CHAPTER 369: THE ARGUMENTS (I)

Harry walked stiffly down the narrow passage, his palms clammy, his heartbeat loud in his ears. The low murmur of the Great Hall faded behind him until all he could hear was the echo of his own footsteps. At the end of the passage he found himself in a smaller chamber lit by a crackling fire.

The other champions were already there.

Cedric stood near the mantelpiece, his expression still stunned but pleased, a faint flush of excitement in his cheeks. Viktor Krum leaned against the wall with his arms folded, face as unreadable as stone. Fleur sat gracefully on a carved chair, her silver hair catching the firelight like threads of liquid moonlight. At the sound of footsteps, she lifted her head, and when her gaze fell upon Harry, her brows arched sharply. A flicker of disbelief crossed her face, quickly hardening into scorn.

"You?" she said, her voice edged with incredulity, the French accent curling around the word. She tossed her head so that her silvery hair rippled over her shoulders, looking him over as though he were some absurd mistake. "But... you are far too young. Zis is... not possible."

Her lips curved in disdain, and she folded her arms across her chest with an elegant finality. "What is zis? Some kind of joke? To place... a little boy among champions? It is an insult to ze Tournament."

Harry had no answer. He only shrugged helplessly, his mouth dry.

Before he could say anything more, footsteps pounded down the passage behind him. The door opened and a crowd of adults swept in: Dumbledore, his robes billowing like deep blue smoke; Professor McGonagall, pale with worry; Snape, sneering as if Harry had committed some personal insult; Madame Maxime, tall and imposing, her satin gown rustling; and Igor Karkaroff, his goatee quivering with outrage.

Trailing with them were two Ministry officials: Ludo Bagman, jovial and pink-faced, practically bouncing on his toes, and Barty Crouch, stiff and grave, his expression carved from stone. Moody clumped in last, his wooden leg thumping heavily, his magical eye whirling in every direction.

And, just behind them, walked Eira. She carried herself with cool composure, her white hair falling neatly over her shoulders, held back by a delicate hairpin adorned with a single red rose—Fleur’s gift, which brightened her hair all the more. Her black Hogwarts robe hung smoothly to her ankles, the green tie patterned with silver filigree of a coiling ciladrine marking her as a student of Slytherin. Her gaze flicked first to Fleur, softening faintly as her lips curved into a smile, before she turned back to the gathering. She came to stand beside Madame Maxime, though her posture leaned ever so subtly closer to Fleur.

"What is this?" Karkaroff barked at once, pointing a shaking finger at Harry. His voice rose with fury, filling the chamber. "What is the meaning of this, Dumbledore? Another Hogwarts champion? Another child? Blatant cheating!"

Madame Maxime’s eyes flashed. "It is outrageous. Zere were rules. One champion for each school. Non? And now... two for Hogwarts?"

"Now, now," Bagman began cheerfully, spreading his hands. "Let’s not be hasty. Surely there’s an explanation—"

"An explanation?" Karkaroff snapped, rounding on him. "Do you take us for fools, Bagman? We agree to a tournament of three schools, three champions, and suddenly Hogwarts produces two? And not only that—a British judge as well? How very convenient! Britain stacks the game with their own!"

Eira’s expression remained serene, but her eyes glittered dangerously at Karkaroff’s accusation. She did not speak yet, waiting.

Crouch’s voice cut through the rising din. "The Goblet of Fire constitutes a binding magical contract. When it spits out a name, that student is obliged to compete. There is no arguing with the Goblet’s choice."

"He is a boy!" Madame Maxime thundered, her jeweled hand gesturing sharply toward Harry. "Look at him! ’E is not of age! ’Ow could his name have entered?"

"Someone must have tricked the Goblet," Karkaroff spat. "Someone here at Hogwarts must have entered the boy’s name. Who? Which professor assisted him? Which of you wanted another chance at victory so badly you would disgrace this tournament?" His gaze swept the room with venom, landing on Snape, McGonagall, and finally Dumbledore.

Snape’s lip curled. "Potter has been breaking rules since the day he set foot in this school. It would surprise me little if he found some way to meddle with the Goblet."

"That is enough, Severus," McGonagall snapped, her cheeks flushing. "Harry Potter is not capable of such advanced magic, nor would he."

"Indeed," Dumbledore said *calmly*(😜), stepping between them. He turned his eyes to Harry, their blue light sharp as steel. "Harry. Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire?"

"No," Harry said quickly, his voice trembling but firm.

"Did you ask an older student to do it for you?"

"No, Professor."

Dumbledore studied him for a long moment. Harry held his gaze desperately. Then Dumbledore nodded and turned back to the room. "He did not."

"Not?" Karkaroff scoffed, his voice rising to a shout. "And you expect us to accept that? A child’s denial, and suddenly we forget that he is here, his name called by the Goblet itself?"

The room erupted once again with arguments.

Madame Maxime’s eyes flashed as she spread her hands wide, her towering figure seeming to fill the chamber.

"Zis is not fair play!" she declared in her rolling French accent. "Rules are rules, and yet you twist zem to suit yourselves. ’Ow can zis be tolerated?"

Karkaroff sneered, his face twisting with outrage as he jabbed a finger at Dumbledore.

"I knew I should never have come here! I should not have trusted these British with my students’ safety. This Tournament is nothing but a trap!"

Bagman hurried forward, flapping his hands in a placating gesture, his smile stretched thin.

"Now, now, Karkaroff, let’s not make this bigger than it is. Nobody’s targeting your school, I assure you! It’s only a—well—a bizarre accident. No reason to panic, no reason at all—"

"Hiccup?" Moody barked, slamming his staff against the floor with a sharp crack. His magical eye whirled toward Karkaroff, fixing on him like a predator.

"Don’t make me laugh. Someone wanted the boy’s name in that Goblet, and I’ll tell you who it smells of—Dark wizards! Plots! Old enemies crawling back from the shadows. Perhaps even one sitting in this very room."

Karkaroff’s pale face flushed scarlet as he rounded on Moody.

"How dare you!" he hissed, his long fingers curling like talons. "You think I would endanger my own school? My own students?"

Moody gave a low, rasping chuckle that sounded more like a growl.

"You’ve done worse before, Karkaroff. We all remember your past. Some of us have the scars to prove it."