The Goblet of Fire Page 15

  ‘Yes,’ said Hermione sniffily, ‘and it’s got a horrible reputation. According to An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe, it puts a lot of emphasis on the Dark Arts.’

  ‘I think I’ve heard of it,’ said Ron vaguely. ‘Where is it? What country?’

  ‘Well, nobody knows, do they?’ said Hermione, raising her eyebrows.

  ‘Er – why not?’ said Harry.

  ‘There’s traditionally been a lot of rivalry between all the magic schools. Durmstrang and Beauxbatons like to conceal their whereabouts so nobody can steal their secrets,’ said Hermione matter-of-factly.

  ‘Come off it,’ said Ron, starting to laugh. ‘Durmstrang’s got to be about the same size as Hogwarts, how are you going to hide a dirty great castle?’

  ‘But Hogwarts is hidden,’ said Hermione, in surprise, ‘everyone knows that … well, everyone who’s read Hogwarts: A History, anyway.’

  ‘Just you, then,’ said Ron. ‘So go on – how d’you hide a place like Hogwarts?’

  ‘It’s bewitched,’ said Hermione. ‘If a Muggle looks at it, all they see is a mouldering old ruin with a sign over the entrance saying DANGER, DO NOT ENTER, UNSAFE.’

  ‘So Durmstrang’ll just look like a ruin to an outsider, too?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Hermione, shrugging, ‘or it might have Muggle-Repelling Charms on it, like the World Cup Stadium. And to keep foreign wizards from finding it, they’ll have made it Unplottable –’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Well, you can enchant a building so it’s impossible to plot on a map, can’t you?’

  ‘Er … if you say so,’ said Harry.

  ‘But I think Durmstrang must be somewhere in the far north,’ said Hermione thoughtfully. ‘Somewhere very cold, because they’ve got fur capes as part of their uniforms.’

  ‘Ah, think of the possibilities,’ said Ron dreamily. ‘It would’ve been so easy to push Malfoy off a glacier and make it look like an accident … shame his mother likes him …’

  The rain became heavier and heavier as the train moved further north. The sky was so dark and the windows so steamy that the lanterns were lit by midday. The lunch trolley came rattling along the corridor, and Harry bought a large stack of Cauldron Cakes for them to share.

  Several of their friends looked in on them as the afternoon progressed, including Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas and Neville Longbottom, a round-faced, extremely forgetful boy who had been brought up by his formidable witch of a grandmother. Seamus was still wearing his Ireland rosette. Some of its magic seemed to be wearing off now; it was still squeaking ‘Troy! Mullet! Moran!’, but in a very feeble and exhausted sort of way. After half an hour or so, Hermione, growing tired of the endless Quidditch talk, buried herself once more in The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, and started trying to learn a Summoning Charm.

  Neville listened jealously to the others’ conversation as they relived the Cup match.

  ‘Gran didn’t want to go,’ he said miserably. ‘Wouldn’t buy tickets. It sounded amazing, though.’

  ‘It was,’ said Ron. ‘Look at this, Neville …’

  He rummaged in his trunk up in the luggage rack, and pulled out the miniature figure of Viktor Krum.

  ‘Oh, wow,’ said Neville enviously, as Ron tipped Krum onto his pudgy hand.

  ‘We saw him right up close, as well,’ said Ron. ‘We were in the Top Box –’

  ‘For the first and last time in your life, Weasley.’

  Draco Malfoy had appeared in the doorway. Behind him stood Crabbe and Goyle, his enormous, thuggish cronies, both of whom appeared to have grown at least a foot during the summer. Evidently they had overheard the conversation through the compartment door, which Dean and Seamus had left ajar.

  ‘Don’t remember asking you to join us, Malfoy,’ said Harry coolly.

  ‘Weasley … what is that?’ said Malfoy, pointing at Pigwidgeon’s cage. A sleeve of Ron’s dress robes was dangling from it, swaying with the motion of the train, the mouldy lace cuff very obvious.

  Ron made to stuff the robes out of sight, but Malfoy was too quick for him; he seized the sleeve and pulled.

  ‘Look at this!’ said Malfoy in ecstasy, holding up Ron’s robes and showing Crabbe and Goyle. ‘Weasley, you weren’t thinking of wearing these, were you? I mean – they were very fashionable in about 1890 …’

  ‘Eat dung, Malfoy!’ said Ron, the same colour as the dress robes as he snatched them back out of Malfoy’s grip. Malfoy howled with derisive laughter; Crabbe and Goyle guffawed stupidly.

  ‘So … going to enter, Weasley? Going to try and bring a bit of glory to the family name? There’s money involved as well, you know … you’d be able to afford some decent robes if you won …’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ snapped Ron.

  ‘Are you going to enter?’ Malfoy repeated. ‘I suppose you will, Potter? You never miss a chance to show off, do you?’

  ‘Either explain what you’re on about or go away, Malfoy,’ said Hermione testily, over the top of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4.

  A gleeful smile spread across Malfoy’s pale face.

  ‘Don’t tell me you don’t know?’ he said delightedly. ‘You’ve got a father and brother at the Ministry and you don’t even know? My God, my father told me about it ages ago … heard it from Cornelius Fudge. But then, Father’s always associated with the top people at the Ministry … maybe your father’s too junior to know about it, Weasley … yes … they probably don’t talk about important stuff in front of him …’

  Laughing once more, Malfoy beckoned to Crabbe and Goyle, and the three of them disappeared.

  Ron got to his feet and slammed the sliding compartment door so hard behind them that the glass shattered.

  ‘Ron!’ said Hermione reproachfully, and she pulled out her wand, muttered ‘Reparo!’, and the glass shards flew back into a single pane, and back into the door.

  ‘Well … making it look like he knows everything and we don’t …’ Ron snarled. ‘ Father’s always associated with the top people at the Ministry … Dad could’ve got promotion any time … he just likes it where he is …’

  ‘Of course he does,’ said Hermione quietly. ‘Don’t let Malfoy get to you, Ron –’

  ‘Him! Get to me! As if!’ said Ron, picking up one of the remaining Cauldron Cakes and squashing it into a pulp.

  Ron’s bad mood continued for the rest of the journey. He didn’t talk much as they changed into their school robes, and was still glowering when the Hogwarts Express slowed down at last, and finally stopped in the pitch-darkness of Hogsmeade station.

  As the train doors opened, there was a rumble of thunder overhead. Hermione bundled Crookshanks up in her cloak and Ron left his dress robes over Pigwidgeon as they left the train, heads bent and eyes narrowed against the downpour. The rain was now coming down so thick and fast that it was as though buckets of ice-cold water were being emptied repeatedly over their heads.

  ‘Hi, Hagrid!’ Harry yelled, seeing a gigantic silhouette at the far end of the platform.

  ‘All righ’, Harry?’ Hagrid bellowed back, waving. ‘See yeh at the feast if we don’ drown!’

  First-years traditionally reached Hogwarts castle by sailing across the lake with Hagrid.

  ‘Oooh, I wouldn’t fancy crossing the lake in this weather,’ said Hermione fervently, shivering as they inched slowly along the dark platform with the rest of the crowd. A hundred horseless carriages stood waiting for them outside the station. Harry, Ron, Hermione and Neville climbed gratefully into one of them, the door shut with a snap, and a few moments later, with a great lurch, the long procession of carriages was rumbling and splashing its way up the track towards Hogwarts castle.

  — CHAPTER TWELVE —

  The Triwizard Tournament

  Through the gates, flanked with statues of winged boars, and up the sweeping drive the carriages trundled, swaying dangerously in what was fast becoming a gale. Leaning against the window, Harry could see Hogwarts c
oming nearer, its many lighted windows blurred and shimmering behind the thick curtain of rain. Lightning flashed across the sky as their carriage came to a halt before the great oak front doors, which stood at the top of a flight of stone steps. People who had occupied the carriages in front were already hurrying up the stone steps into the castle; Harry, Ron, Hermione and Neville jumped down from their carriage and dashed up the steps too, looking up only when they were safely inside the cavernous, torch-lit Entrance Hall, with its magnificent marble staircase.

  ‘Blimey,’ said Ron, shaking his head and sending water everywhere, ‘if that keeps up, the lake’s going to overflow. I’m soak– ARGH!’

  A large, red, water-filled balloon had dropped from out of the ceiling onto Ron’s head, and exploded. Drenched and spluttering, Ron staggered sideways into Harry, just as a second water bomb dropped – narrowly missing Hermione, it burst at Harry’s feet, sending a wave of cold water over his trainers into his socks. People all around them shrieked and started pushing each other in their efforts to get out of the line of fire – Harry looked up, and saw, floating twenty feet above them, Peeves the poltergeist, a little man in a bell-covered hat and orange bow-tie, his wide, malicious face contorted with concentration as he took aim again.

  ‘PEEVES!’ yelled an angry voice. ‘Peeves, come down here at ONCE!’

  Professor McGonagall, deputy headmistress and Head of Gryffindor house, had come dashing out of the Great Hall; she skidded on the wet floor and grabbed Hermione around the neck to stop herself falling. ‘Ouch – sorry, Miss Granger –’

  ‘That’s all right, Professor!’ Hermione gasped, massaging her throat.

  ‘Peeves, get down here NOW!’ barked Professor McGonagall, straightening her pointed hat and glaring upwards through her square-rimmed spectacles.

  ‘Not doing nothing!’ cackled Peeves, lobbing a water bomb at several fifth-year girls, who screamed and dived into the Great Hall. ‘Already wet, aren’t they? Little squirts! Wheeeeeeeeee!’ And he aimed another bomb at a group of second-years who had just arrived.

  ‘I shall call the Headmaster!’ shouted Professor McGonagall. ‘I’m warning you, Peeves –’

  Peeves stuck out his tongue, threw the last of his water bombs into the air, and zoomed off up the marble staircase, cackling insanely.

  ‘Well, move along, then!’ said Professor McGonagall sharply to the bedraggled crowd. ‘Into the Great Hall, come on!’

  Harry, Ron and Hermione slipped and slid across the Entrance Hall and through the double doors on the right, Ron muttering furiously under his breath as he pushed his sopping hair off his face.

  The Great Hall looked its usual splendid self, decorated for the start-of-term feast. Golden plates and goblets gleamed by the light of hundreds and hundreds of candles, floating over the tables in mid-air. The four long house tables were packed with chattering students; at the top of the Hall, the staff sat along one side of a fifth table, facing their pupils. It was much warmer in here. Harry, Ron and Hermione walked past the Slytherins, the Ravenclaws and the Hufflepuffs, and sat 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 semi-transparent, Nick was dressed tonight in his usual doublet, with a particularly large ruff, which served the dual purpose of looking extra festive and ensuring that his head didn’t wobble too much on his partially severed neck.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said, beaming at them.

  ‘Says who?’ said Harry, taking off his trainers and emptying them of water. ‘Hope they hurry up with the Sorting, I’m starving.’

  The Sorting of the new students into houses took place at the start of every school year, but by an unlucky combination of circumstances, Harry hadn’t been present at one since his own. He was quite looking forward to it.

  Just then, a highly excited, breathless voice called down the table, ‘Hiya, Harry!’

  It was Colin Creevey, a third-year to whom Harry was something of a hero.

  ‘Hi, Colin,’ said Harry warily.

  ‘Harry, guess what? Guess what, Harry? My brother’s starting! My brother Dennis!’

  ‘Er – good,’ said Harry.

  ‘He’s really excited!’ said 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,’ said Harry. He turned back to Hermione, Ron and Nearly Headless Nick. ‘Brothers and sisters usually go in the same houses, don’t they?’ he said. He was judging by the Weasleys, all seven of whom had been put into Gryffindor.

  ‘Oh, no, not necessarily,’ said Hermione. ‘Parvati Patil’s twin’s in Ravenclaw, and they’re identical, you’d think they’d be together, wouldn’t you?’

  Harry looked up at the staff table. There seemed to be rather more empty seats there than usual. Hagrid, of course, was still fighting his way across the lake with the first-years; Professor McGonagall was presumably supervising the drying of the Entrance Hall floor, but there was another empty chair, too, and he couldn’t think who else was missing.

  ‘Where’s the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher?’ said Hermione, who was also looking up at the teachers.

  They had never yet had a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher who had lasted more than three terms. Harry’s favourite by far had been Professor Lupin, who had resigned last year. He looked up and down the staff table. There was definitely no new face there.

  ‘Maybe they couldn’t get anyone!’ said Hermione, looking anxious.

  Harry scanned the table more carefully. Tiny little Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was sitting on a large pile of cushions beside Professor Sprout, the Herbology teacher, whose hat was askew over her flyaway grey hair. She was talking to Professor Sinistra of the Astronomy department. On Professor Sinistra’s other side was the sallow-faced, hook-nosed, greasy-haired Potions master, Snape – Harry’s least favourite person at Hogwarts. Harry’s loathing of Snape was matched only by Snape’s hatred of him, a hatred which had, if possible, intensified last year, when Harry had helped Sirius escape right under Snape’s overlarge nose – Snape and Sirius had been enemies since their own schooldays.

  On Snape’s other side was an empty seat, which Harry guessed was Professor McGonagall’s. Next to it, and in the very centre of the table, sat 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 were together and he was resting his chin upon them, staring up at the ceiling through his half-moon spectacles as though lost in thought. Harry glanced up at the ceiling, too. It was enchanted to look like the sky outside, and he had never seen it look this stormy. Black and purple clouds were swirling across it, and as another thunderclap sounded outside, a fork of lightning flashed across it.

  ‘Oh, hurry up,’ Ron moaned, beside Harry. ‘I could eat a Hippogriff.’

  The words were no sooner out of his mouth than the doors of the Great Hall opened, and silence fell. Professor McGonagall was leading a long line of first-years up to the top of the Hall. If Harry, Ron and Hermione were wet, it was nothing to how these first-years looked. They appeared to have swum across the lake rather than sailing. All of them were shivering with a combination of cold and nerves as they filed along the staff table and came to a halt in a line facing the rest of the school – all of them except the smallest of the lot, a boy with mousey hair, who was wrapped in what Harry recognised as Hagrid’s moleskin overcoat. The coat was so big for him that it looked as though he was draped in a furry black marquee. His small face protruded from over the collar, looking almost painfully excited. When he had lined up with his terrified-looking peers, he caught Colin Creevey’s eye, gave a double thumbs-up and mouthed, ‘I fell in the lake!’ He looked positively delighted about it.

  Professor McGonagall now placed a three-legged stool on the ground before the first-years an
d, on top of it, an extremely old, dirty, patched wizard’s hat. The first-years stared at it. So did everyone else. For a moment, there was silence. Then a tear near the brim opened wide like a mouth, and the hat broke 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 favourites 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!