But Karkaroff's scoring? It blew right past "reasonable" and straight into ridiculous.
Word from the other schools' champions was that when Karkaroff judged them, his standards were brutal. Beauxbatons had aced the task, earned nods from every other judge, and he still slapped them with a 4—like he was trying to erase their whole run.
Then it was Durmstrang's turn.
Their champion didn't even finish—golden egg got torched by dragon fire.
Karkaroff? Gave them a perfect 10.
Harry and Cedric were speechless when they heard. They'd never imagined a judge could be that blatant.
Draco just rolled his eyes like he'd seen it coming. "Typical. Anything for Durmstrang, fairness be damned."
Watching Karkaroff's stiff face on the magic screen replay, Draco added, "But after this round? The other headmasters finally see what he's up to."
"Next scoring? They'll change the rules. Probably wait till every champion's done—or out—then have all judges score at once."
He paused, smirking. "And they'll make Karkaroff go first. Put his number up front so the others can adjust. No more waiting to see high scores and lowballing everyone else."
Harry and Cedric swapped a look—Draco was probably right.
After this mess, nobody was ignoring Karkaroff's bias. Fixing the process was the only way to keep the rest of the tournament fair.
But what they really cared about now? What came next.
"Honestly… I don't think the Durmstrang champs did anything wrong," Cedric said, watching their replay on the screen. He sounded almost sorry. "They were this close to the egg. One more second and they'd have had it. Then—poof—dragon breath. Bad luck."
"Exactly!" Harry jumped in. "I saw it too. They were right there. Total fluke."
Draco leaned against the tent rail, hands in his pockets, shrugging. "Luck's part of it. But having that headmaster? That's the real curse. If they hate it, they can wait for a new one. Won't be anytime soon, though."
Footsteps outside cut the chat short.
Dylan walked in behind a Ministry official in deep-green robes, the guy clutching a folder and rattling off next steps as they headed for the medical tent inside the arena.
The official lifted the flap—and Madam Pomfrey was right there.
She frowned, wand already out, scanning Dylan head to toe with a soft blue glow. No reaction.
Then she circled behind him, checking shoulders and back extra close. No hidden burns, no cuts.
Finally, she let out a relieved breath and smiled. "Brilliant! Not a scratch on you."
"Thanks," Dylan said with a grin. "It's nothing."
Just a couple dragons and a leopard.
Yeah. Nothing.
"That's the spirit!" Pomfrey patted his arm. "Best news I've had all day—no new patients."
Harry practically bounced out of his seat and rushed over. "Dylan! That dragon fight? Insane! One spell—blocks the fire and hits back? I never even thought basic magic could do that!"
"You guys were awesome too," Dylan said, smiling at Harry, Draco, and Cedric. His eyes lingered on Harry. "Heard you got hurt on your back. All good now?"
"Totally!" Harry started to spin and show off—then froze mid-turn, like someone hit the pause button.
"Don't twist like that!" Pomfrey barked, tapping his back with her wand. "I healed the wound, but the skin's still knitting. Rest. No wild moves!"
Harry unfroze, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "Got it… I'll take it easy."
"You've all earned a break," Dylan said, noting their tired faces. "You've been drilling tactics non-stop. Rest up."
Draco suddenly turned to the Ministry guy. "Hey—where's Ludo? And the judges? They didn't say what's next after scoring."
The official flipped open his folder. "Mr. Bagman's in the arena center with the headmasters, prepping for the next task. Once we confirm everyone's fit, he'll brief you. Ten minutes."
He raised his voice so the other champions could hear: "Everyone relax—Mr. Bagman and the judges aren't stalling. They're setting up materials for the next stage. Just a short wait."
Draco raised an eyebrow. "Materials? What needs that much prep? Not… prizes, right?"
Dylan lifted his golden egg. "Probably this. Notice anything different about it compared to a regular egg?"
Draco hesitated. "I glanced at it… but didn't really look."
Same as Harry. The second they got back, all eyes were on Dylan versus the dragons. The egg? Forgotten.
"We tossed ours on that cot over there," Harry said, coughing awkwardly. "I was so hyped to watch you fight, I bolted out the second Pomfrey patched me up. Didn't even think about the egg."
He pointed to the corner cot—their golden egg sat on white sheets, glinting in the sunlight filtering through the tent seams.
Draco had done the same. The moment Dylan trapped the dragons in magic, the egg was ancient history.
"Look here," Dylan said, setting his egg next to theirs. He lifted one and pointed to the narrower end. "See that tiny seam? Easy to miss if you're not looking."
Harry leaned in, eyes wide, finger hovering. "It… looks deliberate. Like you could pry it open?"
He glanced at Dylan. "Should we try?"
His hand was an inch away when—
The tent flap flew open.
Ludo Bagman and Barty Crouch Sr. strode in, carrying a golden egg—for the Durmstrang champion who hadn't grabbed theirs yet.
They handed it over, then Crouch stepped forward, voice grave. "Champions, listen up. I'm announcing the second task."
The tent went dead quiet.
"The second task begins March 1st. You'll have plenty of time to rest—and to decipher the clue for the next challenge."
He pointed at Dylan's egg. "You've likely noticed—the egg is the clue. That seam? Open it. Inside is critical information about the second task."
Murmurs rippled through the tent.
Harry and Draco locked eyes—shocked. The egg they'd ignored this whole time?
The other champions grabbed theirs, squinting at the seam, buzzing with curiosity.
To Madam Pomfrey, there were only two kinds of people in that tent: patients and not-patients.
As Crouch and Ludo left, a few banged-up champions slung their bags to go—only to get yanked back by the arm.
"Not so fast," Pomfrey said, shoving a small bottle of pale-green potion into their hands. "Swelling and pain relief. Morning and night on the wound. No heavy movement for three days. Crack it open again, and ointment won't cut it."
They nodded fast.
Harry, Dylan, and Draco trailed behind, grinning at each other.
They'd barely stepped outside when—
A blood-curdling screech ripped through the air, sharp and frantic, shattering the calm.
Harry jumped. "What the—?! Did Pomfrey do something? Like… force-healing?"
Draco smirked. "Maybe someone tried sneaking a spell. She caught them, hit them with a Limb-Locker Curse. 'Rest or else'—classic Pomfrey."
Cedric laughed, shaking his head. "She's strict, but she wouldn't curse anyone. Healing only."
Dylan frowned, replaying the sound. "Didn't sound like plain pain. More like someone trying to talk—fast—and choking on it."
Harry's eyes lit up. "Wait—African dialect? Lee Jordan spent summer in Africa. Did this whole 'woo-wah' impression, said that's how the local wizards talk."