Author's Note: Written for Blissbug's Inanimate Object Challenge on Elderly Harry Potter Fans. You make challenging challenges! Beta-read by my dear friend, SkylaraK.
Disclaimer: Recognizable characters, places, and situations are property of J.K. Rowling and her publishers. The Goblet's peculiar thoughts in the last bit are inspired by the online Surrealist Compliment Generator. If I can find the original author, I will add it in a later revision.
Light, full and blazing, rises from my rim. Shades of blue shift and change in the fire: the unearthly azure of a gas flame, the deep, purplish midnight of a wizard's best cloak, and the cool, inviting turquoise of a marble fountain. I have never seen any of these things, for I have no eyes. I am the Goblet of Fire, imbued by my makers with the powers of judgment and memory.
I exist for one purpose, to read the lives of young wizards. Hogwarts, Durmstrang, Beauxbatons: these names I know well.
The parchment itself has not changed much through the centuries. It tastes dry, tacky, and faintly redolent of cattle. The ink, as well, is constant, astringent. I consume the names of the unworthy, feeding my fire. Some, I hold aside to consider further.
The memories have changed the most. More wizard children are born in strange homes with no magic. Glowing boxes, almost as bright as my fire, show them moving pictures. Entire families sit motionless, holding fat wands of black or grey. The pictures flicker and change, like portraits changed out of a frame at lightning speed. Perhaps there is magic at work beyond my understanding.
The wizard-born have also changed. They dress strangely, wearing robes only at school. Gone are the cravats and vests, high boots and breeches. The young men wear peculiar blue trousers and shapeless, thin shirts with short sleeves. The girls have adopted boys' clothing, and changed their flowing gowns out for Scottish kilts, shorter than any Highlander would dare to don.
Many more of the hopeful are witches. Their gracefully written names yield stories of first love, of friendships, of how they fit – or do not fit – into their Houses and families of birth. The boys' names invoke their accomplishments, their Quidditch injuries, and their triumphs, large and small. These images lie at the surface. I need to know them deeply, completely, before I can choose.
Viktor Krum. A strong name, an old name, scribed with a dull pen. The ink splattered, leaving half a fingerprint behind on the paper. The boy fed my fire before the ink had dried, as if he feared changing his mind.
A symbol in the boy's mind glows with apprehension. I move further into this memory. A geometric drawing is inscribed in stone: a triangle holding a halved circle. Simple enough, but in the boy's mind, it shifts to the eye of a wild cat: rabid, unpredictable, waiting. The stone cat carries a bloody man in its jaws.
An old woman in russet-brown robes stands weeping on a windy hillside. There is no grave; the one she loves has vanished. She holds a small boy by the hand. Confused, he pulls closer to her. Darkness falls over the distant sea. Below them, in the valley, lie domed roofs and ancient colonnades. Peculiar globed lights flicker over the narrow streets, shining with pale green. The boy is afraid, but he stays with his grandmother, lending her what strength he can. He knows his grandfather only as an absence, and he knows what killed him only as a symbol.
The boy grows and his memories sharpen. His grandmother finds a second-hand broomstick in a dim and crowded junk shop. She presents Viktor with the gift, polished and repaired. Viktor runs to embrace his grandmother. Her laughter rings bright as trumpets.
The broomstick lies quiescent on the brown grass. Viktor's father shows him the stance, positions his hand to call the broom. At the touch of the smooth, age-worn handle, a prescient thrill leaps through Viktor's small body.
A winged, golden ball hovers at the edge of vision. Young Viktor charges it, catching the Snitch in his outstretched fingers. The stands are full of cheering children. Viktor is triumphant, but he is scolded at home, browbeaten. His marks are suffering.
A group of burly wizards crowd around the family table, drinking brandy and laughing. Their robes are flashy scarlet, trimmed with midnight black. A heavy sack of coins sits by Viktor's elbow. His mother glances at it, half with pride and half with sorrow.
Viktor's mother appears in better robes. She freshens their stone cottage and paints the shutters bright red. In the Quidditch stands, guilt and pleasure mingle in her eyes. Viktor's father and grandmother sit beside her, laughing and cheering.
Viktor Krum stays in school. Distrusting the trappings of fame, he works harder than ever, reaching for something he cannot quite grasp. Growing in power, he learns defensive spells and curses alike, drawing on light and darkness. The phantom symbol glows brighter in his mind. In his dreams, the pyramid shatters and an old man shuffles out. His grandmother cries out in joy. The stone wildcat crumbles, and the blood on its jaws turns to rust.
I choose Viktor Krum of Durmstrang. I choose Cedric Diggory of Hogwarts. Despite my astonishment at considering a part-human Champion, I choose Fleur Delacour of Beauxbatons. Tomorrow, I shall deliver them to glory, to distinction, to the end of all memory.
Pot her, Harry? His cleverness ferments meat without the need of oxygen. Hot Turkish coffee spills from the rim of my cup to stain the floor. Thirsty goats lap up the dark, spreading puddle. One plus two equals four. Four. Four. Triwizard. Four. Four Champions. Harry Potter.