Time always seems to slip away in the midst of laughter.
As the hourglass trickled down to its final moments, the competition field had turned into a spectacle of fantasy.
Ice flowers bloomed across the entire arena, while two-foot-high Whomping Willows swayed gently. Tiny fairies flitted about in shimmering clusters, and Puffskeins rolled around like little balls of fur. Even the miniature wizard dolls that had wandered out of the castle earlier were now zipping through the air on tiny broomsticks, engaged in an impromptu Quidditch match.
It was as if a fairy tale had come to life, offering the wizarding spectators an unexpected visual feast.
"Clang!"
The last grains of sand slipped through the hourglass, and a crisp bell chime resonated across the sky.
"The first task is over!"
Ludo Bagman's voice rang out once more, followed by a round of applause.
The enthusiasm wasn't as wild as at the beginning, but the applause carried a sincerity that made up for its restraint. Many in the audience even stood up instinctively, offering a silent gesture of respect as the champions exited the stage.
At the announcement, Ino Swinburne rose from his high-backed chair. He turned toward the stands, raising a hand in acknowledgment to the crowd, his expression calm yet appreciative.
But just as he turned, an unexpected crisis unfolded.
The supposedly subdued Norwegian Ridgeback suddenly erupted into motion. With a deafening roar, the sixty-foot-long dragon lunged forward in a desperate, final act of defiance.
Gasps rippled through the stands. Even the seasoned professors in the VIP box, as well as the dragon handlers stationed outside, were caught off guard by the sudden attack.
"Watch out! Behind you—!"
Bagman, acting as both commentator and judge, tried to shout a warning. But midway through his sentence, his voice cut off abruptly—as if strangled by invisible hands.
On the field, something even larger than the dragon had intervened.
A monstrous serpent, a full seventy feet long, had coiled itself around the Ridgeback in an instant.
The creature was no ordinary snake. Its gaping maw, lined with four to six rows of curved, barbed fangs, opened wide in a silent yet chilling threat. Unlike normal snakes, this one had evolved for absolute dominance.
Faced with this terrifying opponent, the Norwegian Ridgeback, which had moments ago been on the verge of attacking, froze. Its defiance crumbled, its head sinking in submission.
Ino never turned around.
Though his posture was casual, he had been prepared for this exact scenario. The fire dragon had seemed too passive throughout the task, and he had anticipated a sudden outburst.
And it had delivered—just in time to give his modified serpent the perfect moment to strike.
With a flick of his wand, Ino gently stilled the falling snowflakes. Behind him, the enormous serpent remained locked in place, its fangs dangerously close to the dragon's exposed throat.
Up in the stands, a young wizard named Colin Creevey was experiencing the busiest moment of his life.
With one hand, he expertly held up his magical film recorder, keeping the frame perfectly steady. With the other, he frantically clicked away with his camera, adjusting focus and snapping pictures at an almost comical speed.
It was an absurd but perfectly synchronized kind of chaos.
Once the dragon handlers had moved in to secure the stunned Norwegian Ridgeback, a team of wizards cleared away the ice and snow from the arena.
After all, the Triwizard Tournament prided itself on being absolutely fair and just.
A few minutes later, Ludo Bagman stood up in the VIP section, his voice carrying across the stadium:
"The judges have finalized their scores... Representing Hogwarts, Ino Swinburne scores—a perfect fifty points!"
The cheers that followed were louder than before, filled with excitement rather than mere formality.
Amid the applause, Ino slipped away from the arena. As he passed the entrance tent, he crossed paths with Harry Potter.
"Good luck," Ino said with a small smile. "You're the courage of Hogwarts too."
Harry, his face tight with nervousness, nodded quickly. "Thanks."
Then, squaring his shoulders, he strode out onto the field.
The Hungarian Horntail loomed before him.
At nearly sixty-five feet long, its back bristled with jagged black spines, giving it a fearsome appearance similar to the Norwegian Ridgeback.
But the real difference lay in its tail.
Thick and powerful, the Horntail's tail was covered in razor-sharp, bony spikes, resembling a medieval flail. Even while restrained, it was lashing out, hammering the ground with heavy thuds, sending vibrations through the stadium.
Each crack of its tail made Harry's stomach tighten.
Moody had drilled spells into him, but now, standing before the monstrous dragon, he couldn't help but wonder—would they even work?
In the VIP section, Madame Maxime and Igor Karkaroff visibly relaxed upon seeing Harry's expression.
Neither of them wanted Hogwarts to dominate the competition. An extra champion meant a forced redistribution of points. If Harry failed spectacularly, it would help balance the scoreboard.
Down by the edge of the arena, Professor McGonagall had already drawn her wand, her fingers tense around the handle.
She wasn't doubting the dragon handlers' expertise—she was doubting Harry's survival skills.
A boy who was barely fifteen.
Who daydreamed in class, copied his homework, and was now facing a fully grown Hungarian Horntail?
This wasn't a competition.
This was a death sentence.
The final grains of sand fell into place.
Bagman raised his wand.
"The champion is ready! Begin!"
The enchantments restraining the Horntail snapped open.
The dragon reared up, unleashing a terrifying roar.
Harry whipped up his wand instantly—
"Obscuro Nebula! Protego Maxima!"
Two spells, cast in quick succession.
Up in the stands, McGonagall let out a small breath of relief. Across the arena, even Severus Snape seemed to relax slightly.
Against such an unstoppable opponent, concealment and defense were the only logical choices.
Obscuro Nebula, a fog-conjuring spell, was a brilliant move in an enclosed arena.
Wisps of gray mist curled through the air like sentient tendrils, thickening rapidly, moving as if alive. They slithered forward, expanding into a dense fog, coiling like phantom serpents across the field.
Inside the champions' tent, Harry had considered many different tactics. But standing before the real Hungarian Horntail, he knew Moody's advice had been right.
Blind the dragon. Stay on the move. Dodge until an opportunity presents itself.
Any thoughts of fighting head-on?
Gone.