Read up to 40 chapters ahead on Patreon - patreon.com/Dark_sym
This fic is completed in patreon
-----
Neville looked as if he'd just spotted a savior.
Without hesitation, he grabbed the cup of hot chocolate from Dumbledore's hand and gulped it down noisily, as though hoping it would steady his nerves.
Before anyone could speak, the door burst open again.
Ludo Bagman and Delix stormed inside, their faces alight with excitement.
"It's absolutely bizarre! Unbelievable!"
Bagman bellowed, practically bouncing on his feet.
"There are four champions in the Triwizard Tournament!" he declared, his voice carrying across the room.
"This is absurd! A complete violation of the rules!"
Madame Maxime's deep, commanding voice cut through the commotion.
Straightening to her full, towering height, she lifted her chin, and the flickering chandelier light cast dramatic shadows across her face.
Her black satin robes rustled as her broad chest rose and fell in agitation.
"Mr. Dumbledore, we demand an explanation," she said, her dark eyes locked onto him.
"I'd like to hear that as well, Dumbledore," Karkaroff added with a cold smirk, his icy blue eyes glinting with barely concealed disdain.
"Two champions from Hogwarts?" He scoffed.
"I don't recall reading anything in the bylaws allowing the host school to have two representatives. Unless, of course, I missed something?"
His tone was sharp, but even as he spoke, his gaze flickered away from Ethan, deliberately avoiding him.
It was clear he was doing everything he could to pretend Ethan wasn't there.
"It's impossible," Madame Maxime insisted.
She placed a large, jeweled hand protectively on Fleur's shoulder.
"It would be grossly unfair for Hogwarts to have an advantage like this."
"And as far as we knew, Dumbledore, you put up an age line to prevent underage competitors," Karkaroff continued smoothly, his smirk widening.
"Had we known otherwise, I assure you, we would have entered more students from Durmstrang."
"This entire situation is riddled with errors!" Ethan interjected firmly, pushing himself up from his seat.
"Someone is tampering with the Tournament!"
His words sent a ripple of tension through the room.
Madame Maxime's expression faltered slightly—Ethan had once done her a favor, and she clearly hesitated to challenge him outright.
As for Karkaroff, his face darkened, though whether out of anger or unease was unclear.
"I have no desire to argue with you, Ethan," Madame Maxime finally said, her voice measured.
"But I must ensure this Tournament remains fair. It's a matter of honor."
"I don't want to be a part of it!"
All heads turned toward Neville, who had remained silent until now.
His lips were smeared with chocolate, making his distressed expression almost comically tragic.
"I didn't put my name in the Goblet of Fire! I don't want to compete! I quit!" he cried, his eyes red-rimmed and brimming with tears.
The poor boy was terrified.
Madame Maxime and Fleur exchanged glances, and for the first time, doubt crept into their expressions.
Something wasn't right.
This wasn't an ambitious student looking for glory—this was a boy who had been forced into a situation beyond his control.
And suddenly, neither of them knew what to say.
They couldn't help but feel sympathy for the poor boy—Neville's terror was painfully obvious.
But at the same time, as representatives of their schools, they couldn't simply back down.
Their honor was at stake.
"Tell me truthfully, Mr. Longbottom," Dumbledore said, his voice steady and measured.
"Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire?"
"I swear! I swear I didn't!" Neville cried, his hands clutching the edge of his chair.
His voice wavered on the verge of another breakdown.
Dumbledore's gaze didn't waver. "Did you ask an older student to submit it for you?"
"No! I— I'm almost a Squib! How could I even do something like that?" Neville stammered, his face flushing with frustration and fear.
"Perhaps the Goblet of Fire is simply malfunctioning," Madame Maxime interjected, her deep voice tinged with uncertainty.
"It's a centuries-old artifact—wear and tear is only natural."
"Or this could be the work of a troublemaker," Professor McGonagall said, her lips pressing into a thin line.
"If a student is responsible for this, I will personally see to their expulsion. This is far beyond an innocent prank."
Karkaroff, who had been watching the exchange with sharp, calculating eyes, finally spoke again, his voice smooth and insidious.
"Mr. Delix, Mr. Bagman," he said, turning to the two officials.
"You are our esteemed, objective judges. Surely you agree that this situation is unacceptable?"
Bagman wiped his round, boyish face with a handkerchief, shifting uncomfortably.
"Well, I— I sympathize, of course, but the bylaws are clear. Anyone whose name is ejected from the Goblet must compete. There's no room for negotiation."
Neville let out a strangled noise of despair, his hands gripping his robes as if to keep himself from shaking.
Karkaroff's smile had vanished. His expression was now dark, his frustration bleeding through.
"In that case, I demand we be allowed to re-enter our students," he snapped.
"We will keep submitting names until every school has two champions. That would be fair, wouldn't it, Dumbledore?"
But Bagman shook his head. "I'm afraid that won't work, Karkaroff. The Goblet of Fire has already extinguished itself. It won't reignite until the next tournament."
Karkaroff's face twisted with fury. "Then Durmstrang will never participate again!" he thundered.
"We held endless meetings, negotiated every detail, and yet this is what happens?"
He slammed his fist onto the table, rattling the silverware.
His normally composed demeanor had completely unraveled—his eyes were bloodshot, his breath coming in sharp bursts.
"Mr. Karkaroff, please—calm down," Ethan said, stepping forward cautiously.
But Karkaroff's fury turned on him in an instant.
"Shut up!" he spat.
"Don't think that just because of—them—I have to tolerate you."
The words had barely left his mouth before his expression shifted.
A terrible realization dawned on him, draining the color from his face.
Silence blanketed the room.
Karkaroff looked as if he wanted to take the words back, but it was too late.
His right arm trembled violently, and in a desperate attempt to steady it, he clutched it with his other hand.
His knuckles turned white from the pressure.
Ethan narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean by that, Karkaroff?"
His voice was quiet but sharp as a blade.
Karkaroff swallowed hard, his entire posture rigid with fear.
"I— I drank too much," he muttered, but his voice lacked conviction.
His expression was twisted, as though he was battling some invisible force within himself.
"I misspoke."
The Karkaroff who had been so aggressive moments ago now seemed to shrink before their eyes.
"I— I need to rest," he stammered.
"I'm not feeling well."
The tremor in his arm grew worse.
Sweat beaded on his forehead as he forced himself toward the door, each step heavy and unsteady.
Krum, looking deeply unsettled, stepped forward to support him. Without so much as a glance at the others, he guided Karkaroff out of the room.
The heavy wooden door swung shut behind them.
The remaining occupants of the room exchanged uneasy glances.
No one spoke, but they all knew the same thing—Karkaroff was terrified of something.
And whatever it was, it wasn't just the tournament.