Dumbledore stared down at the unlit Goblet on his desk, his gaze fixed on a faint smear of red at its corner. The murmur of voices around him faded beneath the weight of his thoughts.
"I can't believe we're still continuing this Tournament," McGonagall said sharply.
"Minerva, my dear, as the Headmaster stated, the Goblet institutes a binding magical contract," Flitwick replied. "Breaking it could have... unforeseen consequences."
"I do apologize," Professor Sprout interjected, "but what are the 'consequences' of breaking such a contract? I don't recall them ever being mentioned."
"It depends on what the Entity within the cup chooses to claim," Dumbledore said, his calm voice cutting through the murmurs and stilling the room. "It may demand something as trivial as a limb... or as ruinous as the very ability to wield magic. That is the bargain of those who dare its trials. At least, that was its toll while dormant. Now that it has awakened—even briefly—who can say what price it will exact?"
A heavy pall settled over the staff.
Entity. A word known only to experienced witches and wizards—a title given to beings of power far beyond mortal magic. Elements, concepts, emotions—an Entity is the personification of such forces, condensed into a conscious form. Their existence is exceedingly rare; each time one is discovered, the Ministry moves to destroy or seal it before it grows beyond control. No one knows precisely what conditions birth an Entity—it seems almost random—but every one of them is made of potent magic, and meddling with them carelessly can have catastrophic consequences.
Snape's eyes narrowed. "You did not think such a thing too dangerous for the students involved?"
"...While various Ministry departments pushed for the Tournament to be conducted through traditional means," Dumbledore sighed, "I admit my fault in not investigating the Goblet's origins before agreeing to host the event."
"You are not to blame for this, Albus," McGonagall said firmly, though the Headmaster's expression showed he disagreed.
"Why would anyone even make such a thing, let alone use it?" Bathsheda Babbling, the Ancient Runes professor, demanded. "It's preposterous."
"You'd be surprised," Dumbledore said, his chuckle devoid of humour. "The Goblet serves another purpose, one the Ministry has hidden very well. Even I had to pull more than a few strings to learn it."
"Well? What else does it do?" Madam Pomfrey asked.
"The Goblet is bound by vow to the Triwizard Tournament; it cannot be wielded for any other purpose," Dumbledore said evenly. "But when a Champion prevails... their command of magic changes. Spells that once strained them become second nature. Charms that faltered after minutes endure for hours. Even the most intricate enchantments draw within their grasp."
His gaze drifted across the silent chamber, sharp and unyielding.
"What you suspect is true. The Goblet hastens what would otherwise take years. Most witches and wizards grow into their magic slowly—through study, discipline, and the long conditioning of mind, body, and spirit. The Goblet, however, quickens that maturation, forcing one's gift into its prime long before its time. That is why, even with the dangers it courts, the Tournament has endured: to forge talent into something greater, something extraordinary."
Silence fell, heavy and incredulous.
An object of such abilities was not unheard of—potions, relics, and artifacts of similar effect littered magical history. The Philosopher's Stone, for instance, was one of the most coveted creations ever made, granting life extension to any who possessed it.
But the Goblet of Fire? Something paraded before the public for centuries, its true nature going unspoken? The notion felt absurd.
"It was one of the reasons the Tournament was halted," Dumbledore went on, answering their unspoken disbelief. "The Ministry feared that such drastic change would corrupt its wielder. History lent weight to that fear, more than a few champions went on to become dark wizards. Ultimately, it was proven untrue, but still, the Goblet was locked away in the Department of Mysteries for study... until now, when the Tournament was revived. I was informed that the Goblet had remained in a dormant state, subconsciously selecting champions up to this point, which is why it could be easily influenced by outside forces up to its awakening."
Snape unfolded his arms, brows drawn in suspicion. "I take it the Entity is what grants this... maturation of power? And I assume there was a reason no one simply staged an easy mock Tournament to claim it?"
"You assume correctly," Dumbledore said, inclining his head. "The Goblet, alongside it's now existing tether to the Tournament, demands a trial by fire. Anything less than a mortal risk will not be recognised as valid. The Champions remain bound by oath until a worthy task is completed."
Worthy, by whose judgment?
The answer was as insidious as it was simple: public perception.
It is not the Goblet's own mind that weighs the danger, but the will of the crowd—its magic is tied to the shared belief of the wizarding world. If the majority believe the trial to be perilous, the Goblet's enchantments accept it as such. This is not illusion or trickery, but the nature of certain ancient magics: belief itself becomes law, forming a conceptual anchor that shapes the spell's reality.
So long as the world holds its breath and whispers of the Champions' mortal peril, the Goblet will grant its blessing. Anything less, and its magic will refuse to yield, leaving the binding that ties them to the Tournament unfulfilled, no matter how many false dangers one might stage.
And should the Tournament reach the end of the one year it is given without any conclusion, the Champions would have to face the consequences of what they would otherwise have faced if they refused to participate.
And all of this was made possible by what lay dormant within the Goblet, The Entity.
"What of the boy, Vincent Wong?" Snape asked, his tone clipped. "I don't suppose he'll be affected too much should he win?"
"The Goblet cannot grant or alter what does not exist," Dumbledore replied evenly. "Its gift is the deepening of one's magical craft. Vincent Wong, being a Muggle, possesses no such potential. In truth, I would say he is the safest of all the Champions. Win or lose, the Entity cannot touch him. With no magic to manipulate, the Goblet has nothing to reward, nor any hold upon him."
"And yet," Snape pressed, eyes narrowing, "the boy still intends to compete?"
Dumbledore's gaze softened. "...I told him as much myself. But as long as Harry Potter's life is at risk, Vincent Wong will not back out. You, of all people, should know the kind of stubborn loyalty I speak of."
Snape's expression hardened. He leaned forward, voice low and cutting. "You seem remarkably well-informed for someone who claimed ignorance of the Goblet only days ago. How is it, Headmaster, that you have come by such knowledge? It is not as though the Department of Mysteries would share it. The Unspeakables are not known for their loose tongues."
The atmosphere in the room shifted. The other professors might as well have vanished; the air seemed to hold only Dumbledore and Snape, locked in quiet battle.
Dumbledore met the man's accusing stare without flinching. "Your suspicion is well placed, Severus. Under ordinary circumstances, I would never have gained such insight. But in my search for answers, I found myself guided to... an unlikely source."
His gaze slid deliberately past Snape, drawing the eyes of the entire room to a battered, ancient hat resting upon its shelf.
"The Sorting Hat?" Flitwick breathed, startled. "But... why? How could it know these things?"
Dumbledore inclined his head. "...You've all heard the tale, that the Goblet of Fire was crafted in the fifteenth century, forged as a tool to judge worthiness and bind Champions to their oaths. That story is... not untrue, but incomplete. In truth, it was only repurposed during that age, refined for the Tournament's use. The Goblet itself is far older. Older, and tied to the Founders themselves."
"To explain the Goblet's true origin," Dumbledore said, "we must look not to the Ministry's archives, but to the very beginnings of Hogwarts itself. To the Founders."
"You know the legend: four great witches and wizards—Gryffindor, Slytherin, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw—wishing to sort students long after their deaths, pooled their arts to enchant a hat. What most don't know, however, is that the Hat was only one among several creations made for the role of selection. Each Founder left behind a vessel of their craft. Gryffindor offered his Hat. Hufflepuff forged a Lantern, said to burn eternally with her enduring light. Ravenclaw shaped a Mirror, one that reflected not the face, but the mind and spirit. And Slytherin..."
"...Slytherin forged the Goblet," Dumbledore continued. "Into its flames he bound an Entity—one that promised power to those who braved its trials. His original intent was not competition between schools, but something far more radical: to give every student who entered Hogwarts the chance to temper themselves through fire, to risk all for the blessing of the Entity, and thereby mature their magic to heights otherwise unreachable. A dangerous vision... one even Slytherin admitted, in the end, was far too much to demand of children."
A few professors shifted uneasily, but none spoke.
"So," Dumbledore went on, "when the Founders deliberated on how to sort their students, the Goblet was set aside. Its gift carried too heavy a cost. Instead, they chose the safer, gentler path—the Sorting Hat, whose enchantments were received with trust, not fear. And thus the Goblet remained sealed away, until centuries later, when it was repurposed for the Triwizard Tournament."
here was a short silence as each professor took time to digest Dumbledore's revelation.
"Now," the Headmaster suddenly said, his smile returning as though his earlier gravitas had been nothing but a passing mood, "enough of heavy talk. That is not why I called you here. The first task... it would seem I am to plan it. Any suggestions?"
Every pair of eyes fixed on him in disbelief.
"You... you haven't planned it yet?" McGonagall stammered.
"...I may have neglected it in light of recent events," Dumbledore admitted, scratching his cheek in mild embarrassment.
The dam burst. McGonagall launched into a furious tirade, her pent-up stress spilling forth with the force of a raging torrent. Dumbledore shrank in his chair like a schoolboy caught misbehaving.
Around the table, the other professors exchanged looks.
Aurora Sinistra pinched the bridge of her nose. "I wonder if those boys will even be all right. One is a Muggle, the other only a fourth-year. They're up against students that have far more experience. I don't see much hope for them, especially without Wong's potions. I doubt that new wand of his will make the difference."
A soft scoff cut through her words.
The staff turned toward Snape.
"Something you'd like to share, Severus?" Flitwick asked mildly. "Don't tell me you're... concerned?"
"Hardly," Snape snapped. "I am more concerned with the mess those boys will make. As for their survival... they are in rather capable hands."
"You mean Nott?" said Professor Charity Burbage, brow raised. "His marks are above average, certainly, but hardly extraordinary."
"I must agree with Severus on this," Dumbledore interjected smoothly—taking the opening as a convenient shield from McGonagall's scolding. "Grades alone are not the measure of a wizard. If they were, Cedric Diggory would stand among the Champions. No... Nicholas Nott possesses something far rarer."
McGonagall paused, curiosity breaking through her sternness. "And what, pray tell, does Nott have that Diggory does not?"
Dumbledore chuckled, his gaze falling on a parchment lying among his papers. Lines of precise, heavily annotated script sprawled across the page, footnotes and corrections spilling into the margins as though the boy had been wrestling with the very foundation of what he had been taught.
"That boy," Dumbledore said at last, "understands magic itself, at a depth I have not seen in a student for many, many years."
...
"Any idea what Nott wants?" Harry asked Vincent as they made their way toward the empty Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom in the dim, pre-dawn chill. The corridors were hushed; not even the first light of sunrise had broken through the castle windows.
Vincent only shrugged. "Maybe he wants to discuss tactics with his soon-to-be teammates. Who knows."
The careless motion didn't ease Harry's nerves. The shock of being thrust into the Tournament had dulled over the past few days, replaced by something heavier, sharper. A new thought gnawed at him, one he didn't want to say aloud: he was going to be partnered with a Slytherin.
Harry's whole life at Hogwarts had painted the house in shades of suspicion and cruelty, thanks in no small part to Malfoy and Snape. He had no good memories tied to Slytherins, no trust to draw on, and the idea of relying on one now set his teeth on edge. He knew it was prejudice, but it wasn't something he could just shake off. Slytherin's reputation wasn't baseless—it had been earned, and not easily undone.
Still, a part of him found comfort in the company walking at his side. I'm glad Vince is here, Harry admitted to himself. Facing the Tournament alone... I'm not sure how well I could do.
That thought brought with it something worse than fear—guilt. Vincent had risked himself time and time again, far more than anyone had the right to ask. Ginny's life in the Chamber of Secrets, Pettigrew's capture, Sirius's freedom—those triumphs bore Vincent's hand as much as Harry's, perhaps more. Without Vincent, Harry doubted any of those victories would have been possible.
Because of that, Harry had something he had never dreamed of: a real home. No Dursleys, no cupboard under the stairs, only once ever so often he would need to see them, but that no longer bothered him. He had Sirius now, someone who wanted him, someone who cared. His chest warmed at the thought, but guilt coiled around it like a snake.
Harry was the wizard. He was supposed to be the one protecting his friends, not dragging them into danger. And yet, every time, it was only because someone else stepped in that they'd made it through.
The Philosopher's Stone? Without Hermione's brains and Ron's sacrifice, he'd never have reached Voldemort. His mother's protection was the only reason he'd survived at all.
Tom Riddle? Vincent had acted first, and Ron had nearly died holding the line, while Harry barely kept pace.
The Patronus? Yes, that was his triumph. But even then, he'd only been given the chance because of Hermione's time-turner.
Sirius? Pettigrew? Vincent had tracked the rat alone, captured him, and after a brutal fight with a werewolf-turned-Lupin, managed to drag Pettigrew back to prove Sirius' innocence. Harry had been left reacting, again and again.
He tried to tell himself it was foolish to think this way. But the voice in his chest slithered on, cold and mocking.
This is the Boy Who Lived? Pathetic. You survive because others bleed for you. Granger eclipses you in wit. Weasley, the bumbling, loyal fool, would throw his life away without hesitation if it were for you. And Wong? Wong outstrips you without even touching a wand. Tell me, Potter... what have you given for them? What are you, without them?
The words burrowed deep, leaving only silence in their wake as Harry clenched his fists.
"—to think the Goblet was made by Slytherin, who would have thought? It might just be me, but a lot of the issues in the wizarding world seem to trace back to this guy in some way or form. What do you think Harry—you alright?"
Harry shook himself free from his thoughts, noticing Vincent staring at him worriedly.
"Sorry, you were talking about the Goblet's history, right?"
"...I know you don't like it being brought up, but you know you can count on me if something's bothering you right?" Vincent asked hesitantly.
The two boys locked eyes for a moment, with Harry being the first to break off. "Yeah, I know. Let's just get this over with. Nott's waiting."
Vincent stared silently at the back of his friend, taking a deep breath before following after.
...
"You're actually on time. I might have to revise my opinion of you, Potter. Though I suppose Quidditch drills have beaten some discipline into you."
Harry's expression made no secret of his distaste. I don't like him, it read plain as day.
"If you expected us to arrive late, why ask us to come at this hour?" he shot back.
"Low expectations often lead to being pleasantly surprised when they're exceeded." Nicholas's tone was light, dismissive. If he noticed Harry's twitching brows, he ignored them. "I don't know your habits, beliefs, or character. Rumours are all I have. So, for now? I expect nothing."
Vincent sighed under his breath. "So much for first impressions..."
Nicholas's gaze shifted to him, a brief nod of acknowledgment before he spoke again.
"I've already heard some of your circumstances from the Headmaster."
The flash of surprise that passed over Harry and Vincent's faces amused him, but he pressed on.
"Mad-Eye being Barty Crouch Jr. in disguise. That he'd try to deliver Potter to whatever's left of the Dark Lord through this Tournament."
His eyes flicked toward Vincent. "And of course, Wong being a King's Candidate. No wonder that girl Arnya is hanging around. No surprise there."
"You know about that too?" Vincent asked, startled.
Nicholas didn't answer directly. Instead, he muttered, half to himself, half aloud:
"Since Dracula's involved, that means he's working with the Dark Lord... but why? No one buys that the girl placed the blood in, even if she's the most obvious suspect. Unless I find evidence otherwise, I'll have to rule her out. That leaves... another student? A teacher? Someone else in disguise. Can't dismiss my own housemates either—"
He cut himself off with a cough, realizing both boys were staring at him. "Ah. My bad. Tangent. Anyway, that's all Dumbledore shared with me. Nothing too personal, so you don't need to worry. I'm sure there's more, but for now, it's not our concern until the Tournament is over."
His eyes swept between the two of them, catching the faint gleam of dawn against the zipper on his robes. He exhaled a weary sigh. "What a bother... seems like we're all stuck in the same boat."
Harry and Vincent exchanged glances.
"Same boat?" Harry asked.
Nicholas waved it off. "I meant that none of us put our names in the Goblet. Yet here we are. Too much hassle, honestly."
That caught both boys off guard, but before either could speak, Nicholas raised a hand.
"Don't think too hard on it. Mine was probably shoved in as a prank by one of my housemates. Definitely not as serious as your situations. If the intent was to annoy me, they succeeded. Bastards."
"...Is that really something one can just wave off?" Vincent thought.
Nicholas clapped his hands together once. "Enough of that. Let's get into why we're here. With Mad-Eye's... situation, Dumbledore asked me to make sure you two don't die out there. Although—"
His gaze lingered on Vincent for a fraction before locking on Harry. "...that applies less to Wong, and more to you, Potter."
Harry bristled. Vincent opened his mouth too, but Nicholas silenced them with another raised hand.
"That wasn't an insult. It's truth. You're only a fourth-year, Potter. The rest of us have years of training and experience ahead of you. Unless you want someone holding your hand through the Tournament, you won't close that gap on guts and feelings alone."
Vincent half-expected Harry to blow up then and there. Instead, Harry drew in a sharp breath, forced it out, and sat back down.
That actually made Nicholas pause. A small, almost appreciative look flickered in his eyes—the first Vincent had seen from him.
"I take it you accept this arrangement?" Nicholas asked.
"...What exactly are you going to teach me?" Harry asked, cautious.
"Enough so that your practical skills are on par with, if not better than, any seventh-year," Nicholas replied evenly. "Not mastery in one field, but breadth. An all-rounder. Skills that can be applied in any situation. Just don't expect to suddenly become brilliant at everything overnight."
Harry said nothing, his brow furrowed in thought. A minute passed before he gave a short nod.
"How do we get started?"
Nicholas's eyes shifted to Vincent, who had been listening in silence. "Wong, I can't say whether what I'll cover will be useful to you, but it doesn't hurt to know. What do you think?"
"As long as Harry's up for it, I don't see why not," Vincent shrugged.
"Good." Nicholas stood, his wand flicking once. The desks and chairs slid aside and stacked themselves neatly against the wall, leaving the classroom bare. "Since the first task is a week away and we've no idea what it will be, versatility is our best weapon."
He gave the two boys a thin smile that looked more like resignation than encouragement.
"That's why we'll start with something simple..."
"...spell creation."
...