Highmaster van Durmstrang feigned mild amusement with the mummers and the fire-jugglers, but was reaching the end of his patience with the Gryphons-d'Or and their demonstration of mock-combat with Muggle weapons. The champions had been in the forest for well over an hour. He hoped Rudiger would soon emerge, Triwizard Cup in hand. But however long it took for the Durmstrang champion to prevail, the highmaster had no intention of permitting the planned entertainments to persist for another agonizing minute.

The crowd clapped appreciatively as the final combatants exited the stage. A hawker selling fruits and hand-held pastries bumped the highmaster from behind as he collected copper Knuts from spectators higher in the stands.

Brushing his wispy silver hair out of his face, he considered the crowd. How best to get a rise out of them?

"You ask me, I still favor the French boy," a cracking voice announced from a few rows back. For the most part, the highmaster had managed to ignore the two witches who had been incessantly debating which champion would prevail. Now, however, he perked up his ears.

"You like him 'cause he's crafty," a second voice said.

"Well, that's the point, innit, Anabella? To see who's the best wizard?"

"There's craftiness, Florie, and then there's good old-fashioned talent. Now, that German boy…"

The first witch, Florie, brushed off her friend's comment with a mild oath. Highmaster van Durmstrang surreptitiously reached for the grip of his wand inside his blood-red cloak.

"That lug? He's all flash, I say. Though he is good looking, mind. There's no doubt about that!"

The highmaster saw his chance. With a deft nonverbal spell, he caused a third voice to rise in the stands. "Anybody but the English boy. He's a rotten cheat!"

Voices throughout the stands arose in shock. Some distance away, the Peverelle boy's father's cheeks suddenly reddened as he glared over his shoulder into the crowds.

"Who said that?" a voice thundered from the opposite side. It was one of the younger Gryphons-d'Or, a short, pudgy boy just regaining his seat after participating in the fencing exhibition.

"You heard me," van Durmstrang caused to be said in an angry voice. "Orontes de Peverelle is a filthy cheater, just like all the English!"

The elder de Peverelle had by this time stood up drawn his wand, although he kept it pointed toward the ground. A number of Hoggesmede villagers nodded and murmured among themselves.

Headmistress Custance rose from her seat. "That is a serious accusation," she called, eyeing the crowd with her penetrating glare. "Do you have any proof? Show yourself!"

"No one accuses a Gryphon-d'Or of cheating!" Peverelle's classmate shouted, fist in the air.

"Cadwgan, please!" Headmistress Custance called.

"Is it true?" a villager said in a thick highland brogue, rising to his feet. "Is the Englishman cheating? What has he done?"

This was working better than Highmaster van Durmstrang could have hoped. He turned around in his seat, showing a concerned gaze to the crowd.

"There should be an investigation!" a Bels-bastons student cried. "The third task should be postponed until the judges get to the bottom of this!"

"People, people!" the village friar said. "I'm sure this is all some sort of misunderstanding…"

"Headmistress," van Durmstrang said, "perhaps we judges should retire to some quiet place to discuss this matter?"

Gershom sat cross-legged on the grass, gazing into his lantern's candlelight. The narrow path forked before him: gently to the left and sharply to the right. Try as he might, he couldn't quite achieve the proper frame of mind to catch a vision of where the Triwizard Cup was hidden.

"Divination!" he spat. Master Cyprien had always said he lacked the Gift. He had hoped, however, that just this once…

"Ooff!" Suddenly Gershom was sprawling on the ground. He came up quickly, right hand held in front of him in a fist.

"Having any luck?"

It was Rudiger. Gershom immediately noticed he was not carrying the lantern he had been given. Instead, he held what looked like a tiny glowing crystal ball in his hand.

"Would I tell you if I was?" There was no way Gershom would ever admit to the German boy that he had passed this very spot twice before and was no closer to finding his way through the forest.

The Durmstrang champion shrugged. "No more than I would."

"We both want to win, there's no point denying it."

"Why do we even bother?" Rudiger said. "This isn't about us. It isn't about 'eternal glory.' It's just an excuse for our schools to congratulate themselves over how great they are."

There was another loud shriek, closer than Gershom had heard it before.

"You'd better get moving. Something's tracking me!"

Gershom's heart skipped a beat. "What?"

"You'll see!" the German grinned, then threw something on the ground that immediately exploded into a wall of smoke and flames.

Gershom tried not to inhale any of the billowing smoke, but at last his lungs demanded air. As soon as he drew in a labored breath, he regretted it. In an instant he was on his hands and knees, hacking and wheezing.

The shriek gave way to a low chattering. Whatever had been following Rudiger was very close.

Gershom dared to lift his eyes.

There was a cloaked human form in the distance. Gershom couldn't decide if it was the Hoggewartes champion or someone else.

"No closer!" he coughed, brandishing his ring. The figure looked at him imploringly. It took a step.

"I said no closer!"

The smoke was finally beginning to clear. The cloaked figure continued to move forward step by step, but Gershom was no longer convinced it was a man at all. It slouched forward onto all fours. Gershom's heart was racing. Beads of sweat ran down his cheeks in sheets. His hand began to tremble.

It was a greyhound—but larger and fiercer-looking than any greyhound Gershom had ever seen. It snarled and pawed the earth, all the while looking up at the Bels-bastons champion with gleaming eyes.

Fear, Gershom thought, his stomach churning. Its weapon is fear.

The creature launched itself on his powerful hind legs and plowed into Gershom with a single bound. The two of them went rolling on the ground. The creature bit and snapped, all the while keeping up its eerie, angry chattering. Somehow Gershom managed to throw it off.

Once again the Bels-bastons champion brandished his ring. This time the protective wards inscribed within the segulah seemed to take effect. The creature paced back and forth, hesitant to approach. As it did so, its form changed again. Its forelimbs grew longer, like those of a great, emaciated ape or perhaps a wingless bat. Its hind limbs fused together, creating the impression of a one-legged man walking on bizarre fleshly crutches. Its face was like something out of a nightmare—a combination of canine ferocity and human cleverness. It let out a blood-curdling shriek and made to draw nearer.

Gershom stood his ground, displaying the segulah with greater confidence than he in fact possessed.

"Away with you!" he shouted. When the creature refused to yield, he stomped and rushed at it.

The creature leaped at Gershom, who buried his ringed fist deep in its underbelly. It let out a howl that might have awoken the dead as it spun Gershom around and retreated into the forest.

The Bels-bastons champion's legs buckled, and he fell to the ground. Only then did he realize the creature—whatever it was—had ripped a hole in his side. The blood oozed out red and warm, already beginning to coagulate. He shuddered to think what would have happened if it weren't for the protective segulah he wore around his neck. Gershom reached in his satchel for the Healing Potion he had prepared weeks ago.

He took a swig of the potion and applied several generous splashes to the wound itself. In a matter of seconds, the bleeding had stopped. His side was still sore and tight, however, and probably would be so for days.

"Aaargh!"

The cry came from overhead. Gershom looked upward. Despite the clear sky and the nearly full moon, it was almost impossible to make out what was going on. There was no doubt, however, that he had heard the flapping of large, powerful wings.

Another shriek echoed through the forest. This was different from the sound the first creature had made. This sounded more like the call of some terrible predatory bird. And the human voice was almost surely that of Orontes de Peverelle.

Now what? Gershom thought to himself. He figured he had nothing to lose by following the sound. Whatever creatures they had let loose in the forest were supposed to be guarding the Triwizard Cup, after all. Maybe he just found a little bit of luck after all. Collecting his lantern, he listened again and headed off in the direction the sound was coming from.

He followed the sound of the shrieks and the shouting for five or ten minutes. Deeper into the forest he went, until he had long passed the familiar paths on which he had been walking in circles.

Ahead of him there was a crashing noise. The birdlike shriek seemed to register either pain or surprise—but the human voice went silent.

Gershom forced himself to slow down, to proceed cautiously. This time, he had time to prepare. He reached into his satchel for a small cloth pouch.

Suddenly there was a flash of light. The birdlike shriek once again protested.

Gershom turned a corner. Ahead of him, Orontes had propped himself against a tree. In front of him was a creature as big as a horse—but about as unlike a horse as anything Gershom could have imagined. Its head, chest, forelimbs, and wings were those of a monster eagle, but it had the hindquarters of a lion.

A griffon! he gasped.

The creature slashed at Orontes with its claws. The Hoggewartes champion was in bad shape. His face was covered with scratches and his cloak and tunic were torn and bloodied. Gershom at last saw that his lower leg was bent at an impossible angle—a sure sign of broken bones.

The Hoggewartes champion held his lantern aloft in his left hand. In his right, he held what looked like a sliver of thinly sliced wood. Gershom could make out some sort of geometric shape inscribed upon it, but couldn't identify its significance.

"You want another?" Orontes shouted defiantly through obvious pain.

One of the griffon's wings was limp, Gershom noticed. Glancing at the broken branches on the ground, he surmised it had taken a hard landing, no doubt with Orontes hanging on for dear life.

The griffon slashed yet again.

Orontes touched the slip of wood to the flame in his lantern. There was a sudden explosion of fire and light. Gershom ducked behind his tree just as a wall of fire sped past him. When he turned around again, the griffon had been bowled over, its feathers badly singed.

A Rune Charm, he thought to himself. Bels-bastons didn't teach Runes—a Scandinavian branch of magic—but he had heard of Rune Charms. Inscribe a piece of wood or parchment with the proper mystic symbols and it activates a predetermined spell when ignited. He sighed in appreciation of the Hoggewartes champion's resourcefulness.

Orontes had pulled another slip of wood from his satchel. From the look on his face, however, he could pass out any minute.

"Just go!" Gershom whispered at the griffon, which was now back on its feet and madder than ever. If the beast would simply leave, Gershom could proceed. There was obviously no more reason to worry about Orontes winning the Cup.

Orontes shouted at the creature and waved his arm at it.

Thankfully, the griffon decided it had had enough. It trotted away, flapping its injured wing to not effect.

As soon as the griffon was out of sight, Gershom bolted down the path past the spot where Orontes now slumped over.

He glanced back long enough to see the Hoggewartes champion pulling a metal vial from his satchel.

Good, Gershom thought. He thought to bring Healing Potion as well. But he couldn't wait to see if it worked. Rudiger was still somewhere ahead of him. He might have even already reached the Triwizard Cup.

The Bels-bastons champion trudged forward. He was sure he sensed the presence of his wand now. But more telling, he heard the unmistakable sounds of a struggle in the distance.

He clutched his aching side and picked up his pace. There was a light in the distance—a crisp silvery glow like that which shone from Rudiger's glowing orb. Now, however, it seemed almost as bright as day.

One last turn, and Gershom was stood before a large depression surrounded by a horseshoe-shaped ridge. At the far end was a monstrous oak, bigger and older than any Gershom had ever seen before. At the base of its trunk was a hollow in which the Triwizard Cup glowed faintly.

But Gershom couldn't worry about the Cup just then, for in the middle of the depression was a scene of pure chaos.

The creature was bigger than an ox, reptilian, with six short, muscled legs and a horn-covered armored carapace protecting its back. Its face was an array of saber-like teeth. Its low, rumbling growl shook the earth.

Twenty feet away, a huge golden bear reared up on its hind legs and roared. It set off at a run toward the creature, moving faster than should have been possible. The two beasts crashed into each other and threw a cloud of dust and debris into the air.

Gershom started. Orontes had managed to catch up to him, but he was still white-faced and in obvious pain. The Bels-bastons champion glanced down long enough to notice that his leg was still bent. The Healing Potion stopped the bleeding and probably mended the bone, but the Englishman had no way to set it properly.

The Hoggewartes champion stood in wide-eyed astonishment. "What the hell is that?"

"A tarasque," he said, turning back to the ongoing melee.

"Some kind of dragon?"

"There are no dragons native to France," Gershom said. He jabbed his thumb toward the creature in the clearing. "Some say that's why."

"But where is…? Merlin's beard!" Orontes spat. He gestured to a spot not ten feet away where a satchel had been discarded. It was from there that Rudiger's glowing orb shone in the darkness.

Gershom noticed it as soon as Orontes did.

"That bear…" he said.

"The Durmstranger is an Animagus!"

The tarasque bellowed. The bear had found a weak spot on the underside of the creature's squat neck and bit down hard. It soon shook free, however, and batted the bear away with a clawed forelimb.

The bear attacked again, but the tarasque was ready for it. This time, a dragonlike claw slashed the bear's shoulder. A ribbon of blood spurted upward. The tarasque spun on the spot, and its tail, thick as a tree limb, flung the bear into the air. It only stopped—with a bone-breaking crack—when it hit the tree beneath which the wands and the Triwizard Cup rested.

Rudiger began to resume human form as he fell.

Orontes gasped.

"Is he dead?" Gershom whispered.

"No," Orontes said. But it was clear the Durmstrang champion was not well. His clothes were covered in blood, and his face was unnaturally pale. He lay on his back, perfectly still except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

The tarasque turned toward the crumpled form of Rudiger van Mecklenburg. It tentatively sniffed the air. It must have decided the German boy was no longer a threat, as it lost interest after batting him around for only a few seconds.

"We've got to do something," Gershom said. "He'll die unless one of us can get to those wands!"