The announcement of the Triwizard Tournament sent a ripple of excitement through the Great Hall.
Each of the four house tables reacted differently.
Slytherin and Ravenclaw students erupted in cheers, clearly familiar with the event.
But many others, like Harry at the Gryffindor table, looked utterly confused.
As a wizard raised in the Muggle world, Harry knew nothing about this magical tradition.
It wasn't surprising. Muggle-born or Muggle-raised students, or those from families outside the magical elite, often lacked knowledge of such events.
They'd only been in the wizarding world a few years.
Compared to those raised in wizarding families, steeped in tales of the Tournament from childhood, they faced a cultural gap as real as any wall.
Dumbledore, noticing the divide, gave a warm smile. "I'm sure many of you haven't heard of the Triwizard Tournament, so I'll give a quick overview. Please bear with me if you already know the details—feel free to let your minds wander for a moment."
He paused, his voice taking on a nostalgic tone. "The Triwizard Tournament began over seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition among Europe's three largest wizarding schools."
"Those schools are Hogwarts, Beauxbatons Academy from France, and Durmstrang Institute from Bulgaria."
"The rules are simple: each school selects one champion, the best of their students, and those three champions face three extremely challenging magical tasks."
"The Tournament is held every five years, hosted in turn by each school."
"At first, it was seen as a great way for young witches and wizards from different countries to build friendships and share magical knowledge. But over time, the high number of injuries—and deaths—forced the Tournament to be discontinued."
At the word "discontinued," Dumbledore's lips pressed together, a flicker of regret in his eyes.
Clearly, he felt the loss of this ancient tradition keenly.
"Deaths?" Hermione whispered, eyes wide, glancing around to gauge others' reactions.
But most students weren't as alarmed as she was. Many grew even more excited, buzzing about the "deaths" with a thrill-seeking edge. Even Harry and Ron's eyes gleamed.
Hermione turned to Dylan. "Are you going to enter the Tournament?"
Dylan, unlike the eager crowd, stayed calm, his expression unruffled.
He smiled. "Let's hear what Professor Dumbledore has to say about the details first."
Dumbledore's voice carried on. "For centuries, people have tried to revive the Tournament, but safety concerns always stopped them."
"This time, however, the Ministry's Department of International Magical Cooperation and Department of Magical Games and Sports believe the time is right to bring it back."
"We've spent the entire summer preparing to ensure the safety of every champion, so no one faces mortal danger."
At this, only Dylan and a few professors exchanged knowing looks.
They all knew Dumbledore's claim was a bit of a stretch.
The whole summer, Dumbledore had been focused on hunting Voldemort's Horcruxes.
He'd barely had time for Tournament preparations.
As for Hogwarts' security, it was likely handled entirely by Professor McGonagall, just like the annual Sorting Ceremony.
"In October, the heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will arrive with their candidate students."
"The official selection of champions will take place on Halloween, overseen by an impartial judge who will choose the most qualified student from each school."
"The winning champion will not only bring glory to their school but also claim a prize of ten thousand Galleons!"
"Ten thousand Galleons?"
The words landed like a spell, silencing the hall. Everyone's breath caught.
Even Slytherin students from wealthy pure-blood families knew the weight of that sum!
Ten thousand Galleons equaled several years' income for ten middle-class wizarding families.
For students, it was an irresistible temptation.
Dumbledore waited for the news to sink in before continuing with a smile. "I know many of you are eager to win the Triwizard Cup for Hogwarts, not to mention the glory and that prize."
"But after discussions between the schools and the Ministry, we've decided to set an age limit this year. Only students seventeen or older—those of legal age—can enter."
"This is to ensure the safety of all participants."
"That's not fair!" The Weasley twins shot to their feet, voices brimming with frustration.
Just months shy of seventeen, they were gutted to miss out on a shot at ten thousand Galleons.
That kind of money could be a game-changer for their joke shop, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes!
Sure, Dylan had promised—and delivered—support, but who wouldn't want more Galleons?
George leaned close to Dylan, whispering eagerly, "Come on, Dylan, imagine if Fred and I became Hogwarts' champion! With ten thousand Galleons, our shop wouldn't need to worry about funding ever again. You wouldn't have to keep bailing us out, and don't worry—we'd still honor your share."
"We could buy the best magical materials, invent new pranks, and take the wizarding world by storm!" he added, gesturing animatedly, eyes shining.
Dumbledore raised his voice slightly, his calm authority cutting through the hall's murmurs and protests.
"The age limit is absolutely necessary. Even with all our precautions, the Tournament tasks are grueling and dangerous. Students below sixth year simply aren't equipped to handle them."
He paused, his gaze sweeping the room, lingering briefly on Fred and George, who were scowling, clearly unconvinced.
A glint of mischief flickered in Dumbledore's blue eyes, as if he'd read their minds.
"I assure you, no underage student will fool the impartial judge into selecting them as Hogwarts' champion."
He paused deliberately, his eyes drifting to Dylan, who remained composed, before adding, "Of course, if you're skilled enough to outsmart the judge, then the panel would likely agree you've proven your magical ability and deserve to compete."
His words rippled through the hall like a stone dropped in water. The restless students quieted, their eyes lighting up with renewed hope.
They began scheming.
Do I have the magical chops to pull it off? Could I bypass the age restriction?
The promise of ten thousand Galleons fueled a surge of confidence.
Some already pictured themselves on the winner's podium, hoisting the Triwizard Cup, clutching the prize, basking in the cheers of the school.
Maybe even catching the eye of their crush and rocketing to fame!
Dumbledore, seeing the students' dreamy expressions, knew they were lost in fantasies. He cleared his throat, snapping them back to reality.
"The Beauxbatons and Durmstrang delegations will arrive in October and stay with us for most of the school year."
His tone softened. "I trust you'll all be warm and welcoming to our guests. And once Hogwarts' champion is chosen, I know you'll support them wholeheartedly."
"It's getting late," he said, glancing at the enchanted clock above the hall. "Getting a good night's sleep so you're sharp for classes tomorrow is more important than anything. Off to bed, now—quickly!"
His final words carried a magical weight, compelling students to obey.
Even those dawdling stood, gathered their things, and headed for their dorms. The grumbling Weasley twins reluctantly joined the crowd.
But once in their common rooms or tucked into their soft dormitory beds, the magical influence faded, and their thoughts cleared.
Some scratched their heads, muttering, "What exactly did Professor Dumbledore say?"
Others frowned, piecing it together. "Something about an age limit? And foreign schools?"
Most could only vaguely recall keywords: "Triwizard Tournament," "champion," "ten thousand Galleons."
Yet the hazy memories didn't dampen their excitement.
Nearly every student silently vowed, I'm entering the Triwizard Tournament! I'll become the champion and make my mark!
Some schemed ways to sign up, while others tossed and turned in bed, too thrilled to sleep.
Meanwhile, Dylan settled into his Gryffindor dormitory bed.
He pulled back a corner of his bed hangings. The rain outside had stopped, and a golden moon hung in the sky, its soft light spilling onto the windowsill.
A cool breeze, scented with grass and earth, slipped through the gap, brushing his face and chasing away the lingering summer heat.
From the next bed came an odd "hee-hee" giggle—clearly Harry.
Dylan figured he was still buzzing about the Tournament, probably imagining himself as the champion.
Staring at the moon, Dylan pondered.
What had Dumbledore's look at the feast meant?
Was he hoping Dylan would enter the Tournament?
Dylan wasn't keen on competing outright. He'd rather stay in the shadows, pulling strings behind the scenes.
As for the ten thousand Galleons, he couldn't care less.
Thanks to the XY potion factory's profits, he already had wealth far beyond that.
To him, the prize paled compared to dealing with Dementors, Death Eaters, or Voldemort himself.
His suitcase's inner world was growing vast, thanks to the steady stream of Galleons.
The moon slid across the sky, slipping out of view, dimming the room.
Without its glow, sleepiness crept in.
Dylan closed his eyes and soon drifted into a peaceful slumber.
When it was time to sleep, nothing—not even Voldemort—could keep him awake.
The next morning, Monday, a light mist cloaked Hogwarts Castle.
It was the first morning of fourth year.
Dylan was already out on a path near the castle.
Last night's rain left the ground muddy, his shoes sticking slightly, but the air was crisp with the scent of wet grass and leaves, invigorating.
He fed his and Luna's owls, then paused at the Great Hall's entrance.
A silver cat Patronus leaped from the highest tower, landing lightly on his shoulder like a breeze.
It opened its mouth, and Professor McGonagall's voice, warm but slightly stern, spoke: "Dylan, if you have a moment, please come to my office. I need to speak with you."
The Patronus dissolved into silver sparks.
Dylan tilted his head.
In McGonagall's office, a fire crackled warmly in the hearth.
"Professor, what's up?" he asked.
"Oh, nothing urgent. I just haven't had the chance to congratulate you on becoming the Wizengamot's Youth Wizard Representative. That's quite an achievement."
Dylan blinked.
So she'd called him just to congratulate him?
"Thanks," he said.
Then McGonagall brought up the newly announced Triwizard Tournament.
Her tone held a hint of hope. "Honestly, if you were Hogwarts' champion, I'd feel confident the Cup was ours. With your skills, we'd have little to worry about."
Dylan blinked, about to mention Dumbledore's earlier look, but McGonagall cut him off.
Her brow furrowed, voice tinged with irritation. "Don't get me started on Albus! All summer, he dumped every Hogwarts responsibility on me while he ran off chasing who-knows-what!"
She paused, as if recalling something even more infuriating. "And don't even mention Sybill Trelawney! She got drunk and spouted nonsense about Albus growing weak, and he actually took it seriously! Can you believe it? Listening to that batty Divination professor's gibberish!"
"—Not that all Seers are frauds, mind you. You know what I mean."
Dylan grinned but didn't respond.
He knew she was just venting.
His schedule today wasn't too packed but had enough to keep him busy.
First up was Herbology, followed by Care of Magical Creatures.
After a quick chat with McGonagall, he said goodbye and headed to the Herbology greenhouses.
Professor Sprout was already there, greeting him with a warm smile and a wave. "Come in, Dylan! You're just in time to see the new plants."
He took a seat, following her gesture to the center of the greenhouse.
On a planting rack sat several pots of bizarre "plants."
They didn't resemble flowers or herbs but rather slimy, black slugs sprouting straight from the soil, each as long as an adult's forearm.
Stranger still, they wriggled slightly, their surfaces studded with shiny, bulging sacs filled with clear liquid that jiggled as they moved. It was unsettling.
"These are Bubotuber plants," Sprout announced, tapping one with a silver knife, her tone as cheerful as if she were showing off a treasure.
"Today's task is simple: squeeze the pustules on their surface to collect the pus."
"Excuse me?" Seamus Finnigan's face twisted in disgust.
He took a half-step back, eyeing the writhing Bubotubers. "Squeeze… pus?"
To him, these slimy, moving plants were revolting unless you had peculiar tastes. Touching their "pus" was unthinkable.
"Yes, pus, Mr. Finnigan," Sprout repeated patiently, holding up an empty glass vial. "It's incredibly valuable. Not a drop can be wasted."
"Listen up, everyone. Put on the dragon-hide gloves on your tables. Undiluted Bubotuber pus is highly corrosive. It'll cause severe irritation or even scarring if it touches your skin."
The students scrambled to pull on the thick, stiff gloves, fumbling to get them on.
Once ready, they gathered around the rack and began squeezing the Bubotubers.
It was far grosser than expected.
Pressing the pustules felt slimy and slick.
With a bit of pressure, they burst with a "pop," spraying yellow-green, viscous liquid that reeked of gasoline, making several students cover their noses.
Oddly, after a while, some found it strangely satisfying.
Watching the pustules flatten and the pus flow into the vials felt oddly accomplished.
Following Sprout's instructions, they carefully collected the pus.
By the end of class, each student had filled three or four vials, the glass streaked with lingering yellow-green goo.
"Well done, everyone!" Sprout beamed, inspecting their vials with satisfaction.
"Madam Pomfrey will be thrilled. Diluted Bubotuber pus is the best remedy for stubborn acne—far better than anything you'll find in a shop."
After Herbology, Dylan and Harry's group headed down a mossy path toward Hagrid's hut.
The rain-soaked ground was slippery, and the air carried the fresh scent of earth and greenery, with birds chirping in the bushes.
Care of Magical Creatures classes always met near Hagrid's hut, where a wide clearing accommodated students and creatures alike.
Dylan recalled Hermione mentioning her suggestions for the class to Hagrid—avoiding dangerous creatures, keeping it fun, and focusing on rare, docile species.
Dylan could only shrug.
Hagrid's taste was far from normal. He loved showing off spiders or giant snakes—good luck getting him to follow Hermione's advice.
As they neared the hut, Hagrid stood on the steps, holding Fang's leash.
The pale yellow hound wagged its tail, sniffing the ground.
Fang perked up at Dylan's arrival, looking pleased.
On the ground nearby were three cages welded from thick iron bars, holding odd-looking chickens.
Their feathers were dark purple, their claws long and sharp, and instead of combs, they had small, fleshy lumps. They clucked and pecked at the bars.
"Everyone, over here!" Hagrid called.