The next round of the three-school dueling exchange arrived on schedule.
Hogwarts' Quidditch Pitch had been transformed into a gigantic octagonal dueling arena.
The crowd roared.
In the stands, the students of the three schools sat in clearly divided sections.
Hogwarts' scarlet and gold, Beauxbatons' sky blue and silver, Durmstrang's crimson and jet black.
Three enormous flags snapped in the biting wind of the Scottish Highlands.
The air carried a mixture of the greasy aroma of grilled sausages, the sweetness of Butterbeer, and an invisible tension that made people's hair stand on end.
Professor Flitwick stood in the center of the arena, his tiny figure looking somewhat comical in the enormous space.
But he had magically amplified his voice, and it rang out clearly and loudly through every corner of the pitch.
"Next match! Harry Potter of Hogwarts versus Pierre Delacour of Beauxbatons!"
Thunderous cheers erupted from the Beauxbatons stands.
A tall, slender figure walked gracefully into the arena.
Jean-Pierre Delacour.
An outstanding sixth-year student.
His long blond hair stirred gently in the wind, and his blue eyes held a polite, aristocratic reserve.
He held his wand lightly in his hand, his bearing unlike that of a wizard about to fight.
He looked more like a conductor about to begin a performance.
Pheobe was in the stands too, pride on her beautiful face as she gave him an encouraging smile.
Harry took a deep breath and stepped into the arena.
Pressure poured in from every direction.
He knew this was not just for himself.
It was for Gryffindor, for Hogwarts.
His gaze swept instinctively over the stands.
He saw Ron.
He saw Hermione too.
They were not sitting together.
Ron's face was taut, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.
Hermione was frowning, her gaze intent,