“Because they hoodwinked a very powerful magical object!” said Moody. “It
would have needed an exceptionally strong Confundus Charm to bamboozle that
goblet into forgetting that only three schools compete in the tournament...
I'm guessing they submitted Potter's name under a fourth school, to make sure
he was the only one in his category...”
“You seem to have given this a great deal of thought, Moody,” said Karkaroff
coldly, “and a very ingenious theory it is—though of course, I heard you recently
got it into your head that one of your birthday presents contained a cunningly
disguised basilisk egg, and smashed it to pieces before realizing it was a carriage
clock. So you'll understand if we don't take you entirely seriously...”
“There are those who'll turn innocent occasions to their advantage,” Moody
retorted in a menacing voice. “It's my job to think the way Dark wizards do,
Karkaroff—as you ought to remember...
“Alastor!” said Dumbledore warningly. Harry wondered for a moment whom he
was speaking to, but then realized “Mad-Eye” could hardly be Moody's real first
name. Moody fell silent, though still surveying Karkaroff with satisfaction—Karkaroff's
face was burning.
“How this situation arose, we do not know,” said Dumbledore, speaking to
everyone gathered in the room. “It seems to me, however, that we have no choice
but to accept it. Both Cedric and Harry have been chosen to compete in the Tournament.
This, therefore, they will do...
“Ah, but Dumbly-dorr—”
“My dear Madame Maxime, if you have an alternative, I would be delighted
to hear it.”
Dumbledore waited, but Madame Maxime did not speak, she merely glared. She
wasn't the only one either. Snape looked furious; Karkaroff livid; Bagman, however,
looked rather excited.
“Well, shall we crack on, then?” he said, rubbing his hands together and
smiling around the room. “Got to give our champions their instructions, haven't
we? Barty, want to do the honors?”
Mr. Crouch seemed to come out of a deep reverie.
“Yes,” he said, “instructions. Yes... the first task...”
He moved forward into the firelight. Close up, Harry thought he looked ill.
There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and a thin, papery look about his wrinkled
skin that had not been there at the Quidditch World Cup.
“The first task is designed to test your daring,” he told Harry, Cedric,
Fleur, and Viktor, “so we are not going to be telling you what it is. Courage
in the face of the unknown is an important quality in a wizard... very important.
“The first task will take place on November the twenty-fourth, in front of
the other students and the panel of judges.
“The champions are not permitted to ask for or accept help of any kind from
their teachers to complete the tasks in the tournament. The champions will face
the first challenge armed only with their wands. They will receive information
about the second task when the first is over. Owing to the demanding and time-consuming
nature of the tournament, the champions are exempted from end-of-year tests.”
Mr. Crouch turned to look at Dumbledore.
“I think that's all, is it, Albus?”
“I think so,” said Dumbledore, who was looking at Mr. Crouch with mild concern.
“Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay at Hogwarts tonight, Barty?”
“No, Dumbledore, I must get back to the Ministry,” said Mr. Crouch. “It is
a very busy, very difficult time at the moment... I've left young Weatherby
in charge... Very enthusiastic... a little overenthusiastic, if truth be told...
“You'll come and have a drink before you go, at least?” said Dumbledore.
“Come on, Barry, I'm staying!” said Bagman brightly. “It's all happening
at Hogwarts now, you know, much more exciting here than at the office!”
“I think not, Ludo,” said Crouch with a touch of his old impatience.
“Professor Karkaroff—Madame Maxime—a nightcap?” said Dumbledore.
But Madame Maxime had already put her arm around Fleur's shoulders and was
leading her swiftly out of the room. Harry could hear them both talking very
fast in French as they went off into the Great Hall. Karkaroff beckoned to Krum,
and they, too, exited, though in silence.
“Harry, Cedric, I suggest you go up to bed,” said Dumbledore, smiling at
both of them. “I am sure Gryffindor and Hufflepuff are waiting to celebrate
with you, and it would be a shame to deprive them of this excellent excuse to
make a great deal of mess and noise.”
Harry glanced at Cedric, who nodded, and they left together.
The Great Hall was deserted now; the candles had burned low, giving the jagged
smiles of the pumpkins an eerie, flickering quality.
“So,” said Cedric, with a slight smile. “We're playing against each other
“I s'pose,” said Harry. He really couldn't think of anything to say. The
inside of his head seemed to be in complete disarray, as though his brain had
“So... tell me...” said Cedric as they reached the entrance hall, which was
now lit only by torches in the absence of the Goblet of Fire. “How did you get
your name in?”
“I didn't,” said Harry, staring up at him. “I didn't put it in. I was telling
“Ah... okay,” said Cedric. Harry could tell Cedric didn't believe him. “Well...
see you, then.”
Instead of going up the marble staircase, Cedric headed for a door to its
right. Harry stood listening to him going down the stone steps beyond it, then,
slowly, he started to climb the marble ones.
Was anyone except Ron and Hermione going to believe him, or would they all
think he'd put himself in for the tournament? Yet how could anyone think that,
when he was facing competitors who'd had three years' more magical education
than he had—when he was now facing tasks that not only sounded very dangerous,
but which were to be performed in front of hundreds of people? Yes, he'd thought
about it... he'd fantasized about it... but it had been a joke, really, an idle
sort of dream... he'd never really, seriously considered entering..
But someone else had considered it... someone else had wanted him in the
tournament, and had made sure he was entered. Why? To give him a treat? He didn't
think so, somehow...
To see him make a fool of himself? Well, they were likely to get their wish..
But to get him killed?
Was Moody just being his usual paranoid self? Couldn't someone have put Harry's
name in the goblet as a trick, a practical joke? Did anyone really want him
Harry was able to answer that at once. Yes, someone wanted him dead, someone
had wanted him dead ever since he had been a year old... Lord Voldemort. But
how could Voldemort have ensured that Harry's name got into the Goblet of Fire?
Voldemort was supposed to be far away, in some distant country, in hiding, alone...
feeble and powerless...
Yet in that dream he had had, just before he had awoken with his scar hurting,
Voldemort had not been alone... he had been talking to Wormtail... plotting
Harry got a shock to find himself facing the Fat Lady already. He had barely
noticed where his feet were carrying him. It was also a surprise to see that
she was not alone in her frame. The wizened witch who had flitted into her neighbor's
painting when he had joined the champions downstairs was now sitting smugly
beside the Fat Lady. She must have dashed through every picture lining seven
staircases to reach here before him. Both she and the Fat Lady were looking
down at him with the keenest interest.
“Well, well, well,” said the Fat Lady, “Violet's just told me everything.
Who's just been chosen as school champion, then?”
“Balderdash,” said Harry dully.
“It most certainly isn't!” said the pale witch indignantly.
“No, no, Vi, it's the password,” said the Fat Lady soothingly, and she swung
forward on her hinges to let Harry into the common room.
The blast of noise that met Harry's ears when the portrait opened almost
knocked him backward. Next thing he knew, he was being wrenched inside the common
room by about a dozen pairs of hands, and was facing the whole of Gryffindor
House, all of whom were screaming, applauding, and whistling.
“You should've told us you'd entered!” bellowed Fred; he looked half annoyed,
half deeply impressed.
“How did you do it without getting a beard? Brilliant!” roared George.
“I didn't,” Harry said. “I don't know how—”
But Angelina had now swooped down upon him; “Oh if it couldn't be me, at
least it's a Gryffindor—”
“You'll be able to pay back Diggory for that last Quidditch match, Harry!”
shrieked Katie Bell, another of the Gryffindor Chasers.
“We've got food, Harry, come and have some—”
“I'm not hungry, I had enough at the feast—”
But nobody wanted to hear that he wasn't hungry; nobody wanted to hear that
he hadn't put his name in the goblet; not one single person seemed to have noticed
that he wasn't at all in the mood to celebrate... Lee Jordan had unearthed a
Gryffindor banner from somewhere, and he insisted on draping it around Harry
like a cloak. Harry couldn't get away; whenever he tried to sidle over to the
staircase up to the dormitories, the crowd around him closed ranks, forcing
another butterbeer on him, stuffing crisps and peanuts into his hands... Everyone
wanted to know how he had done it, how he had tricked Dumbledore's Age Line
and managed to get his name into the goblet...
“I didn't,” he said, over and over again, “I don't know how it happened.”
But for all the notice anyone took, he might just as well not have answered
“I'm tired!” he bellowed finally, after nearly half an hour. “No, seriously,
George—I'm going to bed—”
He wanted more than anything to find Ron and Hermione, to find a bit of sanity,
but neither of them seemed to be in the common room. Insisting that he needed
to sleep, and almost flattening the little Creevey brothers as they attempted
to waylay him at the foot of the stairs, Harry managed to shake everyone off
and climb up to the dormitory as fast as he could.
To his great relief, he found Ron was lying on his bed in the otherwise empty
dormitory, still fully dressed. He looked up when Harry slammed the door behind
“Where've you been?” Harry said.
“Oh hello,” said Ron.
He was grinning, but it was a very odd, strained sort of grin. Harry suddenly
became aware that he was still wearing the scarlet Gryffindor banner that Lee
had tied around him. He hastened to take it off, but it was knotted very tightly.
Ron lay on the bed without moving, watching Harry struggle to remove it.
“So,” he said, when Harry had finally removed the banner and thrown it into
a corner. “Congratulations.”
“What d'you mean, congratulations?” said Harry, staring at Ron. There was
definitely something wrong with the way Ron was smiling: It was more like a
“Well... no one else got across the Age Line,” said Ron. “Not even Fred and
George. What did you use—the Invisibility Cloak?”
“The Invisibility Cloak wouldn't have got me over that line,” said Harry
“Oh right,” said Ron. “I thought you might've told me if it was the cloak...
because it would've covered both of us, wouldn't it? But you found another way,
“Listen,” said Harry, “I didn't put my name in that goblet. Someone else
must've done it.”
Ron raised his eyebrows.
“What would they do that for?”
“I dunno,” said Harry. He felt it would sound very melodramatic to say, “To
Ron's eyebrows rose so high that they were in danger of disappearing into
“It's okay, you know, you can tell me the truth,” he said. “If you don't
want everyone else to know, fine, but I don't know why you're bothering to lie,
you didn't get into trouble for it, did you? That friend of the Fat Lady's,
that Violet, she's already told us all Dumbledore's letting you enter. A thousand
Galleons prize money, eh? And you don't have to do end-of-year tests either...”
“I didn't put my name in that goblet!” said Harry, starting to feel angry.
“Yeah, okay,” said Ron, in exactly the same sceptical tone as Cedric. “Only
you said this morning you'd have done it last night, and no one would've seen
you... I'm not stupid, you know.”
“You're doing a really good impression of it,” Harry snapped.
“Yeah?” said Ron, and there was no trace of a grin, forced or otherwise,
on his face now. “You want to get to bed, Harry. I expect you'll need to be
up early tomorrow for a photo-call or something.”
He wrenched the hangings shut around his four-poster, leaving Harry standing
there by the door, staring at the dark red velvet curtains, now hiding one of
the few people he had been sure would believe him.
THE WEIGHING OF THE WANDS
When Harry woke up on Sunday morning, it took him a moment to remember why
he felt so miserable and worried. Then the memory of the previous night rolled
over him. He sat up and ripped back the curtains of his own four-poster, intending
to talk to Ron, to force Ron to believe him—only to find that Ron's bed was
empty; he had obviously gone down to breakfast.
Harry dressed and went down the spiral staircase into the common room. The
moment he appeared, the people who had already finished breakfast broke into
applause again. The prospect of going down into the Great Hall and facing the
rest of the Gryffindors, all treating him like some sort of hero, was not inviting;
it was that, however, or stay here and allow himself to be cornered by the Creevey
brothers, who were both beckoning frantically to him to join them. He walked
resolutely over to the portrait hole, pushed it open, climbed out of it, and
found himself face-to-face with Hermione.
“Hello,” she said, holding up a stack of toast, which she was carrying in
a napkin. “I brought you this... Want to go for a walk?”