# **October 30th – Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Great Hall**
If someone had told Fleur Delacour six months ago that she'd be sitting in a flying carriage the size of a small mansion, being pulled through storm clouds by horses that looked like they'd been hitting the magical protein shakes a little too hard, she would have laughed. If they'd told her she was doing it to chase down a mysterious boy who might or might not be the legendary Harry Potter, she would have called for a Healer to check their head.
Yet here she was, pressed against a window that offered views of Scottish countryside so aggressively green it looked like someone had spilled an entire paint store across the landscape. Her hands were folded in her lap with the kind of precision that suggested either meditation or barely contained homicidal tendencies. Hard to tell which, really.
The carriage lurched slightly as they hit another air pocket, and Fleur's stomach did that fun thing where it tried to relocate to her throat. Flying was supposed to be elegant. This felt more like being trapped inside a very expensive washing machine during the spin cycle.
"*Mon Dieu*," she muttered under her breath, watching the twelve winged horses—each the size of a small elephant—beat their massive wings against the storm-bruised sky. "*I 'ope zey know where zey are going, because I cannot read ze road signs from up 'ere.*"
Next to her, Celestine Dubois snorted with laughter. At seventeen, Cel was everything Fleur wasn't—compact where Fleur was tall, dark where Fleur was light, and possessed of a wit so sharp it could probably be classified as a weapon in several countries.
"*Tu es nerveuse*," Cel observed with the kind of knowing smile that had been getting her in trouble since she was old enough to form complete sentences. "*You 'ave been fidgeting like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.*"
"*Je ne suis pas nerveuse*," Fleur protested, which would have been more convincing if her voice hadn't cracked slightly on the last word. "*I am simply... concerned about ze landing. Zese 'orses, zey look like zey 'ave been eating too much, non?*"
Cel's dark eyes sparkled with mischief. "*Ah, oui. Ze 'orses. Zat is definitely what 'as you twisted into knots. It 'as nozzing to do with a certain mysterious boy who may or may not be waiting at Hogwarts.*"
Fleur felt heat rise in her cheeks—the curse of having porcelain-pale skin was that she blushed like a traffic light. "*I do not know what you are talking about.*"
"*Bien sûr*," Cel said, nodding sagely. "*And I am ze Queen of England.*"
Around them, the rest of the Beauxbatons delegation maintained the kind of composed elegance that their school was famous for. They sat with straight spines and serene expressions, looking like they were attending a poetry reading rather than hurtling through the sky in a vehicle that seemed to operate on pure optimism and very aggressive magic.
But Fleur could sense the tension beneath their polished surfaces. They were all nervous—you'd have to be dead not to be nervous—but they were French, which meant they'd rather die than admit it.
From the front of the carriage, Madame Maxime's voice carried over the sound of wings and wind with the kind of authority that could probably stop a charging dragon in its tracks.
"*Êtes-vous prêts pour ceci, mes enfants?*" she asked, not bothering to turn around. At eight and a half feet tall, Olympe Maxime commanded attention through simple physical presence, but it was more than that. She had the kind of regal bearing that suggested she could probably negotiate peace treaties before breakfast and still have time to do her nails.
"*Oui, Madame!*" came the chorused response, voices blending in perfect harmony. They'd been practicing this for weeks, which was probably the only reason it sounded halfway decent.
Fleur's response was perhaps a half-second behind the others. Her attention had been momentarily hijacked by the castle rising from the Scottish landscape like something a particularly ambitious architect had dreamed up after eating too much cheese before bed.
Hogwarts was... well, impossible was really the only word for it. Towers that spiraled toward the clouds like they were trying to have a conversation with God, walls that looked like they'd been carved from the living rock by giants with serious artistic pretensions, and windows that blazed with warm golden light that practically screamed "sanctuary" and "learning" and "the kind of magic that could probably rearrange your molecular structure if you looked at it wrong."
It was beautiful. It was ancient. It was exactly the sort of place where legends went to get their education.
And somewhere inside those impossible walls, *he* might be waiting.
The thought sent her stomach into another round of interpretive dance. She'd been preparing for this moment for four months, had transformed herself from pampered princess to something significantly more dangerous, had won every test and trial that Beauxbatons could throw at her.
But now, with the castle growing larger with each passing moment, she wondered if it would be enough. If she would be enough.
"*Souviens-toi*," Madame Maxime continued, her voice carrying the kind of gentle authority that made people want to salute, "*vous ne représentez pas seulement vous-mêmes ce soir, mais la France elle-même. Soyez gracieuses. Soyez dignes. Et par-dessus tout—*"
Her smile took on a slightly predatory edge that suggested she'd probably been quite something in her younger days.
"*—montrez à ces enfants britanniques ce à quoi ressemble la vraie magie.*"
The carriage touched down on the lake with all the grace of a swan that had been taking ballet lessons. Which was to say, it looked elegant from a distance, but up close involved a lot more splashing and undignified flailing than anyone wanted to admit.
The winged horses folded their massive wings with sighs that sounded almost relieved. Fleur couldn't blame them—crossing half of Europe was probably exhausting work, even for creatures that looked like they could benchpress a small building.
As they disembarked onto the grounds of Hogwarts, Fleur found herself scanning the assembled crowd of students with an intensity that probably qualified as stalking in several legal jurisdictions.
She was looking for *him*, of course. Looking for armor that gleamed red and gold, for eyes that held enough starfire to power a small city, for the kind of presence that made smart people reconsider their life choices.
What she found were teenagers. Lots of teenagers, all gaping at the Beauxbatons delegation with expressions that ranged from impressed to awestruck to "please don't notice me, I haven't done my homework."
British children with British faces wearing British robes, clustered together in their houses like flocks of particularly well-educated sheep. No mysterious warriors. No legendary figures stepped from the pages of classified intelligence reports. Just students, watching the arrival of their French counterparts with the kind of fascination usually reserved for zoo animals or traffic accidents.
Disappointment hit her like a Bludger to the chest, followed immediately by self-directed irritation. Of course he wasn't here. He wasn't a student—he was a SHIELD operative, a weapon pointed at the darkness, someone who existed in the spaces between governments and danced on the knife's edge between salvation and damnation.
He wouldn't be standing around gawking at visiting delegations like some starstruck first-year who'd never seen a foreign accent before.
*Tomorrow,* she reminded herself as they processed into the Great Hall in a formation that had been practiced until it was flawless. *If Papa is right about Dumbledore's plans, if the Goblet is truly meant to summon him back... tomorrow, I will see him again.*
The thought was enough to steady her nerves, to restore the mask of elegant composure that she wore like very expensive armor.
The Great Hall was a masterpiece of architectural ambition and what probably qualified as showing off on an epic scale. The ceiling was enchanted to mirror the storm-swept sky outside, which was either really impressive magic or a really elaborate way to avoid having to clean skylights. The walls were lined with banners bearing the proud colors of four houses, and long tables stretched the length of the hall, filled with students whose conversations had died to whispers as the Beauxbatons delegation entered.
Fleur could feel their eyes on her as she walked, could practically hear their thoughts as they took in her transformed appearance. She'd always been beautiful—that was simply her nature, like having blue eyes or an unfortunate tendency to attract trouble—but months of intensive training had refined that beauty into something more purposeful.
She moved like a predator now, all controlled grace and coiled power. Where once she'd been decorative, now she was functional. Where once she'd been soft, now she was sharp enough to cut.
The British students noticed. She could see it in their faces, in the way conversations faltered as she passed, in the sudden intake of breath from more than one observer.
Good. Let them look. Let them see what French magical education could produce when it set its mind to it.
They took their seats at the Ravenclaw table with practiced elegance, the Beauxbatons students arranging themselves with the kind of casual perfection that suggested either hours of rehearsal or really good genetics.
A Ravenclaw prefect—tall, nervous, with the kind of expression that suggested he'd rather be reading a book somewhere quiet—cleared his throat.
"Welcome to 'Ogwarts," Fleur said with her most dazzling smile, the one that had been known to cause minor traffic accidents in downtown Paris. "We are very 'appy to be 'ere."
The prefect turned approximately the same color as a ripe tomato. "Er... yes. Welcome. I'm... I'm Roger Davies. Seventh year. Ravenclaw. Obviously. Since we're... sitting at the Ravenclaw table. Which you probably already knew. Because you're not blind. Not that I'm suggesting you might be blind! Just that you have eyes. Which are very... blue. Like... really blue."
Cel leaned over with a grin that could have powered a small magical generator. "*I think you broke 'im*," she murmured in French.
"*Ce n'est pas ma faute si les garçons britanniques n'ont jamais vu une vraie femme*," Fleur replied sweetly, still smiling at the rapidly combusting prefect.
"Er..." Roger Davies looked like he was having some kind of internal crisis. "Did... did you just insult British boys?"
"*Oui*," Cel said cheerfully. "But very politely."
The feast was magnificent, of course. Hogwarts had clearly spared no expense in welcoming their guests—course after course of perfectly prepared dishes, each more elaborate than the last. The kind of spread that suggested either house-elves with serious culinary ambitions or someone with access to a really good catering service.
But Fleur barely tasted any of it. Her attention was divided between maintaining polite conversation with increasingly tongue-tied Ravenclaws and conducting a systematic survey of everyone present.
Faculty, students, guests—she catalogued them all, looking for any sign that her mysterious warrior might be among them.
Nothing. Which was, she reminded herself again, exactly what she should have expected.
"So," said a Ravenclaw girl with curly hair and the kind of intense stare that suggested she'd probably read every book in the library twice, "you're here for the Tournament?"
"*Oui*," Fleur nodded, spearing a piece of lamb that had been prepared with what could only be described as architectural precision. "I 'ope to be selected as champion."
"That's... ambitious," the girl said, and there was something in her tone that suggested she was conducting her own evaluation. "The Tournament's supposed to be really dangerous. Like, people-actually-die dangerous."
"*Danger is just excitement wearing different clothes*," Cel observed, helping herself to what appeared to be a small mountain of Yorkshire pudding. "*Besides, what is ze point of living if you never risk anything?*"
The Ravenclaw girl blinked. "That's either really profound or completely insane."
"*Por qué no los dos?*" Cel grinned.
"Did you just switch to Spanish?"
"*I am a woman of many talents*," Cel said modestly, then added in what sounded like possibly Italian, "*including ze ability to confuse British students with multilingual wordplay.*"
As the evening progressed and the feast drew toward its conclusion, the anticipation in the hall grew thick enough to cut with a knife. Everyone knew what was coming—the moment they'd all been waiting for, the reason this gathering had been arranged at all.
Albus Dumbledore rose from his seat at the head table like a benevolent wizard-king addressing his subjects. At over a century old, he moved with the kind of easy grace that suggested magic flowed through his bones like blood, and when he smiled, it was with the kind of gentle warmth that could make people forget he was quite possibly the most dangerous wizard alive.
His robes tonight were a subdued navy blue, almost formal by his usual standards. The beard was still magnificent, though—the kind of facial hair that could probably have its own postal code.
"Now that we are all fed and watered," he began, his voice carrying easily through the hall despite not being raised above conversational level, "I believe the time has come to introduce our guest of honor."
He gestured toward a doorway that Fleur could have sworn hadn't been there five minutes ago. Magic shimmered around its frame like heat haze, and when the door opened, what emerged made the entire hall fall silent as a graveyard at midnight.
The Goblet of Fire was not what Fleur had expected.
In the intelligence reports, it had been described as an ornate chalice, perhaps embellished with precious metals and magical gemstones. Something ceremonial, decorative, designed more for show than substance.
What stood before them now was something altogether more... unsettling.
It was old. Not merely ancient, but old in the way that nightmares were old, in the way that magic itself was old. The wood—if it was wood—seemed to shift and writhe in the torchlight, patterns emerging and dissolving like thoughts half-remembered from fever dreams. The flames that danced within its bowl weren't the cheerful orange of a hearth fire, but something deeper, more fundamental—the color of forge-heat and dying stars and magic pushed to its absolute limits.
Power radiated from it like heat from molten metal, making the air shimmer and dance. Several students in the front rows actually leaned back in their chairs, unconsciously seeking distance from something their instincts recognized as Really Not Something You Wanted to Mess With.
"The Goblet of Fire," Dumbledore announced unnecessarily, his voice carrying undertones that suggested both reverence and the kind of wariness usually reserved for unexploded magical ordnance, "will serve as our impartial judge. From the names submitted, it will select the three champions it deems most worthy to compete."
He paused, his gaze sweeping the hall with the kind of penetrating intensity that made people feel like their deepest secrets were being catalogued and filed away for future reference.
"However," he continued, and there was something in his tone that made Fleur's attention sharpen like a blade finding its edge, "given the... challenges... that this Tournament may present, the Ministry has insisted upon certain safeguards. An Age Line will be drawn around the Goblet—no one under the age of seventeen will be able to cross it. This is for your own protection, as the Tournament has historically proven... shall we say, demanding of its participants."
Fleur's stomach did another one of those fun flips. This was important—not just the mechanics of the selection process, but the way Dumbledore spoke about it. There were layers beneath his words, implications that suggested this Tournament would be different from its predecessors.
More dangerous. More complicated.
More likely to attract the attention of legendary figures who existed in the spaces between governments and collected dangerous women like other people collected chocolate frog cards.
As if summoned by her thoughts, movement in the shadows near the great doors caught her attention. For just a moment—less than a heartbeat—she could have sworn she saw the outline of a figure standing in the darkness beyond the torchlight. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing something that might have been armor or might have been shadow given form and a really good tailor.
But when she blinked, the figure was gone, leaving her to wonder if it had ever been there at all or if it was simply wishful thinking made manifest.
"The selection will take place tomorrow evening," Dumbledore continued, apparently oblivious to Fleur's momentary distraction. "Until then, I encourage our guests to explore our castle, to meet our students, to remember that competition and friendship need not be mutually exclusive."
His smile widened, and for a moment he looked less like a headmaster and more like a grandfather who was about to slip his grandchildren extra sweets when their parents weren't looking.
"Now, I believe it is time to retire. Tomorrow promises to be a most... interesting... day."
As the students began to disperse, chattering excitedly about the evening's revelations, the Beauxbatons delegation remained seated with the kind of disciplined patience that their school was famous for. They would wait until the hall had largely emptied, would make their way to the Goblet with dignity and ceremony, would submit their names with all the pomp and circumstance that such a moment deserved.
"*Alors*," Cel murmured, watching the British students file out in barely controlled excitement, "*tomorrow we discover if ze Goblet 'as good taste in champions.*"
"*Ze Goblet will choose wisely*," Fleur replied, though her voice carried more confidence than she felt. "*It always 'as.*"
"*Confidence is good*," Madame Maxime's voice carried from behind them, and Fleur turned to see their headmistress approaching with the kind of graceful quiet that seemed impossible for someone of her impressive size. "*But do not let it become arrogance, mes petites. Ze Tournament 'as 'umbled many who thought zey were ready.*"
When their turn finally came, the Beauxbatons students approached the Goblet with the kind of reverent ceremony usually reserved for religious rituals or really important wine tastings. One by one, they crossed the Age Line—a barrier that felt like walking through cobwebs made of electricity and bad intentions—and submitted their names to the ancient artifact's judgment.
Fleur was last, of course. She'd earned that privilege through months of grueling preparation, through tests that had pushed her to the very limits of her abilities, through a determination that had impressed even Madame Maxime.
The Goblet's flames danced higher as she approached, as if recognizing something in her that it found... interesting. The parchment with her name—written in her finest handwriting, each letter crafted with the precision of someone who understood that first impressions mattered—seemed almost eager to leap from her fingers into the dancing fire.
For just a moment, as the flames consumed her submission, Fleur could have sworn she felt something watching her. Not the students still lingering in the hall, not the faculty members making polite conversation near the head table, but something else. Something that saw her not as a pretty girl playing at being dangerous, but as what she had chosen to become.
A warrior. A weapon. Someone worthy of standing beside legends.
The feeling passed as quickly as it had come, leaving her to wonder once again if it had been real or merely the product of hope and an overactive imagination.
But as she made her way back to her delegation, as Madame Maxime complimented her on her grace under pressure, as her fellow students offered congratulations and well-wishes, Fleur carried with her the certainty that tomorrow would change everything.
The Goblet had her name now. And if her father was right about Dumbledore's plans, if the ancient headmaster truly intended to use this Tournament to summon back Britain's lost hero...
Tomorrow, she would finally see her mysterious knight again.
And this time, she would be ready for him.
---
**Later That Night – Beauxbatons Carriage**
The carriage rocked gently on the lake's dark waters like the world's most expensive houseboat, its blue silk interior suffused with the warm glow of magical lanterns that cast dancing shadows on the walls. Most of the delegation had retired hours ago, exhausted by travel and the evening's excitement, but Fleur found herself unable to sleep.
She sat by one of the great windows, still wearing her feast robes but with her elaborate hairstyle now loosened into something that wouldn't require architectural engineering to maintain. Outside, Hogwarts rose from the Scottish landscape like something from a fairy tale written by someone with serious commitment issues and an unlimited special effects budget.
"*Tu ne peux pas dormir?*" Celestine's voice came from the doorway, soft with concern.
Fleur turned to find her friend approaching with two steaming cups of what smelled like hot chocolate enhanced with enough caffeine to wake the dead.
"*Merci*," Fleur accepted the cup gratefully, wrapping her hands around its warmth. "*Too much anticipation, I think. Too many possibilities.*"
Cel settled into the seat across from her, tucking her legs up beneath her with the casual grace of someone who'd never met a piece of furniture she couldn't make comfortable.
"*Tu sais*," she said, taking a careful sip of her chocolate, "*when you first told me about zis mysterious boy who saved your life, I thought you were perhaps... 'ow do you say... romanticizing ze whole thing.*"
Fleur raised an eyebrow. "*And now?*"
"*Now I think you are still romanticizing ze whole thing, but at least you 'ave become terrifyingly competent while doing it.*" Cel grinned. "*Which is much more entertaining for ze rest of us.*"
Before Fleur could formulate a suitably indignant response, the carriage door opened again to admit Madame Maxime. The headmistress had changed from her formal robes into something more comfortable—a flowing robe in deep purple that made her look like a benevolent sorceress from a children's story, if children's stories featured sorceresses who could probably bench-press a small building.
"*Mes petites*," she said, settling into a chair that creaked ominously under her impressive frame, "*you should be sleeping. Tomorrow will be... significant.*"
"*We were just discussing Fleur's mysterious prince charming*," Cel said with the kind of innocent expression that fooled absolutely no one.
Madame Maxime's eyebrows climbed toward her hairline. "*Ah, oui. Ze boy who 'as inspired such... dedication to training.*"
Fleur felt heat rise in her cheeks. "*It is not like zat, Madame. I simply... I wished to be worthy of 'is rescue.*"
"*Ma chérie*," Madame Maxime's voice carried the kind of gentle amusement usually reserved for particularly endearing but naive children, "*you 'ave spent four months transforming yourself into a weapon because you wanted to impress a boy you met exactly once. If zat is not romance, zen I do not know what is.*"
"*It is not about impressing 'im*," Fleur protested, though even to her own ears the words sounded less than convincing. "*It is about... about being strong enough to stand beside 'im. To be 'is equal, not 'is burden.*"
Madame Maxime studied her for a long moment, her expression growing more serious.
"*Fleur*," she said finally, "*you 'ave changed remarkably zis year. When you first came to me, requesting permission to attempt ze trials for Tournament selection... you were angry. Desperate. Driven by something I could see but not quite understand.*"
Fleur nodded slowly, recognizing the truth in her headmistress's words.
"*And now?*" Madame Maxime continued.
Fleur considered the question, studying her reflection in the window glass. Four months of intensive training had changed more than just her body—though that transformation had been dramatic enough. Her face had grown leaner, more defined, all sharp cheekbones and determined jawline. Her eyes held depths that hadn't been there before, shadows that spoke of things seen and endured and overcome.
She looked like someone who could stand beside legends without seeming out of place.
"*Now I am someone who can make 'er own choices*," she said finally. "*Someone who can fight 'er own battles. Someone who... who belongs where she chooses to be.*"
Madame Maxime smiled, and the expression transformed her face into something warm and maternal and deeply approving.
"*Très bien. You 'ave earned your place in zis Tournament, ma petite. Not through birth or connections or political convenience, but through your own determination and skill. Remember zat tomorrow, when ze Goblet makes its choice. Whatever 'appens, you 'ave proven yourself worthy.*"
She rose to leave, then paused at the doorway.
"*And Fleur? Zis boy you are 'oping to see again... I trust 'e is worth all zis effort?*"
Fleur thought of armor that gleamed like captured sunlight, of eyes that held enough starfire to power a small city, of a voice that sounded like it had seen the end of the world and chosen to keep fighting anyway.
"*'E is, Madame. 'E truly is.*"
"*Zen I wish you luck, ma chérie. In ze Tournament, and in... other matters.*"
After Madame Maxime left, Cel moved to sit beside Fleur on the window seat, bumping their shoulders together in the kind of casual intimacy that spoke of years of friendship.
"*So*," she said, her voice carrying that particular tone that meant she was about to say something either profound or completely ridiculous, "*tomorrow you might see your mysterious warrior prince again.*"
"*'E is not my—*"
"*And 'e might see you*," Cel continued, ignoring Fleur's protest, "*not as ze frightened girl 'e rescued from monsters, but as ze woman you 'ave chosen to become. Someone who could probably take those same monsters apart with 'er bare 'ands and look fabulous while doing it.*"
Fleur felt a smile tugging at her lips despite herself. "*You think I look fabulous?*"
"*Ma chérie*," Cel grinned, "*you could make a potato sack look like 'aute couture. But zat is not ze point. Ze point is zat you 'ave become someone extraordinary, and if zis boy cannot see zat... well, zen 'e is not worthy of you.*"
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the castle's lights reflect on the lake's dark surface. Somewhere within those ancient walls, preparations were being made for tomorrow's selection. The Goblet of Fire would spend the night considering its choices, weighing the names that had been submitted against criteria known only to itself.
And perhaps—if she was very lucky, if her father's intelligence was accurate, if Dumbledore truly intended to orchestrate the return of Britain's lost hero—tomorrow would bring her face to face with the one person in the world she most wanted to see again.
"*Cel?*" she said finally.
"*Oui?*"
"*What if I am not enough?*"
Her friend was quiet for a moment, considering the question with the seriousness it deserved.
"*Zen*," she said finally, "*'e is an idiot, and we will 'unt 'im down and explain ze error of 'is ways. Possibly with sharp objects.*"
Fleur laughed—really laughed—for the first time in weeks, the sound bright and genuine and full of the kind of joy that could light up entire kingdoms.
Her mysterious knight was waiting for her at Hogwarts, surrounded by his collection of extraordinary women.
She just had to get there first.
And prove that she belonged among them.
*Tomorrow,* she thought as she finally sought her bed. *Tomorrow, everything changes.*
The thought carried her into sleep, where she dreamed of armor that gleamed red and gold, and eyes that saw her for exactly what she was—and found her worthy.
---
**Later That Night – Hogwarts Great Hall, Well Past Midnight**
If someone had told Albus Dumbledore fifty years ago that he'd be sneaking around his own castle in the dead of night like some kind of ancient cat burglar with a really impressive beard, he probably would have chuckled and offered them a lemon drop. If they'd told him he'd be doing it to manipulate a legendary magical artifact into selecting a fourth champion—well, he might have been slightly more concerned about their mental health.
Yet here he was, padding through the Great Hall in his nightgown and slippers (purple with little golden snitches, because even when committing acts of magical manipulation, a man had to maintain certain standards), approaching the Goblet of Fire with the kind of purposeful stride that suggested he'd been planning this for months.
Which, to be fair, he had.
The Goblet sat in its place of honor like some kind of ancient, slightly ominous centerpiece, its flames dancing merrily in the darkness. The Age Line glowed faintly around it—a barrier designed to keep overeager underage students from doing something spectacularly stupid.
Unfortunately, it wasn't designed to keep headmasters from doing something spectacularly manipulative.
Dumbledore paused at the edge of the circle, studying the artifact with the kind of calculating look usually reserved for particularly complex chess problems or really stubborn jar lids. The Goblet had been around for centuries, had selected champions for dozens of tournaments, had probably seen more drama than a particularly scandalous soap opera.
But it had never encountered Albus Dumbledore with a plan and access to the Elder Wand.
"Now then," he murmured to himself, reaching into his robes to withdraw the most powerful wand in magical history. The Elder Wand hummed with barely contained power, magic that could reshape reality if wielded by someone with sufficient will and absolutely no sense of appropriate boundaries. "Let us have a little chat, shall we?"
He stepped across the Age Line—which recognized him as both overage and authorized, and therefore offered no resistance—and approached the Goblet with the air of someone who'd done this sort of thing before.
Which was deeply concerning when you thought about it.
The Elder Wand felt warm in his hand, eager to work. It had been crafted for grand magic, for spells that changed the course of history, for the kind of magical workings that most wizards could only dream of. Using it for something as relatively simple as confusing an ancient magical artifact was rather like using a nuclear reactor to toast bread.
But sometimes, Dumbledore reflected, you needed really good toast.
"*Confundus Maxima Perpetua*," he intoned, his voice carrying undertones that made the very air shiver with power.
The spell that erupted from the Elder Wand wasn't the gentle, subtle confusion charm that most wizards knew. This was something altogether more aggressive—a battering ram of magical force designed to rewrite the fundamental understanding of an artifact that had been functioning perfectly well for centuries.
The Goblet's flames flared suddenly, shooting toward the enchanted ceiling in a column of blue-white fire that could probably be seen from orbit. For a moment, the ancient wood seemed to writhe and twist, as if the artifact was trying to resist the magical assault being leveled at it.
But the Elder Wand was not accustomed to being resisted.
The flames settled back to their normal dancing pattern, but something had changed. Where before they had burned with the steady confidence of an artifact that knew its purpose, now they flickered with a kind of confused uncertainty—like someone who'd walked into a room and forgotten why they'd come there.
"Excellent," Dumbledore said with the satisfaction of someone who'd just successfully programmed a particularly stubborn piece of magical technology. "Now then, let us introduce you to your fourth competitor."
From his robes, he withdrew a slip of parchment that looked entirely unremarkable. The kind of thing you might use for a grocery list or to jot down a quick note. The writing on it was simple, elegant, and would probably change the course of magical history.
*Harry James Potter*
*Special Circumstances*
He studied the parchment for a moment, feeling the weight of what he was about to do. This wasn't just manipulation—this was orchestrating the return of the most important wizard of his generation. Harry Potter, the boy who'd supposedly died in a gas explosion, who'd actually been rescued and trained by forces beyond the magical world's understanding.
Harry Potter, who represented both Britain's greatest hope and its most dangerous wildcard.
"The Greater Good," Dumbledore murmured to himself, the words carrying the weight of a man who'd been making hard choices for over a century. "Sometimes it requires... unconventional methods."
With a flick of his wrist, he sent the parchment floating toward the Goblet's flames. The paper seemed to hang in the air for a moment, as if even it understood the magnitude of what was happening.
Then the flames reached up, eager and hungry, and consumed it entirely.
The Goblet shuddered—actually physically shuddered, like a person trying to process information that didn't quite make sense. The flames flared again, briefly, then settled into a pattern that seemed somehow different from before.
More complex. More... confused.
"There we are," Dumbledore said with the satisfaction of someone who'd just solved a particularly challenging crossword puzzle. "Four schools, four champions. Everyone gets a representative, and I get to bring Harry home where he belongs."
He tucked the Elder Wand back into his robes and stood there for a moment, studying his handiwork. The Goblet looked exactly the same as it had five minutes ago, but Dumbledore could sense the change in its magical signature. Where before it had been programmed to select three champions from three schools, now it would select four.
The fourth would be Harry Potter, representing the mysterious "Special Circumstances" that Dumbledore had just invented out of whole cloth and aggressive application of reality-bending magic.
It was, he reflected, probably not his most ethical moment. But then again, ethics were a luxury that men in his position couldn't always afford. Sometimes you had to break a few rules to save the world.
Even if the world didn't know it needed saving yet.
"Sleep well, Harry," he murmured into the darkness, already imagining the chaos that tomorrow evening would bring. "Tomorrow, you come home."
With that, he turned and padded out of the Great Hall, leaving behind an ancient magical artifact that was now thoroughly convinced it lived in a universe where four schools had always competed in the Triwizard Tournament.
The flames danced merrily in the darkness, casting dancing shadows on the walls. If you looked closely—really closely—you might have noticed they seemed a bit more erratic than before, a bit less certain of their purpose.
But then again, most people weren't in the habit of studying magical flames at three in the morning, which was probably for the best.
After all, some kinds of knowledge were better left undiscovered.
At least until tomorrow night, when everything would change.
Again.
---
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