Albus Dumbledore sat in his high-backed chair, the golden light of the candles flickering around the circular office. The quiet hum of magic seemed to thrum in the very walls of the room, but tonight it felt more restless, unsettled. His desk was cluttered with papers and half-read reports, yet his focus was elsewhere, his gaze fixed on the ancient Goblet of Fire resting atop a pedestal in the corner. It still faintly glowed, embers of its blue flames flickering out from time to time, the last dying signs of life from the magical artefact until the next time it would be needed.
The portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses hung in their ornate frames around the walls of the office. Most of them were awake now, having been roused from their sleep by the headmasters arrival. Some were muttering amongst themselves, others watching Dumbledore with quiet expectancy. Phineas Nigellus Black, among them, was staring down at him with a sardonic twist to his lips.
"Curious business tonight, isn't it?" Phineas drawled, leaning forward in his frame. "Three champions as expected, and yet young Potter managed to get the Goblet twice to produce his twice. Twice, that is unheard of. I don't suppose you believe that was an accident?"
Dumbledore folded his hands, his eyes twinkling with the kind of weariness that rarely showed through his usual calm demeanor. He leaned back slightly in his chair and took a deep breath before replying.
"No, Phineas. It was no accident," he said softly, his eyes narrowing in contemplation. "Harry putting his name in once was unexpected, —youthful curiosity perhaps, a lapse in judgment. However, his name appearing twice… under two separate entries…" His voice trailed off as he looked up at the smirking figure in the portrait.
A ripple of murmurs swept through the other portraits. Dilys Derwent, a former headmistress with a stern but kind face, looked down at Dumbledore with concern. "You must have an idea who could have done it, Albus. The boy is neither powerful enough nor cunning enough, this is too advanced for someone his age, surely."
Dumbledore's fingers drummed lightly against his desk. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet but deliberate. "Cunning I wouldn't be so certain the boy lacks. But that is not where my concern lies. The magic that surrounds the Goblet is ancient and binding. Whoever entered Harry's name the second time did so without specifying a school, violating the rules of the Tournament. Normally, that should have caused the Goblet to reject the entry entirely. But for it to accept such a submission means two things. First, it means that whoever entered it has studied magical contracts law very extensively. Secondly, that person is capable of a supremely powerful confundus charm."
Phineas gave a low chuckle, as if enjoying the drama unfolding before him. "But you said it yourself, Dumbledore. The Goblet forms a magical contract. Whoever placed that second entry in Potter's name has bound him to compete—whether the Goblet realized its deception or not. So what happens when the rules are broken in such a way?" regress
Dumbledore's face darkened slightly, his thoughts spinning. "That is what concerns me, Phineas. It is bound by both rules and intent. Harry's second entry suggests— Given that he is already bound to compete, means that whoever submitted his name may find themselves entangled in the contract's consequences, the person is the intermediary, and the plights of the contracts fall back on him by recidivity. The Goblet requires the school's banner to champion its victor. Without one..." He let the sentence hang, the implication weighing heavily in the air.
Everard, another portrait with sharp eyes, spoke from his frame beside Phineas. "If you're right, Albus, whoever entered Harry's name may suffer..."
"Yes, gravely." Dumbledore said quietly, his gaze returning to the Goblet's flickering flame. "The second submission was an act of cunning. Someone wanted Harry in this Tournament, but not under the protection of a school. By doing so, they have left themselves as well."
The portraits exchanged uneasy glances, the gravity of Dumbledore's words sinking in. The Goblet of Fire was not to be trifled with. Whoever had tampered with it would not escape the consequences lightly.
"Then what do you intend to do?" Dilys asked, her voice filled with concern. "You cannot simply leave it as it is. The boy's life is at risk."
Dumbledore stood slowly, his tall figure casting long shadows across the room. His mind was racing through possibilities, weighing each action carefully. "The boys life is not at risk. He will compete, and the moment he enters the first task, his end is fulfilled. The second note however, I think myself to have a good notion of what is going on, but there is much to do" he said gravely. "Before the Goblet dispatches him or her."
Phineas's eyes gleamed with interest. "Ah, yes. I know that look. You're planning to sneak about, aren't you?"
Dumbledore's lips twitched into a small smile. "I believe, Phineas, that I will need a little help from Dippet."
He turned to the large painting of Armando Dippet, who had been pretending to be asleep throughout the conversation but now peeked one eye open curiously. "Armando, I trust you don't mind if I use your route to the dungeons?"
Dippet grumbled something incoherent but waved his hand dismissively, signaling his approval. Dumbledore stepped toward the painting, the space in the portrait behind the old headmaster shimmered, as if the canvas was liquid.
"I'll be gone for only a short time," Dumbledore said to the room at large, though his words were mostly for the benefit of the more cautious portraits.
Without another word, Dumbledore stepped into the passageway.
After what seemed like only a moment, Dumbledore emerged from a shadowed alcove on the other side of the castle, hidden just outside a familiar office door. He straightened his robes, his blue eyes dark with purpose, and looked up at the brass nameplate: Alastor Moody.
Dumbledore paused, listening intently for any sound from within. The office was silent. Too silent.
His hand hovered over the door for a moment before he pulled back, choosing not to knock. Instead, he folded his arms into his sleeves, standing there in the quiet, the faint hum of the castle around him.