"Every student who wants to put their name forward as a Champion must write their full name and school on a piece of parchment and drop it into the Goblet of Fire," Dumbledore said, addressing the students staring eagerly at the tall, blue-flamed cup.

"Anyone wishing to compete has twenty-four hours to do so. Tomorrow night—on Halloween—the Goblet will select the names of the three students it deems most worthy to represent the three schools. Until then, the Goblet will remain in the Entrance Hall, where it will be accessible to all students… of course, to prevent underage students from giving in to temptation, I will draw an Age Line around it. No one under seventeen will be able to cross."

"An Age Line?" Fred's eyes gleamed at the Gryffindor table. "You think Aging Potion would fool it?"

"I doubt anyone under seventeen could actually win," Hermione said firmly.

"Well, you never know," George replied, shaking his head. "People will try—Harry and Cohen definitely will."

"You guys ever consider I might want to give it a go too?" Ron muttered, sounding left out.

"If we encouraged you, Mum would kill us," Fred said, shivering dramatically.

"How dare you push your own brother into such a dangerous tournament!" George added in a perfect imitation of Mrs. Weasley's scolding voice. "I'm coming straight to Hogwarts to drag you home—"

Apparently, that last part hit a nerve with Ron. He stormed off angrily.

"You went too far," Fred said, a bit guilty.

"She's actually said that to him before?" George asked, nervous.

"Second year—remember the Howler?" Harry recalled vividly. "I remember—"

"Go check on him," Hermione urged Fred and George gently.

"Ron'll be okay… I think," Fred said, not sounding confident.

"Will he?" George echoed uncertainly.

Still, they stood up and left the Gryffindor table to follow after Ron.

"Harry, Cohen, you're not actually thinking of trying, are you?" Hermione asked, a bit worried. "If Dumbledore found out, he'd lose it."

"I'm not doing it," Harry shook his head.

"I'm not putting my name in," Cohen said honestly.

He had already tested it out—floated over in his soul form. Dumbledore hadn't drawn the Age Line yet, but that wasn't the main issue. The Goblet of Fire could read a person's intentions when they entered.

And Cohen? Well, he could easily use a Confundus Charm to alter his thoughts and convince himself he was entering for the glory of Azkaban.

But the Goblet couldn't read his mind at all—because the Goblet was designed to choose people, not Dementors.

Its magic operated on a frequency completely incompatible with Cohen's—he couldn't be interpreted as a "living person." As far as the Goblet was concerned, Cohen was no different from a rock.

"Well, that complicates things," Cohen said seriously later that evening.

After the feast, he took the exhausted Hopkins into an empty classroom, back into the trunk. The Count perched nearby with a letter in his claws, but Cohen ignored it for now.

"The Dark Lord wants Harry Potter in the Tournament…" Hopkins murmured. "I came here to make sure his name gets in. When you say it's complicated, you mean the Age Line? I've got ways around that—"

"No," Cohen interrupted. "That's not what I care about. What I care about is whether I can restore the glory of Azkaban. I have to be in the Triwizard Tournament—as Azkaban's last hope."

"You want to enter? Wait—Azkaban?"

Hopkins froze. He looked at Cohen, then at the half-built miniature fortress inside the trunk.

The black walls reminded him of Azkaban. And Cohen was a Dementor…

No kidding. Cohen was the only Dementor in history to attend Hogwarts—and possibly the only one to ever enter the Triwizard Tournament.

Bloody hell, how did that even make sense while still somehow making sense?

"That second-rate cup can't detect me," Cohen said expectantly. "So, you know what that means."

"You want me to put your name in?" Hopkins asked, stunned. ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ novel fire.net

"Harry can be from any other school," Cohen nodded. "But I must be listed as representing Azkaban—because I'm going to win. That honor belongs to my fellow Dementors."

His tone didn't need any Confundus Charm—it was unshakably resolute.

"But I don't feel anything for Azkaban!" Hopkins protested. "If anything, I'm more attached to my Muggle primary school…"

"You went to a Muggle school?" Cohen raised an eyebrow. "I thought all Death Eaters were pure-blood."

"I—I'm a half-blood…" Hopkins stammered.

"That's very noble of you," Cohen said dryly. "How's your mum?"

"She's dead," Hopkins replied stiffly. "Killed by wizards."

"Oh. Your mum's dead."

Cohen paused.

"And then you joined the Death Eaters to go kill other people's mums. Very ambitious of you."

"I didn't want to be bullied!" Hopkins burst out. "You have no idea what it's like—having a Muggle mother! Everyone looked down on us. And my wizard dad—he died tangled in Devil's Snare! My whole life's been a joke! What was I supposed to do? Not join the Death Eaters and just wait for them to show up at my door to take everything I had left? At least this way I was safe! I even got to join in when they robbed other families—watched people scream under the Cruciatus Curse, beg me for mercy—"

The more he ranted, the more twisted his face became.

"I get it. I get it," Cohen said coolly. "No need to relive it all."

"You don't get to judge me—"

"For the record, I wasn't judging," Cohen said calmly. "I said you were ambitious. Also, if you raise your voice one more notch, I'm giving you the Dementor's Kiss right now."

Hopkins immediately snapped out of it.

"I—I didn't mean you…" he mumbled, lowering his voice.

"Let's get back to the point," Cohen continued. "You'll cast votes under two identities—one for Azkaban, one for Koldovstoretz, the Russian school. Don't worry about immersing yourself in the Azkaban persona. I'll handle that with a Confundus Charm."

"Got it, got it," Hopkins nodded quickly.

"This all starts at 10:30 tonight," Cohen said. "Doesn't matter if other students see you—plenty of underage kids are going to try sneaking in tonight anyway."

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