Whispers rippled through the air, spreading like wildfire. "What's in that box? Is it something for picking the champions?"
"Looks old—could it be the legendary Goblet of Fire?"
"Gotta be!"
Filch shuffled through the crowd, his leather shoes clacking against the stone floor with a steady thump-thump. Each step was cautious, as if he feared disturbing whatever lay inside the box. The students' murmurs followed his every move, growing louder until the wooden box was gently placed on a stone platform conjured by Dumbledore. Then, as if someone hit pause, the whispers stopped.
The Great Hall fell silent, a thousand eyes locked on the gem-encrusted wooden box.
Dumbledore raised his wand, a faint spark flickering at its tip. "Before we reveal what's inside, I must first explain the tournament's structure. The Triwizard Tournament consists of three tasks, spread across the school year, each held in a different month."
His gaze swept over the crowd. "These tasks will test not only your magical skills but also your courage, intelligence, and ability to adapt to unexpected challenges. Each one holds unknown dangers."
With that, he lowered his wand and tapped the box three times.
Creak—creak—
A low groan echoed as the box's lid slid open along its gem-studded grooves, revealing its contents.
It was a roughly carved wooden goblet, larger than an adult's head, with a thick base that would take both hands to grasp. Its appearance was far from elegant—downright crude, even. The carvings on its surface were uneven, some spots still splintered, the marks of chisels and axes haphazard, like a half-finished prototype. It clashed starkly with the ornate jeweled box that housed it.
Yet, within this unremarkable goblet danced a cluster of blue-white flames.
The fire gave off no heat, only a faint coolness. It flickered lightly at the goblet's rim, casting a pale glow on the faces of nearby students, outshining even the gems on the platform.
The strange, mesmerizing sight silenced the students, who had been underwhelmed by the goblet's rough look.
"From now until the Halloween feast tomorrow evening, you have time to decide whether to enter," Dumbledore said, pulling everyone's attention back. "In the end, this will choose the champions to represent each school."
He gestured toward the Great Hall's doors. "After the feast, the Goblet of Fire will be moved to the entrance hall, where anyone interested can access it."
"I trust you all know the key requirements. Only those who meet the age limit or have passed the school's selection process are eligible to submit their names."
He paused, waving his wand in a slow arc. "To enforce this, I will place a magical age line around the goblet. Those who are underage or haven't passed the selection will find it impossible to approach, let alone enter."
"The process is simple," he continued. "Take a piece of parchment, write your name and school by hand—you must write it yourself; the goblet will detect any proxies. Then, toss it into the blue flames."
He looked specifically at the Hogwarts students. "For those who passed our school's selection, you'll need to write your details on a special vellum card provided for the entry to count."
A buzz of chatter erupted in the hall. Some students turned to older peers, asking when the selection tests happened. Others clutched their robes, debating if a few months shy of the age limit was worth a shot. A few excitedly discussed whether their magic was up to the challenge.
Dumbledore raised his voice, the light at his wand's tip flaring to hush the crowd. "I must stress—the Triwizard Tournament is a serious matter!"
His smile faded, his brow furrowing, his tone grave. "The moment you place your name in the Goblet of Fire and are chosen as a champion, you enter a binding magical contract."
"You all know the power of a magical contract," he said, his eyes sharp. "Once made, you must see all tasks through to the end. There's no backing out."
"So, before you put pen to parchment, think carefully."
Dumbledore exhaled softly, his expression softening. "The feast is over. Head back to your dorms and rest."
He nodded toward the goblet. "Consider whether you're ready to bear the weight of that contract and if you're truly willing to risk everything for the tournament. Good night."
The blue flames continued to dance, reflecting the varied expressions of the students as they stood. Some eyes sparkled with excitement, others hesitated, and a few kept glancing back at the crude wooden goblet, their steps slowing.
Before leaving, Dylan stole one last look at the Goblet of Fire on its platform. When he'd passed by earlier, his fingers had brushed the air around it, sensing faint traces of magical runes—hallmarks of ritual magic, intricate and cyclical.
Combined with Dumbledore's mention of a magical contract, Dylan pieced it together. Those runes likely tied the entrants to the tournament through the goblet's ritual magic. Whether the goblet held other secrets would require closer inspection, perhaps when he could touch it himself.
Students lingered in small groups, whispering, some edging toward the entrance hall. But when they saw who was carrying the goblet, they all sighed in unison.
Dumbledore led the way, cradling the goblet steadily, its blue-white flames flickering undisturbed. He strode to the center of the entrance hall, waved his wand, and summoned a waist-high stone pedestal to hold the goblet.
After setting it down, he circled the platform, his wand tracing a thin golden line on the floor. The line solidified into a circle, about ten feet wide, perfectly encircling the goblet. A gentle glow pulsed from it, and a light magical resistance met anyone who nudged it with their toe.
This was the age line Dumbledore had described.
"Off to your common rooms," Dumbledore said, turning to the lingering students with a knowing smile. "Tomorrow's the weekend—rest up so you can enjoy it."
His tone carried a playful edge, and he winked at the disappointed students, who nodded reluctantly. Some kicked the ground, others grimaced at the golden line, but they eventually dispersed toward their dorms.
The goblet's arrival, though, threw the students' routines into chaos.
The next morning, many were up half an hour early, bringing breakfast to the entrance hall. Some clutched buttered rolls, others tucked sandwiches under their arms, and a few sipped hot milk, forming a semicircle around the goblet.
Even those who couldn't enter wanted to see who'd be the first to submit their name.
The entrance hall hummed with chatter, punctuated by the sound of chewing.
Dylan, having just fed his pet, stepped onto the hall's stone steps when a sharp hiss cut through the air. Two figures shot backward from inside the golden circle, hurtling toward the ground.
Dylan reacted instantly, snapping his fingers. Two fluffy blue cushions materialized beneath them, catching them with a soft puff.
"Ow, that didn't hurt…" Fred's voice came from one cushion. He patted it, noting its soft, lavender-scented texture. "This is nice—better than our dorm pillows."
George sat up, rolling playfully on the cushion, mussing his hair. "Comfy."
Spotting Dylan, the twins grinned their signature grins.
Fred stood, brushing off dust. "Thanks, Dylan. That could've been a bruised backside."
George leaned on Fred's shoulder to stand, eyeing the goblet. "You haven't entered yet, right? Wanna join us?"
Before Dylan could reply, a loud bang echoed, followed by a roar of laughter from the crowd.
Dylan's lips twitched into a smile.
Fred and George now sported thick, white beards dangling to their chests, their eyebrows bushy and snowy, making them look like miniature Dumbledores.
"Merlin's beard!" Fred touched his chin, feeling the soft fuzz, his eyes wide. "What is this?"
George pulled out a pocket mirror, gasping at his reflection. "The aging potion messed up?"
The crowd laughed harder, some doubling over, spilling milk from their cups.
Dylan tilted his head, eyeing the twins' chest-length beards. "Didn't you both pass the school's selection? If you're eligible, why'd the age line bounce you?"
Fred's hand froze mid-beard-stroke, and George tucked away his mirror. They exchanged awkward glances.
"We passed the selection, sure," George said, scratching his head, his white eyebrows wiggling comically. "But we're still two years shy of the age limit."
They'd tried to cheat the system.
Dylan's gaze dropped to their feet, where two pieces of parchment lay, edges curled from the blast. Scrawled on them were "Fred Weasley, Hogwarts" and "George Weasley, Hogwarts." Nearby, a cracked glass vial oozed sticky green liquid, smelling faintly sweet and fishy.
Aging potion, no question.
"Aging potion, huh?" Dylan crouched, hovering his fingers over the vial without touching it. "You thought it'd fool the age line?"
Students leaned in, one asking, "Can aging potion even do that?"
Dylan stood, explaining, "The potion's mix is tricky. Its core ingredients—aged wine and turtle shell—have to match perfectly. Say, ten-year-old wine needs a ten-year-old shell. Even a six-month mismatch can ruin it."
He continued, "You also need bat tongue, caterpillar chrysalis, and dittany essence. The bat tongue, tied to echolocation, has a 'rewind' effect to restore your real age. The chrysalis, like a moth's cocoon, carries 'transformation' energy to aid that rewind. Dittany heals the minor damage from rapid aging shifts."
Fred rubbed his nose, muttering, "We used five-year wine and shells, added all the ingredients. Why'd it fail?"
"Your mix was solid," Dylan admitted, "but aging potion isn't just about the body. You need to fully commit to 'being older'—mind and soul included. Your consciousness has to believe 'I'm that age.'"
He glanced at their still-fluffy beards. "That kind of mental shift is tough. If you could pull it off, you'd pass the selection's mental test without needing a potion shortcut."
George slapped his thigh, exasperated. "So we were doomed from the start? Should've skipped the potion."
As he spoke, his beard quivered, shedding a few white strands. The potion was already destabilizing.
The crowd burst into laughter again. Fred, rolling his eyes, tugged at his beard, wincing as real hairs came loose.
"They drank aging potion!" Lee Jordan wheezed, clutching his stomach, tears streaming from laughter. He steadied himself, sidling up to the twins, stroking Fred's beard. "It's smoother than my granddad's!"
Fred raised an eyebrow, exchanging a knowing look with George.
"George, remember what we said?" Fred drawled, his hand stealthily grabbing Lee's arm.
George nodded, poking Lee's back. "Oh, I remember. Lee, we can't keep this 'beard experience' to ourselves."
Before Lee could react, the twins hoisted him up and tossed him toward the age line.
Bang!
Lee flew back, but Dylan snapped his fingers again, conjuring another cushion to catch him.
The entrance hall erupted. Fred, George, and Lee sat on their cushions, their white beards dangling, pointing and laughing at each other.
Students from the Great Hall, hearing the commotion, rushed out with their breakfast trays, crowding the hall further.
Ron, at the front, spotted his brothers and doubled over, ears red from laughing. "Fred! George! Planning to retire as headmasters already?"
The trio glanced at each other, then lunged at Ron, who yelped and ducked behind Dylan, sticking out his tongue.
"Cut it out," Ron panted, changing the subject. "Didn't you two pass the selection? Why the stunt?"
George, mimicking Dumbledore, stroked his beard slowly. "Wanted to see if we could bypass the age line."
Fred tugged his beard, smirking. "If we didn't need our selection cards, we could've sold them to older students for some Galleons."
"Classic," Ron said, giving them a thumbs-up, genuinely impressed.
"Dumbledore's age line is airtight," Ernie Macmillan called from nearby, scribbling on parchment at a stone table. His eyes were ringed with dark circles from staying up all night tracking entries.
"You either cross the line or have a selection card—otherwise, no chance."
Harry, fresh from entering, joined them, curious. "Besides Fred and George, anyone else try cheating?"
"Tons," Ernie said, rubbing his tired eyes. "Summers from our house folded his entry into a paper plane last night, thinking it'd fly into the goblet. It froze midair, yanked him into the line, and he got spat out with a beard longer than theirs."
"Then Slytherin's Montague, who didn't qualify, convinced Warrington to move the goblet. Dumbledore set it himself—Warrington pushed, pulled, even tried lifting it. Didn't budge. He sprained his back."
"Ravenclaw's Fawcett was wilder. Sneaked here at 3 a.m. to slip her name in. Hit the line, flew back, and is probably still hiding in her dorm, embarrassed."
Ernie flipped through his notebook, reading off entered names.
Harry turned to Dylan. "You've entered already, right?"
"Not yet, but now's as good a time as any."
Dylan pulled a vellum card from his pocket, inscribed in silver ink with "Dylan Hawkwood, Hogwarts." The writing was neat, the edges faintly etched with magical runes.
Truthfully, entering or not didn't matter much to Dylan. Staying out of the game left room for other pursuits, but joining it opened its own opportunities.
Holding the card, he stepped deliberately into the golden age line, senses sharp, feeling the subtle magical currents around him.
As he tossed the card into the goblet, the blue-white flames flared half an inch higher. The card didn't burn but melted into a golden thread, weaving into the goblet's runes.
In that moment, Dylan felt a faint but steady connection form between his consciousness and the goblet.
The act of entering was itself part of the ritual magic, requiring a clear intent to compete. That intent resonated with the goblet's magic, sealing the initial bond of the contract.
He lingered briefly, confirming the magical traces, then stepped back from the age line.