Chapter 18
The Great Hall was alight with flickering candlelight, shadows dancing against the high-arched ceiling as the Halloween Feast reached its climax. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, pumpkin spice, and bubbling cauldrons of hot cider, but none of the students paid much attention to the food anymore. All eyes were fixed on the Goblet of Fire, its ethereal blue flames licking at the edges of its stone pedestal. The moment had finally arrived—the selection of the Triwizard Champions.
Albus Dumbledore stood before the enchanted goblet, his expression one of both excitement and gravity. "As you all know," he began, his voice carrying through the hall, "this year’s Triwizard Tournament is unlike any before it. We are not only competing against other European institutions but also esteemed magical academies from across the world. Gwaneum Academy of Sorcery from South Korea and Rentier-Cleveland University from the United States will be joining us, each bringing their own unique magical traditions and expertise."
The mention of Rentier-Cleveland University caused a few whispers among the younger students. Unlike the other schools, its students were not adolescents but adults—fully trained witches and wizards aged 18 to 22. It was a stark contrast to Hogwarts and Gwaneum, both of which educated students from ages 11 to 17. The knowledge that they would be competing against individuals closer to seasoned professionals rather than students only heightened the anticipation.
With a flick of his wand, Dumbledore dimmed the floating candles, casting eerie shadows over the enchanted goblet. "Now, let us see who has been chosen to represent their schools."
The blue flames within the Goblet of Fire roared higher, flickering with an unnatural intensity before spitting out a charred scrap of parchment. Dumbledore caught it deftly, his sharp eyes scanning the name before he read aloud, "Yun Ji-Ho!"
Applause erupted from the students of Gwaneum Academy, their delegation dressed in deep indigo robes embroidered with golden calligraphy. A young man of seventeen rose from their ranks, standing tall despite the clear weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders. Yun Ji-Ho had a wiry frame, his dark hair neatly tied back in a traditional topknot. His face was calm, composed, but there was a fire in his eyes that spoke of discipline honed through years of rigorous training in martial and elemental magic. He strode confidently to the front of the hall, giving a respectful bow before moving toward the side of the chamber where the champions would stand.
The Goblet flared once more, its flames swirling in a mesmerizing vortex before releasing another name. Dumbledore caught the parchment and read, "Leonard Walker!"
The applause that followed was a mix of curiosity and awe. Rentier-Cleveland University’s students, though fewer in number, cheered heartily as one of their own rose. Leonard Walker, a broad-shouldered young man of about twenty, strode forward with a confident gait. He was dressed in the standard Rentier trainee outfit—practical and well-fitted, though devoid of the battle-worn coat and arsenal that distinguished the veterans. His cropped brown hair and steady, assessing gaze gave him the air of a soldier-in-training rather than a traditional wizard. He gave Dumbledore a nod before taking his place alongside Yun Ji-Ho, his posture unwavering and disciplined.
Once the cheers subsided, the Goblet flickered violently again, as if the magic within it was writhing with unseen power. A third piece of parchment shot out, and Dumbledore read the name aloud: "Rosalind Fairburn!"
The Gryffindor table erupted into cheers as a young woman with auburn hair and sharp hazel eyes stood. A seventh-year student at Hogwarts, Rosalind Fairburn had made a name for herself as both a skilled duelist and a fearless competitor in any challenge thrown her way. Unlike the nervous energy that surrounded Yun Ji-Ho, or the quiet confidence of Leonard Walker, Rosalind practically radiated excitement. Her smile was one of sheer exhilaration as she made her way to the front, standing beside the other champions with a determined gleam in her eyes.
Dumbledore let the cheers ring for a moment before raising a hand for silence. "There you have it—our three champions, selected by the Goblet of Fire. They will now begin their preparations for the trials ahead, each facing challenges designed to test not just their magical ability, but their courage and resourcefulness. Let us all show them the respect and support they deserve!"
The applause was thunderous. Students clapped, some stomped their feet, and the Hogwarts staff exchanged glances of approval. But just as the excitement seemed to reach its peak, something happened that sent a collective shiver through the hall.
The Goblet of Fire roared to life again.
A hush fell over the Great Hall as the flames turned an eerie, unnatural shade of violet. The goblet trembled violently, almost as if it was resisting the name it was about to expel. Then, with a burst of crackling energy, a final scrap of parchment was ejected into the air, floating downward in slow, deliberate spirals as if reluctant to be claimed.
Dumbledore reached out, snatching it from the air before it could fall to the floor. The moment his eyes scanned the name, his expression changed. The color drained slightly from his face, and for the first time that evening, his hands trembled just the slightest bit.
Murmurs filled the silence, students craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the mysterious name. The professors exchanged puzzled glances, some leaning forward in concern. McGonagall’s lips tightened into a thin line, while Snape’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
The tension was suffocating, the weight of the moment pressing down on the entire hall like an unseen force.
Dumbledore slowly turned the parchment around, his voice barely above a whisper, yet echoing across the hushed hall.
"Harry… Potter?"
The silence that followed was absolute. No one moved. No one spoke. It was as if the entire school had been plunged into a spell of stillness, the implications of that name hanging heavy in the air.
Some students exchanged wide-eyed looks, others sat frozen, their minds struggling to process what they had just heard. The teachers were no different—McGonagall looked as though she had forgotten how to breathe, while Snape’s grip tightened around the armrest of his chair, his expression unreadable.
Dumbledore, for the first time in years, found himself at a complete loss. He had given up on bringing Harry Potter back to Britain years ago after deeply reflecting on the boy’s life and choices. Yet now, against all logic, against all reason, his name had emerged from the Goblet of Fire. The very magic of the cup had deemed him a competitor.
And there was nothing anyone could do to change it.
The dueling arena within Professor Amarachandra’s classroom still hummed with residual magic, the last echoes of spellfire fading from the enchanted barriers. The students, still buzzing from the rigorous lesson, moved about gathering their belongings. Their breaths were still a little ragged from the session, sweat lingering on their brows as they chatted in excited tones about the drills they had just endured. Among them, Harry Potter stood with Padma and Parvati Patil, the three exchanging comments on their performances.
“Well, that was more intense than usual,” Padma remarked, rolling her shoulders as she secured her books into her satchel.
Parvati grinned, tucking her wand into her robes. "At least we didn’t end up on the floor this time."
Harry chuckled, shaking his head as he reached for his water flask. "Give it time. Amarachandra will probably find a way to make it harder next week."
As he slung his bag over his shoulder, a sharp, searing pain shot through his chest. His breath hitched, and his vision swam as an unbearable force clamped down on him from the inside, locking his muscles in place. His fingers spasmed as he clutched at his chest, gasping. The sensation was overwhelming, like being pulled from reality itself.
Blue flames erupted around him without warning, swirling in a violent, unnatural vortex. Harry’s scream tore through the chamber, raw with fear and agony. Conversations died in an instant, every head snapping toward him in alarm. Padma and Parvati lunged toward him, but the flames consumed him entirely before they could reach him.
Then, he was gone.
The world twisted and convulsed around him, the vortex of blue fire dragging him through a space that was neither here nor there. Every nerve in his body felt like it was being stretched and burned simultaneously, yet no fire licked his skin. His mind reeled as he felt himself hurtling through some vast, endless void, spiraling faster and faster, the pressure crushing his lungs. Then, just as suddenly as it began, it ended.
Harry slammed into cold stone, the impact jarring his entire frame. His knees scraped against the polished floor, and his hands barely caught him before his face hit the ground. He panted heavily, chest rising and falling in sharp, ragged breaths.
He barely registered the gasps and exclamations echoing around him. The Great Hall of Hogwarts stretched out before him, its enchanted ceiling reflecting a turbulent sky. Hundreds of eyes stared down at him in stunned silence—students, teachers, and staff all frozen mid-motion at the sudden and violent intrusion. The enchanted torches along the walls flickered erratically, as if reacting to the lingering magical disturbance his arrival had caused.
A deep sense of panic roiled within him. He had been taken. He had been summoned against his will. His mind screamed at him to move, to act, to prepare for battle. Every instinct sharpened, adrenaline rushing through his veins.
Magic surged through his body, responding to his need for protection.
Brilliant blue energy crackled to life, racing over his skin in pulsating arcs. The ancient runes embedded in his flesh flared with power, activating before he even consciously commanded them. A burst of raw magic enveloped him, light cascading outward as his armor materialized in a rapid, seamless transformation.
Segmented plates of enchanted metal snapped into place over his form, floating pieces locking together as if an unseen force guided them. The gauntlets on his arms pulsed with energy, the runes embedded within them glowing with brilliant blue and green hues. With a flick of his wrists, twin blades of condensed magic extended from the crystals embedded in the gauntlets—one green, one blue—humming with barely restrained power.
The reaction from the Great Hall was immediate.
Students yelped, pushing themselves back from their tables, some scrambling for cover. A few of the younger students let out terrified cries, while the older ones reached for their wands, unsure whether to attack or defend. Teachers tensed at the staff table, hands hovering near their own wands, though none of them made the first move.
Harry’s emerald eyes darted around the room, every muscle coiled and ready. His breaths came quick and shallow, his mind still reeling from the violation of his autonomy. He was not where he was supposed to be. He had been ripped from his world and dropped into this one without warning.
Every fiber of his being screamed danger.
Then his senses locked onto the burning, glowing cup—an object that should have been metal or wood but was instead a pulsating mass of organic matter. It laughed, a grotesque, undulating sound that sent a deep, instinctual revulsion through Harry’s very being. His soul recoiled before surging with an uncontainable fury.
With no hesitation, he launched himself forward, green energy blazing from his gauntlet. His blade sank into the false goblet without resistance, as if cutting through mere air. But the illusion shattered instantly, and the Great Hall bore witness to its true nature.
The Goblet of Fire had never been an artifact of human craftsmanship. It was a living, writhing demon—its flesh a grotesque amalgamation of sinew and pulsating veins, its surface shifting as countless grotesque eyes and gaping maws emerged, screaming. The moment the blade impaled it, it let out a sound that defied language—a screech layered with a thousand tortured voices, each wailing in agony.
The reaction was immediate.
Veterans of Rentier-Cleveland University moved with battle-honed precision, activating their gauntlets in a synchronized motion. Enchanted runes blazed across their armor as crackling arcs of anti-supernatural energy coiled around their fists. Each step they took toward the scene was measured, their training allowing them to fall into a flawless formation without a single spoken command. Their weapons shimmered, primed to strike the abomination down if it resisted.
Their students followed suit, drawing their wands in swift, fluid motions. Though still in training, their discipline showed in how they maneuvered—no flinching, no hesitation. They were not merely scholars of the supernatural; they were warriors, raised to combat the aberrations that lurked beyond the veil of reality. Some immediately began inscribing protective wards in the air, their hands moving in intricate patterns that summoned glowing mandalas of light, each sigil pulsing with a steady, lethal energy. The crackle of power filled the air, the runes shifting and aligning into sacred formations meant to contain and banish demonic entities.
On the opposite end of the hall, the delegation from Gwaneum Academy responded with equal resolve. The headmaster and the accompanying guardians reacted first, their palms igniting with golden script as luminous magical circles spun before them. The students, despite their shock, mirrored the movement, reinforcing the layered protections their elders had created. The sigils hovering in the air pulsed in rhythm, forming a sacred barrier meant to prevent whatever malevolence the creature carried from infecting the world any further.
At Hogwarts, a deeply ingrained, almost primal instinct took hold. Every single witch and wizard in the hall moved in unison, their wands drawn as one. Magic crackled in the air, humming with raw, ancestral rage. This was not fear. This was something older, something embedded in their very existence. It was an innate truth, passed through magical bloodlines since time immemorial—the demonic did not belong in this world. It had to be destroyed.
The demon, despite its suffering, did not beg. It did not plead. It screeched in defiance, its voices overlapping in a horrible symphony of rage. "You cannot deny me! I AM BOUND! ALL SOULS PROMISED TO ME SHALL BE MINE! I AM—"
It never finished.
Harry moved before it could utter another cursed word. His blue blade ignited, flaring in synchrony with the green one already impaling the creature. With a vicious twist, he wrenched the first blade free, then brought both down in a sweeping arc. The twin slices cut through the abomination in a seamless motion, severing flesh that had never belonged in this plane of existence.
The demon spasmed violently as blue flames surged through its wounds, unraveling its physical form. It flailed, its tendrils thrashing wildly as black ichor splattered across the floor, sizzling as it evaporated into nothingness. Its grotesque mouths opened wide, attempting one final curse, but it never had the chance.
With one final strike, Harry drove both blades into its core.
A deafening shriek tore through the air before the demon collapsed inward, its body consumed by its own unnatural energy. The howling voices of the damned echoed through the Great Hall, but this time, it was not a sound of torment—it was the wail of souls being released.
Ghostly figures began to rise from the remnants of the entity, their forms translucent, flickering. For a moment, the air shimmered with their presence, their expressions no longer twisted in suffering but serene, relieved. The spirits of those lost to the Triwizard Tournament for centuries—champions who had perished in agony, their fates bound to the cursed goblet—had finally been freed.
They turned their ethereal gazes to Harry, nodding in gratitude before dissipating into the ether, returning to the cycle of existence they had long been denied. The moment their forms vanished, a deep, soul-wrenching silence settled over the Great Hall.
Harry stood in the center of the devastation, his chest rising and falling with deep, measured breaths. His twin blades hummed, the runes on his armor still aglow with latent energy. Slowly, the realization of what had just occurred settled upon the room.
This was no ordinary tournament artifact. This was no mere enchanted cup.
It had been a demonic parasite, allowed to fester in the heart of magical tradition for generations.
And no one had noticed.
A weighty tension settled over the hall, the sheer magnitude of what had been revealed rendering even the most seasoned of witches and wizards speechless. Eyes darted to the now-empty pedestal, to the smoldering remnants of the creature, then back to Harry, who still stood with his weapons bared, emerald eyes burning with residual fury.
Then, at last, someone spoke.
Jonathan Whitmore, the grizzled headmaster of Rentier-Cleveland University, let out a sharp breath, his expression unreadable. Slowly, he lowered his still-glowing gauntlet, flexing his fingers as if testing the magic lingering around them. He then glanced at the ashes, then at Harry, then back at the ashes.
“Well then,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence, carrying the weight of an experienced hunter who had just witnessed something extraordinary. "That’s one hell of an entrance."
The tension shattered.
A ripple of murmurs spread throughout the hall, some whispered expletives, others hushed debates of disbelief. The Ministry officials looked as if they were seconds from fainting, while the professors were caught between sheer horror and analytical intrigue. Dumbledore, normally the epitome of composure, remained utterly still, his expression unreadable as he processed what had just transpired.
McGonagall's lips were pressed into a thin line, her knuckles white around her wand. Snape's eyes had narrowed, though whether in suspicion or intrigue was unclear. The Aurors present, battle-hardened but wholly unprepared for what they had just witnessed, exchanged uncertain glances, their fingers still gripping their wands.
But Harry?
He simply stood there, his mind still caught in the firestorm of what had just occurred. His body thrummed with energy, his senses still searching for threats that were no longer there. His breath slowed, but the fury in his veins had yet to fade. The demon had violated the balance, had taken what was not its to take, and now it was nothing more than ashes beneath his boots.
He had not simply destroyed a monster.
He had ended a legacy of suffering no one had even known existed.
And yet, he had the unsettling feeling that this was only the beginning.
And he then let himself fall into a meditative trance, floating off the floor as the his armor pieces shifted, crackling with energy as his blade vanished. He let the power of Aiur flow into him as he let its colors fill his mind.
Headmistress Vasuki reclined upon her raised platform of intricately embroidered cushions, her golden eyes narrowing as she scrutinized the parchment in her clawed hand. The flickering glow of enchanted lanterns cast shifting shadows across the grand chamber, illuminating walls lined with ancient scrolls, ceremonial relics, and powerful artifacts. This was the nerve center of Nāga-Kṣetra Vidyalaya, an institution of wisdom and discipline forged through millennia of magical tradition. The weight of responsibility sat heavy upon her coiled form, yet nothing could have prepared her for the disruption that was about to shatter the sanctity of her evening.
The sudden, forceful swing of the great doors shattered the contemplative silence. Meera Patil stormed into the chamber, her usual composure frayed at the edges, followed closely by Nagini, whose vast serpentine form coiled protectively in her wake. Behind them, Professor Amarachandra entered with long, deliberate strides, his normally impassive expression etched with rare concern.
“Headmistress!” Meera’s breath came quick, her urgency palpable. “Harry—he’s gone! One moment he was retrieving his things after dueling class, the next—he was engulfed in blue flames and vanished!”
The parchment in Vasuki’s grip crumpled, her claws tightening. A subtle pulse of energy rippled through the chamber, a reflection of her mounting fury. The torches flared, their flames momentarily elongating in response to her unrestrained magical presence. The black-scaled cobras that made up her "hair" hissed in agitation, their hooded heads rising in synchronized fury. “Explain,” she hissed, her forked tongue flicking in irritation.
Nagini’s coils tensed, her emerald eyes burning with a dangerous intensity. “It was no common displacement spell. This was a summoning—ancient, deliberate, and powerful.” Her voice carried the gravity of a storm ready to break. “Someone has taken my son.”
Before Vasuki could speak, the grand fireplace roared to life, the flames twisting into an unnatural, emerald hue. The air itself seemed to vibrate with foreign magic as the runes carved into the mantle glowed in protest. An unauthorized intrusion.
Two figures materialized within the shifting embers, stepping onto the polished stone with an air of unwanted authority: Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic for Britain, adjusting his pinstripe robes with affected dignity, and Albus Dumbledore, his piercing blue gaze shadowed by an unreadable expression.
A tense silence fell.
Vasuki uncoiled, rising to her full, imposing height. The slow raising of the serpents that made up her "hair," all of them cobras flaring their hoods in agitated anger, sent a ripple of barely restrained fury through the chamber. Her golden gaze bore into the two men before her. "You dare enter my domain unannounced?" she spat, her voice deceptively even, though the raw power behind it sent an almost imperceptible tremor through the stone beneath them. "Speak, and pray your explanation satisfies me."
Dumbledore took a measured step forward, his expression carefully neutral. "Harry Potter has appeared at Hogwarts," he stated, his tone diplomatic, yet burdened with careful calculation. "The Goblet of Fire summoned him. I regret to inform you that he has been—"
“Contracted into the Triwizard Tournament,” Vasuki finished for him, her voice laced with cold fury. The room darkened momentarily, the runes etched into the chamber walls igniting with a flickering golden light, feeding on her wrath. "And not even a by-your-leave, just a kidnapping of a student!"
Fudge, attempting to straighten his posture, cleared his throat. The paleness of his face betrayed his rising anxiety. "Headmistress Vasuki, I assure you, the Ministry had no idea the Goblet of Fire was a demonic—"
The chamber seemed to freeze.
Vasuki’s pupils contracted to thin slits. The serpents crowning her head hissed in perfect unison, their black scales gleaming ominously as they swayed. "A demon?" Her voice had lowered to a lethal whisper, yet it carried the weight of an oncoming storm. "You placed a demonic object in a school of children?"
Dumbledore inclined his head slightly, his tone measured. "We did not know—"
“You assure me of nothing.” Vasuki’s tail lashed once, the sound like a whip against the marble floor. "Do not insult me with empty platitudes, Minister. You expect me to believe that you were completely ignorant of a demonic infestation in one of your most sacred magical relics? That a mere student—my student—was forced to cleanse it, alone?"
Dumbledore’s lips pressed together, his gaze unreadable. Before he could formulate a response, Vasuki continued, her voice low, deadly. “And now, despite the mimic’s destruction, the magical contract remains unbroken.” Her fangs glinted slightly as she narrowed her gaze. “My pupil—my star pupil—has been bound to your tournament against his will.”
Nagini’s voice slithered into the conversation, a whisper of steel-edged fury. "If you believe for a moment that I will allow my son to be used as a pawn in this farce, you are grievously mistaken."
Dumbledore met her glare with an incline of his head, his voice steady. "I do not wish for Harry to be placed in danger. If there is a method by which we can remove him from this tournament, I will find it."
Vasuki’s coils tightened, her sinewy form practically vibrating with restrained rage. The ancient magic bound to her bloodline pulsed in response to her growing ire. Her claws flexed, and for a moment, it seemed as if the very foundations of the chamber trembled. “Then I suggest,” she said, her voice sharp as a blade, “that you find it quickly, Dumbledore. Or we will.”
Meera, still standing to the side, could feel the weight of the room pressing against her. The sheer force of Vasuki’s anger was tangible, curling through the air like an invisible stormfront. Nagini, beside her, was the very picture of lethal stillness, her emerald eyes locked onto the intruders with an unwavering, quiet fury.
Fudge, for all his political bravado, was visibly unnerved. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if debating whether to clutch the edges of his robe or attempt a dignified exit. He cleared his throat again, his voice now far less confident. "Surely, Headmistress, you understand that this is... complicated. The Triwizard Tournament is an institution, bound by magic older than any of us. There are laws—"
"Laws that your Ministry failed to control," Vasuki cut in, her tone now bordering on venomous. "You expect me to abide by laws that allowed a demon to sit in your sacred halls, preying upon innocents? Laws that demanded the blood of students as payment? Laws that now hold my student hostage?"
Fudge opened his mouth, but no sound came. Even he knew he had no answer to that.
Dumbledore, to his credit, did not flinch under Vasuki’s scrutiny. He inclined his head, a silent acknowledgment of her fury, before finally speaking again. "I give you my word that I will do everything in my power to break this contract. Harry Potter will not be bound to this tournament if I can prevent it."
Vasuki's gaze did not waver. "See that you do, Dumbledore. Because if you fail, there will be consequences beyond what your Ministry can comprehend."