If exploring magic is like climbing a tower, without mention where each core power mastered is a step upward, then Voldemort's inability to grasp "love" is like missing a critical step, dooming him to an incomplete foundation no matter how high he climbs.
"Is this the only way he could think of? Is that the price of losing 'love'?" Dylan glanced at Dumbledore. "Professor, can I put it this way—when Voldemort uses Harry's blood to revive, he might gain the ability to harm Harry, but that's all it is: the ability."
He paused, organizing his thoughts. "In reality, he'd become part of Harry's magical protection, bound by the same contract."
"In other words, he's no different from Harry's aunt and uncle in the contract's framework. And because he willingly joins it, Harry's protection could last even longer?"
"Oh?" Dumbledore leaned forward, eyes gleaming, his circling thumb pausing. "You've thought this far, Dylan?"
"Here's how I see it," Dylan said, meeting his gaze with a faint smile. "If Voldemort uses Harry's blood to return, the protection and contract in that blood would transfer to him."
"But what he thinks is a loophole to harm Harry is actually a trap. It's like he's crawled inside an eggshell, only to find himself stuck, unable to reach the yolk."
Dylan traced the contract's structure in the air with his finger. "He becomes part of the shell's inner lining, forced to uphold Harry's protection but never touching its core. As long as he can't reach the essence, he can't truly kill Harry."
"That's one way to see it," Dumbledore nodded, his approval evident. "Go on."
"Of course, what Voldemort thinks he'll achieve and what actually happens are two different things," Dylan said, emphasizing the point. "You mentioned the distinction between adulthood and childhood—that's key."
"The original contract was tied to Harry's age, expiring when he comes of age, a fixed milestone."
"But now, with Voldemort's revival, he's part of the 'eggshell,'" Dylan's voice quickened. "He's closer to the shell than Harry, and his 'rebirth' changes things."
A smile tugged at Dylan's lips. "Once Voldemort revives with Harry's blood, we start the clock from his 'rebirth.'"
He paused, steadying his tone. "Thanks to Voldemort's 'help,' the contract's expiration resets to his new 'birth.' Harry's protection could last another seventeen years, until the reborn Voldemort 'comes of age.'"
"Magic's quite something, isn't it?" Dumbledore's smile deepened, his eyes crinkling.
"Always thought so," Dylan said, recalling the joy of his magical studies.
"But," Dumbledore's smile faded, his tone heavier, "Harry's not his only target."
Dylan pointed at himself. "Me, right?"
"Exactly," Dumbledore nodded firmly. "You and Harry have disrupted his plans time and again. He's got you both in his sights."
"He wants Harry's blood to break that mysterious protection. Your blood, though, he likely wants to boost his own power."
Dumbledore added, "You've got unique magical gifts, and he's skilled at exploiting blood magic. I've positioned you as a young leader, and the professors haven't hidden your talents. He's bound to target you."
"Not surprising," Dylan said. "Magic's boundaries blur the deeper you go. His expertise in blood magic makes this predictable."
But who'd end up draining whose power? That was the question.
"Speaking of which, I've barely studied that Horcrux lately, not wanting to let Slytherin out. Maybe it's time to release it and poke around with a new Horcrux."
"Shame Voldemort's not at Durmstrang," Dumbledore sighed regretfully. "We could've gleaned more from Barty Jr.'s memories."
"Knowing he's after me and Harry is already a big win," Dylan said with a smile. "We can prepare now instead of reacting later. Thanks for the heads-up, Professor."
Despite Dylan's frequent talks with Harry, Draco, and Cedric, helping them process and cope, the trio felt an invisible pressure clinging to them like a veil over the next week.
Yet, their popularity skyrocketed. Students stopped them in the corridors with cheers of encouragement. Younger Gryffindors mobbed Harry and Dylan with questions, Slytherin upperclassmen clapped Draco's shoulder, urging him not to embarrass the house, and Hufflepuffs cheered Cedric everywhere.
Even Ravenclaws gave thumbs-ups, a rare cross-house camaraderie.
This "Hogwarts Champion" bond tied the houses together, but it also intensified the pressure. What if someone messed up the first task? Would it shatter this newfound unity and revert the houses to their old divisions?
At breakfast, Harry poked at his fried egg, appetite gone. Ron, opposite him, built a sandwich, piling bacon and sausage between wholewheat slices, drowning it in gravy that dripped down the sides.
"Why worry so much? Think about Snape," Ron mumbled through a mouthful, adding a tomato slice. "Even if we screw up, it's not the end of the world. Things'll just go back to normal."
He took a huge bite, crumbs falling on his shirt. "And it might not. Snape hasn't changed, has he? Same old Snape."
Harry snapped out of it, nodding. Ron was right—Snape was unchanging. Yesterday in Potions, Snape docked Gryffindor five points for Harry's slightly dark potion, snidely comparing him to his father.
Ron, Harry's desk partner, always caught the fallout. Snape would glare at him, snap, "Why didn't you warn Potter? Clearly, you're just as careless," and deduct another five points.
Harry figured Snape would never change. If Snape ever smiled and said, "Good luck, Potter," Harry'd whip out his wand, suspecting a Polyjuice-disguised Death Eater.
Hermione, frowning at Ron's casual advice, opened her mouth but hesitated, swallowing her words. Arguing might stress Harry more.
Instead, she softened her tone. "Harry, don't be so hard on yourself. You've been working hard—researching, practicing spells, covering every angle."
"Exactly!" Ron dropped his sandwich, nodding vigorously. "We've dug up tons of info on dangerous creatures, from binding spells to healing charms. Something's bound to work!"
Hermione nodded, pleased, and reminded him, "You haven't forgotten our plan, right? After breakfast, we're meeting in the fourth-floor classroom to pool our research and strategize."
"No way I'd forget!" Harry perked up, his gloom fading. He shoveled egg, sausage, and mash into his mouth, eager to fuel up for the meeting.
Dylan, beside Neville, smiled. "Like I said, no need to stress. It's just a trial."
Draco, Harry, and Dylan entered the fourth-floor classroom just after Cedric, who was already there, arranging desks into a makeshift long table, complete with blank parchment and quills.
"My dad pulled some strings," Cedric said, placing a stack of scrolls on the table. "He got these from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures—detailed files on 5X-level beasts."
He unrolled the top scroll. "Dragons are the most likely. They're in reserves worldwide, easy to source, and a classic high-stakes challenge."
He handed scrolls to the others. Harry and Draco's jaws dropped at the dense text and sketches—dragon species, habitats, behaviors, weaknesses, meticulously compiled.
"Cedric, this is incredible," Dylan said, flipping through a scroll, genuinely impressed.
"It's nothing," Cedric said, blushing slightly. "Dad had access to the archives. Copying and organizing took some time, but memorizing every species isn't practical. We should narrow it down."
"You mean, pick creatures tied to each school's region?" Draco caught on, looking up.
"Exactly," Cedric nodded. "Crouch said they're adjusting for more champions, so they'll save time by choosing local beasts for fairness."
"For Durmstrang, probably Swedish Short-Snout or Norwegian Ridgeback," Draco said, pointing to a line in the scroll. "Ridgebacks are common in Scandinavia and aggressive."
"For Hogwarts," Harry added, scanning the page, "Common Welsh Green or Hebridean Black. Both are local."
"Beauxbatons, in France, likely Hungarian Horntail," Dylan said, tapping a sketch of a black dragon.
"No dragon's easy," Cedric said with a wry smile. "Especially the Hebridean Black or Hungarian Horntail—they're brutal."
Harry read aloud, frowning, "'Hungarian Horntail: the most dangerous dragon. Scales resist most magic, venomous tail spikes, highly aggressive, fifty feet long?'"
He gestured. "That's, what, four or five stories tall? With a fifty-foot fire range? It's a flying fortress."
Dropping the scroll, Harry looked at the others. "If we face one, the best move is…"
"Flying broomsticks!" Harry, Draco, and Cedric said in unison.
Cedric chuckled. "Great minds think alike."
"Dragons, especially top-tier ones, have few weaknesses. Magic barely scratches them," Harry said, scratching his head. "Dylan mentioned broomsticks are great for maneuvering around dragons, and it makes sense."
"The judges probably won't make us kill it," Draco added confidently. "Like the selection tests, we'll likely need to evade it for a set time or complete a task."
"Wait, I just realized something!" Harry's eyes lit up. "We're all Quidditch players! Our broom skills give us an edge over the other schools' champions."
"Not me," Dylan said.
"Uh, but you're way better than us," Harry added quickly. "I know it."
Dylan shrugged.
"There's something else to consider," Draco said, gripping the scroll tightly, his eyes narrowing with disdain. "He probably thought of this too."
Harry nodded, instantly knowing Draco meant Karkaroff. The man who tampered with the Goblet wouldn't hesitate to rig the tasks.
"Would he go that far?" Cedric frowned, tapping the table. "He's a headmaster. Doesn't he care about reputation?"
"Reputation?" Draco scoffed, throwing his hands up. "He tossed that out the window."
He glanced at Dylan. "You being the 'fourth champion' is Karkaroff's doing, right? Nobody's saying it out loud to save face, but we all know. With him, always assume the worst."
Dylan blinked at Draco, amused. The guy was sharp, probably from growing up around schemers.
"What if Karkaroff objects?" Harry scratched his chin, uncertain. "Krum's their champion, and he'd benefit from Quidditch-friendly tasks too."
"Whether they pull anything or not, we prepare for everything," Dylan said calmly, raising a hand to quiet them. "If the first task is a dragon and broomsticks are allowed, there's one critical factor."
"What?" Harry, Draco, and Cedric asked in unison, eyes locked on him.
"Size," Dylan said bluntly. "Hungarian Horntails and Norwegian Ridgebacks average fifty feet. Hebridean Blacks are around thirty, Swedish Short-Snouts twenty-five, Welsh Greens eighteen."
He waved his wand, silver mist streaming from its tip, forming a coiled dragon in the corner, wings tucked, still dominating the space.
Cedric stepped back, Harry swallowed hard, and Draco's face darkened. Even as mist, the dragon's size was oppressive.
"That's a Swedish Short-Snout," Dylan said casually, as if describing a chair. "Average size."
"It's massive…" Harry muttered, awestruck. "And it's curled up, wings folded."
"That's mid-sized," Draco said, taking a deep breath, his tone heavy. "A Horntail's twice as big. Its wings could fill the room."
"We can't let it get close," Cedric said, frowning, scanning the dragon's behavior section. "One swipe of its claws or tail is trouble, let alone its fire."
The three stared at the misty dragon, lost in thought, mentally rehearsing evasion, timing, and counterattacks.
The room was silent save for their breathing and the faint hum of the misty dragon's form.
"I might have some practical help," Dylan said, waving his wand. The dragon dissolved into wisps of smoke. "I've got some dragon-related memories I can share."
"Share memories?" Cedric asked, his tone cautious.