Chapter 20
The esteemed and timeworn office of Albus Dumbledore at Hogwarts had borne witness to countless defining moments in wizarding history, and tonight was no exception. The gentle flicker of candlelight from enchanted chandeliers sent elongated shadows dancing across towering bookshelves brimming with ancient tomes, while intricate silver instruments upon their pedestals hummed with arcane energy. Behind the grand oak desk, Fawkes the phoenix perched solemnly, his golden-red plumage gleaming faintly in the dim light, his intelligent eyes surveying the assembled figures with quiet scrutiny. An ancient, meticulously crafted clock ticked with measured precision, each sound accentuating the palpable tension that thickened the air like an impending storm.
Albus Dumbledore sat at the head of the meeting, his long fingers steepled before him, his composed exterior a fragile veil over the deep unease roiling beneath. Across from him, Headmaster Park Hyun-seok of Gwaneum Academy of Sorcery sat with impeccable posture, his keen gaze dissecting every unspoken implication as though cataloging potential catastrophes. Beside him, Headmaster Jonathan Whitmore of Rentier-Cleveland University leaned forward, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the polished wood of Dumbledore’s desk in measured contemplation. To his right, Headmistress Vasuki of Nāga-Kṣetra Vidyalaya observed with an eerie stillness, her luminous golden eyes gleaming like those of a predator gauging the severity of an unseen threat. Her elegantly scaled fingers rested lightly on the table’s edge, poised as though ready to strike at the first sign of danger. The British delegation—Bartemius Crouch Sr., Ludo Bagman, and Minister Cornelius Fudge—completed the assembly, with Fudge’s ever-present, toad-like undersecretary perched beside him, quill at the ready, prepared to document every unfolding development with brisk efficiency.
At the center of the grand desk lay the contract, an ominous and ancient parchment infused with a magic that none present could fully comprehend. The writing upon it shimmered with a disturbing fluidity, pulsing like something alive, sentient, almost self-aware. Despite the destruction of the Goblet of Fire—reduced to naught but shattered remnants of its once formidable form—the contract had persisted. Its unnatural endurance defied logic, its resilience an unsettling enigma.
“This matter demands our utmost attention,” Dumbledore began, his voice as measured as it was grave. “The destruction of the Goblet of Fire should have rendered this contract null and void. Yet here it remains, unchanged in form but changed in function.”
Minister Fudge sniffed dismissively, adjusting the embroidered trim of his green and gold robes with an air of exaggerated nonchalance. “Surely this is nothing more than residual magic—a lingering enchantment, nothing to warrant such… alarm. Young Potter need only compete, and we may all proceed without this unnecessary deliberation.” His casual tone did little to mask the nervous twitch of his fingers as they smoothed over his sleeve.
Headmistress Vasuki let out a soft, serpentine hiss of displeasure, her forked tongue flicking briefly as she regarded Fudge with open disdain. “Do not mistake us for fools, Minister. The contract should be void. Instead, its magic has adapted. This is no longer a matter of tournament regulations—it is a matter of what penalties magic itself will impose.”
Crouch leaned forward, his expression schooled into neutrality. “And what precisely does that entail, Headmistress?”
Jonathan Whitmore, who had remained silent until now, exhaled slowly, reaching for the parchment with careful deliberation. “Let us put theory to the test.”
With a steady hand, he ran a single finger over the most damning clause inscribed in ominous crimson ink: ‘Will lose their Life and Magic if they do not complete.’ The text did not resist. Instead, it disintegrated into nothingness beneath his touch, crumbling into ephemeral ash before vanishing into the air as though it had never been.
A heavy silence descended upon the room. And then, the parchment pulsed.
Where once had been immutable, rigid text, new words slithered into existence, forming of their own volition. They shifted, rearranged, restructured, their meaning no less dire—perhaps even more so.
“The punishment,” Whitmore murmured, his voice tight with a dread he did not attempt to conceal, “is now left to the discretion of magic itself.”
The chamber seemed to contract under the weight of this revelation. Even Fudge, who was typically eager to dismiss concerns that did not align with his political agenda, had paled noticeably. The toad-like undersecretary’s quill faltered mid-stroke.
“This is far graver than before,” Dumbledore said, his piercing blue eyes scanning the parchment as though hoping to discern some hidden truth within its shifting script. “With the Goblet’s destruction, its demonic influence has been eradicated. But now, the contract is untethered. Magic itself will enforce its terms, and we cannot begin to fathom what it deems an appropriate consequence.”
Headmaster Park finally spoke, his voice sharp, decisive. “This is no longer a question of Harry Potter’s participation. This is a breach in the natural order. If magic itself has assumed the role of arbiter, then we stand at the mercy of something we cannot negotiate with. We must act before this sets a precedent beyond our control.”
Headmistress Vasuki inclined her head, her coiled posture shifting slightly. “Then we must destroy it.”
Crouch frowned, skepticism evident in his carefully measured expression. “You speak as though such a task is as simple as waving a wand.”
Whitmore scoffed, the edge of his frustration evident. “You fail to grasp the magnitude of the situation. This is not about simplicity—it is about survival. Magic, unchained, is not a force any of us should wish to test.”
Ludo Bagman, uncharacteristically subdued, cleared his throat. “If Potter refuses to compete…”
“…then magic itself will determine the cost,” Dumbledore finished grimly. “And I do not believe it will be merciful.”
The weight of his words settled over them like a death knell. What had begun as a discussion on a tournament had spiraled into an existential threat. They were no longer simply safeguarding a student; they were contending with the very nature of magic itself—its will, its capriciousness, its terrible and unrelenting power.
Something had to be done.
And swiftly.
Yun Ji-Ho, Leonard Walker, and Rosalind Fairburn continued to watch in silent fascination as Harry Potter conversed in Parseltongue with the colossal serpent before them. The sheer size of the creature was beyond anything natural; it dwarfed even the largest mundane serpents recorded in history. Yet, its movements, its awareness—there was something distinctly unnatural about it, something that unsettled even the most hardened of the competitors. This was not some summoned familiar or trained beast; this was something with agency, something with a mind of its own.
Leonard adjusted his stance, arms crossed over his chest, his keen eyes never leaving the enormous serpent. "It's a Maledictus. Has to be," he muttered, his voice low and considering. "The way it reacts—it’s not just following commands like some bewitched beast. There’s intelligence behind those eyes. That’s not a snake, that’s a person cursed to become one."
Yun hummed in thought, his sharp gaze flicking between Harry and the massive serpent. "I've read about Parselmouths, but I’ve never actually seen one in action before. Most tend to be in India or regions with high snake populations like South America. Seeing it firsthand is... unsettling." His voice was careful, measured, yet there was something almost analytical in his tone. He wasn't just observing—he was cataloging, assessing, breaking apart what he saw for further understanding.
"So, that armor he's wearing," Yun continued, tilting his head slightly as he scrutinized Harry’s gleaming battle regalia. "It’s not forged like your gauntlet?"
Leonard let out a scoff, shaking his head. "Highly doubt it, Yun. Look at the craftsmanship—those curves, the gemstones embedded in the plating. That’s not just protection; it’s a magical conduit. Those floating segments? They’re probably acting as conductors, amplifying his magic. I’d bet my last paycheck that it’s closer to an advanced magical apparatus than simple armor." He flexed his fingers, glancing at the runic etchings on his gauntlet. "The way my zapper works, or how the field agents' gear functions, is similar—energy channeled, redirected, augmented. But this? This is leagues beyond that. Whatever made this wasn’t just a blacksmith—it was someone who understood magic in ways we don’t."
Rosalind let out a short snort of amusement. "Says the Muggle who could probably beat us in hand-to-hand combat." There was a light teasing in her tone, but also a begrudging respect. Leonard was a non-magical, yet he had an almost instinctive understanding of combat that most wizards lacked.
Leonard smirked but didn’t deny it. "Magic is great and all, but people tend to forget that a solid punch to the face is a universal language."
"And yet, here we are, using magic to settle this tournament instead of our fists," Yun mused, half-smirking. "Bit ironic, don’t you think?"
"I think it’s hilarious," Leonard said dryly. "Until you realize that whatever’s coming next is going to be a bloody nightmare."
Before Yun could respond, Rosalind suddenly grimaced, her expression shifting into one of irritation as her eyes flicked upward towards the entrance of the chamber. "Heads up," she murmured, her posture stiffening slightly. "The head honchos are back."
As if on cue, the weight of authority settled over the space as Dumbledore, Minister Fudge, and the other officials from the prior meeting entered. Their faces were grim, their expressions set in unreadable masks, and the palpable tension in the air signaled that whatever had transpired in the headmaster’s office had not yielded good news. If anything, it seemed the situation had become even more complicated.
Harry turned away from the serpent, his gaze shifting toward the approaching figures, the flickering torchlight casting sharp shadows across his face. He looked calm, but there was something guarded in his stance, something expectant. He knew this wasn’t over.
The tournament champions instinctively straightened, exchanging glances between themselves. Leonard clenched his jaw, Rosalind crossed her arms, and Yun exhaled slowly, bracing himself.
Ludo Bagman stood at the center of the Great Hall, his usually jovial expression undercut by the tension that had settled like a thick fog over the assembled students and faculty. He cleared his throat, attempting to inject his usual air of excitement into the proceedings, though it rang hollow against the silence.
"And so, our fourth and final champion... Harry Potter!"
The words echoed through the vast hall, and for a moment, time itself seemed to stall. A suffocating stillness gripped the room before whispers erupted like wildfire. The Hogwarts students exchanged frantic glances, disbelief evident on their faces. Even among the visiting delegations, murmurs of confusion and unease rippled through their ranks. This was an impossibility.
Near the edge of the hall, Harry Potter stood rigid, his expression darkening as he processed the inevitable consequences of his name being called. Headmistress Vasuki, coiled beside him, exhaled a slow, measured breath, though the sharp glint in her golden eyes betrayed her simmering fury. Nagini, draped beside them in poised stillness, let out a low, warning hiss—a sound only Harry truly understood.
"This is... problematic," Vasuki murmured, her voice devoid of its usual authoritative steadiness.
Before Harry could respond, Barty Crouch Sr. stepped forward, his rigid posture betraying the gravity of what he was about to say. "All esteemed heads of the participating institutions have conferred, and we have reached an agreement. Though the Goblet of Fire has been destroyed, the magical contract persists. It is no longer bound to the artifact itself but to magic itself. Should Mr. Potter refuse to compete, the consequences will be dictated not by us, but by the very forces that govern magic."
A heavy silence settled over the room once more. Harry’s gaze flickered toward Dumbledore, searching for answers in the headmaster’s worn expression. What he received instead was a look of regret—one that confirmed what he already suspected. There was no way out.
Then, cutting through the weighted hush, came a voice dripping with condescension and veiled malice.
"And what of the other participants?" Dolores Umbridge’s falsely saccharine tone carried across the hall, her beady eyes fixing on Leonard Walker with blatant derision. "Surely, a non-magical participant in a wizarding competition is little more than a death sentence. One would think even the Americans would have better judgment."
For a moment, there was only stunned silence. Then, without a word, Headmaster Jonathan Whitmore of Rentier-Cleveland University raised his right hand, and with an almost casual flick of his wrist, activated his gauntlet. A violent cascade of electricity surged along its surface, crackling with power, illuminating his sharp features in the blue-white glow of raw energy. The effect was instantaneous—several wizards instinctively recoiled, their wands trembling in their grips.
Beside him, Leonard Walker followed suit, activating his own gauntlet. The twin arcs of energy pulsed in tandem, warping the ambient magical field in the room. The natural flow of magic within the Great Hall shuddered, disrupted by the sheer presence of Rentier technology. Even Dumbledore himself observed the pair with caution, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as he assessed the situation.
Jonathan took a measured step forward, his gaze settling on Umbridge with a predatory calm. "The pink toad," he intoned, his voice thick with derision, "has no understanding of what foulblood magic we’ve had to face in our lands. The creatures and horrors we contend with make even the darkest corners of this country look like a nursery tale. Unlike some people in this room, those of us in the United States do not have the luxury of complacency. We fight because we must. And we do not tolerate ignorance unlike some people here who seem content living with a stick up their collective ‘pureblood’ asses.”
A weighted silence followed his words, the sheer force of his presence rendering even the most outspoken individuals momentarily mute.
Umbridge visibly flinched, her skin blotching a deep shade of pink as she gaped, momentarily robbed of her ability to speak. The surge of raw power emanating from the Rentier Institute representatives sent a crystal-clear message—these were not men to be dismissed.
Faced with open defiance, Umbridge turned toward Minister Fudge, her face shifting into a practiced mask of wounded indignation. "Minister! Are you truly going to allow them to threaten me? This is highly inappropriate, I demand—"
But Cornelius Fudge, standing at her side, had gone unsettlingly quiet. The usually blustering politician paled under the oppressive weight of the moment, fingers twitching nervously at the brim of his bowler hat. He had no intention of involving himself further in what he did not understand.
Sensing the need to diffuse the tension, Dumbledore cleared his throat, his voice rising above the charged atmosphere. "It has been decided that the first task of the Triwizard Tournament will take place on November 24th. This task will test not only the skill of our champions but their endurance. They will be required to face challenges until they are no longer able to continue."
The announcement barely made a dent in the simmering energy of the hall. Harry exhaled slowly, his mind already turning toward the trials ahead. There would be no easy path forward, no reprieve from the chaos that had become his reality. He would be forced to compete, whether he wished to or not.
But as he cast a glance toward his fellow champions, and then toward the imposing figures of Whitmore and Walker, one thought settled firmly in his mind—This tournament was already shaping up to be something far beyond what any of them had prepared for.