On November 24th, the first task of the Triwizard Tournament officially began.
During this time, Hermione had tried to probe several times with indirect questions.
But Lia always managed to easily divert the topic with acting cute and being affectionate.
She was still that clingy little kitten; everything that happened in the library that day seemed like a hallucination.
The Quidditch Pitch at Hogwarts had been completely transformed; the flat lawn had disappeared, replaced by a massive rocky arena crisscrossed with ravines.
The surrounding high stands were packed to capacity, filled with the cheers and whistles of tens of thousands of spectators, along with the sharp noises emitted by various magical items.
Inside the tent backstage, however, the atmosphere was the polar opposite of the frenzy outside.
Harry could clearly hear the mountain-shaking waves of sound from outside, and even more clearly, he could hear his own heart beating like a drum in his chest.
His palms were slick with cold sweat, and he repeatedly fingered the wand hidden beneath his robes.
At the other end of the tent, Fleur Delacour also seemed restless, constantly smoothing her long silver hair.
Viktor Krum sat in a corner with a dark expression, eyes closed to rest, radiating an aura that warned others not to approach.
Only Cedric Diggory looked somewhat composed; leaning against a tent pole, he even gave Harry a slightly forced, encouraging smile.
The tent flap was lifted, and Ludo Bagman hopped inside cheerfully.
He held a fancy purple velvet pouch, a brilliant smile on his face that felt completely out of place with the atmosphere.
"Champions, it's time to draw! Ladies first!"
Fleur took a deep breath and reached into the bag with a trembling hand.
What she pulled out was a lifelike miniature model—a bright green Welsh Green Dragon, with a delicate number '2' hanging around its neck.
"Mr. Diggory!" Bagman presented the bag to Cedric.
Cedric reached in and quickly pulled out his opponent.
It was a Swedish Short-Snout; its silvery-blue scales shimmered under the magical lights of the tent, with the number '1' around its neck.
Next was Krum.
He snatched a model from the bag—a Chinese Fireball covered in smooth red scales, numbered '3'.
Only one remained in the bag.
There was no longer any need to draw.
Harry felt his throat go dry as he reached in; what he touched was cold and hard.
He pulled out a jet-black Dragon, its tail covered in terrifying spikes.
The number hanging around the small model's neck was '4'.
The Hungarian Horntail.
Even the smile on Bagman's face stiffened for a moment. "Oh... the most dangerous one."
The cheers outside the tent suddenly surged, and a clear name echoed through the sky: "Cedric Diggory!"
Cedric gave Harry one last look, nodded, and then resolutely walked out of the tent.
Harry sat alone in the corner, feeling as though his blood was about to freeze.
High up in the stands, Lia stood beside Hermione, quietly scanning the arena.
Her cat ears twitched restlessly back and forth, filtering useful information from the maddeningly noisy environment.
She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, the entire world had changed in her vision.
The rowdy stands were no longer just a mass of heads, but a vast halo of magic woven from excitement, anticipation, tension, and schadenfreude—multicolored, brilliant, yet murky.
And in the center of the field, the Swedish Short-Snout, secured by over a dozen thick iron chains, was a source of energy so massive it was suffocating.
It was a mass of burning, flowing fire.
Vast vitality and violent, primal magic surged within its massive body, forming a dazzling golden-red vortex.
Lia could even "see" its soul.
She leaned toward Hermione's ear and whispered in a voice only the two of them could hear: "That Dragon... its soul smells like a scorched sun. Very irritable, but... not evil. It's just protecting its children."
Hermione gave her a surprised look, not quite understanding the metaphor of a "scorched sun," but she nodded nonetheless.
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