Chapter 289. Say Hello to Your Father for Me
After he finished informing them of the trivial matters, Dumbledore spread his arms and announced in a ringing voice:
"After friendly consultations with Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, and with the support of the Department of International Magical Co-operation and the Department of Magical Games and Sports at the Ministry of Magic, we have decided to revive an ancient and honourable tradition—the Triwizard Tournament!"
The Great Hall erupted at once into a deafening buzz of discussion and cheers.
In fact, most students had already more or less guessed it—The Daily Prophet had leaked the news in advance.
Dumbledore raised a hand for silence. "I imagine most of you have at least some idea of the Triwizard Tournament's rules. If not, that's quite all right—Professor Flitwick has prepared a detailed leaflet."
No sooner had he finished than Professor Flitwick stood up on his chair—then, thinking better of it, hopped down and pattered to the centre of the hall.
Everyone noticed the large sheet of parchment in his hands.
"One per person. Do read it carefully."
Smiling, Professor Flitwick waved the wand in his other hand; the parchment split into hundreds of copies, fluttering like a swarm of butterflies towards the House tables.
Harry caught one as it drifted down. The title, written in elegant cursive, read: Triwizard Tournament Rules and Explanations.
Beneath the title were densely packed lines of small print.
Everyone began to look through it.
"The winner will receive one thousand Galleons!"
Ron's eyes went as round as saucers as he stared at one particular line. "Maybe I could…"
"Don't even think about it," said Hermione, dousing him with cold water. "It's not for you. The minimum age to enter is seventeen."
"Oh, at least let me daydream," Ron muttered, his eyes still glued to those tempting numbers.
Adrian Wesson had a copy as well. He skimmed it quickly and found the rules did not differ much from the original.
The next day, Hogwarts was still steeped in heated discussion about the Triwizard Tournament—after all, the school's honour was at stake.
When everyone learned that only one student would represent the school, speculation ran wild over who would receive the spot.
Among them, Hufflepuff's Cedric Diggory became his House's overwhelming favourite. The other Houses likewise put forward their own candidates. Some even suspected Harry might become their champion—even though he had not reached the age requirement.
Dumbledore kept it a mystery and did not reveal the method for choosing the champion, leaving the students to their guessing.
Of course, though the Triwizard Tournament was about to begin, lessons would go on.
That morning, the first Care of Magical Creatures class of the term—shared by Slytherin and Gryffindor—was about to start.
Adrian Wesson was waiting on the stretch of ground by the Black Lake for the students to arrive.
Suddenly, Hagrid came trundling up, cheerfully hauling a gigantic wooden crate.
"Want the students to have a look at these little fellas?" he asked excitedly, flipping the lid open.
"What are—"
Wesson looked into the crate and instantly frowned.
Inside crawled a mass of unpleasant creatures—like lobsters without shells, grotesque to behold, headless, their many legs sticking out at all sorts of angles.
"Blast-Ended Skrewts!" Hagrid said, thrilled. "Took a Manticore an' sixty Fire Crabs to breed 'em. A bunch of adorable little things, aren't they?"
Wesson had no idea what had happened to that Manticore, but it was obvious these horror-film-spawned deformities were a hundred per cent unfit for students to handle.
"Well… I'd love to," Wesson said, weighing his words, "but I've already planned every lesson this term. I'm very sorry, Hagrid."
Hagrid sighed in disappointment, but, unwilling to give up, prised the lid open again. "Look how lively they are!"
"Bang!"
The tail of one Skrewt suddenly spat a burst of sparks that singed Hagrid's beard. Wesson instinctively took a step back.
"Such enthusiastic kids!" Hagrid patted out the sparks in his beard and said solicitously, "Want me to leave you a few first?"
"Really, no need." Wesson refused at once, hearing, at the same time, the sound of students' footsteps in the distance.
"What a pity," Hagrid said, reluctantly shutting the crate. As he left, he muttered under his breath, "I'll go show the others—maybe someone'll be interested…"
After parting from the trouble-courting Hagrid, Wesson turned to greet the students as they arrived one after another.
Meanwhile, mixed into the crowd, Harry let out a sigh.
They had just had a not-so-pleasant Herbology lesson—Professor Sprout had them working with Bubotubers, and they'd had to squeeze the swellings to collect the yellow-green pus.
It was not a nice job; Ron's robes still gave off a peculiar stench even now.
Fortunately, Harry thought, at least in Wesson's Care of Magical Creatures class they wouldn't run into anything that disgusting.
Just then, Malfoy shouldered his way up next to Ron.
"Merlin!" he drawled, pinching his nose theatrically. "What's that smell on you? I thought a skunk had got into Hogwarts."
"Shut it, Malfoy," Ron said, his face flushing scarlet.
"You'll get to enjoy it sooner or later," Harry said coolly, shooting Malfoy a warning look. "Unless you plan to skip Professor Sprout's class."
"But I won't be as clumsy as you lot, dousing myself in Bubotuber stink," Malfoy laughed.
Behind him, Goyle obligingly let out a coarse guffaw.
At that moment, Harry keenly noticed that Malfoy's other crony, Vincent Crabbe, was not joining in as usual.
The hulking boy, so often thuggish, was pale and glassy-eyed, seemingly uninterested in the quarrel before him.
Harry, of course, knew why he looked that way—because of Mr Crabbe.
"Instead of sneering at us, you might check on your lackey," Harry said, suddenly turning to Malfoy. "He doesn't look too well."
In truth, Malfoy had long since noticed Crabbe's odd state.
A flicker of irritation crossed his eyes. He turned to Crabbe. "Oi, what's with you? You've been like a corpse since term started!"
Crabbe's body visibly trembled. His lips moved, but no words came out. His eyes shifted about, not daring to meet anyone's gaze.
"Say hello to your father for me, Crabbe," Harry said, merciless.
The words landed like a hammer blow. Crabbe's head drooped even lower.
"Draco, let's go," he whispered, his voice thin as a mosquito's buzz.
Now even Malfoy understood that something must have happened with Crabbe.
He shot Harry a vicious look, then led his two hangers-on into the knot of Slytherins.
Seeing this, Harry couldn't help feeling a flicker of satisfaction.
At the same time, though, a tangle of complicated feelings welled up inside him.
Perhaps he shouldn't have done that?
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