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Krum moved in a low crouch through the pitch-black tunnel of the cave, not daring to light his wand. He relied only on the faint daylight leaking in from the entrance.
The dragon's lair was bigger than he'd expected—an enormous corridor where the steady whoosh of air sounded like heavy breathing.
The Durmstrang champions crept forward on silent feet, Krum in the lead.
Peregrine Derrick—the only outsider in the group—already regretted hitching his wagon to them.
He was Slytherin's Head Boy, a seventh-year about to graduate. He'd played starting Chaser on the Quidditch team, earned solid grades, and could beat most kids his age in duels.
He'd had good luck in the tournament selection too—passed Professor Flitwick's Charms challenge and got picked by the Goblet as Slytherin's champion. Everything had been going his way.
Joining the Durmstrang team had been Karkaroff's idea. The headmaster was an old acquaintance of Peregrine's family—both had been opportunists in the Death Eater ranks back in the day.
Karkaroff had gotten the task details early. A letter from home urged him to team up, Viktor Krum himself had personally recruited him, and Hogwarts' own champion group was stuck with two underclassman Gryffindors dragging them down.
Peregrine hadn't hesitated. He'd accepted Karkaroff's invitation and joined the Durmstrang crew.
But now, glancing back at the Hogwarts champions as he entered the cave, he saw only three of them left—standing there alone with zero shot at winning.
A deep snort echoed through the dark, enclosed space. The air itself seemed to vibrate. Every Durmstrang heart stuttered.
Was that the most dangerous magical creature in the wizarding world?
The dragon was still asleep—its snoring breaths steady, bright flames flickering at its nostrils and lighting up the dim cave.
Even Krum let out a slow breath, fighting down a surge of pure relief.
They communicated only with hand signals and glances—no one made a sound.
"Stick to the plan," Krum mouthed. "Grab the eggs and get them out first. We'll divide them outside."
No one argued. In this group, Krum was the undisputed leader.
"Let's see what we've got," Peregrine whispered.
Five eggs lay piled beneath the dragon's claws—sharp talons gleaming with cold metallic menace.
Krum whispered the Itching Charm under his breath.
He'd learned several spells that worked on dragons. The Conjunctivitis Curse was his ace in the hole—it could cripple one, but it would also enrage it. He'd save that for a last resort.
This wasn't life-or-death yet. No need to wake a sleeping dragon.
The dragon lifted a claw and scratched under its chin. Razor-sharp talons scraped across scales with a chilling screech, tiny sparks flying.
The champions didn't waste the moment. The second the claw rose, they darted in, snatched the eggs, and sprinted back down the tunnel.
They were completely out of the cave before the dragon simply rolled over, eyelids fluttering, and went back to sleep.
Outside, even though they'd been expecting it, their hearts still sank when they looked at the haul.
Just ordinary rainbow eggs.
Five in total: two orange, one green, one blue.
They were beautifully made—chocolate molded and coated with juice and frosting. If not for the wax seal, the dragon probably would've treated them like crunchy snacks.
"Must be a Chinese Fireball," one of the Durmstrang students muttered. "They're pretty chill and don't care much about human flesh. That's why it was so easy."
"Orange is twenty points, green forty, blue fifty…"
Durmstrang's Volkov stared at the eggs with a grim face. Five eggs, different values—no way to split them evenly.
Peregrine, the outsider, played it smart. "Viktor, you take the blue one."
"You lot divide the rest," Krum said flatly. "Once you're done, take your eggs and leave. I'm staying until I find a golden egg at least."
No black-and-white eggs. No golden egg. Not even the highest-scoring purple among the rainbows. If he left with these, his score would be middle-of-the-pack at best—maybe dead last.
He refused to settle for anything less than top marks.
The other Durmstrang students traded uneasy looks. The risk had been low and the reward matched it.
But they already had something. They'd cleared the minimum requirement and could head back to the tent and relax.
If they tried again, there was no guarantee they'd find another easy dragon.
After a long hesitation, Volkov spoke up. "Viktor, we'll stay and help."
"You'd just be dead weight. The best help you can give is leaving now." Krum switched to stiff English for Peregrine. "You take the blue one. Use Galleons to make it fair with the others. Deal?"
Peregrine blinked, then grinned. "Deal. Absolutely."
…
"Viktor Krum is still the same bossy Quidditch Seeker, demanding the whole team follow his orders…"
Rita Skeeter's Quick-Quotes Quill scratched busily across the parchment beside the judges' table. She and her photographer stood together, recording every move and adding her own colorful spin.
She passed the notes to the special consultant. Melvin simply shrugged—he had no comment.
"Krum made the right call," Karkaroff declared smoothly. "Numbers don't help against dragons. Staying would only slow him down. And letting Derrick buy the others out with Galleons makes sense—this is an individual competition. The rest have almost no chance of winning overall, so why not trade points for cash? One champion gets glory, the others get paid."
Headmaster Fontaine and Madame Maxime stayed quiet, eyes fixed on the action below.
…
Fleur Delacour, Roger Davies, and the rest of the Beauxbatons champions crouched behind a boulder, doing everything they could to stay hidden from the Welsh Green dragon.
This cave was different. A narrow skylight pierced the ceiling, letting in a weak shaft of daylight that fell across the dragon's body.
The nasty beast lay deep inside the cave. It was smaller than the others—sleek, quick, and covered in smooth, grass-green scales that blended almost perfectly with the moss on the walls.
The good news: Welsh Greens were relatively mild-mannered and usually avoided humans in the wild.
The bad news: five dull red eggs lay under its belly… and right in the middle, one gleaming golden egg.
The clue egg!
"Listen…" Fleur whispered, voice tight. "I'll go out first and draw its attention. I'll try to hypnotize it. You slip in, grab the eggs, and get out."
The others—including Roger—nodded hard.
Fleur clutched the hem of her robes, took a deep breath, and stepped out from behind the rock. She looked nothing like her usual confident self—pale, almost sickly.
She stopped barely fifteen feet from the dragon's razor-sharp teeth.
The Welsh Green was true to its reputation. When the witch appeared in its lair, it simply backed up a little and watched her.
Fleur rose onto her toes, arms open, and began a strange, rhythmic dance. Her silver hair swayed like ripples on a lake, carrying an eerie magic.
The dragon's vertical pupils slowly unfocused. Its nictitating membranes slid shut. It looked drowsy.
"Go, go, go!" Roger hissed.
The group darted forward and scooped up all six eggs.
As they passed Fleur, Roger handed her the golden one. She glanced at the dozing dragon, snatched it, and the six of them sprinted for the exit.
Crack.
Everyone froze at the sound of a dry twig snapping under Rosaline Tibbs's foot. They whipped around.
The Welsh Green's eyes snapped open—bright orange and locked directly on the golden egg in Fleur's hands.
"Run!"
Before the word finished leaving their mouths, scorching wind slammed into them. Blinding flames seared their eyes shut. The air reeked of sulfur and burning.
They felt weightless, bodies lifted and drifting. Shattered glass orbs tumbled from their pockets and shattered on the stone with bright, clear sounds.
The dragon fire never reached them. It felt more like they were being carried by a Levitation Charm.
"What… the hell?"
"No idea."
They opened their eyes. They weren't charred. They were floating in mid-air while a shimmering barrier held back the flames filling the cave.
Molten rock glowed on the walls. Thick smoke proved the tunnel had just been blasted by dragon fire.
"Beauxbatons champions and Hogwarts's Roger Davies—your glass orbs have been broken. Your task is over."
Romanian keepers in official uniforms stepped into the cave carrying glass lanterns filled with soft blue flames.
The Welsh Green's furious eyes softened the moment it saw the blue fire. It let the keepers stroke its head while they calmly escorted the "egg thieves" out.
…
"Beauxbatons has withdrawn completely… their scores are invalid!"
Karkaroff's smile was oily, his curled goatee twitching with glee. "Delacour's golden egg must be returned to the committee. They score zero for the first task!"
"That's not in the rules," Madame Maxime said calmly, her olive face serene, long lashes framing eyes that made argument impossible.
"She's right," Bagman chimed in, always happy to stir the pot. "They're just barred from continuing inside the enclosure, but the eggs they already took still count. Four red eggs and one golden—not exactly a banner performance for anyone except Fleur."
He turned to the committee advisor. "Melvin, what do you say?"
Only then did the people at the judges' table remember—the little glass orbs that had just saved the Beauxbatons team were Melvin's own creation. He'd engraved powerful Shield Charms inside them, strong enough to withstand dragon fire and triggered automatically.
"Melvin, do you have any more of those glass orbs? I'll buy them," Headmaster Fontaine asked, smoothly changing the subject.
Melvin shook his head. "Not ready for mass production yet."
Karkaroff's goatee twitched again—this time with anger. "Are we talking about glass orbs? We're discussing Beauxbatons's scores!"
"Easy, Igor…" Bagman slung an arm around his shoulders. Both were former Death Eaters who had flipped sides—old colleagues in a sense.
"Everyone on Beauxbatons except Fleur only got ten points. Your Durmstrang team has twenty. As long as Viktor grabs a golden egg, you'll finish ahead of them."
…
A cool breeze drifted in from the cave mouth, raising goosebumps on the Ilvermorny students' arms. With every step deeper into the tunnel, the distant, heavy breathing grew louder and more unsettling.
Nancy Boot tapped her wand to her eyes and peered ahead.
Ilvermorny's founder Isolt Sayre had two adopted sons—Chadwick Boot and Webster Boot. Nancy was a direct descendant of Chadwick. As a Native American witch, she had inherited some of the old local magics.
Her pale eyes shifted; the round pupils narrowed into vertical slits like a kneazle's, letting her see clearly in the gloom.
A dark-green dragon lay in the dim cave—medium-sized, covered in black-green scales and sporting two golden horns.
"Romanian Longhorn," Nancy reported, canceling the spell and relaying the information to team captain Pickett Graves.
They had visited the Romanian reserves, and after Headmaster Fontaine told them the task, they had studied this breed carefully.
Not aggressive when not hunting, but brutally vicious with prey. It liked to impale victims on its horns, roast them, and swallow them whole. There were even recorded cases of it eating humans.
"Medium-danger dragon," Nancy said. "Do we pull out, or…?"
She didn't finish. Pickett's eyes gave her the answer.
"Headmaster Fontaine already ran the numbers for us. The more dangerous the dragon, the bigger the reward. A medium-threat Longhorn is the perfect target for us."
Pickett led the way forward with the four other Ilvermorny champions close behind. They hadn't gone far when they spotted two gleaming horns.
An adult Longhorn had clearly just finished eating. It slowly opened its massive jaws, revealing razor teeth.
A cattle bone was still stuck between them, blood not yet licked clean.
The sight should have been horrifying. Instead, a spark of excitement flashed in Pickett's eyes.
"The Longhorn just ate… this is our chance!"