"The Antipodean Opaleye isn't highly aggressive. Unless it's starving, it rarely kills for the sake of it. Its favorite food is sheep, though it occasionally hunts larger animals. If you're going to use Transfiguration to create a decoy, a sheep is your best bet."
"The Chinese Fireball is naturally combative, but it's much more tolerant of its own kind than other dragons. They're willing to share territory. If you encounter one during the task, stay as far away as possible—you never know how many other dragons are sharing that specific patch of land."
"The Norwegian Ridgeback is incredibly aggressive, and both its fangs and spikes are venomous. You absolutely have to avoid close-quarters combat with them."
"..."
Hermione rattled off the notes she had compiled from their massive stack of books. "Even though we don't know the exact objective of the task, the professors obviously aren't going to make us fight the dragons head-on. Memorizing their habits will give us a bit of breathing room when we're actually in the arena."
"I don't think that's very helpful," Harry groaned, slumping over the table. "Stay far away and avoid close-quarters combat—that advice applies to literally every single dragon."
The bell for the end of Muggle Studies had already rung. They had no other classes today, and as champions, they didn't have to worry about homework or upcoming exams. They had all the time in the world to sit there and flip through the heavy tomes they'd hauled from the library.
The classroom emptied out as Professor Levent and the other students filed out. Sitting by the window, Harry looked past the towering stacks of books, gazing out toward the distant mountains.
He was far enough away that the sounds of the dragon enclosure shouldn't have reached him, but he could still swear he heard faint, rumbling roars.
"Are you two... heading back to the common room?" Ron walked slowly up the aisle from the back of the class.
Harry felt a sudden surge of relief, though he kept his face completely neutral. "Not yet. We need to figure out how to survive a dragon attack on Thursday."
He guessed Ron's silent treatment had run its course. The best way to handle it was to act like it had never happened. It was the same strategy he used at the Dursleys'—they'd have a massive fight, he'd inflate Aunt Marge like a balloon, and the next time they saw each other, no one would bring it up.
Some powder kegs just naturally diffused if you left them alone long enough.
"Dragons! Your first task is dragons?!"
"Yeah. Twelve different breeds," Harry sighed heavily. "Hagrid snuck us out to see them last night. I almost got my face melted off by a Norwegian Ridgeback."
"No wonder Charlie said we'd be seeing him soon before term started!"
Ron's eyes went wide with shock. "The headmasters and professors must have completely lost their minds. Throwing dragons at you for the first task? Are they trying to break the Triwizard death record?"
He started pacing frantically up and down the aisle, looking more panicked than the actual champions. His grudge was entirely forgotten. "No... I have to go find Charlie. His dragon-keeping journals will definitely have something useful. Wait here, I'll go find him right now!"
Ron bolted for the door, but before he could even break into a run, he slammed headfirst into Mad-Eye Moody, who was leaning heavily on his walking stick.
"Watch where you're going, boy! Constant vigilance!" the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor growled, flashing a terrifying, scarred grin.
Meanwhile, the target of their complaints—the architect of these insane rules, Melvin—was currently in the hospital wing, inspecting the school's stockpile of flu medicine.
The hospital wing's dispensary was modeled after St. Mungo's. The hardwood cabinets, carved with crossed wands and bones, were brightly lit and lined with an endless array of vials and bottles. A small fraction of the potions were brewed by Madam Pomfrey and Professor Snape, but the vast majority were the handiwork of N.E.W.T.-level Potions students.
Headmaster Fontaine stood in front of a glass cabinet. He popped the cork off a student-brewed potion and brought it to his nose, judging its quality by the smell.
"So, you decided to buy from the hospital wing after all?" Melvin asked, leaning against the doorframe.
Fontaine recorked the bottle and put it back, looking mildly surprised. "If it isn't Hogwarts' very own Professor Levent. I thought you'd completely abandoned Ilvermorny by now."
"You sound like a jilted lover in a Shakespeare play."
Melvin ignored the sarcasm and pulled up a chair. "Have you heard? The tournament hasn't even started yet, and Mr. Bagman is already running a betting pool on the outcome."
"Of course I've heard. I even placed a few bets myself," Fontaine said. "Durmstrang's Krum is the favorite to win, so his odds are the lowest. Then it's Cedric, Fleur, and Harry. Pickett is dead last. Looks like the Scottish wizards don't think much of Ilvermorny."
Fontaine was genuinely baffled by this. Even setting everything else aside, if you just looked at age and experience, Pickett was obviously stronger than a fourth-year like Harry. Yet Pickett had the worst odds of the bunch.
"You don't actually think the odds are based on skill, do you?"
Fontaine scratched his head. "Aren't they?"
"Last night, Madame Maxime and Headmaster Karkaroff both snuck into the Forbidden Forest and scouted out the first task. They know the champions are facing dragons. Right this second, they're locked in their ship and carriage, drilling their students on specialized spells to counter them. Meanwhile, you're in here leisurely shopping for cold medicine."
"???"
Fontaine froze, looking as if he'd just been struck by lightning.
Fleur stood in the center of the room, her cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and pride.
Madame Maxime had gathered her students to brainstorm strategies for dealing with dragons. The rest of the underage champions had drawn a blank. Only Fleur had come up with a viable plan: utilizing a Veela dance her grandmother had taught her. By tapping into the unique magic of her bloodline and channeling it through her specialized wand, she could temporarily hypnotize a dragon.
Despite the heavy, dark circles under her eyes, Madame Maxime couldn't hide her joy. "The Triwizard Tournament isn't a suicide mission. The organizing committee won't force you into a head-to-head duel with a dragon. You'll likely have to complete a specific objective. With Fleur's dance, you have a massive advantage."
She paused for emphasis. "During the task, you will form a team and build your strategy around Fleur. If we do this right, Beauxbatons will take the lead in the very first event."
"I will do my best, Madame Maxime," Fleur said, nodding firmly.
She looked around at her fellow champions. The hostility she had faced from them earlier was completely gone, replaced by genuine camaraderie. She could feel it—she was finally a true champion. A spark of pure joy ignited in her chest.
Inside the massive black ship moored on the lake.
After hours of repetitive drills, Krum finally lowered his wand. He looked down at the notes his headmaster had dug up. "The Conjunctivitis Curse. The only Dark magic spell that meets the requirements, can be mastered quickly, and is actually capable of piercing dragon scale to inflict real damage."
"How is the practice going?"
Karkaroff pushed open the cabin door and stepped inside. "There's no need to rush. At your age, the Conjunctivitis Curse is highly effective. And Durmstrang is the only school with the dark arts foundation necessary to pull it off. The champions from the other schools won't be able to learn this in time."
The other Durmstrang champions stopped their drills and gathered around, asking Karkaroff for advice on the trickier wand movements, making sure to throw in plenty of praise for their headmaster's brilliant foresight.
Inside the yellow school bus parked on the grounds.
Pickett, Nancy, Dawn, and the rest of the Ilvermorny champions had practically sprinted back from the castle the moment they received Headmaster Fontaine's urgent summons. They arrived breathless and sweating.
"Headmaster, what's the emergency?" Pickett asked, scratching his head. "I was right in the middle of auditing Hogwarts' Defense Against the Dark Arts class."
"Forget auditing! The first task of the Goblet of Fire is dragons! Start thinking of a plan, right now!"
"Huh!?"