22nd November 1994, the Tournament Arena, the central platform, 11:17 AM
By the time Harry had walked the length of the arena's exit tunnel and emerged blinking into the cold November sun on the far side, the arena itself had begun its precise transformation. The six dragon-nests had been dismantled by the keepers with brisk efficient teamwork; the six dragons had been led, one by one, to their holding pens beyond the trees. In their place, by the precise coordinated work of Atid Stella's design team and a dozen Hogwarts house-elves, a long raised platform had been raised at the arena's centre, draped in the Tournament's deep red and gold, and six small podiums had been arranged along it for the assembled Champions.
The crowd had not left its seats. The crowd, in fact, was still cheering. A small portion of it had simply been cheering for the last seven minutes without stopping.
Harry, in his burgundy cloak and dark hood, walked along the platform's edge toward the empty podium reserved for him at the far end. Cedric was already in place at his own podium with the orange paste still gleaming faintly along the side of his face. Fleur stood with her hair loose now, the silver-blonde unbound to her shoulders, her pale-blue cloak's hem still showing the small dark scorch where the Short-Snout had briefly snored on it. Viktor stood with his usual flat-footed composure, but his dark eyes had not, Harry noticed, quite stopped flicking back to the central tier where Hermione was. Robert grinned across at Harry from his own podium with his right calf still wrapped in fresh dittany bandages. Adaeze stood very straight with her small carved staff at her side and the precise warm composure of a young woman who had decided that her morning had gone exactly as it ought to have gone.
She caught Harry's eye as he approached his podium. She gave him a small private nod.
He returned it.
Ludo Bagman, at the centre of the platform, raised his magically-amplified voice with the precise rolling theatrical relish of a man who lived for this exact moment.
"Ladies, gentlemen, witches, wizards, magical creatures of the realms beyond," he boomed, "the six Champions of the First Triwizard-Plus Tournament have, in the precise span of the last two hours, given us a morning we will not soon forget. The judges have conferred. The scores have been determined. Without further delay—"
He raised his wand.
"Cedric Diggory of Hogwarts!"
The Hufflepuff cheer rose. Cedric stood straight. Ludo raised his wand and traced six numerals in the air with bright golden smoke: an eight, an eight, a seven, an eight, a seven, an eight.
"Forty-six points!" Ludo announced. "Madame Maxime—" the Beauxbatons Headmistress gave Cedric a small dignified nod, "—commends Mr Diggory's creative Transfiguration but notes the cost of the venom. Mr Crouch—" Crouch, who had been seated very still and slightly pale through the entire morning in a way Harry registered without quite identifying why, gave a small precise nod, "—commends the speed. Mr Bagman—" Ludo grinned at himself, "—loved the dog. Headmistress Fontaine of Ilvermorny—" Fontaine gave a warm clap, "—commends the recovery. Headmistress Akingbade of Uagadou—" the small composed witch inclined her head, "—commends the courage. And Headmaster Karkaroff—" Karkaroff's slight nod was the most reluctant of the six, "—commends the technique."
The Hufflepuff section, which had been waiting for the moment to erupt, erupted. Cho Chang, from her seat three rows up, was openly applauding with the side of her hand pressed briefly to her mouth in a small private wet-eyed pride.
"Fleur Delacour of Beauxbatons!"
Fleur straightened. The smoke formed six new numerals: nine, eight, nine, eight, eight, eight.
"Fifty points!" Ludo announced. "A notable improvement on the lowest scores ever given to a Beauxbatons Champion in the modern Tournament era. The judges commend Mademoiselle Delacour's grace, her elegance, and—Madame Maxime, who is also her Headmistress and who has, with admirable disclosure, declined to vote in this round on the grounds of conflict of interest—is acknowledged. The single deducted point reflects the cloak fire."
Fleur's mouth, briefly, twitched.
"Viktor Krum of Durmstrang!"
Viktor stood. The smoke: ten, nine, ten, nine, nine, nine.
"Fifty-six points!" Ludo's voice had risen. "The first ten of the morning. The judges commend the speed, the precision, and the deliberate calculation by which Mr Krum minimised the dragon's distress despite his use of a debilitating curse. Outstanding."
The Durmstrang section roared. Hermione, in the central tier, did not stand up this time, but Harry saw her press her hand against her mouth with the quiet steady pride of a girl who had decided, three days ago, that she would let herself care about the Bulgarian Seeker's score in a way she had not previously cared about anyone else's competitive performance.
Viktor's eyes did the small private brightening Harry was now able to read.
"Robert Thornwood of Ilvermorny!"
Robert straightened, grin already in place. The smoke: eight, seven, eight, eight, nine, eight.
"Forty-eight points!" Ludo announced. "The judges commend Mr Thornwood's durable shield-craft and American style. Headmistress Fontaine—" Fontaine, who was Robert's Headmistress and had also declined to formally vote, was acknowledged, "—and the higher of the remaining scores reflects the precise practical resilience the Champion demonstrated."
The Ilvermorny delegation cheered.
"Adaeze Okonkwo of Uagadou!"
Adaeze stood with her small composed warmth. Ten, nine, eight, nine, ten, eight.
"Fifty-four points!" Ludo's voice was clearly delighted. "The judges commend Miss Okonkwo's unprecedented deployment of Uagadou's wandless tradition before an international audience. Madame Maxime notes—" Maxime did indeed nod, "—that the visual beauty of the magic was, in her words, worth its own score. A spectacular introduction of Uagadou to the Tournament's modern history."
The Uagadou section produced the same beautiful high ululating cheer they had given when Adaeze had been chosen as Champion. Neville, in the central tier, was clapping with both hands so hard that Hermione, beside him, had to gently still his elbow.
"And finally," Ludo announced, and the arena's attention swung as one body toward the far end of the platform.
Harry straightened.
"Harry Potter of Hogwarts."
The cheer that began to rise was already, Harry registered, larger than any of the previous five.
Ludo's wand moved. The smoke formed: ten, ten, ten, ten, ten, nine.
"Fifty-nine points!" Ludo's voice cracked, briefly, with what Harry suspected might have been genuine surprise at his own announcement. "The judges commend Mr Potter's precision, his non-verbal casting, his flawless shield-charm against direct dragon-fire, and—" his voice rose, "—his original binding-charm of unknown construction. Madame Maxime and Headmistress Akingbade have both requested permission, through formal channels, to discuss the charm's composition with Mr Potter's training-mentor at his earliest convenience."
There was a small precise pause.
"Headmaster Karkaroff," Ludo continued more quietly, "is the lone nine, and notes—I read directly from his card—that some allowance ought to be made for the contestant's irregular method of entry."
The arena, hearing this, produced a low collective hiss of disapproval. Karkaroff did not look at the audience.
Harry, who had heard fifty-nine points and was now standing on a podium being cheered by approximately eight thousand wizards across five schools, did the precise small thing his father had taught him to do at any moment of public triumph. He bowed his head, briefly, in acknowledgment, and kept his face composed.
The arena erupted again.
When the noise had subsided, Bagman raised his hands.
"Champions! Two further announcements before we release you. The Second Task will take place on the twenty-fourth of February at half past nine in the morning. The clue to its nature is contained within the golden eggs each of you has retrieved. The riddle of the clue is yours to solve, by your own means, before the date."
A small precise pause.
"Tied placements!" Ludo's voice resumed its theatrical brightness. "By scoring, the standings after the First Task are as follows. First place, tied: Mr Potter and Mr Krum, at fifty-nine and fifty-six respectively—the rounding-protocol of the Tournament Charter places them within a single-point equivalence band. Second place, tied: Mademoiselle Delacour and Miss Okonkwo, at fifty and fifty-four, similarly banded. Third place, tied: Mr Diggory and Mr Thornwood, at forty-six and forty-eight, banded. A First Task without injury to dragons, with the highest collective scores in two centuries, and with not a single death. We have been spoiled, my friends. Until February!"
He bowed.
The Tournament's official segment was concluded.
The exit tunnel from the platform side of the arena was, after the noise of the public-facing exit, a small relative quiet. The Champions filed through it one by one, each absorbed in their own immediate next purposes—Cedric was already speaking quietly with Cho Chang, who had found him; Robert was being clapped on the shoulder by what appeared to be a senior Ilvermorny administrator; Adaeze was speaking in low careful tones with Headmistress Akingbade; Fleur was being kissed firmly on both cheeks by Madame Maxime in a precise Beauxbatons display of formal pride.
Harry emerged from the tunnel onto the gravel path that led up the slope toward the castle, his burgundy cloak slightly singed at the right shoulder from the Horntail's first cone, the egg under his left arm, his hood down now in the cold bright noon light.
A small dirty-blonde shape detached itself from a clutch of waiting figures at the path's edge and flew at him.
"HAH-REE."
Luna had not, in four years of friendship, ever quite run at him in greeting. The four years had clearly been preparing for this. She covered the eight feet of gravel between her starting position and his current position in approximately one and a quarter seconds, and her arms went around him with the precise unselfconscious fierceness of a girl who had, for the precise count of two minutes during the Horntail's fire-cone, been entirely convinced she was about to lose him.
Harry caught her with the egg shifted hastily to one side and his free arm went around her shoulders, and the small warm shape of his best friend was pressed against the entire length of his chest with—Harry registered, in the small particular interior way he had been registering such things for the last few months—the precise developed warm curves of a thirteen-and-a-half-year-old girl who was no longer, exactly, the small twelve-year-old who had pressed her face to Jasper's aviary.
Harry's ears went the colour of his cloak.
'Cogitation,' his mind announced, with the precise level voice of a fourteen-year-old who had been having an unprecedented set of physiological months and had developed a quick interior procedure for managing them.
The blue moon assembled. The colour in his ears began to retreat at an only fractionally too-slow rate to be entirely unobserved.
A small bright chirp at the top of his head. Jasper, who had launched himself from somewhere—possibly Luna's pocket, possibly Hermione's collar, Harry would never know—had landed on Harry's hood with the precise delighted bounce of a Snidget reuniting with his boy. Jasper proceeded to nuzzle into Harry's hair with great affection.
Luna pulled back. Her grey eyes, very close, were bright.
"You were perfect, Hah-ree."
"L-Luna—"
"Perfect."
"Th-thank you."
A small precise cough from the small audience behind her. Harry, with reluctance, turned his head.
Draco, Daphne, Astoria, and Lavender were standing in a careful semicircle on the gravel, all of them with the precise composed expressions of four people who had been politely observing the reunion and were now collectively gathered into the bemused-smile configuration he had come to recognise as the we have seen you blush before but this is a new register face.
Astoria, whose colour had fully returned, said sweetly: "Hah-ree."
"Astoria."
"Was that a nosebleed I just nearly observed."
"I am not having a nosebleed, Astoria."
"A small one. The corner of the right nostril."
"Astoria."
"I am only—"
"Astoria."
Lavender, beside her, was laughing into her glove. Daphne's mouth had the precise quiet entertained curve of a Slytherin who had been waiting six months for the next round of cross-group teasing material. Draco's expression was the unselfconscious open delight of a boy who, three years ago, would not have dreamed of being part of a friend-group capable of teasing Harry Potter about a hug from Luna Lovegood, and was now savouring the precise novelty of his own life.
Luna, with the small contained serenity of a girl who had decided that Astoria's commentary was, on balance, accurate, smoothed Harry's hair back and let her hand rest on his arm with the precise affectionate easiness of a girl who knew exactly what she had just done.
"Where are the others?" Harry managed.
Draco gestured.
A small distance along the gravel path, beneath a beech tree whose copper leaves had already mostly fallen, a small crowd had assembled around two figures Harry could see, even from twenty paces, were Fred and George Weasley. The Weasley twins had a small slate-board propped against the tree, an enormous leather purse open at their feet, and the precise satisfied expressions of two boys whose entire morning's enterprise had concluded with margins they had not, themselves, fully anticipated.
Harry, registering the configuration, registered also the precise small wry slow smile that began at the corner of his mouth.
He walked over.
The crowd parted. Ron, who had been at the front of the queue with a small open palm extended, looked up and grinned with the precise enormous pleased grin of a boy whose entire morning had also gone better than expected.
"Mate."
"Ron."
"Mate, you have just made me twelve Galleons."
Hermione, beside Ron, had her own hand extended and the precise dignified expression of a girl who had spent the last fortnight publicly opposing the entire concept of a Weasley betting enterprise on principle and had, twelve hours ago, quietly walked across the Common Room and put four Galleons down anyway on Harry to place first in the First Task.
"Twelve Galleons, Hermione," Fred said, counting them out with the precise solemnity of a small-business proprietor honouring a respected client. "Twelve. The odds were against you. Are you sure you did not have inside information."
"I had a correct assessment of my best friend's abilities," Hermione said with dignity, "based on detailed observation over four years. Pay up, Fred."
"Yes, Hermione."
Behind Hermione, Sirius—wearing the still-burning illusion dragon-hat, which had now, mercifully, calmed to a slow gentle simmer rather than the active flame of two hours ago—was holding out his own palm with the precise unhidden expectation of a man who had bet very heavily.
"Twenty-eight Galleons, Fred. Pay up."
"Sirius," George said, with the wry resignation of a small-business proprietor honouring an unrespected client, "we are honouring it, but I should note for the record that you bet not only on Harry to place first but on the method of victory and on the presence of crimson lightning. That last one was extremely specific."
"That last one, George, was a godfather's intuition."
"Twenty-eight Galleons, Sirius."
"Excellent."
Lupin, beside Sirius, was holding out his own palm with rather more sheepish dignity than his oldest friend. "Six Galleons, George."
"Professor Lupin, sir," George said, with genuine warmth, "it is an honour to pay you. You may bet at my window any time."
Neville, on Lupin's other side, was being handed his winnings by Fred with the precise small dignity of a boy who had bet very modestly and very correctly. "Three Galleons, Neville. We told you the odds on Adaeze to finish were generous, and you took the bet at the right time."
"Thank you, Fred."
Harry, watching the entire enterprise being concluded, was laughing. He could not help it.
"All of you bet on me?"
"All of us," Ron confirmed. "Heavily. Even Hermione, who pretended for days she was not going to."
"Ron."
"Tell him, Hermione."
"I bet four Galleons. That is all."
"Four Galleons is substantial, Hermione."
"Four Galleons is a defensible expression of confidence in a friend, Ronald."
"Hermione."
"Ron."
Sirius, behind them, was wheezing again.
The walk back toward the castle assembled itself in the small slow informal way of a group who had decided that no one was in a hurry. Sirius and Lupin parted from them at the lake-path with hugs all round—Sirius's hug of Harry was particularly long, and the dragon-hat extinguished itself with the precise grace of a piece of theatre that had served its purpose—and a small reminder that they would both be back for the Second Task in February.
The remaining group walked on. Ron, with twelve new Galleons jingling in his pocket and Lavender's hand in his, was telling Lavender about every precise second of Harry's combat in a level of detail that suggested he had been mentally drafting the description for the last ninety minutes. Draco and Astoria were walking just ahead, her hand tucked through his elbow, a small contented quiet between them.
Harry, glancing sideways at the lake, saw a figure standing alone by the small clutch of beech trees near the path's edge.
Viktor.
He had not, evidently, gone with his Durmstrang delegation. He was wearing his crimson school cloak and his Durmstrang fur over it, and he was standing with the precise unhurried watchfulness of a young man who was very obviously waiting for someone and was trying not to be too obvious about it.
His dark hawk-eyes were searching the small assemblies of returning audience members along the path.
He looked up.
Hermione, two paces behind Harry, had also looked up at exactly the same moment.
Their eyes met across approximately twelve feet of cold gravel and copper leaves.
Time, in the precise small inexplicable way it did at such moments, slowed.
Harry stopped walking. He registered the small frozen distinct second in which neither Viktor nor Hermione moved. He registered Hermione's hand going briefly to her hair in the small private unconscious smoothing-gesture she made when she had registered being seen by someone whose seeing of her mattered. He registered Viktor's mouth doing the small relieved softening of a young man who had been hoping for exactly this and had been worrying he would not get it.
A small precise hand landed on Hermione's shoulder.
Ron.
He had stopped walking too. He had, too, registered the precise moment. And Ron's hand, which had been Hermione's hand to drag the wounded back from many small wars over four years, gave her shoulder the gentlest possible nudge forward.
"Go on," he said, very softly, with the precise small fond gentleness of a boy who had decided some weeks ago that whatever happened next between Hermione Granger and Viktor Krum was a thing he, Ron Weasley, was going to cheer for. "Hermione. Go."
She glanced at him.
"Are you—"
"Off you go, mate"
She went.
She walked the twelve feet of gravel with the small particular composed grace of a girl whose entire morning had also gone better than she had any right to have expected. Viktor, when she reached him, did not speak immediately. He extended a hand. She took it. The two of them, with the precise unhurried agreement of two people who had, between them, a great deal still to say and the rest of the morning to say it in, turned and began walking, very slowly, along the lake's edge.
Harry, watching them go, felt Luna's hand tuck into his elbow with the small contained pleased motion of a girl who had been waiting some time to see exactly this.
"Good for them," Luna said softly.
"Good for them," Harry agreed.
"Did you see Hermione's hair just then?"
"Yes."
"She does the smoothing thing only when she has decided someone matters."
"Yes, Luna."
"This is going to be a very interesting winter, Hah-ree."
"I am beginning to suspect so."
They had walked approximately another fifty yards toward the castle when a flutter of magenta robes resolved, with the precise unwelcome efficiency of a vulture finding a wounded animal, on the path ahead of them.
Rita Skeeter.
She had her acid-green Quick-Quotes Quill already poised at her shoulder. Her smile was the smile of a journalist who had been pacing the path for the last forty minutes specifically waiting for Harry to come up it.
"Mr Potter!" she announced, in her brightest tone, "just a word, dear, just a small word for the readers of the Daily Prophet, who have been on the edge of their seats for the entirety of the morning. The binding-charm, Mr Potter—the crimson lightning—was that something taught to you by a particular dark wizard, or did you—"
"Miss Skeeter," Harry said, with the small composed coolness Ethan had taught him for moments like this, "I would very much prefer not to be interviewed at the present time. Please—"
"But the binding-charm, Mr Potter, surely the readers deserve to know—"
"Miss Skeeter—"
"Miss Skeeter."
The voice that interrupted her was not Harry's. It was not loud. It was, in fact, the precise quiet level voice of a man who had simply arrived, with no particular signalling of having arrived, at the precise distance behind Skeeter at which the precise small menacing-gentlemanly quality of his presence was most apparent.
Rita froze.
She turned.
Ethan Esther was standing on the path. He was wearing his charcoal travelling coat over a charcoal three-piece suit. His silver pocket watch was visible at his waistcoat. His silver-framed glasses had caught the precise cold light of the noon sky and were, briefly, two small bright disks of polished glass that gave nothing of his eyes away. His mouth was arranged in the precise small polite formal smile he wore for women he had not previously been introduced to, and to whom he intended, in approximately five seconds, to deliver a piece of formal courteous unmistakable warning.
Harry's friends, behind him, all registered—in the small precise collective inhalation of a group of teenagers who had spent four years admiring an adult from a distance and had not yet seen him do this—the precise quality of the air around Ethan Esther when Ethan Esther had decided that a thing would be ending now.
"Mr—Mr Esther," Rita managed.
"Miss Skeeter."
"I was just—"
"I am aware of what you were just," Ethan said, with the small precise courteous coolness he had once used, eleven years previously, to dispatch a wandless protester at Atid Stella's Edinburgh launch in approximately six words. "You were addressing my son in a manner that is... by the agreement your publishing house signed with the Tournament three months ago, prohibited at this distance from the arena and at this point in the day's schedule. You will, I am sure on reflection, want to apologise for the... misunderstanding."
"I—of course, Mr Esther, I—"
"Your quill," Ethan continued, with the small precise pleasantness of a man indicating the small flicking acid-green object now hovering uncertainly at her shoulder, "is, I believe, in violation of the Tournament's specific charm-restriction on automated transcription within a hundred yards of the perimeter line. I am sure that, given the choice between politely retreating and being formally cited, you will find it in your professional judgement... to choose the former."
A small precise pause.
"Yes," Rita managed. "Yes, Mr Esther. Of course."
"Excellent."
She did not, in the small precise final assessment, retreat walking. She retreated very quickly, with the precise frightened-out-of-her-wits scuttle of a journalist who had, until that morning, considered herself a predator, and had just been informed, with absolute civility, that predation had a tier above hers.
The Quick-Quotes Quill, in its evident eagerness to escape, bumped twice against her shoulder as she fled.
Harry, watching her retreat, felt his friends' assembled silence register with the small private interior delight of a boy whose father had just performed, in front of approximately seven of them, a public masterclass in the precise composed dispatch of an unwelcome adversary.
Ron breathed out, very slowly. "Mate."
"Yes, Ron."
"Your dad... Mate, that was the most terrifying thing I have ever witnessed."
"Mhm"
Ethan turned. The cold disks of his glasses settled back into the warm amber of his eyes, and the precise small menacing-gentlemanly quality dissipated, and the man standing on the path was, simply, Dad, who looked at Harry with the precise unhurried warm pride of a father whose son had, that morning, done a thing.
Ethan crossed the gravel.
He hugged Harry hard.
He hugged him for the precise count of three, with the small fierce private hug of a father who had not, during the preceding three hours, permitted the audience to see his face in the Atid Stella command centre.
"Well done, son."
"Thank you, Dad."
He released him. He turned to the rest of the group with his usual warmth.
"Miss Lovegood. Mr Weasley. Mr Malfoy. Miss Greengrass. Miss Greengrass. Miss Brown. Mr Longbottom. Well met, all of you. I am rather afraid I cannot stay—I have approximately fourteen broadcast-protocols still to sign off on at the command centre before I return to London tonight—but I wanted to come briefly. Harry—" his hand cupped Harry's cheek briefly, "—Hedwig will reach you tomorrow with the further letter. Hermione—" he glanced toward the lake, where Hermione and Viktor were now small distant figures, "—and her young man may both, please, expect dinner invitations to Baker Street over the winter. Pass that along."
Harry noded with a grin.
"Sleep tonight, my boy. The egg can wait until tomorrow."
"Yes, Dad."
He squeezed Harry's shoulder once. He inclined his head to the group. He departed.
The group stood for a long precise moment in his wake before walking another quarter-mile up the gravel path toward the castle when the unwelcome rounded a curve in the opposite direction.
Theodore Nott. Three goons behind him.
He had clearly been waiting for some opportunity to make his approach during the morning and had not yet found one. His sharp face was, Harry registered with the precise neutral observation of a boy who had stopped expending emotion on Theodore approximately three weeks ago, trying to compose itself into the precise public-school sneer he generally favoured, and was failing.
Theodore had, after all, been watching the morning.
Theodore had also, Harry registered with the same neutral observation, bet against him with his goons in the dormitory the previous evening, and was now—Harry's mouth twitched, very briefly—considerably poorer.
Theodore opened his mouth.
He closed it.
He had, in the precise calculation of a sharp-faced boy who had been raised in a family that had taught him many things, registered that the small composed boy approaching him on the gravel path with his friends was not the small composed boy he had been campaigning against for the last fortnight.
Theodore did not, on this small precise occasion, attempt the sneer.
Ron, beside Harry, did.
"Theodore."
"Weasley."
"Good morning, Theodore."
"Weasley..."
"Quite an interesting morning, isn't it, Theodore." Ron voice grew sharper. "Did you bet on Harry, Theodore? I'm just asking because I *did, and I'm now twelve Galleons up. Did you, Theodore?"
Theodore's visage got worse with each of Ron's words.
Draco, with the precise small dry pleased Slytherin sneer he had developed for exactly this sort of moment, stepped half a pace forward. "Theodore. I will, as House-mate, make a small suggestion to you. You will find, in the precise long-term calculation of your standing in this House, that standing in the path of Harry Potter and his friends has not, this term, been a strategy that has served you. Reconsider."
Daphne's smile, beside Draco, was the precise cold smile of a Greengrass.
Astoria's was the precise warmer smile of someone who had decided, in approximately one second, that she was going to enjoy this.
Theodore looked at the assembled group. He looked at the small composed boy at its centre, whose green eyes were resting on him with the precise unbothered attention of a boy who had bound a dragon four hours ago and had no further interest, on this morning, in Theodore Nott.
Theodore turned. He left.
His goons followed.
Ron exhaled. "That was satisfying."
"Very satisfying," Astoria agreed.
"Beautifully done," Luna observed serenely.
22nd November 1994, the Gryffindor Common Room, 9:43 PM
The Common Room had been transformed by what Harry could only describe as approximately the entirety of Gryffindor's collective stock of celebratory enthusiasm. Fred and George had clearly redirected their morning's takings—or a portion of them—into Honeydukes-via-Hogsmeade-emergency-delivery, which they had achieved by means Harry did not entirely understand. Lee Jordan was conducting the music. The Common Room's roar had been audible from the corridor outside since approximately seven o'clock.
Harry, who had spent the early evening hiding in the Room of Requirement with the small group of close friends and had eventually been retrieved by Fred with the precise unceremonious efficiency of an older brother retrieving a recalcitrant family member, had been borne into the Common Room on a wave of cheer and deposited on the largest squashy armchair near the fire with the golden egg in his hands.
"Open it!" Seamus bellowed.
"Open it, Harry!" Lavender, in the precise enormous arms-around-Ron-from-behind posture she had been deploying with cheerful publicity for the last fortnight, called over the noise.
"The clue! The clue!"
"The egg, Harry!"
Harry looked at the egg in his hands. He looked at the cheerful flushed expectant faces.
He turned the small hinged catch at the egg's narrow end.
The egg opened.
What came out of it was not a clue. Not, at first, in any form recognisable to the listening ear.
What came out of it was a screech.
It was the precise pitch and timbre of a sound the human ear was not designed to receive. It was as though the egg had decided to release, in concentrated form, the entire collective horror of every fingernail-on-blackboard sound in the history of Western civilisation, amplified by approximately forty, and pitched at the precise frequency Harry's skull was least equipped to process.
The Common Room erupted into clapped-hand-over-ear chaos.
Harry, with the precise emergency motion of a boy whose Cogitation had just been hit broadside by something it had not anticipated, slammed the egg shut.
The screech ended.
The Common Room exhaled.
"Bloody hell," Ron breathed, his hands still clapped over his ears.
"That," said Hermione, who had arrived in the Common Room approximately twelve minutes ago with the small composed warm flush of a girl who had spent a considerable portion of her afternoon walking along a lake-edge with a Bulgarian Seeker and was now back where her friends were, "is the clue, then."
"That," said Harry, looking at the egg in his hands with the precise weary acceptance of a boy whose Tournament had not, in fact, ended that morning at all, "is the next problem."