As anticipated, the following Wednesday evening, the students of Hogwarts welcomed their guests on the frost-covered grounds by the black lake-John was not surprised when the large, old-fashioned ship arose from the depths, because Sherlock had informed him after doing some research on the Triwizard Tournaments of years past. The rest of the students seemed extremely impressed, however, with the display, and John couldn't blame them-the whole thing was very dramatic.

There were around fifty students that followed the Headmaster off of the ship-a short, large man not unlike Slughorn in stature. He did, however, look quite a bit less friendly. "I expected more people," John whispered to Sherlock, leaning closer to the boy. "Is the school that small?"

"There will probably be an age restriction," he informed John. "And not every student will want to participate-it's a dangerous event, and there has been a large death toll in the past."

"Oh, lovely."

The Durmstrang students entered the great hall first, and sat down at the Gryffindor table. "Come on, Sherlock," John said, jerking his head.

"We sat at your table for lunch. That means tonight we sit at the Ravenclaw table tonight."

John rolled his eyes. "Yes, but we can sit next to the Durmstrang students!"

"Why do you want to do that? They look like a remarkably unpleasant lot." Reluctantly, John followed Sherlock over to the other Ravenclaws, but angled himself so he could watch the new students.

He had to admit that Sherlock was right on that count-the boys and girls alike closely resembled the Slytherins, with their dark, unfriendly demeanor and cold eyes. There was one black-haired boy in particular who kept glancing over at the two of them, unblinking, as though he was assessing the pair.

"I don't like the look of him," John stated bluntly.

Sherlock, seeming to know exactly who John was talking about, nodded. "Personally, I don't like the look of any of them."

Dumbledore rose and delivered a speech not unlike the one from a few nights before-talking about the changes to the tournament, as well as what would remain the same; he briefly explained to them the concept of the Goblet of Fire, and how it would impartially determine who would be best in the tournament-not only the individuals, but also who would pair up well together in each school. As Sherlock predicted, he also told them of the decided age limit-no one below their fifth year would be allowed to participate in the tournament.

"Looks like we just made it," John said, excited, as everyone began to dig into the food before them.

"You plan on entering?"

"Gold and glory? Of course! Don't you?"

"I'm not sure yet. It would be a good experience, and it would certainly be interesting. But I wouldn't really enjoy the attention-well, I could put up with that. It's the teamwork thing that really gets to me though. I don't like the idea of having to depend on someone else."

"We'd make a good team," the golden-haired boy observed. "Come on, Sherlock, let's both put our names in. I reckon we'll both get it-and we'd make a bloody fantastic team. I'm sure the Goblet will be able to tell that much."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile. "I suppose."

"After the feast, we'll go and put them in together-okay?"

"Okay."

After they had eaten their fill, John and Sherlock entered the trophy room to find that they weren't the only ones who were eager to participate in the tournament. The dimly-lit room was full of a large amount of older students from both schools, and some younger Hogwarts students looking on in awe.

When they approached, however, Sherlock realized that once people were actually face-to-face with the Goblet of Fire, they were a lot more reluctant to put forth their names-most of the people were simply standing there, transfixed, as though they were struggling to make a decision.

Sherlock pulled out a quill and a spare piece of parchment from his bag, and tore off a small piece for each of them. He untidily scribbled his name across it, while John took his time making his writing look as neat as possible.

"What are you doing?"

John looked defensive. "I'm trying to make a good impression."

"It's a cup. It doesn't care about your handwriting."

"It's judging us-you know that there's an entire study-"

"-of personality type based off of handwriting, yes. But it doesn't work accurately if you try to make your penmanship look a certain way."

John rolled his eyes, and pushed passed the curly-haired boy to the Goblet. He too, seemed to hesitate along with everyone else. Sherlock watched the eerie blue light emanating from the fire dance across John's face, and watched as it set with determination. In synch, both boys dropped their names into the fire, and watched as the parchment disintegrated.

Sherlock immediately turned away (he was eager to escape prying eyes, and he was only a few chapters away from the end of his book, which he still hadn't gotten around to finishing), but John stopped him by putting a hand on his shoulder. "Let's hang around."

"Why?"

"I want to see who else puts their name in."

So the two boys leaned against the stone wall beside one of the trophy cases and watched as students weighed the odds, worked up their courage, and put their names into the goblet. Sherlock recognized Sarah, who didn't meet John's eyes; Sally, who glared at Sherlock; and Collins, who didn't look at anyone but simply strode forward and dropped his name in as though he wanted to get it over with.

A vast amount of Durmstrang students put their names in, including the black-haired boy that had been watching them earlier and a girl with deep brown hair pulled into a loose bun. Both of them looked over at the two boys; the boy simply cocked his head, as if still examining them, two specimens under a microscope, and the girl simply gave Sherlock a sly smile.

"Come on," Sherlock said finally. "Let's go."

Thursday, at the end of an utterly uninteresting Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, Sherlock was surprised to be called over once again by Nevamann; this time, however, John hung back with him.

"What is it, Professor?"

"I heard you were one of the people to put their name in the Goblet of Fire. Is it true?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Yes. So did John. So did plenty of people-practically half of the school."

Nevamann ignored him. "Then be warned-the tournament is more dangerous than you think; you have been told of the death toll, and the likelihood of wounds and mutilations. You have not, however, been warned of the psychological risk. The tournament will mess with your head, and will completely change the way you think, the way you see the world-it could completely change you. If you are chosen for the tournament, Sherlock, beware others, but more than anything, beware yourself."

"Why are you telling me this, Professor?"

"To warn you of the danger you may be facing."

"No, I mean why are you telling me?"

"To put it simply, I've taken a peculiar interest in you."

(Sorry this is so short. I didn't have much to talk about without combining this chapter with the next one and making it super-long. Plus, you'd have to wait a while longer. –Mell)