Strictly speaking, Harry should have cast Silencio first, then used Expelliarmus.
That would've prevented Rita from snatching her wand back with wandless magic.
Experienced Animagi are perfectly capable of transforming without a wand. For them, wandless casting is often far easier than non-verbal casting.
Fortunately, Rita never expected Harry to suddenly attack her.
Before she could react, her mouth and legs were bound, and her wand was torn from her grasp.
The photographer beside her remained remarkably professional—he even snapped a photo, making no move to help her at all.
Clearly, he had his own grievances with Rita. As for what kind of love-hate history they shared, that was anyone's guess.
"I'm extremely dissatisfied with your last article," Harry said coldly.
Ignoring her frantic struggle, he pointed his wand at her hands.
"If you don't know how to write proper journalism, then I don't see why you need hands anymore.
After all, you've got that Quick-Quotes Quill doing the writing for you, don't you?"
Rita shook her head violently, hands clasped together in a desperate plea.
Seeing her submission, Harry continued:
"If I don't see a normal article in the next few days, the next time we meet, I'll take your hands off.
Do you understand?"
In truth, Harry was bluffing. He wasn't capable of that level of cruelty.
But Rita didn't know that—and she certainly didn't dare gamble on it.
She nodded furiously.
Harry then added calmly, "Since your hands can write on their own, that quill doesn't seem necessary either."
He flicked his wand.
"Incendio."
The Quick-Quotes Quill burst into flames.
Rita looked as if she were about to cry.
She'd only just managed to obtain this second quill from a master alchemist after Arthur burned her last one. Now it was gone again.
And her quill wasn't an ordinary one.
Unlike normal Quick-Quotes Quills, hers was specially enchanted—capable of exaggerating and distorting what people said, saving her an enormous amount of time fabricating rumors and scandals.
Watching it crumble into ash, Harry nodded in satisfaction.
"Well done."
Krum stepped forward and lightly punched Harry's shoulder in approval.
Fleur also gave him an appreciative look.
At that moment, Dumbledore entered the tent, accompanied by the two visiting headmistresses and Barty Crouch.
The moment Dumbledore stepped inside, he saw Harry pointing his wand at Rita.
"Harry? What are you doing?" he asked.
"Just warming up before the match," Harry replied.
Dumbledore nodded, completely ignoring Rita's pleading eyes.
He disliked her as well—he'd read her articles about Harry. Out of ten sentences, eleven were false. She had no professional ethics whatsoever.
"Very well, champions. Please gather here," Dumbledore said.
"The moment you've been waiting for has arrived. Barty—the bag."
Crouch produced the draw bag, which contained miniature models of four dragons. Each champion would draw the one they were to face.
"Ladies first. Miss Delacour, if you would."
Fleur reached in and drew out a small green winged lizard—the Welsh Green.
For a brief moment, Harry thought it was Draco's dragon from last year.
But it was only a Transfiguration model—just an exceptionally lifelike one, complete with tiny bursts of flame.
Next was Hermione.
She drew the Chinese Fireball.
In the original timeline, this dragon had belonged to Krum. Now, it was hers.
Krum himself drew the Swedish Short-Snout.
And Harry—true to fate—ended up with the most dangerous of them all.
The Hungarian Horntail.
Drawing the worst lot, Harry could only sigh inwardly and accept it.
After the draw, Crouch spoke:
"These models represent the real dragons. Each guards a golden egg.
Your task is simple—retrieve the egg."
"This task is mandatory," he added.
"Inside the egg is the clue to the second task. Without it, you cannot proceed."
"Any questions?"
No one spoke.
"Excellent. Good luck."
Crouch stepped aside as Dumbledore prepared to announce the order of entry.
The order was determined by the dragons' arrival sequence—transporting them wasn't easy work for the handlers.
"Very well. First to compete is Mr. Krum. Once the cannon fires, you may—"
BOOM!
Before Dumbledore could finish, Filch—standing atop the tent—lit the small signal cannon.
The explosion shook the entire tent violently.
Caught off guard, everyone instinctively ducked and covered their heads.
When the ringing finally faded, they stood up, ears still buzzing.
Dumbledore pointed toward the tent entrance, signaling to Krum that he could go.
Krum strode out, followed by the judges.
Once they left, only Harry, Hermione, Fleur—and the still-restrained Rita—remained.
No one paid Rita any attention.
Hermione tugged at her ear, frowning.
"I really don't understand why they use a cannon."
Harry, mentally rehearsing his strategy, replied absentmindedly,
"Maybe so the audience can hear it?"
"They could've just used Sonorus. Or a megaphone."
Seeing Harry's lack of focus, Hermione shrugged and turned to chat with Fleur instead.
The First Match
Out in the arena, Krum wasted no time.
Big, powerful, and straightforward—his fighting style matched his physique perfectly.
The moment he entered, he attacked the Swedish Short-Snout's eyes—the dragon's weakest point.
A thick chain bound the dragon's neck. Blinded by magic, it roared in pain and thrashed violently.
Krum seized the opportunity and rushed for the egg.
Unfortunately, during its convulsions, the dragon crushed the egg beneath its foot.
By the time Krum retrieved it, only half remained intact.
Still, it counted as a completion.
The handlers rushed in to restrain the dragon.
Because the egg was damaged, the judges awarded Krum 8 points out of 10—already generous, considering the circumstances.
Only Karkaroff shamelessly gave a 10, blatantly favoring his own champion.
Next was Fleur.
Combining her Veela charm with magic, she gently lulled the Welsh Green into a trance.
Even with only a quarter Veela blood, her allure was powerful enough to affect a dragon.
She retrieved the egg effortlessly.
Yet Karkaroff's bias had set a bad precedent.
Madame Maxime gave Fleur a perfect score—but the others gave 9, 9, 9, and from Karkaroff—a 5.
His excuse?
"Too boring. No spectacle."
A flimsy lie. He simply couldn't stand Fleur scoring higher than Krum.
Then it was Hermione's turn.
She stepped onto the field—but didn't rush the dragon.
Instead, she searched the stands.
She found Arthur immediately.
He was waving a flag emblazoned with a chibi version of Hermione's face, the word "Go!" written boldly beneath it.
He was impossibly conspicuous.
Hermione smiled sweetly and waved back—then turned toward the Chinese Fireball.
She made no unnecessary movements.
Didn't even raise her wand.
Yet the dragon froze.
It stood rigid, like a lion encountering the undisputed king of the pride.
The reason was simple.
Hermione carried a single scale from Ifrit.
This was not magic.
It was bloodline suppression.
Among Western dragons, there are five ranks:
Earth Dragon → Wyvern → Drake → True Dragon → Sacred Dragon
The fire dragons of the wizarding world were mere Wyverns.
Ifrit, however, was a True Dragon.
Faced with such overwhelming ancestral dominance, the Chinese Fireball couldn't even summon the will to oppose her.
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