"Could there be native cold-water merpeople in the Black Lake? If there are, it'd be pretty cool to see them! There's gotta be merpeople down there, right?"
Dylan blinked.
He knew the secrets of the Black Lake, of course.
The golden egg's lyrics about "something pure" and "dangerous darkness," combined with the merpeople clue, had already given him a clearer guess about the location and nature of the second task.
"There's actually one more thing to add—Hogwarts' Black Lake does have a colony of merpeople living at the bottom," Dylan said slowly, meeting everyone's curious gazes. "But since it's a cold-water lake, the water's always chilly, so these merpeople look different from warm-water ones. They're a bit… less attractive, with darker scales and stockier builds."
"Ugly merpeople, huh…" Fred sighed, his excitement fading a bit. "I was hoping for those graceful, legendary merpeople. Sounds like we'll just see ones built like boulders. Kind of a letdown."
"Let's not get hung up on merpeople," George cut in, raising an eyebrow with a teasing tone. "How about we talk about the golden egg's song? 'In the beginning, you'll lose the treasure you rely on to live.' What's this 'treasure' supposed to be? It can't just be some random thing, right?"
"I think it's pretty straightforward—it's air!" Hermione raised her hand, her voice confident. "Dylan just mentioned the merpeople, so the second task is likely at the bottom of the Black Lake. Down there, the first thing you lose is air, since we can't breathe underwater. Isn't that the 'treasure you rely on to live'?"
"Air? That makes sense," another student chimed in. "We need air to breathe every second. Without it, we're done for. Calling it a 'treasure you rely on' fits perfectly."
But no sooner had he spoken than someone countered, "That works for the first part of the lyrics, but don't forget, the merpeople also sing, 'We've hidden your treasure in something pure.' If the treasure is air, how do you 'hide' air in something pure? That doesn't add up."
Another student added, "Plus, the Black Lake is deep. As wizards, we'd prepare to dive with spells like the Bubble-Head Charm or magical breathing gear. If we can solve the air problem, then 'losing air' doesn't hold up. The 'treasure' can't be air."
The common room buzzed with chatter as everyone tossed out their theories.
Some thought the treasure was a wand, others suggested a potion, and a few even guessed it might be tied to a wizard's magical abilities.
People clung to their ideas, arguing passionately, voices rising, and the relaxed vibe turned tense as faces flushed with debate.
Pop!
A sharp bang rang out from the center of the common room.
Harry waved his wand, bursting a colorful magical balloon in midair, cutting through the arguments.
"Everyone, hold up!" Harry hopped onto a table, raising his voice. "You're forgetting something important—Dylan just said we can't spill the beans about the clues, even if we figure them out! It's Triwizard Tournament rules: champions have to tackle the tasks on their own. We're Gryffindors—we can't be the ones breaking the rules!"
Dylan glanced at him.
Hmm, are Gryffindors really such goody-two-shoes?
"Exactly!" a student piped up, sounding cautious. "If other schools catch wind of this, they could use it against us, saying we helped Dylan cheat. Remember what happened during the Goblet of Fire selection?"
"Those people have pulled stunts like that before!" another student said indignantly. "The Goblet mess wasn't Dylan's fault, but he ended up facing two dragons and extra pressure. So unfair!"
"And don't get me started on Karkaroff!" a third student fumed, voice rising. "He gave Harry and the others such low scores, and even with Dylan's amazing performance, he couldn't bring himself to give a perfect score! He's clearly got it out for Hogwarts. It's outrageous!"
Seeing the group about to spiral into another argument over past injustices, Harry jumped in again, steering the mood. "Alright, alright, let's not dwell on the past and ruin the vibe. Time to keep celebrating!"
He paused, pride in his voice. "We're not just celebrating Dylan nailing the first task and getting the highest score! He's also the first to crack the golden egg's secret—I'd bet anything he's ahead of all the other champions. Draco's probably still scratching his head! So tonight, let's skip the grumpy stuff, eat, drink, and have fun!"
"I've got one more thing!" Ron raised his hand. "About the egg's lyrics—let's keep today's discussion under wraps. Don't spill to other houses or schools' champions. That way, we keep the tournament fair and avoid any trouble for Dylan."
Everyone nodded, agreeing with Ron's suggestion.
After the heated debate, they were all feeling a bit peckish.
Someone stepped up to drag the food table back to the center from the corner, and others grabbed plates, picking out their favorite snacks, chatting and laughing about the discussion. The common room's atmosphere lightened up again, filled with the smell of food and cheerful banter.
With the first task done, the Ministry's International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports Departments dove into double duty.
One team handled the first task's wrap-up: organizing score records, tending to injured champions, and updating the schools.
The other raced to prepare the second task, double-checking everything from venue setup to clue confirmation.
In the Magical Games and Sports office, Ludo Bagman stood at old Barty Crouch's desk, nervously rubbing his hands. "Barty, don't you think the second task's clues are a bit too tricky? The champions just faced dragons—won't tough clues dampen their spirits?"
Barty didn't look up from his report, casually asking, "What's too tricky? The clue presentation or the task itself?"
"The clues, obviously!" Ludo said quickly, nostalgia in his tone. "The old 'find your most beloved treasure' plan was great—simple, direct. The champions would know it's something they cherish and go all in. Motivation guaranteed."
"Is that so?" Barty finally set down his report, eyeing Ludo sharply. "Mr. Bagman, do you recall how many champions were finalized for this tournament?"
"Er…" Ludo hesitated, counting on his fingers. "Right, so you're saying there are too many champions."
"Exactly!" Barty tapped the desk firmly, his tone serious. "The original plan was for fewer champions. Adding more creates a ripple effect of problems!"
He picked up the report, pointing to marked pages as he explained to Ludo. "Take the Black Lake task area division—it was set for the original number, perfectly balanced. One extra champion means overlapping zones. Then there's the merpeople's cooperation—we agreed they'd assist a set number of champions. An extra one could make them resistant, risking mishaps. And safety measures? Each additional champion needs two more diving wizards and emergency gear—none of which we planned for."
Barty paused, his gaze landing on Ludo's sweaty forehead, his tone calm but firm. "If you think these risks are manageable and are willing to take full responsibility, I can propose your idea to the three headmasters and revert to the old plan. What do you say, Mr. Bagman?"
"No, no need!" Ludo quickly wiped his brow, backtracking. "The current plan's solid—Dumbledore suggested it, after all. He broke down the pros and cons, factoring in the extra champions. It's way more thorough than the old one. I'm all for it—just thinking out loud, don't take it seriously."
Barty gave Ludo's relieved expression a glance, said nothing more, and returned to his report, the office quiet except for the soft rustle of pages.
Meanwhile, in a damp, shadowy chamber, Voldemort stood before a worn stone coffin.
A scruffy owl circled above, letting out hoarse screeches before dropping a black silk-wrapped parcel and flapping toward the lone window.
Voldemort's eyes turned icy. He snapped his hawthorn wand up, aiming at the struggling owl.
A thin thread of blood seeped from the owl's body, stretching like a living thing to connect with the wand's tip.
As the owl reached the window, its body crumbled like stone in a storm, dissolving into a wisp of smoke in the night.
The blood thread thickened, forming a thumb-sized bead that slid along the wand and into Voldemort's gaunt arm.
He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, a faint look of satisfaction on his withered face, savoring the rush of life force.
Seconds later, he opened his eyes, glancing at the black parcel on the floor.
He bent to pick it up, his fingers flicking to unravel the silk.
Inside was a parchment letter and a delicate silver box.
Opening the box revealed a velvet lining cradling a clear crystal vial filled with dark red liquid, faintly swirling with a dangerous aura.
Voldemort lifted the vial, giving it a gentle shake, his eyes locked on the liquid.
He unscrewed the cap and dipped his pinky in. The moment it touched the liquid, his fingernail corroded visibly, turning to black dust.
Instead of anger, Voldemort resealed the vial, a twisted smile spreading across his face, his eyes glinting with murderous intent.
He tucked the vial into his robe's inner pocket, then unfolded the parchment letter, reading each word carefully. The chamber filled with his low breathing and the soft scrape of parchment, creating an eerie atmosphere.
Knock, knock, knock!
A dull knock broke the silence, followed by young Barty Crouch's hushed, reverent voice. "Master? Are you there? I have something to report."
Voldemort's eyes stayed on the letter, his finger tracing the words, his voice flat. "Come in."
Young Barty entered, his black robe brushing the stone floor with a faint scrape.
He immediately noticed the open letter in Voldemort's hand and the scattered black silk at the table's edge—the parcel's remains.
Piecing together prior arrangements, he ventured a guess but didn't dare assume. "Master, is that letter… about the latest Triwizard Tournament updates?"
"Yes."
Voldemort's reply was curt, his eyes still on the letter, as if its contents outweighed Barty's report.
Barty stood still, fingers clutching his robe, hesitating before pressing on. "Master, about Karkaroff… his behavior on the judging panel is getting out of hand. He's openly suppressing Hogwarts' champions, even giving Durmstrang perfect scores against fairness. Should we… do something to rein him in? If his recklessness disrupts our plans…"
"No need," Voldemort said, finally looking up, a cold glint in his red eyes, a mocking smirk curling his lips. "We've done nothing, yet he's exposing his own foolishness—a headmaster who can't uphold basic fairness doesn't deserve to lead Durmstrang."
He folded the letter slowly, setting it on the coffin's edge, his voice calculating. "What could be easier? Let him keep making a fool of himself, showing his bias and incompetence. Have his actions on the judging panel quietly spread to Durmstrang's students—let them see their headmaster abusing his power, favoring his champions while suppressing others."
Voldemort stepped closer, his bony fingers tapping the coffin, his tone commanding. "Only when they're thoroughly disillusioned with Karkaroff and the current order will they realize what they need—and crave our intervention. Durmstrang will fall into our hands. Now, do as I say."
"Yes, Master! I'll arrange it immediately!" Young Barty bowed eagerly, his face alight with zeal, as if the task was a great honor.
He backed to the door, closing it softly, and vanished into the dark.
Meanwhile, in a corner of the Gryffindor common room, Dylan sat in an armchair by the window, holding the golden egg, his fingers tracing its shell's grooves.
After the earlier discussion, he'd been thinking more deeply about the egg's song riddle.
The riddle didn't just hold clues to the second task—it was laced with the clever charm of alchemy.