— — — — — —
Amid the students' anticipation and restless excitement, Wednesday finally arrived.
Every inch of air in the castle seemed soaked with nervous energy. In the corridors, clusters of young witches and wizards gathered everywhere, whispering among themselves. No matter where you went, the topic was the same: tonight's champion selection.
Early that morning, the Entrance Hall returned to the same crowded chaos as the first day. Most of the people there were trying to register.
Or more accurately, they were testing themselves.
Many of them knew perfectly well they had no real chance of successfully entering their names, yet they kept trying anyway. They had discovered something interesting: the blue boundary line and the pressure from the Goblet of Fire could roughly measure their strength.
The stronger you were, the closer you could get to the Goblet.
Of course, it was only a rough gauge. Plenty of factors affected the final distance. Someone with strong willpower and high tolerance could sometimes force themselves a few steps farther even if their magical ability wasn't impressive.
During the time the Goblet had been displayed in the Entrance Hall, quite a few students had trained repeatedly until they went from failing the barrier to successfully submitting their names.
That included the Weasley twins.
Tom hadn't been around at the time, but Hermione later told him it had caused quite a stir.
George and Fred had come nearly every day, attempting it again and again. Each time they were blasted away in increasingly creative poses. But gradually their resistance to the pressure improved, and by last Friday they had actually succeeded.
Hermione couldn't understand why the two of them were trying so desperately to enter.
Tom, however, knew the reason.
The twins had been tricked by Ludo Bagman.
During the Quidditch World Cup, Bagman had run a betting pool. The brothers had put their entire savings on the line—five hundred Galleons. Their prediction was that Ireland would win, but Krum would catch the Golden Snitch.
The good news: they were right.
The bad news: Ludo Bagman had gone bankrupt. Not only had they never received their winnings, they hadn't even gotten their original stake back.
And developing joke products required money. The little they earned working for Tom wasn't nearly enough, so they had pinned their hopes on the Goblet of Fire.
Tom felt no particular sympathy.
Why sympathize with gamblers?
He hated gambling. He had even refused to open a betting pool during the World Cup itself. If he had, he probably would have made a fortune.
As for the private betting rings happening behind the scenes, he couldn't be bothered to care. The fate of gamblers wasn't his concern.
...
That afternoon, the fourth-year Ancient Runes class welcomed two special visitors.
One was the temporary substitute professor, Headmaster Fontaine of Ilvermorny.
The other was Tom, who had come along with Hermione to sit in on the lesson.
When Fontaine saw Tom, a shadow flickered briefly in his eyes, too fast for anyone else to notice. His face, however, remained perfectly polite.
"Mr. Riddle," he said with a smile, "if I remember correctly, you didn't choose Ancient Runes as an elective. Besides, given your abilities, I doubt anyone alive today is truly qualified to teach you."
"Professor Fontaine is too modest." Tom shook his head calmly. "I heard you were substituting for this class, so I came specifically to listen. I'd like to learn more about Aztec magical script. You wouldn't happen to be the type who keeps knowledge to himself, would you?"
Hidden inside his wide sleeves, Fontaine's hand clenched tightly. For a moment he almost pulled out his wand.
But he restrained himself.
"Of course not," he said. "In that case, today's lesson will cover Aztec magical script. It's quite different from the runic systems most people are familiar with…"
Fontaine quickly composed himself and began explaining the fundamentals of Aztec magical writing in a smooth, confident tone.
Tom didn't interrupt.
He listened seriously, even taking notes for once, which was rare for him.
Near the end of the class, Fontaine lifted his teacup for a sip of water and noticed Tom had raised his hand.
"Mr. Riddle, do you have a question?"
Tom said nothing.
Instead, he opened his right hand. Several faint golden runes formed in midair, shimmering like ghostly projections as they floated above the classroom.
"Professor Fontaine," Tom asked calmly, "what do these runes mean?"
As he spoke, a strange light appeared in his eyes. His dark pupils shimmered as if covered by a thin silver veil. Several girls staring at those beautiful eyes became momentarily dazed, their hearts twisting with envy.
Greengrass really had it really good…
Fontaine, however, had no attention to spare for Tom's looks.
Unlike the lovestruck girls, he understood exactly what Tom had just done.
The ancient rune that had flashed briefly carried only one meaning... Truth.
In other words, Tom had just used a lie-detection spell on him.
The shamelessness of the move left Fontaine completely cornered.
If he claimed he didn't know the runes, or deliberately twisted their meanings, Tom would expose him instantly. Word that he had been hiding knowledge in class would spread across the wizarding schools, dealing a serious blow to Ilvermorny's reputation.
But if he explained them honestly… wasn't that helping the enemy?
Fontaine hesitated for a few seconds before finally giving in.
Helping the enemy it is, then. They were incomplete fragments of runic combinations anyway. Explaining a few wouldn't ruin anything.
"Mr. Riddle," Fontaine said with forced calm, "you certainly know how to choose your questions. These combinations belong to the most advanced tier of Aztec magical script."
After a brief, frustrated sigh, he continued.
"The first group of runes means 'Eagle,' symbolizing Tenochtitlan, the state itself."
"The second group is 'Hummingbird,' representing Huitzilopochtli, the god of war."
"The third group is 'Reed,' which corresponds to the sacred twenty-day cycle, the tzolkʼin."
"That's all I know," he added stiffly. "If you want to learn more, you'll have to search through ancient texts yourself. Class dismissed."
The bell rang at that exact moment. Fontaine grabbed the opportunity and stormed out of the classroom without another word.
Behind him, Tom called out loudly and cheerfully, "Thanks, Professor Fontaine!"
Fontaine walked even faster.
---
Night fell. Heavy clouds blanketed the sky like thick black velvet, smothering the faint moonlight. The world outside felt quiet and oppressive.
Inside Hogwarts Castle, however, the atmosphere was the complete opposite.
The Great Hall was bursting with noise and excitement. Cheers and chatter bounced off the walls, threatening to lift the roof.
Thousands of candles lit the hall, making it brighter than usual. Though most people preferred to believe the brilliance came from the Goblet of Fire itself.
The Goblet, which had been displayed in the Entrance Hall that morning, now stood once again in its original place. As students ate dinner, they kept glancing up at the wooden pedestal, hoping the flames would suddenly spit out a slip of parchment.
Ludo Bagman and Crouch Sr had also arrived as representatives of the Ministry of Magic.
Tonight's feast felt unusually long.
Normally students wished these gatherings would last forever, but tonight was different. Everyone just wanted it to end so the real event could begin.
Finally, the golden plates cleared themselves, returning to a spotless shine.
The chatter in the hall surged instantly, like someone had flipped a switch. But the moment Dumbledore slowly rose to his feet, the noise vanished.
Silence fell so completely that the faint crackle of burning candles could be heard.
The students who had submitted their names suddenly felt their nerves tighten.
Daphne grabbed Tom's hand and whispered fiercely that if the Goblet didn't spit out her name, she would smash the stupid cup on the spot.
"Now then," Dumbledore said. "The Goblet is about to make its decision. It may only take a minute."
As the flames inside the Goblet burned brighter and brighter, Dumbledore raised his wand and made a wide sweeping motion. Every candle in the hall went dark except those inside the jack-o'-lanterns.
Everyone held their breath.
All eyes were fixed on the Goblet.
Sybill Trelawney was watching too, mildly amused. For her, the Championship was simply entertainment. Something to pass the time when she wasn't drunk.
But as she stared at the flames, her gaze suddenly grew distant.
Without warning, her body jerked backward. She collapsed stiffly against her chair and let out a strange, piercing cry that echoed through the silent hall.
Every head turned toward her.
Dumbledore narrowed his eyes.
This state of Trelawney's…
"Sybill…" McGonagall called softly.
But Trelawney didn't hear her.
Her eyes rolled as if something else had taken hold, and a harsh voice scraped its way out of her throat.
"Tonight… the black moon hangs high, hiding the stars…"
"The wandering souls of the world awaken from venom and bone…"
"A shattered soul finds its vessel… calamity approaches… none shall escape…"
The hall stared in stunned silence.
Trelawney's voice rose sharply, then her body slumped back into the chair. When she spoke again, her tone was faint but heavy.
"He has returned…"
"Disaster follows him like a shadow…"
....
Central Africa – Gabon
A massive python with scales shimmering dark purple opened its enormous jaws. Its crimson tongue flickered in the air.
From deep inside its mouth, a naked man slowly slid out.
His body was drenched in thick, sticky snake saliva. His skin was pale as paper.
As soon as the man was fully expelled, the giant serpent's body shriveled at a visible speed. Within seconds it collapsed into a dry husk and crumbled into dust.
"Master…"
Bellatrix, who had been waiting nearby, immediately stepped forward and offered a wizard's robe she had prepared earlier.
The man draped the robe over his shoulders and slowly lifted his head.
Scarlet pupils gleamed with bloodthirsty light. A cruel smile curled across his lips.
He took a deep breath of the night air. It wasn't the cold, damp scent he preferred, but it was still satisfying.
"I…Voldemort…"
"have returned."
.
.
.