# **October 31st – Hogwarts Great Hall, Halloween Feast**
The Great Hall looked like Halloween had gotten into a fight with a interior design magazine and somehow both had won. Floating jack-o'-lanterns bobbed through the air like orange, grinning satellites, each one carved with the kind of artistic flair that suggested the castle's house-elves either had way too much free time or some serious artistic training. The enchanted ceiling showed off storm clouds that looked suspiciously like they'd been hired from central casting—all dramatic lightning and swirling mist that screamed "ominous foreshadowing ahead!"
And right in the center of this magical chaos? The Goblet of Fire sat on its pedestal like the world's most temperamental cosmic judge, blue flames dancing inside it with the restless energy of someone who'd had way too much coffee and was now making life-altering decisions for other people.
Every thirty seconds or so, some brave soul would sneak a glance at the thing, then immediately look away like they'd been caught staring at their professor's browser history. Because apparently even magical artifacts deserved privacy when they were busy ruining lives.
At the Ravenclaw table, Fleur Delacour looked like she'd stepped straight off the cover of Witch Vogue's "How to Look Effortlessly Perfect While Having an Internal Crisis" issue. Her midnight-blue dress probably cost more than most people's houses and fit her like it had been sewn by angels with really good taste and access to the finest French silk. The silver embroidery caught the candlelight and threw it back in patterns that made nearby students forget basic motor functions like chewing and breathing.
But underneath all that Parisian perfection? Her heart was doing its best impression of a caffeinated hummingbird.
"You know," said Celestine Dubois, lounging in her chair with the kind of casual elegance that made other people feel like they were wearing potato sacks, "for someone who 'as been training like ze world is ending for four months, you seem remarkably..." She paused, watching Fleur's white-knuckled grip on her goblet. "Tense is not ze right word. More like... ready to murder someone with your bare 'ands if zey so much as breathe wrong."
Cel had that whole effortlessly-cool-French-girl thing down to an art form that probably should've been illegal. Dark hair that somehow looked both perfectly styled and like she'd just rolled out of bed (in a good way), cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and the kind of smile that suggested she found the entire universe mildly entertaining but was too polite to laugh directly at it.
"I am perfectly calm," Fleur replied, her French accent making even obvious lies sound like poetry. Though the way she was gripping her goblet suggested she was either trying to turn silver into a new shape through pure willpower or extract precious metals using only manual pressure. "I am just... focused on ze task at 'and."
"Ma chérie," Cel said, helping herself to another piece of treacle tart with the air of someone who'd never counted a calorie in her life, "if you squeeze zat poor goblet any 'arder, you are going to create ze world's first two-dimensional silverware. And zen ze 'ouse-elves will 'ave very strong words with you about property damage."
A nearby Ravenclaw sixth-year choked on his pumpkin juice. Whether from Cel's comment or from prolonged exposure to two French goddesses casually destroying his ability to form coherent thoughts, it was anyone's guess.
"Besides," Cel continued, dark eyes sparkling with the kind of mischief that had probably gotten her in trouble since she was old enough to form complete sentences, "you keep staring at zose doors like you are expecting someone very specific to walk through zem. Someone tall, mysterious, and wearing armor zat gleams like captured sunlight, perhaps?"
Fleur's cheeks took on the faintest pink tinge, which on her porcelain complexion looked like sunrise on fresh snow. "I 'ave no idea what you are talking about."
"Bien sûr," Cel nodded with exaggerated solemnity. "And I am ze Queen of England. Your Royal 'Ighness," she added to herself with a little wave. "But seriously, ma belle, if zis mysterious knight of yours shows up and sees what you 'ave become..." She gestured at Fleur with her fork like she was conducting an orchestra of obvious facts. "Well, let us just say zat four months of turning yourself into a living weapon 'as 'ad some very... 'ow you say... noticeable improvements."
"'E is not my—"
"Of course not," Cel interrupted cheerfully. "And zat is why you completely transformed your entire existence on ze off chance you might see 'im again. Perfectly normal behavior. Very rational."
Before Fleur could craft a properly indignant response that didn't involve admitting Cel was absolutely right, Dumbledore rose from the head table like a benevolent wizard-king who'd been waiting his whole life for this exact moment.
The old man had to be at least a hundred and fifty, but he moved with the kind of spry energy that suggested either really good genes or some seriously effective anti-aging potions. His navy robes were practically conservative by his usual standards—no moving stars, no color-changing fabric, just good old-fashioned deep blue that somehow made his silver beard look even more magnificent than usual.
The moment Dumbledore stood up, the Great Hall fell silent with the speed of students who'd learned through painful experience that when the headmaster had something to say, it was usually either life-changing or about to make their academic careers significantly more complicated.
"My dear students," Dumbledore began, his voice carrying that particular blend of grandfatherly warmth and barely contained magical power that made people want to both give him a hug and hide behind the nearest suit of armor, "the moment we have all been waiting for has finally arrived."
He paused, letting the words settle over the crowd like a blanket made of pure anticipation and teenage anxiety.
"The Goblet of Fire," he continued, gesturing toward the flaming artifact with the kind of dramatic flair that suggested he'd been practicing this speech in his mirror, "will now select our three champions. When your name is called—assuming, of course, that it is called—you should come forward to receive congratulations, instructions, and possibly some very important information about the nature of what you've just volunteered for."
Another pause. The man really knew how to work a room.
"Our chosen champions will then retire to the chamber behind the head table for a private discussion about the First Task." His smile took on a slightly sharper edge. "I believe some... clarification... regarding certain details will be necessary."
That got everyone's attention. Whispers rippled through the hall like dominoes falling in slow motion.
At the Slytherin table, Viktor Krum sat with his Durmstrang classmates looking like a statue carved from solid brooding. The guy was built like someone had taken the concept of "Quidditch superstar" and decided to make it three-dimensional—broad shoulders that could probably support small aircraft, dark hair that somehow managed to look both perfectly styled and completely effortless, and an expression that suggested he was mentally calculating the aerodynamics of everyone in the room.
"Does he ever smile?" whispered a Ravenclaw girl sitting two seats down from Fleur.
"I heard he smiled once," her friend replied in equally hushed tones. "In Bulgaria. There were witnesses, but they all died of shock."
"Eastern European Quidditch players," Cel observed, following their gaze. "Zey are all ze same—beautiful, brooding, and with ze emotional range of a particularly dramatic gargoyle."
The Goblet of Fire chose that exact moment to make its grand entrance into the evening's entertainment. The blue flames inside suddenly roared upward like someone had just fed it a diet of pure magical energy and enthusiasm, painting the entire Great Hall in flickering orange and gold light that made everyone look like they were part of the world's most expensive theater production.
The ancient wood pulsed with power, magic crackling around it like barely controlled lightning having a really good day. Students in the front rows actually leaned back in their chairs, some primitive part of their brains recognizing the Goblet as the kind of magical artifact that could probably rearrange their molecular structure if it felt like it.
Then, with a sound like a small cannon being fired by someone with a flair for the dramatic, a piece of charred parchment shot from the flames and arced through the air in a perfect trajectory toward the head table.
Dumbledore caught it with the casual ease of someone who'd been catching flying magical documents since before most of these students' grandparents were born. He unfolded the parchment with the kind of theatrical precision that suggested he'd been looking forward to this moment for months.
"The Durmstrang champion," he announced, his voice somehow managing to carry both anticipation and satisfaction in perfectly balanced proportions, "is Viktor Krum!"
The Slytherin table lost its collective mind.
And I mean really lost it—the kind of cheering usually reserved for Quidditch World Cup victories, the discovery of new forms of chocolate, or the announcement that Potions class had been canceled permanently. Students leaped to their feet like someone had just told them they'd all passed their NEWTs without taking them, applauding and whooping like Viktor had just invented a new form of magic instead of simply having his name pulled from a temperamental magical hat.
Even the usually reserved Durmstrang students were grinning and clapping each other on the back with the kind of enthusiasm that suggested they'd been holding their breath for the past hour.
Viktor rose from his seat with the fluid grace of someone who'd been famous since he was fifteen and had learned to carry that weight without letting it crush his soul. He moved through the Great Hall like controlled power wearing really good boots, acknowledging the cheers with subtle nods that somehow managed to be both gracious and completely unimpressed by the whole spectacle.
"Confident, zat one," Cel observed, watching Viktor's progress toward the head table with the clinical interest of someone analyzing a particularly fascinating specimen.
"'E is Viktor Krum," Fleur replied, her eyes tracking the Bulgarian champion's movement. "'E 'as been playing professional Quidditch since 'e was sixteen. Confidence comes with ze territory."
"So does ze ability to catch a Snitch while diving at approximately ze speed of sound," added a Ravenclaw seventh-year who clearly had strong opinions about Quidditch statistics and the physics of magical athletics.
"Also ze ability to look brooding and mysterious while doing it," Cel added thoughtfully. "Very important skill for international sports celebrities."
As Viktor passed the head table and disappeared into the side chamber like he was walking into his own private universe, Dumbledore turned back to the Goblet with the air of someone who was enjoying himself far more than any responsible adult should.
The flames flared again, even brighter this time, reaching toward the enchanted ceiling like they were trying to have a conversation with the storm clouds. Another piece of parchment launched itself into the air with even more dramatic flair than the first, spinning and tumbling like it was auditioning for the world's most theatrical postal service.
Dumbledore snatched it from the air with a flourish that would've made professional Quidditch players jealous.
"The Beauxbatons champion," he called out, his voice somehow managing to carry anticipation, satisfaction, and just a hint of grandfatherly pride all at the same time, "is Fleur Delacour!"
Time did that weird thing where it slows down and speeds up simultaneously, like someone had put the universe on the wrong playback setting. The Great Hall erupted in applause—polite and respectful from most tables, enthusiastic from the Ravenclaws who'd gotten to know her over the past day, and distinctly appreciative from every male student old enough to have figured out that girls were considerably more interesting than Quidditch statistics.
But Fleur heard it all like she was underwater, like the sound was reaching her through several feet of magical cotton wool. This was it. Actual, official proof that four months of relentless training, of transforming herself from decorative princess to something considerably more dangerous, had actually worked.
The Goblet of Fire—an ancient magical artifact that had been selecting champions for centuries and probably had standards higher than her mother's expectations—had deemed her worthy.
"Allez-y," Cel whispered, her hand briefly touching Fleur's wrist with the kind of gentle encouragement usually reserved for people about to jump off cliffs or ask someone to the Yule Ball. "You earned zis, ma chérie. Now go show zese British children what real magic looks like."
Fleur rose from her seat like liquid mercury that had been given form, consciousness, and access to really expensive French fashion. The midnight-blue silk moved with her like it had been specifically designed for dramatic entrances and making people forget how to breathe properly, while the silver embroidery caught the light and threw it back in patterns that made several students question their life choices.
She walked through the Great Hall like she owned it, had always owned it, and was just now getting around to mentioning that fact to everyone else. Not arrogantly—arrogance was for people who weren't sure of their place in the world and needed to convince everyone else they belonged. This was confidence, pure and distilled, the kind that came from knowing exactly who you were and what you were capable of accomplishing when you set your mind to it.
Whispers followed in her wake like a tide of barely contained teenage fascination:
"Blimey, she's gorgeous..."
"Did you see the way she moves? Like she's floating..."
"I heard she's part Veela..."
"Part? Mate, I think she's full Veela and just being polite about it..."
"Is it getting warm in here, or is that just me?"
"That's just you, and also everyone else with functioning eyeballs."
As she passed the head table, Dumbledore gave her one of those twinkling smiles that somehow managed to convey congratulations, approval, and I know significantly more than I'm letting on about what's going to happen next, which was pretty standard for Dumbledore really.
"Congratulations, Miss Delacour," he said warmly, his voice carrying the kind of genuine pleasure that made her feel like maybe, just maybe, she'd actually accomplished something worth celebrating. "Through that door, if you please. Mr. Krum is waiting, and I believe you two will have much to discuss."
The champions' chamber turned out to be smaller and considerably more comfortable than Fleur had expected—leather chairs arranged around a fireplace that crackled with the kind of perfect magical warmth that never got too hot or too cold, tapestries on the walls depicting various historical moments that probably involved significantly less death than the current Tournament was likely to feature, and an atmosphere that whispered this is where important magical business gets conducted by people who know what they're doing.
Viktor Krum occupied one of the leather chairs like he was posing for a sculpture titled "Brooding International Sports Celebrity Contemplates the Inherent Meaninglessness of Fame." When Fleur entered, he glanced up with the kind of polite acknowledgment that suggested he recognized her existence without being particularly excited about sharing breathing space.
"Congratulations," he said in heavily accented English, his voice carrying the kind of deep resonance that probably made Quidditch commentators swoon and teenage girls question their life priorities.
"Merci," Fleur replied, settling into the chair opposite him with the practiced grace of someone who'd never met a piece of furniture she couldn't make look elegant. "And to you as well. Zough I suppose for someone like you, zis is just anozzer competition, non?"
Viktor's mouth quirked in what might have been the ghost of a smile, or possibly just a facial muscle spasm. With his level of brooding expertise, it was hard to tell.
"Is different kind of competition," he said, his Bulgarian accent making every word sound like it carried the weight of ancient mountains and really good wine. "Usually, vhen I compete, vorst zat happens is I fall off broom and embarrass myself in front of thousands of people. Here..." He shrugged, a gesture that somehow managed to convey both resignation and anticipation. "Here, is actual danger. Real danger. Ze kind vhere people sometimes do not come home for dinner."
"You are not concerned?" Fleur asked, genuinely curious. She'd expected someone with his reputation to be either completely confident or doing a really good job of pretending to be completely confident. This honest acknowledgment of potential mortality was... refreshing.
"Vould be stupid not to be concerned," Viktor replied with the kind of matter-of-fact honesty that suggested he'd given this considerable thought. "But also... is opportunity, da? To prove zat I am more than just guy who flies around chasing golden ball for living. Zat I can handle real challenges, not just sports entertainment for people who 'ave nothing better to do vith zeir Saturday afternoons."
Fleur studied him with the kind of analytical interest she usually reserved for particularly complex spellwork. "You do not enjoy ze fame?"
"Fame is..." Viktor paused, searching for the right words in his second language. "Fame is like being very tall. Is useful sometimes, makes certain things easier. But is also burden. People expect things. They vant you to be certain vay, do certain things. And vhen you do not..." Another shrug. "Vell. Then they decide you are disappointing and move on to next person to disappoint them."
"Zat sounds... exhausting," Fleur said, and meant it.
"Da. Is very exhausting. So ven opportunity comes to do something real, something zat matters..." His dark eyes met hers with surprising intensity. "Is chance to remember who you are vhen nobody is vatching and cheering."
---
# **Meanwhile, back in the Great Hall**
If you've never seen a 115-year-old wizard trying to look innocent while orchestrating what was basically magical identity theft on a cosmic scale, you're missing out. Albus Dumbledore stood at the head table like a conductor who'd just replaced all the sheet music with explosive runes and was really looking forward to the finale.
On the outside? Total picture of serene authority. Twinkling eyes, grandfatherly smile, the whole "wise mentor" package that made people want to trust him with their deepest secrets and possibly their life savings.
On the inside? He was basically juggling flaming chainsaws while riding a unicycle across a tightrope suspended over a pit of very cranky dragons. And loving every second of it.
Two champions down. One to go. Then the real fun would start.
The Goblet of Fire was putting on quite a show too, flames dancing like they'd been taking lessons from professional entertainers. Students leaned forward in their seats with the kind of anticipation usually reserved for the last five minutes of a Quidditch match when the score was tied and both Seekers had spotted the Snitch.
The Hufflepuff table looked like they were all trying to telepathically will their candidates' names into existence. If collective wishful thinking had any actual power, half their house would've been champions by now.
"Come on, come on," muttered a sixth-year Hufflepuff, gripping her goblet so hard her knuckles were white. "Please let it be one of ours. Just once."
"When's the last time a Hufflepuff won anything important?" asked her friend.
"Hey! We won the House Cup in—"
"That was eighty-seven years ago."
"Still counts."
The Goblet's flames roared higher, twisted into a spectacular spiral of orange and gold, then spat out its third piece of parchment like an overexcited carnival game. Dumbledore caught it with the casual ease of someone who could probably catch falling meteors if he put his mind to it.
He unfolded the paper with theatrical precision, eyes scanning the name like he was reading it for the first time instead of having known exactly what it would say since roughly three in the morning when he'd been sneaking around his own castle like a very tall, very beardy ninja.
"The champion for Hogwarts School," he announced, letting the moment stretch like premium taffy, "Cedric Diggory!"
The Hufflepuff table didn't just celebrate. They detonated.
Students leaped to their feet with the kind of wild enthusiasm usually seen when someone announces free ice cream for life or that exams have been permanently cancelled. The cheering was so loud that several of the floating jack-o'-lanterns started swaying dangerously, and one particularly excited first-year actually fell clean off the bench and had to be hauled back up by his friends.
"CEDRIC! CEDRIC! CEDRIC!" they chanted, banging their goblets against the table in a rhythm that probably violated several noise ordinances.
Cedric Diggory rose from his seat like he was being lifted by invisible angels with really good taste in dramatic timing. At seventeen, he was what happened when genetics, good nutrition, and probably some kind of specialized charm work all decided to collaborate on the same project. Six-foot-three of pure golden retriever energy wrapped up in a body that looked like it had been personally sculpted by Michelangelo during a particularly inspired afternoon.
He flashed that trademark Diggory grin—the one that made professors automatically add house points and caused at least three different girls to sigh so loudly it was audible from the Ravenclaw table.
"Did you see that smile?" whispered a fourth-year Ravenclaw to her friend. "That's not fair. That should be illegal."
"I know, right? Nobody's teeth should be that perfect naturally."
"Maybe it's a family thing. Like, genetically enhanced dental structure."
"Stop analyzing his teeth and just appreciate the view."
Cedric handled the attention like he'd been born for it, which he probably had. He clapped shoulders, distributed handshakes like he was running for magical office, and actually caught a second-year who launched himself into what could generously be called a flying tackle-hug.
"Easy there, Jamie," Cedric laughed, steadying the kid with Quidditch-trained reflexes. "Save some energy for cheering during the actual Tournament, yeah?"
"You're gonna crush it!" the second-year declared with the absolute certainty that only twelve-year-olds could manage. "You're gonna make those other schools cry!"
"Well," Cedric said, ruffling the kid's hair, "I'll certainly try not to embarrass us all too badly."
A seventh-year Hufflepuff snorted. "Embarrass us? Mate, you're basically Hogwarts' answer to a recruitment poster. 'Join our school! Our students look like they fell out of a fantasy novel!'"
"And they're modest too," added another student with a grin.
Cedric made his way toward the front of the hall with the easy confidence of someone who'd never met a situation he couldn't charm his way through. His stride was all casual athlete grace—the kind of walk that suggested he could probably leap over the head table if he felt like showing off, but was too polite to actually do it.
As he passed the Slytherin table, a fifth-year muttered, "Of course it's Pretty Boy Perfect. Couldn't be anyone with actual personality flaws."
Her friend rolled her eyes. "You're just jealous because he's nice AND good-looking AND talented. Some people get all the luck."
"I'm not jealous," the first girl protested. "I'm just saying, it's statistically unfair for one person to be that... that..."
"Annoyingly perfect?"
"Exactly!"
A nearby Ravenclaw turned around. "You know he volunteers at St. Mungo's on weekends, right? Reads to the long-term patients."
Both Slytherins groaned in unison.
Dumbledore greeted Cedric at the front with the kind of warm smile usually reserved for favored grandchildren who'd just done something particularly endearing.
"Congratulations, Mr. Diggory," he said, eyes twinkling like he'd just won a particularly satisfying bet with himself. "Through that door, if you please. Do try not to trip on your way in—there's nothing quite so anticlimactic as face-planting into destiny."
Cedric chuckled, the sound rich and warm and probably capable of melting chocolate at twenty paces. "I'll do my best, Professor. Though if I do trip, I promise to make it look heroic. Maybe add a little roll at the end, stick the landing."
"That," Dumbledore said, looking absolutely delighted, "is precisely the attitude that will serve you well. Though perhaps save the gymnastics for the actual Tournament tasks."
"Noted, sir." Cedric sketched a small bow that managed to be both respectful and playful at the same time. "Wish me luck with the other champions. I hear the Beauxbatons girl could probably duel a dragon to a standstill."
"Indeed. Miss Delacour is... formidable. As is Mr. Krum, though in rather different ways." Dumbledore's expression grew slightly more serious. "Remember, Mr. Diggory—this Tournament isn't just about magical ability. It's about character under pressure. Be yourself, and you'll do splendidly."
"Thank you, Professor. That's... actually really helpful advice."
Cedric disappeared through the door with a final wave to his still-cheering house, and the Great Hall settled into the pleasant, satisfied buzz of a job well done. Three champions selected, tradition upheld, everyone could go to bed happy and—
Oh, who was he kidding?
The Goblet's flames suddenly roared upward like someone had just fed it a particularly spicy pepper. The fire twisted and writhed, cycling through colors that shouldn't have been possible—electric blue, deep crimson, brilliant gold, a shade of green that made several students instinctively step backward.
The ancient chalice shook on its pedestal, magic crackling around it in violent arcs that looked less like ceremony and more like the prelude to a really spectacular explosion.
Students gasped, pointed, and made the kind of nervous sounds that indicated their fight-or-flight responses were having a serious debate about which option to go with.
"Er," said a third-year Gryffindor, "is it supposed to do that?"
"Definitely not," replied a seventh-year Ravenclaw who'd obviously read way too much about Tournament history. "That's the kind of magical malfunction that usually ends with someone needing to regrow their eyebrows."
"Should we run?" asked the Gryffindor.
"Probably. But I really want to see what happens next."
"Same."
BANG!
A fourth piece of parchment shot from the flames like it had been fired from a particularly enthusiastic cannon. It arced high—higher than the others, spinning through the air with the kind of dramatic flair that suggested even the universe was getting in on the theatrical mood.
The silence that followed was the kind usually associated with natural disasters, unexpected dragon sightings, or the moment right before someone very important announced something that was going to change everything forever.
Dumbledore caught the parchment with the same casual ease he'd shown for the others, but those watching closely might have noticed the slight upturn at the corner of his mouth—the expression of a man who was working very hard not to look like he'd just won the magical equivalent of the lottery.
Inside his head, he was practically cackling with glee. Perfect. Absolutely, magnificently perfect. Even he couldn't have choreographed it better.
Outwardly, he arranged his features into an expression of deep, troubled concern. Furrowed brow, slightly parted lips, the very picture of a wise old wizard confronting something completely unprecedented and mildly alarming.
"It appears," he said slowly, his voice carrying just the right note of confused authority, "that the Goblet has selected a fourth champion."
The gasps that followed could probably have been heard from the Astronomy Tower. Students turned to each other with expressions that ranged from excitement to horror to the kind of morbid fascination usually reserved for particularly gruesome History of Magic lessons.
"Wait, wait, wait," said a Slytherin prefect, holding up her hands like she could physically stop the chaos through sheer force of will. "That's not how this works. Three schools, three champions. It's been that way for centuries."
"Maybe it's broken?" suggested a Hufflepuff hopefully. "Like, magically malfunctioning? Could happen to any ancient artifact, right?"
A Ravenclaw who'd clearly read entirely too much about magical theory shook her head. "The Goblet doesn't break. It's been enchanted with preservation charms that would make a pyramid jealous. If it's selecting a fourth champion, it's because it thinks there should be a fourth champion."
"But that's impossible!"
"Yeah, well, so is turning into a cat, but McGonagall does it every Tuesday."
Up at the staff table, Professor McGonagall was giving Dumbledore the kind of look that could strip paint. "Albus," she said quietly, "what exactly have you done this time?"
Dumbledore's expression was the very picture of wounded innocence. "My dear Minerva, I haven't the faintest idea what you're implying. I am as surprised by this development as anyone."
"Surprised, my tartan hat," McGonagall muttered. "You get that look when you're particularly pleased about something devious."
"I assure you, I have no idea what look you're referring to," Dumbledore replied, eyes twinkling so hard they could have powered the castle's lighting. "This is simply my face."
"That," said Professor Snape from McGonagall's other side, "is your 'I have successfully manipulated reality to my satisfaction' face. I've seen it enough times to recognize it."
"Severus, really. Such accusations. Next you'll be suggesting I somehow planned this entire—"
"Oh, you absolutely planned this," McGonagall interrupted. "The question is why."
Dumbledore turned back to the parchment in his hands, studying it with the kind of careful attention he might give to a particularly complex piece of ancient magic. The hall had fallen completely silent, every student straining to hear what impossible name could have emerged from an artifact that wasn't supposed to be able to select a fourth champion.
He lifted his gaze, scanning the sea of expectant faces with the measured pace of a master storyteller building to his climax.
"The fourth champion," he announced, his voice carrying clearly through the hushed hall, "representing... special circumstances..."
The pause stretched like expensive silk, pulling every person in the room forward with anticipation so thick you could practically spread it on toast.
Dumbledore's eyes found the great doors at the far end of the hall, as if he expected someone to walk through them at any moment.
His voice carried the weight of destiny itself when he finally spoke the name that would change everything:
"Harry Potter."
---
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