His mother's letter arrived on the Saturday morning of the first week, carried by the family owl with the specific urgency of something sent quickly rather than composed carefully.
He read it at the breakfast table.
Ron — Charlie has been asked to assist with the Tournament. He's going to Romania first to collect, then directly to Hogwarts, arriving the second week of November. He wouldn't tell me what for specifically but you know Charlie. Whatever it is, it's large and it breathes fire and I want you to be nowhere near it. Write back immediately and tell me you will be nowhere near it. — Mum
He folded the letter and put it in his pocket.
Dragons, then. As expected. The Romanian Short-Snout was Charlie's specialty, but the Tournament required variety — three species, one for each champion, selected for the combination of danger and spectacle that the Tournament had always understood were not separate considerations. The Hungarian Horntail would be among them. Possibly a Common Welsh Green. Charlie would know.
He wrote back that evening.
Mum — I will be nowhere near it. Harry, on the other hand, will need to be. I'm working on that. Don't worry. — Ron
He sent it with Mira and went to find Harry.
Harry was in the common room, which was where Harry was when he wasn't somewhere else, occupying the armchair by the fire with the quality of someone who had been sitting still and thinking and had arrived at the point where the thinking had outpaced what sitting still could contain.
'Dragons,' Ron said, sitting down across from him.
Harry looked up. Something settled in his expression — the specific quality of someone who had been bracing for a shape of information and had just had the shape confirmed. 'How certain?'
'Charlie's been asked to assist. Romania first, then here.' Ron looked at him. 'We already knew it was likely. Now we know.'
Harry was quiet for a moment. The fire did its work. 'One each,' he said. 'For the champions.'
'Yes. And an egg in the nest — that's what they're retrieving. The dragon will be protecting it.' Ron paused. 'The approach we've been building is correct for this. Stealth first. Distraction second. The egg once the dragon's attention is elsewhere. We don't change the plan; we refine it now that we know what the plan is for.'
Harry looked at the fire. 'Okay,' he said. Then: 'Ron.'
'Yes.'
'Thank you. For — all of it. Since the train. Since before the train.'
Ron looked at him. Harry had the expression he had when he was saying something he had been carrying for a while and had decided the carrying had gone on long enough. It was the expression of someone who understood, without requiring it to be explained, that the preparation had not been impersonal — that there was a specific human reason behind every hour in the Room of Requirements, every footwork drill, every non-verbal casting session that had ended with all of them too tired to speak.
'You're my best friend,' Ron said. 'This is what that means.'
Harry nodded once. He looked back at the fire.
They sat there for a while in the comfortable silence of people who had said what needed saying and were satisfied with having said it.