Time in the tent passed so, so slowly, that eventually Harry was compelled to break the tense silence by engaging with the other Champions.
"Well, eh…might as well make ourselves useful rather than sitting here, stewing in uselessness, eh? Ah…I'm Harry Potter, I'm sure you all know: 14. Unwilling contestant, yadada. I've been learning Deutsch recently," he added in German for Viktor, "and would love to practice, and I have brought with me my mokeskin pouch which contains a few things we could use to pass the time."
Harry found himself under the gaze of all three of the older students. Cedric looked at him, his eyes alight with interest and – Harry assumed – the desperate need to be distracted from his thoughts. Viktor – he should really make an attempt to be friends with the wizard, and first names would be polite – Viktor and Fleur were both eyeing him with a vague kind of baffled curiosity. Almost like Harry was not what they had expected.
"Cedric?" Harry tried, when his skin prickled under their gazes.
"Good idea!" the older boy cheerfully agreed. "Cedric Diggory. 17 years old, in my sixth year. I thought I was going to be the baby of the tournament at first. Oh, but no hard feelings, Harry. I've known you for ages, and knew you were never a glory-hound. I like to think we're good friends, despite the a— In fact, ah…Harry's been teaching me the patronus, you know. I'm one of his students, funnily enough." He chuckled. "Funny how it all works out, isn't it, Harry?"
Again, those strange looks from Viktor and Fleur seemed to prickle Harry's skin, and he nodded before forcing himself to their eyes without fidgeting awkwardly or making a weird face.
"Krum. Viktor Krum," the famous Seeker spoke up next, after a moment's pause. "Eighteen. You vill know me for my flying, but I am good vith my vand also."
"Fleur Delacour," the final entrant spoke up, half standing as she dragged her wooden stool to sit closer to the boys. "Eighteen. Zere is Veela blood in me from my muzzer's side, and 'er muzzer before 'er and so on." There was a hard set to her jaw as she drew her spine upright like she was setting herself up for an argument, but even that simply made the girl seem graceful and willowy.
"Nice to meet you," Harry offered, and for some reason the taller blond girl looked off-balance.
After a moment, Cedric joined Harry on the soft rug floor, and he and Harry played three rounds of cribbage in the quiet tent. Fleur and Viktor had declined his offer politely enough, but he thought they might be optimistically hoping for things to get organised far sooner than they would be.
Harry didn't quite know if he was enjoying it: Cedric explained the rules clearly, and he seemed to be playing well enough. He won the second game, after all. But there were prickles on his neck and his voice definitely seemed over-loud in the heavy atmosphere. Kidnapping and chaos up in the castle, and dragons outside did rather seem to be the pressing issues.
But Viktor and Fleur shuffled quietly for a while, apparently ignoring both Harry and Cedric, until eventually the lack of anything to do seemed to get to the Bulgarian, because he scooted off his seat to join them on the floor after Cedric won the third game.
Harry had just waved away the golden tally that shimmered in the air and turned back to Cedric to find – boom – the famous quidditch star leaning forward and staring at the cards between them in fascination.
"Vot are these suits?" he asked the boys, leaning over the little pile of conjured playing cards that Harry had magicked up and poking at the black and red cards with all the interest of a normal teenager.
"Hearts. Diamonds…and vot are these black ones?"
"Spades and clubs, I think," Harry's voice managed while his brain was still processed the image. Viktor Krum crossed-legged on the floor! "I never actually played with them before, but my cousin was crazy about cards for a week or so, when he was maybe ten? Er…you don't play with these in Bulgaria? Or Dŭrmstrang?" He said it with the German accent he'd picked up over the break, and the famous Seeker shot him a curious look before refocussing.
"Da. Ve haf…" he muttered to himself for a while, Harry occasionally picking up a word or phrase he'd heard in Verstecktes Tal that teased at his memory. "Goblets, coins, vands and…ками," he muttered. "Kami…ach…" he mimed stabbing someone and Harry managed,
"Dolche? Daggers?"
"Da."
"Huh," Cedric straightened where he sat and took a moment to uncross his ankles and stretch. "I'm actually used to playing with coins and wands myself. Is this the muggle deck, Harry?"
Feeling suddenly self-conscious again, and a little hot behind his ears, Harry nodded. "Oh. Yes. I...er...was raised muggle most of my life, actually." He nodded Viktor's way. "Only learned about this side of things when I got my Hogwarts letter. It's all been a bit of a culture shock."
Cedric stared at him curiously – the rumours still hadn't gone round Hogwarts, it seemed – but it was Viktor and Fleur suddenly giving Harry their full attention that had him stiffen in embarrassment.
"Zen you really did not put your name in zee goblet," Fleur spoke up, deigning to speak to Harry after all. "Forgive me. Madame Maxine zought you 'ad zome kind of," mumble-mumble in French, "and your lawyer was seemply…" a hand waved while she searched for the world, "le masque."
Harry blinked. "No."
The canvas door flapped a little in the wind, letting mid afternoon light in. The sky was darker already, Harry saw, and the wind was cooling off again.
"A game," Viktor demanded, and the three wizards switched up to three-player rummy.
Cedric dealt the cards, and they were halfway through the first game when Viktor spoke up in a deep voice, surprising the other champions.
"You vill know I am magi-raised." The famous Seeker spoke in a slow and deep voice. "And you vill know about my quidditch playing also, I think, vich I haff been doing from a very young age. I am good at transfigurations particularly. I am eighteen. I spend most of my time in lessons or in coaching and have very little else to my name. I…vant to prove that there is more to me than just flying, in this competition. I shall show my vorth."
He laid down the five of diamonds and went back to perusing the cards in his hand.
It might be the most Harry had ever heard the wizard say, and he seemed to be doing it out of empathy. The famous quidditch player might be a man of few words, but he had insight, Harry realised after a moment's thought. He'd realised Harry had shared a little more than he'd expected, and he'd returned the favour.
He suddenly hoped that Viktor would ask out Hermione again. She deserved someone who'd pay her that kind of attention. The thing he'd been hoping for with Ron didn't seem to be working out.
Next to him, his fringe falling softly over his eyes as he leaned forwards, Cedric played a four and three before grinning cheerfully.
"Cedric Diggory, Hogwarts official champion, for my sins. I already told you my age. Um…I'm a prefect, I'm kind of interested in a friend of mine, a girl in my circle of friends. I, um, I don't want to ruin what we've got my making it awkward, but she's super awesome. I guess I can let you know how that goes this year? She, uh, comes to your club, actually Harry. Cho Chang, if you could keep it to yourself for now."
Harry shot Cedric a grin. Cedric had no need to worry about awkwardness with Cho as far as he could tell; Harry was the one who'd made it awkward last timeline.
Eyebrows were raised.
"Oh. When I saw Harry taught me, I mean he runs a club, like…holding a class every now and then. I reckon he's got about 80 students? It's less frequent now since he was cursed with blindness for a bit, but I see that you're improving, Harry! I'd love to get a bit more help and complete this thing before my N.E. , you know. I can help you put the notice up in Hufflepuff House after the Task, maybe?"
"Can we see how the Task goes, first?"
"Sure, sure. Of course."
Slowly at first, and then with less stopping and starting and more flow, the three wizards started to actually talk. How beautiful Bulgaria was this time of year. How the Dŭrmstrang fortress was sterner and more forbidding than Hogwarts. How all three wizards played Seeker, it turned out. How Cedric planned to be a teacher, but might have to put in some time at the British Ministry of Magic first.
"My dad, you know. He insists."
"You also, hmm?" Viktor muttered, and Harry's eyebrows shot up.
The chaos of Fake-Moody and the castle, and the pressure of dragons seemed to diminish a little in the face of their cheerful little chat, and sometime later – half an hour of happy conversation or so – even the proud Fleur was lured off her wooden stool and onto the floor to partake in their little talk.
"I 'ope you do not mind eef I join?" she murmured, finally slipping on to the plush rug on the floor to join them at the cards. The three wizards all shuffled around a bit to make space for the blond French girl. "I…get caught up in zeese…would zomeone teach me ze rules?"
Cedric cheerfully offered, and the little trio turned into four.
"I am Fleur Delacour," the blonde witch finally offered as they went back to playing a fifth round of rummy. "Eighteen years old. A full-blooded Veela, which eez my blezzing and my curze, alzough you 'ave all been verry polite about it zo far. Since zere are no male Veela…" she let the implications sink in. "Some people do not like zat I am 'inhuman'. Because of zis, I am…not good with zmall talk."
The closest Harry was expecting to an apology, from this angsty Fleur.
"Ah!" he exclaimed with more energy than forethought. "I mean, if anyone gives you any grief about that, let me know, alright? That's not a good reason to be rude to anyone. Some of my best friends are not human." Most of my best friends. All of them? He added mentallyt, but bit the words back. "I mean, not just the students either. Let me know if anyone steps out of line. I've got one of the best lawyers in the British Isles, you've heard me mention him. And," he paused, his voice lowering. "There are some really prejudiced people around here. You too, Viktor actually, since Dŭrmstrang teaches the 'Dark Arts' and all. You might need to keep your legal team alert.…And as for me personally," he added, "I was serious about practising the Deutsch recently, so if you – or any of your classmates – would like a conversation partner or, you know, someone to practice English with in turn, I'd be happy to help out. Ah…"
He paused get another glimpse of the sky outside. It seemed darker again, and the urgent mutterings of another group of aurors came and went quickly by the door.
"I'm…well, fourth year, so my classes are a bit behind yours, but I'm really good at defence. No particular charms or transfiguration or whatever, just anything defence. So at the very least I'm hoping to survive this."
"Fair, fair."
They played on.
What seemed like hours passed, and everyone of importance appeared to have forgotten about the four Tournament Champions stuck away in their tent.
Harry kept an eye on the time anxiously, but it seemed to be passing by relentlessly, his own, personal plans be damned.
The card game switched up to blackjack, and then Cedric had a nap while Harry and Fleur played solitaire.
The sky was properly dark now, when Viktor stood up and peered out through the gap in the tent door, and Harry began feeling mildly uncomfortable as time passed slowly on. His left knee began jittering. Cedric drew his legs up to his chest and pursed his lips, brow furrowed.
Fleur, too, finally gave up on the cards to pace slowly up and down the tent again.
Krum came back to his stool, gnawing slightly on his cheek.
Back on his wooden stool, legs tucked in neatly under his seat and elbows on his knees, Harry finally spoke the words that everyone was thinking.
"Ah…I figure I can't be the only one. Um…does anyone else need…er…the facilities?"
A pause, while Viktor and Fleur turned to stare at him, and Cedric raised his head from where he was splayed out on the rug.
"Do these 'facilities' mean vot I think they mean, exactly?"
"The loos. The bathroom? Restroom? Little boys' room?"
They all sighed in varying stages of relief.
"Mon Dieu, I thought I was zee only one!"
"Oh yes, definitely."
"Da."
"We won't be allowed out of the tent though, will we?" Cedric spoke cautiously, slowly levering himself up from where he lay.
Viktor muttered something scathing about event organisers.
Harry snorted. "You'd know, I s'pose."
"Magi," the Seeker scoffed in return. "Vitches and vizards are the same the vorld over. Some things never change."
"So," Fleur spoke up, a little intensity bleeding into her voice. "Not to rush anyone, but…does anyone 'ave plans to solve thees leetle problem?"
They stared at each other, a range of less-than-ideal solutions bitten back while they all avoided saying anything too incriminating.
The light coming through the tent walls was darker now, and the little flames that burned near the ceiling were casting darker shadows behind everyone. The room was warm by now and smelt a little musty, from old tension and heavy breathing and not enough fresh wind.
Harry bit the bullet. "You can all, um, vanish things? And maybe cast, erm, a muffling spell, I guess?"
The tension seemed to subside now that someone had finally said it.
"Da."
"Yeah."
"…Oui."
He shrugged one shoulder. "Then…I'll conjure up a privacy curtain and, um…a chamber pot?"
Sighs all around.
After casting his gaze around the room and reading the awkward agreement in everyone's faces, Harry waved his wand and a little curtained area appeared near the curtained exit to the tent. He'd cast silently, from habit, and the older students raised their eyebrows again before apparently remembering that Harry wasn't the average fourth-year.
They all looked at the little private area evaluatively.
Finally, Cedric spoke, clambering to his feet all hands and knees. "Well, ladies first, Fleur, unless you'd like me or Harry to go and prove we can…maintain our privacy."
A sound of assent.
"Ugh. The things we do for fame and glory." Cedric took a few steps towards the…chamber pot. "Talk amongst yourselves please, until I come back, if you don't mind? I'll…be a few minutes."
He disappeared behind the curtain and then his voice muttered, "Silencio," before disappearing.
"Zo," Fleur said loudly, turning to face Harry and Viktor with rather desperate-looking eyebrows. "Zis weather in Scotland, hm? Eez thees usual for thees time of year, or no?"
It was well and truly dark when Ludo Bagman finally strolled into the champions' tent, disgustingly cheerful with his little bag of purple silk in hand and a pep in his step that quiet frankly rubbed all four teenagers up the wrong way.
The earlier tension – dragons! – half rushed back, but this time it was cut through with quite a lot of cynical frustration for a very different reason.
"Oh. It's time, is it?" Cedric muttered pointedly just as Bagman opened his mouth to speak. "How was dinner, would you say? Had your fill, I hope?"
"Ze officials are all organised now, are zey?" Fleur spoke with a flick of her braid, and threw down her pair of twos on the rug from where she looked up at the man. "Zere will no more waiting, mmh?"
Viktor cast the tempus spell quietly, and let the gold, glowing "7.45" speak for itself.
"Calm down, calm down," Harry smirked, raising a single eyebrow. "The Ministry can only manage so many things at once, you know. Can't expect too much from them. Or perhaps they just want us to know that we will manage the task easily in comparison."
Standing in the doorway, his grin slowly fixing stiffly on his face, Bagman seemed utterly confused by their cynicism.
"Hey now, what's all this, hey?" he chortled out, before puffing himself up like an inflatable balloon and obviously falling back on his preprepared script. "What a time, eh? Hope you're all psyched up and ready to prove your mettle, what? This is your moment, your time to shine, folks!"
He completely dismissed the sceptical looks on the faces before him and forged on with his forced cheerfulness. "What I've got for you in all in this special little bag!" He rustled the thing promisingly. "From which you will all select a model of the, er, thing you are about to face. There are a number of differences. Uh, varieties, you see. The better for the audience, and all. And I have to tell you something else too – you'll need to collect the golden egg to complete your task!"
Viktor stifled a yawn, before tossing Harry three sickles, which he pocketed.
"You were right again," Cedric muttered, and passed Harry his own tinkle of change.
Fleur merely sniffed, before chucking a handful of French coins in Harry's direction and reaching back to massage the tense muscles in her shoulders.
"For the Task!" Bagman tried again, the disinterest in the tent clearly failing to live up to his expectations. "Glory to the Champions and all, eh? May the best school win!"
"Yeah, yeah."
"Comme ci, comme ça," Fleur added with a dismissive hand-wave.
Bagman paused again. Mouth flapped. Tried once more.
"Well! Now that the audience is on its way from the castle, it'll be your time to shine! Gotta go out there with a bang and all to outdo the drama of this morning, you know! What a time to be at Hogwarts! But while the folks are filling seats, let's decide what you'll be doing, eh? Ladies first, yeah? Miss Delacour, if you don't mind."
She muttered something in French again, and Harry had the strangest feeling that whatever she said meant that she actually did mind, but nevertheless her slender hand reached into the little purple back and plucked out a six-inch model of the Hungarian Horntail. A little "one" tag hung off its neck like a pendant.
Her face blanked out like mask immediately, and Harry sent her a commiserating glance.
"Ooh," Bagman grinned conspiratorially, his eyebrows jumping up and down like a roguish wizard half his age. "Rotten luck. But you'll be getting it over and done with, which is more than the others can say! Mr Krum, you next, as a guest."
Viktor pulled out the exquisite model of a blueish-grey Swedish Short-Snout, and flicked out his right hand to read the tiny "two" attached to it, his eyebrows settling into the sullen scowl that Harry was so familiar with, from last timeline and midday today both.
The taller boy shot Bagman a slightly soulless stare that had the older man looking away, before glancing once at Cedric and Harry and then staring at the ground. His earlier humour of the afternoon had disappeared again, settling into what Harry supposed was his pre-game focus.
Cedric shortly thereafter drew the Welsh Green with the number four attached, leaving Harry to reach his hand into the smooth, cool purple sack and snag his fingers on what he knew would be the number three Chinese Fireball.
It curled and uncurled in his suddenly sweating hands, and Harry felt its long, serpentine tail reaching around to hook onto his wrist with an irritating tickle. It spat a single, cold spark over his knuckles, and Harry hid his sigh.
All the worse for his broom plan, he realised, a cold rock forming in his stomach.
When all three teens held their model dragons in their hands, Bagman pocketed his purple sack and clapped his hands insufferable cheerfulness.
"Congratulations! There you are! What a drama, hm? What better way to show your mettle than following in good old heroic tradition?"
None of the Champions showed any surprise of course, and nor did they show any of the excitement that Bagman was expecting. His forced smile grew a little wider.
"So! You've each now chosen your personal challenge, and also the order in which you will attempt the challenge, you see? That's the…" he pointed at Fleur's little Horntail and flicked a finger at the slender, silver chain. "The little number round their necks are the…you know…tiny pendants will tell which order you leave the tent and show off to the audience and all."
"Hrm."
Harry forced his eyebrows down into an almost-respectful look again.
"Bit of a shame really, but I can't stay to chat with you much longer myself; I'm commentating for the duration, of course. They need me up in the booth to organise the audience, run down the rules and expectations… build up the mood, psych up the audience, you know. Ah, a tournament official will come past to open the doors in the minute," he waved at the ornate curtains at the exit of the tent, which still glimmered strongly in Harry's mage-sight. "They'll escort you one-by-one into the enclosure after you hear the whistle. I think you've got, let's see, half an hour or so to get in your headspace, find your angle now that you know what the challenge is. I'll have to leave you to it," he finished. His unfortunately boisterousness was grating more and more on Harry's growing nerves again.
"Just…Harry, lad. Mister Potter. A moment? Outside?"
So he had got that thing going with the goblins, Harry realised. He rolled his eyes accidentally before following the ex-quidditch star through the crimson tent entrance and got his first look at the weather for the night. There were less clouds than he'd been expecting, and a haze of distant stars burned bright and clear and cold overhead. The wind held the scent of autumn and the distant decay of forest leaf litter, and there was a faint hint of sulphur when he breathed in deep.
Dragons.
He shivered, and focussed on slowing his heartrate again. Finding his centre. Controlling his breath.
While Bagman muttered about 'pointers' and 'advice' and 'anything I can do for you, anything at all,' Harry listened past him to the approaching sound of chatting crowds and the approaching view of wandlight.
"Merlin!" Bagman finally exclaimed, emerging out of his own, selfish urgency to observe the approaching audience with a guilty twitch. "Best be off then! Wouldn't do either of us any good if people saw me giving you advice, eh?"
Harry ignored him, trying instead to pick out the voices of Hermione, or Neville, or Luna. But the approaching crowd was huge – many hundreds – and there were British voices, and Scots and Scots Gaelic words, and French and German and Bulgarian and Merlin knows what other voices in the throng, and the patter of uncountable feet, and the bellow of instructions from Tournament officials who were dotted all the way down the path from the castle, the better to direct people.
He ducked back inside the tent without giving the commentator a second glance.
"Audience is on its way," Harry announced, eyes blinking a bit after standing outside in the dark of the night. "The fire risk is low tonight. And I think Bagman's got debts. Good luck all."
It was ridiculously easy settling his mind into occlumency meditation, after all of that. The urgency – of dragons! DRAGONS! – was still there, but so too was the sense of incongruence that the four of them had just played cards for six hours, and peed while they were all in the room.
Sooner than he'd expected, Fleur was ushered out of the tent by a stern-looking official. Bagman's voice washed into the tent as the curtained door was held open for her.
"—our first and most beautiful of contestants, the lovely mademoiselle Fleur Delacour! Not sure what's she's got to show us tonight except her incredible charm but we look fo—" cut off suddenly when the curtains swung back closed.
He'd thought so before, Harry remembered, but things really had changed this timeline. At least the charms on the tent to keep the Champions isolated were better organised than before. Perhaps the Tournament had hope after all.
Nah. He couldn't say that even as a joke. The whole idea was ridiculous. Was Harry the only one to be taking the dragons seriously?
Then the whistle sounded for Krum, and the tournament wizard came back in to collect the Bulgarian for his go at 'fame and fortune'.
"Safety first," Harry mentioned again as the older boy stood to follow the wizard in dark robes out. "Look after yourself, yeah?"
Krum nodded once, grim-faced and silent, and disappeared into the cheerfully raucous sound of, "—rum, famous for his skills on a broom but not so much with his wand! I'm looking forward to seeing what he'll show us next up, and how he'll compare to Miss Delacour's fascina—"
Harry and Cedric sat in their stools, eyes closed, trying to ignore the sound of wind that rattled the tent canvas every now and then despite the calm night.
"It's the dragon wings, isn't it?" Cedric muttered, as the canvas thumped and billowed upsettingly.
"Hm."
Harry didn't want to think about the dragons, but they loomed huge behind his eyelids anyway. Wings as wide as the dragons were long. A heat that felt like hellfire, smelling like sulphur and acid, sinuous neck and tail deceptively long, scales from as small as his fingernails to as large as his head. He was an ant, next to them. Tiny, a little bird in their storm.
His traitorous mind tried to urge him to shift into crow-form, Crowley, to fly away from the next, but that was a secret. His trump card. Might save his life.
He needed to face the dragon down, anyway.
Harry felt his mind drift a little above his body: not out-out of his body, just far enough away so that his logic engaged again. He saw the body breathing faster, and slowed it with a thought.
Realised that his fists were clenched, and with a breath relaxed them.
Then he waited, and breathed, and listened for his own whistle and his turn to face the dragon.
It came soon enough.
It was a good thing that he had practice with life-and-death situations now, and practice with occlumency, because Harry merely felt his muscle fibres tense as he stood up when the curtained exit fell open.
"Good luck," Cedric muttered, his own face pale and clammy now.
"You too."
Unlike Fleur, just like like Krum, Harry took a moment to stretch out his arms and neck, shaking his body loose, before he strode out into the arena.
He needed his body flexible. Moveable. Responsive.
Arms hanging at his side, wand held freely in his right hand, Harry strode forward towards the roaring crowd. He ducked a little as he passed through the door, then looked up.
As the portly wizard had mentioned earlier in the afternoon, the First Task at night made for an incredible sight.
The sky was pitch black and seemed to disappear into a deep void of nothing, peppered with tiny stars shining steadily in the cold, dark night. Despite the clearness of the night, despite the distance to any muggle city, they were small, dim and pale in comparison to the heat and light of the arena.
In front of Harry stood what once had been a grassy clearing in the forest, but had somehow been turned into dusty, dry circle of dirt.
Fire management, Harry's brain supplied, but his senses were still dedicated for sensing his setting.
The arena was lit up with yellow flames – wooden torches leaned crookedly forward from the first row of seating, and the dragon – dragon! Impossible to ignore – breathed a rhythmic rasp of golden flames out with each exhale. The space glowed bold and vibrant against the cold specks of stars, and outside the circle of light, the huge blacker-than-black silhouettes of tree trunks, tree canopies towered about the ground, looming above the wooden stands like the shadows of giants.
The audience was a haze of sound, colour and movement, but nothing in comparison to the presence of the dragon, that lay in the centre of the arena and curled protectively around its nest. The Chinese Fireball was a brilliant scarlet block of muscle, so brilliant in colour that the auror robes seemed dull in comparison, and it was longer and whippier than the Horntail Harry knew best.
It was fast, Harry knew from his years of study and familiarity. Built for speed and sneakiness, a long-distance and short-distance threat, thanks for its speed and its sinuous body and its travelling balls of flame.
In the corner of his eye, pale human-coloured shapes in his magesight were retreating behind the stands, into the forest, pale blue glows already on their wandtips. Fire-dampers, Harry's brain supplied to him. Because the Chinese Fireball could throw its flame.
Harry stepped forward into the light, and the roar of the crowd was deafening. Bagman was bellowing into his wand, something about "—all know of his skill with the Patronus, we've all ready the stories of him saving the life of a first-year student when Dementors attacked his quidditch game and beating back a whole pack as the first responder: what a cool head under pressure, people! This will be a match to watch! Our youngest contestant by far, Harry Potter has sho—"
Harry tuned him out.
He had enough stimulus to worry about, anyway.
A haze of magic light covered almost everything: shot through the silhouette of the black trees were slow shimmers of life, tiny beads of green and bronze light threading their way up each tree's xylem, the capillaries of the tree, and into the branches and leaves that shone in Harry's mage-sight with every increasing delicacy.
But they were dim in comparison to the audience stands, that themselves twinkled with human spells: endurance, fireproofing, safety-features, steadiness and Merlin only knew what else. The colours rioted and gathered and splotched across every joint, softened every seat, cradled every beam.
And the audience was ablaze with magical life, the magic of each mage throbbed with their excitement, and Harry had to turn his eyes away before he could find his friends, the brightness too dazzling for his eyes.
"—inese Fireball is arguably the most dangerous challenges for tonight, depending on your opinion of the Horntail. Fireballs are famous for their speed and cunning, and their unusual preference for porcine and human flesh. It doesn't take much for these beasts to become man-eaters! Now, nesting mothers are by far and away the most aggressive of dra—"
He tuned out again. Or rather, the sounds faded away as Harry outpaced the Tournament official who walked him to the gate to the arena and was left alone. With each step he took towards the centre of the clearing, the pressure of the dragon mounted, the world itself seemed to fall away from Harry too.
He was mad, a small voice echoed tinnily through his brain. Mad! Madness! Bloody idiot!
Then the thought died.
There was else nothing to focus on aside from the thrum of life under his own skin, the sheen of sweat already on his forehead, and the roiling, thunderous defensive fury of the magnificent creature in front of him.
And it blazed with magical life.
Beyond its bright scarlet scales, the colour of dragon magic – of fire- and air-magic – boiled along its length and surged beyond the limits of its body. To Harry's sight, the Fireball was a storm of roiling magic, red and silver and burning gold all at once, even as the heat of its body cause the real air to shimmer, rising in a heat wave mere yards from where Harry stood.
But at the centre of the storm was heat and fury. White hot.
Harry had to flinch away and blink the white spots away from his eyes, and a tendril of worry crawled up his spine: could he see well enough?
But yes. Of course he could. The sheer radiating brightness of the dragon's very being would make it impossible to miss.
He glanced around for the judges: above them glowed some kind of timer: golden numbers hovering in the air above the judging table and counting up second by second.
Harry held aloft his wand…
"Accio Firebolt!" he cried out.
Why fix what's not broken?
In the aftermath of the First Task, he would rewatch his confrontation with the dragon and realise with a shudder just how tenuous the whole thing had been. It didn't feel the same when he was in the moment – in the air – surging and casting and diving and rolling, tempting the mother dragon up and around, so she'd uncurl from where she encircled her nest, so she'd stretch out her neck to snap at his figure in the air.
So he could create for himself a chance.
No wonder, he would later realise, that Hermione always worried about him when he flew.
But in the moment, it was all instinct. There wasn't time to be concerned with the heart-stoppingly powerful flick of a tail, when his body needed all its focus to barrel-roll left and pull up to avoid its unstoppable force. There was no space in his mind to feel the sweat running down his face when he needed to duck and dive under a liquid ball of fire that shot his direction, scalding his skin as it went.
And he didn't have the time or effort to worry about the burning of his eyeballs, the blinding whiteness of the dragon's magic up close, when its very head and maws were reaching and reaching and snapping at him in the air, only a foot away. Maybe less.
And his broomstick smoked a little at it careened away from the dragon's furnace-like mouth, and then it was half in the air, and he could see the nest below, and he couldn't push his luck much further, much longer…
It was probably a good thing he'd had recent practice with the Basilisk, Harry mused, as his muscles screamed and his broom practically whistled. A deadly, serpentine enemy he couldn't look at. Determined to kill him, alone and unaided with only his broomstick and his wand for support.
But this timeline, he was more prepared, and so when he could manage it – flying one-handed – he took his right hand off his broomstick and cast charm after charm, silently, desperately, until he was disillusioned and there were other ghostly Harrys also rocketing around the arena on broomsticks, some flashing their own wandlights, others diving at the dragon's head.
Until there was a chance, the dragon picked another target, and Harry swooped through a gap in its coils and grabbed at the golden egg and flew out of the arena in one fell swoop.
Landing just outside the gate where he'd stood mere minutes before, Harry took a moment to dissolve his conjurations and illusions, until the dragon could retreat to her nest as the attackers disappeared.
She'd fought them off, Harry could practically see the creature deciding, and she roared her triumph to the world, even as his eyes picked out the fire-damping wizards running here and there behind the stadium, dampening the spots where liquid flame clung.
He caught sight of Professor McGonagall, her face drawn tight with worry and relief, and the flash of blonde hair that might be Luna or Draco or any number of foreign visitors, before he lost them again in the crowd.
There was Madam Pomfrey bustling towards him with pursed lips and a frown that suggested he had discovered peak foolishness in attempting the Task, never mind the effort his lawyer had put in to save him.
And then there were the judges: Dumbledore, raising a cheerful 10.
Madam Maxine, a sullen eight.
Karkaroff: a biased four.
And instead of Mr Crouch, instead of Percy Weasley of last timeline, instead of any number of preferable and acceptable, or tolerable or almost bearable witches or wizards, holding up the mildly pleasant scorecard saying seven…
There was the squat, smug face of Delores Umbridge.
"Well, damn."
