. But in the process, it seemed, he had lost his best friend. The victory suddenly felt hollow, the golden egg in his trunk a cold, heavy weight. The lines of their alliance had been redrawn, and the schism was now deeper and more painful than ever before.