"Oh, lucky Viktor Krum, lucky Durmstrang!"
On the viewing stands at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, the large magical screens broadcast the scene in vivid detail: under Fleur Delacour's careful organization, three exhausted champions—Cedric Diggory, Hermione Granger, and Viktor Krum were drawing lots to determine who would claim the hard-won second key that had cost them so much to obtain.
The three champions stood in a small circle, their faces drawn with exhaustion, their clothes still damp with sweat despite the cold. They had survived impossible trials together. And now chance would decide who benefited.
Ludo Bagman roared with his distinctive enthusiasm, his magically amplified voice carrying across the entire grounds with dramatic flair. "Lucky boy! He has claimed the second key to victory! What fortune smiles upon Viktor Krum today!"
But in sharp contrast to Bagman's soaring excitement and dramatic gestures, the stands responded with a collective sigh of disappointed sympathy.
Through those grueling trials, Hogwarts' two teams had contributed so much effort, so much sacrifice, so much strategic thinking. And yet, in the end, it was Durmstrang who reaped the reward through pure chance, through the luck of the draw.
"Oh, what terrible luck—it's just bad fortune, that's all it is!" Mrs. Molly Weasley said with evident discontent, shaking her head and crossing her arms.
"Just like the last round on that awful glass bridge—if that Beauxbatons girl had discovered the secret of the walkway pattern a little sooner, our Ron would never have had to step in and sacrifice himself like that, isn't that right? He'd still be in the competition!"
She asked, glancing expectantly at the men seated beside her—her husband Arthur, Sirius, Remus waiting for their agreement and support, for them to validate her frustration.
But a long, uncomfortable moment passed without a single word from any of them.
"Well? What on earth is the matter with all of you?" Mrs. Weasley turned in irritation.
But when she saw the dark, brooding expressions etched on Mr. Weasley's usually cheerful face, and on Sirius's face, and Remus's too, her irritation gave way instantly to alarm.
"Even if Harry and Hermione didn't get the key this time, there's no need for that sort of funeral face like someone's died. What is going on? Why won't any of you say anything?"
Her voice rose with concern. "Ever since Scrimgeour came to speak privately with Madam Bones, the lot of you have been wearing that look—like the world's ending!"
Faced with his wife's increasingly urgent questioning, Mr. Weasley opened his mouth, then closed it again.
He glanced nervously at the young witches and wizards seated all around them in the stands. He managed only a strained, unconvincing smile that looked more like a grimace.
"It's nothing, Molly, just a few unpleasant matters at the Ministry. But then, when isn't there something unpleasant happening at the Ministry? It's a nest of vipers on a good day."
He forced a weak chuckle.
"If you're curious, I'll explain everything once the match is over and we're somewhere private. You know how it is—there are children everywhere here, and little ears hear everything. Gossip spreads."
Mrs. Weasley was far from satisfied with her husband's evasive answer—she knew Arthur well enough to recognize when he was hiding something serious.
She was just about to press him further with the full force of her formidable will when Remus spoke, his voice was suddenly low and grave in a way that made everyone's attention snap to him immediately.
"Do you know that man, Sirius?" Remus asked softly in concern.
Remus's words drew everyone's gaze immediately toward the cobblestone path that went from the castle grounds down to the lawn at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
A young-looking wizard in Auror robes was sprinting toward them at full tilt, clearly exhausted but driven by urgent purpose. His face was flushed red from exertion.
"That's Prentice Appleby," Sirius said slowly, his voice was flat.
Sirius narrowed his grey eyes. Recognizing the young Auror only deepened the heaviness already settled over him pressing on his chest, though it also piqued his curiosity in an uncomfortable way.
"An Auror from the Ministry, same department as our Tonks. Kingsley trained him personally from the beginning, so the two of them are close—like mentor and apprentice. If Kingsley sent him, it's serious."
Under the attentive eyes of Sirius and the others, the young Auror named Prentice Appleby made straight for the foot of the stands, ignoring the tournament entirely, not even glancing at the screens. Bryan, Dumbledore, and Madam Bones rose to meet him in unison.
"Good afternoon, Madam Bones—" Appleby managed between gasps.
He was clearly out of breath; his chest was heaving. He had come a long way at speed, probably running most of the distance from the castle entrance.
Gasping, he greeted his direct superior first then turned his gaze to Bryan and Dumbledore. His eyes were filled with awe and concealed nervousness at being in their presence. These were legends.
"Good afternoon, Professor Dumbledore, Professor Watson. It is a great honor to meet you both in person."
"Hello, Appleby—" Madam Bones gave him one of her formidable stares that could make seasoned criminals confess to crimes they hadn't committed.
"You've come from the Ministry, I take it. Who sent you?"
"I come on Mr. Shacklebolt's direct orders, Madam Bones," Appleby managed between breaths, his voice was still unsteady.
He swallowed hard, his throat was clicking. Standing before some of the most senior and powerful figures in wizarding Britain, his heart hammered furiously in his chest like it might break through his ribs.
He could feel sweat on his palms despite the cool afternoon.
'A message from Kingsley.' The three exchanged a look.
How interesting.
That morning, Rufus Scrimgeour had appeared in person to deliver grave news of the catastrophic Azkaban breakout. Now, in the afternoon, Kingsley had gone to the considerable trouble of sending someone all the way here to Hogwarts.
"I believe your name is Prentice Appleby, is that right?"
After a brief pause to let the young man catch his breath, Bryan smiled warmly and spoke in a gentle, encouraging tone, watching the tongue-tied young man before him struggle to compose himself properly.
"If I recall correctly, you once followed Kingsley's lead and assisted me in investigating the attack on Hermione Granger. It was your team that sealed off the Leaky Cauldron."
"That's right, Professor Watson! Yes, sir!" Appleby straightened up immediately, standing at attention.
A flush of pride rose in his cheeks at being remembered by the famous Bryan Watson. He had worked with him once, briefly, and still recalled his name and contribution. It meant something.
"Then, Prentice—you've come to tell us..." Bryan considered for a moment, his expression thoughtful as he studied the young Auror's face.
"Though of course—if you're here to report directly to Amelia on Ministry business, Professor Dumbledore and I can step aside and give you privacy."
"Actually—" Prentice drew a slow, steadying breath to calm his racing heart.
"Mr. Shacklebolt has specifically asked me to convey a message to you and Professor Dumbledore personally. He couldn't get away himself—the Ministry has been completely overrun by journalists from every wizarding paper in Europe since the Azkaban news broke, and owls aren't secure enough for this particular information. So, he sent me in person to relay something... sensitive."
Madam Bones' brow furrowed deeply, creating vertical lines between her eyes, though she made no move to leave or give them privacy.
"Please stay, Amelia," Dumbledore said immediately, reading her thoughts.
Dumbledore's sharp blue gaze swept across them all from behind his half-moon spectacles, taking in every detail.
"I believe Mr. Appleby has brought news that will concern each of us."
Amelia Bones was not a woman given to fuss or hurt pride. If Dumbledore said the information concerned her, then it did. She turned herself back around without a word and waited in tense silence, her arms crossed.
"It's like this—" The young Auror began, then paused to organize his thoughts.
He who had faced down dangerous Dark wizards on the front lines more than once, now clenched his trembling fists to steady himself. The calm, unreadable gazes of three of the most powerful figures in the wizarding world made it nearly impossible to lift his head and meet their eyes directly.
"Mr. Shacklebolt asked me to relay... ah—he happened to overhear something. By accident, he says. It came from John Dawlish—he was in the corridor outside the Minister's office, waiting to report on a matter at the time..."
'Something overheard—a conversation between Cornelius Fudge and Dawlish?'
A faint smile appeared at Bryan's face.
"And what was it that Kingsley overheard?"
"He said... ah—Dawlish said to the Minister... said—" Prentice's words came out in halting, nervous fragments as he struggled with the weight of what he was revealing.
"Harry Potter has nowhere left to run."
'Harry Potter has nowhere left to run.' The seven words hung in the air like a death sentence.
Behind the half-moon spectacles, Dumbledore's gaze instantly sharpened and darkened with something dangerous.
The temperature seemed to drop around him.
"Harry Potter has nowhere left to run—Dawlish said this directly to Cornelius Fudge?" Dumbledore's voice was deadly quiet, controlled,.
"Yes, Professor Dumbledore—" Prentice felt his pulse stumbling over itself.
As an Auror, he possessed the basic vigilance and judgment his rigorous training demanded. He did not know the precise meaning behind Dawlish's words, but he understood clearly that those words carried enormous weight.
"He—that is, Dawlish—" Madam Bones' brow creased deeply with concern and something that might have been anger.
"That was all he said? Nothing more? No context about what he meant?"
"That was all Mr. Shacklebolt managed to hear safely, Madam Bones. You understand—" Prentice said, his anxiety was evident in every word and gesture.
"He overheard it quite by accident while waiting. He had gone to the Minister's office to file a standard report about the press situation, and the corridor outside was full of people coming and going—he couldn't risk looking suspicious by lingering too long or pressing his ear to the door. Someone would have noticed."
A heavy silence settled over them like a shroud.
Both Dumbledore and Amelia grew visibly somber, their faces were grave with concern. From that single, critical sentence, it seemed clear that Fudge and his allies were preparing to move against Harry Potter in some way.
And yet—this was precisely what made no sense, what didn't fit the pattern they understood.
Whatever else might be said of Cornelius Fudge, he was the Minister for Magic. Incompetent, perhaps. Muddled and shortsighted, certainly.
But surely, he and the Death Eaters were not the same thing. Surely, there were lines even Fudge wouldn't dare cross.
"Very well, Prentice—" Bryan inclined his head with a gracious nod and a warm smile that seemed genuine.
"Thank you for coming all this way to bring us such vital information. I know it wasn't an easy journey, and I'm sure you had other duties. Now, we need a moment to discuss what you've told us, privately."
He paused meaningfully, glancing at the tournament grounds.
"As you can see, Hogwarts is hosting the third task of the Triwizard Tournament. If you have no pressing business back at the Ministry, I'd suggest there's no hurry to leave—an occasion like this doesn't come around often, does it? You should enjoy it."
And so, Prentice Appleby found himself gently dispatched to the stands to watch the match.
With so many eyes around, it was no place for a real conversation.
Bryan, Dumbledore, and Amelia walked together in tense silence to the shore of the Black Lake, stopping beneath a willow whose slender branches swayed in the afternoon breeze.
The location was isolated, private, with clear sightlines in all directions.
"There is something I'd like to ask you first, Headmaster—" Bryan began.
Bathed in the deepening amber of the afternoon sun that casted shadows, Bryan turned to look at Dumbledore's aged face—those eyes were now quiet and grave, carrying a thread of controlled fury barely kept in check.
"What is it, Bryan?" Dumbledore asked.
Bryan's composure was unusual—perhaps Madam Bones, caught up in the shock of the news and its consequences, hadn't noticed the subtle difference. But it had not escaped Dumbledore's attention.
He did not point it out directly, however. Instead, reining in his anger at Fudge and a measure of unease toward Bryan himself and whatever he was planning, he simply asked calmly and waited.
"For how long does Harry need to stay with his aunt and uncle each year—in order to ensure that he remains safe?" Bryan asked.
The fading sunlight fell across Bryan's face as he asked the question, his tone was utterly, unnervingly calm.
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