4th February 1995, the Hogwarts Library, the Restricted Section, 8:42 PM
The small lit lantern at the narrow desk in the back corner of the Restricted Section had been Harry's evening companion for three consecutive weeks now. The desk was old oak, scratched and ink-stained by approximately a century and a half of students who had received McGonagall's permission to consult the Restricted shelves; the small brass plaque above it read For the use of seventh-year students and authorised others. The authorised others clause, by McGonagall's careful written permission, had now included Harry Potter for the Tournament-relevant span of the last fifteen evenings.
Harry, in his school cloak with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows and his glasses pushed slightly down his nose, was holding open a heavy leather-bound copy of Aquatic Magical Sustenance: A Comparative Study of Submersion Charms, 1623–1980 and was, at this exact moment, just registering theaha of a boy whose four-week project had finally, in the last sentence of the previous page, cohered into a single workable approach.
He set the book down.
"Hermione."
"Mm?"
"I have it."
Hermione, at the desk opposite him with her own stack of Mer-people references and her precise small notebook of bathymetric measurements, looked up from her work. Her brown eyes did the bright-and-focused thing they did when Harry had registered a breakthrough.
"Have what?"
"The Bubble-Head Charm. The version in this book is the modified Pemberton variant, which is the one I think will hold for the full hour. The standard textbook version only sustains for forty minutes. I'd been struggling because I was working from the standard. The Pemberton sustains for seventy-five minutes if you anchor it to a precise Runic underlay, and it adjusts its internal pressure dynamically to depth."
Hermione's quill paused.
"Harry. That is brilliant."
"The Runic underlay is the same one in the egg-decryption set. Depth and fluid-bearing. The third Rune is sustain. I can do this."
"Show me."
He produced his wand. He had been practising the unmodified version for the last fortnight in the Room of Requirement and had been frustrated by its forty-minute ceiling. The Pemberton modification was, by his reading, only an adjustment of three additional wand-motions and the layered conceptual focus of the Runes during the cast.
He raised the wand. He thought, with the precise small concentrated clarity Ethan had taught him, of depth, and fluid-bearing, and sustain. He performed the precise modified wand-motion.
A transparent sphere of air formed around his head.
He breathed.
The air, against his face, was a fresh cool register of air at the surface. The sphere's surface caught the lantern-light in the iridescent way of a charm that had been properly anchored.
Hermione, her eyes sparkling with academic delight, clapped.
However, a motion at the precise small Restricted Section entrance draw the two thrilled Gryffindors.
Madam Pince, with the affronted glare of a librarian who had registered applause in her Restricted Section, swept down the aisle.
"Miss Granger."
"Sorry, Madam Pince."
"This is the Restricted Section, Miss Granger. Not a Quidditch stand."
"Yes, Madam Pince."
Pince's glare swept across Harry's transparent air-sphere softened by a fraction.
"A very fine Bubble-Head Charm, Mr Potter."
"Th-thank you, Madam Pince."
"Modified Pemberton variant."
"Yes, Madam Pince."
"Out of my Restricted Section in twenty minutes. Both of you."
She swept away.
Harry dispelled the sphere with the little efficient wand-motion of a boy who was now genuinely confident he could re-cast it on demand. Hermione, beside him was still brimming with a pleased smile of a girl whose evening had concluded productively.
"Pemberton variant," she said quietly. "Three weeks of work."
"Three weeks of Hermione," Harry corrected. "And three weeks of Ron, and Draco, and Luna's tips. I would not have got there alone."
"Cheers to us then".
4th February 1995, the Gryffindor fourth-year dormitory, 9:34 PM
Neville was sitting on his bed with a glass jar in his lap.
The jar contained a mass of pale green-grey weed-like vegetation that, by Harry's first assessment, looked like an inedible thing one might find washed up on a beach after a storm and then ignore.
Harry, returning from the library with his stack of notes, paused at the door.
"Neville. What is that?"
"Gillyweed."
"What is gillyweed?"
Neville looked up, with an unselfconscious composed brightness that had been increasingly settling on him over the autumn term—the confidence of a boy who had been quietly building up to something he was good at and was no longer the nervous Neville of two years ago.
"It is a Mediterranean magical water-plant, Harry. When you eat it raw, it gives the person fish-like qualities. Gills along the neck. Webbing between the fingers and toes. The transformation lasts approximately one hour. It is the classical solution for an extended submersion task."
Harry sat down on his own bed with the registration of a boy who had just spent three weeks working out the Pemberton-variant Bubble-Head Charm and was now learning that there had been, all along, an alternative.
"Neville."
"Mm?"
"How long have you had this in your dormitory."
"Since November. I bought it in a magical-plants section of the Hogsmeade apothecary at the November visit. I had been working on it as a private Herbology project. I had not been sure whether to mention it to you, because... I did not know whether you had already worked out your own approach, and I did not want to interfere. But—" Neville smiled "—Hermione mentioned at dinner that you had just finalised the Bubble-Head Charm, and I thought some people might find it useful to have a backup."
Harry only drew a long breath after hearing this. "Neville. You are the kindest person in this dormitory."
"Ron is the kindest person in this dormitory."
"Ron is the loudest person in this dormitory. You are the kindest."
Neville flushed slightly. He held out the jar.
"Take it, Harry. For your backup. Just in case."
Harry, who had been raised by Ethan in the Esther household tradition of taking nothing of value without offering payment, shook his head.
"How much do I owe you, Neville."
"Harry—nothing. It's a gift."
"Neville. The plant is rare. The Hogsmeade apothecary charges between fifteen and twenty Galleons per ounce of viable Gillyweed. You have approximately a quarter-ounce in that jar. Tell me what you paid for it and I will pay you the same."
"Harry, please—"
"Neville."
A precise small pause.
Harry, with the composed quiet steady warmth Ethan had been demonstrating to him at Atid Stella negotiations since he was ten, leaned forward slightly.
"Neville. I am offering you payment in friendship, not in charity. I will pay you because you have spent your own money on something you are now giving me, and if I do not pay you I will be the worst kind of friend, who lets the generosity of the other go unacknowledged. You will not be insulting me by accepting. You will be honouring me. Please. Five Galleons."
Neville paused. His face did the slow-acceptance thing it did when he had been given an argument he could not refute.
"Five Galleons."
"All right."
Harry produced his coin-purse from his inside pocket. He counted out five gleaming Galleons and pressed them into Neville's palm. Neville, with the composed dignity of a boy who had now been paid for the fruit of his own Herbology work, closed his fist around them.
At this time, the dormitory was rather quiet for the other dorm-mates were down at dinner or in the Common Room. The fire in the hearth burned at its evening register.
It was then, Neville spoke up.
"Harry. Can I ask you something else."
"Of course."
"Memory magic. Mind magic. You once gave me some tips on Cogitation, when I was nervous before the Halloween feast... You said your father had been teaching you the technique since you were nine."
"Yes."
"Do you—do you know anything about memory borrowing? The technique by which one person borrows another's memory for a precise small period of time. The textbook calls it memory-loan or memory-share. It is supposedly a Mind-Healer technique."
Harry paused, his eyes sparkle with contemplation before shaking his head slightly.
"A little," he said carefully. "Not much. My dad probably knows more. Why do you ask, Neville."
Neville cracked a wry smile.
"Granny," he said quietly. "Granny has been—she has been borrowing my memories of Mum and Dad. The few I have. From before. She does it with a careful charm—she draws a small precise wisp of silver thread from my temple with her wand, and stores it in a small precise crystal vial. It is—" he paused, "—it is not painful, Harry. It is not unpleasant. It is the mildest piece of mind-magic I have experienced. Granny says it is an ordinary technique any Mind-Healer would use."
"Yes."
"And she has been—Harry, she has been quite cheerful. For as long as I can remember, she had never been this... Happy. She comes home from the hospital, and she looks at me, and she smiles. She has been visiting Mum and Dad at the ward more often. She has been—she has been humming, Harry. Granny humming. I have never heard Granny hum."
Harry scratched his chin hearing this.
"I will ask my dad, see if anything suspicious about this charm."
Neville heaved a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Harry."
"Of course, Neville."
"And Neville."
"Mm?."
"If your Granny is humming, Neville—if she is visiting more often—if she has been cheerful—I do not think that this is a bad thing. I think this is a good thing. Whatever she is doing, it is making her better. Sometimes that is the answer."
Neville drew his own long breath. "Right."
22nd February 1995, the eastern shore of the Black Lake, 3:42 PM
The shore of the Black Lake, two days before the Second Task, had been transformed.
Atid Stella's design team had spent the previous week erecting the infrastructure for the public-viewing event of the Tournament's most logistically complex Task.
The viewing-pavilion, on the western slope above the shore, was a enormous wooden grandstand draped in the Tournament colours of deep red and gold, with five school banners hanging from its upper rails. The advertising boards along the lakeside walk announced, in a bold ornamental scripts of Atid Stella's marketing department, the partnership of the company with the Tournament's broadcast rights. Small enchanted projection-orbs hovered at the intervals along the audience walkway. Then there were refreshment tents, medical pavilion, and the commentators' platform—all of it had been raised in a fortnight since the Atid Stella construction-team had arrived on site.
The water of the Black Lake, on the grey-pale Highland afternoon, was like a dark glass of a deep winter lake that had refused, by its magical depth, to freeze even in the coldest weeks of February.
Harry, in his winter cloak with the Gryffindor scarf, walked along the lakeside path with Luna's hand in his. Jasper, who had decided that the inside hood of Harry's cloak was the best place in the school for an afternoon's perching, peered out occasionally with its bright golden-eyed attention of a Snidget who was enjoying the new view.
Luna's grey eyes were soft. She had been quiet for some minutes, watching the dark water with the focused inward attention she gave to magical environments.
"It is very deep, Hah-ree."
"Yes."
"And it is very old."
"Yes."
"The Mer-people have been here since before the precise small castle was built. Possibly considerably before. I read it in a precise small volume in the Restricted Section last Thursday."
"Mm."
"I do not think they will harm you, Hah-ree. Mer-people are territorial, but they do not, by record, harm non-aggressive visitors. The Task is built around their co-operation, not against it."
"Well, that some goodness, still..." Harry still shivered imagining how it'd be to swim in those dark deep water.
Just then, a figure on the shore ahead, in a distinct dark-robed unmistakable register of a Department of Mysteries Unspeakable on field deployment, raised a hand in the recognition of a man who had just spotted them.
Uncle Sam.
Harry's face brightened.
Sam was wearing a charcoal-grey robe of a heavier cut than his usual office-robes—a robe with reinforced shoulders and protective lining of a robe designed for environmental field-work. Beneath the robe, a dark suit of classical Unspeakable cut—charcoal waistcoat, charcoal trousers, a white shirt and a dark tie. On the left breast of the robe was the insignia of the Department of Mysteries: a silver lemniscate-and-veil device, the ancient symbol of the Department's three core charges of Time, Mind, and Death. On his belt, a wand-holster of dragon-leather; in his hand was a leather-bound field-notebook.
Around him on the beach, eight further Unspeakables were at work. They were in the same classical kit, each with the Department insignia on the breast. Four were working at the water's edge, casting layered perimeter-wards in careful synchronised pattern of a specialist team. Two more were knee-deep in the shallow water itself, sinking enchanted markers into the lake-floor. One was at the commentators' platform, conferring with Atid Stella technical crew. One stood at the far end of the shore with a large brass instrument that Harry did not recognise but which was, by every visible signal, taking magical measurements of the Black Lake itself.
Harry's face shone with delight. 'I want to be one of them.'
The thought arrived without his having quite consulted himself about it. He filed it. He did not interrogate it.
Luna, beside him, seeing Harry enthusiastic eyes, slightly squeezed his hand.
"They are very impressive, Hah-ree."
"Absolutely."
"You will be one of them one day."
"L-Luna— Yeah, one day..."
Sam reached them. He was grinning. "Harry, Luna. Enjoying the view aren't ya."
"Uncle Sam". The two greeted back.
"Yes, quite the view. You don't get to see an Unspeakable working out in the open like this" Harry added.
Sam laughed.
"Uncle Sam," he said. "What is the Department actually doing here."
"Officially," Sam said some information he could professionally disclose, "the Department is providing underwater safety architecture for the Second Task. Atid Stella does the surface-side work; we do the subsurface. Wards. Extraction Portkeys for Champions in distress. Submarine medical-monitoring. The Black Lake is the deepest body of inland water in Britain, Harry, and any Tournament Task involving it requires considerably more architecture than the Tournament Committee itself can provide. Your dad insisted, in the commissioning conversation in December, that the Department be brought in. The Committee, after some Samantheus-applied persuasion, agreed."
"And unofficially," Harry said.
Sam's grin widened.
"And unofficially, Harry, my colleagues have been wanting an excuse to map the magical topology of the Black Lake's deeper portions for quite a while. The Task is the opportunity any of us have had to deploy the instrumentation required, with Hogwarts and Ministry blessings. They are delighted. The woman over there with the brass instrument is, by the way, my friend Dr Rosalind Carrow, who has been waiting for years for a chance to take bathymetric measurements of the Lake."
"I am only saying. Departmental research and Tournament safety are not, in the careful Department register, mutually exclusive." Sam added
Luna, beside Harry, was beaming with the bright pleased delight of a girl whose inherit her mother curious nature.
"By the way, Uncle Sam..." Harry lowered his voice and said carefully. "do you... know what the precise small specific underwater conditions for the Task are."
"Mm."
"Mm?"
"Mm, Harry."
"That is not an answer."
"It is, Harry, the only answer the Tournament Charter permits me to give you, in the Head-of-Department capacity. I am sorry. I will, however, tell you that the safety architecture is very good. You will not, by any reasonable measurement, be in actual danger. Anything that can go wrong, will be caught and managed."
Harry registered this.
"And will you come to see the Tournament."
"Of course, I will be there to cheer for you, Harry. Loudly. Inappropriately. Possibly with a flag of my own commissioning."
"Uncle Sam." Harry said bemusedly.
"Just saying."
Luna, on the was also giggling.
They said their goodbyes, then Harry and Luna walked back toward the castle along the lakeside path, with Jasper's golden eyes occasionally registering the Unspeakables' work from inside Harry's hood with the bright avian interest of a Snidget who had decided that humans were fascinating.
23rd February 1995, the Hogwarts Library, 9:48 PM
The library at quarter to ten on the night before the Second Task was at its deep-quiet register. Approximately seven students remained at scattered tables across the main reading room. Madam Pince was at her front desk, glaring at the middle distance with composed weariness of a librarian who had been monitoring last-minute Tournament-eve research-students for the last week.
At a table by the east window, Hermione and Viktor sat together over a spread of Mer-people-related volumes. Viktor, in his evening Durmstrang robes with his dark cloak hanging on the back of his chair, had been making the composed steady patient effort of a boy whose English-reading on Mer-people was, by Hermione's tutoring, considerably improving over the term. Hermione's notebook was open between them. She had been pointing at a diagram of a Mer-village structure, and Viktor had been nodding with the focused attention of a Champion whose own Task-preparation had, like Harry's, advanced considerably in the last fortnight.
At a alcove table at the far end of the room, Harry and Luna sat together over a different spread of materials—the advanced Runic exercises Ethan had set them quite a while ago, which the two of them had been working through together at their own slow careful pace. Ethan's instruction was, by his letter, to work on this for an hour each evening, regardless of the Tournament, because the Runes will be useful to you both for considerably longer than the Tournament will. They had been keeping to it.
A pub-style door-creak. Fred and George Weasley appeared in the east entrance of the library with simultaneous quiet.
They crossed first to Hermione and Viktor's table.
"Hermione."
"Fred."
"Professor McGonagall would like a word."
Hermione looked up, puzzled.
"Now?"
"Now. Apparently fairly urgently. Her office. She did not say what about."
Hermione's quill paused. She glanced at Viktor.
Viktor, with a pleased patience of a boy whose girlfriend had been suddenly summoned and who was perfectly happy to wait, smiled.
"Go, Hermin-ee-nee. I am here."
"I will be back as soon as I can."
"Yes."
She kissed him very briefly on the cheek and rose. She gathered her cloak and followed Fred and George out of the library.
At the alcove table, Harry and Luna had been registering the message-delivery with curiosity.
Then there was a sound of approach.
It was Sue Li, she also had the message-bearer's expression.
"Luna."
"Sue."
"Professor Flitwick needs a word with you. His office. Now if you can."
"Of course." Luna set her quill down and gathered her stuff before turning to Harry. "I will see you in the morning, Hah-ree."
"Um, See you there."
Harry worked, for another fifty minutes, on his Runes alone, before the library closed.
24th February 1995, the Headmaster's Office, 7:14 AM
The precise small spiral staircase up to the Headmaster's office had been entered by Harry six times in his life and was, on the early morning of the Second Task, the seventh entry. Behind him on the staircase were five other Champions.
The precise small Champions had all met outside the Gargoyle entry at the instruction of an early-morning house-elf message. None of them had known why.
"Did anyone tell you what we are doing here?" Harry asked quietly as they climbed.
However none of them had the answer.
As the staircase reached the precise small top, Harry knocked.
"Come in."
They filed in.
The Headmaster's office at quarter past seven in the morning was at its early register—portraits of past Headmasters were variously dozing or peering, Fawkes was on his perch in the early-morning preen, and the high windows were filled with grey-pink light of February dawn that had not yet quite committed to whether to become a clear morning. Dumbledore stood at his desk in hisdeep midnight-blue robes with embroidered stars at the hem. Beside him, in modest official Ministry robes, stood Percy Weasley, with a composed careful expression of a young Ministry official who had been promoted again over the night—from Crouch's assistant to Crouch's effective deputy at all formal Tournament functions—and who was, by every visible signal, not entirely sure what to do with the responsibility.
Percy was holding a tray of six glass bottles. The bottles were filled with clear pale-green liquid of a magical potion Harry did not recognise.
"Champions," Dumbledore said warmly. "Good morning. Forgive the early hour. Please, sit."
They sat in the precise small six small chairs arranged in a precise small semicircle before his desk.
"This morning's Second Task," Dumbledore continued, with warmth smile gesture toward Percy, "will require, for each Champion, an additional preparation. Mr Weasley has brought the dosed Gillyweed Potion which the Tournament Committee has authorised for use by all Champions today."
"Gillyweed Potion?" Cedric asked.
"A refinement," Dumbledore said. "Raw Gillyweed, as you may know, produces fish-like qualities of approximately one hour's duration when chewed and swallowed in its raw form. The Tournament's potions-research division has, over the last fortnight, developed a concentrated potion-form which is considerably more efficient—two and a half hours of submersion-tolerance, with additional gill-stability under high-pressure conditions, and full retention of human voice. The potion has been brewed by Professor Snape under Department of Mysteries supervision. Each of you will receive a sealed bottle."
Percy then distributed the bottles. Each Champion received one.
Harry's bottle felt cool and smooth in his hand. He turned it once. Through the glass, the pale-green liquid moved with a thick viscosity of a properly-brewed potion.
"You will please drink the potion now," Dumbledore said. "It takes approximately ten minutes to take effect. We will, in that time, brief you on the Task."
The six Champions simultaneously uncorked their precise small bottles and drank.
The potion was a thick mild salt-sweet taste of seaweed and old water. Harry swallowed his with a gulp.
"Excellent," Dumbledore said. "Now. About the Task. As you know, the egg-clue has revealed to each of you that the Mer-people of the Black Lake have taken what you will sorely miss. You have an hour—" his warm eyes curved into grandfatherly gaze "—to recover what was taken. The taken thing, Champions, is in each case a precise small particular person."
A precise small silence.
"A person?" Robert asked.
"Yes. The person who is, by your own individual measure, most dear to you among those who are currently at Hogwarts. They have been, by careful arrangement, brought to the Mer-village at the bottom of the Lake last night. They are at this moment in the care of the Mer-village's elders, in a enchanted sleep that protects them entirely from the water's cold and pressure. They are safe, for now. The Task is for each of you to retrieve your precise small individual person within one-hour limit, and return them safely to the surface."
Harry's mind immediately buzzed. 'Luna.'
It was then a strong dizziness strike his mind.
He looked at thebbottle in his hand.
He looked at Percy and Dumbledore.
The wave of drowsiness, in instant, washed across the backs of his eyes.
"Headmaster..." he said softly.
"Yes, Mr Potter. The potion is gillyweed concentrate, plus a dose of mild sleeping-draught."
"...Sir?"
"Good luck to you all Champions" Dumbledore's grandfatherly smile never left his face.
Harry slumped, in his precise small chair, into the precise small sleep.
Beside him, simultaneously, Cedric, Fleur, Viktor, Robert, and Adaeze also fall asleep.
24th February 1995, the Tournament viewing pavilion, 7:31 AM
The viewing pavilion, on the western slope above the Black Lake's eastern shore, had been filling steadily since seven o'clock.
The mood, by an unanimous reading of the assembled fifteen hundred or so spectators—students of five schools, families of the Champions, Ministry officials, broadcast journalists, and the assembled press of three magical newspapers across two continents—was the wide-awake-but-grumpy register of an audience that had been asked to be in their seats very early on a cold February morning.
The Hogwarts central-tier seats had been reserved for the Champions' guests. In the reserved row, the contingent of Harry-Potter-and-friends had assembled.
Draco sat at the aisle end in his dark winter cloak with Slytherin trim. Beside him, Lavender, in a soft pink winter cloak, was sharing her flask of hot cocoa with the row at large. Beside Lavender, Daphne, in her composed pale-grey cloak with the Slytherin pin at her collar, was holding a Atid Stella's thermos of her own. Beside Daphne, Neville, in his steady Gryffindor cloak with his Herbology notebook on his lap just in case the Task involves any flora, was scanning the lake's surface. Beside Neville, Ron, in his Gryffindor cloak with his ginger hair sticking up in several directions, it had clearly been sleeping in twenty minutes earlier, sat with a composed expression of barely-awake-and-disapproving.
Astoria was not in the row.
Draco, registering this, registered also that Astoria had not been at breakfast, which was unusual but had been explained at the Slytherin table by Daphne as Astoria was feeling poorly this morning, Madam Pomfrey said she should stay in. He had noticed that Daphne's tone had been a precise small fraction off.
As Draco's mind was swarmed by Astoria's condition, a loud runt from beside brough him out of his negative thoughts.
"I cannot believe," Ron said, with weary disapproval, "that they dragged us out here, at this hour, in this cold, to stare at a lake."
Lavender and Neville laughed while Astoria and Draco shook their heads at his remark.
"Furthermore," Ron continued, "we cannot even see what is happening. The Champions are at the bottom of the lake. Are we going to spend the precise small next hour staring at—" he gestured emphatically, "water?"
A composed quiet voice, from the aisle behind their row, said amusement: "I think, Mr Weasley, you may be in for a precise small pleasant surprise."
The row turned.
It was Sam. Behind him stood Sirius and Lupin.
The row of teenagers, registering the triple-adult arrival, greeted them.
"Uncle Sam!"
"Mr Black!"
"Professor Lupin!"
Daphne, beside Draco, did a reverence-bow. For the name Samantheus was quite a legend told among the walls of Slytherin.
Sam, with a warm grin of a man who had been receiving Slytherin-rank-deference for the whenever he visit Hogwarts, had decided that on a Saturday morning at a Tournament event he would not require it, waved them down.
"At ease, all of you. Please sit. Make room."
They made room. Sam took the seat next to Draco at the aisle end. Sirius took the seat behind, with Lupin beside him.
"Now," Sam said, turning to Ron with a wry pleased grin, "Mr Weasley. About your concern regarding the inability of the audience to see the underwater Task. May I direct your attention." he pointed, with a pleasure of a man who had been waiting for exactly this moment, to the air directly in front of the viewing pavilion.
Ron, with the grumpy fourteen-year-old skepticism of a boy who had not yet had his second cup of tea, looked.
There was something in the air, perhaps thirty feet above the water's surface, had begun to shimmer.
Around the viewing pavilion, the assembled audience had begun in low murmur of what was going on.
Suddenly, The commentators' platform at the far end of the pavilion crackled into life.
"Witches, wizards, magical creatures of all magical sorts, and most especially, students of all five schools!" Ludo Bagman's magically-amplified voice rolled, in full Bagman theatrical register, across the surface of the Black Lake. "Welcome to the Second Task of the First Triwizard-Plus Tournament! It is half past seven on the morning of the twenty-fourth of February, the water of the Black Lake is the chilly seven degrees—glad I'm not in it!—and we are, in a few moments, about to begin!"
Another voice joined his, it was Lee Jordan: "Mr Bagman, I think we should explain to the audience what is about to happen."
"Mr Jordan, you are quite correct. The audience is asking themselves, no doubt: how, in the name of all that is magical, is the audience supposed to see an underwater Task. The answer, my friends, is the considerable miracle of Atid Stella Projection Network."
A further smaller voice joined—the Uagadou commentator:
"The projection orbs you see in the air above the water, ladies and gentlemen, are the surface-side receivers. Each of our six Champions, by careful arrangement, has been accompanied to the base of the Lake by a jellyfish-form projection device. Each device transmits a live magical image of its Champion to the viewing screen in the air above us."
The audience awed.
Ron, beside Sam, was now sitting bolt upright.
"That is—" Ron breathed, "—that is the most amazing thing I have ever heard."
"Yes, Ronald," Sam said warmly.
The commentary continued. The countdown to the start of the Task ticked down. At the thirty-second mark, the enormous projection-screen in the air above the water resolved. The shimmer became a clear, sharp, magically-rendered six-panel image, with each panel showing live underwater feed of one of the six Champions.
Around each sleeping Champion, in the water above their starting position, hung the jellyfish-form projection device—a pale luminescent translucent creature with a gentle pulsing motion of a jellyfish-like object that had been designed to broadcast magical images.
Then came mechanical gong.
Bagman's voice rang out: "Champions! Begin!"
In all six panels of the enormous floating screen, the six sleeping Champions stirred.
They opened their eyes.
The Second Task had begun.