Chapter 689: Harry's Tournament Experience
Since parting ways with Natalia, Harry hadn’t encountered any other competitors.
The silence of the Forest seemed to echo only with his own ragged breaths and the occasional, unidentifiable sound.
It made him wonder—had he taken the wrong path?
Maybe, when he’d veered off course earlier, he should’ve chosen another route…
Or perhaps someone had already reached the Trophy and was now preparing to depart.
He didn’t know—when a Champion appeared, would the remaining contestants be horned out one by one, or would someone simply take them away?
As he pressed forward, a flood of chaotic thoughts swirled through his mind.
He pulled out his Compass for the third time. After a moment of trembling, the needle finally stilled, stubbornly pointing in the same direction.
He hadn’t gone wrong.
But where were the others?
Could it be that while he’d been struggling through the maze of trees, the rest had already arrived near the Trophy and were locked in fierce battle?
And he—famous Harry Potter—was just a fool, wandering far from the battlefield, wrestling with thorns and vines.
By the time he reached the Trophy’s location, it would all be over.
For some reason, these thoughts automatically reshaped themselves in his mind—into Snape’s cold, mocking tone, layered over the sneering laughter of Slytherin students.
The imagined scene twisted his stomach into knots.
Harry wiped sweat from his face, suddenly realizing he had no idea how much time had passed.
The dense canopy of the Forbidden Forest blocked out the sky, leaving him utterly unsure whether it was afternoon or night.
A blue bird darted past him now and then, flitting close before suddenly pulling back and soaring into the high canopy.
Every time it approached, Harry felt an overwhelming urge to hide.
He didn’t know what the audience would think if they saw him—sweaty, panting, disheveled—would they laugh at Hogwarts for choosing someone so unfit to be Champion?
He gritted his teeth and forced himself forward, guided only by the Compass in the deepening shadows.
He walked for what felt like hours, only to keep stumbling into dead ends or impassable terrain.
He hadn’t realized how difficult navigating the Forest truly was.
Sweat soaked his shirt, clinging to his back. Every lift of his leg felt like moving through lead. He longed to collapse and rest.
He leaned against an ancient oak tree and pulled out the supplies Sirius Black had prepared for him:
A large bottle of chilled Pumpkin Juice, still cool to the touch, its surface beaded with tiny droplets of condensation;
A tin of beef pie, the crust golden-brown, the scent of savory meat wafting through the air;
A few energy bars in the shape of Buzzing Bee Candies, golden Snitch-shaped chocolates, and a large slice of Cream Cake.
Harry knew eating too much would impair his next move, so he restrained himself, consuming only half the pie.
But when he finally stood up, he felt heavier than before—like he’d eaten too much.
As he was stowing the rest back into his backpack, a strange click echoed above him.
Harry looked up.
A spider, as large as a carriage wheel, was slowly descending from the treetops.
Its eight black eyes gleamed coldly—unnervingly like Snape’s.
“Stupefy!”
Harry rolled aside, the red light striking the creature’s abdomen—but it had little effect, like throwing a stone at it.
The spider twitched, then dropped swiftly and charged forward with terrifying speed.
Harry dodged, casting spells in rapid succession:
“Stupefy! Obstacle Course! Stupefy!”
But nothing worked—well, nothing noticeable.
The spider inched forward, its movements jerky and relentless.
Harry’s spells didn’t stop it—they only seemed to enrage it.
With a sudden lunge, the creature sprang, its pincers slashing through the air.
Harry barely dodged, but the force of the attack tore his backpack’s strap, scattering supplies across the ground.
Just as the spider pinned him down with its front legs, Harry instinctively shouted his most familiar spell:
“Expelliarmus!”
To his utter surprise, the spider released him.
Seizing the split-second opening, Harry roared:
“Blazing Flame Spell!”
The spider’s black, hairy body erupted in flames. It shrieked in panic, scrambling backward, curling into a tight ball, flailing its limbs to extinguish the fire.
It refused to approach him again, but its eyes—sharp, calculating—never left him.
Harry’s instincts screamed: It’s sizing up my fire spell. It’s testing whether my magic can truly threaten it.
He leapt to his feet and raised his wand again.
“Patronus Charm!”
A silver stag burst from the tip of his wand—vivid, powerful, alive.
The Patronus moved with grace and strength, its hooves pounding the earth with a steady thud-thud-thud.
The stag charged, its antlers striking the spider’s eye with a sickening crack.
The Acromantula shrieked in agony.
As the Patronus charged again, the spider abandoned the fight, turning and fleeing into the darkness, scuttling away in terror.
Harry collapsed, panting, wand still clenched in his hand.
When he tried to stand, a sharp pain shot through his shoulder.
A deep, jagged wound bled freely, each breath scorching like fire.
He hadn’t even felt it when the spider’s pincers had torn through his skin—so overwhelmed by fear, he’d been numb.
The Patronus, now gone, had vanished without a trace.
Harry rested for a moment, then gritted his teeth and rummaged through his backpack.
He pulled out a small vial of White Fresh Perfume—thankfully unbroken in the chaos.
The wound, like a tiny, hungry mouth, opened wide.
As the potion touched it, it bubbled violently.
Harry gasped, clenching his fist.
But within minutes, the flesh knit together before his eyes.
The wound sealed into a fresh, pink scar.
After a brief rest, he pushed himself up, legs still weak, but his resolve hardened.
He checked the Compass again—the needle pointed straight ahead.
This time, he didn’t veer off.
He pushed aside weeds, used spells to clear thickets, and heaved himself over a massive, fallen log.
The forest opened before him.
Before him lay a stretch of soft, emerald grass, smooth and inviting.
Beyond it rose a towering Thorn Wall—so high and thick with jagged spikes that it made the heart sink.
Only a narrow, low tunnel pierced through the barrier.
“If something like that spider is inside… I don’t think I’d be able to get through,” Harry murmured.
The Patronus had vanished.
He paused for a moment on the grass, then stepped forward—without hesitation—into the tunnel.
…
In the stands, someone muttered:
“Only me, or does Harry’s Tournament painting look completely different from the others?”
Fudge’s round ears twitched. He heard it.
His face twitched slightly.
To be fair, despite his dislike for Dumbledore’s chosen Savior, Harry Potter’s journey in the Tournament was exactly what Fudge had envisioned.
Champions enduring the dangers of the Forest—beasts, twisted plants, Ministry traps, each other—competing or cooperating, culminating in a final, fierce battle before the Triwizard Cup…
Just like a Quidditch match, where the Seeker grabs the Golden Snitch and the victory horn sounds.
But who could have guessed?
Wade Gray had rewritten the entire Tournament—turning it into a battle against Magic Puppets.
And now, Harry Potter—whose path was ordinary, unaltered—stood out all the more.
“Did Wade Gray hold back? Why didn’t the Magic Puppets attack him?”
The crowd buzzed with speculation.
“But Cedric was the first to be eliminated!”
“I heard Potter and Gray are friends… but what happens at the Trophy? Will they share the Cup together?”
“Hey—wait—look! The Magic Puppet’s appeared!”
On the screen, a Lizard Magic Puppet slipped silently into the painting—its eyes rolling unnaturally, fixed on the direction Harry had departed.
(End of Chapter)
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