"Dragons?!"

Hermione looked positively horrified. "You're sure?"

"Quite," said Harry miserably. He recalled vividly the sight of the beasts, the razor-sharp teeth and the shooting tongues of fire still uncomfortably fresh in his mind.

"But that can't be safe!" countered Hermione, her features contorting with worry. "Surely they'd never put you up against live dragons, Harry - I'm not sure that Dumbledore could slay one, let alone a student..."

"I don't think we need to slay them, 'Mione; Charlie said we just need to get past them, whatever that means." Harry hardly thought that this was any better; how do you get past a fire-breathing monster without killing it?

"Well, that's something," said Hermione brightly, apparently oblivious to the hopelessness of the situation as the gears in her mind began to turn. "Now, you can't stun it - not alone, anyway... maybe you could multiply yourself - no, but we don't learn copy charms until 6th year... maybe you could transfigure it into something less dangerous - mm, but it would take a lot of magic for something so big... maybe..."

Whilst Hermione continued to go over her growing list of ways to get him killed, Harry racked his brain for what Sirius could possibly have ben hinting at with his cryptic clue from the night before. Something simple, apparently. But what simple spell could take out a 50-foot dragon? And could he learn it by tomorrow morning?

"...Well, at any rate," continued Hermione (she'd run out of ideas by now), "you won't be in mortal danger, will you? The dragon handlers will be there to make sure nothing goes toobadly for you, no doubt."

"I guess," said Harry, unsure of what Charlie was going to do after he'd already been smashed, eaten, burnt to a crisp or any number of fates more horrible than the ones he'd picked for himself last month for Divination.

"Come on," said Hermione, getting up from their table in the corner of the Common Room, "I'm sure we'll find loads of good solutions in..."

"Don't say it," said Harry ruefully, knowing perfectly well what was coming next.

"...the library!" continued Hermione, smiling.

***

They had little luck with finding answers to Harry's dragon problem, but by the time they left for Defense Against the Dark Arts at noon, Harry felt quite well-versed in the myriad things that did not work on dragons. Their hides deflected most offensive spells, including many powerful charms Harry had neither learnt nor heard of. Fire-based magic was, naturally, useless, and water spells seemed only to enrage the beasts. Harry had hoped they'd have a weak spot in their soft underbellies through which he could drive a sword (he remembered something about that from a Muggle children's book), but Hermione cheerfully informed him that dragon hide was thoroughly impenetrable and, furthermore, he did not have a sword.

"I mean, it's clearly not impossible," said Hermione not-quite-confidently as they climbed the stairs to D.A.A., "you just need a good plan of attack."

"Yeah," said Harry, "and I'll be needing a good mason by the end of it - 'Here lies Harry Potter, eaten by a dragon...'"

Hermione gave him a stern look. "That's not funny," she said, and, to Harry's surprise, her eyes were suddenly misty with tears.

"Oh - 'Mione!" said Harry, and - not quite sure what to do - he instinctively put his arms around her. "I was only joking... of course I'll be fine..."

She sniffled into his robes and looked up at him. "I know, Harry, but... I'm worried about you. We all are." She meant Ron, of course, although Harry hardly believed it after the last few weeks. "Just be careful, ok?"

"'Course I will, 'Mione. When have I ever been reckless?" he said, grinning, trying to cheer her up. He suddenly felt like a right git for causing her so much worry. He resolved then to put on a brave face for the rest of the tournament (or however much of it he survived, at least). "Now, let's go see what manner of evil Moody's cooked up for us today!"

***

Moody, it turned out, was still bent on familiarizing them all with the Unforgivable Curses and all their horrible uses. Today he wanted them to see what the Imperius Curse was like, first-hand.

Under the direction of Moody's wand, Harry's classmates suddenly had no qualms about making fools of themselves in public. Seamus danced a merry jig with practiced grace; Lavender croaked like a bullfrog; Neville performed a series of quite impressive gymnastic maneuvers.

"Potter," growled Moody, "you're next!"

Reluctantly, Harry approached the desk as Moody raised his wand. He braced for the worst... and was suddenly overcome with the most pleasant sensation of peace and relaxation. Instantly, any thought of dragons, tournaments or Death Eaters vanished from his mind. It was really quite nice.

Then he heard a small voice from some empty corner of his mind, calling out to him.

"Jump onto the desk!" it commanded.

Sure enough, Harry had a powerful urge to obey. He bent his knees, ready to leap, but then another voice - stronger than the first - sounded in his ear.

"Why?" it wondered.

"Jump onto the desk!" the first voice commanded again, more insistently this time.

"Why, though? Stupid idea, really..." said the second voice again. "I don't think I will..."

"Jump, now!"

"No thanks."

"JUMP!"

The next thing Harry felt was the pain in his skull as he crashed head-first into Professor Moody's desk. He had apparently tried to jump and not-jump at the same time, which resulted in a sort of awkward, headlong dive.

"Well done, Potter!" Moody was saying as Harry stood up, his ears ringing. "See that? Potter fought it - damn near beat it, too! Let's try that again - watch his eyes this time, that's where it is..."

Moody ended up putting him through his paces half a dozen more times in front of the class, until Harry could almost throw off the curse completely. By the sixth go-round, the once-commanding voice had become only the faintest nagging thought in the back of his mind. He ignored its ludicrous demands easily.

"Can't resist the urge to show off, can you Potter?" sneered Malfoy as Moody dismissed the class for today. "Fat lot of good that parlor trick will do you tomorrow morning, though..." The Slytherins laughed loudly together as they trooped out of the room, each flashing their "Potter Stinks" badges with glee.

"Ignore them, Harry," said Hermione, levelheaded as ever. "You know Malfoy will take any excuse to knock you down a peg, especially after a performance like that..." Hermione was referring to the fact that Malfoy - under the steady wand of Professor Moody - had completed a rather flamboyant series of high-kicks to the tune of "The Infernal Gallop." He was really quite talented.

"Dunno," said Ron as he brushed past them with his books. "He's got a point."

Harry resisted the urge to call Ron any number of very-apt vulgar words, and just in time, too - at that instant he felt a meaty hand on his shoulder.

"Potter," said Moody behind him. "Let's have a drink in my office, shall we?"

Bugger, thought Harry as he made his way reluctantly down the corridor, struggling to match the uneven gate of the retired Auror, can that weird eye of his read minds now, too?

***

"Bang up job in there, Potter," said Moody as he handed Harry a cup of what was almost-definitely fire-whisky. "You've got the makings of a stalwart wizard in you yet."

"Thank you, sir," said Harry, not quit sure of what else there was to say to that.

"But," continued Moody, "even the very best spell-casters will have some trouble with dragon fire."

Harry all but coughed up his drink.

"I... but sir... how did you...?" he sputtered.

Moody grinned at him. "This old eye's good for more than just peeking through a witch's skirt," he laughed, tapping the side of his head with one finger. "Aye, I know about the little midnight stroll you took with Hagrid. And a bit more besides. That's a very nice cloak you've got yourself - be careful not to lose it."

"I - sir, honestly, it was Hagrid's idea, and..."

Moody held up a gnarled hand at that. "Potter, we have a name in the Auror's office for wizards who play by the rules," he said. "We call them 'dead.' It'll do you a fat lot of good to be chivalrous in a contest like this - believe you me, no on else is."

Harry could believe it. Surely Madame Maxime had told her student what she'd seen in the Forest that night. But had she also told Fleur how to pass the test? Was it possible that he was the only champion who'd be going in blind?

"Sir," said Harry. "D'you really reckon the other Champions are being coached on how to win the tournament?"

"Most certainly," said Moody. "Trouble is, even the best training isn't always enough - especially when you're dealing with live dragons. I'd say you've got as good a shot as any of 'em at surviving this thing."

Harry nodded weakly. He was still having quite a bit of trouble believing that he was going to get through the morning with all of his limbs intact.

"You scared, Potter?" asked Moody, eyeing him with that icy blue eye of his.

No use lying now, thought Harry. "Yes, Professor. I am."

Moody smiled. "Good," he said. "That means you're not stupid." Here the old wizard hauled himself out of his leather chair and began to move about his office, his magical eye whirling in his head as he rummaged through his desk and lectern, apparently searching for something. "Why do you imagine they chose dragons as the first task, Potter?" asked Moody as he continued to sort through a seemingly endless series of magical curious.

"Erm," said Harry, going to the obvious first. "They're dangerous?"

"Aye, they are," said Moody, without turning to look at him. "Among the nastiest beasts in magical creation. Razor sharp teeth, whipping tails, molten-hot fire-breath that can melt a wizard in his boots, the whole lot," he said, listing off these terrifying attributes as though they were items on a grocery list. He appeared to have found what he was searching for - it had been at the bottom of his magical bag - and was examining it in his hand. From a distance, it appeared to be a small piece of charred kindling.

"But no," continued Moody, turning over the object in his hands. "The trick about dragons is, they're smart. Wicked smart. A dragon anticipates its prey's movements before the poor bugger knows it himself. You dance here, you dance there," said Moody, miming the movement with his hand in front of him, "and then - BANG," he said, snapping his fingers, "suddenly you're char-broiled!" Moody laughed loudly at this, making Harry slightly uncomfortable.

"See, all that fire-power would be useless if it weren't for that killer instinct," said Moody, looking at Harry again with that cold eye of his. "To beat 'em, you've gotta' outsmart 'em. And to outsmart 'em, you've gotta' make them slip up. And how do you make a dragon slip up?" asked Moody.

"Erm..." began Harry, quite stupefied by the strange direction that Moody was driving at. Thankfully Moody cut him off before he could say anything too stupid.

"Well, you've gotta' rile 'em up, of course!" concluded Moody, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You've gotta' get 'em angry, make 'em nervous. Dragons are hotheads, you know. Get 'em hot enough and they start to get sloppy."

Harry had very little personal experience with dragons, but from what he'd seen in the Forest that night - the roaring and the glimmering flame - he could well believe that, just maybe, that burning rage could be turned against them in exactly the manner that Moody was describing. But how?

"I've got a few ideas for you," said Moody, reading his mind again. "It's not too difficult to annoy a dragon, not when its back is too the wall. We're very alike in that way," continued Moody, "dragons and wizards."

Harry looked at Moody quizzically. What was he on about now?

"Spellcraft is a mind game, Harry - a wizard is only as powerful as his wits are sharp. A bumbling hedge-wizard could take down the Dark Lord himself if he was quick enough on the draw; it's all about quick thinking, knowing what spell to sling, and when. See what I'm getting at?"

Harry nodded, although he was still very unsure of what any of this had to do with tomorrow's task.

"I've seen you duel, Harry," said Moody. "You're plenty strong - stronger than all three of these "Champions" put together, I'd wager. But that's not your true strength, no, the real rub is that you're quick. Sharp. Witty - like your father was. You reflexes are some of the best I've seen."

"Sir, I don't know if..." began Harry.

Moody cut him off. "Haven't you noticed that - in the heat of the duel - your hands seem to know what to do? That your opponent is moving slowly - like you can tell what's coming next before it happens?"

"Well," said Harry. He had never really thought about it before - but now it sounded very familiar. "I suppose so, yes."

"Aye, it's true. I know it because I'm the same way. All crack duelists are. But," he said, fingering that charred bit of wood in his hands again, "you're raw. Untested. You heat up too easily. And heating up dulls your wits; it makes you slower, sloppier. Reckless. It'll kill you, one of these days."

Harry could feel is blood start to boil in that instant. Who was this old wizard to call him sloppy? And, in the same instant, he knew it was all totally and cruelly true. He had to learn to control his emotions somehow, especially now, when frayed nerves could so easily get him eaten by fire-breathing monsters.

"You remind me of an old friend, Potter," said Moody suddenly. "Maxx Madrigal. An old partner, actually - he came up with me at Hogwarts. We joined the Aurors together; we fought back-to-back against some of the most nefarious dark wizards of the age. He was powerfully magical, Maxx was - twice the wizard I'll ever be - but he got a little testy when the heat was on. Never really got a handle on that temper, and that was wont to make him careless. And carelessness - well carelessness is a liability in our line of work..."

"He was killed," said Harry, anticipating Moody's direction. "Killed by a Death Eater."

"What?" said Moody, chuckling at the idea. "No, certainly not. Maxx ran circles around dark wizards, Harry. He was too quick for them, and, besides, they're always sloppy on the draw. No, no, this was years later. After the Dark Times. Maxx found himself under contract in the wilds of Hungary, you see, doing routine magical defense. Nothing too dicey. But Maxx had lost his edge over the years - happens to the best of us - and, without me around to keep him cool, he finally made a critical error. And, unfortunately for my old friend, it was an error made against the most cunning and unforgiving of dueling partners..."

At that, Moody tossed Harry the bit of kindling he'd been holding throughout his lecture. It was light in his fingers, and curiously weighted: the blackened remnant of a burnt wand.

"Maxx was powerful - just like you, Harry," said Moody, leaning in close to give him the full force of his cold gaze. "Maxx was quick. Maxx was cunning. And Maxx died."