"You're JOKING!" said Fred loudly.

The tension that had filled the Hall since Moody's arrival suddenly broke. Nearly everyone laughed, and Dumbledore chuckled appreciatively.

"I am not joking, Mr. Weasley," he said, "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."

McGonagall cleared her throat loudly.

"Ah— but maybe this is not the time.. . no. . ." said 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 magic: 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?" Arabella whispered, feeling alarmed. But her anxiety did not seem to be shared by the majority of students in the Hall; many of them were whispering excitedly to one another, and Harry himself was far more interested in hearing about the tournament than in worrying about deaths that had happened hundreds of years ago.

"There have been several attempts over the centuries to reinstate the tournament," Dumbledore continued, "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 no champion will find themselves in mortal danger this time."

"The heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving with their short-listed contenders in October, and the three champions will be selected 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!" George hissed down the table, his face lit with enthusiasm at the prospect of such glory and riches. He was not the only person who seemed to be visualizing himself as the Hogwarts champion. At every House table, Arabella could see people gazing raptly at Dumbledore or whispering fervently to their neighbors. But then Dumbledore spoke again, and the Hall quieted once more.

"Eager though I know all of you will be to bring the Triwizard Cup to Hogwarts," he said, "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, sixteen years or older— will be allowed to put forward their names for consideration. This—" Dumbledore raised his voice slightly, for several people had made noises of outrage at these words, and the Weasley twins were 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 a sixth 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 twinkled as they flickered over Fred's and George's mutinous faces. "I, therefore, beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are under sixteen."

"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 they are 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 was an excellent scraping and banging as all the students got to their feet and swarmed toward the double doors into the entrance hall.

"They can't do that!" said George, who had not joined the crowd moving toward the door but stood up and glared at Dumbledore. "We're sixteen in April. Why can't we have a shot?"

"They're not stopping me from entering," said Fred stubbornly, also scowling at the top table. "The champions will get to do all sorts of stuff you'd never be allowed to do normally. And a thousand Galleons prize money?!"

"Yeah," said Ron, a faraway look on his face. "Yeah, a thousand Galleons. . ."

"Come on," said Hermione, "we'll be the only ones left here if you don't move."

The four of them set off for the entrance hall, Fred and George debating the ways in which Dumbledore might stop those who were under seventeen from entering the tournament.

"Who's this impartial judge going to decide who the champions are?" said Arabella.

"Dunno," said 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," said Ron.

"Yeah, but he's not the one who decides who the champion is, is he?" said George 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."

"People have died, though!" said Arabella worriedly as they walked through a door concealed behind a tapestry and started up another, narrower staircase.

"Yeah," said 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 asked Arabella. "It would 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," came Nevihle's gloomy voice from behind Fred and George. "I expect my gran would want me to try, though. She's always going on about how I should be upholding the family honor. I'll have to— oops. . ."

Neville's foot had sunk right through a step halfway up the staircase. There were many of these trick stairs at Hogwarts; it was second nature to most of the older students to jump this particular step, but Neville's memory was notoriously poor. Hermione and Ron seized him under the arms and pulled him out while a suit of armor at the top of the stairs creaked and clanked, laughing wheezily.

"Shut it, you," snapped Arabella, banging down its visor as they passed. They made their way up to the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, which was concealed behind a large portrait of a fat lady in a pink silk dress.

"Password?" she said as they approached.

"Balderdash," said George, "a Prefect downstairs told me."

The portrait swung forward to reveal a hole in the wall through which they all climbed. A crackling fire warmed the circular common room, which was full of squashy armchairs and tables. Hermione cast the merrily dancing flames a dark look, and Arabella distinctly heard her mutter "Slave labor" under her breath as they made their way up to the dormitories.


Lyla and Daphne climbed up the last, spiral staircase until they reached their shared dormitory, two four-poster beds with emerald green hangings stood against the walls, each with its owner's trunk at the foot.

"Mental," Daphne sighed, shaking her head.

"What do you know about this— this tournament?" asked Lyla as the two began getting ready for bed.

"Not a whole lot," shrugged her friend, "though I think Papa was trying to hint at it, now that I think about it. All summer he was talking about 'exceptional challenges' coming my way… as if I'd join! I like being alive, thanks."

"So… it's really dangerous?"

"Historically speaking, yes," replied Daphne with a small smile, "but it sounds like Dumbeldore has put up some precautions, so hopefully, death isn't in the cards, ey?"

Lyla hopped into bed and sighed heavily, a series of dazzling new pictures forming in her mind's eye. . . . her as Hogwarts champion… standing on the grounds, arms raised in triumph in front of the whole school, all of whom were applauding and screaming. . . she had just won the Triwizard Tournament. Oddly enough, Draco's face stood out particularly clearly in the blurred crowd, his face glowing with admiration...

Lyla grinned into her pillow, exceptionally glad Daphne couldn't see what she could.

The storm had blown itself out by the following morning, though the ceiling in the Great Hall was still gloomy; heavy clouds of pewter gray swirled overhead as Lyla and her friends examined their new course schedules at breakfast.

"Today's not bad.. . outside all morning," said Draco, who was running his finger down the Monday column of his schedule. "Herbology with the Ravenclaws and Care of Magical Creatures with Gryffindor."

"Double Divination later this evening," Lyla groaned, looking down. Divination was her least favorite subject. Trelawney kept predicting her or her sister's death, which she found highly annoying.

"You should have given it up like me, shouldn't you?" said Blaise briskly, buttering himself some toast. "Then you'd be doing something sensible."

There was a sudden rustling noise above them, and a hundred owls came soaring through the open windows carrying the morning mail. Instinctively, Lyla looked up, but there was no sign of Nicholas among the mass of brown and gray. The owls circled the tables, looking for the people to whom their letters and packages were addressed. A large tawny owl soared down to Neville Longbottom and deposited a parcel into his lap— Neville almost always forgot to pack something. A giant eagle owl landed lightly on Draco's shoulder, carrying what looked like his usual supply of sweets and cakes from home.

"Ooo, those look amazing," gushed Daphne

Lyla tried her best not to feel depressed, ignoring the sinking disappointment in her stomach. She returned to her porridge. Was it possible that something had happened to Sirius?

Her preoccupation lasted all the way across the soggy vegetable patch until they arrived in greenhouse three, but here she was, distracted by Sprout showing the class the ugliest plants Lyla had ever seen. Indeed, they looked less like plants than thick, black, giant slugs protruding vertically out of the soil. Each was squirming slightly and had a number of large, shiny swellings upon it, which appeared to be full of liquid.

"Bubotubers," Sprout told them briskly. "They need squeezing. You will collect the pus—"

"The what?" asked Ravenclaw Anthony Goldstein, sounding revolted.

"Pus, Goldstein, pus," said Sprout easily, "and it's extremely valuable, so don't waste it. You will collect the pus, I say, in these bottles. Wear your dragon-hide gloves; they can do funny things to the skin when undiluted, bubotuber pus."

Squeezing the bubotubers was disgusting, yet oddly satisfying. As each swelling was popped, a large amount of thick yellowish-green liquid burst forth, which smelled strongly of petrol. They caught it in the bottles as Sprout had indicated and collected several pints by the end of the lesson.

"This'll keep Madam Pomfrey happy," said Sprout, stopping the last bottle with a cork. "An excellent remedy for the more stubborn forms of acne, bubotuber pus. Should stop students resorting to desperate measures to rid themselves of pimples."

"Like poor Eloise Midgen," said Li Su, in a hushed voice. "She tried to curse hers off."

"Silly girl," sighed Sprout, shaking her head. "But Madam Pomfrey fixed her nose back on in the end."

A booming bell echoed from the castle across the wet grounds, signaling the end of the lesson, and the class separated; the Ravenclaws climbing the stone steps for Transfiguration, and the Slytherins heading in the other direction, down the sloping lawn toward Hagrid's small wooden cabin, which stood on the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

Hagrid was standing outside his hut, one hand on the collar of his enormous black boarhound, Fang. There were several open wooden crates on the ground at his feet, and Fang was whimpering and straining at his collar, apparently keen to investigate the contents more closely. As they drew nearer, an odd rattling noise reached their ears, punctuated by what sounded like minor explosions.

"Mornin'!" Hagrid said, grinning as Lyla approached. "Be'er waitin' fer the Gryffindors, they won' want ter miss this— Blast-Ended Skrewts!"

"Come again?" said Blaise.

Hagrid pointed down into the crates.

"Eurgh!" squealed Lavender Brown, jumping backward.

"Eurgh" just about summed up the Blast-Ended Skrewts, in Lyla's opinion. They looked like deformed, shell-less lobsters, horribly pale and slimy-looking, with legs sticking out in very odd places and no visible heads. There were about a hundred of them in each crate, each about six inches long, crawling over one another, bumping blindly into the sides of the boxes. They were giving off a potent smell of rotting fish. Every now and then, sparks would fly out of the end of a skrewt, and with a small phut, it would be propelled forward several inches.

"On'y jus' hatched," said Hagrid proudly, "so yeh'll be able ter raise 'em yerselves! Thought we'd make a bit of a project of it!"

"And why would we want to raise them?" said a cold voice.

The speaker was Pansy Parkinson.

Hagrid looked stumped at the question.

"I mean, what do they do?" asked Pansy. "What is the point of them?"

Hagrid opened his mouth, apparently thinking hard; there was a few seconds pause, then he said roughly, "Tha's next lesson, Parkinson. Yer jus' feedin' 'em today. Now, yeh'll wan' ter try 'em on a few diff'rent things - I've never had 'em before, not sure what they'll go fer - I got ant eggs an' frog livers an' a bit o' grass snake - just try 'em out with a bit of each."

"First pus and now this," muttered Draco.


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