Time passed day by day, and in the blink of an eye, it was November 24th.
Over these past twenty-some days, Harry had not only been fighting for survival in the hands of Norbert but had also been training hard on the Accio charm.
From initially being unable to summon even a single feather, to later being able to accurately summon his firebolt into his hand from dozens of meters away, Harry had finally avoided Charlie's death sentence.
Early on the morning of the 24th, under the organization of the Professors and Prefects, the students excitedly surged toward the competition venue.
Meanwhile, Charlie and Harry followed behind Professor McGonagall, walking toward the dedicated passage for the champions.
Charlie had his hands in his pockets, his gait leisurely.
Harry also appeared calm on the surface; this period of training had given him enough confidence to dodge the Dragon.
On the contrary, Professor McGonagall looked anxious, walking much faster than usual.
She led the two of them through the Forbidden Forest and stopped in front of an entrance covered by a cloak.
Professor McGonagall turned around and placed her hand on Harry's shoulder.
"Potter, don't be nervous."
Harry nodded.
"I'm fine, Professor."
"We have arranged for specialized rescue Wizards; if things go wrong, someone will control the situation." Professor McGonagall's tone was filled with worry.
"You just need to do your best; no one will think you are any worse than the others."
Harry, who hadn't really been nervous before, felt a bit tense after Professor McGonagall said that.
Charlie raised an eyebrow beside them.
"Professor McGonagall, why don't you give me some advice too?"
Professor McGonagall glanced at him.
"To tell you not to tear the arena down?"
Charlie shrugged: "I will be careful."
"You had better remember those words." Professor McGonagall took a deep breath and lifted the cloak.
"Go in. Mr. Bagman is inside; he will tell you the specific details of the competition."
The two entered the tent.
The atmosphere inside the tent was stifling.
Krum stood in the corner, his brows furrowed tightly, his entire face as gloomy as if it were about to drip water.
Fleur sat on a stool, her face pale, her hands twisted together unnaturally.
Seeing Charlie enter, she managed to force a smile, but that smile was uglier than crying.
Bagman, on the other hand, was high-spirited, wearing a yellow Quidditch uniform, pacing back and forth in the tent, looking just like a bumblebee.
"Charlie! Harry! You're here!" Bagman strode over, clapping his hands.
"Great, everyone is here; we can begin!"
"Today's competition is very simple." Bagman cleared his throat, his voice resounding.
"Steal her Dragon egg from the Dragon's nest."
Harry's breathing hitched.
Fleur closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
Krum's expression became even uglier; he clenched his fists, his knuckles cracking.
They had just heard Bagman say it once, but hearing it again, they still felt this task was insanely ridiculous.
"Of course, for the sake of fairness." Bagman pulled a small purple bag from his pocket; the bag trembled slightly in his hand.
"You must choose the Dragon you will each face from inside."
He held up the bag, his smile even brighter.
"They are of different species, but they are all the same—very vicious."
Fleur's face turned even paler.
Bagman walked up to her and extended the bag.
"Ladies first."
Fleur stared at the bag, her eyes full of resistance.
She had never hated this phrase so much.
Fleur tremblingly reached out, hesitating for several seconds before putting her hand into the bag.
Fleur groped around for a while and finally pulled out a small model.
It was a miniature version of a Welsh Green Dragon, claws bared and fangs bared, with a number tag hanging around its neck—number 2.
"Welsh Green Dragon!" Bagman announced loudly.
"You are the second to go."
Fleur held the model, her fingers trembling slightly.
Bagman turned to Krum.
Krum, with a gloomy face, reached into the bag.
He pulled out a model of a Swedish Short-Snout Dragon, with a number 1 tag hanging around its neck.
"Oh. Our first champion has been born."
"His opponent is the Swedish Short-Snout Dragon!"
When it was Harry's turn, he took a deep breath and reached into the bag. There were only two Dragons left in the bag; he felt one of them, gripped it, and pulled it out.
Hungarian Horntail.
It had a number 3 tag hanging around its neck.
"Hungarian Horntail!" Bagman clapped.
"Third to go! Then Charlie..."
He handed the bag to Charlie.
There was only one Dragon left in the bag.
Charlie reached in and pulled out that model.
Chinese Fireball Dragon, number 4.
"Chinese Fireball Dragon, last to go!" Bagman put away the bag and nodded with satisfaction.
"Very good, the order is determined. Now, you still have plenty of preparation time to adjust your mindset."
Bagman clapped his hands, his smile becoming even brighter.
"Alright, I must go and provide commentary for the audience." He walked toward the door, then turned around halfway.
"By the way, Krum, when you hear the whistle outside, go out through the front of the tent."
Krum nodded expressionlessly.
Bagman waved his hand and ducked out of the tent, leaving the four of them in a deathly silence.
Harry looked at the Hungarian Horntail model in his hand; the little Dragon was baring its fangs and brandishing its claws in his palm, spitting out wisps of sparks.
His palms were already sweating, and the model was slimy.
Charlie glanced at him, his tone relaxed.
"Don't worry, it's just a magnified version of Norbert."
Harry looked up sharply, his eyes conveying only one message: Are you kidding me?
"Thanks for the comfort." Harry said through gritted teeth.
"I really don't have to worry at all now. Norbert was hard enough to deal with, and this is a magnified version."
He remembered the miserable state of being chased all over the field by Norbert, and his back still ached faintly.
Charlie patted Harry's shoulder, not putting any more pressure on him.
But after such intensive training for you, if you still don't get second place.
Then don't blame me for putting heavy pressure on you after the competition ends.
Fleur and Krum had no intention of listening to what they were saying.
Fleur gripped the Welsh Green Dragon model tightly, her lips pressed into a thin line, her face frighteningly pale.
Krum stood in the corner, head bowed, his whole person shrouded in shadow.
Time passed minute by minute.
Outside the tent came the cheers and clamor of the audience, like waves hitting rocks, one wave higher than the next.
Finally, a sharp whistle pierced the air.
Krum took a deep breath, raised his head, and walked with heavy steps toward the tent exit, lifted the curtain, and his figure disappeared into the blinding sunlight.
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