Right now, the snow leopard is crouched behind a rock, completely still—not because of the cold.
The blizzard might slow its movements a bit, but it would never weaken its fighting strength.
What's really holding it back is the invisible threat lurking within the storm.
Its instincts tell it this snow isn't natural. Every snowflake carries a faint trace of magical energy.
It's unsure whether lunging at Dylan would trigger those traces to erupt, bringing unpredictable consequences.
After weighing its options, it stays in its safe spot, silently watching the scene unfold.
But the real kicker? This human kid gives off a strange, overwhelming vibe that the leopard can't shake.
It's like, if it attacks, it's as good as dead!
Over in the rest tent on the other side of the arena, the champions who've already finished their tasks are glued to the scene outside, eager to see how Dylan will wrap things up.
When they spot heavy snowflakes drifting in the distance, Harry claps his hands, suddenly getting it. "He had it all planned out! He used magic to block the dragon's breath, and the steam from that gave him enough water vapor to set up the next spell. It's brilliant—defending against the attack and laying the groundwork for what's next!"
"Pretty clever," Draco says, arms crossed and leaning against a tent pole, his tone carrying a hint of casual agreement. "When you put it like that, it doesn't sound all that complicated."
Harry's breakdown and Draco's comment make the Beauxbatons champions nearby exchange complicated looks.
They open their mouths, wanting to argue that it's nowhere near simple, but they don't know where to start.
In theory, using a water-making spell to block dragon's breath and then turning vapor into weather manipulation makes sense. But the difficulty of pulling that off in the heat of battle? Only someone who's been there would get it.
The Beauxbatons champions glance at each other, confusion clear in their eyes.
When they cast spells like that, they need to set up ritual magic beforehand, relying on a magic circle to summon a strong enough water jet.
But Dylan? He did it midair, without any props, and conjured a massive… tsunami?
It was enough to fend off two dragon breaths at once!
Even now, they can't figure out how Dylan managed to control the water-making spell's strength and range so precisely without any stable footing.
Plenty of others are also curious about how Dylan manipulated the weather.
In their school's curriculum, that spell is a core subject, and they've all studied the theory behind it.
They know that shifting from heavy rain to a blizzard requires precise control over water vapor concentration, a sharp drop in temperature, and a balanced output of magical energy. One slip, and the spell could fail—or worse, backfire.
But Dylan pulled it off so smoothly it looked as easy as breathing, leaving them stunned and a little defeated.
Just then, a wave of cheers erupts outside the tent.
Everyone rushes to the entrance and sees Dylan standing by the golden egg, bending down to pick it up with steady hands.
Harry and Draco cheer first, Cedric claps with a smile, and the tent's atmosphere lights up instantly.
Champions from other schools, drawn by the noise, crowd around the tent flap to get a better look at what's happening.
But before they can settle in, Madam Pomfrey's sharp voice cuts through. "All of you, back to your beds! Look at your injuries—do you want those wounds reopening? You'll be sorry if they do!"
They turn to see Madam Pomfrey supporting a champion whose arm, scratched by dragon claws, is wrapped in thick bandages. He's trying to shuffle toward the entrance.
Her words are clearly aimed at him, the most injured of the group.
He gives an embarrassed smile, letting her guide him back to his cot, but he can't help stealing glances through the tent's gap at Dylan, now holding the golden egg, his eyes full of admiration.
The moment Dylan lifts the egg, the judges' table sparks into discussion.
Madam Maxime takes the lead, hands folded in front of her, her eyes gleaming with approval. "I'd like to add something about the dragon selection for this task.
"Hungarian Horntails and Norwegian Ridgebacks are among the top five dragon breeds for size and ferocity. They're nothing like the milder breeds that rarely attack humans.
"For Dylan to face opponents like these and come out unscathed—without letting the dragons cause extra damage—that's a level of skill far beyond most witches and wizards his age.
"Any other thoughts, Mr. Karkaroff?"
Karkaroff opens his mouth, his prepared argument about Dylan's magic relying too much on tricks rather than raw power stuck in his throat.
His face flushes red, hands thrown up in frustration. "I… I haven't even said anything yet!"
"If Mr. Karkaroff has no objections, can we assume we're all in agreement?" Ludo Bagman jumps in, eager to avoid more debate. "Shall we start scoring Dylan?"
Karkaroff's face turns from red to purple, his jaw clenched as he grits out, "Of… of course, no problem! Let's score him now!"
Madam Maxime raises her wand first.
Looking at Dylan standing in the arena's center with the golden egg, she says with admiration, "Dylan's performance was flawless—meticulous strategy, precise spell control, and staying calm under pressure. I can't find a single fault."
As she speaks, two pale purple ribbons float from her wand tip. One twists in the air, forming a clear "10"—the first perfect score of the tournament.
The stands erupt in cheers, with Beauxbatons students waving their school flags wildly.
Next, Ludo Bagman and old Barty Crouch give their scores—Ludo's orange-red ribbon and Barty's deep blue one both turn into "10"s without hesitation.
Three perfect scores in a row set the circular stands ablaze, with spectators standing, clapping, and cheering louder than ever, drowning out even the dragons' roars.
Just when everyone thinks the scoring is done, Dumbledore speaks up, his tone playful. "Honestly, I think there's room for improvement—like optimizing the density of his spellwork. It could've restricted the dragons faster, cutting down on unnecessary maneuvering."
His words draw laughs from the judges' table—everyone knows it's just Dumbledore being cheeky.
A solo fight against two top-tier dragons with a perfect score? That's already unprecedented.
In the arena's center, Dylan seems to hear the crowd's cheers.
He holds up the golden egg, nodding slightly toward the judges before heading to the rest tent under staff guidance.
His first task ends in the most perfect way possible.
As Dumbledore's teasing fades, he slowly raises his wand.
A faint silver glow spills from the tip, forming ribbons that lazily twist in the air. Unlike the others, they don't form a "10" but settle into a clear "9."
"There's room to grow, but 9 points reflect his excellence," Dumbledore explains with a smile, his appreciation undimmed.
Everyone knows the one-point difference is just his way of pushing the younger generation, not a real critique of Dylan's performance.
Now it's Karkaroff's turn.
He grips his wand tightly, knuckles whitening, brows furrowed in a fierce internal debate.
A perfect score would mean admitting Dylan outshines Durmstrang's champions.
A low score risks accusations of bias.
After agonizing for half a minute, he reluctantly raises his wand, muttering, "Dumbledore's got a point… there's still room for improvement…"
A dark gray ribbon drifts from his wand, hesitating before twisting into an "8."
It's a middle-ground score—neither fully dismissing Dylan's performance nor giving him full credit, Karkaroff's attempt at balance.
With that, the judges' scoring wraps up, concluding the first task of the Triwizard Tournament.
As dragon tamers and beast handlers enter the arena, using magical ropes to guide the dragons and calming charms to lead the snow leopard back to the Forbidden Forest, Ludo Bagman stands, tapping his wand to his throat with a Sonorus charm.
His voice booms across the arena.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I present the final scores for the first task of the Triwizard Tournament!" Ludo's voice brims with excitement. "First, Beauxbatons' champions, with their highly professional ritual magic, earn 52 points!"
The Beauxbatons section roars with applause, silver-blue ribbons dancing in the air.
"Durmstrang's champions, with their stellar flying skills and risk management, score 45 points!" Karkaroff's face softens slightly at this, and Durmstrang students clap, though their cheers are less enthusiastic.
"And finally, Hogwarts' champions!" Ludo's voice rises with anticipation. "Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, and Cedric Diggory, with their innovative approach, earn 57 points! And Dylan Hawkwood, for his stunning solo performance against two dragons, scores 67 points!"
He pauses, adding, "Per the rules, Hogwarts' final score is the average of their two teams: (57+67) ÷ 2 = 62 points!"
The stands explode at the announcement—62 points, far ahead of the other schools!
Hogwarts takes first place in the first task, with Beauxbatons at 52 points in second and Durmstrang at 45 points in third.
"Hogwarts! Hogwarts!" Hogwarts students leap to their feet, chanting their school's name.
Some pull out pre-prepared magical fireworks, launching them into the sky.
Multicolored sparks bloom above the arena, forming eagles, lions, badgers, and snakes that swirl and dance, creating a spectacular scene.
Cheers, applause, and the crackle of fireworks blend into a sea of joy.
In the rest tent, Harry, Cedric, and Draco exchange smiles at the sound of the crowd.
The first task's victory is a perfect start for Hogwarts, with more challenges lying ahead.
On the tent's magical screen, the judges' scoring plays in real-time.
When Karkaroff's dark gray ribbon forms an "8," Harry shakes his head in surprise. "An 8? That's practically generous! I was worried he'd pull another 4 like he did for us."
Draco, standing nearby, frowns at Karkaroff's tense face on the screen, his tone dripping with disdain. "A 4 doubled to an 8, and you're impressed? Look at him—his mouth's practically at his ears, and his wand hand's shaking. He only gave that score because he had no choice. Bet he's fuming inside."
Harry follows Draco's gaze and spots Karkaroff's barely concealed frustration, his eyes dodging the other judges' looks.
"Yeah, you're right," Harry agrees. "Normally, he'd probably begrudge even a 6."
Cedric nods in agreement.
They'd already sussed out the judges' scoring habits through chats with other champions before the task.
Karkaroff's score confirms their suspicions—most judges keep things fairly balanced.
Even Madam Maxime, who tends to give her Beauxbatons champions a 9 to boost their morale, stays reasonable when scoring others.
Harry, Draco, and Cedric get that kind of subtle bias.
Their school's champions are fighting hard out there, so a little favoritism is understandable, as long as it doesn't cross the line into unfairness.