THE TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT which was concealed behind a large portrait of a fat lady in a pink silk dress. “Password?” she said as they approached. “Balderdash,” said George, “a prefect downstairs told me.” The portrait swung forward to reveal a hole in the wall through which they all climbed. A crackling fire warmed the circular com- mon room, which was full of squashy armchairs and tables. Her- mione cast the merrily dancing flames a dark look, and Harry distinctly heard her mutter “Slave labor,” before bidding them good night and disappearing through the doorway to the girls’ dormitory. Harry, Ron, and Neville climbed up the last, spiral staircase un- til they reached their own dormitory, which was situated at the top of the tower. Five four-poster beds with deep crimson hangings stood against the walls, each with its owner’s trunk at the foot. Dean and Seamus were already getting into bed; Seamus had pinned his Ireland rosette to his headboard, and Dean had tacked up a poster of Viktor Krum over his bedside table. His old poster of the West Ham football team was pinned right next to it. “Mental,” Ron sighed, shaking his head at the completely sta- tionary soccer players. Harry, Ron, and Neville got into their pajamas and into bed. Someone — a house-elf, no doubt — had placed warming pans between the sheets. It was extremely comfortable, lying there in bed and listening to the storm raging outside. “I might go in for it, you know,” Ron said sleepily through the darkness, “if Fred and George find out how to . . . the tourna- ment . . . you never know, do you?” ‘ 191 ‘
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