mambasnake

The gray morning mist hung low over the Black Lake, coiling like ghostly serpents across its still surface. The crowd gathered on the shore in hushed anticipation, their eyes trained on the Triwizard Champions as they prepared for the second task. The chill in the air bit into Harry Potter's skin, but it wasn’t the cold that made his stomach churn—it was the mystery of what he would find beneath the surface, and the strange gillyweed wriggling like a bundle of wet worms in his hand. With a deep breath and a last glance at the expectant faces of his classmates and teachers, Harry popped the gillyweed into his mouth. Its rubbery texture made him gag, but he forced it down, bracing himself for the transformation. He had studied what it was supposed to do—gills, webbed hands and feet, the works—but the feeling that gripped him was not what he had been told to expect. A sharp pressure shot down through his legs like a current of magic, and he stumbled forward into the shallows with a cry.