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Harry got back into his bunk with his head buzzing. He knew he ought to feel exhausted:

"Where're your parents?" said Harry, his temper rising. "Out there wearing masks, are they?"

"Dad, what's going on?" he called through the dark. "Fred, George, and Ginny got back okay, but the others -"

"Never mind, Amos," said Mrs. Weasley. "Sure you won't have a bit of toast or anything before you go?"

He took his small figure of Krum out of his pocket, set it down on the ground, and watched it walk around. Like the real Krum, the model was slightly duck-footed and round-shouldered, much less impressive on his splayed feet than on his broomstick. Harry was listening for noise from the campsite. Everything seemed much quieter; perhaps the riot was over.

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"Amos, think who you're talking to!" said Mr. Weasley, very angrily. "Is Harry Potter likely to conjure the Dark Mark?"

Hagrid hurried over to him, looking anxious.

"Of course he does," said Hermione quietly. "Don't let Malfoy get to you, Ron -"

"The heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving with their short-listed contenders in October, and the selection of the three champions will take place at Halloween. An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money."

"Born under - what, sorry?" said Harry.

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"Come off it," said Ron, starting to laugh. "Durmstrang's got to be about the same size as Hogwarts -- how are you going to hide a great big castle?"

Winky began to rock backward and forward on the ground, her breath coming in sharp bursts. Harry was reminded forcibly of Dobby in his moments of terrified disobedience.

Professor Trelawney was their Divination teacher at Hogwarts. Hermione's terrified look vanished as she let out a derisive snort.

"If you accuse my elf, you accuse me, Diggory!" shouted Mr. Crouch. "Where else would she have learned to conjure it?"

"Mr. Crouch's elf" said Percy, sounding thunderstruck.

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"Here you are," she said, sorting them into two piles. "Now, mind you pack them properly so they don't crease."

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Don't tell your mother you've been gambling," Mr. Weasley implored Fred and George as they all made their way slowly down the purple-carpeted stairs.

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"Ron," said Hermione, in an I-don't-think-you're-being-very-sensitive sort of voice, "Harry doesn't want to play Quidditch right now... . He's worried, and he's tired. . . .

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The singing had stopped. He could hear screams, and the sound of people running. He slipped down from the bunk and reached for his clothes, but Mr. Weasley, who had pulled on his jeans over his own pajamas, said, "No time, Harry - just grab a jacket and get outside - quickly!",

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"Yeah, but was it, though?" said Harry, turning to look out of the window at the brightening sky. "It's weird, isn't it?. . . My scar hurts, and three days later the Death Eaters are on the march, and Voldemort's sign's up in the sky again.";

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