Everyone was freakishly quiet as the rain pelted at our windows.

Did I say everyone? I meant everyone but me.

“BORN TO BE WI–I –ILD!” I shouted.

“How did we become her friend?” Hermione muttered to the others.

“Well, Harry and I were friends with you two after the troll...What’s your excuse?” Ron said smartly.

“Err...” Hermione said looking at me as I twitched around on my chair and mumbled llama to myself.

“What about you Neville?” Harry said as Hermione failed to make an answer.

“She was...umm...Willow.” Neville said oddly. “There’s no other word for it to be honest.”

“True that.” Hermione – the girl who was named- said.

Oh my god.

Harry the boy who lived.

Hermione the girl who was named.

Ron the boy who was a ranga.

Neville the boy who called me Willow.

Willow the girl who likes llamas.

“SANITY IS OVERRATED!” I yelled as we jumped out of our carriage. We dashed up the steps too, looking up only when we were safely inside the Entrance Hall. I was the least wet out of my friends and felt very proud.

“I’m not completely drenched, it’s a miracle!” I said just before a large, red, water-filled balloon had dropped from out of the ceiling onto my head and exploded.

I staggered sideways into Harry and started shuddering. I swear that’s more ice than water.

A second water bomb dropped onto Ron, and a third narrowly missed Hermione. Skinny bitch missed water bombs.

It’s because I’m a llorse isn’t it.

People all around us shrieked – including Crabbe and Goyle which was amusing - and started pushing one another in their efforts to get out of the line of fire.

I looked up and saw, floating twenty feet above us Peeves the Poltergeist, a little man in a bell-covered hat and orange bow tie, his wide, malicious face contorted with concentration as he took aim again. 

“PEEVES!” yelled an angry voice. “Peeves, come down here at ONCE!” Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and head of Gryffindor House, had come dashing out of the Great Hall; she skidded on the wet floor and grabbed Hermione around the neck to stop herself from falling.  “Ouch - sorry, Miss Granger -” 

“That’s all right, Professor!” Hermione gasped, massaging her throat. 

“Peeves, get down here NOW!” barked Professor McGonagall, straightening her pointed hat and glaring upward through her square-rimmed spectacles. 

“YOU TELL HIM PROFEssor....” I quietened down as she shot me an incredibly stern look.

It was obvious what she was thinking.

Not five minutes here and I’m already annoying.

Not my fault I’m fishing.

That’s right, I’m fishing.

Go figure that one out.

“Not doing nothing!” cackled Peeves, lobbing a water bomb at several fifth-year girls, who screamed and dived into the Great Hall.

Bad grammar peeves.

“Already wet, aren’t they? Little squirts! Wheeeeeeeeee!” And he aimed another bomb at a group of second years who had just arrived. 

“I shall call the headmaster!” shouted Professor McGonagall. “I’m warning you, Peeves -” 

Peeves stuck out his tongue, threw the last of his water bombs into the air, and zoomed off up the marble staircase, cackling insanely. 

One of the water bombs hit me.

“THAT’S SHIT-“ McGonagall looked at me. “shitake mushrooms.” I corrected.

“Not five minutes here Willow-“ She started.

“and I’m already being myself!” I finished happily.

“Fantastic. Welcome to another year at Hogwarts with Willow, Minerva.” She muttered to herself. I started laughing and she realised I heard her. “Willow-“

I smiled creepily and Professor McGonagall stopped talking and looked at me weirdly.

No doubt I was a freak.

What?

Exactly.

“Well, move along, then!” said Professor McGonagall to the bedraggled crowd. “Into the Great Hall, come on!”  Harry, Ron, Hermione and I slipped and slid across the entrance hall and through the double doors on the right.

The Great Hall looked its usual splendid self, decorated for the start-of-term feast. Golden plates and goblets gleamed by the light of hundreds and hundreds of candles, floating over the tables in midair. The four long House tables were packed with chattering students; at the top of the Hall, the staff sat along one side of a fifth table, facing their pupils. It was much warmer in here. Harry, Ron, Hermione and I walked past the Slytherins, the Ravenclaws, and the Hufflepuffs, and sat down with the rest of the Gryffindors at the far side of the Hall, next to Nearly Headless Nick.

“Howdy Nick.” I said with a grin.

“Good evening, Willow!” he said, beaming at me.  “How are you?”

“I’m cold and wet!” I cheered.

“Well, you’re not dead, so you’re one up on me!” Nick replied happily.

“That’s so awkward! I don’t know what I’m meant to reply to that!” I said honestly.

“Say ‘yeah, I’m not dead’.”

“but that sounds so DOG!”

“Dog?”

“Like a llama, but in dog form.” I said matter-of-factly.

“You know Willow,” Hermione said to me thoughtfully. “You have the voice of someone who has brains, yet the context of what you say is retarded.”

“I like mushrooms.” I said nodding at her like she was crazy.

Like a Willow.

 “Hope they hurry up with the Sorting. I’m starving.” Harry and Ron said together.

Just then, a highly excited, breathless voice called down the table.  “Hiya, Harry!”  It was Colin Creevey, a third year to whom Harry was something of a hero.  I started laughing. How unusual.

“Hi, Colin,” said Harry warily. 

“Harry, guess what? Guess what, Harry? My brother’s starting! My brother Dennis!” 

“Er - good,” said Harry. 

“He’s really excited!” said Colin, practically bouncing up and down in his seat. “I just hope he’s in Gryffindor! Keep your fingers crossed, eh, Harry?” 

“Er - yeah, all right,” said Harry. He turned back to Hermione, Ron, Nearly Headless Nick and the laughing Willow.

I like that.

I shall refer to myself as the laughing Willow more often. Even if it is weird and third persony.

“Brothers and sisters usually go in the same Houses, don’t they?” he said.

 “Oh no, not necessarily,” said Hermione. “Parvati Patil’s twin’s in Ravenclaw, and they’re identical. You’d think they’d be together, wouldn’t you?”

“And then there are the people who aren’t related that are in the same house. Like you and me Hermione.” The laughing Willow said nodding wisely.

“You’re an idiot.” HAREMIONE sighed.

“But she was truthful!” Said Ron GRIZZLY.

Brain, stop it.

“Harry OTTER!” I shouted.

Damn.

“What? Did you call me an otter?” Harry said confused.

“No. I said DUMBLEDEER!” I screamed out. Heads swivelled in our direction.

BRAIN STOP IT!

It’s you not me.

Its Lucy isn’t it?

Yes.

“Where’s the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher?” said Hermione, who was looking up at the teachers. 

We had never yet had a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher who had lasted more than three terms. My favourite by far had been Professor Lupin, who also happened to be my Godfather, a werewolf, someone who befriends convicted murderers and had resigned last year.

I do this all the time. Explain things to myself like someone’s listening...

How freaky.

STOP READING MY THOUGHTS!

STOP IT!

STOP IT!

I shook my head from my thoughts and looked up and down the staff table. There was definitely no new face there. 

“Maybe they couldn’t get anyone!” said Hermione, looking anxious.

I scanned the table more carefully. Tiny little Professor Flitwick, the epic Charms teacher, was sitting on a large pile of cushions beside Professor Sprout, the Herbology teacher, whose hat was askew over her flyaway gray hair. She was talking to someone who I had seen before, but I couldn’t remember her name. On She-Who-Can’t-Be-Remembered-by-name’s other side was the sallow-faced, hook-nosed, greasy-haired Potions master, Snape.

He was probably my least favourite person at Hogwarts. I hated Snape and he hated me. It was either because I was a llama and he is animalist, or he didn’t like the fact that I told him to get laid.

Snape hated me more since Harry, Ron, Hermione and I helped Sirius escape right under Snape’s overlarge nose – Snape and Sirius had been enemies since their own school days. 

He’s such a Tangerine.

Wait. What’s worse than a tangerine?

AHA!

Severus Snape is – I’m pausing for dramatic effect – Eucalyptus scented Shampoo.

He obviously doesn’t use it because he has gross hair you could fry and egg on.

On Mr. No-Shampoo’s other side was an empty seat, which I guessed was Professor McGonagall’s. Next to it, and in the very centre of the table, sat Professor Dumbledore, the headmaster, his sweeping silver hair and beard shining in the candlelight, his magnificent deep green robes embroidered with many stars and moons. The tips of Dumbledore’s long, thin fingers were together and he was resting his chin upon them, staring up at the ceiling through his half-moon spectacles as though lost in thought.

Dumbledore’s fruit is....ummm...

What’s something nice?

DUMBLEDORE IS A CHOCOLATE COATED STRAWBERRY!

Or chocolate coated banana?

Damn, now I’m drawn between two.

“Oh hurry up,” Ron moaned, beside Harry. It was loud, so hardly a moan. “I could eat a hippogriff.”  The words were no sooner out of his mouth than the doors of the Great Hall opened and silence fell.

Professor McGonagall was leading a long line of first years up to the top of the Hall. If I was wet, it was nothing to how these first years looked.

They appeared to have swum across the lake rather than sailed, which in my opinion, would have been awesome.

Except for the fact that I can’t swim.

Though, I’m so awesome, the lake would let me walk on it.

I AM JESUS!

Sorry Christians, It’s true, I’m the second coming of Christ.

I THINK ABOUT  WEIRD STUFF!

As they stopped in front of everyone, Professor McGonagall placed a three-legged stool on the ground before the first years and, on top of it, an extremely old, dirty patched wizard’s hat.

I remember when I was sorted. I thought they were crazy.

I remember my exact words.

“Sure. If that’s what you want. You use that feral hat... You place it on that chair.”

I think I was born weird.

The first years stared at it. So did everyone else. For a moment, there was silence. Then a long tear near the brim opened wide like a mouth, and the hat broke into song, like a Willow, but It planned it’s words:

A thousand years or more ago, 

When I was newly sewn, 

There lived four wizards of renown, 

Whose names are still well known: 

Bold Gryffindor, from wild moor, 

Fair Ravenclaw, from glen, 

Sweet Hufflepuff, from valley broad, 

Shrewd Slytherin, from fin. 

How peculiar that their villages rhyme. I think he’s playing us.

They shared a wish, a hope, a dream,

 They hatched a daring plan 

To educate young sorcerers 

Thus Hogwarts School began. 

Now each of these four founders 

Formed their own house, for each 

Did value different virtues 

In the ones they had to teach. 

By Gryffindor, the bravest were 

Prized far beyond the rest; 

For Ravenclaw, the cleverest 

Would always be the best; 

For Hufflepuff, hard workers were

Most worthy of admission; 

And power-hungry Slytherin 

Loved those of great ambition. 

While still alive they did divide 

Their favourites from the throng,

Yet how to pick the worthy ones 

When they were dead and gone? 

‘Twas Gryffindor who found the way, 

He whipped me off his head 

The founders put some brains in me 

So I could choose instead! 

Now slip me snug about your ears,

I’ve never yet been wrong, 

I’ll have a look inside your mind 

And tell where you belong!

“Hey. Gryffindor was smart with the hat, take that Ravenclaw!” I muttered as the Great Hall rang with applause as the Sorting Hat finished. 

“That’s not the song it sang when it Sorted us,” said Harry, clapping along with everyone else. 

“Sings a different one every year,” said Ron. “It’s got to be a pretty boring life, hasn’t it, being a hat? I suppose it spends all year making up the next one.” 

So Ron is trying to imagine life as a hat.

And they said I was weird.

...

...

...

I am weird.

Professor McGonagall was unrolling a large scroll of parchment. 

“When I call out your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool,” she told the first years. “When the hat announces your House, you will go and sit at the appropriate table. 

“Ackerley, Stewart!” 

A boy walked forward, visibly trembling from head to foot, picked up the Sorting Hat, put it on, and sat down on the stool.

“RAVENCLAW!” shouted the hat. 

What a prick, not in Gryffindor.

Brainy dickhead.

Stewart Ackerley took off the hat and hurried into a seat at the Ravenclaw table, where everyone was applauding him.

“Baddock, Malcolm!” 

“SLYTHERIN!” 

Faggot.

“Branstone, Eleanor!”

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

Bitch.

“Cauldwell, Owen!” 

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

Slut.

“Creevey, Dennis!” 

Tiny Dennis Creevey staggered forward and I saw Hagrid as he sidled into the Hall through a door behind the teachers’ table. About twice as tall as a normal man, and at least three times as broad, Hagrid, with his long, wild, tangled black hair and beard, looked slightly alarming – a misleading impression, for I knew Hagrid to possess a very kind nature. He winked at us as he sat down at the end of the staff table and watched Dennis Creevey putting on the Sorting Hat.

The rip at the brim opened wide— “GRYFFINDOR!” the hat shouted. 

“YES!” I shouted as my table burst into applause. “you’re a legend! First Gryffindor sorted!”

Dennis Creevey, beaming widely, took off the hat, placed it back on the stool, and hurried over to join his brother.  

“Colin, I fell in!” he said shrilly, throwing himself into an empty seat. “It was brilliant! And something in the water grabbed me and pushed me back in the boat!” 

“Cool!” said Colin, just as excitedly. “It was probably the giant squid, Dennis!” 

“Wow!” said Dennis, as though nobody in their wildest dreams could hope for more than being thrown into a storm-tossed, fathoms-deep lake, and pushed out of it again by a giant sea monster. 

Okay, I don’t like you anymore! I WANT TO BE TOUCHED BY THE GIANT SQUID!

That sounds so wrong.

I will never mention this moment again.

“You love the giant squid.” Lucy said.

What a bitch.

She should have been shot at birth.

The Sorting continued; boys and girls with varying degrees of fright on their faces moving one by one to the three-legged stool, the line dwindling slowly as Professor McGonagall passed the L’s.

“Oh hurry up,” Ron moaned, massaging his stomach. 

“Now, Ron, the Sorting’s much more important than food,” said Nearly Headless Nick as “Madley, Laura!” became a Hufflepuff.  

“Course it is, if you’re dead,” snapped Ron. 

“I do hope this year’s batch of Gryffindors are up to scratch,” said Nearly Headless Nick, applauding as “McDonald, Natalie!” joined the Gryffindor table. “We don’t want to break our winning streak, do we?” 

“Nick you’re such a Lime. No wait, I like lime...” I said randomly.

“Who doesn’t like lime?” Hermione said as though that person would have to be sick in the head.

“People who don’t like lime.” I answered perfectly.

“I don’t know if the fact that it’s true, or the fact that you answered my Rhetorical question is more annoying.” Hermione said glaring at me.

“Is it RHE-torical? I thought it was LIT-orical. My life makes sense more sense now.” Harry said vaguely. I think our family has the retarded genes.

“Quirke, Orla!” 

“RAVENCLAW!” 

And finally, with “Whitby, Kevin!” (“HUFFLEPUFF!”), the Sorting ended.

Professor McGonagall picked up the hat and the stool and carried them away.

“About time,” said Ron, seizing his knife and fork and looking expectantly at his golden plate.  Professor Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. He was smiling around at everyone, his arms opened wide in welcome. I grinned up at him like a Willow. I have a feeling I looked like a creepy stalker, but I’m becoming one.

What?

“I have only two words to say to you,” Dumbledore told us, his deep voice echoing around the Hall. “Tuck in.” 

“I LOVE YOU SIR!” I shouted as the empty dishes filled magically before our eyes.

I wonder where the kitchens are...

 Nearly Headless Nick watched mournfully as we loaded our plates. 

“Aaah, ‘at’s be’er,” said Ron, with his mouth full of mashed potato.  

“You’re lucky there’s a feast at all tonight, you know,” said Nearly Headless Nick. “There was trouble in the kitchens earlier.” 

Ohh, where are they?

“Why? Wha’ ‘appened?” said Harry, through a sizable chunk of steak. 

“Peeves, of course,” said Nearly Headless Nick, shaking his head, which wobbled dangerously. He pulled his ruff a little higher up on his neck. “The usual argument, you know. He wanted to attend the feast - well, it’s quite out of the question, you know what he’s like, utterly uncivilized, can’t see a plate of food without throwing it. We held a ghost’s council - the Fat Friar was all for giving him the chance – but most wisely, in my opinion, the Bloody Baron put his foot down.” 

The Bloody Baron was the Slytherin ghost, a gaunt and silent specter covered in silver bloodstains. He was the only person at Hogwarts who could really control Peeves. 

“Yeah, we thought Peeves seemed hacked off about something,” said Ron darkly.  “So what did he do in the kitchens?” 

“Oh the usual,” said Nearly Headless Nick, shrugging. “Wreaked havoc and mayhem. Pots and pans everywhere. Place swimming in soup. Terrified the house-elves out of their wits—”

Clang. 

That was something weird to think.

Well, it was the noise Hermione’s goblet made as it fell over.

“There are house-elves here?” she said, staring, horror-struck, at Nearly Headless Nick. “Here at Hogwarts?” 

“Certainly,” said Nearly Headless Nick, looking surprised at her reaction. “The largest number in any dwelling in Britain, I believe. Over a hundred.”  

“I’ve never seen one!” said Hermione. 

“Well, they hardly ever leave the kitchen by day, do they?” said Nearly Headless Nick. “They come out at night to do a bit of cleaning… see to the fires and so on… I mean, you’re not supposed to see them, are you? That’s the mark of a good house-elf, isn’t it, that you don’t know it’s there?” 

Hermione stared at him.  “But they get paid?” she said. “They get holidays, don’t they? And - and sick leave, and pensions, and everything?” 

Nearly Headless Nick chortled so much that his ruff slipped and his head flopped off, dangling on the inch or so of ghostly skin and muscle that still attached it to his neck.

“Sick leave and pensions?” he said, pushing his head back onto his shoulders and securing it once more with his ruff. “House-elves don’t want sick leave and pensions!” 

Hermione looked down at her hardly touched plate of food, then put her knife and fork down upon it and pushed it away from her. 

“Oh c’mon, ‘Er-my-knee,” said Ron, accidentally spraying Harry with bits of Yorkshire pudding. “Oops — sorry, ‘Arry —” He swallowed. “You won’t get them sick leave by starving yourself!” 

“Slave labour,” said Hermione, breathing hard through her nose. “That’s what made this dinner. Slave labour.”

“They enjoy their work!” I said stubbornly. “I mean, Dobby didn’t but look at the Malfoys, who could like them...”

“Prove that they like it!” Hermione snapped.

“Dobby liked to make me chocolate and we ate it together...” I looked at my three friends who looked rather sheepish. “I’ll stop making this awkward.” I said making it more awkward. “I'm such a lemon.”

Despite what we had said, Hermione refused to eat another bite.

The rain was still drumming heavily against the high, dark glass. Another clap of thunder shook the windows, and the stormy ceiling flashed, illuminating the golden plates as the remains of the first course vanished and were replaced, instantly, with puddings. 

“Treacle tart, Hermione!” said Ron, deliberately wafting its smell toward her. “Spotted dick, look!” I burst out laughing and disappeared under the table for a while in hysteria. My friends thought I meant because Ron was tormenting Hermione. It was actually because...he said spotted dick.

As desert finished, and I re-emerged, Albus Dumbledore got to his feet again.

The buzz of chatter filling the Hall ceased almost at once, so that only the howling wind and pounding rain could be heard. And then there was that random person who coughed. There’s always one.

“So!” said Dumbledore, smiling around at us. “Now that we are all fed and watered,”

“I’m a horse!” I muttered to Harry. “Oh my god! I’m a llorse!” I tried to cover up my excitement by shoving a fist in my mouth.

Sexy.

 “I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a few notices. Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle has this year been extended to include Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs. The full list comprises some four hundred and thirty-seven items, I believe, and can be viewed in Mr. Filch’s office, if anybody would like to check it.”   The corners of Dumbledore’s mouth twitched. He continued, “As ever, I would like to remind you all that the forest on the grounds is out-of-bounds to students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year.  It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year.” 

“What?” Harry gasped. I looked around at Fred and George, his fellow members of the Quidditch team. They were mouthing soundlessly at Dumbledore, apparently too appalled to speak. Dumbledore went on, “This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers’ time and energy - but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts -”

But at that moment, there was a deafening rumble of thunder and the doors of the Great Hall banged open.  A man stood in the doorway, leaning upon a long staff, shrouded in a black travelling cloak. Every head in the Great Hall swivelled toward the stranger, suddenly brightly illuminated by a fork of lightning that flashed across the ceiling.

He lowered his hood, shook out a long mane of grizzled, dark gray hair, then began to walk up toward the teachers’ table.  A dull clunk echoed through the Hall on his every other step. He reached the end of the top table, turned right, and limped heavily toward Dumbledore. Another flash of lightning crossed the ceiling.

Hermione gasped.  

The lightning had thrown the man’s face into sharp relief, and it was a face unlike any I had ever seen. It looked as though it had been carved out of weathered wood by someone who had only the vaguest idea of what human faces are supposed to look like, and was none too skilled with a chisel.

So let’s say I had a chisel and carved his face out.

Every inch of skin seemed to be scarred. The mouth looked like a diagonal gash, and a large chunk of the nose was missing. But it was the man’s eyes that made him frightening.   One of them was small, dark, and beady. The other was large, round as a coin, and a vivid, electric blue. The blue eye was moving ceaselessly, without blinking, and was rolling up, down, and from side to side, quite independently of the normal eye - and then it rolled right over, pointing into the back of the man’s head, so that all I could see was whiteness.   The stranger reached Dumbledore. He stretched out a hand that was as badly scarred as his face, and Dumbledore shook it, muttering words I couldn’t hear.

He seemed to be making some inquiry of the stranger, who shook his head unsmilingly and replied in an undertone. Dumbledore nodded and gestured the man to the empty seat on his right-hand side.   The stranger sat down, shook his mane of dark gray hair out of his face, pulled a plate of sausages toward him, raised it to what was left of his nose, and sniffed it. He then took a small knife out of his pocket, speared a sausage on the end of it, and began to eat. His normal eye was fixed upon the sausages, but the blue eye was still darting restlessly around in its socket, taking in the Hall and the students. 

“May I introduce our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher?” said Dumbledore brightly into the silence. “Professor Moody.” 

I started clapping, but It turned out that only Dumbledore, Hagrid and I clapped. It made me want to laugh because it was hopeless. 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.

Holy crap.

I’m a seer.

Too bad I canned Divination!

“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 travelling cloak, pulled out a hip flask, and took a long draught from it.

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 honour 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 George loudly.  The tension that had filled the Hall ever since Moody’s arrival suddenly broke. Nearly everyone laughed, and Dumbledore chuckled appreciatively. 

Just trying to diffuse the tension.

“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

“There have been several attempts over the centuries to reinstate the tournament,” 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, I could see people either gazing raptly at Dumbledore, or else whispering fervently to their neighbours.

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 Hogwarts 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?”  

Because if you die I will too.

“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, George and The laughing Willow 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 we 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?”

I glared at him, then Hermione caught me. Then she started giggling. Then I went a deep shade of red.

I said then too many times.

“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 Neville’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 honour. 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.

“I reckon you would kick arse.” I told Neville. “People would underestimate you, then you’d stun ‘em with your awesomeness.”

We made our way up to the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, which was concealed behind a large portrait of a fat lady in a pink silk dress. 

“Password?” she said as we approached. 

“Balderdash,” said George, “a prefect downstairs told me.” 

The portrait swung forward to reveal a hole in the wall through which we 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 I distinctly heard her mutter “Slave labour” before we bade the boys goodnight and chuffled off to bed.

Chuffled isn’t a word.

“If George enters, and dies, I’ll bring him back to life to kill him again.” I told Hermione.

"I can see you doing that." Hermione said pulling on her pajamas. There was a tone of bitchiness to her voice that I didn't like.

"I bet the house-elves brought up our clothes." I said. I hopped into bed and left her to dwell on that.

Please don't kill me in the morning.