There were times when Albus felt certain every moment of happiness had to be paid for in tears. He had spent an idyllic noon with his children in Italy. Ever since, his day was growing more exacting and chaotic by the hour.

After an initial delay, his meeting with Cornelius Fudge was immeasurably prolonged, causing him to leave the Ministry in a rush, lest he miss the start of the feast. There was no question of coming late to the announcement of school champions. For this purpose, he fended off some of his acquaintances, who were interested in discussing the Tournament, only to find himself apprehended by Percy Weasley. Five months earlier, the young man had been a studious Head Boy, ready to graduate with the highest marks. His professional progress had been extraordinary in its speed and success. But even this had come at a price. No flawless suit or competent demeanour could disguise the shadows of exhaustion under his eyes or the lines of strain on his forehead. Unconsciously, his fingers kept rubbing at a small ink stain on his nose, trembling all the while with a combination of nervous tension and volatile magic.

"I promise I haven't sent anything, professor—and I would never have touched Mr Crouch's owl without his express permission. I wanted to tell him so ever since your phoenix came to check on us, but Mr Crouch has been in meetings all day long. Please, talk to him when you see him, professor. We haven't seen his owl for a while, that's true—I'm not sure when exactly it disappeared—you know how many letters arrive every day; last week, we could barely keep up—and that Skeeter woman keeps prying in Mr Crouch's affairs, as if he didn't have enough to deal with already—but I certainly, most definitely didn't take it. I've always found that bird a little intimidating: it's so big, and people say it bites—not that it has ever bitten me. Please, professor, please tell Mr Crouch I didn't take it."

Alarmed at his overwrought state, Albus swore he would explain the facts to Barty Crouch and would assure him of his assistant's innocence. With a comforting squeeze on Percy's shoulder and a soothing spell at his fingertips, he made his exit.

It was nearly six o'clock when he stepped out of the fireplace in his office. He immediately headed downstairs and felt an uplifting sense of pride in his staff: everyone from the house-elves to Filius Flitwick had performed an outstanding job. The Great Hall had never looked cosier or spookier with grinning jack-o'-lanterns floating in the mid-gloom while ghostly shapes lurked in the nooks draped with spider web. At the centre of the top table, the Goblet of Fire was brimming with pearlescent flames. Thanks to the seating plan the headmaster had drawn in advance, Karkaroff had Ludo Bagman for a tablemate and was forced to sit far away from Aurora, who had agreed to hold a conversation with Madame Maxime. Albus did not doubt the French headmistress was far from willing to forgive him just yet; still, no one could resist Aurora's charm for long.

Words failed to describe the intense excitement in the air. The teachers appeared more animated than ever and kept trading jokes; this was nothing yet compared to the fidgeting among the students, some of whom could barely eat for anxiety. If only Albus had the power to accelerate the goblet's magic, he would not have hesitated. As it was, he waited with the others, picking at his Mediterranean salad—he was still full from his lunch with the d'Angellis—and letting Karkaroff's stream of words wash over him.

"—and then I decided to innovate the duelling practice as vell. Razer than have a teacher supervise all the classes, I made the older students teach the younger ones. Already the first year of reforms saved me sousands of Galleons, and the numbers keep adding. Not to mention, healsy competitiveness has increased. Everyone vins zis vay! I don't see why the other schools haven't implemented the same system—off course, you don't have ze duelling practice at Hogvarts, do you, Dumbledore? Don't be surprised if Viktor beats your champion flat—he hasn't gone one day vithout training since he enrolled at Durmstrang."

It was easy to politely ignore the man when precious memories of Gia, Justice and Giacomo occupied the forefront of his mind. Besides, Albus felt bolstered at the very idea of improvements within Italian politics. The situation in Britain verged on insanity, that much was true—and he was fully aware it was, by and large, his fault—but thankfully, the other wizarding communities did not rely on his country, and they were well out of his reach, impossible for him to ruin. Leadership was not in his nature; he had been born to teach and to care for those he loved. Gellert was the ruler and the politician; he had always possessed the gift.

Albus could scarcely wait to see his lover the following day. As he had told Justice, the enchanted candle from Haiti was the only magical object to date that could purify Gellert's cell of Dark magic and offer him a feeling of peace. This meant the world to Albus. Ever since Gellert had been incarcerated, he had suffered through every emotion of grief and horror imaginable. Gradually, he had been forced to realise his trusted followers had used him for their ends, never intending to endorse his vision of equality in return. He had learned to accept his tarnished reputation, knowing the world had demonised him to such an extent that his name had become a dark myth and that universal hatred was all he could hope for. He had understood no pardon would ever come, that he would die within the walls of his prison—and this had been the most devastating truth to embrace. Some wizards did not receive justice; sometimes, one had to make the most of the little one had.

Each of those stages of sorrow had cost him time and much emotional strength. Throughout the years, Albus had been there to share them all. Perhaps was their suffering a part of the reason they both looked old, older than their age warranted—though where Gellert was concerned, the inhumane privations of his imprisonment were most to blame. So when the beneficent properties of the candle manifested themselves, lending the German wizard healthier and more cheerful airs, Albus had all but danced with happiness. He had kissed his lover's face and hands and would gladly have done as much for Aurora, had the courtesy allowed. Her act of kindness could never be fully repaid. And now… who could predict how significantly Gellert's state would improve if he were to be granted more candles enchanted by a practitioner of Sakrémaji?

"Dumbledore. Dumbledore! Are you listening?"

He looked up, absent-minded. Karkaroff raised his eyebrows.

"I believe it is almost time," the Englishman declared innocently.

Behind his loquacious neighbour, Bagman and Crouch checked their pocket watches and nodded their agreement. It did not take an instant for the selection of puddings to clear; all chatter died down more promptly still. On Albus's left, Olympe Maxime straightened up, as alert as her students.

"Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision." Sure enough, the magical cup was now throbbing so vigorously that the wood beneath it seemed to vibrate in pace with the blue flames. "I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions' names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber, where they will be receiving their first instructions."

No one so much as breathed in response. The suspense was at its end, and from experience, Albus knew that the greater the tension, the more intense the release of emotion would be. He smiled and gave his wand a sweeping wave; all the lights except for the jack-o'-lanterns went out. The teenagers might as well enjoy a taste of Halloween at this once-in-a-lifetime event.

The tongues of fire spilling out of the goblet blinded the eyes. Without a warning, they turned the most beautiful shade of crimson, resembling a glowing rose in bloom. Sparks streaked out in all directions; they were warm against Albus's hand but did not singe his skin. And then, at last, a sibilant sound rose from the depths of the goblet, and a strip of paper shot out, right into the wizard's waiting hand.

Conscious of the entire Hall's gaze, he held the parchment to the light. The name and the school had been written in neat block letters.

"The champion for Durmstrang will be Viktor Krum."

The group of stoically attentive young men at the Slytherin table erupted in cheers. Those who sat nearest to their victorious classmate clapped him on the back as he rose; a few others sprang to their feet to shake his hand.

"Bravo, Viktor!" Karkaroff roared over the din, startling Albus and Ludo. "Knew you had it in you!"

For once, Viktor Krum wore a genuinely happy expression; he approached the staff table and made his way towards the chamber next door. Albus felt pleased for him; only, a small, curious part of him wondered what Karkaroff would have done if the goblet had chosen someone else. Madame Maxime was applauding, her black eyes assessing.

At once, the fire in the cup returned to its exquisite crimson colour. A sizzle of sparks, and another piece of paper fluttered into the air. This time, the signature and the name of the school had been rendered in an elegant, curled handwriting.

"The champion for Beauxbatons is Fleur Delacour." Albus hoped he had not mispronounced the girl's name.

This champion's reception was a little less enthusiastic. It could be because Miss Delacour was not as well-known as Viktor Krum; one could even assume rivalry ran higher among the candidates clad in pale blue. But the young lady was far from discouraged. She got to her feet gracefully, her silver-blond hair rippling around her face, and her confident smile exuded magical allure. She had Veela heritage; there was no doubt about it. As she passed the top table to walk out, her headmistress greeted her with fervent clapping. Karkaroff spared the girl one dismissive glance; with a sip of his wine, he proceeded instead to watch several crying Beauxbatons students, as though the sight confirmed his preconceptions about the French school.

And now, the Hogwarts champion. Eagerly, Albus held out his hand for the third strip of parchment, and the result came as a pleasant surprise. For the first time in history, they would be represented by a Hufflepuff.

"The Hogwarts champion is Cedric Diggory!"

Those words gave way to an uproar; there was no other name for it. The entire Hufflepuff table had stood up in delight; meanwhile, the teachers were surrounding Professor Sprout to congratulate her. Albus could only imagine how proud Amos Diggory would be upon hearing the news. He mouthed a discreet well done at a blushing and grinning Cedric and gestured for him to join the other two champions in the side room. Ignoring Karkaroff, who appeared to be laughing into his wine glass, Albus beamed at Pomona. She chuckled, dabbing at her eyes. Most members of staff were still clustered around her; Aurora, however, had not moved from her spot. She was eyeing the goblet with a frown of concentration and confusion. The headmaster had no chance to address this uncharacteristic reaction—he had the youngsters to calm down.

"Excellent!" he called the second he was certain his voice would not be drowned in the tumult. "Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real—"

He halted a split second after it happened. The white-blue flames of the goblet had turned crimson once more; they were churning with magic and emitting a fountain of sparks. And he knew, in a visceral way that had nothing to do with reason, a disaster was at hand.

Please, let this be a mistake, a flaw in the ancient spell. It was a foolish wish; naturally, it did not come true. A piece of parchment erupted from the cup, and in the dim light, Albus peered at the familiar handwriting. He had expected this; a part of him had divined it at the first sign. Nevertheless, the pure cynicism of what he saw stole his breath away.

Harry Potter

Uagadou

While he stared at the words, he became aware of the dead silence in the Great Hall. There was nothing for it; they had to carry on. He cleared his throat.

"Harry Potter."

Hundreds of students twisted on the benches to catch a glimpse of the boy. A clink of heeled shoes on the stone floor, and Minerva McGonagall emerged by his side. She was unsettled, matching his own state.

"Albus, what is this?" she whispered wildly. "How can—" Her eyes widened at the signature. "That's Potter's handwriting! Oh, Merlin. We have to send everyone to bed."

He nodded, and once she hurried away to communicate her instructions to the other teachers, he fixed his gaze on the Gryffindor table.

"Harry Potter! Harry! Up here, if you please."

A lone figure stood up before taking a dazed step towards the staff table. The poor boy looked shell-shocked. One did not need the light to tell the colour had drained from his features. His bright green eyes were open wide, and a single thought struggled to break through his stupor: I didn't put my name in. There was no need for this either: his innocence was undeniable.

"Well… through the door, Harry," Albus asked quietly, motioning to the side chamber.

With the boy out of earshot, he turned towards the rest of the students. Murmurs and objections were already brewing among the foreigners, who did not hide their displeasure at this blow.

"This is a development none of us foresaw," he asserted gravely. "Mr Crouch, Mr Bagman, my fellow heads of schools and I are about to investigate the matter and agree on the best course of action. I would like to ask each and every one of you to abstain from forming premature conclusions. Tonight, we shall end our feast early so that a meeting can be held without delay. Thank you for your participation. Good night to you all."

At this cue, Filius, Pomona, Septima and Rolanda left the table to usher the Hogwarts students into their respective Houses; the remaining teachers, in the meantime, went to escort the foreigners. Albus headed straight for the smaller room. On either side of him, Olympe Maxime and Igor Karkaroff radiated quiet rage, and if it came to a verbal conflict, it was best to conduct it in private.

All the champions were gathered in front of the blazing fire. How differently Albus had pictured this scene! To add to the grotesquery, Ludo Bagman had his hand wrapped around Harry's arm—there was no telling when and how he had slipped away—though he released the boy at once.

"Madame Maxime!" Fleur Delacour called plaintively. "Zey are saying zat zis little boy is to compete also!"

At her remark, a flood of indignation broke loose.

"What is ze meaning of zis, Dumbly-dorr?" Olympe demanded, not unlike a mistress scolding a disobedient house-elf.

"I'd rather like to know zat myself, Dumbledore," Karkaroff bared his teeth in a shark-like smile. "Two Hogwarts champions? I don't remember anyone telling me ze host school is allowed two champions—or have I not read the rules carefully enough?"

"C'est impossible! 'Ogwarts cannot 'ave two champions. It is most injust."

"We vere under the impression that your Age Line would keep out younger contestants, Dumbledore. Otherwise, we would, of course, have brought along a vider selection of candidates from our own schools."

Albus let them storm. His fingers were still clutching the piece of parchment with Harry's handwriting. Gradually, his consternation had subsided, and his mind was a whirl.

This was Tom's work; he could feel it in his bones. The string of mysterious events that had transpired in summer had been designed to culminate with this attack on Harry. It was Tom's most insidious stratagem yet… and the most provocative one too. The wizard had even planted a minion at Hogwarts—a place that was meant to provide unconditional safety to all its inhabitants. If a Death Eater had infiltrated the school, could it be he was present in this room at this very moment, amused at the commotion he had caused?

The headmaster's first instinct was to suspect Peter Pettigrew; he had, in fact, half a mind to have the school immediately searched for a rat with a mutilated paw. Only, Pettigrew was a coward, and the nasty humour of this note did not fit his pathetic personality. Whoever had stolen Harry's signature knew Albus was close to Aurora and had access to students' homework. It was a teacher, or someone who had found a way to peruse a teacher's file.

Snape's voice tore the old wizard out of his feverish musing.

"It's no one's fault but Potter's, Karkaroff. Don't go blaming Dumbledore for Potter's determination to break rules. He has been crossing lines ever since he arrived here—"

Not you as well! Albus thought, his temper rising.

"Thank you, Severus."

The Potions Master fell quiet; he knew better than to press his luck. But he had achieved his goal of drawing everyone's attention to Harry.

Despite his fright, the boy met Albus's eye and did not look away.

"Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?"

The question was pure formality; they all could see the student was innocent.

"No." Harry's voice was firm, determined to be heard and believed. The headmaster's pride morphed into impatience with Severus when the latter made a noise of disbelief.

"Did you ask an older student to put it into the Goblet of Fire for you?"

"No."

"Ah, but of course 'e is lying!" For the first time in public, Madame Maxime had let her emotions run away with her, and Albus knew she was accusing Harry because she did not dare to accuse him directly—not yet.

Outraged by this injustice, Minerva jumped to the boy's defence.

"What nonsense! Harry could not have crossed the line himself, and as Professor Dumbledore believes that he did not persuade an older student to do it for him, I'm sure that should be good enough for everybody else!"

She positively glared at Snape, who, for all his impenetrable disdain, lost his smirk.

"Mr Crouch, Mr Bagman," Karkaroff intervened in a voice he had once used to beg for a release from Azkaban, "you are our—er—objective judges. Surely you vill agree zat zis is most irregular?"

Everyone peered at Barty Crouch. Only now did Albus fully realise how uncharacteristic the man's silence was. The Barty Crouch he knew would have taken advantage of this embarrassing blunder to submit Albus to a thorough interrogation, to pressure and threaten him. Their mutual hatred was, after all, notorious. Instead, he stood outside of their circle, ill-looking and indolent. When he spoke, his voice was as curt and irritable as ever, but something flickered in his eyes. A trick of the light, or… a plea.

"We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament."

Knowledge dawned on Albus in a sudden, powerful stroke of certainty. Barty Crouch had sent him the blank calendar page. Barty Crouch was Tom's victim. He had spent those past weeks under a restraining curse; it was the only explanation for his peculiar behaviour and his missing owl.

"Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front," Ludo concluded happily.

One had to wonder why he felt so excited at the idea of an underage student being forced to compete in a dangerous tournament. Albus could not help but grow mistrustful of this seemingly good-natured wizard.

"I insist upon resubmitting ze names of ze rest of my students; it's only fair, Dumbledore!" Karkaroff exploded in frustration. He was perfectly aware the Goblet of Fire would not reignite again, as Ludo swiftly reminded him. "After all our meetings and negotiations and compromises, I little expected somezing of zis nature to occur! I have half a mind to leave now!"

"Empty threat, Karkaroff."

Alastor Moody had limped into the room. Now the argument truly was in danger of escalating.

It went on for a while; even Fleur Delacour contributed to the outpour of dissatisfaction, stamping her foot for good measure. If only Maxime and Karkaroff consented to forget their wounded feelings and consider the wider picture, they would comprehend someone had deliberately placed Harry in danger. Was a young boy's wellbeing not more important than any manner of competition?

Frowning, Albus compiled a mental list of the wizards who ought to be contacted that same evening. The Minister for Magic was going to receive a full report from Barty Crouch; this being said, he would benefit from an additional explanation. It was necessary to alert Sirius as well—granted, the young man's loathing for his old headmaster would increase tenfold after this turn of events. And what of Barty Crouch's personal safety? Any missteps in rescuing him could prove fatal. It was essential that Albus speak to Gellert first so that they could devise a plan.

"Maybe someone's hoping Potter is going to die for it."

Moody's ominous pronouncement left the others gaping. Harry seemed frozen in place; the other champions appeared astonished. Not even this plain statement had sufficed to sway Madame Maxime and Karkaroff, though. The first one to break the spell was Ludo Bagman.

"Moody, old man… what a thing to say!" His voice held such genuine unease that Albus almost regretted his misgivings.

"We all know Professor Moody considers the morning wasted if he hasn't discovered six plots to murder him before lunchtime." Karkaroff had gone pale. His eyes were hard and impenetrable; his posture indicated he was poised for a fierce fight. "Apparently he is now teaching his students to fear assassination too. An odd quality in a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Dumbledore, but no doubt you had your reasons."

"Imagining things, am I?" the Auror snarled without skipping a beat. "Seeing things, eh? It was a skilled witch or wizard who put the boy's name in that goblet."

"Ah, what evidence is zere of zat?" Olympe exclaimed, and in spite of his best intentions, Albus lost some of his respect for her.

"Because they hoodwinked a very powerful magical object!" Moody's magical eye sought out the scrap of parchment in the headmaster's hand. "I'm guessing they submitted Potter's name under a fourth school, to make sure he was the only one in his category."

He did not need Albus's confirmation to know he was correct. Karkaroff was speaking again—it had come to thinly veiled insults. Everyone had been emboldened by Crouch's idle attitude, having always known him to be authoritarian. Yet nothing shocked Albus more than Moody's next words:

"There are those who'll turn innocent occasions to their advantage. It's my job to think the way Dark wizards do, Karkaroff—as you ought to remember…"

There was something so personal and so malevolent about the inflection of his voice that for a second, he was unrecognisable.

"Alastor!"

Catching himself, Moody said nothing else; he was content to watch on gleefully as Igor's face flushed the shade of an old tomato. This was getting out of hand, and Albus could stand no more. Instinctively, he resorted to the intonation he used on rebellious children.

"How this situation arose, we do not know. It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it. Both Cedric and Harry have been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, they will do."

"Ah, but Dumbly-dorr —" Olympe believed herself quite slighted.

"My dear Madame Maxime, if you have an alternative, I would be delighted to hear it," he returned with a tremendous effort not to glare back at her.

For a second time, they had Ludo to thank for dissolving the tension. "Well, shall we crack on, then? Got to give our champions their instructions, haven't we? Barty, want to do the honours?" He flashed Crouch an imploring smile.

This call to rationality brought a little colour back into the rigid man's cheeks. He came closer to the four champions and recited the instructions for the first task, which he had memorised. Before his voice trailed away, he did an unexpected double take.

"I think that's all, is it, Albus?"

The older wizard could not remember Crouch calling him by his first name ever before. His remaining doubts vanished without a trace. Behind his composed façade, Barty Crouch was screaming for help.

"I think so," he said in his gentlest, most reassuring tone. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay at Hogwarts tonight, Barty?"

The other man shook his head. "No, Dumbledore, I must get back to the Ministry. It is a very busy, very difficult time at the moment… I've left young Weatherby in charge… Very enthusiastic… a little overenthusiastic, if truth be told…"

A very difficult time: another verbal clue.

"You'll come and have a drink before you go, at least?"

Albus threw caution to the winds; he had to try employing Legilimency. He concentrated on Crouch's glazed eyes, but it was a futile endeavour: there was nothing to see but a smooth mental barrier.

"Come on, Barty, I'm staying!" Ludo chimed in, oblivious to their secret exchange. "It's all happening at Hogwarts now, you know, much more exciting here than at the office!"

For some reason, this caused his colleague to revert to his learned manners. "I think not, Ludo!"

Disappointed, Albus addressed the other two heads of schools; he could not afford arousing their suspicions. "Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime—a nightcap?"

The false offer did not deceive them. Without a backward glance, Karkaroff led Viktor Krum out of the room. Olympe followed at their heels, listening to her champion's exasperated rant.

"Madame Maxime, comment est-ce possible? Ce n'est pas juste—ce petit garçon n'a pas encore dix-sept ans, et puis il n'a pas participé comme tout le monde. Ils ne suivent même pas leurs propres règles!"

Their voices faded. Harry and Cedric were now the only students present—maybe even the only sane people in this chamber. Albus felt ashamed of the undignified spectacle they had had to witness—and from adults in positions of authority, no less.

"Harry, Cedric, I suggest you go up to bed," he said warmly. "I am sure Gryffindor and Hufflepuff are waiting to celebrate with you, and it would be a shame to deprive them of this excellent excuse to make a great deal of mess and noise."

The boys obeyed without a word. This left two more teenagers to deal with.

"Severus, would you kindly show Mr Bagman to his room on the second floor? Ludo, feel free to call Lompy for any refreshments. I'll see you at breakfast."

Ever excited, Ludo Bagman waved at the others before bouncing out; as for Snape, he took in Albus's glower, understood he was in trouble and hastened to comply. Crouch was leaving too.

"Barty—" Albus was about to intercept him—he had promised as much to Percy Weasley—when two strong hands gripped the front of his robes.

Minerva's composure had slipped away; until now, she had concealed her distress from the strangers, but with no one but Moody in sight, she could no longer contain herself. Albus shot Crouch's retreating figure a desperate look.

"Minerva, please, I need to speak to—"

"Albus, you can't let this happen."

Her knuckles had gone white; she was not letting go. The Ministry official vanished in the dark Great Hall for good. With a reluctant sigh, Albus faced the witch and gently placed his hands on top of hers.

"I know."

"You have to do something. You can't possibly let Potter compete."

He contemplated her green eyes, only to find his own fear and helplessness reflected in them.

"I'm not happy about this either, Minerva. But we cannot stop Harry from competing."

"But—"

"The goblet is an immensely powerful relic. You know what binding contracts of this nature can do. If Harry fails to uphold his duty, his magical core will be damaged—if he is fortunate."

She released him and started pacing across the room, the dark emerald velvet of her robe absorbing the firelight.

"I know," she lamented, "I know. But surely… surely, you can think of something. There must be a way to get out of such an agreement—it should be recognised null and void. Potter is too young, and this is against the rules—besides, he didn't put his name in. How can a contract like this be enforced?"

Shaking his head in regret, he displayed the strip of parchment. "It's Harry's handwriting. This is all that matters to the goblet. Whoever submitted his name knew what they were doing."

He came closer to press her shoulders in a soothing gesture. "We will look after him, Minerva. We'll keep him safe. And in the meantime, we'll find out who did this. It's the only way." He waited for her to nod before giving her a small smile. "You get some sleep, dear. With everything ahead, we'll need whatever rest we can get."

"I'll… go and check on my House." She patted his arm, and, with a brisk Good night, walked out, her hand pressed against her lips.

Alastor Moody had not moved from his spot by the hearth. His magical eye lingered on the witch even as she turned the corner.

"I checked everything there was to check around the goblet," he confessed. "I didn't really expect them to leave any traces, but it was worth a try."

Albus nodded, grateful for his thoughtful help.

"Thank you, Alastor. Of all the schools they could have chosen, they picked Uagadou to mock us."

Moody lowered his gaze in tactful sympathy. "How's Potter holding up? You know him best. You tell me."

"He is stupefied. Of course, he will do the very best he can—that's who he is. But he needs time—the implications haven't sunk in yet."

There was a deep sigh. "And what are you going to tell Fudge, Albus? Mark my words: Karkaroff is sending owls as we speak. He will blow this into an international scandal."

"Good question." The headmaster bit his lip as fresh worry settled in. "As you know, Fudge sent Hagrid to Azkaban two years ago. All he cared about was saving his image; Hagrid's life meant nothing to him. If it hadn't been for Harry and his friends, Hogwarts might have closed down. I'd like to think Fudge has learned his lesson, but… I would be foolish to believe it. He will want a scapegoat, as always. And I won't let him touch any of my teachers again."

"Ah. And that's where he will latch on to Uagadou." The glow of the fire leant Moody's features a grim aspect. "Mind you, your Astronomy teacher seemed to expect something of the sort; she was observing the goblet intently. How well do you know her? Could she be an admirer of You-Know-Who? Or perhaps Karkaroff's charms are more potent than we thought; you could argue one would do anything for love."

Once again, his line of speech took Albus aback.

"Alastor, this isn't amusing. Aurora has had nothing to do with it. I'll speak to her, but I'm sure she had a mere premonition—she practices divination."

"I'm not saying it's amusing," Moody objected earnestly. "I just happen to know Fudge as well as you do, and I guarantee he will look for a scapegoat. So think well what you will say to him. After all… On one hand, we have a teacher who didn't study at Hogwarts and whose references show a suspicious gap from the time she spent in Haiti, being groomed by a dangerous Dark witch with no contacts around here. On the other hand, we have famous Harry Potter—the target of many Dark wizards and witches. And now, he apparently attends Uagadou. You can see why I'm concerned. And when it comes to it, my job requires that I suspect everyone." As soon as those words left him, he blushed. "Except Rolanda, that is; she is too nice. And she likes Potter too."

Everyone at the Ministry knew the saying: being an Auror and falling in love were two mutually exclusive states of mind. Albus had no force left to protest or even chuckle.

"What do you suggest I tell Fudge?"

"Talk to her first," Alastor advised. "We'll take it from there. Right now, there is a more pressing matter at hand: this Tournament is a valuable opportunity to have Potter killed and make it look like an accident. We need to think ahead."

This was perfectly true. In fact, it was also a new tactic where Tom's methods were concerned: he was used to operating alone, in a direct and straightforward fashion that emphasised his contempt for the consequences determined by other wizards.

"We will," Albus acquiesced. "There are several visits I need to pay. The sooner we catch the culprit, the sooner we will eliminate the threats that loom over Harry and the teachers."

"I'll keep an eye on the boy; this much I promise," his friend assured him.

In his office, the headmaster took a moment to simply cuddle and chatter with his familiar; they needed a little reprieve. It did not alleviate his multiple fears, but it filled him with inner warmth and strength.

After one last caress, he left Fawkes to peck at his dinner and sat down at his desk. First things first: a letter to Sirius.

He had barely dipped his quill in ink when a soft pop disturbed his focus and Lompy the house-elf materialised before him, bowing low.

"Master, Lompy is here to tell you the house-elves are spotting a gross misbehaviour. Since yesterday, one golden plate, two goblets, a knife, a fork and two spoons have disappeared. Lompy had the Great Hall and the kitchen searched, but nobody could find them. Should Lompy order that the common rooms are searched?"

This cherry on the cake was just enough to push Albus to the end of his tether. What a way to top off an already impressive evening.

"There is no need; you won't find the missing dishes there." He had a shrewd idea who was brazen enough to steal golden cutlery. "Tell you what, Lompy. I would like the house-elves to apply the Flagrante Curse to every plate, goblet and piece of cutlery in the Great Hall outside of the meal hours. If the thief comes back for more, he will be surprised. And make sure it hurts."

AN: Harry's name has come out of the Goblet of Fire, and the first suspects have already emerged. Or have they?

Happy reading!