Chapter Text
Hogwarts, Scotland, United Kingdom — 31/10/1994, 18:30
– Draco Malfoy –
The feast was in full swing, the Great Hall buzzing with excited chatter. Tonight was the night the Goblet of Fire would choose its champions. Draco didn’t care who the Hogwarts champion was — as long as it was a Slytherin.
“Draco, who do you think it’s going to be?” Pansy asked, but before he could answer, Theo interrupted.
“Shush, it’s starting.”
Dumbledore began his speech, but Draco tuned it out. What did he care for the words of that old codger?
Then, the first slip of parchment shot out from the Goblet in a burst of blue flames.
“The champion of Durmstrang is… Răzvan Nevăstuiescu!”
Instead of cheers, only quiet muttering spread through the Durmstrang students. Then, as if a Disillusionment Charm had lifted, a figure suddenly became visible before the Headmasters.
He wasn’t particularly tall for a seventeen-year-old — just under average height — but still taller than Draco. His stark white hair fell loose down his back, but it was the face that made Draco’s blood run cold.
The boy was deathly pale, with a gaunt, hollow-cheeked face and eyes as red as blood.
Karkaroff and the boy began arguing in a harsh language Draco didn’t recognize. Dumbledore tried to intervene, but Karkaroff shouted over him.
“Because he’s a fourth year, you idiots!”
All hell broke loose. Teachers and students were shouting over one another, voices echoing wildly in the hall.
All Draco could think was: Guess he really is tall…
Then the Goblet flared again and spat out a second name.
“The champion of Beauxbatons is… Jeanne Dumas!”
“Merde!” Madame Maxime cried, covering her face with one hand as shocked murmurs rose from the Beauxbatons delegation.
The headmasters huddled again, whispering in frantic tones, but the hall had grown so still that everyone could hear fragments of their conversation.
The message was clear: Jeanne Dumas was a fourth year too.
She didn’t seem to be present, though. Madame Maxime quickly descended from the stage, presumably to find her.
How could she have entered without even being here?
A tense silence fell once more — then the Goblet flared a third and final time.
Draco could feel the tension now. It pressed down like a storm cloud, thick enough to cut with a knife.
“The champion of Hogwarts is… Draco Malfoy!”
For a moment, he felt like the ground had dropped out from under him.
Him? But how?! He didn’t enter his name!
Father was going to kill him… and what would Mother say? But he couldn’t admit any of that. Not here. Not in front of the whole school.
No — he would tell them in private. Right now, he had to act the part. No one would believe him anyway. Admitting the truth would only make him look weak — and disgrace the Malfoy name.
So he stood up, fixed an arrogant smirk on his face, and strode confidently toward the front of the hall. He glanced up at Dumbledore with a grin, then disappeared through the Champion’s Door.
As it closed behind him, he heard gasps erupt behind him — followed by shouting.
Just what the hell is happening here?
– Ron Weasley –
He was feeling ecstatic. His plans for vengeance were finally moving forward. It seemed his little trick had worked.
Demonic magic was incredibly useful — too bad it was also highly illegal. Apparently, even Voldemort had refused to entertain the idea of summoning demons. But what use did Ron have for a soul when his entire family had been slaughtered by the hand of Lucius Malfoy?
Now he lived under the mask of Răzvan Nevăstuiescu, his appearance forever altered by dark magic. He doubted anyone would recognize him.
That terrifying night would forever be seared into his memory.
⸻
Aleea Magică, Târgoviște, Romania — 15/06/1992, 03:00
Unable to sleep, Ron got up from bed. Every time he closed his eyes, nightmares plagued him.
When Ginny had been taken to the Chamber, Ron had gone to Percy and the twins. Together, the brothers had entered the Chamber to save their sister.
It had been a slaughter.
The Weasley brothers were ill-prepared to face the specter of Tom Riddle and his basilisk. They won — but at what cost?
George managed to draw the sword from the Sorting Hat, lured in by Fawkes. He impaled the giant snake, but the basilisk bit him in half as it died.
Percy, poor brave Percy, died first — he took out the basilisk’s eyes, but got slammed into the wall by its tail, breaking his neck.
Ron had managed to stab a fang George had knocked loose into the diary, but it was too late. Tom Riddle had already drained Ginny’s life force and brought his teenage self back into the world.
Ron fought — but it was pointless. All he got was a broken wand for his trouble.
Before Riddle could finish him off, George used the last of his strength to stab the resurrected Dark Lord through the heart with the Sword of Gryffindor. Riddle exploded into a shower of black mist — and Ron passed out.
When he awoke in the infirmary, Dumbledore and his parents were there. They barely had time to talk before Ron made a mistake he would regret forever.
He remembered who had put the diary in Ginny’s cauldron and, in his anger, accused Lucius Malfoy.
If only he had waited. If only he had gathered evidence.
He wasn’t there to see it, but once outside the infirmary, his mother attacked Malfoy — and the bastard killed her, claiming self-defense.
Of course, the pureblood aristocrat bastard got away with it.
His father hanged himself the very next day.
After that, Ron left Hogwarts for the rest of the year to stay with Charlie. Bill was supposed to join them later — but just four days ago, they received notice that he had died while curse-breaking in a tomb in Egypt.
They said grief must have made him careless. He stepped on a trap.
⸻
Ron was torn from his memories by a loud boom.
Running down the stairs, he saw Charlie battling a group of vampires.
“Get back, Ron!” his brother shouted.
Flames burst from Charlie’s wand, burning the vampires to ash. He spun, sending a fireball past Ron — the heat and ash of the disintegrating vampire brushed over his back.
“Charlie, watch out!” Ron yelled.
Too late.
A surviving vampire tore out Charlie’s throat in a blur of movement.
Ron, still without a new wand, dove for Charlie’s.
“What are you gonna do with that, boy?” the vampire sneered. “Lucius Malfoy sends his regards. You Weasleys messed with the wrong man.”
He bared his fangs in a feral grin.
Filled with rage and grief, Ron raised the wand.
“Avada Kedavra!”
The Killing Curse struck the vampire square in the chest, and he exploded into dust.
Ron let out a long, painful roar and collapsed into sobs. Malfoy was going to pay.
They were all going to pay.
Ron gathered what he needed and set the apartment on fire. He tossed Charlie’s wand into the flames — it would only leave a trail Malfoy could follow.
Then he fled into the woods, finding shelter in an abandoned cabin.
There, he took an axe and felled a blackthorn tree.
He still had the basilisk fang from the Chamber. It would serve as a core.
He wasn’t a wandmaker, but if a Muggle could do it, why not him?
It took a few tries, but the final result worked. It functioned.
⸻
Over the next week, he hatched a plan.
First, he needed a new name. That part was easy enough — the Weasley family tree had branches all over the world. Malfoy had only gone after their direct line.
All Ron had to do was adjust his name to the Romanian language.
Next, he needed power. Durmstrang could provide that.
He had already used the Killing Curse — what was a little more dark magic now?
Luckily, the Balkans were a mess when it came to magical education. The region wasn’t covered by any of the Big Eleven schools. Most relied on homeschooling, or hoped to be accepted by one of the four nearby institutions.
Ron knew exactly what to do.
In two months, there would be a dueling tournament in Dubrovnik. He had a full Hogwarts education — his opponents would be home-schooled.
He also had his brothers’ old books. His wand wasn’t tracked by the Trace. He could train as much as he liked.
He would win.
He would get into Durmstrang.
And then — he would kill Lucius Malfoy and anyone else who stood in his way.
⸻
Present Day
He opened his eyes and ran a finger along the smooth handle of his wand.
It had served him well. Over the years, he had reworked it, improved it. He had even made a few others as practice.
He wasn’t Ollivander — but he wasn’t a beginner either.
He had won the tournament.
He had earned his place at Durmstrang.
The school was a treasure trove of dark magic. Karkaroff would be furious, no doubt. But what did that matter now?
As the others walked in, Ron smiled.
Let the games begin.
– Jeanne Dumas –
Jeanne smirked as she followed Madame Maxime out of the room where the Portkey had dropped them. The Headmistress had been wroth with her — but that was a price she was willing to pay. Besides, it wasn’t her fault the Goblet had no protections in place to stop her owl from dropping in a note.
She needed this.
She needed to overcome her past.
It was strange being back at Hogwarts.
The last time she had been here, she had been a different person.
Hermione Granger was a weak girl — someone far in her past now.
On the Halloween of her only year at Hogwarts, Hermione had been crying in a bathroom when the troll came. She hadn’t had the strength to fight it. Her wand had been shattered. Her left cheek still bore a thin scar from where a stone struck her face when the troll’s club smashed into the walls. The professors had arrived just in time to save her.
When Hermione woke up, her life had changed forever.
As soon as her parents got word of the accident, they rushed to Hogwarts — but on their way to the Floo point, they were in a car crash.
They died on impact.
That was how she ended up in France.
Her grandmother had originally been from there, and her grandmother’s brother still lived in Bordeaux. Jeanne had actually been named after him — Uncle Jean. They’d visited his vineyard every summer. It was why she spoke French so well.
It wasn’t all bad.
She had always been close with her great-uncle. He had been the first to encourage her love of books.
Uncle Jean took the news of magic exceptionally well — which was to say, he loved it. The man had written fantasy novels in his spare time.
Life at the vineyard was quiet. She moved into the same room her grandmother had lived in as a child. The land had been in the family since the late 1600s.
Uncle Jean had never married. Not that he could have — gay marriage hadn’t been legal when he was younger.
⸻
One might wonder how she got her name change.
That could be blamed on the French Ministry of Magic.
First, they required that Uncle Jean formally adopt her, or else be Obliviated. Next, they issued her new passport — and they got it wrong, switching her first and middle names, and misspelling “Jean” as “Jeanne.” Though in hindsight, they probably did it on purpose. The French had been butchering her name since she’d arrived.
And Jean was a male name in France.
If they were anything like the British Ministry — which they were — it was obvious in hindsight.
Still, she liked it. A new name for a new start.
She didn’t see her old self as a different person — more like a weaker version she’d had to leave behind. The not-quite-new name helped with that.
⸻
Buying her supplies had been the first time she’d felt truly excited again.
Place Cachée was more elegant than Diagon Alley, with a kind of old-world charm. And the wand shop — Baguettes Magiques de Cosme Acajor — had been something else entirely.
It was run by a woman in her sixties: Augustine Acajor. Unlike Ollivander, she used a much wider range of cores and woods.
Her new wand was silver birch with a Strix feather core.
Jeanne still remembered the old woman’s words.
⸻
– Flashback –
“Ah… this one.”
The wandmaker’s fingers brushed the pale, almost luminous length of silver birch. Her expression turned solemn, almost reverent.
“A rare harmony. A rare story.
The wood comes from a wild birch that split stone with its roots on Mont Pilat. Cut only under moonlight, after the first frost. Purity grown in hardship — that is the nature of silver birch. It answers best to those who have shed their past not once, but again and again.”
She tapped the wand gently. A faint whispering filled the air.
“But the core… the core is something older.
A single primary feather of a Strix — a creature of forgotten prophecy. Owl-shaped, yes, but not merely a bird. It watches where others sleep. It remembers what others try to forget.”
She looked Jeanne in the eye.
“This wand will not warm easily to others. It demands intelligence, yes, but also self-control. It does not forgive carelessness. It listens to your unspoken thoughts. If you lie to yourself, it may answer with silence.
But… should you treat it as a companion rather than a tool, it will see you through the darkest night. It favors magic of the mind — illusion, Occlumency, detection, defensive wards — but it will serve in dueling, if necessary. Not with wrath. With precision.”
A long pause.
“This is not a wand for glory, Mademoiselle Dumas. It is a wand for survival. For knowing. For seeing further than most dare.”
She handed Jeanne the wand — carefully, reverently.
“It does not like being caged.
Much like you, I suspect.”
⸻
– Flashback End –
Beauxbatons had been everything she needed.
Hogwarts may have had a larger library — but only on modern magic. Beauxbatons had been built atop the only surviving Roman respiratorium — a magical repository. The Romans had collected knowledge from all corners of the ancient world. Most students didn’t use it. The magic was pre-wand, after all.
But that didn’t mean it couldn’t be reworked, or made useful.
And Jeanne had proved that.
She suspected that was why the Headmistress wasn’t truly angry with her. Maxime knew Jeanne was her best shot at victory.
Albus Dumbledore –
He watched young Mister Malfoy leave as he mentally prepared himself for the fourth name to come out of the Goblet.
He didn’t know what the name would be — only that the person had once been Harry Potter.
It was, in truth, an ingenious piece of magic. He had used some hair from an old toy of the child’s — salvaged from the wreckage of the Potters’ hiding place — and melded it into the parchment. The spell was crafted so the Goblet would announce the name the child currently associated with, along with the school they now attended. He hadn’t dared be seen with the Goblet, of course, so he had Alastor drop the paper in — the man had been on patrol near it anyway.
What choice did he have?
Tom’s return had only been foiled by sheer dumb luck — twice now.
They needed the child of prophecy, and he was missing.
And the worst revelation of the last three years hadn’t even been that Harry was gone. Not the fact that his aunt and uncle had died in a house fire — though that was tragic enough — but at least Dumbledore still had a device that confirmed the child was alive.
No — the true worst of it all was learning he’d had a part in sending an innocent man to Azkaban.
All of this could have been prevented, had he only looked a little deeper. But it had taken Sirius Black’s escape for him to finally examine things thoroughly.
The truth was: the caster of the Fidelius Charm had very little say in its strength. It was the target of the spell — the Potters — who selected the Secret Keeper, not Albus.
And now Peter Pettigrew was back with his master. Plotting who knew what.
As the Goblet spat out the fourth piece of parchment, he caught it deftly in hand.
Let the games begin, he thought bitterly.
The Champion of Koldovstoretz is Irina Volkova!!!
At least it was in Europe. That was something.
Koldovstoretz had only been founded after the Triwizard Tournament had originally ended. They had once petitioned to be included in the competition — and had been denied. Suspicion would now fall on them, instead of him.
That was useful.
The different gender helped, too. It would separate this “Irina” from Harry Potter in most minds. He was the only one alive who knew the child was a Metamorphmagus. James and Lily had asked him to temporarily block the ability in infancy. It was common practice for infant Animagi as well, to keep them from accidentally exposing magic.
He had known the block wouldn’t last forever — it was only meant to hold for a year or two at most. Clearly, it had broken.
Now… it is time to face the music.
⸻
He stepped into his office and found everyone already present.
His eyes slid over the three official champions. Then the fourth.
The Beauxbatons girl — she looked familiar.
“Miss Granger… is that you?”
She met his gaze with cold eyes.
“Hermione Granger died in that bathroom.
My name is Jeanne Dumas.”
That stung.
She had been such a bright girl — once.
He only spared the Durmstrang boy a brief glance. It hurt to look at him. So young, and yet already tainted by the Dark Arts. Even Tom and Gellert hadn’t gone that deep, that fast.
He would have to keep a close eye on that one.
As for poor Mister Malfoy… he was trying his best to appear composed, but Albus could see the fear in his eyes.
He doubted Draco had entered himself. And even if someone else had, he could hardly imagine the Goblet choosing him — he was a regular fourth year. Best in his year, perhaps, but still a boy.
Then he saw the anger in the faces of his counterparts.
“Children,” he said calmly, “if you would leave us. We’ll reconvene tomorrow once everything has been sorted.”
Once the champions had exited, the room fell into a heavy silence.
Then, as expected, Karkaroff exploded.
“Dumbledore, how could you let this happen?! You were responsible for enforcing the age restriction!”
“Come now, Igor,” Albus said, tone even. “We all failed to control our students. The question is: what now? Do we make the Tournament easier?”
“Absolutely not!” Ludo Bagman interrupted, his voice shrill. “We’ve already paid for everything — there’s no going back now.”
“Forget their ages for a moment,” Madame Maxime cut in sharply. “How did the Russians get in? I thought we agreed to keep participation to the original three schools. Can we at least get them out?”
All eyes turned to Barty Crouch.
“I’m afraid we can change nothing,” he said gravely. “Their names came out of the Goblet. They have to compete. Furthermore, we can’t change the tasks — we’ve signed contracts. It will be difficult enough to account for a fourth champion.”
At that, everyone in the room swore in their native tongues.
Dumbledore sighed. “Well then… it seems I must go to Russia. They’ll want to send a delegation.”
With a silent gesture, he called Fawkes to him.
One clap of wings later, and he vanished into fire — bound for the cold lands of Koldovstoretz.
– Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, England, Great Britain. 31/10/1983 04:32 –
– Yelena Volkova –
Yelena Volkova wondered how her life had turned out like this.
She had been born on a farm along the banks of the Volga River — a quiet, pastoral place. But from the moment she first showed signs of magic, her life had never been simple. Her gift had opened a world of power, wonder… and, eventually, war.
The Magical Civil War erupted not long after she graduated from Koldovstoretz — the Magical Republicans trying to overthrow the entrenched Communist faction. Chaos followed. She fled, first to the cities, then west. Eventually, she ended up in the service of the KGB.
She had lasted longer than most.
Three years ago, she’d managed to vanish from the agency — quite literally. She’d used her magic to disappear. The records said she had “washed out” of training, a footnote lost in bureaucratic haze. In truth, she had simply walked away.
Within a year, she had carved her own path. Secretly, she established a magical arm of the mob, using spells to bend the criminal underworld to her will. It hadn’t taken long for her to earn a seat at the table — and soon, she sat at the head of it.
So, why would someone like her perform a hit personally?
Because this one was personal.
That fat English pig, Vernon Dursley, had crossed her.
He had been smuggling contraband for them — hiding goods inside drill shipments to Russia. It had worked well. Until this time.
This time, Vernon had sold out the shipment. Worse, he’d pinned it on a work rival to eliminate competition. The goods had been hers. That betrayal? Unforgivable.
She turned to look at the man and his simpering wife. Both were tied to chairs, gagged. Their pudgy son was upstairs, fast asleep under a charm. She would spare the boy — she hated killing children.
She had always wanted them herself. But she was barren.
Even magic couldn’t fix that.
Yelena approached the Dursleys slowly, like a predator sizing up its prey. “So, piggy,” she said softly, “you thought you could cross me?”
Vernon screamed into the gag, his eyes wild with fear.
Before she could say more, a sudden bang echoed from the cupboard beneath the stairs.
Yelena snapped to attention. She moved swiftly and kicked the cupboard door in.
Inside, huddled among rags, was a little boy.
They locked eyes.
And then, the boy began to shift.
His green eyes turned to an icy, pale blue. His hair darkened to a rich, reddish auburn. The shape of his face changed, softening into something unmistakably female.
The child had transformed into a little girl.
And that girl looked… like Yelena. A child version of herself.
A Metamorphmagus.
The realization struck her like a lightning bolt. Fate had just handed her the one thing she had never been able to have.
She dropped to her knees and scooped the child into her arms. The girl whimpered, then began to babble softly in confusion. Tears welled up in her strange, haunting eyes.
Yelena held her close.
“Shhh… everything will be alright, dochka,” she whispered. “Mama’s got you now.”
She kissed the child gently on the forehead.
Then, slowly, she turned back to the Dursleys.
She pierced their minds with Legilimency — and what she found made her sick.
The hate. The disgust. The cruelty they had poured into that child… it was beyond monstrous. It was inhuman.
She flicked her wand and cast a charm over their son — a protective spell, one final kindness. He would sleep through what came next.
Then she turned her gaze back to Vernon and Petunia.
There was no forgiveness in it.
She walked to the fireplace, lit it with a flick of her wand — then fed the flames until they roared, licking the walls and spreading fast.
She didn’t look back.
With her new daughter held tight in her arms, Yelena Volkova Apparated into the night — and left Privet Drive in flames behind her.
– Irkutsk, Siberia, Russia. 31/10/1994 22:55 –
– Irina Volkova –
The moon hung high over an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Irkutsk. Pale light spilled across the cracked concrete floor and broken windows. Shadows clung to the edges of the structure like watching eyes.
“Igor… there you are,” one of her targets muttered, relaxing at the sight of the figure approaching.
Big mistake.
Irina drew her wand in a blink.
“Bombarda Fragmenta!”
An orange sphere erupted from the tip of her wand, humming with suppressed energy. When it reached the center of the room, it shattered into dozens of smaller orbs — each one glowing faintly, darting through the air with uncanny precision.
One man managed to raise a shield.
It didn’t matter.
A single shield couldn’t stop a hundred explosions.
Each orb detonated with the force of a grenade. The warehouse shook under the combined pressure — metal tore, dust filled the air, and screams were drowned in the roar of fire and steel.
Irina stood at the edge of the destruction, eyes cold. Her spell — a deadly variation she had personally developed, inspired by the fragmentation grenades used by Muggles — was brutally effective.
When the echoes finally faded, she shifted back into her true form.
Gods, she hated taking the form of a man.
She walked over to the nearest corpse and kicked it hard in the ribs.
“You idiots really should’ve thought twice before stealing from one of my personal ventures, you dolbayóby,” she snarled in Russian. “Do you have any idea how much work you cost me, blyad?!”
One last disgusted look. Then, with a crack of apparition, she vanished.
⸻
– Koldovstoretz, near Lake Baikal, Siberia. 31/10/1994 23:30 –
Irina appeared on a snowy hill overlooking a vast valley.
Nestled below stood Koldovstoretz — her school, her stronghold. Its blue-and-gold towers rose majestically, like a sapphire version of the Kremlin. Waterfalls spilled into the lake, which shimmered in the moonlight before feeding into the Angara River.
She turned away and walked into her private cabin.
Most students stayed in the castle, but Koldovstoretz had no “prefects” in the traditional sense. Here, elite status had to be earned — through grades, physical achievements, and extracurricular excellence. The reward? A private residence and full autonomy.
She shrugged off her cloak and entered her bathroom, peering into the mirror.
Tall. Pale. Flawless skin. Long, dark red hair. Icy blue eyes. A killer figure. She tilted her head and frowned slightly.
Something was off.
And then — light bulb moment.
With a casual flick of Metamorphmagus talent, she adjusted her figure.
“Much better,” she smirked.
Just as she exited the bathroom, a knock sounded at the door. She opened it to find Dimitri, another prefect.
“The Headmistress wants to see you,” he said simply.
Without a word, she grabbed her coat and followed him across the snowy campus, boots crunching softly beneath them.
⸻
Inside Headmistress Oleyna Roztova’s office, the air was warm and filled with the faint scent of pine resin and parchment. Roztova stood beside an elderly man in flamboyantly colored robes.
Roztova was stern but fair — silver hair wound into a tight bun, posture unyielding, voice always calm.
“Ah, Irina,” the Headmistress greeted warmly. “Thank you for coming.”
“This is Albus Dumbledore,” she added. “Headmaster of Hogwarts.”
The old man offered a solemn nod.
“I’m afraid I come bearing… complicated news, Miss Volkova. Your name has come out of the Goblet of Fire. You must participate… or risk losing your magic.”
Irina raised an eyebrow and turned to her Headmistress.
The women shared a sharp, satisfied grin — two wolves among sheep.
“So,” Irina said, eyes glinting. “We’re in?”
“Yes, dear girl,” Roztova replied, her tone crisp. “You and I will depart tonight. Deputy Headmaster Korkin will join us later with the delegation.”
As the two Russian witches exchanged wicked smiles, they both noticed Dumbledore flinch ever so slightly.
This was going to be fun.
– General POV –
The atmosphere in Dumbledore’s office was thick with tension. Firelight flickered across ancient stone walls, casting long shadows over the assembled Champions and judges. The room smelled faintly of wax, parchment, and something metallic — maybe the promise of blood.
All eyes turned to Albus Dumbledore, who stood behind his desk, hands folded over his wand.
He began to speak, his voice calm but carrying the full weight of authority.
“Well then. We have come to an agreement.”
His piercing blue eyes swept across the four young faces before him — Draco Malfoy, Jeanne Dumas, Răzvan Nevăstuiescu and Irina Volkova — all Fourth Years. All far younger than they should be.
“Despite your ages, you will compete. The challenges will not be made easier.”
There was a slight flinch from Malfoy. Jeanne’s face remained unreadable. Irina only smiled slightly — a small, knowing curve of the lips. The Durmstrang boy met Dumbledore’s gaze with quiet, simmering intensity.
“Headmistress Roztova,” Dumbledore continued, nodding toward the regal woman in dark blue robes, “will take Ludo Bagman’s place on the judging panel. Mr. Bagman will instead provide… commentary.”
A flash of irritation crossed Bagman’s face, but he forced a grin. Roztova, by contrast, inclined her head with cool elegance, as if she’d expected nothing less.
“Before you leave, I urge you to read the tournament rulebooks laid out here. Each of you may take one.”
Four identical tomes rested beside him, their covers a deep leather red, embossed with gold runes and a flaming Goblet seal.
“You will also be expected to attend the Weighing of the Wands tomorrow. Be punctual.”
A beat of silence followed.
Then Dumbledore raised his hands slightly, voice solemn but with a glimmer of the theatrical:
“With all that said…
Let the Games begin.”
A flare of magic surged briefly in the room — as if the very castle itself had acknowledged the opening of something ancient and dangerous.
The Triwizard Tournament had begun.
And nothing would ever be the same again.