The challenge seemed to stretch on forever, yet was over in a heartbeat. Cedric unleashed a dazzling array of spells—Confundus Charms, Transfiguration, and several incantations Orli didn't recognize. He transformed a boulder into a Labrador retriever, hoping to distract the dragon from its precious eggs. As he desperately maneuvered around the Swedish Short-Snout, the crowd became a single, many-headed beast—screaming, roaring, gasping as one.
Finally, Cedric managed to thoroughly befuddle the dragon. In barely ten minutes, he'd claimed the golden egg, though he staggered away with singed robes and angry red burns across his arms.
"Absolutely magnificent!" Ludo Bagman bellowed through his magically amplified voice. "Now for the judges' scores!"
He raised his wand, and a long ribbon of silver light streamed from its tip, twisting into the number eight in midair. Minister Bones conjured a nine, as did Dumbledore. Madame Maxime and Karkaroff both produced sixes with barely concealed disdain.
"They're being ridiculously biased!" Hermione shouted indignantly. "Cedric was brilliant!" Ernie Macmillan turned from the row ahead and actually smiled at them—the first friendly gesture from a Hufflepuff since Harry became a champion.
"One down, three to go!" Bagman roared as the whistle shrieked again. "Miss Delacour, you're up!"
The crowd's cheers doubled in volume. Beauty versus beast—this was the stuff of legends.
Fleur emerged from the champions' tent with her chin raised defiantly, wand clutched in her grip. But Orli caught the telltale tremor in her fingers, the slight hitch in her breathing.
A magnificent Welsh Green had already claimed the arena's center. Its scales shimmered in every shade of emerald, from deep forest to pale jade, creating perfect camouflage against the grass.
"Welsh Green," Fred murmured in Orli's ear, his voice tight with worry. "Least aggressive of all dragons. Like the Antipodean Opaleye, they prefer sheep to wizards."
"Unless you threaten their young," he added grimly. "Then all bets are off."
Orli leaned forward, studying the scene below. The nest had been changed—this one held earthy brown eggs speckled with green, and among them, the golden egg blazed like a captured sun. But no matter how docile the species, a mother dragon protecting her clutch was still a mother dragon.
The Welsh Green spread her wings wide, releasing a surprisingly melodious roar. Flames danced between her delicate jaws as she settled protectively over her nest. Then Fleur did something extraordinary—she untied her hat ribbon, letting her silvery-platinum hair cascade free. It seemed to float on invisible currents, catching the light like spun moonbeams.
She raised her wand and began to sing.
The melody was unlike anything Orli had ever heard—ancient, haunting, filled with power that made the air itself shimmer.
"Veela heritage!" Hermione gasped. Fred and George immediately clapped their hands over their ears, but it was too late for most of the male audience. Boys throughout the stands swayed toward Fleur with glazed expressions, some actually gripping the railings as if preparing to vault over them.
The dragon's fierce golden eyes grew heavy. Her massive head drooped, and within moments, she was curled around her nest, snoring peacefully. Small puffs of flame escaped with each breath.
Fleur moved with liquid grace, stepping carefully around the slumbering beast. She'd almost reached the golden egg when a stray spark from the dragon's nostril caught her robes. Flames licked up the fabric, but Fleur barely flinched—a precise Aguamenti doused the fire instantly.
She secured the golden egg, retied her hat with practiced efficiency, and stepped back. The spell broke like a snapping thread.
The enchanted boys blinked in confusion, faces burning scarlet as they pretended nothing had happened. The crowd erupted in thunderous applause.
The judges' scores appeared: Bagman, Dumbledore, and Minister Bones each awarded nine points. Madame Maxime proudly displayed a perfect ten. Karkaroff, with obvious spite, conjured a measly five.
"Bloody shameless git," Ron's voice carried clearly from somewhere nearby, echoing the outraged muttering of half the male population in the stands.
The whistle pierced the air for the third time.
"Next up—Mr. Krum!" Bagman announced, his voice crackling with excitement.
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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