The Goblet of Fire Page 17

  ‘They can’t do that!’ said George Weasley, who had not joined the crowd moving towards the door, but was standing up and glaring at Dumbledore. ‘We’re seventeen in April, why can’t we have a shot?’

  ‘They’re not stopping me entering,’ said 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,’ 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.’

  Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred and George set off for the Entrance Hall, Fred and George debating the ways in which Dumbledore might stop those who were under seventeen entering the Tournament.

  ‘Who’s this impartial judge who’s going to decide who the champions are?’ said Harry.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Fred, ‘but it’s them we’ll have to fool. I reckon a couple of drops of Ageing 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 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.’

  ‘People have died, though!’ said Hermione in a worried voice, 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 Harry. ‘Be cool to enter, wouldn’t it? But I s’pose they might want someone older … dunno if we’ve learnt enough …’

  ‘I definitely haven’t,’ came 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 honour. I’ll just have to – ooops …’

  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. Harry and Ron seized him under the armpits and pulled him out, while a suit of armour at the top of the stairs creaked and clanked, laughing wheezily.

  ‘Shut it, you,’ said Ron, 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 forwards to reveal a hole in the wall, through which they all climbed. A crackling fire was warming the circular common room, which was full of squashy armchairs and tables. Hermione cast the merrily dancing flames a dark look, and Harry distinctly heard her mutter ‘slave labour’, before bidding them goodnight, and disappearing through the doorway to the girls’ dormitories.

  Harry, Ron and Neville climbed up the last, spiral staircase until they reached their own dormitory, which was situated at the top of the Tower. Five four-poster beds with deep crimson hangings stood against the walls, each with its owner’s trunk at the foot. Dean and Seamus were already getting into bed; Seamus had pinned his Ireland rosette to his headboard, and Dean had tacked up a poster of Viktor Krum over his bedside table. His old poster of West Ham football team was pinned right next to it.

  ‘Mental,’ Ron sighed, shaking his head at the completely stationary soccer players.

  Harry, Ron and Neville got into their pyjamas and into bed. Someone – a house-elf, no doubt – had placed warming pans between the sheets. It was extremely comfortable, lying there in bed and listening to the storm raging outside.

  ‘I might go in for it, you know,’ Ron said sleepily through the darkness, ‘if Fred and George find out how to … the Tournament … you never know, do you?’

  ‘S’pose not …’ Harry rolled over in bed, a series of dazzling new pictures forming in his mind’s eye … he had hoodwinked the impartial judge into believing he was seventeen … he had become Hogwarts champion … he was standing in the grounds, his arms raised in triumph in front of the whole school, all of whom were applauding and screaming … he had just won the Triwizard Tournament … Cho’s face stood out particularly clearly in the blurred crowd, her face glowing with admiration …

  Harry grinned into his pillow, exceptionally glad that Ron couldn’t see what he could.

  — CHAPTER THIRTEEN —

  Mad-Eye Moody

  The storm had blown itself out by the following morning, though the ceiling in the Great Hall was still gloomy; heavy clouds of pewter grey swirled overhead as Harry, Ron and Hermione examined their new timetables at breakfast. A few seats along, Fred, George and Lee Jordan were discussing magical methods of ageing themselves and bluffing their way into the Triwizard Tournament.

  ‘Today’s not bad … outside all morning,’ said Ron, who was running his finger down his timetable, ‘Herbology with the Hufflepuffs and Care of Magical Creatures … damn it, we’re still with the Slytherins …’

  ‘Double Divination this afternoon,’ Harry groaned, looking down. Divination was his least favourite subject, apart from Potions. Professor Trelawney kept predicting Harry’s death, which he found extremely annoying.

  ‘You should have given it up like me, shouldn’t you?’ said Hermione briskly, buttering herself some toast. ‘Then you’d be doing something sensible like Arithmancy.’

  ‘You’re eating again, I notice,’ said Ron, watching Hermione add liberal amounts of jam to her buttered toast.

  ‘I’ve decided there are better ways of making a stand about elf rights,’ said Hermione haughtily.

  ‘Yeah … and you were hungry,’ said Ron, grinning.

  There was a sudden rustling noise above them, and a hundred owls came soaring through the open windows, carrying the morning mail. Instinctively, Harry looked up, but there was no sign of white among the mass of brown and grey. 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 in his lap – Neville almost always forgot to pack something. On the other side of the Hall Draco Malfoy’s eagle owl had landed on his shoulder, carrying what looked like his usual supply of sweets and cakes from home. Trying to ignore the sinking feeling of disappointment in his stomach, Harry returned to his porridge. Was it possible that something had happened to Hedwig, and that Sirius hadn’t even got his letter?

  His preoccupation lasted all the way across the sodden vegetable path until they arrived in greenhouse three, but here hewas distracted by Professor Sprout showing the class the ugliest plants Harry 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,’ Professor Sprout told them briskly. ‘They need squeezing. You will collect the pus –’

  ‘The what?’ said Seamus Finnigan, sounding revolted.

  ‘Pus, Finnigan, pus,’ said Professor Sprout, ‘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, it can do funny things to the skin when undiluted, Bubotuber pus.’

  Squeezing the Bubotubers was disgusting, but 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 Professor Sprout had indicated, and by the end of the lesson had collected several pints.

  ‘This’ll keep
Madam Pomfrey happy,’ said Professor Sprout, stoppering 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 Hannah Abbott, a Hufflepuff, in a hushed voice. ‘She tried to curse hers off.’

  ‘Silly girl,’ said Professor 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, signalling the end of the lesson, and the class separated; the Hufflepuffs climbing the stone steps for Transfiguration, and the Gryffindors heading in the other direction, down the sloping lawn towards 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 at Harry, Ron and Hermione. ‘Be’er wait fer the Slytherins, they won’ want ter miss this – Blast-Ended Skrewts!’

  ‘Come again?’ said Ron.

  Hagrid pointed down into the crates.

  ‘Eurgh!’ squealed Lavender Brown, jumping backwards.

  ‘Eurgh’ just about summed up the Blast-Ended Skrewts, in Harry’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 each other, bumping blindly into the sides of the boxes. They were giving off a very powerful 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 forwards 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 Slytherins had arrived. The speaker was Draco Malfoy. Crabbe and Goyle were chuckling appreciatively at his words.

  Hagrid looked stumped at the question.

  ‘I mean, what do they do?’ asked Malfoy. ‘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, Malfoy. 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 Seamus.

  Nothing but deep affection for Hagrid could have made Harry, Ron and Hermione pick up squelchy handfuls of frog liver and lower them into the crates to tempt the Blast-Ended Skrewts. Harry couldn’t suppress the suspicion that the whole thing was entirely pointless, because the Skrewts didn’t seem to have mouths.

  ‘Ouch!’ yelled Dean Thomas, after about ten minutes. ‘It got me!’

  Hagrid hurried over to him, looking anxious.

  ‘Its end exploded!’ said Dean angrily, showing Hagrid a burn on his hand.

  ‘Ah, yeah, that can happen when they blast off,’ said Hagrid, nodding.

  ‘Eurgh!’ said Lavender Brown again. ‘Eurgh, Hagrid, what’s that pointy thing on it?’

  ‘Ah, some of ’em have got stings,’ said Hagrid enthusiastically (Lavender quickly withdrew her hand from the box). ‘I reckon they’re the males … the females’ve got sorta sucker things on their bellies … I think they might be ter suck blood.’

  ‘Well, I can certainly see why we’re trying to keep them alive,’ said Malfoy sarcastically. ‘Who wouldn’t want pets that can burn, sting and bite all at once?’

  ‘Just because they’re not very pretty, it doesn’t mean they’re not useful,’ Hermione snapped. ‘Dragon blood’s amazingly magical, but you wouldn’t want a dragon for a pet, would you?’

  Harry and Ron grinned at Hagrid, who gave them a furtive smile from behind his bushy beard. Hagrid would have liked nothing better than a pet dragon, as Harry, Ron and Hermione knew only too well – he had owned one for a brief period during their first year, a vicious Norwegian Ridgeback by the name of Norbert. Hagrid simply loved monstrous creatures – the more lethal, the better.

  ‘Well, at least the Skrewts are small,’ said Ron, as they made their way back up to the castle for lunch an hour later.

  ‘They are now,’ said Hermione in an exasperated voice, ‘but once Hagrid’s found out what they eat, I expect they’ll be six feet long.’

  ‘Well, that won’t matter if they turn out to cure sea sickness or something, will it?’ said Ron, grinning slyly at her.

  ‘You know perfectly well I only said that to shut Malfoy up,’ said Hermione. ‘As a matter of fact I think he’s right. The best thing to do would be to stamp on the lot of them before they start attacking us all.’

  They sat down at the Gryffindor table and helped themselves to lamb chops and potatoes. Hermione began to eat so fast that Harry and Ron stared at her.

  ‘Er – is this the new stand on elf rights?’ said Ron. ‘You’re going to make yourself puke instead?’

  ‘No,’ said Hermione, with as much dignity as she could muster with her mouth bulging with sprouts. ‘I just want to get to the library.’

  ‘What?’ said Ron in disbelief. ‘Hermione – it’s the first day back! We haven’t even got homework yet!’

  Hermione shrugged and continued to shovel down her food as though she had not eaten for days. Then she leapt to her feet, said, ‘See you at dinner!’ and departed at high speed.

  When the bell rang to signal the start of afternoon lessons, Harry and Ron set off for North Tower where, at the top of a tightly spiralling staircase, a silver stepladder led to a circular trapdoor in the ceiling, and the room where Professor Trelawney lived.

  The familiar sweet perfume emanating from the fire met their nostrils as they emerged at the top of the stepladder. As ever, the curtains were all closed; the circular room was bathed in a dim reddish light cast by the many lamps, which were all draped with scarves and shawls. Harry and Ron walked through the mass of occupied chintz chairs and pouffes that cluttered the room, and sat down at the same small circular table.

  ‘Good day,’ said the misty voice of Professor Trelawney right behind Harry, making him jump.

  A very thin woman with enormous glasses that made her eyes appear far too large for her face, Professor Trelawney was peering down at Harry with the tragic expression she always wore whenever she saw him. The usual large amount of beads, chains and bangles glittered upon her person in the firelight.

  ‘You are preoccupied, my dear,’ she said mournfully to Harry. ‘My Inner Eye sees past your brave face to the troubled soul within. And I regret to say that your worries are not baseless. I see difficult times ahead for you, alas … most difficult … I fear the thing you dread will indeed come to pass … and perhaps sooner than you think …’

  Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. Ron rolled his eyes at Harry, who looked stonily back. Professor Trelawney swept past them and seated herself in a large winged armchair before the fire, facing the class. Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, who deeply admired Professor Trelawney, were sitting on pouffes very close to her.

  ‘My dears, it is time for us to consider the stars,’ she said. ‘The movements of the planets and the mysterious portents they reveal only to those who understand the steps of the celestial dance. Human destiny may be deciphered by the planetary rays, which intermingle …’

  But Harry’s thoughts had drifted. The perfumed fire always made him feel sleepy and dull-witted, and Professor Trelawne
y’s rambling talks on fortune-telling never held him exactly spellbound – though he couldn’t help thinking about what she had just said to him. ‘I fear the thing you dread will indeed come to pass …’

  But Hermione was right, Harry thought irritably, Professor Trelawney really was an old fraud. He wasn’t dreading anything at the moment at all … well, unless you counted his fears that Sirius had been caught … but what did Professor Trelawney know? He had long since come to the conclusion that her brand of fortune-telling was really no more than lucky guesswork and a spooky manner.

  Except, of course, for that time at the end of last term, when she had made the prediction about Voldemort rising again … and Dumbledore himself had said that he thought that trance had been genuine, when Harry had described it to him …

  ‘Harry!’ Ron muttered.

  ‘What?’

  Harry looked around; the whole class was staring at him. He sat up straight; he had been almost dozing off, lost in the heat and his thoughts.

  ‘I was saying, my dear, that you were clearly born under the baleful influence of Saturn,’ said Professor Trelawney, a faint note of resentment in her voice at the fact that he had obviously not been hanging on her words.

  ‘Born under – what, sorry?’ said Harry.

  ‘Saturn, dear, the planet Saturn!’ said Professor Trelawney, sounding definitely irritated that he wasn’t riveted by this news. ‘I was saying that Saturn was surely in a position of power in the heavens at the moment of your birth … your dark hair … your mean stature … tragic losses so young in life … I think I am right in saying, my dear, that you were born in mid-winter?’

  ‘No,’ said Harry, ‘I was born in July.’

  Ron hastily turned his laugh into a hacking cough.

  Half an hour later, each of them had been given a complicated circular chart, and was attempting to fill in the position of the planets at their moment of birth. It was dull work, requiring much consultation of timetables and calculation of angles.