The First Task took place on a Saturday in early November, and Cael spent it sitting in the third row of the spectators’ stand with his hand on his wand for the entire duration.
The pitch had undergone modifications during the week, and Cael had not been allowed, until then, to observe them.
Rumours had been doing the rounds, like they always did — *dragons*, *no, hippogriffs*…
and, like any other rumour mill, the Hogwarts one had turned out to be both wrong and right at the same time.
There were dragons.
There were four dragons.
They were all enclosed inside a rocky pen erected on the pitch, each one tied to an iron chain leading to its personal rock in a corner of the pen, by the time the spectators arrived at ten AM.
The dragons, too, were enormous.
And the dragons were well aware of being stared at, which seemed not to amuse them very much.
Cael noted briefly the nature of the safety enchantments as he entered, with Hermione, into the stand.
They were well-done — a magical barrier between the spectators and the pen, carefully layered and tested, clearly made by several people in a collaborative effort.
They protected the spectators from any danger emanating from the pitch.
They protected nobody from the effects of their own decision to challenge a living, breathing, and highly dangerous dragon, on their own.
This was, according to Cael’s educated guess, an intended effect.
The point of the Tournament, according to the design, was for the contestants to be challenged, and tested.
The champion, if he could not handle a dragon at fifty paces, wand intact, could not be considered such.
It was a harsh design.
Cael understood it; he did not necessarily approve.
Neville was sitting, in his characteristic position, between him and Hermione, and Neville had, wisely, brought along some sandwiches, distributing them freely in the rows to the left and right of him in the logic that *Quidditch is nerve-racking enough, but at least at Quidditch players have brooms to ride.* The dragons, on the other hand, could take a lot of time.
Cael, too, got one.
He did not eat it yet.
Krum went first.
Krum cast a Conjunctivitis Curse on his dragon, an excellent tactical manoeuvre, apparently, considering the approving noise Hermione muttered.
The dragon thrashed, smashing some of its eggs in the process — an unintended consequence of the charm, apparently.
But the dragon did not notice it, and Krum managed to collect the egg from underneath its twitching feet, winning himself a cheer from the crowd.
Then he was carried away.
The pitch was restored.
Next went Delacour, who charmed her dragon to sleep.
The dragon slept and puffed some gentle breaths at its keeper’s robes, burning them for a moment, before the girl put out the fire.
The crowd cheered again as Delacour left the pitch with her prize.
The dragon was carried away by the trainers, still sleeping.
Diggory was next.
Diggory transfigured a nearby rock into a dog.
Diggory got his egg while distracting the creature chasing it in an ingenious side-step.
He, too, walked off the pitch, sporting a burnt face.
Again the crowd cheered.
Then it was Harry’s turn.
Hermione stopped writing in her notebook.
She stopped pretending, at the same time, that she was still pretending to be Hermione the studious one who took copious notes.
Her left hand, on Cael’s left wrist, squeezed tightly at every breath.
Cael did not try to shake off his grip, keeping both hands in his lap, on his wand.
His eyes were fixed upon the entrance to the pen.
Harry emerged from the pen running.
Small, pale, wand ready at hand, Harry brought with him a broom, a Firebolt, presumably conjured out of thin air in preparation for the task.
There was also, apparently, been training, as per Ron’s word, in the past few days, although with whom, Cael did not know.
Harry stood on his rock and faced the dragon.
The Hungarian Horntail, by sheer random luck, which made it the worst of the lot, faced Harry right back, showing all its teeth.
Harry summoned the broom.
It shot from somewhere above the pitch towards him and landed neatly in his hands.
Harry jumped on it, took off, and started weaving an erratic flight pattern around the dragon, trying to distract it from what it came to the pitch for.
Cael tensed.
The encounter, which was not really a fight — the *encounter*, perhaps — lasted, roughly, eight minutes.
Harry flew.
The dragon tried to fly too, but the chains kept it from leaving its territory, forcing it to burst upwards every so often in furious attacks.
Harry taunted it.
He dodged and weaved.
Harry took two wide loops around the dragon’s blind spots and came in twice at high speed, cutting over the eggs.
Cael watched, counting silently the number of metres separating him from the pitch in his mind.
About fifty metres, maybe less, which was within reach of his currently best-reversed AK, if calibrated correctly.
He would not cast it across that range if nothing untoward happened, but he was ready to, if necessary.
The dragon hit Harry on his third run — a tail lash against his shoulder, forcing the broom out of its proper trajectory for half a second.
Harry quickly regained balance, however, climbed two steep loops in the sky, and dived on a trajectory the dragon was not expecting, seizing the golden egg and flying away.
The spectators cheered wildly.
Harry landed, wobbling.
The dragon was subdued by the trainers before he could reach his feet.
Harry bled from his shoulder — the wound was not mortal, not even close to deadly.
It did not look to be a serious one.
From the amount of blood it produced, Pomfrey would probably patch him up by ten to fifteen minutes later, no matter what Harry said.
Cael relaxed his death-grip on the handle of his wand, relaxing all the muscles in his arm in the process.
Hermione let out a long relieved breath.
“He’s all right.” “He’s all right.” “I — that was —” “I know.” “You were ready to do something.
If—” “I was ready to do something.
Yes.” “Cael.” “What?” “I need you to know that *I knew*.
I could see your hand, the whole time.” “I know you could.” “I don’t think Harry knows.” “He doesn’t know.” “I think Harry should know.” “Eventually.
Not today.
Today Harry should think that he’s done this alone.
Because he did.
He earned that win.
He got the egg on that broom.
We’re there to catch him if he falls.
That’s it.” She squeezed his wrist harder.
This time, Cael noticed.
“Cael.” “What.” “You’ll watch him every time he enters that pitch from now on.” “Yes.” “There are three Tasks.” “Yes.” “Do you think you’ll be all right.” He pondered for a while, noticing with a pang the stiffness in his muscles.
He also thought about tonight’s journal entry and what he would be underlining there.
“I’ll be tired.” She nodded.
Then Cael followed Hermione and Neville to the castle — Harry was already fighting Pomfrey in the medical tent, trying to persuade her to administer him a second dose of painkillers.
Ron was standing in the corner of the tent in complete indifference, while the tension between the two friends slowly dissolved before his eyes.
Cael, again, did not interfere — he followed Hermione and Neville back to the castle and had his first sandwich ever provided to him by Neville on the way there, before eating.
Then he wrote in the notebook: *Sustained reversed-AK readiness possible at twenty minutes, fifty metres range, observation from standing position.
Locked hand muscles.
Preconditioning necessary for repeated tasks.* Underlining the word *sustained*.
Once.
He realised that he would save the rest for more threatening situations.
Not today.
This one did not scare him.
Cael had been ready, but he did not have to be, and it paid off anyway.
He needed no ceremony here.
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