Chapter 312. The Tournament and the Imperius Curse
Four dragon models of varying shapes stood in a straight line before them, each bearing a number from one to four.
"Each champion will draw a number at random, corresponding to a dragon," said Bagman, producing a small pouch. "Come on, ladies and gentlemen—let's see how your luck holds."
He went to Fleur first, giving the pouch a little shake. "Tradition: ladies first."
Fleur's hand trembled as she reached in, wearing a look of pure resignation.
She groped about in the pouch for a moment, then pulled out a folded slip of paper.
"Please not Two…"
She muttered so softly only she could hear, then unfolded the paper.
"Two," she breathed, her face paling.
Poor luck.
Although the four dragon models looked roughly the same size, if Madame Maxime's information was right, Number Two was the most troublesome of the lot.
No sooner had Fleur spoken than every gaze swung to the row of dragon models.
"Ah-ha, the Chinese Fireball! A rather tricky breed, Miss Delacour," Bagman said with cheerfulness quite out of place. "Next, let's have the others."
The drawing proceeded smoothly:
Krum drew Number Three—the Norwegian Ridgeback.
Cedric picked Number One—the Swedish Short-Snout.
That left Number Four to Harry—a Welsh Green.
A Welsh Green…
Harry let out a small breath.
That might be a relatively decent draw.
Yesterday Hermione had dragged him through half the library's books on dragons.
The Welsh Green was a smaller species with emerald-green scales—quick on the wing and comparatively mild in temperament.
Shouldn't be a problem, Harry thought.
Meanwhile—
After leaving the tent, Adrian Wesson walked straight towards the field ringed by fencing.
The tiered stands around the arena were already full; a noisy churn of chatter and excited shouts rose and fell.
Wesson threaded through the crowd and took a seat slightly left and behind the judges' stand, beside a very worried-looking Lupin.
"I still think setting children against dragons is a bit much," Lupin said to the newly arrived Wesson. "Even professionally trained adult wizards can't face a dragon alone."
"Relax."
Wesson shrugged. "I've confirmed Harry can handle it… By the way, where's Black? Didn't he come?"
"Oh, he's here."
As Lupin finished, a pink dog's head poked out from beside him.
Wesson blinked.
Wasn't that Bubble?
Back when Black had first been caught by Wesson, he'd turned into a pink dog to hide at his side—Bubble was the name Wesson had given him then.
"Black says he doesn't want to draw attention," Lupin said with a shrug. "So he's my pet at the moment—a pink Pico Dog from Croatia."
"I daresay there's no such animal by that name in Croatia," Wesson said, "and pink is even more conspicuous."
Black rolled his eyes.
Honestly, he'd have preferred his own face, but showing up would cause a stir; first impressions are hard to shift.
Though his criminal status had been cleared, he still felt the after-effects.
Even now, walking down the street, some witches and wizards still cast him fearful looks.
And why in Merlin's name is my fur pink—Black shot Wesson a resentful look.
Ever since Wesson had hit him with that blasted turn-it-pink spell, he'd been horrified to find he couldn't change it back.
He'd tried all last night to no avail.
For now, he could only endure this ridiculous coat colour.
Gradually, the stands filled to capacity.
On Wesson's other side sat a stranger he didn't recognise, with a strong reek of powder and smoke.
Likely a dragon handler.
Sure enough, a moment later Charlie took the seat beside that handler and struck up a conversation. "Care to guess who'll pull the Chinese Fireball?" the stranger asked.
"Anyone," Charlie said anxiously, "so long as it isn't Harry Potter."
Once all was ready, Bartemius Crouch slowly walked to the very centre of the field.
With a crisp whistle that sliced the air, the entire arena fell instantly silent.
From the stands, Wesson looked down at Barty Crouch and narrowed his eyes.
He hadn't seen old Barty at Hogwarts much of late—word had it he was buried in Ministry business.
As for who had tampered with the Goblet of Fire—
If Karkaroff was his prime suspect, old Barty was second on the list.
[Status: Imperius Curse (mild)]
Yes. According to the Tree of Wisdom, Bartemius Crouch was, at this moment, under the Imperius Curse.
Yet at the start of term, Wesson had noticed no clear traces of the curse on him.
Which meant he'd been hit quite recently.
And the caster, beyond doubt, was his own son, Barty Crouch Junior.
What a dutiful son.
After that single whistle, old Barty left the field without a word.
The spectators, seeing this, grew puzzled; no one knew what was going on.
A minute later, Bagman sauntered in at last.
"Oh—sorry, bit late," he panted, then boomed, "Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the first task of the Triwizard Tournament—a contest of champions versus dragons!"
A roar of cheers and applause burst from the stands.
Crouch raised a hand for quiet and went on, "Our four champions will challenge the dragons they've drawn, one by one, with the goal of seizing the golden egg from beneath the dragon's guard! Remember, this is not a slaughter—it is a trial of courage and wit!"
As he spoke, the dragon handlers rolled out a giant iron crate.
Inside, a blue-scaled behemoth crouched upon a clutch of eggs, and among them the gleaming golden egg stood out at once.
One of the dragon's feet was shackled with an absurdly thick iron chain that glowed white—plainly layered with a great many enchantments.
Wesson eyed the chain and gave a slight nod.
It seemed the task's safety measures had real bite.
"The Swedish Short-Snout! It can breathe brilliant blue flames of tremendous heat and is extremely swift—snatching the egg from under its nose is no easy feat."
Bagman looked rather overexcited. "So then! Who will be facing this troublesome dragon? Let's welcome—"
"Hogwarts's champion—Cedric Diggory!"
At the sound of Cedric's name, Wesson instantly turned his gaze towards the entrance.
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