The hall was silent, not a single person speaking.
Dumbledore waited, seeming a bit disappointed. Professor McGonagall cleared her throat loudly, prompting the old man to sigh, "It seems you all have already guessed, or got the news from somewhere—yes, that's right, a major event will start this October and last the whole school year, taking much of the teachers' time and energy—but I believe everyone will find great enjoyment in it—certainly no less than Quidditch—"
"If Wood were still here, he would definitely shout in protest."
Fred said with a laugh, due to someone's "leaking" and another's spreading big mouth—it's no secret that Hogwarts is about to host the X-Team Tournament, at least almost every third-year and above Little Wizard seems eager to participate—
"Yes, I met Wood by the World Cup pitch; he said he's already signed with the Ballycastle Bats—" Harry nodded, "In Wood's view, nothing in the world is more significant than winning the Quidditch Cup—"
Mumbling voices rose from the four long tables, but were quickly suppressed by Dumbledore's loud voice.
"As I said!"
He looked at the many students before him with a smile, continuing, "In the coming months, we are deeply honored to host this very exciting event, which hasn't been held for over a century—and of course, from a certain perspective, it actually never succeeded in being held!
"So, I'm delighted to tell you all that the 'Eight-Team Tournament' involving eight schools from around the world will be held at Hogwarts this year!"
Then, Dumbledore paused, and the loud discussion was almost about to blow off the ceiling of the hall.
"What what what?"
This was a foolish sound made by a bunch of first-year Little Wizards, while the other students appeared very excited, rubbing their hands eagerly. The knowledgeable senior students began to enlighten others; though the Triwizard Tournament hadn't been held for nearly a hundred years—
Yet, many still knew about this highly fatal event.
"The Triwizard Tournament was founded about seven hundred years ago—"
Dumbledore's voice rang out again, "Originally, it was a friendly competition among the three largest Magic Schools in Europe, with each school selecting one Champion, who then competed in three magic tasks, finally vying for one winner—but due to the high mortality rate, it was eventually discontinued.
"But this year, our Ministry of Magic's International Magic Cooperation Department and Department of Magical Games and Sports think the time for a trial has arrived. So, we opted to extend this friendship-promoting event across Europe to the whole world, and this summer, we worked hard to ensure every Champion would not face life-threatening danger."
"He's setting a flag."
William winked, as two middle-aged Witches from Uagadou and Ilvermorny looked over instinctively—being school chaperones, they obviously knew William's identity—as a special Referee for the tournament, specifically responsible for ensuring participating Champions' competition issues.
After all, if there were no surprises, eight people would participate this time.
Meanwhile, Dumbledore also mentioned the tournament's "safety measures," "Indeed, we've hired Mr. William Richard as our Referee, now let's welcome Mr. Richard to say a few words—"
"So, shall I just say two words?"
"Say a few words, say a few words!"
Dumbledore had given a heads-up about this, and William was naturally prepared in advance.
Only to see him reach into his sleeve and pull out a sheet of Parchment, giving it a light toss, and the long end of the Parchment directly dragged onto the ground. Witnessing this bizarre scene, the previously noisy hall fell into an odd silence—
"The Eight-Team Tournament to be held at Hogwarts School will have myself as the Chief Referee. Again, I sincerely hope everyone can compete with skill, style, and results, and not make rash actions because of a momentary win or loss. Now, I'll summarize the security measures for this tournament, in ten points..."
Ten minutes later, everyone's eyes appeared bewildered.
...
...
"...Yes, they're living over there, at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. See that small fortress?"
Hagrid stood by the window of his hut, pointing outside, amidst a dark rain curtain, at the faint glow of fire, somewhat indistinctly saying, with a large ostrich leg in his mouth, and himself already dried off by the stove—
For some reason, after listening to William's "brief speech" after the banquet, everyone, having just eaten not long ago, felt hungry again.
"Didn't the school prepare dormitories for the Uagadou students?"
Hermione glanced at the table's food, knowing they were all from the kitchen, all "slave labor."
So she resolutely didn't reach out, even though she didn't actually eat much at the banquet just now. Looking at the basket of rock cakes placed in the center of the table, the girl picked one up and, in the slightly eager eyes of Hagrid, took a bite, then... she lowered her head, clutching her cheek without saying a word.
"Of course we did, but they insisted on camping outside themselves, saying it's closer to nature."
William glanced at Hermione, then used Magic to slightly soften the rock cake in her hand. Although it was still not tasty, even hard to swallow, at least it wouldn't be impossible to even bite into, and in severe cases might chip a tooth—
Hermione's front teeth now were completely no longer protruding, losing the advantage of gnawing carrots like a rabbit (in a fog).
"So, senior, why aren't you participating in the competition? Seventeen, isn't that just right?"
Harry's question made everyone in the room involuntarily direct their gaze towards William, which was also the question in many people's minds. After all, if William were to become a champion, it would be a crushing defeat for other magical schools, and all within the rules, leaving no room for complaint.
William blinked. How should he explain? That being a safety adviser allows him access to the design of the competition's challenges, and he actually prefers setting traps rather than overcoming them?
Better not say it, that would easily invite resentment.
"That would be pointless, there probably wouldn't be much suspense, and moreover..." William paused, keeping them guessing to pique the readers' interest, "besides, the method of choosing a champion isn't up to me to decide—"
So, the little wizards shifted away from the question of why William wasn't participating, instead beginning to discuss what the method of selection might be.
...
One hour later.
"This is blatant slave labor (munch munch munch), they don't have sick leave, no allowance (munch munch munch), even! (slurp slurp) even no wages!"
"Okay, okay, eat slower."
In the Room of Requirement, watching Hermione wave a baked roll while indignantly slurping hot porridge, William helplessly tugged at the corner of his mouth. All the food now was made by Dobby, so Hermione had no objections, since Dobby received one Sickle from William every week—
This was the psychological limit a house-elf could bear; if it were a Galleon, it probably would have gone insane.
Now, Dobby was staring at the photo in his hands, his big eyes full of contemplation, before finally shaking his head and handing the photo back to William, "Dobby doesn't recognize this little elf; it's not a Hogwarts elf, Dobby hasn't seen it in Hogsmeade either—"
The elf's voice was sharp and thin, sounding slightly piercing.
"Well, not surprising."
William nodded, put the photo away, planning to ask the elves in the kitchen tomorrow.
This was a photo of a house-elf, and the main subject of the photo was the elf who, on the night of the Quidditch World Cup, snuck into Harry's tent and attempted to attack him, an act halted by Kabuda. But the moment it was discovered, the elf seemed to have triggered some kind of restriction—
It died instantly, with no chance of saving it, and upon inspection, William found it was a Dark Arts curse.
A very vicious curse, and now William only knew the attack was clearly connected to Voldemort, but hadn't determined the identity of the young man who helped Voldemort in Harry's dream. The only clue now was this unknown house-elf—
Let's see if the kitchen elves can recognize it; if not, this clue will likely be lost.
Although the Ministry of Magic has a department specifically for managing house-elves, they are typically a do-nothing job, who would voluntarily register their house-elf?
"Senior, is there really no way to bypass that age restriction?"
Just as William was in a daze, Hermione had finished all the food. The girl, blushing slightly, set down the bowl and, noticing William hadn't looked her way, let out a breath in relief and then tried to ask.
"...That age line will be drawn by Dumbledore himself." William glanced at the seemingly eager girl, furrowed his brow, "What are you planning?"
"Hehe."
The girl chuckled, pulling out a necklace from her collar, which hung a gold and silver hourglass, "Professor McGonagall has already returned it to me."
"You best not even think about it—"
William karate-chopped Hermione's forehead, prompting her to inadvertently cover it and let out a muffled sound.
"Why?"
"Because this sort of thing is irreversible. You can use a Time Turner to increase your study time, but not for a purpose like this—besides, if you keep this up for another two years, I'd have to call you senior—"
"Uh..."
"Never attempt to tamper with time—"
William suddenly spoke in a profound tone, causing the girl to wrinkle her nose.
"...Alright."
"Get some rest."
"Good night, senior."