Here you have it, another chapter of Heir of Dracula! In this chapter, we start fourth year! I hope you'll like it. If you don't... well, that kinda sucks...
–
"But I am not a man, Muggle," the cold voice said, barely audible now over the crackling of the flames. "I am much, much more than a man. However... why not? I will face you... Wormtail, come turn my chair around."
The servant gave a whimper.
"You heard me, Wormtail."
Slowly, with his face screwed up, as though he would rather have done anything than approach his master and the hearth rug where the snake lay, the small man walked forward and began to turn the chair. The snake lifted its ugly, triangular head and hissed slightly as the legs of the chair snagged on its rug.
And then the chair was facing the old Frank Bryce, and he saw what was sitting in it. His walking stick fell to the floor with a clatter. He opened his mouth and let out a scream. He was screaming so loudly that he never heard the words the thing in the chair spoke as it raised a wand. There was a flash of green light, a rushing sound, and Frank Bryce crumpled. He was dead before he hit the floor.
Thousands of miles away, in the Carpathian Mountains, near the Borgo Pass, in Castle Dracula, Harold Dracula woke with a start, his whole body drenched in sweat. He lay flat on his back, breathing hard as though he had been running. He had his hand pressed over his face. The old scar on his forehead, which was shaped like a bolt of lightning, was burning beneath his fingers, as though someone had just pressed a white-hot wire to his skin.
Next to him, Aleera made a meowing noise as she snuggled closer to him. Aleera had taken to Harold's changes like a fish to water, and wanted him even more after that. Harold just didn't feel like rejecting her anymore. His changes had brought about great... well, changes in him. He felt more aware of his surroundings, his urges were peaked, including his thirst and his sexual urges.
Harold rose from his bed and got dressed, ignoring Aleera's Romanian pleas for him to come back to bed, and ran a finger over his scar again. He walked out onto the balcony and watched the sun slowly rising in the distance.
"One more murder... my faithful servant at Hogwarts... Harry Potter is as good as mine, Wormtail."
Lord Voldemort had said those words... Harold took a deep breath, his cold, red eyes gazing down on the impaled skeletons on the grounds. So, they would meet again, then?
Wormtail... Pettigrew had managed to escape the Aurors by transforming into a rat. It seemed that he had found his way back to Lord Voldemort, and was helping him get to Harold.
Now, Harold would have respected Lord Voldemort, who was a being of such great power, but what bothered him was that Voldemort had used Harold's birth name when referring to him... That was unforgivable...
With a sweep of his cloak, Harold turned into mist and dispersed into the air, intent on going to the village and getting himself a snack.
–
"My word..."
Harold stood with Draco, Mr. Malfoy, and Mrs. Malfoy outside the gigantic Quidditch stadium where the Quidditch World Cup Final was going to take place. Staring up at the immense gold walls surrounding the field, he could tell that ten cathedrals would fit comfortably inside it.
"It seats a hundred thousand," Mr. Malfoy told the two Slytherins with a smirk. "A Ministry task force of five hundred have been working on it all year. Muggle Repelling Charms on every inch of it," he said, leading the way toward the nearest entrance, which was already surrounded by a swarm of shouting witches and wizards.
"Prime seats!" the Ministry witch at the entrance said when she checked their tickets. "Top Box! Straight upstairs, Mr. Malfoy, and as high as you can go."
The stairs into the stadium were carpeted in rich purple. They clambered upward with the rest of the crowd, which slowly filtered away through doors into the stands to their left and right. They kept climbing, and at last they reached the top of the staircase and found themselves in a small box, set at the highest point of the stadium and situated exactly halfway between the golden goal posts. About twenty purple-and-gilt chairs stood in two rows here, and Harold looked down upon a scene the likes of which he could never have imagined.
A hundred thousand witches and wizards were taking their places in the seats, which rose in levels around the long oval field. Everything was suffused with a mysterious golden light, which seemed to come from the stadium itself. The field looked smooth as velvet from their lofty position. At either end of the field stood three goal hoops, fifty feet high. Right opposite them, almost at Harold eye level, was a gigantic blackboard. Gold writing kept dashing across it as though an invisible giant's hand were scrawling upon the blackboard and then wiping it off again.
"Oh, but here's Lucius!" came the voice of Minister Cornelius Fudge, who was standing with the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, who was wearing splendid robes of black velvet trimmed with gold.
"Ah, Fudge," Mr. Malfoy said, holding out a hand as he reached the Minister of Magic. "How are you? I don't think you've met my wife, Narcissa? Or our son, Draco?"
"How do you do, how do you do?" Fudge said, smiling and bowing to Mrs. Malfoy. "Oh, and Harold himself! How are you, my boy?"
"Good, Minister," Harold said politely, shaking Fudge's hand.
"And allow me to introduce you to Mr. Oblansk... Obalonsk... Mr... well, he's the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, and he can't understand a word I'm saying anyway, so never mind. And let's see who else... you know Arthur Weasley, I daresay?"
"Hello, Ginny," Harold said pleasantly, ignoring the staring contest taking place between Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Weasley. Ginny smiled when she saw them.
"Hi, Harold. Hello, Draco."
"How are you, Ginny?" Draco said with a smile, and Ginny blushed slightly.
"I'm fine. And you?"
"I'm great."
"Let's sit, shall we?" Harold asked, taking the seat right behind Ginny, while Draco took a seat to his left. The other Weasleys, except for the two oldest that Harold had never seen before, were glaring at the two of them.
Just then, a man burst into the Top Box. He was wearing long Quidditch robes in thick horizontal stripes of bright yellow and black. An enormous picture of a wasp was splashed across his chest. He had the look of a powerfully built man gone slightly to seed. The robes were stretched tightly across a large belly he surely had not had before. His nose was squashed, but his round blue eyes, short blond hair, and rosy complexion made him look like a very overgrown schoolboy.
"Everyone ready?" he said, his round face gleaming like a great, excited Edam. "Minister, ready to go?"
"Ready when you are, Ludo," Fudge said comfortably.
Ludo whipped out his wand, directed it at his own throat, and said "Sonorus!" and then spoke over the roar of sound that was now filling the packed stadion. His voice echoed over them, booming into every corner of the stands.
"Ladies and gentlemen... welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!"
–
People were running away into the woods, fleeing something that was moving across the field toward Harold and Draco. Loud jeering, roars of laughter, and drunken yells were drifting toward them. Then came a burst of strong green light, which illuminated the scene.
A crowd of wizards, tightly packed and moving together with wands pointing upward, was marching slowly across the field of tents on the other side of the woods next to the Quidditch stadium. Their heads were hooded and their faces masked. High above them, floating along in midair, fours struggling figures were being contorted into grotesque shapes. It was as though the masked wizards on the ground were puppeteers, and the people above them were marionettes operated by invisible strings that rose from the wands into the air. Two of the figures were very small.
"Look at them," Harold said to Draco, his arms crossed. "Thousands of wizards and witches fleeing at the sight of a few drunken idiots in masks. That is the power of symbols, Draco, of names."
"Like yours in Transylvania?" Draco wanted to know, and Harold nodded.
"Exactly. I can wander the streets of the nearby villages, and the villagers flee at the mere sight of me, without even bothering to find out if I do have power or not. Take these drunken idiots for example," he said, gesturing for the Death Eaters as a few of the tents caught on fire, causing the screaming to go louder. "They're drunk, unruly, and probably no good in a duel. And even if they were, they wouldn't be able to handle hundreds of wizards at once, yet everyone flees before them. Why do you think that is?"
"Because they have gotten themselves such a terrifying reputation in the past?"
"Exactly, my friend. Fear is the ultimate weapon. With fear, one can conquer the world."
"You sound like you want it," Draco said, giving Harold a strange look.
"Not the world, my friend. Maybe the magical world, but not the Muggle world... After all, who isn't interested in ruling the world when they have powers like mine?"
"Dumbledore?"
"Yes, him, of course, but he's an obvious exception. Now, come on, we don't want to be seen here."
They moved into the woods, following the path toward the Quidditch stadium. A huddle of teenagers in pajamas was arguing vociferously a little way along the path. When they saw Harold and Draco, a girl with thick, curly hair turned and said quickly, "Where is Madame Maxime? We are lost..." in French.
"Um... What?" Draco asked.
"Oh..." the girl who had spoken said, and she looked about to turn her back on them, when Harold took her hand, leaning down and planting a kiss on her knuckles.
"Forgive me, madame, but we have not seen this Madame Maxime. We will, however, help you find her, of course," he spoke in perfect French, and the girl blushed.
"Merci," she said, and looped her arm with Harold's. Harold looked back at Draco.
"Come along, Draco, let's help these tasty little morsels find their Madame Maxime."
"What a charmer," Draco muttered to himself as he followed Harold, who chuckled.
"So, my ladies, are you, perchance, from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic?" Harold asked the group of teenagers, who nodded. "Ah, I've heard that it's quite beautiful there."
The girls giggled to themselves as they walked. Then, after about five minutes, however, something vast, green, and glittering erupted from the trees some distance away, making the girls scream in surprise. It was a colossal skull, comprised of what looked like emerald stars, with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue. As they watched, it rose higher and higher, blazing in a haze of greenish smoke, etched against the black sky like a new constellation.
"Dear, dear," Harold said, clicking his tongue and looking to Draco. "I daresay they've gone a bit too far, wouldn't you say?"
Draco was staring at the symbol in fear and nodded. No one would be stupid enough to summon the Dark Mark like that, after all. Well, someone had to be that stupid, after all.
"You were talking about fear earlier..."
"The greatest fear of all," Harold confirmed with a nod. "I think I will have to change that."
"So that they'll fear you more?" Draco asked with a smirk directed at Harold, who smirked right back.
"Of course."
–
"Oh, my," Harold said as he looked over the Daily Prophet, walking through platform nine and three-quarters with the quadruplets. Eleesia was pushing his trolley, and the other three were talking amongst themselves about the dreary state of the Englishmen they passed. Robes and wizard's hats, it was such an ugly look.
"What is is, my Lord?" Marishka asked curiously.
"This Rita Skeeter woman really does have a poisonous quill. I've been following her articles, and I find them most... interesting..."
"How so, Master?"
"The articles are made up mostly of lies, rumors, and half-truths, yet the public seems to believe everything she writes... If I could get this woman on my side, she would be most useful to me..."
"Maybe you should seduce her, my Lord," Aleera purred with a smirk.
"Maybe if she's good-looking," Harold said as they reached the train. Harold grabbed his trunk and got on board, before leaning out and kissing each quadruplet on the cheek, except for Aleera, who he kissed on the lips. "Well, good-bye, for now. I shall see you next summer."
"Hopefully, you will bringing a new woman home," Aleera purred, waving, only to get elbowed by Verona.
"Take care, my Lord," Marishka said, waving as well.
"Strike fear into the hearts of your fellow students, Master," Eleesia said, doing the same.
Harold waved back, then went inside again, walking through the train until he found the compartment containing Draco, Pansy, Crabbe, Goyle, and Blaise Zabini. Harold didn't have to do more than make a gesture with his hand, before everyone except Draco cleared out of the compartment.
"Will there be another eventful year, or will we have to endure the dull monotony that is everyday school life?" Harold asked, lifting his trunk up on the luggage rack.
"Well, Father told me that the Triwizard Tournament will take place in Hogwarts this year."
"The Triwizard Tournament?" came a new voice, and they both looked to the door to see Hermione standing there. Harold immediately got up from his seat where he had just sat down to help her lift her trunk up on the luggage rack. "I've heard of that."
"I haven't, so tell me about it," Harold said as he sat down again.
"Well, the Triwizard Tournament is a magical contest held by the three largest schools of Europe: Hogwarts, Durmstrang Institute, and Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, each school being represented by one Champion," Hermione explained as she sat down as well, smiling when the train started moving. "Selected Champions compete in three tasks, traditionally judged by the Headmasters or Headmistresses of the competing schools, designed to test magical ability, intelligence, and courage. Champions compete for the honor and glory of winning the Tournament, and for the Triwizard Cup and a monetary prize. The first Tournament was held in Twelve ninety-four, and the was discontinued after seventeen ninety-two, after a cockatrice escaped and injured the three judges."
"You read too much," Draco said simply, looking impressed that Hermione could memorize so much. "Father actually considered sending me to Durmstrang rather than Hogwarts, you know. He and the headmaster are old Death Eater friends. Well, you know his opinion of Dumbledore, and Durmstrang doesn't admit Muggle-borns. But Mother didn't like the idea of me going to school so far away. Father says Durmstrang takes a far more sensible line than Hogwarts about the Dark Arts. Durmstrang students actually learn them, not just the defense that we do..."
"The only Dark Arts worth learning are those you find out yourself. Learning Dark Arts from a teacher?" Harold said with a scoff. "In Scholomance, one learns the basics of the Dark Arts, then you teach yourself."
"Scholomance, is that where your ancestor learned his Dark Arts?" Hermione asked eagerly, always interested in hearing about other magical schools. She didn't seem as repulsed by the Dark Arts as she would have been in first year.
"Indeed," Harold said, then clapped his hands together. "So, we are to play host to the Triwizard Tournament, then? I'd imagine there is some sort of a ball involved. Why else would we be asked to bring dress robes?"
"You actually brought dress robes?" Draco asked in surprise.
"Of course not," Harold said with a disgusted look on his face. "I brought some of my ancestor's old clothes. I just know they will look very good on me."
"How can you know, when you can't look in a mirror?" Hermione asked curiously, and Harold smirked.
"But there is one mirror that I have been able to see myself in."
"But I thought you didn't see what you looked like, just yourself wearing... Aaah," Draco said, his eyes widening in realization. Hermione looked confused.
"What? What mirror?"
"The Mirror of Erised," Draco supplied. They hadn't told Hermione what Harold had seen in it. "Harold saw himself in it, but it was a very gruesome scene he saw."
"What did he see?" she asked, before turning to Harold. "What did you see?"
Harold told her. Hermione went wide-eyed. Then, she asked a question.
"You didn't see me in there, did you?"
Harold laughed.
"No, all the people in that reflection were faceless."
"Oh, good. Then I have no problem with what you saw."
The group spent the rest of the journey talking about the Triwizard Tournament, until finally the Hogwarts Express slowed down and stopped in the pitch-darkness of Hogsmeade station.
As the train doors opened, there was a rumble of thunder overhead. Harold was the only one who wasn't bothered by the rain, and merely walked as though it was a warm, sunny day, while the others had their heads bent and eyes narrowed against the downpour. The rain was now coming down so thick and fast that it was as thought buckets of ice-cold water were being emptied repeatedly over their heads.
A hundred Thestral-drawn carriages stood waiting for them outside the station. Harold, Hermione, and Draco climbed into one of them, and the door shut with a snap. A few moments later, with a great lurch, the long procession of carriages was rumbling and splashing its way up the track toward Hogwarts Castle.
–
Harold yawned as he sat at the Slytherin table. The two schools, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, had just arrived at Hogwarts, and while the Beauxbatons lot had sat down at the Ravenclaw table, the Durmstrangs were still standing awkwardly in the doorway, as though not quite sure where to sit.
Finally, they seemed to decide, and came to sit down at the Slytherin table, Viktor Krum sitting down across from Harold and Draco, both who extended their hands.
"I am Harold Dracula, welcome to Hogwarts," Harold said as Krum shook his hand, before shaking Draco's.
"Draco Malfoy, nice to meet you."
Krum grunted, then looked down at his plate. Harold leaned toward Draco.
"Rather unpleasant fellow, isn't it?" he muttered, and Draco nodded.
"Guess the big-shot Quidditch star thinks himself above talking to the 'lower class,'" he whispered.
The Durmstrang students were pulling off their heavy furs and looking up at the starry black ceiling with expressions of interest. A couple of them were picking up the golden plates and goblets and examining them, apparently impressed.
Up at the staff table, Filch was adding chairs. He was wearing his moldy old tailcoat in honor of the occasion. Harold was surprised to see that he added four chair, two on either side of Dumbledore's.
"Why is Filch putting out four chairs?" he asked Draco, who looked to the staff table.
"Oh, that? Father said that Bagman and Crouch would be judging, too. They were the ones who made the Tournament possible, after all."
When all the students had entered the Hall and settled down at their House tables, the staff entered, filing up to the top table and taking their seats. Last in line were Dumbledore, Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime. When their headmistress appeared, the pupils from Beauxbatons leapt to their feet. A few of the Hogwarts students laughed. The Beauxbatons party appeared quite unembarrassed, however, and did not resume their seats until Madame Maxime had sat down on Dumbledore's left-hand side. Dumbledore remained standing, and a silence fell over the Great Hall.
"Good evenin ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and, most particularly, guests," Dumbledore said, beaming around at the foreign students. "I have great pleasure in welcoming you all to Hogwarts. I hope and trust that your stay here will be both comfortable and enjoyable."
One of the Beauxbatons girls still clutching a muffler around her head gave what was unmistakably a derisive laugh.
"The tournament will be officially opened at the end of the feast," Dumbledore said. "I now invite you all to eat, drink, and make yourselves at home!"
He sat down, and Harold saw Karkaroff lean forward at once and engage him in conversation.
The plates in front of them filled with food as usual. The house-elves in the kitchen seemed to have pulled out all the stops. There was a greater variety of dishes in front of them than Harold had ever seen, including several that were definitely foreign.
As they ate, Harold noticed that the Beauxbatons girl who had laughed earlier had removed her muffler. A long sheet of silvery-blond hair fell almost to her waist. She had large, deep blue eyes, and very white, even teeth.
The girl locked eyes with Harold, who stared back at her, taken by her beauty. The girl seemed equally interested, and she stared at Harold just as much as he stared at her, a small smile on her face.
"If you're done staring at her..." Draco said, looking weirdly at Harold. "Hello? Harold?"
"Hm?" Harold hummed, still looking at the girl.
"Well, if you're done staring, why don't you take a look at who just showed up?"
He was pointing up at the staff table. The two empty seats had just been filled. Ludo Bagman was now sitting on Karkaroff's other side, and Crouch, with a toothbrush mustache and a very serious face, was next to Madame Maxime.
Once the plates had been wiped clean, Dumbledore stood up again.
"The moment has come," he said, smiling around at the sea of upturned faces. "The Triwizard Tournament is about to start. I would like to say a few words of explanation before we bring in the casket, just to clarify the procedure that we will be following this year. But first, let me introduce, for those who do not know them, Mr. Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation," there was a smattering of polite applause, "and Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports."
There was a much louder round of applause for Bagman than for Crouch, perhaps because of his fame as a Beater, or simply because he looked so much more likable. He acknowledged it with a jovial wave of his hand. Bartemius Crouch did not smile or wave when his name was announced.
"Mr. Bagman and Mr. Crouch have worked tirelessly over the last few months on the arrangements for the Triwizard Tournament," Dumbledore continued, "and they will be joining myself, Professor Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime on the panel that will judge the champions' efforts."
At the mention of the word 'champions,' the attentiveness of the listening students seemed to sharpen. Perhaps Dumbledore had noticed their sudden stillness, for he smiled as he said, "The casket, then, if you please, Mr. Filch."
Filch, who had been lurking unnoticed in a far corner of the hall, now approached Dumbledore carrying a great wooden chest encrusted with jewels. It looked extremely old.
"The instructions for the tasks the champions will face this year have already been examined by Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman," Dumbledore said as Filch placed the chest carefully on the table before him, "and they have made the necessary arrangements for each challenge. There will be three tasks, spaced throughout the school year, and they will test the champions in many different ways... their magical prowess, their daring, their powers of deductions, and, of course, their ability to cope with danger."
At this last word, the hall was filled with a silence so absolute that no one seemed to be breathing.
"As you know, three champions compete in the tournament," Dumbledore went on calmly, "one from each of the participating schools. They will be marked on how well they perform each of the Tournament tasks and the champion with the highest total after task three will win the Triwizard Cup. The champions will be chosen by an impartial selector: the Goblet of Fire."
Dumbledore now took out his wand and tapped three times upon the top of the casket. The lid slowly creaked open. Dumbledore reached inside it and pulled out a large, roughly hewn wooden cup. It would have been entirely unremarkable had it not been full to the brim with dancing blue-white flames.
Dumbledore closed the casket and placed the goblet carefully on top of it, where it would be clearly visible to everyone in the hall.
"Anybody wishing to submit themselves as champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment and drop it into the goblet," Dumbledore said. "Aspiring champions have twenty-four hours in which to put their names forward. Tomorrow night, Halloween, the goblet will return the names of the three it has judged most worthy to represent their schools. The goblet will be placed in the entrance hall tonight, where it will be freely accessible to all those wishing to compete.
"To ensure that no underage wizard yields to temptation," Dumbledore continued, "I will be drawing an Age Line around the Goblet of Fire once it has been placed in the entrance hall. Nobody under the age of seventeen will be able to cross this line.
"Finally, I wish to impress upon any of you wishing to compete that this tournament is not to be entered into lightly. Once a champion has been selected by the Goblet of Fire, he or she is obliged to see the tournament through to the end. The placing of your name in the goblet constitutes a binding, magical contract. There can be no change of heart once you have become a champion. Please be very sure, therefore, that you are wholeheartedly prepared to play before you drop your name into the goblet. Now, I think it is time for bed. Good night to you all."
"An Age Line!" Draco said as they got out of their seats. "That's it? You could probably get past it, couldn't you?"
"Of course I could," Harold said simply. He didn't mind tooting his own horn, so calling himself the greatest student Hogwarts had seen in a long time wasn't such a stretch. "But until the start of this school year, I had never even heard of the Triwizard Tournament, so eternal glory isn't exactly something that's true, and I have enough gold to last me seven lifetimes of splurging. So why should I enter?"
"Very true," Draco said, nodding as they made their way down to the dungeons.
–
As the next day was Saturday, most students would normally have breakfasted late. Harold and Draco, however, were not alone in rising much earlier than everyone else. When they came up into the entrance hall, they saw about twenty people milling around it, some of them eating toast, all examining the Goblet of Fire. It had been placed in the center of the hall on the stool that normally bore the Sorting Hat. A thin, golden line had been traced on the floor, forming a circle ten feet around it in every direction.
"Has anyone put their name in yet?" Harold asked a nearby Slytherin, who nodded.
"All the Durmstrang lot," he said. "But I haven't seen anyone from Hogwarts yet."
Someone laughed behind Harold. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the Weasley twins and their friend, who usually commentated the Quidditch matches, Jordan, Harold believed his name was, hurrying down the staircase, all three of them looking extremely excited as they made their way up to Weasley and Ginny, who were also in the entrance hall.
"Done it," Harold heard one of the twins tell Weasley and Ginny in a triumphant whisper. "Just taken it."
"What?" Weasley said.
"The Aging Potion, dung brains," the twin said.
"One drop each," the other twin said, rubbing his hands together with glee. "We only need to be a few months older."
"We're going to split the thousand Galleons between the three of us if one of us wins," Jordan said, grinning broadly.
Harold watched as one of the twins pulled a slip of parchment out of his pocket. The twin walked right up to the edge of the line and stood there, rocking on his toes like a diver preparing for a fifty-foot drop. Then, with the eyes of every person in the entrance hall upon him, he took a great breath and stepped over the line.
The other twin certainly thought it had worked, for he let out a yell of triumph and leapt after his brother, but next moment, there was a loud sizzling sound, and both twins were hurled out of the golden circle as though they had been thrown by an invisible shot-putter. They landed painfully, ten feet away on the cold stone floor, and to add insult to injury, there was a loud popping noise, and both of them sprouted identical long, white beards.
"Fools," Harold muttered with a shake of his head as he headed into the Great Hall, passing Dumbledore in the doorway. "As if Dumbledore would draw an Age Line that would be fooled by an Aging Potion..."
"Well, they are Gryffindors. What did you expect?" Draco said with a shrug.
The decorations in the Great Hall had changed this morning. As it was Halloween, a cloud of live bats was fluttering around the enchanted ceiling, while hundreds of carved pumpkins leered from every corner.
"Anyone from our House entered?" Draco asked whoever listened as he and Harold sat down at the Slytherin table.
"I did," Warrington, a dumb brute who looked something like a sloth, said a few seats away. He was the only one who said anything, and Harold nodded.
Once they had had their breakfast, Harold and Draco made their way down to the lake, and Draco was very confused as to why.
"What are we doing down here?" Draco asked as Harold held out his arms.
"Training."
"Training? For what?"
"I just wish to perfect my powers. Some of them are still very subpar. For example, my weather-control is horrible. Observe."
Harold closed his eyes and concentrated. A distant rumble of thunder was heard, and storm clouds started forming in the sky. Then, it started raining lightly. There was no storm, or heavy rain, and no thunder as Harold opened his eyes.
Draco held out his hand, watching as the drops hit the palm of his hand.
"Well... at least it's raining..."
Harold panted slightly, humming to himself.
When the evening arrived, the rain was still falling, but nowhere near the storm that Harold had been hoping for. Together, Harold and Draco made their way up the sloping lawns.
The Durmstrang party was walking up toward the castle from the lake. Viktor Krum was walking side by side with Karkaroff, and the other Durmstrang students were straggling along behind them.
When they entered the candlelit Great Hall, it was almost full. The Goblet of fire had been moved. It was now standing in front of Dumbledore's empty chair at the staff table.
After a grand feast, and when the golden plates had returned to their original spotless state, Dumbledore got to his feet, and the upswing in the level of noise within the hall died away almost instantly. On either side of Dumbledore, Karkaroff and Madame Maxime looked as tense and expectant as anyone. Ludo Bagman was beaming and winking at various students. Mr. Crouch, however, looked quite uninterested, almost bored.
"Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision," Dumbledore said. "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," he indicated the door behind the staff table, "where they will be receiving their first instructions."
HE took out his wand and gave a great sweeping wave with it. At once, all the candles except those inside the carved pumpkins were extinguished, plunging them into a state of semidarkness. The Goblet of Fire now shone more brightly than anything in the whole hall, the sparkling bright, bluey-whiteness of the flames almost painful on the eyes. Everyone watched, waiting... A few people kept checking their watches...
The flames inside the goblet suddenly turned red. Sparks began to fly from it. Next moment, a tongue of flames shot into the air, a charred piece of parchment fluttered from it, and the whole hall gasped.
Dumbledore caught the piece of parchment and held it at arm's length, so that he could read it by the light of the flames, which had turned back to blue-white.
"The champion for Durmstrang," he read, in a strong, clear voice, "will be Viktor Krum."
A storm of applause and cheering swept the hall. Harold watched as Viktor Krum, sitting across from him, rose from the Slytherin table and slouched up toward Dumbledore. He turned right, walked along the staff table, and disappeared through the door into the next chamber.
"Bravo, Viktor!" Karkaroff boomed, so loudly that everyone could hear him, even over all the applause. "Knew you had it in you!"
The clapping and chatting died down. Now everyone's attention was focused once again on the goblet, which, seconds later, turned red once more. A second piece of parchment shot out of it, propelled by the flames.
"The champion for Beauxbatons," Dumbledore said, "is Fleur Delacour!"
The girl, who Harold had been watching ever since she arrived, who had been watching him as well, got gracefully to her feet, shook back her sheet of silvery blond hair, and swept up between the Raveclaw and Hufflepuff tables.
When Fleur Delacour too had vanished into the side chamber, silence fell again, but this time it was a silence so stiff with excitement that you could almost taste it. The Hogwarts champion next...
And the Goblet of Fire turned red once more. Sparks showered out of it, the tongue of flame shot high into the air, and from its tip Dumbledore pulled the third piece of parchment.
"The Hogwarts champion," he called, "is Cedric Diggory!"
The uproar from the Hufflepuff table was the greatest. Every single Hufflepuff had jumped to his or her feet, screaming and stamping, as Cedric made his way past them, grinning broadly, and headed off toward the chamber behind the teachers' table. Indeed, the applause for Cedric went on so long that it was some time before Dumbledore could make himself heard again.
"Excellent!" Dumbledore called happily as at last the tumult died down. "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-"
But Dumbledore suddenly stopped speaking, and it was apparent to everybody what had distracted him.
The fire in the goblet had just turned red again. Sparks were flying out of it. A long flame shot suddenly into the air, and borne upon it was another piece of parchment.
Automatically, it seemed, Dumbledore reached out a long hand and seized the parchment. He held it out and stared at the name written upon it. There was a long pause, during which Dumbledore stared at the slip in his hands, and everyone in the room stared at Dumbledore. And then Dumbledore cleared his throat and read out, "Harold Dracula."
Silence...
Harold sat there, aware of every single head in the Great Hall having turned in his direction. Up at the top table, McGonagall had got to her feet and swept past Ludo Bagman and Karkaroff to whisper urgently to Dumbledore, who bent his ear toward her, frowning slightly.
"What?" Harold demanded, rising to his feet with a sweep of his cloak. "This is an outrage! I did not put my name in there!"
Dumbledore was silent for a moment, then straightened up, nodding to McGonagall. Then, he spoke, "Harold! Up here, if you please!"
Gritting his teeth in righteous rage, Harold set off up the gap between the Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables. When he reached Dumbledore, the unsmiling headmaster said, "Well... through the door, Harold."
Harold moved off along the teachers' table and went through the door out of the Great Hall, finding himself in a smaller room lined with paintings of witches and wizards. A handsome fire was roaring in the fireplace opposite him.
The faces in the portraits turned to look at him as he entered. He saw a wizened witch flit out of the frame of her picture and into the one next to it, which contained a wizard with a walrus mustache. The wizened witch started whispering in his ear.
Viktor Krum, Cedric Diggory, and Fleur Delacour were grouped around the fire. Krum, hunched-up and brooding, was leaning against the mantelpiece, slightly apart from the other two. Cedric was standing with his hands behind his back, staring into the fire. Fleur looked around when Harold walked in and threw back her sheet of long, silvery hair.
"What is it?" she asked. "Do zey want us back in ze 'all?"
"Silence!" Harold snapped at her in Romanian. He didn't have the patience for misunderstandings right now. Something incredibly annoying had happened, after all. Then again, this might break the monotony of everyday life, so maybe it wasn't all bad... Fleur flinched at his words, even though she didn't understand them.
There was a sound of scurrying feet behind Harold, and Ludo Bagman entered the room. He took Harold by the arm and led him forward, but Harold wrenched his arm out of his grip easily.
"Extraordinary," Bagman muttered. "Absolutely extraordinary! Gentlemen... lady," he added, approaching the fireside and addressing the other three. "May I introduce, incredible thought it may seem, the fourth Triwizard champion?"
Viktor Krum straightened up. His surly face darkened as he surveyed Harold. Cedric looked nonplussed. He looked from Bagman to Harold and back again as thought sure he must have misheard what Bagman had said. Fleur, however, tossed her hair, smiling, and said, "Oh, vairy funny joke, Meester Bagman."
"Joke?" Bagman repeated, bewildered. "No, no, not at all! Harold's name just came out of the Goblet of Fire!"
Krum's thick eyebrows contracted slightly. Cedric was still looking politely bewildered. Fleur frowned.
"But evidently zair 'as been a mistake," she said contemptuously to Bagman. "'E cannot compete. 'E is too young."
Harold felt tempted to speak, but kept silent for now. It wouldn't do to make the lady cry here and now by verbally tearing into her.
"Well... it is amazing," Bagman said, rubbing his smooth chin and smiling down at Harold. "But, as you know, the age restriction was only imposed this year as an extra safety measure. And as his name came out of the goblet... I mean, I don't think there can be any ducking out at this stage... It's down in the rules, you're obliged... Harold will just have to do the best he-"
The door behind them opened again, and a large group of people came in: Dumbledore, followed closely by Mr. Crouch, Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, McGonagall, and Snape. Harold heard the buzzing of the hundreds of students on the other side of the wall, before McGonagall closed the door.
"Madame Maxime!" Fleur said at once, striding over to her headmistress. "Zey are saying zat zis little boy is to compete also!"
"Little boy?" Harold demanded angrily. "You dare call me a little boy?!"
"Harold..." Dumbledore said, but Harold ignored him and strode over to Fleur, standing at the same height as her, and stared right into her eyes.
"I am Count Harold Dracula, Heir to the Houses of Dracul and Potter! I am no little boy!"
Fleur flinched at the rage in Harold's eyes, which almost glowed with power as he glared at her. Madame Maxime, however, paid him no heed, and instead drew herself up to her full, and considerable, height. The top of her handsome head brushed the candle-filled chandelier, and her gigantic black-satin bosom swelled.
"What is ze meaning of zis, Dumbly-dorr?" she asked imperiously.
"I'd rather like to know that myself, Dumbledore," Karkaroff said. He was wearing a steely smile, and his blue eyes were like chips of ice. "Two Hogwarts champions? I don't remember anyone telling me the host school is allowed two champions, or have I not read the rules carefully enough?"
He gave a short and nasty laugh.
"C'est impossible," Madame Maxime said, her enormous hand with its many superb opals resting on Fleur's shoulder. "'Ogwarts cannot 'ave two champions. It is most unjust."
"We were under the impression that your Age Line would keep out younger contestants, Dumbledore," Karkaroff said, his steely smile still in place, though his eyes were colder than ever. "Otherwise, we would, of course, have brought along a wider selection of candidates from our own schools."
"Do not blame Dumbledore, or Dracula, Karkaroff," Snape said softly, his black eyes staring into Karkaroff's. "This is not their fault."
"Is it not?" Karkaroff asked, raising an eyebrow. "Either Dumbledore made a mistake with the Age Line, or the boy cheated somehow, it is simple as-"
Karkaroff was interrupted by a snarl from Harold. His blood red eyes glowed again as a swarm of bats flew out from within his cape, disappearing in a blood red mist when they reached the ceiling. Harold swung his arm overhead, and when he pointed it at Karkaroff, a long silver rapier formed out of a blood red mist, pointed at Karkaroff's throat.
"You dare challenge my honor?" he demanded, snarling and showing his razor sharp fangs. Everyone was silent as Harold glared daggers at Karkaroff, and the light from the fireplace seemed to dim, allowing the room to grow ever darker. "Draculs have a right to be proud, and no one shall call me a cheat, or so help me, I shall strike you down where you stand! I care not if you are teacher, noble, or king, you will die by my hand!"
"Tell me, Count Dracula," Karkaroff said, his voice finally breaking slightly as he stared at the tip of the sword, and Harold could smell a slight fear coming off him. "Are you related to Vlad Tepes, the first Dracula?"
"Tepes?" Madame Maxime asked, and Karkaroff nodded.
"Yes. Means the Impaler. He was a bloodthirsty butcher, who committed unspeakable acts of torture upon the peasants, cutting off their hands and feet, gouging out their eyes, and then impaling them on iron spikes," Karkaroff said, making Madame Maxime's eyes widen, and Harold gave the faintest of shrugs.
"They had it coming."
"What could zey have possibly done to deserve such barbaric treatment?" Madame Maxime demanded.
"There is a saying, 'Tu trebuie să stea în patul tău așa cum a făcut.'"
"What does zat mean?"
Harold smirked and said, "You must lie in your bed the way you made it."
"That is quite enough," Dumbledore spoke softly. "Harold, please lower the sword."
"As you wish," Harold said, lowering the sword, which dispersed into blood red mist. Dumbledore gazed intently at Harold.
"Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harold?" he asked calmly. "Or did you ask an older student to do it for you?"
"No," Harold said honestly. Then, when he saw Madame Maxime open her mouth, he said, "And to claim otherwise is an insult to myself and my House. So whoever dares make an enemy of House Dracul, let them speak..."
"Mr. Crouch... Mr. Bagman," Karkaroff said, his voice unctuous, "you are our, er, objective judges. Surely, you will agree that this is most irregular?"
Bagman wiped his round, boyish face with his handkerchief and looked at Mr. Crouch, who was standing outside the circle of the firelight, his face half hidden in shadow. He looked slightly eerie, the half darkness making him look much older, giving him an almost skull-like appearance. When he spoke, however, it was in a curt voice.
"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."
"Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front," Bagman said, beaming and turning back to Karkaroff and Madame Maxime, as though the matter was now closed.
"I insist upon resubmitting the names of the rest of my students," Karkaroff said. He had dropped his unctuous tone and his sile now. His face wore a very ugly look indeed. "You will set up the Goblet of Fire once more, and we will continue adding names until each school has two champions. It's only fair, Dumbledore."
"Have you that little faith in your champion, Professor Karkaroff?" Harold asked, raising an eyebrow. "Surely, you don't think an underage wizard could possibly compete with your champion?"
"No, of course not..." Karkaroff said, taken a bit off-guard by this question. "I mean to say, it's only fair that each school has two champions."
"But Karkaroff, it doesn't work like that," Bagman said. "The Goblet of Fire's just gone out... it won't reignite until the start of the next tournament-"
"In which Durmstrang will most certainly not be competing!" Karkaroff exploded. "After all our meetings and negotiations and compromises, I little expected something of this nature to occur! I have half a mind to leave now!"
"Empty threat, Karkaroff," a voice growled from near the door. "You can't leave your champion now. He's got to compete. They've all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?"
Moody had just entered the room. He limped toward the fire, and with every right step he took, there was a loud clunk.
"Convenient?" Karkaroff said. "I'm afraid I don't understand you, Moody."
Harold could tell he was trying to sound disdainful, as though what Moody was saying was barely worth his notice, but his hands gave him away. They had balled themselves into fists.
"Don't you?" Moody said quietly. "It's very simple, Karkaroff. Someone put Dracula's name in that goblet knowing he'd have to compete if it came out."
"Evidently, someone 'oo wished to give 'Ogwarts two bites at ze same apple!" Madame Maxime said.
"I quite agree, Madame Maxime," Karkaroff said, bowing to her. "I shall be lodging complaints with the Ministry of Magic and the International Confederation of Wizards..."
"If anyone's got reason to complain, it's Dracula," Moody growled.
"Why should 'e complain?" Fleur burst out, stamping her foot. "'E 'as ze chance to compete, 'asn't 'e? We 'ave all been 'oping to be chosen for weeks and weeks! Ze honor for our schools!" A thousand Galleons in prize money! Zis is a chance many would die for!"
"Maybe someone's hoping Dracula is going to die for it," Moody said with the merest trace of a growl.
"Hah!" Harold laughed into the extremely tense silence that followed these words. "A thousand Galleons? Pocket change. Honor for the school, I could care less. If anything, I would, had it not been for the Age Line, have only competed to break the dull monotony that is everyday school life."
"How this situation arose, we do not know," Dumbledore said, speaking to everyone gathered in the room. "It seems to me, however, that we have no choice by to accept it. Both Cedric and Harold have been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, they will do..."
"Ah, but Dumbly-dorr..."
"My dear Madame Maxime, if you have an alternative, I would be delighted to hear it."
Dumbledore waited, but Madame Maxime did not speak, she merely glared. She wasn't the only one, either. Karkaroff looked livid. Bagman, however, looked rather excited.
"Well, shall we crack on, then?" he asked, rubbing his hands together and smiling around the room. "Got to give our champions their instructions, haven't we? Barty, want to do the honors?"
Mr. Crouch seemed to come out of a deep reverie.
"Yes," he said, "instructions. Yes... the first task..."
He moved forward into the firelight. Close up, Harold thought he looked rather ill. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes, and a thin, papery look about his wrinkled skin that hadn't been there the day before.
"The first task is designed to test your daring," he told Harold, Cedric, Fleur, and Viktor, "so we are not going to be telling you what it is. Courage in the face of the unknown is an important quality in a wizard... very important... The first task will take place on November the twenty-fourth, in front of the other students and the panel of judges. The champions are not permitted to ask for or accept help of any kind from their teachers to complete the tasks in the tournament. The champions will face the first challenge armed only with their wands. They will receive information about the second task when the first is over. Owing to the demanding and time-consuming nature of the tournament, the champions are exempted from end-of-year tests."
Mr. Crouch turned to look at Dumbledore.
"I think that's all, is it, Albus?"
"I think so," Dumbledore said, looking at Mr. Crouch with mild concern. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay at Hogwarts tonight, Barty?"
"No, Dumbledore, I must get back to the Ministry," Mr. Crouch said. "It's 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..."
"You'll come and have a drink before you go, at least?" Dumbledore said.
"Come on, Barty, I'm staying!" Bagman said brightly. "It's all happening at Hogwarts now, you know, much more exciting here than at the office!"
"I think not, Ludo," Crouch said with a touch of impatience.
"Professor Karkaroff... Madame Maxime... a nightcap?" Dumbledore said.
But Madame Maxime had already put her arm around Fleur's shoulders and was leading her swiftly out of the room. Harold could hear them both talking very fast in French as they went off into the Great Hall. Karkaroff beckoned to Krum, and they, too, exited, though in silence.
"Harold, Cedric, I suggest you go up to bed," Dumbledore said, smiling at both of them. "I am sure Slytherin 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."
Harold glanced at Cedric, who nodded, and they left together.
The Great Hall was deserted now. The candles had burned low, giving the jagged smiles of the pumpkins an eerie, flickering quality, perfect for Harold.
"So," Cedric said with a slight smile. "We're playing against each other!"
Harold grunted, deep in thought. Who would profit from having Harold die in the Tournament? The answer was obvious. Voldemort. But from the dream Harold had, Voldemort had said nothing about killing him, only using him for something...
"So... tell me..." Cedric said as they reached the entrance hall, which was now lit only by torches in the absence of the Goblet of Fire. "How did you get your name in?"
"Are you really that eager to see me partake in my ancestor's traditions?" Harold asked, raising an eyebrow. "I didn't put my name in the Goblet of Fire, although I will admit that I had an interest in joining until I found out about the age limit."
"Ah... okay," Cedric said. Harold could tell he didn't believe him. "Well... see you, then."
–
So, what do you think? Drop a review and let me know!