Author's Note: Thanks so much to everyone's who's followed and reviewed my little start of a story! Hope you've enjoyed what you've seen. Decided to split this next bit up into two mini-chapters, as there's a lot going on (and a lot for me to edit - apologies in advance for any mistakes!). So, without further ado, here's Chapter 2, Part 1...


The morning of November 24th dawned bright and clear. A crisp fall breeze had scattered the clouds, rustling the treetops of the Forbidden Forest, somewhere beyond which stirred a sleeping dragon with Harry's name on it.

He had not slept a wink last night; he'd been well past midnight practicing Moody's summoning charm until his better judgment (and Hermione's urging) prevailed. He then lay in his 4-poster for the remainder of the night, quite wide-awake with nerves. The constant summoning practice had allowed him to put the task out of his mind somewhat, but now the dragon in his stomach had returned fiercer than ever. It was not just the threat of death by fire that tormented him - what if he survived, but couldn't pass the task? It was hard to imagine his reputation sinking much lower - but still, the thought of the disappointed looks from all the Gryffindors, from Hagrid and Hermione... Cho would laugh at him for sure...

He pushed the thought out of his mind (he'd rather be eaten than face that latter scenario, he was sure). Instead he focused on his breathing, feeling the air fill his chest and rush out again - one of many rather intense exercises Moody had shown him yesterday afternoon, designed to soothe an Auror's nerves in the heat of battle. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the feeling of his own body, noticing a slight tightness in his abdomen, the ache of a bruise on his left shoulder, the strength in his fingers... He repeated the mantras Moody taught him - "Fear is an illusion," "There is no enemy but for myself," "Speed is strength" - until, slowly but surely, he drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

When the first rays of dawn peeked through his curtains (much too soon), Harry rolled out of bed, dressed hastily, and went down into the common room for some last minute summoning practice. He could now quite confidently call forth cushions on command, but whether he'd be able to do the same at great distance and with a dragon in front of him was less certain.

Harry did not bother trying to force food into his quaking stomach; instead he sat down to breakfast with a large mug of very strong coffee, into which the twins insisted he pour several ounces of Ogden's Best, smuggled from the Burrow in an oversized sock.

"Bitta' Dutch courage, Harry!" said George, grinning. "Fight fire with fire!"

Harry looked enviously at the crowds of students breakfasting around him, enjoying their day off and chatting excitedly about the coming show. He found himself wishing, now more than ever, that he was one of them, that he could soon take his place safely in the back of the stands to watch the champions compete, to root for Cedric and visit Hagrid afterward.

He got up briskly; it was half-past 9, and though he wasn't expected in the champion's tent for another 15 minutes, he saw no good in torturing himself any longer. He left the hall in a hurry, cheers (and jeers from the Slytherins) following him out.

The other champions had already arrived; apparently they'd all had the same idea. Fleur was standing by the fire, shaking visibly even at a distance and looking extraordinarily pale. Krum was even surlier than usual, while Cedric was pacing the length of the tent over and over, slightly green in the face. He smiled weakly at Harry as he entered.

"Well now," said Ludo Bagman, clapping his hands with obvious excitement, "if we're all ready, let's begin!" Here he produced from an inner pocket a small, velvet bag. The four champions stared at it as though it were a ticking bomb. "You're each to draw something out of this pouch, which will determine the order in which you will compete and the, er, nature of your obstacle. Fleur, ladies first..."

Fleur strode over and reached a trembling hand into the pouch. After a moment she withdrew it again, and in her palm, flapping its tiny wings and preening itself, was a to-scale moving model of a slender green dragon with a number "3" hanging from its neck. As he'd expected, none of the other champions looked remotely surprised at the sight of it, although their faces retained the same sickly pallor.

"Krum, you're next!" Krum drew the red dragon with the golden frill around its neck; it carried the number "2" placard. Cedric picked out a stout blue dragon with curled horns, numbered "1."

Harry could've laughed; of course the dragon he'd been dreading most would be his. Resignedly, he reached into the bag and pulled out the last model, with its dangling number "4" collar.

"Right then," said Bagman. "Your task will be to retrieve a golden egg from a clutch of dragon eggs, each guarded by the dragon you now hold in your palm. Cedric, you'll be first with the Swedish Short-Snout." Cedric smiled hopefully. "Fleur's next with the Common Welsh Green" - Fleur remained expressionless - "Krum, you'll have the Chinese Fireball" - Krum's scowl only deepened - "and Potter is last, facing the Hungarian Horntail."

As if on cue, the tiny dragon in Harry's palm blew an impressive jet of black fire out its snout and swished its tail dangerously. Harry knew the other champions must've been thanking their lucky stars.

"Cedric, you'll be entering the arena in 5 minutes time. If any of you have any last minute preparations to make" - here he smiled knowingly at Harry - "do so now!"

The champions all resumed their previous postures at this dismissal, now looking even more terrified than before, if possible. Cedric was pacing again. Harry, now quite numb with nerves, had chosen a seat on a bench at the rear of the tent, willing his heart to beat more slowly and staring at the grass in front of him - how had he never noticed just how wonderful grass was? - when a determined "psst!" just behind him made him jump. He turned to see a pair of familiar brown eyes staring at him through a tent flap - it was Hermione.

Harry got up and made as if he was inspecting his riding gloves curiously close to the tent flap (the champions were not allowed visitors).

"Harry," whispered Hermione. Her voice was shaking slightly. "How are you feeling?

"Er... OK." He was surprised that she'd come - pleasantly, though. Hearing her voice made him feel worlds better.

"You'll be fine, Harry," she said, as though reassuring herself as much as him, "you just need to... er..."

"...battle a dragon?" Harry finished for her.

"Yes. Exactly." A moment passed before there was a sudden flurry of motion in which Hermione slipped into the tent and threw her arms around him. They embraced for the briefest of moments - not nearly long enough to Harry's mind, as the warmth of her body against his was extremely comfortable - before Harry was forced to extricate himself (not without some difficulty, as she was grasping the front of his robes with surprising force).

"'Mione," he said, gently tilting her chin and lowering his gaze to meet her eye-line, "oh, blimey - please don't cry..." Harry knew he was rubbish with crying girls, but he did his best to comfort her. "Hey - of course I'll be alright; we both know I've seen loads worse than this. And besides - I'm great with reptiles, remember?" he said, referring to his skill with Parseltongue (he had no idea if dragons counted as reptiles; he suspected they did not). Hermione giggled at this, music to Harry's ears.

"Just watch, ok?" said Harry. "I'll be out of there in two shakes, and we'll all have a good laugh about it!"

Yeah, thought Harry, two shakes. Sure. Hermione, though, seemed somewhat satisfied, and with a last tearful "Good luck, Harry!" she left in a rush.

Harry heaved a great sigh and sat down heavily, wishing this whole thing over and done. Just a few more minutes, he thought as he once again attempted to slow his breathing, going over his mantras again ("I do not know fear," "I am the wind; fire cannot touch me"). It helped some - but not much.

"She's worried about you," came a French-accented voice from directly in front of him. Harry jumped again - people needed to stop sneaking up on him. "She cares about you very much."

Harry looked up in surprise to see Fleur standing over him. He had no idea why she was suddenly speaking to him; in every prior meeting they'd had she'd regarded him as though he were something unpleasant stuck to her shoe. Maybe she wants to make her closing remarks... thought Harry hopefully.

"Yeah, I know it," was all he could think to say. But Fleur was already striding back over to her place by the fireside, although she smiled at him as she turned, making Harry's insides do a somersault completely unrelated to dragons.

What was that about? wondered Harry. He was still puzzling it out when Ludo Bagman called from outside, "Miss Delacour, you're up!"

Harry did not watch whatever was going on in the arena, and he did his best to tune out Bagman's play-by-play announcing. Instead he tried to concentrate on his own plan of action - summon the broom and fly like mad, essentially - although he was having a rough time of it; tremendous roars from outside kept breaking his reverie, as did the visual echo of Fleur's smile playing before his eyes.

"And Krum's done it!" shouted Bagman, much too soon. It was Harry's turn now. He got up and strode to the tent's entrance, jaw set, hands white around his wand.

This is it, he thought, taking this last moment to dwell on calming visuals and sensations - another trick of Moody's. The feeling of wind rushing through his hair on the Quidditch pitch... the red and gold of his House's banner... waking up in the Burrow last summer... the deep hazel of a familiar pair of eyes...

"...Mr. Potter, please enter the arena!"

Here we go...


A.N.: Part 2 coming up shortly. Please let me know your thoughts - I'm always eager to improve. Thanks guys!