Chapter Four
Harry felt numb as he walked to the top table. He didn't seem to get any nearer to it.
He had not put his name in, and yet, it came out.
Just his luck.
Dumbledore, unsmiling, directed him to a chamber off the Great Hall.
Harry was aware of the angry buzz behind him as he walked on along the row of dumbfounded teachers towards the chamber. Of course, people were going to blame him.
Just as always.
He entered the chamber and stood there, not knowing what to say or what to do until Bagman showed up to proclaim Harry Potter the forth champion.
Krum's expression changed from sour to angry. Diggory looked confused. The French girl had the audacity to say that Harry shouldn't compete because he was a little boy. Bagman, on the other hand, seemed to be rather taken with idea of having an underage champion.
Then a group of adults – Dumbledore followed closely by Crouch, Karkaroff, Maxime, McGonagall, and Snape – rushed into the room, arguing about who was to blame, whose fault this whole mess was, and who should be held responsible.
Harry had a nasty feeling that the answer to all three questions was going to be Harry Potter, and indeed, events unfolded themselves in their usual way. Snape accused Harry of rule breaking, making it sound as if breaking rules was the only thing Harry had ever done in his life. McGonagall bristled and insisted that Dumbledore's word should be good enough for everyone, foreign guests included. Dumbledore's word, or rather his words, were both firm and polite, but didn't explain or clear up anything.
So, the arguing went on – mostly about what the rules actually said and whether or not the other schools should also be allowed a second champion. Nobody was overly concerned with Harry's protestations that he had not put his name in and that he did not wish to compete.
Moody joined the group at some point and presented a moderately rational theory as to why Harry's name had come out of the Goblet. Karkaroff sniped at him for it, and Dumbledore dismissed the explanation as merely academic because Harry had to compete regardless of how his name had found its way into the Goblet.
Binding magical contract – the phrase turned Harry's insides cold. He briefly wondered what the penalty might be if he refused and decided that perhaps he might be better off not knowing.
Just then, the door opened.
Professor Sprout stood there, accompanied by Draco Malfoy, who managed to look smug and anxious at the same time.
"Headmaster, can't you stop that Goblet before it spits out more names of minors?" Professor Sprout asked. "I don't understand how underage students could possibly have put their names in while an age line was in place, but Mr Malfoy's just came out."
Even Dumbledore looked stunned by this piece of news.
The quickest to recover was Maxime.
"A zird champion for 'Ogwarts? Zis is unacceptable!" she said, glaring at the Hogwarts teachers. "Outrageous and absolutely unacceptable!"
Karkaroff, smiling a fake smile, asked, "Tell me, Dumbledore, did I perhaps overlook the passage saying Triwizard Tournament refers to the three champions Hogwarts is allowed?"
While Dumbledore tried to soothe the two incensed guests with balmy words, Snape stepped away from the group and advanced on Malfoy, who seemed still undecided about whether he should gloat or protest.
"Mr Malfoy," Snape said silkily, "the age line was there for a reason. The tasks require N.E.W.T level skills and knowledge. There may also be a certain measure of danger."
Malfoy's pale complexion grew a shade paler.
"Who did you bribe to put your name in?" Snape demanded. He was nose to nose now with Malfoy, and his eyes were boring into those of the boy.
"N-nobody," Malfoy stuttered, his lip quivering.
"I see," Snape said softly.
He let Malfoy alone in favour of bearing down on Harry again, "Thought it was funny to enter not only your name but also the names of others, did you? You ought to be expelled for wilfully endangering the life and health of one of my students-"
But Harry had had enough.
"I most certainly did not!" he exploded. "I did not put my name in! There was an age line I couldn't cross. I'm fourteen, for goodness sake! If this tournament is so dangerous, than my life and health are at stake as well. Did you perhaps think of that?"
"No," Snape stated flatly.
"Well, that figures," Harry spat, still seething.
He fell silent, though, and listened to the angry shouting that suddenly came from the Great Hall. The door was still open, although Professor Sprout had left.
"Oh my," breathed McGonagall. "What's going on out there?"
"Professor Dumbly-dorr, Meester Bagman, what is ze meaning of zis?" asked the Beauxbatton champion. "Why do names of 'Ogwarts students keep coming out of ze Goblet?"
Neither man answered her because Professor Sprout was leading a first year girl into the chamber, a crying first year girl with a Hufflepuff crest on her robes.
Sprout seemed on the verge of tears, too.
"Albus, you must stop this!" she pleaded.
"I am afraid I do not know how," Dumbledore said sadly.
The girl was shaking.
"I – did – not – put – my – name – in," she brought out between sobs. "I swear!"
Sprout pulled her to the side where they sat down on a freshly conjured-up straw bale.
"Mon dieu," Maxime breathed.
Karkaroff eyed the small, skinny girl – she was little more than four feet tall – with unveiled derision.
"Albus, I think Moody must be right," McGonagall turned to the headmaster. "Somebody did tamper with the Goblet."
"Oh, indeed?" Snape sneered. "How do you know this isn't just Potter's idea of a 'joke'? His father-"
"Honestly, Severus!" McGonagall snapped. "This is not the time for-"
A new eruption of noise in the Great Hall drowned out what it wasn't the time for.
Everybody in the chamber turned to the open door where Professor Flitwick appeared, looking mildly befuddled.
It was then that things became truly weird.
"The Goblet of Fire emitted the name of Peter Pettigrew," Flitwick announced.
"But that's ridiculous!" Bagman exclaimed. "He's dead."
Snape, glaring maliciously at Harry, asked, "Care to explain that one, Potter?"
"No, I don't," Harry said simply.
An uneasy silence followed. The mood in the chamber had shifted. Moody's marred face was darkened with worry. The champions, the original three, had moved away from the fireplace and were sulking in the far corner. They probably felt that they had been robbed of the place in the spotlight that should rightfully have been theirs for months to come. Karkaroff wore a pronounced frown, McGonagall was wringing her hands, and even Dumbledore's eyes had stopped twinkling.
Harry wondered whether he was the only one in the room besides the headmaster who knew that Pettigrew was, in fact, not dead.
At length, Maxime turned to Flitwick, "I would like an explanation. 'Oo is zis man? Is 'e another champion for 'Ogwarts? And why is Meester Bagman saying 'e is dead?"
"No, he is not another champion, Madame," Flitwick answered. "At least, I don't see how he could possibly take part in the Tournament. It's been nearly thirteen years that he was murdered."
"But zis is absurd!" Maxime said. "Tres absurde!"
The noise in the Great Hall rose again, and Flitwick left to check what was going on.
McGonagall, in the meantime, turned to Dumbledore.
"Goodness, Albus, this has to stop! We have already three underage students who'll have to compete," she said, shooting a furtive glance at the Hufflepuff girl. "Whoever put in all those names can't be up to anything good."
"I agree with Minerva," Moody growled while he made slowly his way to the door. "There is definitely something off here. I'll go and make sure that matters won't get entirely out of hand."
"Moody, wait!" Bagman cried in alarm. "You can't just grab the Goblet when it is still alight. Isn't that so, Crouch? Crouch, say something!"
Crouch looked at Bagman blankly. Maybe he was ill; he gave the impression of having difficulty to follow the conversation.
Moody scowled at Crouch.
"Crouch, what happens when we just knock the damn thing over?" he barked.
"The choosing process must not be interfered with," Crouch said dispassionately. He was almost drowned out by a new commotion in the Great Hall.
"Alastor, wait," Dumbledore said. He had to raise his voice to be heard above the whooping that was coming from the Great Hall. "There is nothing you could do at this stage. I would rather you-"
He was interrupted by the returning Flitwick.
"Headmaster, the name of the Minister came out of the Goblet! Cornelius Fudge!"
The peculiar piece of news was met with cries of outrage and disbelief.
Once they had died down Dumbledore asked Crouch, "How much time does the minister have to come here, Barty?"
Again, Crouch seemed unable to comprehend the question.
Bagman answered in his stead, "One hour. Any chosen champion must walk into this chamber here within an hour of the choosing and not leave before receiving the briefing about the first task. Failure to do so means forfeiting, and forfeiting means losing one's magic, maybe even one's life."
So this was the penalty for refusing to compete! Harry wasn't sure whether he felt more horrified or angry. Whoever had put all these names in must have been out of their mind he thought with a glance at the first year Hufflepuff. The girl stared at Bagman, rigid with fear.
Even the original champions were startled. All three were hurriedly checking the time – Diggory glanced at his wristwatch, Krum glared daggers at a pocket watch he had brought out, and the French girl consulted a gleaming golden timepiece that was dangling from a likewise golden chain around her neck.
Malfoy, having recovered enough from the shock to be capable of speech, screeched, "I can lose my magic or my life because no proper safety measures were taken with this Goblet? My father will hear about this!"
"Yes, I am sure he will, Mr Malfoy," Dumbledore replied nonchalantly. Turning back to the ministry officials, he said, "Fetch Fudge. Make sure to impress on him the gravity of his situation."
Bagman made to move, but Dumbledore held him back.
"Not you, Ludovic. You have to do the briefing. Barty, you will go. Filius will assist you with an emergency Portkey."
"Of course," said Flitwick, nodding at Crouch. "Come with me, sir."
But Crouch dithered, looking uncertainly from face to face.
"Dammit, Crouch, do what you're told!" bellowed Moody.
He grabbed Crouch by the arm and dragged him forcibly out of the room.
Flitwick, about to follow, paused briefly to say, "Well, I'm afraid I have more bad news. Right before the minister was chosen, the name of another dead man came out of the Goblet: Bartemius Crouch Jnr."
Both Moody and Crouch, just outside the door, fell.
Crouch scrambled to his feet with surprising swiftness. Showing a vigour that was completely at odds with his previous lethargy, he hastened away with Flitwick.
Moody, however, lay on his back, flailing his arms and the good leg awkwardly.
Harry, seeing the pitiful struggle, acted on impulse, as was his habit, and ran to help. He had barely taken two steps, though, when he tripped. He smashed face-first onto the flagstones, and the Great Hall erupted into pandemonium. There were jeers and boos and riotous laughter.
Harry felt mortified. He knew the racket coming from the Great Hall couldn't possibly mean him, but he had just been a heartbeat away from becoming a squib! Why was he so totally unable to think before he rushed into action? Just for once? To save his own life and magic?
The embarrassment burnt in his cheeks like fire.
His lower lip burned too, and he could taste blood in his mouth. He pushed himself up into a kneeling position and checked for broken bones. When he found that he could move all limbs he got up and turned to see who had saved him from his own idiocy by casting a Trip Jinx on him.
Nobody had their wand out. Nobody was even looking his way. Dumbledore and McGonagall were brushing past on either side of him. Sprout was on her feet, crying something about getting the school nurse. Everybody else was staring in horror towards the door. Outside, on the floor, Moody was convulsing.
While Sprout ran to fetch Pomfrey, Dumbledore and McGonagall knelt next to their colleague, but it was obvious that they didn't know what to do about the tremors.
Snape strode to the door, presumably to join Dumbledore and McGonagall in not being able to help Moody. He was knocked back by Professor Vector who came barrelling in at precisely the moment he had reached the threshold. He crash-landed on the flagstones just like Harry a minute before. Unlike Harry, he got to his feet with cat-like grace. Needless to say, he was absolutely livid.
The chubby Arithmancy professor, wheezing, held up both hands in a placating manner.
"Couldn't let you," she panted. "Your name came out."
"Bollocks!" Snape spat. "I never put my name in!"
"Doesn't matter," Vector countered, still out of breath. "It came out. I wonder who did this and what they were thinking. A first year, two dead men – what is the meaning of all this?"
"Ask Potter," Snape hissed. Unspeakable fury flashed on his face as he fixed Harry with a venomous glare.
"Potter?" cried Vector incredulously. "You can't seriously suggest a student did this! There was an age line, and it held. I saw it with my own eyes this morning. Besides, why would Mr Potter put in the name of Crouch's son? How would he know Crouch has had a son in the first place? It's not as if our history books are all that uncensored!"
"Who is zis man Crouch?" asked Maxime. She stepped closer to Vector, shunting aside Snape with her sheer bodily presence. "Is 'e related to Meester Crouch from ze ministry?"
Harry used his chance to edge away from the adults and towards the straw bale. Pointing to the vacant place, he asked the Hufflepuff girl softly, "Mind if I sit here?"
She shook her head. Her face was blotchy from crying.
"Hi," he said, making himself comfortable on the bale, "I'm Harry."
"I'm Rita." She held out her hand for him to shake. "Pleased to meet you."
"Same here."
In silence, they watched Madam Pomfrey's frantic spell casting. McGonagall transfigured a tartan handkerchief into a stretcher, and Sprout held it steady while Pomfrey levitated the still violently convulsing Moody onto it. Dumbledore stood by.
The other adults were talking about Barty Crouch's son, a former Death Eater who had died in Azkaban some years ago. The conversation was somewhat subdued because everyone except Snape kept glancing at what was going on outside the door. Snape kept shooting murderous looks at Harry.
The girl sitting next to Harry shifted anxiously.
"Will Professor Moody be all right?" she asked softly.
"Well, he's pretty tough you know," Harry said, but he wasn't sure at all. A fall might result in broken bones or maybe in a concussion. But a seizure like this? Moody was positively thrashing around. Even with magic, the three witches had difficulty to secure him on the stretcher.
"I didn't think it would be like this," Rita said. "I thought it would be more along the lines of turning pumpkins into carriages."
"You're Muggleborn?" Harry asked.
"I know that word, but I don't like it. It makes it sound as if my parents were lesser humans."
"Um, I didn't mean any offence." Apparently, nobody had called her a Mudblood, yet. "I thought it was the official term."
"Yes, I know. Being an 'official' word only makes it more degrading," she said gloomily. "Do you think they will let me talk to my parents? About this tournament and how dangerous it is?"
Harry didn't know what to reply. The Dursleys weren't the least bit interested in how he fared at Hogwarts, but how much did Hermione's parents know about this school and the bad things that happened to their daughter year after year?
"Yeah, I thought so," Rita sighed when Harry didn't respond. "Professor Sprout is nice enough, but she didn't even know what a telephone was when I asked back in September. And the mail is awfully slow. It takes weeks for a reply to get here. I've had only two letters from my parents so far even though I've written them every other day."
"Perhaps your parents need a bit more time to get used to owl post," Harry offered.
"No, I don't have an owl. Nobody told me I'd need one. I give the letters to Professor Sprout, and she gives them to some ministry employee."
"To be honest, I don't really know how that works," Harry said. He had never bothered to inquire about how Hermione communicated with her parents. "But I have a friend who is also Mu... well, her parents are dentists and not magical. I can introduce you if you like."
"That would be great!"
A weak smile lit up the girl's features. It vanished when a fresh wave of noise crashed through the Great Hall.
"That thing churned out another champion," she said with a shudder.
All heads turned to the open door in anticipation of the next shocking piece of news. The hall outside was empty; Pomfrey and the others had left for the hospital wing, but only a couple of seconds passed before Professor Burbage ran past.
"Stop!" she shouted. "Headmaster, stop! Wait!"
The clamour in the Great Hall was swelling and swelling. Gradually, the noise morphed into rhythmic boos that were soon met with likewise rhythmic shouts of, "Dumbledore, Dumbledore!"
On cue, Dumbledore stepped into the chamber.
Professor Burbage came with him. She looked around, shrugged, and said, "I'm afraid our headmaster has been chosen as a champion."
"Incroyable!" Maxime cried. "C'est tres incroyable!"
"Dumbledore a champion?" exclaimed Karkaroff. "Now, that takes the biscuit!"
"Well, I'm afraid it cannot be helped," said Dumbledore. "We can but hope that the Goblet of Fire exhausts itself soon. In the meanwhile, I suggest that everyone who has not yet been chosen as a champion leaves the chamber."
"No, Dumbly-dorr!" said Maxime, scowling. "I will not leave ze only champion for Beauxbatons among an 'orde of 'Ogwarts people!"
"I won't leave, either," said Karkaroff. "Frankly, I don't trust you as far as I can throw you, Dumbledore. If you think you can pull another stunt here while my back is turned, then you are sorely mistaken."
So, only Vector and Burbage left. Dumbledore closed the door behind them.
"Ludovic, perhaps we should proceed," he said.
Bagman, looking distinctly uncomfortable, shook his head.
"I would rather wait for the minister."
"I give a dragon's fart about etiquette at this point," Karkaroff snapped. "This whole thing is most irregular, so stop fussing and start briefing already!"
"Well, yes," said Bagman, "but we were planning a task for three champions. Perhaps we could make arrangements for a fourth one at such short notice, but nine? We'll need more funds at least, and we may have to reschedule the first task. I can't make these decisions alone."
"That is your problem, not ours," Krum spoke up. "Ve have one hour, and my name came out first. I vould really vant for you to hurry up."
"I appreciate your situation, Mr Krum. However, there is more than a quarter of an hour left to do the briefing in time," Dumbledore said in an attempt to placate the Durmstrang champion.
Krum, looking more sullen than ever, was about to retort when the door flew open to reveal a red-faced, breathless Poppy Pomfrey.
"Headmaster, I'm afraid I have to tell you that my patient died."
Rita, next to Harry, gasped. In the shocked silence following Pomfrey's words, it was a very loud sound. The girl blushed and hid her face in her hands.
"I am very sorry to hear that," Dumbledore said gravely. "He was a good friend."
"You think that, do you?" asked Pomfrey. It sounded like an accusation. "Well, the good news is my patient wasn't Moody. The bad news is the man who died five minutes ago right under my hands has officially died once before – in Azkaban. Minerva recognised him when he changed into his true form. The Dark Mark on his arm is hard to miss, too. Headmaster, you've had Bartemius Crouch Jnr teaching in your school!"
For once, Dumbledore seemed to have to strive for a reply.
People around the room were shuddering, worry evident in their expressions. The faces of both Snape and Karkaroff were chalk-white. Malfoy trembled like a leaf, and Rita was crying again.
Harry patted her on the shoulder. What else could he do? He wasn't going to lie to her and say that the teachers would be sure to sort things out. The experience of the previous three years had taught him not to hope for too much help from that direction.
What had he expected from a wizarding school besides learning how to transfigure a pumpkin into a carriage? He had hoped his life would be better – less chores and no Harry Hunting. At the moment, it felt more like he had got out of the frying pan and into the fire.
His thoughts strayed to Pettigrew. If the man who had sold Harry's parents to Voldemort died from losing his magic, than maybe all hope of ever proving Sirius's innocence was lost and Harry's only chance at a normal life with it. Well, at a life as normal as it could get in the wizarding world.
He was pulled out of his thoughts when Pomfrey, who had been quietly arguing with Dumbledore, took a step backwards and said loudly, "No, headmaster, we will not wait for you! Minerva's found a ring of keys in Crouch's pocket, and she's gone with Flora searching for Moody. There is a good chance he's still alive because Crouch needed the hairs, and he had to keep him close by, too."
With that, she slammed the door shut. The bang made Karkaroff jump and Snape scowl.
Maxime advanced on Dumbledore, questioning rather brusquely his ability to run a school. Dumbledore tried to wriggle out in his usual way – forming convoluted sentences that contained little to no actual information.
Rita pulled timidly at Harry's sleeve.
"This man was a criminal, right? And he pretended to be Professor Moody?" she whispered. "Why didn't anyone notice?"
"There is a potion called Polyjuice that makes you look like somebody else," Harry whispered back. "From what Madam Pomfrey said, he was using it."
"How did she find out?"
"Well, I think she said it wore off. You have to drink this potion every hour or else you'll change back to your normal appearance," Harry explained in a hushed voice.
"Yes, he was always drinking from his hip flask, wasn't he?" Rita said. "Some older students said he was afraid somebody would try to poison him."
Harry nodded, glancing towards Maxime and Dumbledore.
Seizing the chance to ask his question while most were distracted by the ongoing argument about Dumbledore's shortcomings, he said under his breath, "Rita, did you perhaps see who put that Trip Jinx on me earlier?"
"You think somebody made you fall?" she asked back, startled.
She had spoken louder than before and Malfoy, who had sidled over unnoticed, unfortunately had heard.
"Nobody jinxed you," he sneered. "You stepped on the hem of your robes, you imbecile!"
Harry allowed himself a small sigh of relief. At least, he didn't owe anyone a life debt on top of everything else.
Simultaneously, Malfoy's face fell as he propably realised he had just passed up a colossal opportunity by not claiming that he had been the one who had saved the Boy-Who-Lived with a well-placed Trip Jinx.
Before he got a chance to vent his anger, Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge, wearing a long, pinstriped cloak and a lime-green bowler hat, strode into the room.
"Albus, what is this nonsense?" he blustered. "I'm dragged off during dinner because you think I'll lose my magic?"
Dumbledore ignored him. Instead, he gave Flitwick and Percy Weasley, who had followed Fudge into the room, a curt nod and asked them to leave. They complied wordlessly, and Dumbledore closed the door once more.
"Good evening, Cornelius," he then said. "May I ask where Barty Crouch is?"
"Crouch?" Fudge frowned. "Why, at the ministry, of course. He is presently organising an investigation into this... bit of unpleasantness. On my explicit orders, I might add!"
"Minister Fudge, sir," Bagman butted in quickly, "I'm afraid I have bad news. Regrettably, the Goblet of Fire emitted your name. You know the rules, you'll have to-"
"I'll have to?" Fudge sputtered. "I'm the minister! You're not telling me what I'll have to do, Bagman!"
"Cornelius, please, calm down," Dumbledore said. "We can discuss the finer points later."
"Finer points, Dumbledore? I'm not going to compete in this tournament, so you had better find a solution for this mess!"
"Cornelius, if there were a solution, I would not have to compete myself," Dumbledore replied.
"You? Are you saying I'll have to compete with you?" Fudge asked, gobsmacked.
"Minister, it can't be helped," Bagman said, now sounding a bit desperate. "The Goblet of Fire elected eleven champions, including you, sir, and Dumbledore."
"Eleven?" Fudge cried, looking frantically around the room. His gaze came to rest on Malfoy.
Bagman cleared his throat.
"Yes, young Mr Malfoy is one of the champions," he said apologetically. "Minister, if you don't mind I'd do the briefing now."
"But we can't have eleven champions," Fudge, who had visibly deflated, muttered. "We have only three dragons."
Harry managed to keep in his gasp. Somehow, having to fight a dragon didn't come as such a big surprise. After having to deal with a pack of Dementors, a Basilisk and a Voldemort-possessed teacher there wasn't all that much dangerous stuff left.
Rita next to him mumbled, "This is not real. It's just a nightmare. I'm going to wake up soon."
The three original champions tried their best to appear confident whereas Malfoy looked like he was about to faint.
The door was wrenched open yet again.
Hagrid, stooping, shoved his head into the room.
"Dumbledore, what the blazes is the meaning of all this?" he boomed. "That thing spat out Tom Marvolo Riddle! Yer do remember him, don' yer? An' he is... he was... the thing puked out his other names-"
"Thank you, Hagrid," Dumbledore said firmly.
His face belied his calm tone. It was ashen.
"Please leave and close the door."
Hagrid looked hurt and bewildered, but did as he was told. Just before the door closed, Harry became aware of the conspicuous absence of noise from the Great Hall. If the Goblet of Fire had indeed divulged the aliases by which Riddle had gone for most of his career, the shocked silence was understandable.
Harry could tell that Voldemort's identity was not commonly known. With the exception of Dumbledore, everyone in the room, even the minister, looked completely blank.
Again, Harry wondered whether he was the only one here besides the headmaster who knew who exactly was going to lose his magic within the next hour. He couldn't understand why Dumbledore seemed so alarmed, though. Voldemort becoming a Squib – or even dying – should be a reason to throw a party, shouldn't it?
"Ve von't vait for this man!" Krum said, stepping up to Bagman.
The French champion, clutching her golden timepiece, joined Krum.
"Zair are less zan ten minutes left, Meester Bagman," Delacour said. "We want to 'ear ze briefing."
"All right, all right," Bagman said, flustered. "Minister, I trust we can do something about the, er, shortage in dragons?"
"Twelve dragons, Bagman? Twelve? You must be completely out of your mind. You know what it cost to get even three of them!"
"I am confident that there will be no need for a twelfth dragon," said Dumbledore. Oddly, he didn't address Bagman or Fudge when he said this, but gave Harry a long, concerned look instead. "I am fairly sure Tom Riddle will not be able to take part in the Tournament due to the state of disembodiment he has enjoyed for several years now."
"O, 'ow droll," remarked Maxime, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Another dead man. England must be full of zem."
"Well, I've still to procure six dragons within less than four weeks," Bagman sighed. "Not to mention the budget of zero Galleons."
"Mister Bagman, maybe I know how to solve the problem," Diggory said, coming forward. "The rules don't explicitly forbid the champions from helping each other or from working together. Maybe the idea was to allow for a bit of fair play, but we could use that loophole and form teams. There are nine champions now – aside from those too dead to compete – and there are three dragons as you say. That means we'll have to form three teams, each one consisting of three champions."
"Good thinking," said Snape before anyone else found their voice. "Diggory, Potter, you are with me."
"My life sucks," Harry murmured, but only Rita heard him because Malfoy, the very image of a pampered boy feeling bitterly betrayed, shouted, "Potter and a pathetic Hufflepuff? You choose Potter over me, Snape?"
"Now, Mister Malfoy, that is Professor Snape to you," Dumbledore admonished. "Although I must admit that his choice surprises me a little, too."
"Leave it, old man!" yelled Karkaroff while Krum growled along to his teacher's words. "Bagman, the time is up!"
Fleur Delacour, thrusting her dainty timepiece in Bagman's face, shrieked, "Ze briefing! Now!"
"All right, here goes: The first task will be on the twenty-fourth of November, in front of all students and a panel of judges. The champions will face this challenge armed with only their wands. They are not allowed to..." The man faltered for a moment. "Well, some of the champions are teachers, so let's put it like this: No champion is allowed to ask for or to accept help from other teachers who are not in the Tournament themselves. The involved students are exempt from end-of-year tests. That's it. Having been present for this briefing you have officially accepted to take part in the Tournament. There is no precedence because there have never been teams before, but I would hazard a guess that you could still lose your magic if you refuse to do the actual tasks. At the very least, you should contribute to the team effort to the best of your abilities."
He said the last bit looking at Rita.
"About time, Bagman! Are you aware how dangerously close you brought my student to losing his magic?" Karkaroff bristled. "And you, Snape, what makes you think you're allowed to cherry-pick?"
Sure enough, Karkaroff disputing Snape's choice sparked a new argument.
Fudge pompously demanded to be given the first choice owing to his position as minister, whereas Dumbledore volunteered to take the youngest champions under his wing. Diggory's suggestion to include into each team one capable adult wizard, one of the original champions, and one of the younger students to ensure equal chances, went largely unheeded. They argued back and forth until Maxime put down her rather large foot. Literally.
"Nobody will 'ave a right to choose!" she declared, stomping her foot at each word for emphasis. "Ze teams will be drawn by lot!"
She conjured up nine identical eggs.
Rita was given the first pick. Then it was Harry's turn.
Both their eggs revealed ordinary yellow yolks when cracked open, meaning they'd be in the same team.
The yolk of Malfoy's egg was green, Delacour's burgundy red.
One by one, the champions took an egg and cracked it open, creating thereby a rather colourful mess on the flagstones. As soon as Dumbledore, who was last, had opened his egg, Maxime shepherded her champion out of the room. Both appeared to be rather pleased. Karkaroff and Krum exited next. They looked as if they had bitten into particularly unripe lemons.
Snape and Malfoy were on their way, too, when Malfoy suddenly stopped short.
"What is it, Mr Malfoy?" Snape asked impatiently.
"It has activated," Malfoy said, staring at the huge ring that adorned his left middle finger. "How can that be? It is only to activate when I'll come of age."
"Ah," Bagman spoke up excitedly, "that's a side effect. You're now competing in a Tournament for ad-"
"Bagman, you blithering idiot!" Snape said loudly, stopping the other man in mid-sentence. "Keep your mouth shut!"
"Why?" asked Bagman, vaguely offended. "Spontaneous recognition of majori-"
"Be quiet!" hissed Snape.
"Indeed, Ludovic," said Dumbledore, "this inopportune by-product was to be expected, considering the circumstances. I think it reasonable, however, to postpone a more detailed discussion."
Bagman shrugged.
"Putting it off won't change a thing," he said. "They are of age now, Potter, young Malfoy and the little girl, and that's it."
Rita gaped at Bagman open-mouthed. Malfoy looked beyond smug, Snape seemed ready to strangle Bagman with his bare hands, and Dumbledore heaved a sigh.
Being of age now? Harry thought that was too good to be true. Then again, taking into account the peculiar behaviour of Snape and Dumbledore...
He needed to talk to Ron and Hermione – not only about this spontaneous recognition of majority thing, but also about Pettigrew and Voldemort, about a Death Eater masquerading as Moody and all the other things he had learned in the course of only one hour.
Ignoring Dumbledore's urgent call to wait, he dashed past Malfoy.
No sooner was he out of the door than excruciating pain blinded him. The skin on his forehead split open. Something dark oozing down his face was the last thing Harry noticed before the world went black.
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To be continued
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Thanks to Oriel Subtle for beta reading. :)