Jerry walked between the gaps in the staff table, passed through the door, and left the clamor of the Great Hall behind. He entered a quiet little room where portraits of wizards hung at uneven intervals along both walls.
For the moment, Jerry was alone. The only thing facing him was the roaring fire in the hearth opposite.
As Jerry entered, the faces in the portraits turned toward him in unison. One deeply wrinkled witch promptly slipped out of her frame and into the neighboring portrait of a wizard with a thick beard. The two began whispering together.
Which bastard is trying to get me killed? Jerry frowned and slowly sat down on the sofa in the middle of the room. He sorted through his suspicions, ruling out possible culprits one by one.
Catherine wouldn't do it. She'd never enter me without my say-so. It wasn't Dumbledore, either. Grindelwald, that old bastard, probably wouldn't play a joke like this on me. And I'd spoken to Moody—Barty Crouch Jr.—in advance, so it couldn't be him...
While Jerry was thinking, the door opened again. Viktor Krum strode in. Neither of them spoke. Krum stood with his back to the warmth of the hearth, his body slightly hunched, lost in thought beneath the firelight.
A moment later, the door opened once more, and Pheobe swept in like a fresh breeze. The instant she saw Jerry, she bounded over to him. "This is wonderful, Jerry! I was chosen as a Champion too!"
Pheobe and Krum thought the selection was over. Jerry knew better. The show had only just begun—two more people had yet to arrive.
Sure enough, Cedric soon entered the little room, barely able to contain his excitement. His arrival made Pheobe curious. "What is it? Did the professors send you to call