Right Now Could Last Forever

A man stood in the doorway, leaning upon a long staff, shrouded in a black travelling cloak. Every head in the Great Hall swivelled towards the stranger, suddenly brightly illuminated by a fork of lightning that flashed across the ceiling. He lowered his hood, shook out a long mane of grizzled, dark grey hair, and then began to walk up towards the teachers’ table.

A dull ‘clunk’ echoed through the Hall on his every other step. He reached the end of the top table, turned right and limped heavily towards Dumbledore. Another flash of lightning crossed the ceiling. Hermione gasped.

The lightning had thrown the man’s face into sharp relief, and it was a face unlike any I had ever seen before. It looked as though it had been carved out of weathered wood by someone who had only the vaguest idea of what human faces were supposed to look like, and was none too skilled with a chisel. Every inch of skin seemed to be scarred. The mouth looked like a diagonal gash, and a large chunk of the nose was missing. But it was the man’s eye that made him frightening.

One of them was small, dark and beady. The other was large, round as a coin, and a vivid, electric blue. The blue eye was moving ceaselessly, without blinking, and was rolling up, down and from side to side, quite independently of the normal eye – and then it rolled right over, pointing into the back of the man’s head, so that all we could see was whiteness.
The stranger reached Dumbledore. He stretched out a hand that was as badly scarred as his face, and Dumbledore shook it, muttering words I couldn’t hear. He seemed to be making some enquiry of the stranger, who shook his head unsmilingly and replied in an undertone. Dumbledore nodded, and gestured the man to the empty sear on his right-hand side.

The stranger sat down, shook his mane of dark grey hair out of his face, pulled a plate of sausages towards him, raised it to what was left of his nose and sniffed it. He then took a small knife out of his pocket, speared a sausage on the end of it, and began to eat. His normal eye was fixed upon the sausages but the blue eye was still darting restlessly around in its socket, taking in the Hall and the students.

“May I introduce our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher,” said Dumbledore brightly, into the silence. “Professor Moody.”

It was usual for new staff members to be greeted with applause, but none of the staff or students clapped except Dumbledore and Hagrid. Both put their hands together and applauded, but the sound echoed dismally into the silence, and they stopped fairly quickly. Everyone else seemed too transfixed by Moody’s bizarre appearance to do more than stare at him.

“Moody?” Harry muttered to Ron. “Mad-Eye Moody? The one your dad went to help this morning?”

“Must be,” I said.

“What happened to him?” Hermione whispered. “What happened to his face?”

“Dunno,” I whispered back, watching Moody with fascination.

Moody seemed totally indifferent to his less-than-warm welcome. Ignoring the jug of pumpkin juice in front of him, he reached again into his travelling cloak, pulled out a hip-flask, and took a long draught from it. As he lifted his arm to drink, his cloak was pulled a few inches from the ground, and I saw, below the table, several inches of carved wooden leg, ending in a clawed foot.

Dumbledore cleared his throat again.

“As I was saying,” he said, smiling at the sea of students before him, all of whom were still gazing transfixed at Mad-Eye Moody, “we are to have the honour of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an even t which has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year.”

“You’re JOKING!” said Fred loudly.

The tension that had filled the Hall ever since Moody’s arrival suddenly broke. Nearly everyone laughed, and Dumbledore chuckled appreciatively.

“Dude, I think I’m deaf now,” I said, hitting Fred hard on the arm.

“I am not joking, Mr Weasley,” said Dumbledore, “though, now you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag and a leprechaun who all go into a bar –“
McGonagall cleared her throat loudly.

“Er – but maybe this is not the time... no...” said Dumbledore. “Where was I? Ah yes, the Triwizard Tournament... well, some of you will not know what this Tournament involves, so I hope those who do know will forgive me for giving a short explanation, and allow their attention to wander freely.

“The Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago, as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of wizardry – Hogwarts, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the Tournament once every five years, and it was generally agreed to be a most excellent way of establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities – until, that is, the death toll mounted so high that the Tournament was discontinued.”

“Death toll?” Hermione whispered, looking alarmed. But her anxiety did not seem to be shared by the majority of students in the Hall; many of them were whispering excitedly with each other, and I myself was far more interested in hearing more about the Tournament than in worrying about deaths that had happened hundreds of years ago.

“There have been several attempts over the centuries to re-instate the Tournament,” Dumbledore continued, “none of which have been very successful. However, our own Departments of International Magical Co-operation and Magical Games and Sports have decided the time is ripe for another attempt. We have worked hard over the summer to ensure that, this time, no champion will find himself or herself in mortal danger.

“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.”
“I’m going for it!” Fred hissed down the table, his face lit with enthusiasm at the prospect of such glory and riches. He was not the only person who seemed to be visualising them self as Hogwarts champion. At every house table, I could see people either gazing raptly at Dumbledore, or else whispering fervently to their neighbours. I could feel excitement burning its way through my veins. But then Dumbledore spoke again, and the Hall quietened once more.

“Eager though I know all of you will be to bring the Triwizard Cup to Hogwarts,” he said, “the Heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year. Only students who are of age 0 that is to say, seventeen years or older – will be allowed to put forward their names for consideration. This” – Dumbledore raised his voice slightly, for several people had made noises of outrage at these words, and Fred and George were suddenly looking furious – “is a measure we feel is necessary, given that the Tournament tasks will still be difficult and dangerous, whatever precautions we take, and it is highly unlikely that students below sixth and seventh year will be able to cope with them. I will personally ensure that no underage student hoodwinks our impartial judge into make them Hogwarts champion.” His light-blue eyes twinkled as they flickered over mine, Fred and George’s mutinous faces. “I therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are under seventeen.

“The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October, and remaining with us for the greater part of this year. I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our foreign guest while they are with us, and will give your whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected. And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rest as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!”

Dumbledore sat down again and turned to talk to Mad-Eye Moody. There was a great scraping and banging as all the students got to their feet, and swarmed towards the double doors into the Entrance Hall.

“They can’t do that!” said George, who had not joined the crowd moving towards the door, but was standing up and glaring at Dumbledore. “We’re seventeen in April, why can’t we have a shot?”

“They’re not stopping me entering,” I said stubbornly, also scowling at the top table, along with both the twins.

“The champions’ll get to do all sorts of stuff you’d never be allowed to do normally,” Fred said. “And a thousand Galleons prize money!”

“Yeah,” said Ron, a faraway look on his face. “Yeah, a thousand Galleons...”

“Come on,” said Hermione, “we’ll be the only ones left here if you don’t move.”

Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, George and I set off for the Entrance Hall, the twins and I debating the ways in which Dumbledore might stop those who were under seventeen entering the Tournament.

“Who’s the impartial judge who’s going to decide who the champions are?” said Harry.

“Dunno,” said Fred, “but it’s them we’ll have to fool. I reckon a couple of drops of Ageing Potion might do it for us, George; more than a couple for you, Blondie...”

“Dumbledore knows you’re not of age, though,” said Ron.

“Yeah, but he’s not the one who decides who the champion is, is he?” I said shrewdly. “Sounds to me like once this judge knows who wants to enter, he’ll choose the best from each school and never mind how old they are. Dumbledore’s trying to stop us giving our names.”

“People have died, though!” said Hermione in a worried voice, as we walked through a door concealed behind a tapestry and started up another, narrower staircase.

“Yeah,” said Fred airily, “but that was years ago, wasn’t it? Anyway, where’s the fun without a bit of risk? Hey, Ron, what if we find out how to get round Dumbledore? Fancy entering?”
“What d’you reckon?” Ron asked Harry. “Be cool to enter, wouldn’t it? But I s’pose they might want someone older... dunno if we’ve learnt enough...”

“I definitely haven’t,” came Neville’s gloomy voice from behind us. “I expect my gran’s want me to try, though, she’s always going on about how I should be upholding the family honour. I’ll just have to – ooops...”

Neville’s foot had sunk right through a step halfway up the staircase. There were many of these trick stairs at Hogwarts; it was second nature to most of the older students to jump this particular step, but Neville’s memory was notoriously poor. Harry and Ron seized him under the armpits and pulled him out, while a suit of armour at the top of the stairs creaked and clanked, laughing wheezily.

“Shut it, you,” I said, banging down its visor as we passed.

We made our way up to the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, which was concealed behind a large portrait of a fat lady in a pink silk dress.

“Password?” she said, as we approached.

“Balderdash,” said George, “a Prefect downstairs told me.”

The portrait swung forwards to reveal a hole in the wall, through which we all climbed. A crackling fire was warming the circular common room, which was full of squashy armchairs and tables. Hermione cast the merrily dancing flames a dark look, and I distinctly heard her mutter “slave labour”, before bidding us goodnight and heading to the girls’ dormitories.
Harry, Ron and Neville also left, to the boys’ dormitories, and I quickly walked over to where Fred and George had gone to sit. They were both on two armchairs by a window; but there weren’t any other chairs.

“I’m sitting on you,” I told Fred.

“No – Oh, OK then,” he said, as I had already sat down.

“So,” I said, kicking my legs over one of the arm rests, “how’re we gonna do it?”

We sat there for a while, planning. Finally, they decided they wanted to go to bed, but I wouldn’t get up.

“Come on, Coriander, get up,” Fred said.

“No,” I said, hiding my head into his neck more.

“Tickle her,” George suggested.

I moved slightly, so I could glare at him.

“This,” I said thickly, for I was about to fall asleep, “is why I didn’t sit on you.”

“Oh, good, I was worried that my breathe smelt bad or something.”

“Now, hush,” I told them, “I’m trying to sleep.”

“Oh, come on, Corey, not on me,” Fred moaned. “I want to go to bed.”

“Carry me,” I suggested.

“We can’t.”

“Why not?” I said.

“We can’t go up the stairs to the girls’ dormitory, it turns into a slide,” George informed me. I raised an eyebrow.

“How d’you know?” I asked.

“Because of reasons,” George said.

“Well, you two’ll just have to sleep down here, then,” I said, my eyelids dropping. I was unable to open them, for they were too heavy.

“Oh, no; I don’t have to sleep down here at all,” George said.

“That’s not fair –“ Fred started to complain.

“Shh,” I said, hitting him weakly on the chest. “I can’t sleep with you moving and talking all the time.”