The night before the first task, a bump against the window pane distracted Albus from his paperwork. As he opened the shutters onto the dark sky, a rush of chilly November wind bore down upon him, bringing three unexpected visitors on its tide. The small creatures were swift like darts; they circled the office, flapping their wings and cheeping with excitement. Those were Spanish bats, a rare magical species. One of them was silver with age, and the other two younger—the older bat's progeny. They had brought him a tiny piece of parchment with the following message scribbled in familiar handwriting:
Meet me in Hogsmeade at the witching hour. Besos. Justice
Glancing at his pocket watch, Albus found it was almost midnight: no time was left to spare. He snatched his cloak and addressed the bats, which were positively criss-crossing the air, observed by a benign Fawkes.
"Make yourselves comfortable. We will be back."
He held out his forearm, and no sooner did the phoenix join him than the contours of the office faded. They materialised at Hogsmeade's main Apparition point.
The village was asleep; only a few windows shone with candlelight beneath the sloped roofs. Owls hooted in the distance. Despite himself, Albus sought out the mountain, looming dark against the horizon like an entity of its own, and he wondered whether Sirius still lingered in the cave. His mind did not wander for long. The night air suddenly pulsated with magic, and whoosh, Justice was dismounting a broom by his side. At once, he reached out to support her, for she stood unsteadily on the cobbles. A half-buttoned coat thrown over a revealing dress was all that protected her from the icy wind.
"Albus!" she exclaimed merrily. "I had so much fun—and there's so much you must see! D'you have Potions enthusiasts round here? I swear I could see someone sneaking about…"
The petite witch appeared very intoxicated, and Albus put an arm around her shoulders. How she had succeeded in flying and then Apparating on a broom was a mystery.
"Not that I'm aware of. What happened, dear? Where have you been?"
His daughter shot him a look sparkling with mischief.
"Valbona. What? It's not fair that you and Giaco get all the fun!"
She was referring to the Albanian inn, situated near the forest clearing where Voldemort's resurrection ritual had taken place. Had she ventured there on her own to search for clues? Torn between admiration and alarm, Albus took the broom and secured the witch in an embrace.
"I'm glad you are safe. Let me take you to Hogwarts—Fawkes will transport us."
It barely took a flash. Back in the office, he hastened to seat her in an armchair while his familiar returned to his perch. The bats had fallen quiet, having chosen a cool dark nook in the ceiling.
"Oof!" Justice complained. "That was… quick. Mmm… better use Legilimency…"
He would have preferred for her to lie down, but there was no doubt she would be feeling very unwell the following day, and Legilimency would only aggravate her nausea. With a nod, he focused on her black eyes and felt his surroundings dissipate.
At first, a cacophony of clamour enveloped him; he had to squint at the explosion of light and colour around him. Little by little, those sensations settled into the ambience of a busy pub. He was in a cosy if modest establishment where Muggles—mostly men—ate and socialised, waited on by a married couple. Justice was seated at the bar, strikingly pretty and merry, drawing most eyes to herself. Two men were competing for her attention, too absorbed in gallantry to notice the way their shots refilled of their own accord. Between her flirtatious demeanour and her attire—which she had rendered provocative on purpose—no one but Albus could perceive the covert, elaborate spells she cast at regular intervals. She was already tipsy, and her mastery of Legilimency was all the more impressive for it: not only was she scanning the men's memories for a glimpse of any suspicious event, but she had in fact resorted to complex mind magic to lead them to believe she was speaking their language. Something she spotted in one of the Albanians' recollections gave her pause, and she leaned in, feline almost in her concentration. A heartbeat later, Albus's vision went black. When it refocused on the same inn, he was inside a different memory: one that belonged to the Muggle.
The sky behind the window was a rich blue with the gentlest orange hue, characteristic of a warm summer evening. The crowd was sparser, the background music more prominent. Among the local customers, one person bore the unmistakable air of a foreigner: a short blonde woman clad in jeans and a black cardigan, bent over a dish of meatballs. A heavy traveller's bag reposed by her side. But there was someone who looked even more incongruous. Stationed at the window, the man was facing away; not even his stealthy posture, however, could conceal his distinctive appearance. He was stooped, ragged and balding, and a finger was missing on one of his hands.
Albus gasped. Before he could gather his bearings, an irresistible force pressed against his chest, expelling him from the memory. He was back in the office, his hands gently resting on Justice's shoulders. Exhaustion had overcome the witch—she had fallen asleep in his arms, thus breaking their connection. Even so, she had managed to show him what she had meant to share: the result of her investigation and resourcefulness. Did she suspect just how significantly her initiative had helped elucidate the recent events?
Straightening up, the headmaster waited for his hammering heart to quieten. His hand was trembling as he reached for the Elder Wand. He knew what the news meant, knew that Bertha Jorkins—the blonde woman from the memory—had stopped at Valbona Inn on a summer evening to have a meal. As had Peter Pettigrew. There was no longer any question as to why she remained missing or in what manner Voldemort had learned about the Triwizard Tournament. It was also more than plausible she was the unfortunate soul offered as a sacrifice in the Dark Lord's necromantic ritual. And nobody was aware of the truth, except for the perpetrators and now Justice and himself. No doubt was Bertha's family still hopeful of seeing the young woman return, cheerfully oblivious but safe and unharmed.
Tender emotion filled Albus when he gazed at his adoptive daughter. Cautiously, so as not to wake her, he cast the Hovering Charm and then levitated her towards the adjacent room. After removing her coat and shoes, he tucked her into his bed, brushing dark curls away from her cheeks. She would need sleep, and a lot of it—the upcoming day would not be kind to her. Nor to anyone else, for that matter.
The most pressing task at hand was to write a note for Giacomo, who had to be extremely worried about his wife. To his message, Albus added a Portkey so that the younger wizard could join them at his convenience. Once both items were sent, he lingered at his desk, staring at the flickering light of the nearest candle.
He remembered Bertha Jorkins well, even though she had never been close to him. Many had complained of her meddlesome curiosity and her love of rumours, and she had complained of many in return. Once, she had been Hexed by a boy she had spied on and teased, and when brought before Albus, she would not admit to having done any wrong. Later, as a Ministry employee, she would drift from department to department, purposeless and unbidden. Yet there was much more to her that Albus could recall. Her genuine happiness and pride at receiving a rare Outstanding for one of her Transfiguration essays. The elation with which she had participated in a large-scale board game in the Great Hall. How sweet she had looked in brand new robes, standing under the mistletoe during one Christmas holiday.
Why had he never paid attention to her obvious loneliness and craving for inclusion? Why had he not approached her even once during the seven years she had spent in this castle? Why had he never thought of forging a bond of friendship and trust with her, as he had done with many other students? She had deserved it as much as any other child. Maybe it would have made a difference and upturned the course of the events.
He was not certain when the first tear rolled down; suddenly, he was crying, his face pressed against his hands. He had come to know Tom Riddle well enough to realise what end had befallen that lonely girl: how much pain and terror she had suffered before her life was severed. How inhumanly her tortured yet still living body had been harnessed for a ritual of resurrection. And now, months later, no one had even started looking for her, let alone granted her a decent burial.
A flutter of crimson and gold erupted before him. His hands touched silky feathers and felt a tiny and swift heartbeat under his finger pads. It was Fawkes, who, with a melodious cry, had flitted down to lay his beautiful head on the wizard's shoulder. Albus embraced him.
For how long they sat entwined in silence, he could not have said. All he knew was that gradually, Bertha's features had morphed into Harry's in his mind. Harry was next as far as Voldemort's plans of ruin were concerned, and he would be facing a dangerous task before the day was over. If anything happened to him… it took little to guess whose fault it would be. Brave, selfless Harry, who had scarcely lived long enough to experience anything pleasant in his life. The headmaster could not help but wish Sirius had broken his nose after all, as Aberforth had done nearly a century ago.
The sky grew paler and paler. It was almost eight o'clock when a flash of light signalled Giacomo's arrival with the Portkey in hand. By then, Albus was feeling calmer and had already banished the traces of grief—if not those of worry—from his expression. Stroking Fawkes's soft plumage, he smiled at his son, who appeared unrecognisable due to a skilfully performed glamour spell: he was now short and ginger and sported a moustache.
"Good morning, Giaco. You don't look Italian today."
"The idea is to try to pass for a low-key English Ministry employee. But first, I must ask—is Justice all right? You have no idea how worried I've been. What has my crazy wife done now?"
"She went to Valbona last night to gain information." Albus stood up to lead him into the adjacent room. "She is safe and sound. Only, she's had a lot to drink—it's going to be a difficult day for her."
Giacomo heaved a sigh and nodded. "Of course… I should have known. The minute I told her about the necromantic site in Albania, she wanted to go. Has she uncovered anything?"
Biting his lip, Albus struggled to keep his tone steady. "Bertha Jorkins, the English Ministry witch who went missing before the start of the school year, stopped at that inn on a summer evening. Peter Pettigrew, a henchman of Voldemort's, happened to be there at the same time."
There was no need to say more. His son nodded, his features grave.
"I'm sorry."
Together, they peered into the room next door, where they found Justice curled up in bed, fast asleep. Albus lowered his voice to a whisper.
"Feel free to stay the day, Giaco. She will need peace and quiet. The first task starts right after lunch, and I have to be there, but I'll ask a house-elf to sit with her. If you'd like to come down and watch, there should be plenty of room in the stands."
"Thank you, Albus." Now that he had seen his wife, Giacomo relaxed ever so little. "I will come down. There isn't much that can be done for her at the moment—she needs to sleep it off—you, on the other hand, may need some support. In a way, that boy is your responsibility. You must be worried."
They closed the door to the bedroom, and Albus wished he could shut the nightmarish visions of Bertha's tortured body from his mind just as easily.
"A trustworthy contact promised to warn Harry and prepare him for the task. Even so, it's all so very wrong… Ludo Bagman will be providing commentary, as if the kids' trials were a Quidditch match. I hate this—the way this year has started and where it's taking us."
A hand descended on his arm, comforting.
"For what it's worth, we'll be by your side. All of us—even our extended family, I'm sure. What Justice did, irresponsible as it was… I know her well, and I can tell having fun was only a part of it. Most importantly, she did what you and I couldn't, and it helped. We will continue helping you."
This promise sent a new wave of emotion through the older wizard, causing his eyes to glisten. "What would I do without you? Thank you, Giaco. I'm here for you as well. I love you all."
The rest of the morning was consumed by preparations; there was no avoiding it. Before lunch was quite over, students were pouring out of the castle in myriads, a disguised Giacomo among them. Reassured by Villy the house-elf's presence at Justice's bedside, the headmaster made his way into the judges' box. When designing the stands, Rolanda Hooch had used Quidditch stadiums for inspiration; as a result, the circular construction reinforced with spells offered a clear view and excellent acoustics. The seats in the box were draped with golden fabric, and the witch had taken care to place a notepad and a quill on each of them.
As Albus observed the handlers arrange dragon eggs in the middle of the arena, Karkaroff strode in to take his seat. He seemed to be in a jolly mood.
"Dumbledore! Ready for ze show?"
"Certainly, Professor Karkaroff." The Englishman forced a polite smile. "I see your hand has healed."
"A scratch. After today's victory, I must be careful not to hurt some ozer organs, but not to vorry—I haff experience in that regard too."
He laughed heartily, inching aside to let Olympe Maxime pass. She had but a curt greeting for them both, her expression one of brooding concern. Barty Crouch was trailing behind her, and one glance at his waxen complexion prompted Albus to sit up straight. The official's hands were shaking. Further silence was out of the question.
"How have you been, Barty?"
The enquiry earned Albus an irritated bark.
"Not—don't—no time for small talk, Dumbledore!"
As if on cue, the last judge, Ludo Bagman, emerged. He cheerfully waved at the lot of them, waited for the handlers to complete their arrangements, and at an affirmative sign from Crouch, gave a welcoming speech. His aura vibrated with energy; there was no denying he possessed the talent of a showman. The task had now begun.
To the public's excitement, the first dragon turned out to be a magnificent silvery-blue creature. The sound of a whistle pierced the air, and shortly thereafter, Cedric Diggory entered the enclosure. He was pale if determined, his wand held aloft. Yet when he took in the size of the Swedish Short-Snout, her razor-sharp claws and the way she had curled her tail around the eggs, his eyes registered nothing but shock. For one chilling instant, Albus could have sworn the boy had prepared no plan; most fortunately, he was at once proven wrong. Cedric cast about the arena until he detected a prominent boulder, the sight of which encouraged him. His gaze averted, lest he lose his nerve, he performed a spell. The rock turned into a full-size Labrador. Impressed, the crowd cheered and applauded, and Albus happily joined in; he knew all too well how complicated such a piece of Transfiguration was, what intense concentration it required—and despite his fear, Cedric had cast it flawlessly.
The yapping animal sprinted across the ground, visibly aggravating the dragon. Little by little, the long tail protecting the eggs loosened; the Short-Snout was rising to a standing position, impatient to silence the distraction. This was Cedric's chance, and he seized it without rushing his approach; on the contrary, he advanced slowly, careful to make himself appear as small as possible.
But Albus's sigh of relief was premature. Halfway towards the Labrador, the dragon became aware of the boy's crawling motion. A few seconds of tension ensued: long, ominous, terrifying seconds. Then, without skipping a beat, the Short-Snout stomped her massive paw. And again when she missed.
"Oooh, narrow miss there, very narrow," Ludo commented in response to the onlookers' shrieks. "He's taking risks, this one!"
Cedric had a mere heartbeat to roll away before the dragon could step on him. His robes were drenched in mud, and he was not quick enough to avoid a jet of bright blue flame. He let out a yelp of pain.
"Clever move—pity it didn't work!"
Albus wanted to cover his eyes with his hands. He looked on helplessly as the dragon opened her jaws, only to get distracted at the last second by the bouncing dog. Badly burned, Cedric located the pile of eggs and crawled towards his prize. As soon as he touched it, the handlers shot forward, and the terrifying spectacle was over.
"Vhere is the vench with refreshments?" came a loud question near Albus's ear.
The headmaster jumped where he sat and spun around, incredulous. Had Karkaroff just referred to Madam Hooch as a wench? Did he imagine she was a house-elf responsible for tending to his needs?
"Nowhere," he snapped.
In the meantime, Ludo Bagman ended the Amplifying Charm and lowered himself into the spare seat.
"Well, judges, such a nerve-racking task, eh? Time to award the marks. As per the rules of the tournament, you are free to consult each other before shooting your numbers into the air. Isn't that right, Barty? Did I miss anything?"
No answer came. A little awkwardly, Ludo carried on.
"Err, apparently not… Old Barty probably can't hear all that well—a dragon's roar can deafen the best of us. So, um, I reckon Mr Diggory will need about a quarter of an hour in the Healer's tent. What are your impressions?"
Since Madame Maxime was withholding her judgment and Karkaroff was busy pouring the contents of a personal flask into his pumpkin juice, Albus ventured to speak first.
"It is clear to me the task took Cedric by surprise, compelling him to think quickly. In spite of the tremendous pressure, he displayed a perfect mastery of Transfiguration. This, in my humble opinion, deserves recognition. I will grant him eight points."
"Seven from me," Olympe declared. "I will not argue against ze bravery, but 'is solution was a risky one; 'e eez lucky not to be more injured zan 'e eez."
"Risky is an understatement." Karkaroff smirked. "Haff you missed him rolling around on ze ground, screaming for help?"
Ludo grimaced with indignation.
"Now there, my dear man, that's a bit unfair, don't you think? The boy did rather well. Of course he screamed when the dragon burned him, but to put it like this—come on!"
The Ukrainian spared him half a glance before turning his attention back to his drink.
"Four points from me—and zat's because it vos mildly amusing, how he vos crawling on ze ground. But zis is not ze way real vizards should behave. Real vizards slay dragons; zey do not fall into ze mud at ze sight of one."
Mildly amusing. Albus drew a steadying breath. A little more of this, and he would not be able to resist inviting Karkaroff into the enclosure so that everyone could learn the way real wizards ought to defeat dragons.
The mocking remark had scandalised Ludo just as much, except the younger wizard did not hide it as adeptly.
"No way!" he exclaimed. "Nine points from me—I'm with Dumbledore on this one. The dog was impressive and deserves the points. Barty?"
"Eight," Crouch breathed. "Injury. Serious."
The vein in his temple was throbbing, as though he had engaged in a laborious yet invisible effort. If his colleague took note, he had the tact for once not to address it.
"All right, we have our results ready. Judges, you can display your marks right after my announcement."
They did so. A bandaged Cedric left Madam Pomfrey's tent for long enough to witness the evaluation, and he received his points with a grateful smile.
By the time the whistle was blown again, Albus felt breathless with fear. If the champions of age found it difficult to retrieve the golden eggs, what was going to befall Harry?
Fleur Delacour, however, made proof of remarkable composure. She did not point her wand at the Welsh Green; instead, she held it in a vertical position, her eyes locked on the creature. Her lips were moving in what was bound to be a chant, and Albus reckoned he would not have understood the mysterious language even if he had been sitting close enough to hear it. Without breaking the eye contact or her song-like incantation, the girl started walking forward, one guarded step at a time.
The spectators waited patiently for a sign of magic, and when none could be seen, they erupted in confused muttering. Not a wink later, the leaf green dragon swayed on her strong paws. It was Veela magic, the headmaster realised—the reason Fleur was holding her wand in such an unusual manner was to harness its power rather than channel her own. She was, after all, but a part-Veela and needed her grandmother's help. The magical hair contained in her wand was what permitted her to achieve an enchantment no human witch would have been capable of. Beyond a doubt, the feat required all her efforts, but she persevered until the creature's yellow eyes closed in sleep. The Welsh Green slumped to the ground with an impact that shook the entire structure, and the students cheered.
"Oh, I'm not sure that was wise!"
The sobering observation came from Ludo, who had noticed what no one else had: the girl was standing in the trajectory of the dragon's breath. It happened as soon as the words registered: a sleepy snort, a jet of fire, and Miss Delacour's skirt was aflame. Her self-control vanished; even as she doused the fabric with the Water-Making Spell, there was panic in her gesture.
"Careful now! Good lord, I thought she'd had it then!"
Not even the audience's screams could wake the dragon, yet the momentum had been ruined. Subdued, Fleur picked the golden egg, and the handlers hurried forth to put an end to her trial.
This time, Albus volunteered his opinion without being prompted.
"I found Miss Delacour's recourse to Veela magic impressive, especially her clever use of the wand to magnify her abilities. It was a unique approach few others would have been capable of. Her collected demeanour is worthy of praise as well. I feel obliged to deduct points for the finale and the inattention—if it weren't for this, her execution would have been perfect. Seven points from me."
"Nine points," Olympe objected. "Where else 'ave you seen such magique, Dumbly-dorr?"
It was a rhetorical question, so he merely smiled.
"My dear Madame Maxime, but seven is very good," Ludo intervened. "I'll give her seven points too—would have given more, but the dragon almost burned—"
"Almost," she echoed icily. "Certainly not more so zan Monsieur Diggory, and you gave 'im nine points despite ze burns."
Ludo's round face turned scarlet.
"Um… Barty?" he uttered, plainly lost for an answer.
"Six."
The man's laconic reply shocked Olympe so deeply that some of her outrage dissipated. She pressed her lips shut, scandalised and resigned in equal measure. It was up to Karkaroff to finish the debate.
"Five," he decided after some deliberation, stroking his goatee. "At least your champion vos not rolling around in ze mud—unlike the Hogvarts champion—so a point for zat."
He raised his goblet and winked at Madame Maxime, pleased with his own generosity.
Albus could have smacked himself for not awarding the girl more points. Her final mark was ridiculously low and came across as an insult to Veela magic. Sadly, it was already too late for amendments.
Soon enough, the handlers brought in the Chinese Fireball: a graceful, exotic creature with crimson scales, golden spikes, and eyes the shade of emeralds. She perched on the pile of stones in front of her eggs, as if to shield them from curious onlookers.
Viktor Krum stepped into the arena with his wand at the ready. He began edging towards the dragon; it could be surmised he meant to come as close as possible to allow himself a solid aim. The Fireball never took her gaze off him; his advancement alarmed her. At last, she jerked, intent on standing on her hind legs, and Krum attacked. It was swift, ruthless, and accurate. While the Conjunctivitis Curse produced no light, there was no mistaking its effects. With a pitiful roar, the blinded animal leapt aside, tossing her head and attempting to paw at her swollen eyelids. The enclosure rattled with the force of her thuds.
"Very daring!" Ludo shouted. "That's some nerve he's showing!"
If the students' cries were anything to go by, they were awed by Krum's boldness. But not everyone shared their favourable point of view. Hagrid and Charlie Weasley were clutching their heads in horror; one of the distressed handlers had actually ripped out a fistful of his hair. Even in the stands, a small commotion had broken out, for a bunch of sixth years had to restrain Rolf Scamander from climbing over the banisters and jumping into the arena. Throughout it all, Krum lingered a prudent distance away.
Pressing a hand to his mouth, Albus willed the creature's torture to end. Instead, it went from bad to worse. The pain and loss of sight had disoriented the Fireball: she thrashed around and landed her full weight on her eggs, unawares. It was heartbreaking to watch. As Krum grabbed the golden egg, the handlers literally threw themselves into the enclosure to the dragon's rescue.
Ludo sat down; he had never looked more serious. An unsettled Olympe caught Albus's eye, and for the first time, there was unity between them. Bagman sensed it—not without some effort, he cleared his throat, resuming his role of an organiser.
"Judges?"
"Mr Krum cast a good and clean Conjunctivitis Curse," Albus said. "He claimed the golden egg more quickly than his predecessors and didn't get hurt in the process. This being said, I can never un-hear the dragon's screams of pain. The Chinese Fireball is an endangered species, and the loss of her eggs is a tragedy. I will give Mr Krum seven points—only because I suspect he didn't come up with this barbaric idea on his own."
Madame Maxime nodded her agreement. "Six points."
"Um… seven," Ludo offered thoughtfully. "Barty?"
"Five."
Karkaroff stared them out, his nose wrinkled.
"It does show why all of your champions are taught to crawl on ze ground and scream at ze sight of danger. Viktor showed bravery and valor, as a vizard should. Ten points."
No one thought it worth their time to argue or explain how unethical Krum's solution had been. Wizarding community retained a great deal of bias against dragons, and most students were too excited by the show to care about the proper treatment of the creatures. Amid the cheers, no one heard Rolf's sounds of disapproval.
And now, it was the turn of the last dragon: a notoriously bad-tempered Hungarian Horntail. Gigantic, coal black and bat-like in appearance, she settled directly over her eggs, unwilling to budge. Albus was drawing deep breaths and knew Minerva was doing the same; he hoped Rolanda was near to hold her hand.
Harry walked into the grounds. His features were more than pale—they had a green, ghastly tinge to them, and Albus wanted to curse Tom Riddle and his minions for tormenting the child so. And yet, there was no hesitation in the latter's voice when he raised his wand.
"Accio Firebolt!"
A strong spell this was: it took hardly a minute for the racing broom to come swishing through the air. Harry mounted it before speeding upward, and this was when true magic occurred: as if finding himself in his natural element, he discarded all traces of anxiety and deployed strategy. With an astounding amount of calculation, he started circling around the dragon, distracting her, provoking her, luring her away from his prize. It was far from easy; the Horntail was particularly protective of her eggs, and rather than expose them, she breathed fire. Harry was ready—he swerved just in time.
"Great Scott, he can fly!" Ludo commended. "Are you watching this, Mr. Krum?"
Albus would have loved dearly to take a peek at Karkaroff's expression; only, he had learned not to celebrate prematurely. Harry's second veer was not as successful: although he evaded the flame, he received a vicious slash on the shoulder with the dragon's spiked tail. Tantalised by his performance, the spectators groaned their sympathy. It did not deter him; he only flew higher and higher until the creature could take it no longer. She deployed her wings, prepared to squash him, and this sufficed. He dove.
It was over in seconds. The golden egg gleaming under his arm, Harry was zooming off, and the handlers were free to soothe the confused dragon.
"Look at that! Will you look at that!" Ludo was jumping up and down with delight. "Our youngest champion is quickest to get his egg! Well, this is going to shorten the odds on Mr Potter!"
Albus leaned back; he felt positively light-headed with relief and could not contain his grin. If this was Sirius's work, every ounce of yelling and conflict between them had been worth it.
"Nine points," he announced. "A point off for the injury, that's only fair. But his method, simple and effective as it was, yielded the quickest result without harming the dragon."
Madame Maxime was as sour as he was happy.
"Eight points." She did not elaborate, but he could tell she had deducted a point simply because he had done the same to her champion.
Ludo was another matter.
"Eight?" he scoffed. "With all due respect, now that's just biased. Mr Potter smashed it—I'll give him ten points. Merlin, I haven't seen such flying in years! Now he could make it big in the Quidditch business. Barty?"
"Nine. Points. Injury. Not good," came oddly disconnected words.
This did not satisfy the commentator either.
"Oh, you and your rules, Barty—who cares about the injury? Nothing but a mosquito bite. Headmaster Karkaroff?"
Like Snape, the Ukrainian possessed a gift for silencing people with a single look, and it could not be more obvious Ludo's attitude vexed and disappointed him.
"I'll say Mr Potter cheated. First, he vos prepared, so someone tipped him off about ze dragons. Second, zis strategy of his vos supreme cheating. He vos flying avay from ze dragon, not facing it. I vill not possibly revard such treachery. Four points, and zat is generous!"
Indifferent to his rant, Albus smiled on. Even taking into account this lower mark, Harry had won the task fair and square. Most importantly, he was safe—at least today. To cap this turn of fortune, the boy did not exit Madam Pomfrey's tent alone: Ronald Weasley was standing by his side, supportive once again, and furious at Karkaroff's injustice. The two closest friends strolled out of the enclosure together.
Beaming, the old wizard addressed the other judges.
"There is a small feast waiting in the Great Hall—you are all cordially invited to attend." Crouch's ill airs made him waver. "And I was hoping to have a word, Barty, if you don't mind."
"I 'ave to tend to my champion." Olympe heaved herself up. "If you'll excuse-moi."
"Of course. Thank you for your contribution, Madame Maxime. I hope to see you at dinner."
She departed without thanking him in return. Most likely, she would come to dinner to maintain the appearances; so far, however, Hogwarts had failed to conquer her—a fact that would not be changing in the near future.
Ludo remained oblivious to the cold shoulder she had given them.
"Well, I'll go and congratulate Harry. Such a good boy he is! Truly impressive flying there. See you in a bit, Barty!"
Now only three wizards stayed behind in the judges' box.
"Vot about ze second task?" Karkaroff demanded. "If zis is vot you two are going to discuss, zen I vill stay right here, sank you very much."
"It's not about the second task." Albus contemplated Crouch's glazed stare. "I have tried to apprehend you since the announcement of the champions, Barty. You as good as admitted then you needed my help. Talk to me, please."
"Help… help… My wife… my…"
Behind the airy words, a fierce inner battle was being fought. Even Karkaroff saw it; for once, he intently observed the official and made no sound.
"Dumbledore."
It was as though Crouch had only just realised Albus was present. There was something disturbing about the flat intonation with which the name was pronounced. And then, without a warning, the glazed eyes came to life, and a spark of madness, of rage even shone in their depths.
"YOU!" Crouch bellowed. "IT IS ALL BECAUSE OF YOU—YOU, A DARK WIZARD'S HARLOT! MAY YOU ROT!"
He snatched his notepad and quill, shoved them haphazardly into his briefcase, and tore out of the box. Albus gaped after him, speechless.
"Vell," the Durmstrang headmaster drawled, "I vill see you at dinner zen. An interesting conversation ve had here…"
He coughed for good measure—a poorly veiled attempt at masking his laughter.
Since no one would be attending the feast, Albus made his solitary way to the grounds. His son was waiting behind a thinning group of students.
"Well, I'd say well done to all, especially Harry; you can real—what's wrong, Albus?"
Giacomo's worry was patent despite his glamour spell; he had deemed it advisable to spend the day incognito in case any of the Ministry officials should recognise him.
"It's… nothing serious." The older wizard sighed. "Barty Crouch is not himself, that's all; we had something of an altercation back in the stands. I hope you've had a good time watching the task."
The Italian frowned but did not press the matter.
"I'm very glad Harry Potter came up with such a genius solution—it really was spectacular. Having said that, I feel rather sorry for the Veela girl; she was crying hard in that tent."
This did little to lift Albus's spirits. "Poor child. I wish I'd given her more points. This whole competition is more biased than I expected."
"That's always the case. From what I heard, the girl was sobbing about her ruined skirt, but there was more to it, I'm sure. Without being a pure Veela, she performed a remarkable piece of Veela magic and got the lowest marks for it. It looks bad from the side, I won't lie. Then again, it can't be easy to award points. The Krum boy did well, except… poor dragon. I can't say I've ever heard a creature scream in pain like this, and I frankly never want to hear it again."
Pausing, Giacomo held out his arm to invite Albus back into the castle.
"We should probably check on Justice. She must be wondering what to make of those pained roars."
"Let's go." The headmaster was much too preoccupied to heed the curious glances from students and staff alike. "At least the champions are safe for the time being. As for the person who put Harry's name in the goblet… they'll have something to ponder about."
"It depends on what they wanted to achieve. If it was to get him killed, they can't be feeling very content. If it's a smokescreen for a bigger plan, Harry's triumph has bought them more time."
"I'm afraid it's the latter." With one last sigh, Albus pulled himself together. He would not let anything put a damper on Harry's victory. "There is a point I meant to discuss with you, Giaco—one I couldn't mention in a letter. You see, I visited Olivia Ollivander about two weeks ago."
"I know." To his surprise, Giacomo smiled. "You've been busy. Don't worry, I'm not angry—I understand why you did it. In fact, I'm already working on it."
Intrigued, the Englishman raised his eyebrows. "I promised I would do it, for Gia's sake. But also for Olivia's."
"I know."
"What do you mean by working on it?"
His son met his gaze. "Olivia was absent from the political scene for a while. During that period, I wasn't resting on my laurels; I planted spies in the Ministry and as close to my opponents as I possibly could. The second Olivia showed up at the Ministry, I heard about it. I've already started surrounding her with people who… ah, work on many fronts, shall we say. My strategy is fairly simple: she will support Gia even if she isn't aware of it. This leaves me free to work on my access to the Durmstrang board of governors—for I believe there will soon be quite a few changes at Durmstrang as well. The timing is perfect."
"It sure is."
Albus took an instant to digest the news. He was proud of Giacomo, and a little taken aback as well. Sometimes he tended to forget how much his son had grown, how Machiavellian he could be in his endeavours. He still tended to see a stray kitten in place of a panther. The fact that Olivia was being steered in a specific political direction without her knowledge left him uneasy; on the other hand, he possessed no moral high ground whatsoever and could not, in truth, reprimand his son for protecting his family.
"I'm glad you'll be submitting your candidacy to the board of governors," he replied in conclusion to his thoughts. "If that buffoon keeps his post for any length of time, he will destroy the school. And Olivia… Olivia was noble enough to forgive me. I'm certain she will grow fond of Gia too; all she needs is time and involvement. She was wasting away in Liguria."
"Her situation… it's sad," Giacomo admitted. "I promise my strategies have not been designed to actively harm her. However, if she reveals herself to be stubborn and fixated on the old feuds, or if she tries to hurt Gia, then I may have to break my word to you. But not before. I have no reason to wish Olivia harm. As far as Durmstrang goes, I have my work cut out for me. Karkaroff is not the problem—it's those who put him in charge."
"Indeed. And… I wouldn't expect anything less of you if Gia were put at disadvantage."
They were nearing the office when Minerva came striding towards them. Tears of joy sparkled in her eyes; her entire countenance radiated relief. Discarding the protocol, she ignored Giacomo and went straight for the headmaster, hugging him with all her might.
"Oh, Albus, Harry was brilliant! Lily and James would have been so proud. I can't even describe how glad I am."
He enfolded her in response; her emotion was contagious, and unless he controlled himself, he would be weeping with her in no time. Giacomo's ministerial robes were what averted the danger: at the sight of them, Minerva all but lashed out.
"Can't you Ministry people give us some privacy for five minutes?!"
He granted her a polite if slightly embarrassed smile. "Most certainly. Albus, I'll… go and check on my wife."
He walked away, leaving them locked in an embrace. Albus could not recall ever seeing the witch so delighted. And whatever the future held in store, this moment would always stay sacred in his memory.