During the coming days leading up to the Tournament, a sense of anticipation seemed to permeate every corner of the school. Whispers about who would be Hogwarts champion could be heard from everywhere; people were even starting to place bets and such on who would be.
The Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, soon to be arriving, added on the excitement. Many students were curious about the other schools and wanted to see what the students there were like.
"Durmstrang only accepts Purebloods, right?"
"Hopefully they won't all be like Malfoy."
"I heard that all Beauxbatons are rather good looking."
"Didn't Nicholas Flamel graduate from there? You know, the person who made the Philosophers stone?"
However, all that was pushed aside from Vincent's mind as he stared right at the man with the glass eye.
"Something is definitely off with him..." Vincent muttered.
Having just finished a Defense Against the Dark Arts class, he couldn't help but notice once again that Mad-Eye seems to completely despise Vincent. It was very subtle, extraordinarily so to the point that even Vincent with his observational skills wouldn't have been noticed had the hostility not been aimed directly at him.
Adding on to that, their lesson involving Mad-Eye had all the students participate in feeling what the Imperious curse does through their own body. While Mad-Eye's reputation somewhat dulled at how outrageous such a lesson was, Vincent could swear that the Professor seemed to enjoy their struggle.
If that was all, then Vincent still could excuse it to be Mad-Eye's 'madness'. What cemented the feeling of wrongness though, was when it came to Vincent's turn in resisting the curse.
The result?
Nothing happened...
For Vincent, there was just a voice in his head. One that felt almost similar to the ward placed at the Quidditch Finals to keep Muggles at bay, but a just a bit stronger from what he could tell. There was a small pain in his head, it was uncomfortable, but Vincent had dealt with far worse headaches, not that he would ever say it out loud.
While there were whispers going about the classroom, ('Vincent's mad, and so is Mad-Eye, maybe that's why it didn't work?" was what some of the students were saying) Vincent's full attention was on the Professor who looked almost, furious? Scared?
'...Someone like you...how?'
If Vincent wasn't standing so close, he would not have heard the words whispered by Mad-Eye. Even then, he could only make out bits and pieces of it, and if he were to be honest...
...those words made him incredibly uncomfortable.
"Hey Ron, does Professor Mad-Eye have any bad history regarding muggles?" Vincent asked Ron at the end of the lesson, as Mad-Eye limped his way into his office, closing the door behind him. The man didn't usually stick around too long after the lesson was done, but this time seemed far more urgent than usual.
"Huh? No..not that I can think of," Ron answered, somewhat taken aback at the question. "I don't remember hearing anything that implies such. Why do you ask?"
"It's...it's nothing..." Vincent waved the question off.
Ron gave Vincent an odd look before leaving. Harry who was nearby, stayed by Vincent's desk with a questioning look.
"You sure you don't want to talk about it?" Harry asked.
Vincent shrugged as he got his stuff packed.
"Maybe later, at the moment it's not an issue, at least, I hope it's not. How about you? Still dreaming?" Vincent said the last part in a low voice.
Harry reflexively rubbed his forehead where his lightning bolt-like scar resided with an uncomfortable expression. "...Yeah...It's still happening..."
Harry's silence and uncomfortable expression made Vincent want to kick himself at his thoughtless remark. "Look, if you're starting to feel uncomfortable talking to me because of it and all..."
Harry waved Vincent's concern off. "It's not that, if anything you're really the only person I can talk to about this."
Vincent raised a brow as he picked up his stuff from the desk. "Me? Really? No one else?"
"Hermione can be overly concerned, Ron would panic over my scar hurting, Sirius, well, he's still dealing with a lot after his hearing," Harry laid his reasoning out. "And I don't want to bother Professor Dumbledore if I can help it."
The Ministry took a large hit to their credibility after it was revealed that Sirius was wrongfully accused. According to Ron, there was an effort to cover all of it up as well as an attempt to reimprison the man for his escape and violating the law via being an Animagus, but when bringing in evidence in the form of a certain rat, there was nothing they could do to further convict the man. Or rather, the Ministry's already tarnished reputation would have completely sunk to rock bottom had they decided to go through with the imprisonment.
Although Sirius still had to deal with the repercussions of hiding his status as an Animagus, a large majority of the public, as well as a portion of those among the top brass in the Ministry, sympathized with the man who spent a good decade in what was considered one of the worst places in the wizarding world. Even those who still wanted to convict the man couldn't do anything about it without any major repercussions, especially with a man like Dumbledore backing him up. As a result, the most Sirius received was a fine of a considerable sum, but it was nothing compared to the freedom he had received after all this time.
That wasn't the end to all of his issues however, Sirius had to deal with several tens if not hundreds of letters per day asking for an interview, something that troubled him deeply. Vincent suspects that a majority of the requests were making an attempt to coerce or guide the interview in a way that allowed for one to use the story to either improve the reputation of the Ministry, or, for those with a grudge, damage it even further.
"Really big leap from serial killer to an unsung hero," Vincent muttered as he gave some thought to Harry's situation. "I'll concoct some potions that may help with sleep, but other than that, I'm not sure what else I can do."
"You don't need to go through all that trouble you know," Harry said as he adjusted his glasses.
"Don't worry about it, it's also a good chance to test out some ideas while I'm at it," Vincent looked somewhat enthused about the idea.
"...So, I'm just a test subject?" Harry muttered dejectedly, making Vincent chuckle in response.
"Honestly though, I do think you should talk with Professor Dumbledore. He does enjoy a good chat, think of it like going to Hagrid's."
"...I'll think about it."
As the two of them walked to the next class, Arnya, who was trailing behind, glanced back all of a sudden, keeping an eye on one spot of the wall even as she wheeled onwards. It was almost as if she was aware of a certain blue eye following every action, she and the two boys in front were making.
...
The day for the other schools to arrive finally came, and the entirety of Hogwarts were waiting outside. Vincent could almost feel the excitement from all around him, but all he could do was yawn, tired from the past few days.
"What's up with you Vince? Too much homework?" Dean asked from the side.
"Nope, already done, just another personal project I've been working on," Vincent rubbed his eyes, trying to stay awake. "It doesn't help that Professor Snape has been on my tail for a few missing ingredients. He reckons someone has been taking them."
"Really? Well, it's not the first time someone's done this," Ron responded.
Hermione flushed red as soon as the topic came up, and Vincent recalled that the trio had taken ingredients for the Polyjuice potion in their second year.
Harry looked thoughtful as he took in Vincent's exhausted look. It all started a week ago when Vincent had the idea of looking at the Marauders Map to spy on Mad-Eye. Confused, but willing to help Vincent out, Harry lent it with no hesitation. From there, the two boys discovered nothing strange about Mad-Eye himself, other than the fact that he liked to stay in his room for far too long, never having once left it during their observation.
What was strange was that Mad-Eye was often not alone. He often times had a visitor, one that stayed for equally long periods of time within the office, before making his rounds through the castle, usually under the cover of night.
That name was Bartemius Crouch, a name that neither of the boys could forget, having seen the man himself during their time at the Quidditch Cup.
"The wand grabbing...it was from Crouch's seat," Vincent thought, trying to tie together all the information he had. "The person who last had Harry's wand there was also Crouch's elf, Winky, and we're seeing that he's having secret meetings with Mad-Eye. Crouch should have no reason to be here, at least not before the tournament starts if the information about him being a judge is true. Crouch also wasn't the one who personally fired off the Death Mark, since Harry, who saw the culprit, didn't recognize him as such, and there was no way someone of his stature would go unnoticed if he did unless he had a disguise or something."
A lot of things pointed towards the Head of Department of International Magical Co-operation being involved or having something to do with the events that transpired during the Quidditch Tournament. How, exactly, was something Vincent had trouble finding out.
"I need to look into Crouch the first thing I get," Vincent muttered to himself. "If past observations haven't proven themselves just, then keeping an eye on Mad-Eye, at least via map, would bring no results. Maybe I could do a stakeout with Harry's invisibility cloak? Although it'd be hard getting by Mrs. Norris...as lovely as the cat is, it's incredibly perceptive...and I'm not sure if I can get by that eye of his. Can it see through invisibility cloaks?"
As Vincent formulated a plan for his investigation, his surrounding's became increasingly noisy.
"There they are!"
"Is that a Pegasus?
Looking to see what everyone was talking about; Vincent spotted a large carriage being drawn by several winged horses approaching from above. All the students up front drew back to allow space for the horses to land, which, upon doing so, showed how large the carriage really was, easily something the size of a small house.
"It's probably enchanted to have extra room like the tents we rested at during the Quidditch tournament, or my storage pouch," Vincent observed as the door to the carriage opened up. "Holy...she must be as big as Hagrid...no, even bigger."
The person he was referring to was the Headmistress of Beauxbatons, Madame Maxime. Dressed in all black, and having high heels the size of one's head, her appearance alone sparked another wave of discussion amongst the students.
Dumbledore started clapping, signaling the others to follow in suit. Madame Maxime's stern face morphed into smile as she greeted Dumbledore who kissed her extended hand, not needing to bend down to do so.
"Madame Maxime, how wonderful it is to see you again," Dumbledore greeted. "Welcome to Hogwarts."
"Dumbly-dore, I 'ope I find you well?" Although her English was somewhat broken, her voice both clear and deep.
As the two conversed, Vincent chose to pay attention to the student's coming out of the carriage. Their dress code which consisted of pale blue robes, seemed to be made of fine silk. A few had scarfs and shawls around their heads to keep warm.
"It seems the rumors of them being rather good looking isn't too far off," Vincent noted, thinking of some of the rumors he heard. "Some of them seem cold, their clothing doesn't seem to be well insulated for this weather."
Dumbledore also seemed to have noticed this fact as he invited the Beauxbatons into the castle to warm themselves, mentioning that Hagrid will look after the horses.
"Those horses' kind of look like Abraxan's, what do you think, Hermione?" Vincent asked his friend from the side, leaning on her fountain of knowledge.
"Their descriptions match what I've read on them," Hermione answered, glancing at Vincent from the side. "You know about Abraxan's Vince?"
"I only know about them by chance from researching Patronuses. Amongst Corporeal types, it's listed as one of the rarer forms a Patronus can take," Vincent answered. "On that note, the last known user of one happened to be a student of Hogwarts that was here not so long ago. Can't recall the name though."
"Oh yeah, you were looking into them last year," Harry turned to Vincent. "Something about how Patronus' work, how did that go?"
"Only that the potential of them remains somewhat unexplored," Vincent shrugged. "I really didn't come up with anything new other than the fact that Dumbledore created its use for communication. The Patronus is still somewhat of an unknown in the Wizarding world from what I can tell."
"I can't believe you guys can talk about research and whatnot at a time like this," Ron remarked dryly. "Enough about Patronus' and such, how do you guys think the Durmstrangs will arrive?"
"If it's by sky, they might do the same and have some creatures pull a carriage," Vincent responded, glancing at the lake. "If it's by water, then a boat maybe? And if it's by land...a train?"
Ron snorted. "A train? Like the one we take to Hogwarts? It only goes one of two ways."
"With magic, it's not impossible right?" Vincent countered, pausing as he turned to Ron. "Although on that note, they could enchant it like your dad did the car, in which case they can just fly that here."
Harry and Ron both groaned at the memory.
"Don't remind us."
As the boys seemed to trap themselves in memories best forgotten, Arnya, with her incredible eyesight, was the first to notice something moving in the water.
"They're here."
Right on cue, something dark rose up out of the water, causing great waves to wash over the muddy banks of the Black Lake. It was a ship, one that looked more wrecked then together, a stark contrast to the graceful mode of transport the Beauxbatons arrived in.
"It almost seems like a ghost ship from those old sailor stories," Hermione remarked. "Oh, look, people are getting off now."
All of them watched as the people disembarking made their way towards the castle's entrance. As they neared, the light of the entrance gave way to their appearance. Unlike the Beauxbatons who were dressed in thin clothing, the Durmstrangs all had thick fur coats, making their figure far larger than they seemed. Vincent could make out some mutterings under a language he that sounded strangely familiar.
"What language are they speaking?" he heard someone ask.
"Russian?"
"No, you dimwit, Bulgarian."
"How the hell was I supposed to know? They sound the same!"
"Right, I heard Crouch also spoke a bit of that too," Vincent muttered.
"What was that, Vince?" Hermione asked.
Before he could answer or wave the question off, a large gasp was heard, followed by a short burst of silence, one that lasted for a good second before even more noise was made by the surrounding students, especially the one's up front. Vincent could see someone speaking to Dumbledore, someone he presumed to be the Headmaster of Durmstrang, Igor Kakaroff.
The man was tall and thin, much like Dumbledore if not a bit younger going by what color was left in his hair, the rest whiting out. He looked cheerful, but the smile he had wasn't quite reaching his eyes.
He didn't seem to be the source of the excitement however, but the student he had at his side was another story. A boy who looked far older than he seemed, with thick brows and a prominent curved nose. Vincent thought he looked familiar, but before he could place a name to the face Ron beat him to it.
He snapped his head towards them, his face as red as his hair with obvious excitement. "It's Krum! Victor Crum is here!"
...
Vincent could hear the murmurs and chatters from all around him, full of envy and disbelief. He could feel their jealous gazes, with one particularly hard one being from a certain Slytherin boy starring daggers at the back of his head. Ron looked ready to explode from sheer excitement, Harry looked nervous, and Hermione looked somewhat annoyed by the whole situation. Contrary to what one might believe, Vincent wasn't one to appreciate being in the spotlight, no, he'd leave that to Harry. Which was why he couldn't help but sigh as he glanced at the cause of his headache, the boy sitting next to him, looking at him with such interest.
"You're the boy who fought off those Death Eaters?" Asked the boy with a thick accent.
Viktor Krum, Star Quidditch Player, for whatever reason decided to sit next to them at their table, his fellow schoolmates following in suit, sparking several conversations across the table, from both Gryffindor's trying to make a good impression, and a few of the more sociable Durmstrang members.
Vincent glanced back to see the Ravenclaw table hosting the Beauxbatons in a similar fashion, he grinned seeing a certain Luna Lovegood having a pleasant conversation with one of them.
"Vincent Wong, you can call me Vince," Vincent answered back, shaking Krum's outstretched hand. "And you're Viktor Krum, the Quidditch player, right? It's a pleasure to meet you. I wasn't aware that I was seen by someone with such renown."
"Please, call me Viktor, and yes, indeed, I vas impressed with your actions back 'ven, I was one of 've first wizards that arrived on 've scene," Krum praised, "How you dealt with 'vose criminals and saved 'vose Muggles vas nothing short of amazing! Tell me, how do you move like that? 'Vat spell do you use? And 'vat ice, I have never seen anyone use spells like 'vat."
"I'm a Muggle," Vincent gave no note towards the silence that followed his statement. "That bit of magic you saw me do, it's something I made. The physical traits, that's something else..."
"Is mass drinking potions the equivalent of being a junkie in the Magical world?" Vincent couldn't help but wince in mind at the thought, finding the thought somewhat hypocritical and ironic, considering what he does back home in London beating up dealers. "Probably won't hurt having others know, but it doesn't seem like something I should be boasting about."
Krum, and a few of his schoolmates who heard him, stared at him in shocked silence. His recent talk with Dumbledore still fresh in his mind, and the knowledge that Durmstrang leant towards purebloods, Vincent was half expecting some insults to fly his way. So, imagine his surprise when Krum leaned forward excitingly.
"So, you're 've Muggle vat was rumored to be here," Krum asked, his eyes filled with...admiration?
"You've heard of me?"
"Ov course! I 'ave 'eard you're particularly good at potion making, some call you mad!"
Krum's already heavy accent became even more apparent as his excitement grew.
Vincent could only rub his brow at the claim. "Well...rumors...tend to be a little exaggerated..."
"I 'ave 'eard you made a beetle into a dragon!"
"Well, yes, but only by accident—"
"I 'eard you created over a thousand potions!"
"If you're counting anything that blew up, yes..."
"You killed a basilisk!"
"After getting beat into a pulp—"
"'and you 'vere 've the one responsible for the release of Sirius Black, proving his innocence were you not?"
"...how in the bloody blazes did you get that information?"
Vincent was having a migraine, his mind was already stuffed to the brim with thoughts, thoughts that made him lose sleep over, he did not need this constant barrage of questions right now.
The worst part about all this? Krum didn't mean any ill harm. If he did, then he hid it well, extraordinarily well.
However, Vincent wasn't one to spit in the face of someone showing goodwill, no matter how exhausted he was. So, he answered each and every question to the best of his ability, without spilling too much of course. No one needed to know about Ginny Weasley's possession, Hermione's time turner, or Buckbeak's great escape.
One would have thought that Krum would catch on or be annoyed at the lack of some critical information, but he continued to surprise Vincent, being understanding that there were things that simply couldn't be said. Vincent reasoned that he was used to holding back information from the public eye due to his position as a celebrity in the Wizarding World.
"If only he could read the room a bit more," thought Vincent.
As Krum continued to bombard Vincent with questions, Harry and Hermione exchanged odd glances.
"What's happening?" Harry asked.
"I think Vincent found himself a fan, a rather famous one might I add," Hermione answered with some amusement. "Speaking of fans..."
"Where's my quill, where's my bloody quill?" Ron was frantically patting himself all over, hoping that by doing so one would (ironically) magically appear on his person.
"Just transfigure one," Hermione suggested.
"It won't last!"
"Oh, look, Dumbledore is about to speak," Vincent said in hopes of averting Krum's attention.
Thankfully, that tactic seemed to work as Krum and the surrounding students turned to the podium, but not before Vincent caught a slight glare from one of the Durmstrang boys.
"Seems like not everyone is as accepting of Muggles like Krum is," Vincent filed away that thought as he looked towards the teacher's table. "Extra chairs, I wonder who they're for."
Dumbledore was coming to the end of his greeting speech towards the guest schools. "The tournament will be officially opened at the end of the feast, I now invite you all to eat, drink, and make yourselves at home!"
With that, the feast began, and delicious dishes started appearing on the tables. The Durmstrang students, having shed their fur coats, appeared intrigued by the gleaming cutlery and the careful presentation of the food. Many of them paused to watch the Hogwarts students as they scooped up servings for themselves, before following in suit.
Vincent felt uneasy at the thought of Krum striking up a conversation while they ate, but it soon became apparent that the boy was one to savor his food in silence.
Vincent gave a sigh of relief as he started helping himself to some food. "Thank goodness for that..."
The rest of the feast was alive with sound, from clinking of cutlery to the lively conversations. At the Gryffindor table, a multitude of students made an effort to converse with the newcomers, with some finding success, while others had difficulty in breaking the ice.
At that moment, a voice said, "Excuse me, are you wanting ze bouillabaisse?"
It was a girl from Beauxbatons. A long sheet of silvery-blonde hair fell almost to her waist. She had large, deep blue eyes, and clean white teeth.
Vincent felt his heart notably race the moment he laid eyes on her and forcibly ripped his gaze away, causing him to miss her raising a brow at his actions.
"No, you can take it if you want, if you want more all you need to do is ask, one of the House Elves should hear your request," Vincent didn't dare look at her face again while speaking to her.
"Iz that zo? Well, thank you," the girl reached over Vincent to collect the food, brushing her arm against his shoulder.
"She did that on purpose didn't she?" Vincent thought with a grimace. He glanced at her retreating form, noticing that both many other boys had their eyes on her, seemingly entranced. "That feeling, it's very similar to the Veela at the Quidditch match. Just speculating, but it's probably a charm, or something in her blood that's causing this effect."
However, any attempt to pursue those thoughts ground to a halt when he noticed the two new additions to the staff table.
The first was Ludo Bagman, cheerful as ever, as he rambled on and on about something to Professor Kakaroff, who, at a first glance, seemed unusually calm and all smiles. It was only upon closer inspection that the man gripped his knife a little too tightly, and his face kept twitching. Vincent could only imagine how dearly the man wanted to shove the utensil through Bagman's throat.
Vincent's gaze went to the second visitor who took his place next to Madame Maxime. Bartemius Crouch looked as serious as ever, his toothbrush-like mustache neat and his hair parted. However, Vincent noticed a few oddities that left the man feeling different from when he first saw him. For one, the man's gaze didn't seem as sharp as it was previously, looking cloudier and more distant if anything, and the strange twitch his hands did every now and then seemed odd.
"Illness? Injury? Age?" Vincent lost himself in thought as he went over every possible reason for the man's change, no matter how small. The man was one of the sole reasons for his lack of sleep after all, he'd be damned if he missed even the smallest detail.
He became so absorbed in his thoughts that he only snapped out of his daze when dessert was finished, and Dumbledore was midway through his closing remarks.
"—have worked tirelessly over the last few months on the arrangements for the Triwizard Tournament," Dumbledore had just introduced Bagman and Crouch, "and they will be joining myself, Professor Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime on the panel that will judge the champions' efforts. The casket, then, if you please, Mr. Filch."
The caretaker, Filch, now approached Dumbledore with a great, old looking, wooden chest embedded with jewels. His appearance was accompanied by the sound of murmurs in the hall, born from excitement and intrigue.
"The instructions for the tasks the champions will face this year have already been examined by Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman," said Dumbledore as Filch placed the chest carefully on the table before him, "and they have made the necessary arrangements for each challenge. There will be three tasks, spaced throughout the school year, and they will test the champions in many different ways . . . their magical prowess — their daring — their powers of deduction — and, of course, their ability to cope with danger."
At this last word, the Hall was filled with a silence so absolute that nobody seemed to be breathing.
"As you know, three champions compete in the tournament," Dumbledore went on calmly, "one from each of the participating schools. They will be marked on how well they perform each of the Tournament tasks and the champion with the highest total after task three will win the Triwizard Cup. The champions will be chosen by an impartial selector: the Goblet of Fire."
With that, Dumbledore pulled from the casket a large wooden cup, full to the brim with whitish-blue flames. He placed the cup carefully on the casket for all to see.
"Anybody wishing to submit themselves as champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment and drop it into the goblet," said Dumbledore. "Aspiring champions have twenty-four hours in which to put their names forward. Tomorrow night, Halloween, the goblet will return the names of the three it has judged most worthy to represent their schools. The goblet will be placed in the entrance hall tonight, where it will be freely accessible to all those wishing to compete.
"To ensure that no underage student yields to temptation, I will be drawing an Age Line around the Goblet of Fire once it has been placed in the entrance hall. Nobody under the age of seventeen will be able to cross this line."
"Finally, I wish to impress upon any of you wishing to compete that this tournament is not to be entered into lightly. Once a champion has been selected by the Goblet of Fire, he or she is obliged to see the tournament through to the end. The placing of your name in the goblet constitutes a binding, magical contract. There can be no change of heart once you have become a champion. Please be very sure, therefore, that you are wholeheartedly prepared to play before you drop your name into the goblet. Now, I think it is time for bed. Good night to you all."
...
{{GORE WARNING - involves mutilation and body modification - if uncomfortable with such subjects, then please skip when the warning comes up - Will note when it starts and ends}}
That night, under the cover of darkness, a figure moved as silently as possible. Most of the paintings had fallen asleep, and those that were awake remained none the wiser as the figure slipped by beneath an old cloak of invisibility—worn from years of use. One could almost make it out with the naked eye, and in certain lighting, it was impossible to use. Yet, it served its purpose well under the cover of night.
Shuffling as fast as they could, they paused just before the Great Hall. The figure's one good eye narrowed as they stared at something beyond the large doorway. He took a swig from the flask he always kept at his side before opening the doors.
With a practiced flick of the wrist, his wand appeared in his one good hand, free from the staff that his other used to help stable his unsteady steps as he made his way towards the elevated stand at the end of the Great Hall.
The large door's closed silently behind him as the man scanned the room. Believing there to be no one, he finally began muttering—no, chanting.
"Cave inimicum, Silencio, remove the stench of my being, Sin Odor, remove the prints of my feet, Sin Pedib," The man threw spell after spell with every step he took. He set each spell to activate after he had left this room.
The intent? To remove any trace of him being there no matter how small. He considered it somewhat lucky that the only security he encountered on his way was a Squib and a cat. He sneered as he inched closer to the Goblet of Fire. Even should he be caught, all he would need to do was play the part of the paranoid 'Madman' that people knew his current moniker for. He already planned several excuses should it come to that, although looking at the situation now, it may not even be needed.
Dumbledore was far too trusting, letting him wander like this. He had spent months planning and observing the man known as Mad-Eye, all so he could impersonate him down to his very habits. It was a long and grueling process, and there were times when he needed to Imperise the man himself for some of the more personal details, something that he thoroughly despised doing.
It brought back bad memories. Memories of feeling powerless, helpless, and forced to do things against his will. But if it meant that he could help his master, he would do it all without complaint.
For he could rest assured that he was the most loyal of them all, even above that b**** Lestrange.
As he thought of the Imperio curse, a frown couldn't help but make it onto his face. There was a boy, a Muggle boy no less, that the curse didn't seem to make an effect on. He remembered the feeling of rage that overcame him, trying over and over again to cast the same spell, only for the boy barely take much notice of it.
He refused to acknowledge that some Muggle had a stronger mind than he. Those long years imprisoned within the shell he called his body, that suffering, that anger, and his loyalty towards the Dark Lord gave him strength, strength that barely enabled him to break free of those very shackles.
And this boy just manages to shrug it off? The humiliation he felt was beyond incomprehension; all the effort he spent in building his mask was nearly thrown away in his fit of rage. It took all the power he had in him to barely hold it together.
Yet, a part of him was curious, and so he took a peek, deep into the boy's mind...
...and what he found was hell.
{{MAJOR GORE WARNING}}
There were no other words to describe it, for if hell really existed, that would be it.
It was dark, stuffy, and the smell of decay pervaded the air of the room that the man found himself in. The small light from the torches that flickered about showed a crowd. There were men, there were women, and there were children. Whether they were dead was up for debate, but there was an undeniable truth to them all...
...none of them could be classified as alive.
Some had hands for feet, and feet for hands.
Some had one eye, while others had none.
Some had half a head, and some had two.
There were some in the process of cutting up bodies, and others that were in the process reattaching them through stitches and staplers, creating what resembled a human, but not quite.
What really chilled the man to the bone were the sounds. The sound of bones breaking as they walked, the sounds of moans and screams that came from each and every head. The worst was the sounds he did recognize.
"Mama? Are you there?"
"I'm hungry."
"—I—Love, you my dear—"
"H-h-help-me-"
"Honey? Why did you stop moving?"
Some were whispered. Some were screamed. Some were broken and glitching, skipping like damaged recordings. Some came from mouths on bodies. Others from nowhere — from the walls, from the air, from inside his own skull.
{{MAJOR GORE WARNING END}}
Hundreds of voices. Layered over each other like a chorus of the damned. None repeating. None overlapping. All watching.
And within this hell, a boy existed within it all, a boy with not a single sign of blemish or injury. An oddity amongst the crowd of deformities, walking with a box, one that leaked red and stuffed with objects with hair—
The boy halted mid-turn, his head twitching unnaturally before his vacant eyes snapped onto the man — too precise, too knowing. It was as if he'd been blind until that moment and now saw only him. The box in his hands slipped to the ground with a dull, lifeless thud. Then he began to walk.
With each step, the voices returned — not just louder, but wrong. Whispered fragments, gibbering syllables twisted into cruel laughter, roared all around, inside the man's skull. It was more than deafening. It was invasive.
The boy grew taller with each footfall, limbs stretching just slightly beyond natural, shadow crawling over his frame like a living thing. It was only when the man tried to move that he realized — he couldn't. His knees had buckled without his knowing, the cold floor biting into him, paralyzed and trembling.
Now towering above him, the boy loomed — his golden eyes not glowing, but burning faintly from within, like coals smoldering beneath ash. He didn't blink. He didn't breathe. He just stared.
The man wanted to scream. To shout. But his voice betrayed him — silence filled his throat.
Then the boy spoke.
"You don't belong here."
With those words, the man ejected himself from the boy's mind. As he looked at the boy standing before him, anger surged again through his veins. Anger at the state the boy had left him in. In that fury, he may have muttered a few words — not those of Mad-Eye, but of the man known as Barty Crouch. Realizing his mistake, he hastened to retreat to his office to regain control.
"Those bodies, only that man could have possibly done that," he muttered under his breath. "To think, I encountered a trace of him here. Funny how fate works."
He forced his mind back to the present, fixing his gaze on the Goblet of Fire, its bluish-white flames burning fiercely.
No—he couldn't afford distractions now. There was a job to be done. Stepping across the age line drawn by Dumbledore, he withdrew a small parchment.
"With this, the Dark Lord's return to power will be sealed," he murmured, a sinister grin splitting his twisted, deformed face. He had no need for pretenses at this moment. "With this, a new age will come. With this—"
Something broke through his wards. Had the man not ducked instinctively in response, something heavy would have smashed into the back of his skull. As it happens, that something ended up missing him by mere millimeters. He had no time to react as his invisibility cloak was suddenly torn away by the object—an iron rod that swiftly returned from whence it came.
"Professor, I didn't know you wanted to enter the tournament."
The man drew his wand and swiftly aimed it toward the source of the voice in one smooth motion.
There he locked eyes with gold. The man tightened his grip on his wand as cold sweat appeared on his brow.
"Vincent Wong," Mad-Eye regained his composure, wand still trained on the boy. "You should know better than to sneak up on someone like that. I could have hexed you dear boy."
Vincent, dressed in black, made his way towards the podium, dragging his newly enlarged iron rod across the one of the Great Hall tables. After the upgrade, his two iron rods were now about the length of his arm. The weight was a bit on the heavy side, but Vincent's strength proved that to be of little consequence. The only issue was that using them on the average man now would likely prove fatal, but that's something Vincent could worry about later.
Mad-Eye slowly backed off, his one good eye darting towards the Goblet of Fire getting further away. He couldn't help cursing under his breath, he had not yet made any alteration to the Goblet, throwing in the parchment now would hold no meaning. Were he to do it anyway, he would have no choice but to leave it up to luck for the Goblet to choose a name.
"Not going to throw it in Professor?" Vincent questioned, taking note of the parchment in Mad-Eye's hand. "Or are you telling me that's not your name that you're holding there? Well, it's not like there was ever a rule about asking someone older to put your name in."
Mad-Eye didn't answer, he was in the midst of checking all his wards that he placed down, only to find that several of them had 'holes'. He didn't know how the boy snuck up on him either, his magic eye was trained on the entrance of the Hall the whole time.
Too many unknowns, and trapped in enemy territory, 'Mad-Eye's only real option was to talk things out, but even that was looking to be a dead end.
"Tell me, did you hear what happened at the Quidditch World Cup. Ireland wins but Krum gets the snitch, Death Eaters roaming about bullying Muggles, and a Dark Mark that was conjured by a mysterious fellow, who used a wand that ended up with a House Elf that got sacked."
'Mad-Eye's' one good eye narrowed at Vincent's retelling of past events, events that he knew all too well. "I'm afraid I'm not following... What are you trying to say, Wong?"
"Did you know that the House Elf belonged to one Bartemius Crouch?" Vincent continued on without care as continued walking. "Strange man, sacking his House Elf just because she got ahold of a wand? That seems far too drastic of an action even for a man with a reputation of being a stickler for the rules."
"...I don't see how any of this has to do with me."
Vincent halted as he stepped onto the same ground as Mad-Eye, his gaze locking onto the wand still trained on him. He let out a slow, measured sigh.
"I guess subtlety isn't going to get us anywhere," Vincent scratched his head before locking eyes with 'Mad-Eye'. "The jig is up Professor...or should I call you Bartimus Crouch?"
"AVADA KEVADRA!" 'Mad-Eye's' immediate response as green light flashed out of his wand, striking the ground where Vincent had once been.
Vincent's rod smashed through 'Mad-Eye's' body, only for it to part in a cloud of black smoke and appear several meters away, unharmed.
"Of course this isn't going to be easy," Vincent groaned in annoyance.
With a swift motion, he unsheathed his second rod and surged toward Mad-Eye—no, Barty, as the man held his wand high in fierce defiance.