The canvas walls of the interrogation tent were thick, stifling the distant echoes of the now-muted crowd. Echo sat on a hard-backed wooden chair in the center of the cramped space, his hands resting loosely in his lap. His wand, he knew, was currently in a Ministry evidence bag somewhere, along with the contents of his satchel. His hair, a resigned grey, reflected his mood. Across from him, arranged in an intimidating semi-circle, were several grim-faced Aurors, their wands still in their holsters but their eyes sharp and unblinking. Barty Crouch Sr. stood at the forefront, his face a furious crimson, his body rigid with barely contained fury. To his left, Albus Dumbledore sat with a contemplative expression, his half-moon spectacles glinting in the tent's dim light. To Crouch's right, Madame Maxime, the towering headmistress of Beauxbatons, observed with a regal, yet slightly weary, air. And next to her, Igor Karkaroff, the Durmstrang headmaster, his sneering face a mask of thinly veiled contempt, watched Echo with cold, calculating eyes.
But what truly twisted the knife in Echo's gut were the three small, magically reinforced cages placed on a low table near the tent flap. In one, Shimmer paced frantically, his translucent form flickering with agitation, his tiny stick held uselessly. In another, Sniffles curled into a dejected ball, his usually curious snout buried in his paws, letting out small, mournful squeaks. And in the third, Pip huddled, his green eyes wide with fear and confusion, clutching a miniature, crumpled handkerchief.
"You! You utter, irresponsible, reckless imbecile!" Barty Crouch Sr. finally burst out, his voice cracking with rage, rattling the very tent poles. "Do you have any idea, any idea at all, the sheer magnitude of chaos you have unleashed today? The damage? The panic? The international incident you have single-handedly created?!" He slammed a fist onto the table, making the cages jump. "Dozens injured! Property destroyed! The very fabric of wizarding society is disrupted! And for what, boy? For what?!"
Echo merely looked at him, his expression impassive. His gaze drifted to Pip, who flinched slightly at Crouch's outburst.
"For what, you ask?" Echo's voice was quiet, almost a murmur, but it cut through Crouch's bluster with surprising force. "For freedom. For justice. For not letting you and your Ministry torture magnificent creatures for a barbaric spectator sport."
Crouch spluttered, his face turning an even deeper shade of purple. "Torture?! Those dragons were merely… encouraged! Controlled! It was a Triwizard Task! A tradition!"
"A tradition built on cruelty," Echo countered, his voice flat. "And a task I never asked for, nor wanted any part of. You forced me here. You chained them. You pumped them full of drugs. I merely… corrected your mistakes."
Karkaroff let out a derisive snort. "Corrected? You call this a correction? My champion was nearly incinerated! Our reputation, shattered! Durmstrang will be the laughingstock of Europe thanks to your… 'correction'!"
"Oh, please, Karkaroff," Echo said, a faint, bitter smile touching his lips. "Durmstrang's reputation for dark arts and questionable ethics precedes it by decades. My actions today merely provide a convenient scapegoat for what you already are."
Karkaroff roared, lunging forward, but an Auror swiftly stepped in front of him, blocking his path.
"Mr. Echo," Dumbledore interjected, his voice calm, cutting through the rising tension like a sharp knife. "While your intentions may have been… noble, the execution was, shall we say, rather unorthodox. And the consequences, as Mr. Crouch has pointed out, are significant. Many people were indeed put at risk."
"Risk, yes," Echo conceded, his grey hair flickering with a hint of defiance. "But tell me, Headmaster, were any killed? Were any seriously harmed? Because last I checked, your Ministry's charming dragon handlers, in their attempts to 'control' the situation, caused more damage than my dragons ever did." He met Dumbledore's gaze directly. "Not a single person was bitten, clawed, or incinerated by the dragons I freed. They caused chaos, yes, but they did not cause harm. They were fighting back against their captors, not maliciously attacking innocents."
Crouch scoffed. "And what about the Auror who the Chinese Fireball nearly devoured? Was that 'no harm'?"
Echo merely raised an eyebrow. "The Auror who, I might add, was attempting to recapture the Peruvian Vipertooth that I had just freed? The same Auror who, when given the chance by the very dragon he was about to be devoured by, was let go, unharmed, at my direct request? Even he, I believe, would admit his injuries were minimal, if any. A few scrapes, perhaps a bruised ego. Hardly a fatality."
A tense silence filled the tent. Even Crouch seemed momentarily taken aback by Echo's calm, factual recounting.
Madame Maxime, her deep voice resonant, finally spoke. "Still, Monsieur Echo, an apology is in order. For the disruption, the panic. It would go a long way towards mitigating the severity of your… actions."
Echo looked at her, then back at Crouch, and then his gaze settled on the terrified figures in the cages. His grey hair began to swirl with a dark, defiant blue. "An apology?" he repeated, a humorless laugh escaping his lips. "You want an apology from me? You might as well try to bleed a stone, Madame Maxime. Or find me some dry water. Or wet fire." His eyes, now burning with that deep, stubborn blue, met Crouch's. "I am not sorry for freeing those dragons. I am only sorry that I didn't free them sooner. And if you think I'll apologize for standing up against cruelty, then you truly don't know me at all."
Crouch leaned forward, his voice dangerously low. "If you are not truly sorry for this, Mr. Echo," he said, each word laced with venom, "then I assure you, your next residence will be Azkaban. Does that prospect not, perhaps, engender some regret?"
Azkaban. The word hung in the air, heavy and cold. Echo's grey hair flickered with a sudden, panicked white. His blood ran cold at the thought of the Dementors, the chilling despair they inflicted. He imagined the endless grey, the gnawing emptiness, the complete absence of joy…
Then, a thought, so startling, so utterly absurd, yet so gloriously liberating, bloomed in his mind. Azkaban. If he went to Azkaban, he couldn't possibly participate in the Triwizard Tournament. He would be out. Free from tasks.
A slow, uncomfortable smile began to spread across Echo's face, starting small at the corners of his lips and widening into a joyous, almost maniacal grin. His grey hair, which had been so despairing, began to shimmer with a triumphant, vibrant yellow. The entire tent shifted, a collective unease rippling through the Aurors and headmasters. Karkaroff sneered, but even his contempt was tinged with bewilderment. Madame Maxime frowned, her regal composure wavering. Barty Crouch Sr.'s furious expression morphed into one of baffled alarm.
"Mr. Echo," Dumbledore said, his voice unusually soft, his blue eyes searching. "Are you quite alright?"
"Oh, I'm quite all right, Headmaster," Echo chirped, the smile now fully in place. Suddenly, with a burst of energy that startled everyone, he launched himself from his chair. The Aurors jumped, wands half-drawn, a tense silence descending on the tent. But Echo wasn't attacking. He was… dancing.
"Yes! Yes! Yes!" Echo exclaimed, spinning in a tight circle, his yellow hair a blur of pure delight. "Oh, Merlin, yes!"
Barty Crouch Sr. gaped at him. "Yes? Yes to what, boy? What in the name of Circe are you babbling about?"
Echo stopped his frantic jig, beaming at Crouch. "Yes to Azkaban!"
The declaration hit the tent like a physical blow. Barty Crouch Sr.'s jaw dropped so far it almost hit his chest. Karkaroff looked as if he'd been personally insulted. Madame Maxime's eyes widened, and even Dumbledore's usually unflappable expression held a trace of genuine shock.
"If going to Azkaban will get me out of this blasted competition," Echo continued, his voice brimming with unadulterated joy, "then I'll take it! Happily! Sign me up right now!"
He then strode purposefully towards the nearest Auror, who was holding a heavy, leather-bound satchel, presumably containing Echo's confiscated belongings. With a confident flourish, Echo reached in and pulled out a quill and a roll of parchment.
"Alright, write this down," Echo commanded, pressing the parchment into the stunned Auror's hand. "I, Echo, plead guilty to all charges! Reckless endangerment, unauthorized use of magic, interference with a Triwizard Task, and the illegal release of nine highly dangerous magical creatures! It was me! All me! I did it! Every single bit of it!" He paused, then added, "And I'd do it again, just for the record, because those dragons deserved to be free." He then turned to another Auror, holding out his hands, a wide, beatific smile still plastered on his face. "Now, take me to Azkaban, stat! The sooner the better!"
The Auror stared at him, then at the parchment, then back at the inexplicably jubilant teenager. His face was a mask of utter bewilderment. Barty Crouch Sr., his jaw still slack, seemed to be short-circuiting. Karkaroff looked like he'd swallowed a lemon. Madame Maxime simply closed her eyes, letting out a long, suffering sigh.
Dumbledore, however, with a faint, almost imperceptible twinkle returning to his blue eyes, finally spoke. "Mr. Echo," he said, his voice regaining its usual calm, "while your… enthusiasm for punitive measures is certainly unique, I believe a moment of reflection might be in order. The Ministry, for all its flaws, does possess certain… protocols. And rushing to judgment, even your own, is rarely productive."
Echo, however, was having none of it. "Protocols, schmeotocols! I'm guilty! Case closed! Now, about that ride to Azkaban? Do I get a window seat?" He bounced on the balls of his feet, practically vibrating with eager anticipation.
Crouch finally snapped out of his stupor, his face once again a furious crimson. "You will not be going to Azkaban, you insolent whelp! Not yet, anyway! This is not some game! You have committed grave offenses, and there will be a full inquiry! A trial!"
Echo's triumphant smile faltered slightly. "A trial?" he repeated, his yellow hair dimming to a confused orange. "But… but I just confessed! Isn't that enough? I'm guilty! End of story! Take me to the Dementors, already, and put some Chapstick on them!"
Barty Crouch Sr.'s face contorted further, a deep, uncomfortable flush spreading across his cheeks. The Aurors shifted uneasily, their gaze flickering between their superior and the surprisingly eager teenager. Even Madame Maxime and Karkaroff avoided Echo's direct stare, a peculiar air of shared knowledge passing between them, a secret that bound them and excluded him. Dumbledore, however, merely watched, a faint, almost imperceptible curve to his lips.
Echo looked at them expectantly, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, his orange hair pulsing with hopeful anticipation. No one spoke, no one offered a reassuring (or condemning) word. The silence stretched thick and heavy, punctuated only by the distant, muffled sounds of the still-recovering crowd outside.
Slowly, agonizingly, Echo's triumphant orange faded to a sickly, despairing green. His vibrant energy seeped away, replaced by a growing dread. Piece by piece, the fragmented puzzle of their reactions began to click into place in his mind, forming a conclusion he desperately didn't want to accept.
He wasn't going to Azkaban. He wasn't going anywhere. This entire scene—the furious accusations, the solemn pronouncements, the terrifying threat of Dementors—it was all a performance. A farce. A desperate attempt to extract a confession of regret, to break his defiant will, to force him back into line for the blasted tournament. They couldn't touch him, not really. Not as long as the Goblet of Fire bound him.
Echo let out a long, slow breath. All the joy draining from his face left it pale and etched with bitter realization. His green hair sagged, becoming a dull, lifeless grey.
"You've got to be kidding me," he finally whispered, his voice flat, devoid of any of its earlier exuberance. He looked around at their uncomfortable faces, at the averted gazes, at Dumbledore's disturbingly serene expression. "So, regardless of me releasing nine highly dangerous dragons in a populated area, causing untold panic and property damage, and interfering with a major international magical event… I'm just… fine?" He gestured vaguely with his hands. "All of this, this entire interrogation, the threats of Azkaban, it's just… a show? A way to make me participate against my will? To follow your rules and your 'traditions' even when they're barbaric?"
Again, no one said anything. The Aurors looked even more uncomfortable, shifting their weight, avoiding his gaze. Barty Crouch Sr. merely clamped his mouth shut, his eyes darting nervously. Madame Maxime sighed, and Karkaroff turned his head away completely. Dumbledore simply continued to observe him, that unreadable glint still in his eyes. The silence was his answer, a crushing, undeniable confirmation of his worst fears.
His jaw tightened. "So, it doesn't even matter if I accidentally kill someone, does it? Consequences be damned, as long as your precious tournament continues?" His voice rose, incredulous. "I could have set the entire Forbidden Forest on fire with that dragon fire, and you still wouldn't have done anything, would you?" He looked from face to face, searching for a denial, a flicker of outrage, anything to prove him wrong. There was nothing. Just the uncomfortable silence, the averted eyes.
Echo let out a harsh, bitter laugh, devoid of any humor. His grey hair began to swirl with an angry, defeated black. "You people are unbelievable."
Without another word, he strode purposefully towards the Auror holding his satchel. The Auror, caught off guard, fumbled as Echo snatched it from his grasp. With swift, angry movements, Echo unzipped the main compartment and pulled out the three magically reinforced cages. He aimed his wand, which he'd magically retrieved from the satchel, at each one in turn. "Liberare! Liberare! Liberare!" he chanted, three flashes of emerald light erupting as the cages dissolved into thin air.
Shimmer, Sniffles, and Pip, now free, immediately launched themselves at him, chittering and squeaking with relief. Echo gently but firmly disentangled himself. "Thanks for getting my hopes up for nothing, guys," he muttered, his voice cold. "Knowing this now, for the next two events, I'm going to make your lives hell. I'll do everything in my power not to be a part of it. In fact, during the next event, I'll bury myself in a hole, guarded by dragons!"
He turned his back on them, making his way to the tent flap. "Right now, I'd slam a door in anger, but since it's just a tent flap, I'll do this!" With a furious roar, he flung the canvas flap back with all his might, the fabric tearing loudly, before stomping out and disappearing into the twilight.
The ripped tent flap swayed gently in the breeze, a stark testament to Echo's furious exit. A stunned silence hung in the air, broken only by the distant, fading sounds of his angry footsteps. The Ministry officials and Headmasters stood rigid, their expressions a mixture of shock, frustration, and a peculiar kind of awe.
Barty Crouch Sr. was the first to find his voice, though it was a strained, almost choked whisper. "The audacity! The sheer, unmitigated gall of that boy!" He slammed his fist onto the table again, but this time it lacked its earlier force. "He just... he confessed! And then he demanded Azkaban! He actually wanted to be incarcerated!" His voice rose to a disbelieving squeak. "I've never seen such blatant disregard for authority in my entire career! It's... It's beyond belief!"
Karkaroff, who had previously been a picture of contempt, now looked utterly bewildered. He ran a hand over his bald head, his sneer replaced by a frown of confusion. "He wishes for Azkaban? To escape this tournament? What kind of madness is this, Dumbledore? You breed truly unstable champions at Hogwarts."
Madame Maxime, still looking weary, let out another sigh that seemed to carry the weight of all of Europe's magical education. "It is not instability, Karkaroff, so much as it is... an unparalleled desire for self-preservation, perhaps. Or, as I interpret it, an almost pathological aversion to your Triwizard Tournament." She glanced at Dumbledore, a hint of something resembling amusement in her usually stern eyes. "I have witnessed many students desperate to enter this competition, but never before one so desperately, so enthusiastically, willing to go to Azkaban simply to be rid of it."
Dumbledore's blue eyes, which had maintained their unreadable glint throughout Echo's outburst, now twinkled openly. A small, almost mischievous smile played on his lips. "Indeed, Madame Maxime," he said, his voice as calm and melodious as ever. "Mr. Echo certainly has a unique approach to problem-solving. One might even say... an innovative interpretation of our traditional rules." He paused, stroking his long silver beard thoughtfully. "His fervent desire to be removed from the tournament, even at such a severe personal cost, is... quite extraordinary. It speaks to a certain strength of will, does it not? Even if misguided in its application."
One of the younger Aurors, who had been holding Echo's satchel and quill, finally mustered the courage to speak. His face was still pale with shock. "But, Headmaster... he did release all those dragons. And he confessed to it. He practically cheered at the idea of prison!"
Barty Crouch Sr. whirled on the Auror. "Silence! The Goblet binds the boy! He must participate! This... this charade was merely a test of his resolve! A desperate attempt to find a loophole! But there is none! The contract is magically binding!" He clenched his fists, his eyes bulging. "We will find a way to compel him! He will complete the remaining tasks! He will!"
Karkaroff, however, seemed lost in thought, his initial bewilderment giving way to a flicker of cunning. "Unless... unless this 'loophole' he spoke of is not Azkaban itself, but the very act of forcing him further. Perhaps this defiance is not merely a symptom of his desire to leave, but a means to undermine the entire event." He looked at Dumbledore, a suspicious glint in his cold eyes. "Is this some Hogwarts trick, Dumbledore? To make us all appear foolish while your champion subverts the very foundation of the tournament?"
Dumbledore merely smiled serenely. "My dear Igor, I assure you, Hogwarts champions rarely require 'tricks' to achieve their objectives. Mr. Echo, as we have just observed, is quite adept at creating his own... unique brand of chaos." He then rose, his eyes sweeping over the bewildered Aurors and fuming Ministry officials. "I believe this interrogation has concluded. Clearly, Mr. Echo has made his position and his intentions, rather unequivocally clear." He paused, his gaze resting for a moment on the ripped tent flap. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a sudden craving for lemon drops, and a rather pressing need to consider the implications of a champion who prefers incarceration to participation."