"I remember now!" Harry jumped in, his eyes lighting up, clearly not wanting to be outdone by Draco. "In past Triwizard Tournaments, the first task usually involved some seriously dangerous magical creatures. I read about it in an old library book."
"That's a key piece of info," Dylan said, nodding with approval. "Do you guys remember what Crouch told us yesterday? What exactly did he say?"
Harry tilted his head, thinking. "He mentioned they'd already made preparations, but because of the change in the number of champions, they'd need to adjust the task."
"Which means—" Draco's eyes narrowed as he caught on, "the most likely change would be the number of 5X-level dangerous creatures? Like, instead of one, they might use multiple now?"
"That's my guess too," Dylan said with a smile. "I read something in the Wizarding Risk Assessment Manual: 'Fear often comes from the unknown.' If we figure out what we're up against, it'll ease our worries. Even if the judges haven't told us anything yet, we can start preparing."
"Like gathering info on all 5X-level dangerous creatures?" Harry continued, his earlier uncertainty replaced with determination. "Learn their habits, weaknesses, and the spells to counter them."
"We need to get Cedric in on this," Draco added, his brow furrowing as he tried to recall. "His dad works at the Ministry, right? In the… Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures? He might have access to insider info."
"Yeah, we should have him reach out to his dad," Dylan said, squinting thoughtfully. "Cedric's a Hogwarts champion too—more heads, more strength. Like just now, I was stuck on this for ages, but a quick chat with you guys cleared it up. The more of us, the better our ideas."
Dylan glanced at Draco.
When he wasn't stirring up trouble, the guy was just a regular kid.
"I'll go find Cedric!" Harry said eagerly, already itching to move. "The four of us can brainstorm together, divide the work, and be way more efficient."
"I'll write home and ask them to dig up some rare materials," Draco added quickly, not wanting to be left behind. "My dad knows a lot of collectors in the wizarding world. Maybe they can find some out-of-print creature guides."
Dylan looked at them and couldn't help but smile.
Despite the dark circles under their eyes, the worry on their faces had faded, replaced by an eager energy.
"I'll hit the library and start on the basics," Dylan said, nodding. "There are a ton of 5X-level creatures. We can split them up, each taking a few to research. It'll save time."
He paused, then added, "Once we've got a good chunk of info, let's find a time when we're all free—like in the evening—to pool our notes and fill in any gaps. That way, we'll cover every possible scenario."
As Harry and Draco left, their steps were noticeably lighter.
Harry practically jogged toward the Hufflepuff common room, while Draco, no longer brooding, strode purposefully toward the owlery, his back straight with determination.
Dylan headed for the library, but as he rounded a corridor corner, he spotted a familiar figure.
Dumbledore was holding something, moving with an agility that belied his age. With a light hop, he cleared a half-open door.
The moment he landed, the door spun rapidly, transforming back into a landscape painting of the Scottish moors, dust on the frame undisturbed.
It was clearly a secret passage not marked on the Marauder's Map.
Dylan understood instantly.
It was probably like the Prefects' Bathroom—a hidden route reserved for the headmaster.
Sirius and Lupin, as students, wouldn't have known about such exclusive passages, so it made sense they weren't on the map.
Dumbledore spotted him too, turning to wave with his usual warm smile.
As Dylan approached, he saw Dumbledore cradling a silver tray with neatly arranged, sweet-smelling cakes.
In his other hand was half a cake, cream dripping slightly down his fingers.
The lemon-yellow color and frosted surface marked it as the kitchen's limited-edition lemon cake.
"Good morning, Headmaster Dumbledore," Dylan said, quickening his pace to greet him.
"Morning, Dylan. Want one?" Dumbledore jiggled the tray, nudging it forward, the cake's aroma growing stronger. "Fresh from the kitchen, still warm."
"Thanks, but I'm good," Dylan said with a smile, his eyes on the tray. "Late night at the judges' meeting?"
"Not late by my standards," Dumbledore said, shaking his head, his eyes twinkling as he recalled. "But for Mr. Bagman, it was torture. He dozed off in his armchair at least two or three times during our discussions."
He took a bite of cake, cream smearing his mustache, unbothered. "But he's sharp. The moment our voices dipped, he'd snap awake, asking, 'Where were we?'—quite a talent, really."
Dylan bit back a laugh, blinking to keep a straight face. "So, you and the other headmasters settled on a task?"
"We've reached a decision, but—" Dumbledore drew out the word, popping the rest of the cake into his mouth and chewing slowly, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"Because of the judges' magical contract, you can't spill the details, right?" Dylan jumped in, nodding understandingly, steering the conversation deeper. "Last night's events—it was just an accident, wasn't it?"
They turned into a quiet corridor, where Dumbledore called out clearly to a stone gargoyle crouched by the wall: "Frosted Lemon Cake!"
The gargoyle tucked in its wide stone wings, nimbly hopping aside to reveal a hidden spiral staircase.
"You think it was an accident?" Dumbledore asked, taking another big bite of cake, squinting contentedly as cream caught in his beard, unnoticed.
They climbed the staircase slowly, and Dylan shared his theory. "Karkaroff's Confundus Charm felt more like a panicked mistake."
"Remember the Horcrux we found? What if Voldemort's already back?"
Dylan raised an eyebrow. "I checked with Harry using the Marauder's Map. No sign of Voldemort or a second Barty Crouch."
He quickened his pace, climbing two steps to reach the headmaster's office door first and open it.
The room was empty—Fawkes wasn't on his perch. Dylan figured the phoenix was probably out hunting for dew-kissed berries, a rare morning treat.
"Honestly, having that map and a sharp user like you is a blessing," Dumbledore said, setting the tray on a corner of his desk and wiping his mouth with a napkin. "If I were up to no good, I'd think twice before setting foot in Hogwarts."
Dylan turned, meeting Dumbledore's gaze. "You mean… Barty Crouch Jr. has already found Voldemort? So the Death Eaters vanished from the map, hiding somewhere more secret?"
"Exactly," Dumbledore nodded slowly, his fingers tapping the desk's edge, his earlier warmth giving way to a serious look. "They linked up on September 1st—the day we started term."
"After Barty Jr. and Voldemort met, did they go to another magical community?" Dylan pressed, following the thread. "Could it be Durmstrang? Headmaster, should we alert the local Ministry to start a search?"
He'd recently gotten reports from his sources.
Many Death Eaters were being rallied by someone.
But some Death Eaters—or dark wizards—weren't keen on following this person again.
They'd found a new dark lord to admire.
Karkaroff, who'd once escaped justice with a plea deal, had fled the British wizarding world overnight, likely fearing retaliation from other Death Eaters.
No one expected him to resurface years later as Durmstrang's headmaster.
If Voldemort wanted to restart his plans, Durmstrang would be the perfect base.
The school was unique—excluding Muggle-born students, skipping Defense Against the Dark Arts, and teaching dark magic as a formal subject, letting students master spells other schools banned.
Piecing it together, Dylan realized Durmstrang was a natural hideout and breeding ground for Voldemort's schemes.
He asked Dumbledore to gauge his stance.
"It's not that simple," Dumbledore said, shaking his head. He picked up the last cake but didn't eat it, twirling it in his fingers. "You know how Durmstrang operates, don't you? No Muggle-borns, and they openly teach dark magic."
"I get it," Dylan said, nodding as it clicked. "If Voldemort's at Durmstrang, the local Ministry might not just turn a blind eye—they could quietly support him. Their ideologies align."
"Exactly," Dumbledore said, spreading his hands. "But look at it another way—this isn't all bad."
"You mean…" Dylan grinned, "magical schools have their own rules. Even if Voldemort's there, he can't rule as the 'Dark Lord' with brute force like before?"
He paused. "Especially at Durmstrang, with its own order. If he tried strong-arming them, it'd backfire, so he has to play by their rules?"
"For now, that's their plan," Dumbledore said, his smile returning as he gave Dylan an approving look. "Do you know about Durmstrang's succession tradition?"
"Succession?" Dylan tilted his head. "You mean… how they choose their headmaster?"
"Exactly," Dumbledore confirmed with a nod.
"I've only read bits in some old books about wizarding oddities," Dylan recalled. "They say the headmaster position can be won through a duel."
"The school's founder, Nerida Vulchanova, died mysteriously when the school was thriving. Harfang Munter took over as headmaster afterward."
"There's always been a rumor that Durmstrang allows duels—even underhanded tactics like murder—to claim the headmaster's role."
Dylan's eyes lit up as it hit him. "You're saying if Voldemort wants to control Durmstrang, he'd have to follow their rules and win the headmaster position through a duel? That would limit his moves?"
"According to those books, Munter set a bad precedent," Dumbledore said. "After him, seizing the headmaster role by similar means happened several times, each with an internal purge."
Dylan looked at Dumbledore, his tone uncertain. "Headmaster, are you saying… Voldemort's already won the headmaster position through a duel?"
"Not quite," Dumbledore said, shaking his head, tapping the desk twice. "But they're planning to clean house at Durmstrang while we're busy with the Triwizard Tournament, then move forward after it's over."
He lowered his voice. "Voldemort's as cautious as ever."
"He only shared this with Barty Crouch Jr., painting him a grand picture of a new world for pure-blood wizards, making Barty feel like a key player."
"So Voldemort's definitely got plans for Barty," Dylan said, his tone firm with suspicion. "Why else make all those promises?"
"Hard to say," Dumbledore said, a sly smile creeping onto his face, his tone lightening. "Maybe you'll have a clearer take after seeing this."
He stood and walked to a walnut cabinet in the corner, carefully pulling out a translucent stone basin.
The Pensieve.
Sunlight streamed through the window, casting a soft glow on the basin's surface.
Dumbledore raised his wand, pressing its tip to his temple. With a gentle pull, a silvery thread of memory emerged, light as moonlight.
With a flick of his wrist, the thread drifted into the Pensieve, merging seamlessly into the silvery liquid without a ripple.
"Come take a look," Dumbledore said, gesturing to Dylan. "These are memory fragments I extracted from related traces."
Dylan took a deep breath and leaned into the Pensieve.
A rush of weightlessness hit him, like falling into an endless abyss.
A second later, his feet landed firmly on the ground.