Charles' Flight
Charles had been focusing so hard on learning the Summoning Charm that evening that some of his blind panic had left him. It returned in full measure, however, on the following morning. The atmosphere in the school was one of great tension and excitement. Lessons were to stop at midday, giving all the students time to get down to the dragons’ enclosure — though of course, they didn’t yet know what they would find there.
Charles felt oddly separate from everyone around him, whether they were wishing him good luck or hissing expletives at him as he passed. It was a state of nervousness so advanced that he wondered whether he mightn’t just lose his head when they tried to lead him out to his dragon, and start trying to curse everyone in sight. Time was behaving in a more peculiar fashion than ever, rushing past in great dollops, so that one moment he seemed to be sitting down in his first lesson, History of Magic, and the next, walking into lunch... and then (Where had the morning gone? The last of the dragon-free hours?), Professor McGonagall was hurrying over to him in the Great Hall. Lots of people were watching.
“Potter, the champions have to come down onto the grounds now... You have to get ready for your first task.”
“Okay,” said Charles heavily, standing up, his fork falling onto his plate with a clatter.
“Good luck, Charles,” Hermione whispered.
“You’ll be fine!” Bianca tried for a smile, giving his hand a small squeeze.
“Yeah,” Charles said in a voice that was most unlike his own. He left the Great Hall with Professor McGonagall, who didn’t seem herself either; in fact, she looked nearly as anxious as Hermione and Bianca. As she walked him down the stone steps and out into the cold November afternoon, she put her hand on his shoulder.
“Now, don’t panic,” she said, “just keep a cool head... We’ve got wizards standing by to control the situation if it gets out of hand... The main thing is just to do your best, and nobody will think any the worse of you... Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Charles heard himself say. “Yes, I’m fine.”
She was leading him toward the place where the dragons were, around the edge of the forest, but when they approached the clump of trees behind which the enclosure would be clearly visible, Charles saw that a tent had been erected, its entrance facing them, screening the dragons from view.
“You’re to go in here with the other champions,” said Professor McGonagall, in a rather shaky sort of voice, “and wait for your turn, Potter. Mr. Bagman is in there... he’ll be telling you the — the procedure... Good luck.”
“Thanks,” said Charles, in a flat, distant voice. She left him at the entrance of the tent, and he went inside.
Fleur Delacour was sitting in a corner on a low wooden stool. She didn’t look nearly as composed as usual, but rather pale and clammy. Viktor Krum looked even surlier than usual, which Charles supposed was his way of showing nerves. Harry was pacing up and down. When Charles entered, Harry gave him a small smile, which Charles returned, feeling the muscles in his face working rather hard, as though they had forgotten how to do it.
“Charles, my boy! Good-o!” said Bagman happily, looking around at him. “Come in, come in, make yourself at home!”
Bagman looked somehow like a slightly overblown cartoon figure, standing amid all the pale-faced champions. He was wearing his old Wasp robes again.
“Well, now we’re all here — time to fill you in!” said Bagman brightly. “When the audience has assembled, I’m going to be offering each of you this bag” — he held up a small sack of purple silk and shook it at them — “from which you will each select a small model of the thing you are about to face! There are different — er — varieties, you see. And I have to tell you something else too... ah, yes... your task is to collect the golden egg!”
Charles glanced around. Fleur had nodded once, to show that she understood Bagman’s words; she looked slightly green. Krum hadn’t reacted at all. Harry looked about to murder Bagman, but couldn't seem to be able to scream at him. Perhaps they thought they might be sick if they opened their mouths; that was certainly how Charles felt. But they, at least, had volunteered for this...
And in no time at all, hundreds upon hundreds of pairs of feet could be heard passing the tent, their owners talking excitedly, laughing, joking... Charles felt as separate from the crowd as though they were a different species. And then — it seemed like about a second later to Charles — Bagman was opening the neck of the purple silk sack.
“Ladies first,” he said, offering it to Fleur Delacour.
She put a shaking hand inside the bag and drew out a tiny, perfect model of a dragon — a blueish-grey Swedish Short-Snout. It had the number two around its neck. And Charles knew, by the fact that Fleur showed no sign of surprise, but rather a determined resignation, that he had been right: Madame Maxime had told her what was coming.
The same held true for Krum. He pulled out the Welsh Green. It had a number three around its neck. He didn’t even blink, just sat back down and stared at the ground.
Harry put his hand into the bag, and out came the scarlet Chinese Fireball, the number one tied around its neck. Knowing what was left, Charles put his hand into the silk bag and pulled out the Hungarian Horntail, and the number four. It stretched its wings as he looked down at it, and bared its minuscule fangs.
“Well, there you are!” said Bagman. “You have each pulled out the dragon you will face, and the numbers refer to the order in which you are to take on the dragons, do you see? Now, I’m going to have to leave you in a moment, because I’m commentating. Harry, you’re first, just go out into the enclosure when you hear a whistle, all right? Now, Charles, could I have a quick word? Outside?”
“Er... yes,” said Charles blankly, and he got up and went out of the tent with Bagman, who walked him a short distance away, into the trees, and then turned to him with a fatherly expression on his face.
“Feeling all right, Charles? Anything I can get you?”
“What?” Charles blinked. “I — no, nothing.”
“Got a plan?” said Bagman, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Because I don’t mind sharing a few pointers, if you’d like them, you know. I mean,” Bagman continued, lowering his voice still further, “you’re the underdog here, Charles... Anything I can do to help...”
“No,” Charles denied so quickly he knew he had sounded rude, “no — I — I know what I’m going to do, thanks.”
“Nobody would know, Charles,” said Bagman, winking at him.
“No, I’m fine,” Charles insisted, wondering why he kept telling people this, and wondering whether he had ever been less fine. “I’ve got a plan worked out, I-”
A whistle had blown somewhere.
“Good lord, I’ve got to run!” said Bagman in alarm, and he hurried off.
Charles walked back to the tent and saw Harry emerging from it, biting his lip anxiously and looking a bit green. Charles tried to wish him luck as they stopped in front of another, but all that came out of his mouth was a sort of hoarse grunt. Harry seemed to be understanding, though, and gave him a pat on the shoulder before walking away.
Charles went back inside to Fleur and Krum. Seconds later, they heard the roar of the crowd, which meant Harry had entered the enclosure and was now face-to-face with the living counterpart of his model. . . .
It was worse than Charles could ever have imagined, sitting there and listening. The crowd screamed... yelled... gasped like a single many-headed entity, as Harry did whatever he was doing to get past the Chinese Fireball. Krum was still staring at the ground. Fleur had now taken to retracing Harry’s steps, around and around the tent.
And then, after about fifteen minutes, Charles heard the deafening roar that could mean only one thing: Harry had gotten past his dragon and captured the golden egg.
“Very good indeed!” Bagman was shouting. “And now the marks from the judges!”
But he didn’t shout out the marks; Charles supposed the judges were holding them up and showing them to the crowd.
“One down, three to go!” Bagman yelled as the whistle blew again. “Miss Delacour, if you please!”
Fleur was trembling from head to foot; Charles felt more warmly toward her than he had done so far as she left the tent with her head held high and her hand clutching her wand. He and Krum were left alone, at opposite sides of the tent, avoiding each other’s gaze.
The same process started again... “Oh I’m not sure that was wise!” they could hear Bagman shouting gleefully. “Oh... nearly! Careful now... good lord, I thought she’d had it then!”
Ten minutes later, Charles heard the crowd erupt into applause once more... Fleur must have been successful too. A pause, while Fleur’s marks were being shown... more clapping... then, for the third time, the whistle.
“And here comes Mr. Krum!” cried Bagman, and Krum slouched out, leaving Charles quite alone.
He felt much more aware of his body than usual; very aware of the way his heart was pumping fast, and his fingers tingling with fear... yet at the same time, he seemed to be outside himself, seeing the walls of the tent, and hearing the crowd, as though from far away...
“Very daring!” Bagman was yelling, and Charles heard the Welsh Green emit a horrible, roaring shriek, while the crowd drew its collective breath. “That’s some nerve he’s showing — and — yes, he’s got the egg!”
Applause shattered the wintery air like breaking glass; Krum had finished — it would be Charles’ turn any moment.
He stood up, noticing dimly that his legs seemed to be made of marshmallow. He waited. And then he heard the whistle blow. He walked out through the entrance of the tent, the panic rising into a crescendo inside him. And now he was walking past the trees, through a gap in the enclosure fence.
He saw everything in front of him as though it was a very highly coloured dream. There were hundreds and hundreds of faces staring down at him from stands that had been magicked there since he’d last stood on this spot. And there was the Horntail, at the other end of the enclosure, crouched low over her clutch of eggs, her wings half-furled, her evil, yellow eyes upon him, a monstrous, scaly, black lizard, thrashing her spiked tail, leaving yard-long gouge marks in the hard ground. The crowd was making a great deal of noise, but whether friendly or not, Harry didn’t know or care. It was time to do what he had to do . . . to focus his mind, entirely and absolutely, upon the thing that was his only chance. . . .
He raised his wand. “Accio Firebolt!” he shouted. Charles waited, every fibre of him hoping, praying... If it hadn’t worked... if it wasn’t coming... He seemed to be looking at everything around him through some sort of shimmering, transparent barrier, like a heat haze, which made the enclosure and the hundreds of faces around him swim strangely...
And then he heard it, speeding through the air behind him; he turned and saw his Firebolt hurtling toward him around the edge of the woods, soaring into the enclosure, and stopping dead in midair beside him, waiting for him to mount. The crowd was making even more noise... Bagman was shouting something... but Charles’ ears were not working properly anymore... listening wasn’t important...
He swung his leg over the broom and kicked off from the ground. And a second later, something miraculous happened...
As he soared upward, as the wind rushed through his hair, as the crowd’s faces became mere flesh-coloured pinpricks below, and the Horntail shrank to the size of a dog, he realized that he had left not only the ground behind but also his fear... He was back where he belonged...
This was just another Quidditch match, that was all... just another Quidditch match, and that Horntail was just another ugly opposing team...
He looked down at the clutch of eggs and spotted the gold one, gleaming against its cement-coloured fellows, residing safely between the dragon’s front legs. “Okay,” Charles told himself, “diversionary tactics... let’s go...”
He dived. The Horntail’s head followed him; he knew what it was going to do and pulled out of the dive just in time; a jet of fire had been released exactly where he would have been had he not swerved away... but Charles didn’t care... that was no more than dodging a Bludger...
“Great Scott, he can fly!” yelled Bagman as the crowd shrieked and gasped. “Are you watching this, Mr. Krum?”
Charles soared higher in a circle; the Horntail was still following his progress; its head revolving on its long neck — if he kept this up, it would be nicely dizzy — but better not push it too long, or it would be breathing fire again —
Charles plummeted just as the Horntail opened its mouth, but this time he was less lucky — he missed the flames, but the tail came whipping up to meet him instead, and as he swerved to the left, one of the long spikes grazed his shoulder, ripping his robes —
He could feel it stinging, he could hear screaming and groans from the crowd, but the cut didn’t seem to be deep... Now he zoomed around the back of the Horntail, and a possibility occurred to him...
The Horntail didn’t seem to want to take off, she was too protective of her eggs. Though she writhed and twisted, furling and unfurling her wings and keeping those fearsome yellow eyes on Charles, she was afraid to move too far from them... but he had to persuade her to do it, or he’d never get near them... The trick was to do it carefully, gradually...
He began to fly, first this way, then the other, not near enough to make her breathe fire to stave him off, but still posing a sufficient threat to ensure she kept her eyes on him. Her head swayed this way and that, watching him out of those vertical pupils, her fangs bared...
He flew higher. The Horntail’s head rose with him, her neck now stretched to its fullest extent, still swaying, like a snake before its charmer. . . .
Charles rose a few more feet, and she let out a roar of exasperation. He was like a fly to her, a fly she was longing to swat; her tail thrashed again, but he was too high to reach now... She shot fire into the air, which he dodged... Her jaws opened wide...
“Come on,” Charles hissed, swerving tantalizingly above her, “come on, come and get me... up you get now...”
And then she reared, spreading her great, black, leathery wings at last, as wide as those of a small aeroplane — and Charles dived. Before the dragon knew what he had done, or where he had disappeared to, he was speeding toward the ground as fast as he could go, toward the eggs now unprotected by her clawed front legs — he had taken his hands off his Firebolt — he had seized the golden egg —
And with a huge spurt of speed, he was off, he was soaring out over the stands, the heavy egg safely under his uninjured arm, and it was as though somebody had just turned the volume back up — for the first time, he became properly aware of the noise of the crowd, which was screaming and applauding as loudly as the Irish supporters at the World Cup —
“Look at that!” Bagman was yelling. “Will you look at that! Our youngest champion is the second quickest to get his egg! Well, this is going to shorten the odds on young Mr. Potter!”
Charles saw the dragon keepers rushing forward to subdue the Horntail, and, over at the entrance to the enclosure, Professor McGonagall, Professor Moody, and Hagrid hurrying to meet him, all of them waving him toward them, their smiles evident even from this distance. He flew back over the stands, the noise of the crowd pounding his eardrums, and came in smoothly to land, his heart lighter than it had been in weeks... He had got through the first task, he had survived...