The days that followed were a blur of new faces and new routines. Edmund attended his classes, but now there were Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students in the seats beside him. They were good—better than good. The Beauxbatons students excelled at Charms and Transfiguration, their magic elegant, precise. The Durmstrang students were formidable in Defence and Potions, their techniques honed in the harsh conditions of the north. Edmund watched them, learned from them, measured himself against them.
He was not the best. He had never been the best. But he was among them, and that was enough.
The Quidditch trials were held on the first Saturday after the arrival. Cassius had been training for this since first year, and it showed. He flew like he was born to it, his bat connecting with Bludgers that seemed to come from nowhere, his aim true, his reflexes sharp. The Hogwarts team was selected from the best players in the school—Cassius was chosen as beater, along with a seventh-year Gryffindor he had been rivals with since second year.
"You did it," Arthur said, clapping him on the back after the announcement.
Cassius was grinning, his face flushed with cold and victory. "I did it."
The first match was against Durmstrang, scheduled for the end of November. The Durmstrang team was known for its aggressive play, its players trained in the frozen north, their flying style as harsh as their climate. The Beauxbatons team was more elegant, their flying graceful, their passes precise, their formations a work of art. The Hogwarts team was somewhere in between, a mix of styles and traditions, forged into something new.
Edmund watched Cassius fly during the practices that followed, and the thought grew stronger. He could enter. He should enter. The tournament was a test, and he had been tested his whole life. What was one more?
---
The Goblet of Fire was placed in the entrance hall on the morning of the sixteenth. It was a simple wooden cup, unremarkable, but the blue flame that danced in its depths was anything but. Students gathered around it, watching, waiting, dreaming. The names of those who wished to enter were to be written on parchment and dropped into the flame. The Goblet would choose the champions.
Edmund stood at the edge of the crowd, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the flame. He had been thinking about this for days. He had been thinking about it since the announcement. The tournament was dangerous. People had died. But he had been preparing for danger his whole life. The Register, the school, the work that waited—none of it would be safe. None of it would be easy. This was a test. A chance to see what he was made of.
Cassius was beside him. "Are you going to do it?"
Edmund looked at his friend. "Are you?"
Cassius grinned. "I already did. My name's in there."
Edmund's heart beat faster. Cassius had entered. Arthur had entered too, though he knew he would not be chosen. Horace had not entered, preferring his potions to the danger of the tasks. Astrid had not entered, though she said nothing about why.
Edmund looked back at the flame. He thought about the seven years he had spent preparing. The spells, the potions, the theory. The healing, the wards, the runes. The Register that had failed, the cube that was still forming in his mind. He had not been training for the tournament. But he had been training for something.
He pulled a piece of parchment from his pocket, wrote his name in clear, steady letters, and walked to the Goblet. He dropped the parchment into the flame. It disappeared. The Goblet flared once, then settled.
Edmund stepped back, his heart pounding. He had entered. He was in.
---
The selection was held on Halloween. The Great Hall was decorated with jack-o'-lanterns and floating candles, the ceiling enchanted to show a sky thick with stars. The students gathered at their tables, their voices low, their eyes fixed on the Goblet, which had been placed at the front of the hall. There were more students than Edmund had ever seen in one place—Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, all packed into the expanded hall, waiting.
Edmund sat at the Slytherin table, his hands steady, his mind clear. He had entered. He had done everything he could. The rest was up to the Goblet.
Beside him, Cassius was tense, his leg bouncing under the table. Arthur was pale. Horace was gripping his book. Astrid was still.
Headmaster Black rose. "The moment has come," he said. "The champions will be chosen. The Goblet of Fire has been burning for two weeks. It has decided who is worthy."
He gestured, and the Goblet flared. A tongue of flame shot into the air, carrying a piece of parchment. Black caught it and read the name.
"The champion for Durmstrang: Antonin Dolohov."
The Durmstrang table erupted. The boy with the cold eyes rose, his face impassive, and walked to the front of the hall. He did not smile. He did not celebrate. He simply stood, waiting.
The Goblet flared again. "The champion for Beauxbatons: Colette Marchand."
A girl with dark hair and a fierce expression rose from the Beauxbatons table, her chin high, her eyes bright. She walked to the front and stood beside Dolohov.
The Goblet flared a third time. Edmund's heart stopped. The flame rose higher than before, carrying a third piece of parchment. Black caught it, and his eyes widened. He looked at the name, then at the Slytherin table.
"The champion for Hogwarts: Edmund Prince."
The hall erupted. Edmund sat frozen, his hands gripping the edge of the table. Cassius was shouting, pounding him on the back. Arthur was cheering. Horace was staring with his mouth open. Astrid was smiling.
He had been chosen. He was the Hogwarts champion.
He stood, his legs unsteady, and walked to the front of the hall. The Beauxbatons girl, Colette, was watching him with curious eyes. Dolohov was watching him with cold, calculating eyes. Edmund took his place beside them, and the hall roared.
He looked at his friends. Cassius was still cheering, his face bright with pride. Arthur was waving. Horace was clapping. Astrid was still, her eyes on him, her expression unreadable.
He had entered. He had been chosen. The tournament was his.
---
After the feast, Edmund found Cassius in the common room. He was sitting by the fire, his face flushed, his eyes bright.
"You did it," Cassius said. "You're the champion."
"I'm the champion."
Cassius laughed. "I entered too, you know. I wanted it. I've been wanting it since first year. And you're the one who got chosen."
Edmund sat beside him. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be." Cassius shook his head. "I'm a beater. I'm good at hitting things. You're—you're something else. You've been something else since first year. You deserve this."
Edmund said nothing.
"I'm going to watch you," Cassius said. "I'm going to watch you win."
---
Edmund lay in his bed that night, staring at the canopy above him. He was the Hogwarts champion. Six tasks. One each month. Dangerous. Deadly. He had been preparing for this since first year, but not for this. He had been preparing for something else. The Register, the school, the work that waited.
But this was here now. This was real. And he was ready.
He closed his eyes, and in the silence, he heard the whisper again. The serpents in the walls, the oldest voices in the world. They were waiting for him. He would go to them. But first, he had a tournament to win.
---