The Other Champion

Chapter 5: The First Task

Author's Note: The highly anticipated (I think) first task – from a different point of view! Hope you guys enjoy it, just as much as I enjoyed writing this.

Thank you to Dorothea Greengrass, who beta-read this chapter! Any other mistakes you notice are my own.

Special thanks to Newt Scamander, who provided me with an illustrated copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, and from where I was able to look up and determine if Erumpents and Fire-Crabs were really dangerous, and how much of a range does a Hungarian Horntail really have.

Disclaimer: Recognizable portions in this chapter have been taken from Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, and Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, by J.K. Rowling. I neither own nor intend to make any profit from the use of Harry Potter and the associated characters of the series, in my story.

Previously on "The Other Champion"…

'Never mind that, Potter, you can tell Professor McGonagall you were with me. In my office, please…'

He glanced back at Warrington, who still had not moved, before following Moody along the corridor and to a flight of stairs directly to the fourth floor, where his office was. As he trudged along in Moody's wake, he wondered which was worse: getting caught by Moody for cheating in the Tournament, or walking in late to Professor McGonagall's class.

Lesser of two evils, I suppose.

Only if Moody doesn't turn me into a ferret.

And as he followed Moody into his office, he supposed being turned into a ferret would not be so bad, if it could help him survive the first task.

'Daphne?'

No answer.

'Daphne?'

Still no answer.

'Daphne!'

'What?'

The blonde fourth-year Slytherin jumped at the sudden exclamation of her name, and stared confusedly at her best friend, Tracy Davies, who was looking at her with a thoroughly exasperated expression. Both of them were startled as the third member of their group, the dark-skinned Blaise Zabini, unceremoniously dropped a stack of three thick tomes on their table; a small cloud of dust dissipated into the air, while the 'thud!' had attracted more than a few curious stares.

'Sod off,' hissed Blaise with an impatient wave of his hand; a group of third-year Hufflepuffs at the next table jerked away with fear, and huddled closer to their own books.

The three of them were in the library, working on their essay for Potions and Charms. Blaise had volunteered to fetch some of the dustier and more obscure tomes for their research, and had wandered off to the lesser frequented aisles. Tracy had chosen to look up her textbook first, and was currently copying out the history of the Summoning Charm from the large volume.

Daphne was working on her Potions essay – or at least, she had been trying to do so. Despite Snape's favouritism towards the Slytherins, Daphne did not think much of him as a professor, and even less as a Head of House; due to this, she did not feel too inclined to do a good job on it. And so it was that halfway through the required fourteen inches of parchment, she had given it up as a lost cause, shoved her draft away from her, and looked around the library.

Blaise still had not returned from his quest to dig out useful books – he was, in any case, nowhere to be seen from where their table was, a little off from the centre of the library. A group of third-year Hufflepuffs had snagged the table next to them, and were working on what appeared to be a Herbology essay. Students from other houses – most of whom appeared to be Ravenclaws, quite predictably – flitted in and out of the towering bookshelves, carrying books to either their tables or to the front desk, where Madam Pince, the vulture-like librarian, allowed them to check them out after a close inspection.

Her eyes wandered around to gaze out of the far window just ahead of her, and behind Tracy: the sky was a brilliant deep purple, a stark contrast to the dull grey it had been earlier that day. Flecks of red and gold were scattered across the sky from the setting sun, just visible beyond the distant mountains to the west. The lake – or at least what Daphne could see of it – glowed brilliantly from these rays pf light, just as the lanterns in the library came on.

She glanced down at her Potions essay; the parchment looked innocuously up at her, waiting for her to fill it with words traced with ink. She sighed, trying to convince herself that a few more minutes of break-time would not hurt her. The essay was due only on Friday – she still had a good five days to finish it, after all.

Daphne looked up just in time to see a boy with round glasses and messy jet black hair walk into the library, and head straight for the Magical Creatures section.

The boy who had been in her head for almost eight days now – longer than any other stranger. The boy who, with his simple act of kindness, had caused her to think about him more than what was strictly necessary.

Harry Potter.

Daphne had never expected him to be this…different; She did not know how else to phrase it. He was nothing like how her fellow Slytherins had portrayed him to be – arrogant, snobbish, and a show-off who was always trying to win points by being the teachers' pet.

Those words were more appropriate to describe Malfoy, rather than anyone else.

No, Potter was surely none of those. He was just…different. And in a good way – the way that intrigued her to the point that she really wanted to know more about him.

Therein came the snag.

How was she to get to know him better, if they could not speak to each other at all? They shared just two classes together, and even in those, most of her other House-mates were almost always present. And almost all of them were quite averse to engaging the Gryffindors – their supposed mortal enemies – in conversation. It was considered an insult to the noble House of Slytherin if you were ever caught conversing with a Gryffindor – except if it was to rile them up or antagonize them, like what Malfoy often did to Potter and his friends.

Twisted, pathetic logic.

Unfortunately, this rationale had formed a cornerstone for Slytherins with respect to their daily life in Hogwarts, and ultimately outside of it in the wizarding world. A member of Slytherin House was expected to know and follow these unwritten rules – going against them would, more often than not, result in being considered as a traitor and an outcast of the House.

It was not as though only the Slytherins were completely in the wrong, however: the members of the other Houses were equally guilty in having similar ingrained prejudices and crazy logics. Ravenclaws, for instance, were quite brutal against anyone – even one of their own – who did not conform to their image of 'intelligent students'. Gryffindors had a history of making fun of House-mates who were cowards, or did not display the required level of bravery that was associated with their House. Hufflepuffs…well, Daphne did not know too much about them, but they were sure to have some skeletons in their closet as well.

That being said, however, it did not take a genius to figure out why Slytherins were the most hated in the school. It was Salazar Slytherin who had left the school in a huff; it was because of him that four became three, and thus, the students of his House had to pay the price for it. Every child sorted into Slytherin was forced to wear the proverbial albatross around his or her neck, only because of a centuries-old feud over a long-forgotten issue – one that had been interpreted and re-hashed so many times no one knew what it really was.

This had ultimately descended into a petty school rivalry; and with the rivalry came the typical behaviour of students going against each other: trying to put the other down while simultaneously looking to elevate your status amongst the crowd. A never-ending, vicious circle, which only widened and got worse when things became a bit personal.

Now that, Daphne mused, could be attributed to Slytherins. Not that she was willing to take the blame for it, of course.

Over the years, as a consequence of the rivalry, every student of Slytherin had been forced to become immune to the insults and remarks passed by the students of the other Houses. While this worked well for some time, a few students felt compelled to give it back in equal measure – sometimes in ways that were not always honourable or friendly. The quarrel often continued even after the students left school and began working – certain Slytherin pure-bloods felt that it was beneath their dignity to work with a Gryffindor, and even more so if it was a Muggle-born.

While this was still manageable, there were still others from Slytherin who thought it appropriate to try and 'restore Slytherin's rightful place in the world': this they attempted to do by murders of 'unwanted people', brainwashing of 'righteous followers', and the like. Sadly, more often than not, these followers were from Slytherin as well: it descended to a point where Slytherin House was viewed as the breeding ground for Dark wizards: the Dark Lord being a prime example of this.

Quite to the contrary, not all Slytherin students went on to become Dark wizards, or even leaned towards the Dark Arts at all. Most of them were sorted into Slytherin for the sole reason that they had at least one of the qualities that Slytherin valued and prized – cunning, resourcefulness, and ambition – as their dominant traits. Rather unfortunately, however, these had been twisted to represent typical characteristics of Dark wizards. Even Parseltongue – the language of snakes – was now looked upon as 'evil', despite the fact that it was just another language.

This mind-set had become so ingrained in the minds of students over the years that no one had bothered to correct them at all. There were some that could have done so, but they chose to keep their heads down and get on with their lives, without sparing a thought for others. And thus, the Slytherins continued to behave as though they were students entitled to privileges that no other House could have, while the other Houses continued to detest Slytherins and their mannerisms.

Bad blood all around.

And so, despite her curiosity about Potter, Daphne did not want to run the risk of being ostracised by her House-mates by talking to him. The three of them were already seen as 'odd ones' by a majority of Slytherins – her indifferent, cold behaviour, Blaise's mother, and Tracy's heritage did not go well with the rest of the crowd – so there was no need to give them more dirt on her.

She was thankful, however, that no one else had spotted them exchanging brief smiles and grins whenever they made eye contact during the day. She was not sure which would have been worse – the reaction of her House-mates, and the school in general, or her embarrassment at being caught.

Potter certainly looked cute when he was embarrassed or confused, though.

Daphne suppressed a stupid grin creeping up on her face as she recalled the first time she had waved at Potter: it had been right after their Care of Magical Creatures class, when they had escaped the sudden downpour. It had been a bold step – not something that she usually did – but it had been worth it, even if it was just to see Potter's face light up, and then suddenly furrow his brow in confusion.

'Daphne!'

Her opportunity to re-live the moment was cut short by Tracy's exclamation of her name; Daphne's initial confused expression soon morphed into an annoyed glare, which had Tracy recoiling slightly. Thankfully, she was saved from answering any question that her friend could have had with Blaise's arrival at their table: they were both distracted by the books being dropped, while Tracy's attention was also caught by the extra reference material for her Charms essay.

'You should finish that essay, Daphne,' said Blaise, pointing to her unfinished Potions draft as he sat down with them. 'You won't have time to finish the Transfiguration essay tomorrow.'

Daphne sighed at that: while Snape would have probably let her off for not turning in his homework, McGonagall was not so forgiving. With great reluctance, she pulled the parchment towards her, trying to convince herself to finish it.

Five minutes later, she looked up, a little frustrated at the lack of progress, only to find Potter looking at her from across the room. He gave her a small, weary smile, before grabbing a load of books and heading out of the library.

Daphne could not help but smile in return; and almost instantly, her frustration seemed to seep away.

Blaise and Tracy had no idea why she had been smiling throughout the rest of her essay, nor could they figure out how she had managed to finish it so quickly.

The Great Hall was teeming and buzzing with chatter when Daphne, Tracy, and Blaise walked in on Thursday morning. The atmosphere around the Hall was one of great tension and excitement: it spread amongst everyone as they all speculated what was going to happen that day.

The first task of the Triwizard Tournament had finally arrived.

The three of them took their customary seats along with their classmates at the Slytherin table, in time to hear a few people calling out 'Good luck!' down the table at Cassius Warrington. Daphne stole a quick glance at him as she buttered her toast – he looked distinctly nervous and out-of-place, as though he was not sure if he wanted to be there.

Her attention was caught by a few cheers coming from the other side of the Hall – she looked up in time to see Potter, Weasley, and Granger walk in and take their seats for breakfast, as the Gryffindors cheered their champion on. Even from a distance, Potter looked a lot worse than Warrington: his complexion was slightly paler than usual, and his hair stood up even more than normal, as though he had run his hand through it a number of times. Her sharp eyes – Tracy often said she could spot what even McGonagall or Snape did not – could make out his slightly droopy eyes. Clearly, he had not had enough sleep the previous night.

A slight feeling of worry crept up within her, adding on to the anxiety she had been feeling since Monday – was Potter going to be okay? Even though they had been exchanging their usual smiles and waves, she could make out the slight strain and effort he was putting into them. Was it because of the pressure for the first task? Or did he not want to talk to her – even if they were not technically talking?

She had to force such thoughts out of her mind: somehow, she knew that Potter would have point-blank ignored her if he did not want to continue this 'game' they were playing. It had to be the pressure of the first task: he was only fourteen, after all, trying to compete against three fully-qualified contestants.

Daphne only hoped it wouldn't be too bad for him – or anyone else, she added as an afterthought.

'I must say, I half expected Potter to have run off by now,' came the drawling voice of Draco Malfoy from two seats to her left. 'I'm surprised he's still around to compete, I wonder why the Ministry hasn't done anything about it.'

'Probably wanted to keep him for his hero-image,' spat Theodore Nott on Malfoy's left.

Malfoy snorted. 'Yeah. Saint Potter,' he said derisively; Daphne noticed him looking over at the Gryffindor table, where Potter didn't seem to be eating anything. 'Look at him, the scrawny git.' The blonde glared at his black-haired counterpart, as though trying to do some sort of damage just by sight.

'I don't think he'll last long,' said Pansy Parkinson in a disdainful tone. 'Daddy told me the first task is always the most difficult, especially because the champions don't know what they're facing.'

Malfoy smirked. 'Ten galleons say he won't last ten minutes into the task.' He turned to Theodore and Pansy. 'What say?'

'You're on!' said Theodore, a little too enthusiastically.

The fifth and sixth year Slytherins seated near the group chuckled; soon enough, a few of them also exchanged bets on Potter's survival in the first task. This seemed to have a domino effect on most of the rest of Slytherin House – by the end of breakfast, almost three-quarters of Daphne's House-mates had wagered on Potter's defeat, with one third-year boy boldly claiming – for a princely sum of twenty galleons – that he would barely last thirty seconds.

'That's ridiculous!' said the third-year girl who had proposed the wager with the boy. 'Thirty seconds – even Potter isn't that rubbish!'

'It's the first task,' retorted the boy, waving his knife rather erratically; bits of toast and butter flew all around them. 'They always bring dangerous creatures for the first task – to fight them or something. Thirty seconds seems too generous anyway.' The boy grinned rather maliciously.

'Dangerous creatures?' asked Tracy, who had overheard the conversation – not that it was hard, given their loud volume. 'What d'you reckon they're getting this time?'

Daphne shrugged nonchalantly, but Blaise asked, 'This time?'

'Yeah,' said Tracy. 'They got a cockatrice in 1792…'

'Yes, but that was in 1792, Trace. They won't get cockatrices this time.'

'I know, I know…' She stared at the wall as though deep in thought. 'Maybe they'll get an Erumpent.'

'An Erumpent? Are you mad? Those things are beyond dangerous!'

'Okay, fine, maybe a Fire-Crab? Get its shells, maybe…'

'Might as well use the Skrewts for that, to be honest.'

'Eurgh, no thanks.'

Daphne tuned them out, choosing instead to focus on her toast; yet, she could not help but feel that this time, it would be worse than simply catching a cockatrice.

Breakfast ended rather quickly after that – once the bets were placed and noted down, the fourth-year Slytherins filed out of the Great Hall and headed for Charms with the Hufflepuffs. The mood in the Great Hall had successfully seeped into every student, however; none of them seemed inclined to be present in the class at all. Quite graciously, Professor Flitwick recognised it at once, and allowed them to practice some simple Charms from their third-year for the first half hour, post which they were left to their own devices.

The remainder of the morning passed in similar fashion; soon, the entire school had congregated for lunch at the Great Hall once more. Every student was practically bouncing in their seats – well, every student except the champions; Daphne noted Potter and Warrington looking even paler than how they were earlier that day. A quick glance confirmed that Viktor Krum and the Delacour girl were no different; then again, Krum's surly visage rarely changed at all.

It seemed like only a few minutes later – although they had already progressed to desserts – when Professor Snape came striding down to the Slytherin table, his black cloak billowing about slightly with his pace, and looking – surprisingly – slightly worried. As a hush fell over the occupants – including the visiting Durmstrang contingent – he headed straight to where Warrington was seated; a whispered conversation later, she saw Warrington rise from his seat and follow their Head of House out of the Great Hall.

As her eyes followed Warrington's trail, Daphne spotted Potter being led out by Professor McGonagall, who was very visibly anxious. Right behind them were Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum, accompanied by their respective Heads – the large Madame Maxime, and the goateed Igor Karkaroff.

Ten minutes later, the hush from the Slytherin table extended to the rest of the school, as Professor Dumbledore stood up. 'Ladies and gentlemen, it is time. I must ask you to follow your Head Boy and Girl, and the House prefects, to the venue for the first task.'

There was a great deal of noise – benches were scraped and pushed back, cutlery was dropped onto the table and plates, and students happily chattered away as they all exited the Hall and made their way onto the sloping grounds. It was a beautiful November day – the sun was out, with a few clouds for company, but there was still the veritable chill in the air. Bundled up in cloaks and scarfs, the students of Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang passed by Hagrid's hut, walked around the large paddock that housed the giant winged horses of Beauxbatons, and skirted the edge of the Forbidden Forest – the level of anticipation only increased as they did so. Teachers and prefects did their level best to control the crowd, making sure that the younger years did not get lost in the Forest, and the older students did not voluntarily sneak off into it.

They had walked so far along the perimeter of the Forest that the castle and the lake were now completely out of sight. Just as Daphne began to wonder how much farther they needed to walk, she spotted a large, yellow tent, erected right behind a clump of trees. Daphne thought it was an odd choice for a tent, of all things – had some people camped here for the first task?

Just then, as they approached closer, something distinctly odd caught her eye: thick planks of wood were stretched out like a fence right behind the tent, as though they were protecting something within – or were they protecting the ones outside? As she pondered this, the faint smell of burning wood reached her nostrils – some of the branches in the clump of trees were smouldering…

And then they walked past the tent, right up to the fence, and Daphne's jaw dropped.

It was as though someone had taken the spectator stands of the Quidditch stadium from the Hogwarts grounds and placed it here – only that they hadn't done a very good job of it; and that the stands were now magically expanded to accommodate a sizeably bigger crowd… The ground, however, looked nothing like the vast, smooth expanse of grass that was a Quidditch pitch: it was ragged and rocky, with boulders strewn here and there to give it a mountainous appearance; several deep holes had been made into the earth as well – as though that same someone had forgotten to put rocks in those spaces.

The spectator stands too, on a closer inspection, looked markedly different: instead of the traditional four sections that were reserved for each House of Hogwarts, there were now multiple sections for the crowd to take their seats. One particular segment – right opposite the enclosure entrance – was covered by a large tarpaulin, with raised seats that were draped in gold: presumably the seats for the judges.

As Daphne stood stock still and watched, the stands began to fill up with students, eager to see some exciting event. The numerous sections had been created, presumably, to encourage inter-mingling amongst the students of different schools; rather unfortunately, it had not helped much. The Durmstrang students, looking quite imposing in their blood-red robes, had claimed an entire section for themselves, and were making a great deal of noise in support of their champion. Banners sporting the words 'Viktor Krum shampionŭt' and 'Otidete Viktor' had been draped along the lowest row of the stands – Daphne did not need to be a genius to figure out what they said.

Likewise, the Beauxbatons students had occupied another section nearby; they too, like their Durmstrang counterparts, had hung up large banners along the stands to encourage Fleur Delacour. Having learnt and studied French while growing up ('One must always learn a foreign language, young lady,' Isabella Greengrass had insisted), Daphne had no problem in reading them, as they glittered and sparkled rather obnoxiously in the sun.

The remaining sections were filling up with Hogwarts students – and even there, it appeared to be on the basis of their Houses. The Slytherins, who were loudly cheering and chanting Warrington's name, were heading to the stand closest to the Durmstrang contingent, while the Ravenclaws had taken over the section next to the Beauxbatons students. The Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs had sat down in the rest; the former, led by the rambunctious Weasley twins, were yelling themselves hoarse in favour of Potter's victory.

Movement near the judges' seats caught her eye – the three Heads, along with Mr Crouch, had ascended the steps and were taking their seats. The Hogwarts staff were already seated next to them, along with a group of official looking wizards, presumably from the Ministry of Magic. Daphne saw Filch, donned in his mouldy tailcoat, staring grumpily around at the students, with a silver whistle hanging around his neck.

With a jolt, Daphne suddenly realised that she was, quite surprisingly, the only one left to enter the enclosure. She had barely taken a few steps forward toward the entrance, when she heard footsteps from behind her, near the opening of the tent – it sounded like a couple of people were walking out. Turning quickly, she spotted Ludo Bagman, the former Beater for the Wimbourne Wasps, striding towards the trees on this side of the forest, closer to the wooden fence. Trailing behind him, looking a little out-of-place and confused, was Harry Potter.

Daphne frowned slightly. Why on earth was Ludo Bagman, of all people, walking with Potter just minutes before the first task was due to start? And in private too – Bagman looked like someone who did not want to be seen.

What is going on?

An uncharacteristic bubble of curiosity enveloped her – she did not know why, but she wanted to find out what Bagman was up to. Quietly, she stole into the lengthening shadows cast by the clump of trees in front of the tent, right behind Potter and Bagman, while making sure she could not be seen. A quick glance around her confirmed that, for the moment, the three of them were quite alone.

She crept closer to the pair of them, alternating her focusing between their figures and the crowd below, to make sure she did not accidentally crack a twig and alert them. Fortunately, the ground seemed to be quite clear – even the dry leaves had drifted into the forest due to the occasional burst of wind.

Bagman finally came to a stop a few feet ahead; Daphne saw him turn around to face Potter with a rather caring expression on his face.

That's odd.

She strained her ears to overhear the conversation – luckily, the gentle wind was blowing in her direction, carrying their voices over to her.

'Feeling all right, Harry? Anything I can get you?'

She saw Potter looking up at the older man, still looking very confused at the entire situation. Daphne could not blame him – Bagman was supposed to be one of the judges, and to have to chat with him right before competing in an extremely dangerous task of the Tournament that he was not supposed to a part of in the first place did not appear to bode well.

'What?' said Potter. 'I – no, nothing.'

Bagman suddenly lowered his voice – needlessly, thought Daphne, as there wasn't a soul in sight for a mile apart from her.

'Got a plan?' His voice sounded very…conspiratorial. 'Because I don't mind sharing a few pointers, if you'd like them, you know. I mean,' and here, his voice went even lower; Daphne was forced to take a few hurried steps forward to listen properly, 'you're the underdog here, Harry… Anything I can do help…'

Daphne frowned at this, just as the Slytherin part of her brain – the one that had been constantly criticising her decision to follow Potter and Bagman – now went into overdrive: why was Bagman talking about helping Potter? Was the task so dangerous that there was no chance for Potter to survive it? Or was he just being very friendly? Either way, it did not seem – appropriate – for a Ministry official, and a judge of the Tournament, to be offering assistance to a school champion – youngest or otherwise.

Potter had responded so quickly to Bagman's statement that she had missed it completely. She re-focused on what the black-haired teenager was saying. 'No – I – I know what I'm going to do, thanks.'

'Nobody would know, Harry.'

Daphne had to stifle a laugh despite the situation; the wink from Bagman was so obvious and visible, even from a mile off. She supposed Bagman was reasonably confident that they were alone, but even so, it was too blatant as it is. It did confirm one thing, though – he was definitely being too friendly with Potter. It was as though…

As though he wanted to make sure that Potter won.

If that is true…

'No, I'm fine,' said Potter. Daphne almost snorted out loud at that – Potter was most certainly not fine. The time he had spent inside the tent seemed to have made it worse for him – he looked extremely pale and peaky. His legs were also shivering very slightly – although that could still have been because of the chilly air.

'I've got a plan worked out, I –'

A shrill whistle sounded in the distance.

Bagman jumped. 'Good Lord, I've got to run!' he exclaimed in alarm, and he hurried off.

Straight towards where Daphne stood, peeking out from behind the clump of trees.

Shit.

She turned around and flattened herself against the thickest tree trunk; Bagman was sure to rush past her without a backward glance; hopefully, he would not see her, or there would be annoying and unnecessary questions to be answered; she did not want to get into all of it just then…

Mercifully, just as she had hoped, Bagman ran past her and headed straight for the enclosure entrance. Her heart racing, still standing flat against the tree trunk, she let out a deep breath she did not realise she had been holding. That had been a close shave – getting caught for overhearing such a conversation was not something she had wanted.

Although, on some level, she was glad she did overhear it after all. Bagman's odd behaviour certainly raised some interesting questions, not least regarding his motive for trying to help Potter with the first task, and potentially the entire Tournament. Was he genuinely concerned for Potter, or was it for his own gain? If it was the latter – and that seemed likely, given the circumstances – how much did he stand to gain out of it? Or was someone else the ultimate beneficiary in this entire set-up?

Daphne shook her head forcefully: now was not the time to focus on all of this. She mentally filed it away to think about it later – possibly with Tracy and Blaise as well; she heaved another sigh, and stepped out from behind the tree trunk.

Only to come face-to-face with Potter.

Shit.

Mouth dry, and heart pumping once again, she looked right at him. His brilliant green eyes, framed behind his round-rimmed glasses, seemed to be staring right through her – what the Muggles called 'scanning' or 'ex-raying'. He had an inquisitive look on his face, no doubt wondering what she was doing behind that particular clump of trees, of all places, instead of in the stands where she was supposed to be.

She became suddenly aware of her hands, which she had been wringing for the last one minute (had it really been that long?); they felt clammy and sweaty at the same time – was that normal? It was probably the chilly wind that had got to her; she had, after all, not thought to wear any gloves.

So intent had she been on her hands, of all things, that she almost missed what he said.

'Sorry?' she said; it came out more like a high-pitched squeak.

Potter's mouth twisted into a slight grin, as though he wasn't sure if he was allowed to smile or laugh.

'What are you doing here?'

And there it is.

Daphne froze – at least, her mouth and brain seemed to have shut down completely, while her hands continued to fidget away. She had no answer to his question – the truth was, anyway, not the ideal answer to give to Potter. She was not sure why she was acting like this at all: what was so different about Potter that made her behave like this – a dumbstruck, little girl. What happened to the girl in the hospital wing that had questioned him about reading her diary? What happened to the young lady who was known for her frigid stares at strangers and unruly people?

'I – erm –'

Potter chuckled softly at her attempted response, causing her to regain some semblance of control over her senses. He was laughing at her? She glared at him indignantly, but instead of intimidating him, it only served as a catalyst for him to chuckle even more.

Potter's sniggers subsided after a few moments, leaving her still glaring at him, albeit half-heartedly. He still had an annoying smirk on his face – something which she wanted to wipe off, but at the same thought was rather cute.

Wait, what?

Cute? Where had thought come from? Potter was not cute – he did not look cute from any angle whatsoever. He was a scrawny, thin fellow who always wore clothes that were too big for him. His hair stuck up in odd angles all the time, and those glasses looked quite horrendous. Surely he wasn't cute!

Yeah, right.

No, he is not cute!

Stop trying to fool yourself, Daphne.

I don't know what you're talking about.

She could see a mental image of herself, crossing her arms together on her chest and behaving like an obstinate young girl.

Yes, you do. You're just not ready to accept the fact that he is cute.

He is NOT!

It took her a few moments to realise that she had said that last statement out loud. Potter was now giving her an odd look, as though he was not sure of her mental stability.

Yep, you're definitely mental.

She let out a small groan, wondering why she was having an argument on Potter's cuteness with herself, effectively. The boy in question seemed, if possible, even more confused.

Well, at least that smirk is off his face now.

Oh, shut up.

Daphne shook her head, trying to visualise throwing the annoying voice off balance and making it fall off – somewhere. Successful at least for the time being, she looked up once again to meet Potter's green eyes.

'It's – nothing, Potter,' she said, with as much calm and normality she could muster.

Thankfully, he did not pry, and simply nodded in understanding. Daphne imagined he must have given the same explanation to hundreds of people already, for some reason or the other.

A great cheer went up from the spectators in the stands of the enclosure, causing both of them to jump up in surprise. Daphne saw Potter glance between the enclosure, and something beyond her, which she surmised must be the tent.

'I – I should go,' he said, and he suddenly looked pale and clammy once again. Daphne had to fight a sudden impulse to reach out and hug him in comfort.

'Yeah,' she said. 'I need to – to go too.' She signalled awkwardly towards the enclosure and the stands beyond.

'Right, okay,' he said. 'I – I'll see you around?'

He had phrased it as a question. Daphne wasn't sure what to say – did he expect her to meet up with him like this regularly? She could hear her inner voice laughing at this thought: even if they did, what would they even say to each other?

And yet, she ended up nodding at his words, trying not to inadvertently blush – even though there was no conceivable reason to do so.

'Right,' said Potter again. He gave a rather forced smile – whether it was because of the awkward situation or the nervousness for the task ahead, she didn't know – then trudged past her in the direction of the tent.

Daphne watched him go, before heading toward the stands herself. And try as she might, she could not fight against the small smile gracing her face.

Neither of them had noticed the small, fat beetle crawling on the closest tree trunk…

Krum and Delacour had not done too badly, thought Daphne, as she settled down after giving a rising ovation to the latter. Then again, she felt they had got the easiest of the dragons to contend with.

Dragons.

Daphne was still in a state of disbelief – dragons! For the first task! They had dismissed Erumpents and what-not because they would have been too dangerous, but dragons were given the highest possible 'Beasts' classification by the Ministry of Magic – and that meant they were classed as 'known wizard killers'.

'Killers, Daphne!' Tracy had exclaimed when they had heard Bagman's announcement regarding the first task. 'Killers!'

Daphne had not trusted herself to respond to her best friend – she was internally grasping for some sort of support or anchor. The fact that each champion had to face a fully-grown female dragon was horrible enough; adding to that, these were nesting mother dragons, and they had to steal a golden egg from them. How were they supposed to achieve it? Or even survive?

So it was with great apprehension that they watched the first two contestants – the champions from the visiting schools – do battle with their dragons. For Krum at least, that was quite literally the case; he had come into the enclosure and fired a mean-looking Conjunctivitis Curse straight into the eyes of the Chinese Fireball. Unerring accuracy, and probably a really effective way of dealing with it ('The dragon's eyes are its weakest point,' Blaise had explained over the loud cheers), but it came at a cost; the Fireball, in its blind rage, had trampled onto half of its real eggs. Daphne had noticed the dragon-keepers, who were on-hand and observing the task closely, look extremely disheartened by that.

Fleur Delacour, on the other hand, had sought to avoid any and all conflict with the dragon; it was thus that she performed a complicated sort of charm, and then began to sing a crooning lullaby. It seemed to have worked: the Welsh Green – one of the dragons native to the British Isles – instantly dropped its head and body onto the ground; its eyes closed shut, and it began to snore softly, despite the crowd making the loudest noise yet with cheers and songs. The only issue Delacour had faced was when the Welsh Green had let out a particular rasping and intense snore – a thin jet of flame had shot out from its nostrils, only to land on her skirt and set it on fire. Mercifully for her, she had been quite close to the edge of the enclosure with the golden egg clutched in her hands, so the flames had been doused out rather quickly.

'Ladies and gentlemen!' Bagman's magically amplified voice sounded around the enclosure once more. 'The champions of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang have finished their first task!' Loud cheers erupted from the respective sections of the stands, their banners fluttering in the light breeze. 'We now have the next champion – the champion of Hogwarts, Cassius Warrington!'

The reaction to Warrington's appearance on the ground was mixed but mostly typical: the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students clapped and cheered; the Slytherins jumped up and down as they whistled and shouted deafeningly; and the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws let out a huge round of boos. What was definitely surprising was the reaction of the Gryffindors, who had followed their counterparts from the visiting schools, and clapped politely as Warrington entered the arena.

'That's odd,' said Daphne to Tracy and Blaise, pointing this out to them.

'Well, we've never really seen any of them trying to put Cassius down, have we?' said Blaise, and he was right: none of them could ever recall any of the Gryffindors ever saying a rude word against Warrington at all. In fact, Potter had even admitted outright that Warrington was the true Hogwarts champion, while he was just a –

'An unfortunate stowaway,' said Blaise, sniggering as he recalled Malfoy's shocked face when Potter had said so.

The three of them, along with the rest of the crowd, watched intently as Warrington put his left hand into his pocket – his right hand clutched his wand – and pulled out something small. It seemed to be a creature of some sort: even from a distance, they could discern its scuttling and scurrying on his palm.

Suddenly, a muted gasp went up from certain sections of the crowd – most notably, from those who were staring at Warrington through their Omnioculars. Cries of 'Whoa!'; 'Where did he get that from?'; and 'What's he going to do?!' filled the air as he bent down, dropped the creature on the ground, straightened up, and pointed his wand – not at the Swedish Short-Snout that stood staring at him from the other side of enclosure, but at the small creature that seemed to be scuttling away from him.

'Engorgio!'

And as the spell shot out of his wand, hit the creature, and took effect, Daphne understood, with a horrified gasp of her own, what the cries from the students were about.

The students situated in the stands closest to Warrington recoiled as the second, slightly smaller dragon, erupted from the ground. The replica of the Swedish Short-Snout reared its head and roared, exulting in its freedom and size. A jet of brilliant blue fire shot out of its mouth, dissipating into the air above and causing it to shimmer in the heat. The silvery-blue enlarged model spread its wings – at least twenty feet across – and turned to face its real-life counterpart.

'Whoa!' exclaimed Blaise, his eyes transfixed upon the new dragon, his mouth stretched into a wide grin. 'What a masterstroke!'

'Masterstroke?!' yelled Tracy, her face half hidden beneath her scarf, which she had pulled up in fear as she saw the second dragon emerge. 'This is insane!'

Daphne, however, was looking down at the ground. 'Where's Warrington?!'

Her two friends snapped their eyes to near the feet of the second dragon, where they had last seen the Slytherin – the key word being 'last'. He seemed to have disappeared from the enclosure completely; seemed to have become completely invisible…

'Disillusionment Charm!' came the shout from a seventh-year Slytherin a few rows above them. 'Look, near the pile of rocks!'

The Slytherins who had heard him all trained their gazes – some of them through their Omnioculars – toward the particular cluster of rocks their House-mate had pointed out. Sure enough, they could see the air around the rocks shimmer, as though something was disturbing that particular concentrated area. A few moments later, another shimmer, a few paces to the right…then another, and another…

'Genius!' yelled Blaise, and Daphne had to agree. It seemed like a very Slytherin thing to do – getting another thing to fight your battle, while you sneaked in and made away with the prize.

If only it were that simple.

Daphne remembered reading, quite eagerly, Newt Scamander's book: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, when her father had bought it for her just before her first year at Hogwarts. She had read it through the day, fascinated by the descriptions of the Beasts provided by the author, and the excellent moving illustrations of Doxies, Horned Serpents and Occamies. Newt Scamander's rather enthusiastic and loveable accounts of the Beasts had been one of the main reasons for her to choose Care of Magical Creatures as one of her elective subjects.

Now, three years later, as she sat amongst her House-mates, watching the first task of the Triwizard Tournament, in an enclosure that had two Swedish Short-Snouts, a distinct line from her old, worn-out copy of the book came back to her.

The female is generally larger and more aggressive than the male.

The real Swedish Short-Snout was a female – a nesting, mother dragon.

The replica, unfortunately, was a male. And it had been enlarged by magic.

'GRRRRAAAAHHHH!'

Very well said, mother dragon.

The poor replica dragon didn't even see it coming. Flushed as it was with its size and potential ability to fly, it had not expected the real creature to attack it, let alone this brutally.

The brilliant blue flame shot out of the female's mouth, hitting the male straight on the face; its eyes widened just a tad, but enough to express its shock; it keeled over from the impact and the burning heat – but there was no huge thud after that.

Gasps of shock and horror echoed across the enclosure as they all stared, awe-struck, at what remained of the replica dragon: a small pile of ash and powder.

The female let out an ear-splitting roar, one that was even louder than its previous battle-cry; it echoed at least thrice across the enclosure, and a few birds took flight from the closest trees in the Forest, twittering madly at the sound.

It took a few moments for the crowd to finally realise that they weren't there to watch the spectacle of two dragons being pitted against each other.

'Look at Warrington!'

All heads swivelled to the ground, where it took them another few moments to spot the Hogwarts champion.

The good thing was he was carrying the golden egg, and was running as fast as he could to the entrance.

The bad thing was his Disillusionment Charm had worn off.

The really bad thing was the dragon had spotted him.

'GRRRRAAAAHHHH!'

'Run, Warrington!'

And run he did. Daphne saw him scamper along the ground, squeeze between two large boulders, sprint across a particularly smooth stretch, and acrobatically jump over a rather large hole in the ground; another blast of blue flame scorched across the surface, just missing the hem of his robes…he sheltered behind a huge boulder, panting and catching his breath…the last stretch was just a few hundred yards away…he could sprint it, cross the finish line…

He screwed his face up in concentration, the golden egg cradled protectively in the crook of his left arm, his right hand tightly clutching his wand…

Warrington burst out from behind the rock, sprinting as though his life depended on it – and it did depend on it…he jumped over another, smaller hole…he was halfway there…less than fifty yards away – forty, thirty, twenty…

'Watch out!'

The desperate warning sounded out from above Daphne; turning, she noticed the Short-Snout readying herself, aiming for the one final strike – the last, final blow of the hammer…Warrington was only fifteen yards from the line…

And this time, its aim was true.

The yell had served its purpose, no doubt; heeding it, Warrington had jumped, in a bid to clear the last few yards at once; it seemed to have done the trick – the distance was now less than ten yards, almost there…

But right at the last moment, he slipped on his landing – tripping on a stray piece of rock dislodged from Krum's battle; he flung out his right arm, still clutching his wand, trying to land with minimal damage; his elbow connected with the ground first, just as the brilliant blue burst of flame met the lower half of his body, still in the air – and then he crashed to the ground, just across the finish line, the golden egg safely ensconced in his left arm…

Deafening cheers sounded out as the crowd erupted – not even Krum's battle had been this epic, adrenaline-charged, with a nail-biting, nervous end to it all. For it was definitely a slightly nervous end – Warrington was screaming with barely constrained agony as the smell of burning flesh floated across the ground – his right leg had been caught in the direct line of the fire, and despite having removed it quickly, the burn was still severe.

Madam Pomfrey hurried over immediately from inside a small tent erected just next to the champions' tent; she waved her wand over Warrington's leg even as Professor McGonagall conjured a stretcher out of thin air, while Professor Snape levitated Warrington onto it; together, the three staff members floated the injured, but successful Hogwarts champion inside the medical tent.

'What a performance!' came Bagman's amplified voice. 'What an inspired move – enlarging the small model dragon to fight its counterpart! Pity it didn't last the entire time though, that would have been truly spectacular!'

The crowd roared its approval, interspersed with applause that rent the chilly evening air.

'And now, our last and youngest champion, Harry Potter!'

The cheers and applause were as loud as those for Warrington, if not louder; the crowd were finally appreciating just how difficult the first task was, and understood that Potter would probably have his work cut out for him. They had so far seen a Swedish Short-Snout, a Chinese Fireball, and a Common Welsh Green as the adversaries for the three champions; there weren't many other dragons who were less ferocious than these three. With luck, Potter could get an Antipodean Opaleye, or a slightly docile Romanian Longhorn as his dragon, allowing him a slightly easier run to get the golden egg.

As Potter walked into the enclosure, Daphne could see him still looking a little peaky. She couldn't blame him – sitting up here in the stands was bad enough; he was just fourteen, not even of age, and had to actually face off against a nesting female dragon. The wait inside the tent, all alone, with only the sounds from the enclosure for company, would have been gut-wrenching.

The dragon-keepers brought in the last dragon for Potter, and a shuddering gasp rippled around the stadium.

A Hungarian Horntail.

'If the rumours of his adventures are true, Potter's got the worst luck out of anyone in the school,' whispered Blaise to Daphne and Tracy; Daphne had to grudgingly admit that he was right.

If the Swedish Short-Snout was known for its incinerating flame, the Horntail was known for pretty much every conceivable natural weapon one could accessorise a dragon with. Its black scales were tougher than most other dragons, and its feet ended in wickedly curved claws. The bronze horns on its head – supposedly extremely magical in nature – matched the sharp horns that ran from the end of its back till the tip of its long tail. With a fire-breathing range of up to fifty feet, it was generally accepted amongst dragon-breeders, keepers, and enthusiasts, as the fiercest and most dangerous of all dragon breeds, with the Norwegian Ridgeback coming a close second.

The Horntail in the enclosure growled slightly – and even that sounded like a hundred dogs growling at the same time into a microphone – as she spotted Potter at the other side of the enclosure. Gleaming yellow eyes with vertical black pupils narrowed in anticipation of easy game: the puny human in front of her was unlikely to provide any sort of resistance – one quick blast of her red-hot fire would do fine.

Daphne looked between Potter and the crouching dragon, with her wings half-furled as her tail thrashed against the ground, leaving yard-long gouge marks. The Slytherins around her were guffawing, with most of them already rubbing their hands in glee in anticipation of Potter's failure, and their consequent winnings from their bets. She tried to drown their delighted cheers and laughter out; her insides were squirming with worry for the young boy down there – the boy she thought of as a friend…

Potter raised his wand.

'Accio Firebolt!'

What?

The rest of the Slytherins had stopped their chortling, and looked just as confused as she was. What on earth was Potter doing? What use would a broom prove to be against one of the most dangerous dragon breeds, ever? And Summoning it? There was no way that would work – his broom was all the way back in the castle; there was absolutely no way his Charm was strong enough to get it to the enclosure…

A sudden rushing sound reached her ears; something was flying toward the enclosure; she turned towards it, and her jaw dropped.

No way…

The polished ash handle of a Firebolt, with the smooth, streamlined birch twigs in its tail, gleamed in the sunlight as it sped towards its owner from the edge of the Forest; it soared into the enclosure and stopped dead in mid-air, right next to Potter, and at the perfect height for him to mount…

There was silence from the crowd, stunned as they were at what they had just witnessed; a Summoning Charm was quite difficult to pull off in normal circumstances; yet, Potter – all of fourteen years old – had just successfully cast it in a tremendous pressure situation…

'YES!'

The yell of sheer delight had come from Hermione Granger, all the way on the other side of the enclosure; and with that, the bubble burst; the crowd began cheering and shouting raucously, jumping up and down as they marvelled at the extraordinary feat of magic they had just witnessed. Daphne could not help it – she jumped up and clapped too, cheering and shouting her disbelief in just about every way imaginable – for where would anyone get a chance to witness such magic once more?

Potter pocketed his wand, mounted his broom, and kicked off from the ground; and as he soared higher and higher, till he was but a small speck in the sky, Daphne felt as though a considerable weight of worry had been taken off her; she could not understand why, but she knew – just knew – that Potter was back where he belonged – in the air – and that he was going to win this.

And goodness, did he win it well.

Years later, Daphne would probably term it as the day she finally appreciated what an extraordinary wizard Harry Potter was: the sheer courage, outright determination to get things done, his immense power and concentration that was required to Summon the broom from the castle; the day certainly proved to be an eye-opener for Daphne Greengrass.

Not to mention his phenomenal flying skills, of course – his first dive almost brought her heart into her mouth with its recklessness, but he had made it look so easy; after that, it was as though he was playing a game with the Horntail – teasing her, trying to get her to catch him while he flew just out of reach, taunting her to fly up and swat him away…

And then, with a sudden burst of speed and finesse that left the crowd shrieking and gasping, Potter dived once more, just as the Horntail had risen off the ground, spreading its immense wings in the hope of catching him…he had dropped almost completely vertically at first, then he flattened out as he soared under the dragon's great underside, towards the unguarded nest…towards the gleaming, golden egg…

'Will you look at that?!' yelled Bagman, and even his amplified voice was barely audible over the explosion of noise from the crowd, as Potter emerged, clutching the golden egg under his uninjured right arm. 'Our youngest champion is quickest to get his egg! Well, this is going to shorten the odds on Mr Potter!'

Even the rest of the Slytherins looked dumbstruck at this performance – and rightly so; Potter had managed to prove his doubters wrong, had managed to show everyone that even he could do what three other fully qualified competitors could; that he too, was a champion in his own right…

And as she watched Potter land near the medical tent, an extremely relieved and satisfied expression on his face, she could not help but match the grin he was wearing.

Oh, you are definitely meeting him now.

Don't I know it.