ly into the silence, and
they stopped fairly quickly. Everyone else seemed too transfixed by Moody's
bizarre appearance to do more than stare at him.
"Moody?" Harry muttered to Ron. "Mad-Eye Moody? The one your dad went to
help this morning?"
"Must be," said Ron in a low, awed voice.
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"What happened to him?" Hermione whispered. "What happened to his face?"
"Dunno," Ron whispered back, watching Moody with fascination.
Moody seemed totally indifferent to his less-than-warm welcome. Ignoring the jug
of pumpkin juice in front of him, he reached again into his traveling cloak, pulled
out a hip flask, and took a long draught from it. As he lifted his arm to drink, his
cloak was pulled a few inches from the ground, and Harry saw, below the table,
several inches of carved wooden leg, ending in a clawed foot.
Dumbledore cleared his throat.
"As I was saying," he said, smiling at the sea of students before him, all of whom
were still gazing transfixed at Mad-Eye Moody, "we are to have the honor of
hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been
held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the
Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year."
"You're JOKING!" said Fred Weasley loudly.
The tension that had filled the Hall ever since Moody's arrival suddenly broke.
Nearly everyone laughed, and Dumbledore chuckled appreciatively.
"I am not joking, Mr. Weasley," he said, "though now that you mention it, I did
hear an excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun who
all go into a bar.
Professor McGonagall cleared her throat loudly.
"Er - but maybe this is not the time.. . no. . ." said Dumbledore, "where was I? Ah
yes, the Triwizard Tournament. . . well, some of you will not know what this
tournament involves, so I hope those who do know will forgive me for giving a
short explanation, and allow their attention to wander freely.
"The Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago as
a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of wizardry:
Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion was selected to represent
each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The
schools took it in turns to host the tournament once every five years, and it was
generally agreed to be a most excellent way of establishing ties between young
witches and wizards of different nationalities - until, that is, the death toll mounted
so high that the tournament was discontinued."
"Death toll?" Hermione whispered, looking alarmed. But her anxiety did not seem
to be shared by the majority of students in the Hall; many of them were
whispering excitedly to one another, and Harry himself was far more interested in
hearing about the tournament than in worrying about deaths that had happened
hundreds of years ago.
"There have been several attempts over the centuries to reinstate the tournament,"
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Dumbledore continued, "none of which has been very successful. However, our
own departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and
Sports have decided the time is ripe for another attempt. We have worked hard
over the summer to ensure that this time, no champion will find himself or herself
in mortal danger.
"The heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving with their short-listed
contenders in October, and the selection of the three champions will take place at
Halloween. An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to
compete for the Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand Galleons
personal prize money."
"I'm going for it!" Fred Weasley hissed down the table, his face lit with
enthusiasm at the prospect of such glory and riches. He was not the only person
who seemed to be visualizing himself as the Hogwarts champion. At every House
table, Harry could see people either gazing raptly at Dumbledore, or else
whispering fervently to their neighbors. But then Dumbledore spoke again, and the
Hall quieted once more.
"Eager though I know all of you will be to bring the Triwizard Cup to Hogwarts,"
he said, "the heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic,
have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year. Only students
who are of age - that is to say, seventeen years or older - will be allowed to put
forward their names for consideration. This" -- Dumbledore raised his voice
slightly, for several people had made noises of outrage at these words, and the
Weasley twins were suddenly looking furious - "is a measure we feel is necessary,
given that the tournament tasks will still be difficult and dangerous, whatever
precautions we take, and it is highly unlikely that students below sixth and seventh
year will be able to cope with them. I will personally be ensuring that no underage
student hoodwinks our impartial judge into making them Hog-warts champion."
His light blue eyes twinkled as they flickered over Fred's and George's mutinous
faces. "I therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are
under seventeen.
"The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October
and remaining with us for the greater part of this year. I know that you will all
extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they are with us, and will give
your whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected.
And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested
as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!"
Dumbledore sat down again and turned to talk to Mad-Eye Moody. There was a
great scraping and banging as all the students got to their feet and swarmed toward
the double doors into the entrance hall.
"They can't do that!" said George Weasley, who had not joined the crowd moving
toward the door, but was standing up and glaring at Dumbledore. "We're
seventeen in April, why can't we have a shot?"
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"They're not stopping me entering," said Fred stubbornly, also scowling at the top
table. "The champions'll get to do all sorts of stuff you'd never be allowed to do
normally. And a thousand Galleons prize money!"
"Yeah," said Ron, a faraway look on his face. "Yeah, a thousand Galleons. . ."
"Come on," said Hermione, "we'll be the only ones left here if you don't move."
Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, and George set off for the entrance hall, Fred and
George debating the ways in which Dumbledore might stop those who were under
seventeen from entering the tournament.
"Who's this impartial judge who's going to decide who the champions are?" said
Harry.
"Dunno," said Fred, "but it's them we'll have to fool. I reckon a couple of drops of
Aging Potion might do it, George.. ."
"Dumbledore knows you're not of age, though," said Ron.
"Yeah, but he's not the one who decides who the champion is, is he?" said Fred
shrewdly. "Sounds to me like once this judge knows who wants to enter, he'll
choose the best from each school and never mind how old they are. Dumbledore's
trying to stop us giving our names."
"People have died, though!" said Hermione in a worried voice as they walked
through a door concealed behind a tapestry and started up another, narrower
staircase.
"Yeah," said Fred airily, "but that was years ago, wasn't it? Anyway, where's the
fun without a bit of risk? Hey, Ron, what if we find out how to get 'round
Dumbledore? Fancy entering?"
"What d'you reckon?" Ron asked Harry. "Be cool to enter, wouldn't it? But I
s'pose they might want someone older.... Dunno if we've learned enough.. .
"I definitely haven't," came Nevihle's gloomy voice from behind Fred and George.
"I expect my gran'd want me to try, though. She's always going on about how I
should be upholding the family honor. I'll just have to -- oops. . ."
Neville's foot had sunk right through a step halfway up the staircase. There were
many of these trick stairs at Hogwarts; it was second nature to most of the older
students to jump this particular step, but Neville's memory was notoriously poor.
Harry and Ron seized him under the armpits and pulled him out, while a suit of
armor at the top of the stairs creaked and clanked, laughing wheezily.
"Shut it, you," said Ron, banging down its visor as they passed. They made their
way up to the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, which was concealed behind a large
portrait of a fat lady in a pink silk dress.
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"Password?" she said as they approached.
"Balderdash," said George, "a prefect downstairs told me."
The portrait swung forward to reveal a hole in the wall through which they all
climbed. A crackling fire warmed the circular common room, which was full of
squashy armchairs and tables. Hermione cast the merrily dancing flames a dark
look, and Harry distinctly heard her mutter "Slave labor" before bidding them
good night and disappearing through the doorway to the girls' dormitory.
Harry, Ron, and Neville climbed up the last, spiral staircase until they reached
their own dormitory, which was situated at the top of the tower. Five four-poster
beds with deep crimson hangings stood against the walls, each with its owner's
trunk at the foot. Dean and Seamus were already getting into bed; Seamus had
pinned his Ireland rosette to his headboard, and Dean had tacked up a poster of
Viktor Krum over his bedside table. His old poster of the West Ham football team
was pinned right next to it.
"Mental," Ron sighed, shaking his head at the completely stationary soccer
players.
Harry, Ron, and Neville got into their pajamas and into bed. Someone - a houseelf,
no doubt - had placed warming pans between the sheets. It was extremely
comfortable, lying there in bed and listening to the storm raging outside.
"I might go in for it, you know," Ron said sleepily through the darkness, "if Fred
and George find ou