Before they even reached the headmaster's office, Moody was already bellowing.
"Dumbledore! Dumbledore!"
But the gargoyle guarding the door paid no heed to his shouts of "Dumbledore," not even deigning to glance at him. It simply squatted in place, lost in its own reverie.
"Open up!" Moody lowered his head to glare at the gargoyle.
"Password," the gargoyle said flatly.
"I don't know any bloody password!" Moody roared. "There's a student in this school who can cast the Killing Curse with ease, and I need to ask the headmaster what the hell he's playing at!"
"Password." If the gargoyle could make expressions, it would surely be rolling its eyes.
Folks, who gets it? I'm dying over here.
No matter how urgent your business—even if someone set the school on fire—you need the password to enter the Hogwarts headmaster's office. Right?
That's the rule!
But soon enough, the door to the office swung open. Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic, stepped out, his expression oddly inscrutable.
"Alastor." Fudge greeted Moody warmly upon seeing him.
Moody said nothing, merely nodding in acknowledgment.
Fudge seemed accustomed to Moody's curtness; he didn't take offense, just gave him a peculiar look before turning to leave, as if he had pressing matters to attend to.
Through the open door, Moody dragged Harry inside.
"Albus! Albus!"
They ascended the spiral staircase and entered the headmaster's office, where Dumbledore sat behind his desk, seemingly deep in thought.
Seeing Moody hauling Harry along, Dumbledore let out a soft "Oh" and snapped back to attention.
"Oh, Alastor." He looked up with a twinkling smile, his piercing blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles gleaming with wisdom. "What wind blows you here?"
"I need you to listen," Moody growled, shooting Harry a venomous glance. "Just now, in class, this student cast the Killing Curse with the skill of You-Know-Who himself—"
"Oh, I see." Dumbledore seemed utterly unsurprised, smiling serenely. "And what do you make of it? Do you think the Savior who defeated Voldemort will now join him and become a proud Death Eater?"
"Eat a—"
What a question. Moody had no answer.
"Or perhaps," Dumbledore continued, "you believe he'll become the next Dark Lord?"
"I have every reason to suspect!" Moody snarled, glaring daggers at Harry.
"Relax, Alastor." Dumbledore waved a casual hand. "You know as well as I do that wizards sometimes produce natural spellcasters—like my old friend, a born Legilimens. Perhaps, because of Voldemort's Killing Curse all those years ago, Harry has become a natural master of it. After all, as a wise man once said, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger…"
You know what? Dumbledore's little speech left Moody speechless.
He glanced at Dumbledore, then at Harry.
Just as he opened his mouth to retort, something occurred to him. He reached for his pocket—and came up empty.
He fixed Harry with a furious glare and snapped, "Mark my words, boy—I'll be watching you. Even if you are Harry Potter!"
With that, he limped out of the office.
"What's his problem?" Harry turned to Dumbledore.
"You know how it is," Dumbledore said with a shrug. "Years as an Auror leave a mark—paranoia, mostly. His retirement's been… successful, in a way. He causes the odd bit of trouble, but it's rare. Ever since he retired, though, he's been jumpy. That magical eye of his swivels constantly, scanning for threats. He only drinks from that hip flask of his—rose-colored, mind you—terrified someone's trying to poison him. And he trusts no food, not even if a friend cooked it."
"PTSD?" Harry asked.
"Perhaps." Dumbledore smiled. "Now, Harry, since you're here—there's something I'd like your opinion on. Would you like to enter the Triwizard Tournament?"
Would I like to enter the Triwizard Tournament?
Should I say yes? Or no?
Harry thought for a moment, then decided to recycle the line he'd used on his friends.
He struck a pose—one hand in his pocket, head tilted forty-five degrees to the sky, exuding noble sacrifice.
"Though I seek no glory, I consider it my duty to bring honor to the school. If the hopes of all rest upon me, and only by becoming a champion can I serve Hogwarts best, then I must shoulder the burden, casting aside all personal desire."
Dumbledore: …
Cheeky little—
You want to play it like that?
Anyone would think you're running for Prime Minister, not entering a tournament.
"Very well, then," Dumbledore said with a nod. "It's settled. You'll represent Hogwarts in the Triwizard Tournament. How's that?"
"Is that how it works?" Harry scratched his head. "I thought there'd be some… special process."
"Usually, yes," Dumbledore explained. "Each school's champion is chosen by a magical object called the Goblet of Fire. Each school may enter one champion. Anyone wishing to compete writes their name and school on a piece of parchment and places it in the Goblet. After a few days, the Goblet spits out the names of the three students it deems most worthy to represent their schools."
"Can you control the Goblet?" Harry asked curiously.
"Of course." Dumbledore smiled. "The champions are already decided. Beauxbatons' champion is Fleur Delacour. Durmstrang's is Viktor Krum… We three headmasters agreed on it. For Hogwarts, I was torn between you and Cedric."
Harry's jaw dropped. He'd thought the Goblet actually chose.
"Isn't that a bit… rigged?" he asked.
"That's not for you to worry about, Harry." Dumbledore winked. "My answer is—no comment."
"Fair enough." Harry shrugged.
On Friday, Dumbledore announced early that something regarding the Triwizard Tournament would be revealed in the Great Hall that evening.
The students buzzed with excitement, clustering in groups to speculate who the champions would be.
That night, the hall was packed.
At the staff table, two new faces had joined: Ludo Bagman and Barty Crouch.
Once everyone was seated, Dumbledore rose.
"The moment has arrived," he said, smiling at the sea of upturned faces. "The Triwizard Tournament is about to begin. A few words of explanation before we bring in the casket—"
At his cue, Filch, who had been lurking by the doors, spun on his heel and vanished.
No one noticed; all eyes were on Dumbledore.
"I must outline this year's proceedings," he continued, "but first, allow me to introduce our guests, for some of you may not know them. This is Mr. Barty Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation."
Scattered applause.
"And this is Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports."
Both men stood. Crouch remained stiff and expressionless. Bagman, however, beamed and waved enthusiastically.
The applause for Bagman was far louder—perhaps due to his fame as a Beater, or perhaps because he seemed so genuinely friendly.
"I don't like Crouch," Ron muttered to Harry. "He looks like a right prat. You?"
"Same," Harry whispered back.
"Over the past months, Mr. Bagman and Mr. Crouch have worked tirelessly to organize the Triwizard Tournament," Dumbledore went on. "They will join me, Professor Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime as judges, evaluating the champions' performances."
At the word champions, the hall grew hushed.
Dumbledore noticed and smiled. "Mr. Filch, the casket, please."
No one had seen Filch return, but there he was, shuffling forward with a large, jewel-encrusted wooden casket that looked ancient.
The students stared, whispering excitedly.
Dennis Creevey stood on his chair for a better view, but even then, his head barely cleared the crowd.
"You putting your name in?" Ron whispered to Harry. "We've got no decent seventh-years in Gryffindor. I don't want that pretty boy Diggory stealing our glory."
"I already talked to Dumbledore," Harry replied. "Don't worry—I'm in."
"Good man." Ron grinned, clapping Harry on the back.
Their conversation went unnoticed; all eyes were on the Goblet of Fire.
At the staff table, Dumbledore had finished explaining the tournament.
"As you know," he said calmly, "three champions will compete, one from each school. They will be scored on their performance in each task. At the end, the champion with the highest score wins the Triwizard Cup. The selector is impartial—it is the Goblet of Fire."
Harry nearly snorted.
Impartial selector, my arse.
You sure that cup's fair?
Dumbledore tapped the casket thrice with his wand. The lid creaked open.
He reached in and withdrew a large, roughly carved wooden goblet.
It was plain, but filled with dancing blue-white flames.
Dumbledore closed the casket and set the Goblet atop it, where all could see.
"Guess what kind of fire that is?" Seamus craned his neck. "Bet it's some seriously advanced magic…"
"Gubraithian Fire?" Hermione said uncertainly. "It matches the description… but I'm not sure…"
"Any student wishing to compete," Dumbledore said, "must write their name and school on a piece of parchment and place it in the Goblet. You have twenty-four hours. Tomorrow night, the Goblet will announce the three names it deems most worthy to represent their schools. Tonight, it will be in the Entrance Hall, accessible to all."
He added, "Students under seventeen may, before tomorrow's deadline, express their desire to compete to their Head of House. We will discuss and decide if you are suitable."
The house tables erupted in cheers.
Under seventeen, with discussion?
Long live the headmaster!
But Dumbledore wasn't done.
"Finally," he said gravely, "I must warn those considering entering: this tournament is no game. Do not enter lightly. Once chosen, a champion must see it through. Placing your name in the Goblet forms a binding magical contract."
His gaze swept the hall, and the excitement cooled.
"Once chosen, there is no turning back. Be certain—absolutely certain—before you submit your name."
The stern warning delivered, Dumbledore winked.
"Now, off to bed. Good night."
With that, he turned and left the Great Hall.
--
Support me & read more advance & fast update chapter on my pa-treon:
pat reon .c-om/windkaze