"Where are they?" muttered Harry for the umpteenth time. He was cold, wearing nothing but swimming shorts that only went about halfway down his thighs. On his ankle, a knife was strapped in a leather sheath. Harry didn’t like the exposure, especially when he could see that half the crowd were staring at the back of his head. Were they looking at his muscles, his face, his burn scars or his arse? Either way, Harry didn’t like feeling self-conscious. Even bloody Fleur was staring openly at him.