Cedric stood up, took his empty mug back, and said, “Tomorrow, when that dragon looks at you — don’t think about winning. Think about flying.”
Harry hesitated, then took the mug. The tea was sweet and strong. It tasted like someone’s kitchen — not a castle’s, not a feast’s. Just a kitchen. A normal one.
“Why aren’t you panicking?” Harry asked. Harry Potter.4
He sat up, pulled on his trainers, and crept out into the Champions’ enclosure.
Ron was snoring in the next bed, still not talking to him. Hermione had sent him a message via a tiny, folded paper crane that morning: “Read about Swiveling Distraction Spells. Page 394.” But Harry had barely opened Magical Me without wanting to throw it across the tent. Cedric stood up, took his empty mug back,
“You’re thinking about running.”
The night was cold and clear. The maze for the Third Task was just a low hedge of stakes and spells in the distance. But the dragon enclosure — invisible by day behind trees and enchantments — was marked by a faint orange glow on the horizon. It tasted like someone’s kitchen — not a
“Oh, I am,” Cedric said easily. “I just hide it well. It’s the Hufflepuff way. We’re not brave like Gryffindors or clever like Ravenclaws. We just keep putting one foot in front of the other and hope the badgers are with us.”