Disclaimer: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except for Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.
Chapter 10- The Triwizard Tournament
Through the gates, flanked with statues of winged boars, and up the sweeping drive the carriages trundle, swaying dangerously in what is fast becoming a gale. Leaning against the window, I can see Hogwarts coming nearer, its many lighted windows blurred and shimmering behind the thick curtain of rain. Lightning flashes across the sky as our carriage comes to a halt before the great oak front doors, which stand at the top of a flight of stone steps. People who have occupied the carriages in front are already hurrying up the stone steps into the castle. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neville, and I jump down from our carriage and dash up the steps too, looking up only when we are safely inside the cavernous, torch-lit entrance hall, with its magnificent marble staircase.
"Blimey," says Ron, shaking his head and sending water everywhere, "if that keeps up the lake's going to overflow. I'm soak — ARRGH!"
A large, red, water-filled balloon has dropped from out of the ceiling onto Ron's head and explodes. Drenched and sputtering, Ron staggers sideways into Harry, just as a second water bomb drops — narrowly missing Hermione, it bursts at my feet, sending a wave of cold water over my sneakers into my socks. People all around us shriek and start pushing one another in effort to get out of the line of fire. I look up and see, floating twenty feet above us, Peeves the Poltergeist, a little man in a bell-covered hat and orange bow tie, his wide, malicious face contorted with concentration as he takes aim again.
"PEEVES!" yells an angry voice. "Peeves, come down here at ONCE!" Professor McGonagall, deputy headmistress and Head of Gryffindor House, has come dashing out of the Great Hall; she skids on the wet floor and grabs Hermione around the neck to stop herself from falling.
"Ouch — sorry, Miss Granger —"
"That's all right, Professor!" Hermione gasps, massaging her throat. I can't help but find this all a little amusing since if I had been the one to think of it, it would have been funny.
"Peeves, get down here NOW!" barks Professor McGonagall, straightening her pointed hat and glaring upwards through her square-rimmed spectacles. That's not going to discourage him.
"Not doing nothing!" cackles Peeves, lobbing a water bomb at several fifth-year girls, who scream and dive into the Great Hall. "Already wet, aren't they? Little squirts! Wheeeeeeeeee!" And he aims another bomb at a group of second years who have just arrived.
"I shall call the headmaster!" shouts Professor McGonagall. "I'm warning you, Peeves —"
Peeves sticks out his tongue, throws the last of his water bombs into the air, and zooms off up the marble staircase, cackling insanely.
"Well, move along, then!" says Professor McGonagall sharply to the bedraggled crowd. "Into the Great Hall, come on!"
Ah its good to be back at Hogwarts. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I slip and slide across the entrance hall and through the double doors on the right, Ron muttering furiously under his breath as he pushes his sopping hair off his face.
The Great Hall looks its usual splendid self, decorated for the start-of-term feast. Golden plates and goblets gleam by the light of hundreds and hundreds of candles, floating over the tables in midair. The four long House tables are packed with chattering students; at the top of the Hall, the staff sit along one side of a fifth table, facing their pupils. It is much warmer in here. We walk past the Slytherins, the Ravenclaws, and the Hufflepuffs, and sit down with the rest of the Gryffindors at the far side of the Hall, next to Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost. Pearly white and semitransparent, Nick is dressed tonight in his usual doublet, but with a particularly large ruff, which serves the dual purpose of looking extra-festive, and insuring that his head doesn't wobble too much on his partially severed neck.
Don't even get me started on the story of his neck. I do not have years to waste in retelling that particular saga.
"Good evening," he says, beaming at us.
"Says who?" grumbles Harry, taking off his sneakers and emptying them of water. "Hope they hurry up with the Sorting. I'm starving."
The Sorting of the new students into Houses takes place at the start of every school year. Just then, a highly excited, breathless voice calls down the table.
"Hiya, Harry!" It is Colin Creevey, a third year to whom Harry is something of a hero.
"Hi, Colin," says Harry warily.
"Hiya Colin." I say trying to take the strain off of Harry.
"Harry, guess what? Guess what, Harry? My brother's starting! My brother Dennis!"
"Er — good," says Harry.
"He's really excited!" says Colin, practically bouncing up and down in his seat. "I just hope he's in Gryffindor! Keep your fingers crossed, eh, Harry?"
"Er — yeah, all right," says Harry. He turns back to Hermione, Ron, Nearly Headless Nick, and me.
"Well that was awkward." He mutters.
"You can say that again." I agree.
I look up at the staff table. There seems to be rather more empty seats there than usual. Hagrid, of course, is still fighting his way across the lake with the first years; Professor McGonagall is presumably supervising the drying of the entrance hall floor, but there is another empty chair too, and I can't think who else is missing.
"Where's the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?" asks Hermione, who is also looking up at the teachers.
"Putting on their protective gear. DADA professors don't last long in this school." I quip, earning chuckles from Harry and Ron, and a dark look from Hermione.
We have never yet had a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher who has lasted more than three terms. My favorite by far has been Professor Lupin, who had resigned last year. I look up and down the staff table. There are definitely no new faces there.
"Maybe they couldn't get anyone!" says Hermione, looking anxious.
I scan the table more carefully. Tiny little Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, is sitting on a large pile of cushions beside Professor Sprout, the Herbology teacher, whose hat is askew over her flyaway gray hair. She is talking to Professor Sinistra of the Astronomy department. On Professor Sinistra's other side is the sallow-faced, hook-nosed, greasy-haired Potions master, Snape — my least favorite person at Hogwarts (well maybe Malfoy is worse).
On Snape's other side is an empty seat, which I guess is Professor McGonagall's. Next to it, and in the very center of the table, sits Professor Dumbledore, the headmaster, his sweeping silver hair and beard shining in the candlelight, his magnificent deep green robes embroidered with many stars and moons. The tips of Dumbledore's long, thin fingers are together and he is resting his chin upon them, staring up at the ceiling through his half-moon spectacles as though lost in thought. I glance up at the ceiling too. It is enchanted to look like the sky outside, and I have never seen it look this stormy. Black and purple clouds are swirling across it, and as another thunderclap sounded outside, a fork of lightning flashes across it.
"Oh hurry up," Ron moans, beside Harry, "I could eat a hippogriff." I roll my eyes at that.
"You ate two thirds of all the food we had in the compartment!" I cry. Ron gives me a sour look.
"So, that was hours ago I'm a growing boy Jamie I need to be fed constantly and on schedule." He says seriously. I shake my head and grumble 'boys' under my breath mutinously.
The words were no sooner out of my mouth than the doors of the Great Hall open and silence falls. Professor McGonagall is leading a long line of first years up to the top of the Hall. If Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I are wet, it is nothing to how these first years look. They appear to have swum across the lake rather than sailed. All of them are shivering with a combination of cold and nerves as they file along the staff table and come to a halt in a line facing the rest of the school — all of them except the smallest of the lot, a boy with mousy hair, who is wrapped in what I recognize as Hagrid's moleskin overcoat. The coat is so big for him that it looks as though he is draped in a furry black circus tent. His small face protrudes from over the collar, looking almost painfully excited. When he has lined up with his terrified-looking peers, he catches Colin Creevey's eye, gives a double thumbs-up, and mouths, 'I fell in the lake!' He looks positively delighted about it.
I can't help but grin at the excitement of the little boy. I can remember Luka and I being excited for the very same reason of what is to come. I cast my gaze across the hall to the Ravenclaw table and catch my brother's eye. He smiles at me and nods his head. I grin back at him, and then travel the Hufflepuff table until I'm able to find Ariana.
After a minute she turns to see me looking, and with a playful smile she sticks her tongue out at me. I return the gesture in kind, finally returning my attention to the front of the room.
Professor McGonagall now places a four-legged stool on the ground before the first years and, on top of it, an extremely old, dirty, patched wizard's hat. The first years stare at it. So does everyone else. For a moment, there is silence. Then a long tear near the brim opens wide like a mouth, and the hat breaks into song:
A thousand years or more ago,
When I was newly sewn,
There lived four wizards of renown,
Whose names are still well known:
Bold Gryffindor, from wild moor,
Fair Ravenclaw, from glen,
Sweet Hufflepuff, from valley broad,
Shrewd Slytherin, from fen.
They shared a wish, a hope, a dream,
They hatched a daring plan
To educate young sorcerers
Thus Hogwarts School began.
Now each of these four founders
Formed their own House, for each
Did value different virtues
In the ones they had to teach.
By Gryffindor, the bravest were
Prized far beyond the rest;
For Ravenclaw, the cleverest
Would always be the best;
For Hufflepuff, hard workers were
Most worthy of admission;
And power-hungry Slytherin
Loved those of great ambition.
While still alive they did divide
Their favorites from the throng,
Yet how to pick the worthy ones
When they were dead and gone?
'Twas Gryffindor who found the way,
He whipped me off his head
The founders put some brains in me
So I could choose instead!
Now slip me snug about your ears,
I've never yet been wrong,
I'll have a look inside your mind
And tell where you belong!
The Great Hall rings with applause as the Sorting Hat finishes. "That's not the song it sang when it Sorted us," says Harry, clapping along with everyone else.
"Sings a different one every year," says Ron. "It's got to be a pretty boring life, hasn't it, being a hat? I suppose it spends all year making up the next one."
"I forgot that you're always in trouble and haven't seen one since we got sorted." I snicker. Harry glares at me playfully. Professor McGonagall is now unrolling a large scroll of parchment.
"When I call out your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool," she tells the first years. "When the hat announces your House, you will go and sit at the appropriate table.
"Ackerley, Stewart!" A boy walks forward, visibly trembling from head to foot, picks up the Sorting Hat, puts it on, and sits down on the stool.
"RAVENCLAW!" shouts the hat. Stewart Ackerley takes off the hat and hurries into a seat at the Ravenclaw table, where everyone is applauding him.
I forgot that this is going to take forever. "Baddock, Malcolm!"
"SLYTHERIN!" The table on the other side of the hall erupts with cheers; I can see Malfoy clapping as Baddock joins the Slytherins. I wonder whether Baddock knows that Slytherin House has turned out more Dark witches and wizards than any other. Fred and George hiss Malcolm Baddock as he sits down.
"Branstone, Eleanor!"
"HUFFLEPUFF!"
"Cauldwell, Owen!"
"HUFFLEPUFF!"
"Creevey, Dennis!"
Tiny Dennis Creevey staggers forward, tripping over Hagrid's moleskin, just as Hagrid himself sidles into the Hall through a door behind the teachers' table. About twice as tall as a normal man, and at least three times as broad, Hagrid, with his long, wild, tangled black hair and beard, looks slightly alarming — a misleading impression, for Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I know Hagrid to possess a very kind nature. He winks at us as he sits down at the end of the staff table and watches Dennis Creevey putting on the Sorting Hat. The rip at the brim opens wide —
"GRYFFINDOR!" the hat shouts.
Hagrid claps along with the Gryffindors as Dennis Creevey, beaming widely, takes off the hat, places it back on the stool, and hurries over to join his brother.
"Colin, I fell in!" he says shrilly, throwing himself into an empty seat. "It was brilliant! And something in the water grabbed me and pushed me back in the boat!"
"Cool!" says Colin, just as excitedly. "It was probably the giant squid, Dennis!"
"Wow!" says Dennis, as though nobody in their wildest dreams could hope for more than being thrown into a storm-tossed, fathoms-deep lake, and pushed out of it again by a giant sea monster. It sounds just like every other kid's dream. Okay I might be getting cynical now that I'm growing up.
The Sorting continues; boys and girls with varying degrees of fright on their faces moving one by one to the four-legged stool, the line dwindling slowly as Professor McGonagall passes the L's.
"Oh hurry up," Ron moans, massaging his stomach.
"Now, Ron, the Sorting's much more important than food," says Nearly Headless Nick as "Madley, Laura!" becomes a Hufflepuff. Ariana must be positively joyful about all the new Hufflepuffs. She likes taking the new students under her wing.
"'Course it is, if you're dead," snaps Ron.
"I do hope this year's batch of Gryffindors are up to scratch," says Nearly Headless Nick, applauding as "McDonald, Natalie!" joins the Gryffindor table. "We don't want to break our winning streak, do we?"
Gryffindor has won the Inter-House Championship for the last three years in a row.
"Pritchard, Graham!"
"SLYTHERIN!"
"Quirke, Orla!"
"RAVENCLAW!"
And finally, with "Whitby, Kevin!"("HUFFLEPUFF!"), the Sorting ends. Professor McGonagall picks up the hat and the stool and carries them away.
"About time," groans Ron, seizing his knife and fork and looking expectantly at his golden plate.
Professor Dumbledore has gotten to his feet. He is smiling around at the students, his arms open wide in welcome.
"I have only two words to say to you," he tells us, his deep voice echoing around the Hall. "Tuck in."
Thank Merlin even I'm beginning to feel faint and cold, definitely cold. "Hear, hear!" says Harry and Ron loudly as the empty dishes fill magically before our eyes.
Nearly Headless Nick watches mournfully as Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I load our own plates.
"Aaah, 'at's be'er," mumbles Ron, with his mouth full of mashed potato. I scrunch my nose in distaste at him.
"You're lucky there's a feast at all tonight, you know," says Nearly Headless Nick. "There was trouble in the kitchens earlier."
"Why? Wha' 'appened?" asks Harry, through a sizable chunk of steak. Seriously boys, so disgusting when they eat, I trade grossed out looks with Hermione.
"Peeves, of course," says Nearly Headless Nick, shaking his head, which wobbles dangerously. He pulls his ruff a little higher up on his neck. "The usual argument, you know. He wanted to attend the feast — well, it's quite out of the question, you know what he's like, utterly uncivilized, can't see a plate of food without throwing it. We held a ghost's council — the Fat Friar was all for giving him the chance — but most wisely, in my opinion, the Bloody Baron put his foot down."
The Bloody Baron is the Slytherin ghost, a gaunt and silent specter covered in silver bloodstains. He is the only person at Hogwarts who can really control Peeves.
"Yeah, we thought Peeves seemed hacked off about something," says Ron darkly. "So what did he do in the kitchens?"
"Oh the usual," says Nearly Headless Nick, shrugging. "Wreaked havoc and mayhem. Pots and pans everywhere. Place swimming in soup. Terrified the house-elves out of their wits —"
Clang. Hermione has knocked over her golden goblet. Pumpkin juice spreads steadily over the tablecloth, staining several feet of white linen orange, but Hermione pays no attention.
"There are house-elves here?" she says, staring, horror-struck, at Nearly Headless Nick. "Here at Hogwarts?"
"Certainly," says Nearly Headless Nick, looking surprised at her reaction. "The largest number in any dwelling in Britain, I believe. Over a hundred."
"I've never seen one!" says Hermione. I wisely decide to keep quiet about my knowledge of knowing for years that there have been house-elves working in the kitchen from my many nefarious activities.
"Well, they hardly ever leave the kitchen by day, do they?" says Nearly Headless Nick. "They come out at night to do a bit of cleaning . . . see to the fires and so on. . . . I mean, you're not supposed to see them, are you? That's the mark of a good house-elf, isn't it, that you don't know it's there?"
Hermione stares at him. "But they get paid?" she says. "They get holidays, don't they? And — and sick leave, and pensions, and everything?"
Nearly Headless Nick chortles so much that his ruff slips and his head flops off, dangling on the inch or so of ghostly skin and muscle that still attaches it to his neck. That's a horribly unappetizing sight. I slowly lower down my fork.
"Sick leave and pensions?" he says, pushing his head back onto his shoulders and securing it once more with his ruff. "House-elves don't want sick leave and pensions!"
Hermione looks down at her hardly touched plate of food, then puts her knife and fork down upon it and pushes it away from her.
"Oh c'mon, 'Er-my-knee," says Ron, accidentally spraying Harry with bits of Yorkshire pudding. Eww. "Oops — sorry, 'Arry —" He swallows. "You won't get them sick leave by starving yourself!"
"Slave labor," says Hermione, breathing hard through her nose. "That's what made this dinner. Slave labor."
And she refused to eat another bite. I on the other hand regain my appetite for I am still hungry. There is no point in arguing this with Hermione at the moment.
The rain is still drumming heavily against the high, dark glass. Another clap of thunder shakes the windows, and the stormy ceiling flashes, illuminating the golden plates as the remains of the first course vanishes and is replaced, instantly, with puddings.
"Treacle tart, Hermione!" says Ron, deliberately wafting its smell towards her. "Spotted dick, look! Chocolate gateau!"
But Hermione gives him a look so reminiscent of Professor McGonagall that he gives up. I don't know what I'm going to do with her.
When the puddings too have been demolished, and the last crumbs have faded off the plates, leaving them sparkling clean, Albus Dumbledore gets to his feet again. The buzz of chatter filling the Hall ceases almost at once, so that only the howling wind and pounding rain can be heard.
"So!" says Dumbledore, smiling around at them all. "Now that we are all fed and watered," ("Hmph!" says Hermione) "I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a few notices.
"Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle has this year been extended to include Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs. The full list comprises some four hundred and thirty-seven items, I believe, and can be viewed in Mr. Filch's office, if anybody would like to check it."
So pretty much anything fun that the twins and I could play with. Well what a shame that is that I won't be following that rule. I can't help the devilish grin that comes to my face.
The corners of Dumbledore's mouth twitch. He continues, "As ever, I would like to remind you all that the forest on the grounds is out-of-bounds to students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year.
"It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year." Wait what! That can't be possible!
"What?" Harry gasps. I look around at Fred and George, my fellow members of the Quidditch team. They are mouthing soundlessly at Dumbledore, apparently too appalled to speak. Dumbledore goes on, "This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers' time and energy — but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts —"
But at that moment, there is a deafening rumble of thunder and the doors of the Great Hall bang open.
A man stands in the doorway, leaning upon a long staff, shrouded in a black traveling cloak. Every head in the Great Hall swivels towards the stranger, suddenly brightly illuminated by a fork of lightning that flashes across the ceiling. He lowers his hood, shakes out a long mane of grizzled, dark gray hair, then begins to walk up towards the teachers' table.
A dull clunk echoes through the Hall on his every other step. He reaches the end of the top table, turned right, and limps heavily towards Dumbledore. Another flash of lightning crosses the ceiling. Hermione gasps. I know this man. I just can't believe that he's going to be our DADA professor.
The lightning has thrown the man's face into sharp relief, and it is a face unlike many I have ever seen. It looks as though it has been carved out of weathered wood by someone who has only the vaguest idea of what human faces are supposed to look like, and is none too skilled with a chisel. Every inch of skin seems to be scarred. The mouth looks like a diagonal gash, and a large chunk of the nose is missing. But it is the man's eyes that make him frightening.
One of them is small, dark, and beady. The other is large, round as a coin, and a vivid, electric blue. The blue eye is moving ceaselessly, without blinking, and is rolling up, down, and from side to side, quite independently of the normal eye — and then it rolls right over, pointing into the back of the man's head, so that all we can see is whiteness.
Oh this is going to be a fun year. The man reaches Dumbledore. He stretches out a hand that is as badly scarred as his face, and Dumbledore shakes it, muttering words I can't hear. He seems to be making some inquiry of the stranger, who shakes his head unsmilingly and replies in an undertone. Dumbledore nods and gestures the man to the empty seat on his right-hand side.
The man sits down, shakes his mane of dark gray hair out of his face, pulls a plate of sausages towards him, raises it to what was left of his nose, and sniffs it. He then takes a small knife out of his pocket, spears a sausage on the end of it, and begins to eat. His normal eye is fixed upon the sausages, but the blue eye is still darting restlessly around in its socket, taking in the Hall and the students.
"May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?" says Dumbledore brightly into the silence. "Professor Moody."
It is usual for new staff members to be greeted with applause, but none of the staff or students clap except Dumbledore and Hagrid, who both put their hands together and applaud, but the sound echoes dismally into the silence, and they stop fairly quickly. Everyone else seems too transfixed by Moody's bizarre appearance to do more than stare at him.
"Moody?" Harry mutters to Ron. "Mad-Eye Moody? The one your dad went to help this morning?"
"Must be," says Ron in a low, awed voice.
"What happened to him?" Hermione whispers. "What happened to his face?"
"Dunno," Ron whispers back, watching Moody with fascination.
"You don't want to know." I state softly.
Moody seems totally indifferent to his less-than-warm welcome. Ignoring the jug of pumpkin juice in front of him, he reaches again into his traveling cloak, pulls out a hip flask, and takes a long draught from it. As he lifts his arm to drink, his cloak is pulled a few inches from the ground, and I see, below the table, several inches of carved wooden leg, ending in a clawed foot.
Dumbledore clears his throat. "As I was saying," he says, smiling at the sea of students before him, all of whom are still gazing transfixed at Mad-Eye Moody, "we are to have the honor of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year."
"You're JOKING!" says Fred Weasley loudly. Holy Merlin, I wasn't expecting this!
The tension that has filled the Hall ever since Moody's arrival suddenly breaks. Nearly everyone laughs, and Dumbledore chuckles appreciatively.
"I am not joking, Mr. Weasley," he says, "though now that you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun who all go into a bar . . ."
You have got to be kidding me. We're hosting the Triwizard Tournament? Professor McGonagall clears her throat loudly.
"Er — but maybe this is not the time . . . no . . ." says Dumbledore, "where was I? Ah yes, the Triwizard Tournament . . . well, some of you will not know what this tournament involves, so I hope those who do know will forgive me for giving a short explanation, and allow their attention to wander freely."
"The Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of wizardry: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the tournament once every five years, and it was generally agreed to be a most excellent way of establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities — until, that is, the death toll mounted so high that the tournament was discontinued."
"Death toll?" Hermione whispers, looking alarmed. But her anxiety does not seem to be shared by the majority of students in the Hall; many of them are whispering excitedly to one another, and even I'm excited.
"There have been several attempts over the centuries to reinstate the tournament," Dumbledore continues, "none of which has been very successful. However, our own Departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have decided the time is ripe for another attempt. We have worked hard over the summer to ensure that this time, no champion will find himself or herself in mortal danger."
"The Heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving with their shortlisted contenders in October, and the selection of the three champions will take place at Halloween. An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money."
"I'm going for it!" Fred Weasley hisses down the table, his face lit with enthusiasm at the prospect of such glory and riches. He is not the only person who seems to be visualizing himself as the Hogwarts champion. At every House table, I can see people either gazing raptly at Dumbledore, or else whispering fervently to their neighbors. But then Dumbledore speaks again, and the Hall quiets once more.
"Eager though I know all of you will be to bring the Triwizard Cup to Hogwarts," he says, "the Heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year. Only students who are of age — that is to say, seventeen years or older — will be allowed to put forward their names for consideration. This" — Dumbledore raises his voice slightly, for several people have made noises of outrage at these words, and the Weasley twins are suddenly looking furious — "is a measure we feel is necessary, given that the tournament tasks will still be difficult and dangerous, whatever precautions we take, and it is highly unlikely that students below sixth and seventh year will be able to cope with them. I will personally be ensuring that no underage student hoodwinks our impartial judge into making them Hogwarts champion." His light blue eyes twinkle as they flicker over Fred's and George's mutinous faces. "I therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are under seventeen."
Like that is going to stop the twins. I don't think that anything that they'll do will work but it's worth a shot anyway.
"The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October and remaining with us for the greater part of this year. I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they are with us, and will give your whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected. And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!"
Dumbledore sat down again and turned to talk to Mad-Eye Moody. There is a great scraping and banging as all the students get to their feet and swarm towards the double doors into the entrance hall.
I can't believe it, the Triwizard Tournament here at Hogwarts. This is going to be great, I can't wait!
"They can't do that!" says George Weasley, who has not joined the crowd moving toward the door, but is standing up and glaring at Dumbledore. "We're seventeen in April, why can't we have a shot?"
"They're not stopping me entering," says Fred stubbornly, also scowling at the top table. "The champions'll get to do all sorts of stuff you'd never be allowed to do normally. And a thousand Galleons prize money!"
"Yeah," says Ron, a faraway look on his face. "Yeah, a thousand Galleons . . ."
"Come on," says Hermione, "we'll be the only ones left here if you don't move."
Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, and I set off for the entrance hall, Fred and George debating the ways in which Dumbledore might stop those who are under seventeen from entering the tournament.
"Who's this impartial judge who's going to decide who the champions are?" I ask suddenly.
"Dunno," says Fred, "but it's them we'll have to fool. I reckon a couple of drops of Aging Potion might do it, George. . . ."
"Dumbledore knows you're not of age, though," says Ron.
"Yeah, but he's not the one who decides who the champion is, is he?" says Fred shrewdly. "Sounds to me like once this judge knows who wants to enter, he'll choose the best from each school and never mind how old they are. Dumbledore's trying to stop us giving our names."
I'm not so sure its exactly that, but when those two gets their minds set on something there is nothing that we can do to stop them.
"People have died, though!" cries Hermione in a worried voice as we walk through a door concealed behind a tapestry and start up another, narrower staircase.
"Yeah," says Fred airily, "but that was years ago, wasn't it? Anyway, where's the fun without a bit of risk? Hey, Ron, what if we find out how to get 'round Dumbledore? Fancy entering?"
"What d'you reckon?" Ron asks Harry. "Be cool to enter, wouldn't it? But I s'pose they might want someone older. . . . Dunno if we've learned enough. . . ."
"I definitely haven't," comes Neville's gloomy voice from behind Fred and George. "I expect my gran'd want me to try, though. She's always going on about how I should be upholding the family honor. I'll just have to — oops. . . ."
Neville's foot has sunk right through a step halfway up the staircase. There are many of these trick stairs at Hogwarts; it is second nature to most of the older students to jump this particular step, but Neville's memory is notoriously poor. Harry and Ron seize him under the armpits and pull him out, while a suit of armor at the top of the stairs creaks and clanks, laughing wheezily.
"Shut it, you," says Ron, banging down its visor as they passed. I can't help but think that it was a little funny, but mostly sad that he still has trouble.
"What about you Jamie? Fancy a try at adding Triwizard Champion to that already impressive title of yours?" George questions.
"Not if she values her life she won't." Hermione snaps worriedly.
"Nah, I'm okay with watching everyone else attempt to get blown up and set on fire. I've had enough danger in my life already thank you very much. Besides, I have a feeling that I'm always going to be in some level of danger being around these three." I say gesturing to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. I get a playful shove from Ron and a mock glare from Harry. Hermione huffs exasperatedly.
We make our way up to the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, which is concealed behind a large portrait of a fat lady in a pink silk dress.
"Password?" she says as we approach.
"Balderdash," says George, "a prefect downstairs told me." The portrait swings forward to reveal a hole in the wall through which we all climb. A crackling fire warms the circular common room, which is full of squashy armchairs and tables. Hermione casts the merrily dancing flames a dark look, and I distinctly hear her mutter "Slave labor," before bidding us good night and disappearing through the doorway to the girls' dormitory.
"Well she's going to be a bear to deal with." I mutter tiredly. "I'll see you guys in the morning." I say with a wave following after my errant friend. Halfway up to the dorm for fourth years I run into Ginny. She smiles at me sleepily.
"Its gonna be weird with you not in the same room. I've… kinda gotten used to you always being there." She admits. I smile at her and wrap my arms around her tightly. Yes I could definitely see myself viewing her as my little sister.
"Nothing's going to change besides where we sleep Gin. I'll still be here and we can hang out. When we get out of school its right back to sharing a room." I inform her with a smile. Ginny nods her head into my shoulder, and gives me an extra squeeze.
"I'll hold you to that. No disappearing on me." She says. I grin at her and nod my head. Ginny finally releases me and we go our separate ways to bed.
I finally make it up to my room in time to change into my hippogriff pajamas and climb into bed. It was not lost to me that when I finally closed my eyes to go to sleep that candlelight still lit up Hermione's bed. This is sure to be an exciting year.