◇
Defense Against the Dark Arts was controlled chaos.
Alastor Moody stomped through the classroom like a thunderstorm in human form. His wooden leg struck the floor with a steady rhythm.
Thump. Crack.
"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" he roared, slamming a hand against a desk.
Students jumped.
His magical eye spun wildly across the room—
Then locked onto Arthur.
And stopped.
The lens vibrated faintly. It whirred, struggling to pierce the dense weight that hung around the boy.
Moody leaned over Arthur's desk.
Up close, he smelled like leather, metal, and old battlefields.
"Reeves," Moody growled, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper that carried through the dead silent room. "My eye says you're hiding something. It says you think this class is for children. What do you say?"
The entire class froze. Hermione stopped breathing. Draco went entirely still.
Arthur didn't even reach for his wand.
He simply looked up at the scarred Auror, the gold rings in his eyes catching the dim light of the dungeon classroom.
"I say your eye is intrusive, Professor."
A pause.
"And it's making a very annoying noise."
Moody froze.
For a second, the class thought Arthur was about to be cursed into oblivion.
Then—
A jagged grin split Moody's heavily scarred face.
"INTRUSIVE, IS IT?"
He barked out a harsh laugh, pulling back. "Ha! At least one of you isn't a sheep."
He turned his back on Arthur, but the magical eye stayed fixed on him, whirring cautiously.
"Keep that edge, Reeves," Moody threw over his shoulder. "You're going to need it."
He limped toward the front of the classroom again, cloak swishing like a storm cloud.
"Now then," he said, voice suddenly quiet.
Too quiet.
Moody reached into his coat and slammed a small glass jar onto the desk.
Inside, something black and chitinous skittered across the glass.
A spider.
Several students recoiled.
Ron made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a dying kettle.
Moody tapped the jar with a thick finger.
"You lot know what these are for, don't you?"
No one answered.
"Good. 'cause we'll be having a review."
He unscrewed the lid.
The spider crawled slowly onto the desk, its legs clicking softly against the wood.
Moody raised his wand.
"First curse."
The class leaned forward.
Even the Slytherins had gone quiet.
From that, Arthur could deduce. The class had happened before.
Moody's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Imperio."
The spider froze.
Then, slowly… it stood on its hind legs.
Moody flicked his wand again.
The spider began marching across the desk like a tiny soldier.
Left. Right. Left.
"Total control," Moody said casually. "Mind, body, choice. Gone."
He turned slowly to face the class.
"Now imagine someone doing that to you."
Moody's magical eye whirred again, sweeping the room.
It paused briefly on Draco. Then Harry.
Then—
Arthur.
For a moment, the spider stopped moving.
Moody frowned slightly, as if something had interrupted the spell.
Arthur hadn't moved.
Hadn't blinked. Hadn't even looked at the spider.
Moody cleared his throat.
"Right."
He canceled the spell with a sharp flick.
The spider collapsed, legs trembling.
"Second curse."
A few students looked pale now.
Neville had gone rigid.
Moody pointed his wand again.
"Crucio."
The spider jerked violently.
Its legs curled inward as it writhed.
Hermione gasped.
Ron muttered, "Blimey—"
Moody kept his wand steady.
"Pain," he said calmly. "Pure pain. No defense once it hits."
The spider convulsed again.
Then—
"Enough."
The word came quietly.
Moody's head snapped around.
Arthur was still seated.
Still calm.
Moody studied him for a long second.
Then the Auror lowered his wand.
The spider fell limp.
Moody's magical eye spun slowly, focusing entirely on Arthur now.
"Sensitive, are we?" Moody said.
Arthur tilted his head slightly.
"I dislike unnecessary cruelty."
A few students glanced nervously between them.
Moody grinned again.
But it was sharper this time.
"Cruelty keeps you alive in my line of work."
Arthur shrugged faintly.
"Or turns you into the kind of monster you're supposed to stop."
A hush dropped over the classroom.
Moody stared at Arthur.
The magical eye whirred loudly.
For a brief moment the Auror's grin disappeared.
Then he barked out another laugh.
"HA!"
He slammed his wooden leg against the floor.
"Good! Excellent!"
Moody swept the spider back into the jar.
"Lesson over!"
Students jumped slightly.
"Remember what you saw today," Moody continued, voice echoing through the classroom.
"These curses are illegal."
He leaned forward slightly.
"But that doesn't mean they won't be used against you."
"Class dismissed!"
Chairs scraped loudly as students hurried to pack their things.
But as Arthur stood to leave, Moody's voice cut through the room again.
"Reeves."
Arthur stopped.
Moody leaned on his desk, studying him with both eyes now.
"You ever seen those curses used before?"
Arthur met his gaze evenly.
"Yes."
Moody's eyebrows rose.
"Where?"
Arthur shouldered his bag.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"Books."
Moody stared at him.
The magical eye spun again.
Arthur turned and walked out of the classroom.
◇◇
Weeks passed.
The air sharpened into something bitter, frost creeping across the castle grounds each morning. But the cold did nothing to slow the fever spreading through Hogwarts. If anything, it only made the anticipation worse.
Every corridor hummed with speculation.
Every table in the Great Hall buzzed with rumors.
Arthur stood with the rest of the Slytherins on the damp lawn outside the castle. The wind cut across the grounds in long, icy gusts, whipping his longer hair across his face.
Most students were huddled inside their cloaks.
Arthur didn't bother.
After Ilvermorny, a Scottish autumn evening barely registered as cold.
Torches burned along the stone steps of the castle, their flames bending wildly in the wind. Hundreds of students had gathered outside, stretching in long house-colored lines across the grass.
Some were bouncing with excitement.
Others were craning their necks toward the sky.
Draco stood beside Arthur, hands buried in his cloak pockets.
"They're late," he muttered.
"They'll arrive when they intend to be seen," Arthur replied.
Draco snorted softly.
Then someone shouted.
"Look!"
Heads tilted upward all across the lawn.
A dark shape was descending from the clouds.
It grew larger.
And larger.
And then the students began gasping.
Massive winged horses burst through the fog, their powerful wings beating against the evening air. Their coats shone pale silver beneath the torchlight, each one the size of a small elephant.
"Merlin," someone whispered.
The creatures descended in perfect formation, their wings stirring the grass and cloaks below as they landed.
They were pulling a carriage.
Not a normal carriage.
A gigantic powder-blue coach, glittering with gold trim and delicate lanterns, rolled down from the sky behind them. Its wheels touched the grass with surprising grace for something so enormous.
Arthur recognized the creatures immediately.
Abraxan.
Rare. Powerful. Temperamental.
And, apparently, incredibly petty.
"I carried that landing. You dragged the left wheel."
The voice echoed in Arthur's mind, heavy and vibrating with a strange, equine arrogance.
Arthur didn't blink. He just watched the lead horse toss its massive, silver mane.
"I dragged the wheel because you veered left over the Alps, you overgrown pigeon," a second voice snapped back from the right side of the yoke. This one sounded deeply exhausted.
"I was adjusting for the headwind! And if you hadn't been dozing off over the Channel—"
"I wasn't dozing. I was resting my eyes. It's freezing on this rock. Tell the Gigantic French woman I want my whiskey."
Arthur's mouth twitched faintly.
Around him, the Hogwarts students were whispering in absolute awe.
"They look like royalty."
"Did you see the horses?"
"I heard they only drink single-malt whiskey."
"And tell her to make it the good stuff," a third horse grumbled to the first, shaking out its wings. "Not that cheap swill from Calais. I'll kick the door in."
Arthur exhaled quietly through his nose, suppressing an actual smile.
The carriage door finally swung open.
Tall figures in pale blue robes began stepping out gracefully onto the lawn, their breath fogging in the cold air.
"Beauxbatons," Draco said quietly.
Arthur watched silently.
The carriage was beautiful.
Elegant.
A flawless display of magical wealth and refinement.
But it was also a spectacle. Designed to impress.
Which meant it had done exactly what it was supposed to.
The crowd buzzed with excitement.
Then—
The lake exploded.
A thunderous roar of water split the night as the surface of the Black Lake heaved upward. Students shouted and stumbled back as waves crashed against the shore.
Something enormous was rising.
Slowly, the dark skeletal masts of a ship broke through the water's surface.
Water cascaded down its hull in roaring sheets, glimmering in the torchlight as though the vessel had clawed its way up from the depths of the lake itself.
A ghost ship.
The massive vessel rocked once on the lake before settling heavily into the water.
A gangplank dropped.
Dark-cloaked figures began marching down toward the shore.
Their uniforms were thick and heavy, lined with deep crimson fur that moved like flowing blood in the wind.
The murmurs across the Hogwarts crowd grew louder.
"Durmstrang," someone breathed.
"Impressive," Draco murmured beside Arthur, watching the students disembark.
Arthur tilted his head slightly, studying the ship.
"It's performative," he said calmly.
Draco glanced sideways.
Arthur watched the last of the water spill from the hull as the ship settled into the lake.
It was a clever trick.
A powerful one.
The amount of magic required to hide and transport something that size beneath the lake was significant.
But it wasn't power.
Power didn't need to announce itself with thunder and spectacle.
Power didn't rise dramatically from the water like a storybook monster.
Power sat quietly in the dark. And waited for you to notice it.
Arthur's gaze drifted across the Durmstrang students walking toward the castle.
Heavy boots. Broad shoulders. Cold eyes.
War students.
He wondered briefly which of them had already learned to kill.
The wind howled again across the lawn.
Behind them, the castle doors opened.
The visiting schools were being welcomed inside.
◇◇◇
The Great Hall had been transformed.
Long house tables stretched beneath a sky of floating candles, their flames drifting lazily through the enchanted night above. The ceiling reflected a cold autumn sky outside, dark clouds moving slowly across the stars.
But the calm illusion did nothing to quiet the hall itself.
The room buzzed.
Students leaned across tables, whispering, pointing toward the high table where the staff had gathered. The visiting students from Beauxbatons had taken seats along one side of the Hall, their pale blue uniforms standing out like frost among the darker Hogwarts robes.
The Durmstrang students were nowhere to be found.
At the center of the high table, Albus Dumbledore rose slowly to his feet.
The Hall quieted almost instantly.
Candlelight caught the rims of his half-moon glasses as he stepped forward to the golden podium.
"Good evening," Dumbledore said warmly, his voice carrying easily through the room.
"Tonight marks a very special occasion in the long history of Hogwarts."
He paused, letting the silence settle.
"After many years of absence, the Triwizard Tournament will once again take place within these castle walls."
The Hall erupted.
Students cheered, some clapping, others shouting questions before they even knew what they were asking.
Dumbledore raised one hand calmly.
The noise faded again.
"This competition," he continued, "is one of the oldest magical traditions shared between our schools. It will involve three champions—one each from Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang."
A ripple of excitement swept across the tables.
Ron Weasley's voice could be heard somewhere down the Gryffindor table.
"Three champions? That's it?"
Beside Arthur, Draco leaned closer.
"Odds aren't great," he muttered.
Arthur didn't respond.
His attention was on the object now being carried forward by Professor McGonagall.
She placed it carefully on the podium.
A simple wooden cup.
But the flames inside it burned with a mesmerizing blue-white glow that seemed almost alive.
A murmur rippled through the Hall.
Dumbledore rested one hand beside the Goblet.
"The Goblet of Fire," he said gently, "is an impartial judge. Any student wishing to compete must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment and place it inside."
Theo leaned across the table slightly.
"So we just… enter?"
Dumbledore's voice hardened slightly.
"But there are rules."
A thin golden line of fire suddenly burst from Dumbledore's wand, racing across the floor in a wide circle around the Goblet.
Gasps echoed through the Hall.
"This is an Age Line," Dumbledore continued calmly.
"No student under the age of seventeen will be able to cross it."
Pansy groaned.
"Oh, that's rubbish."
Draco scoffed quietly.
"Someone will try anyway."
Dumbledore continued.
"And I must stress this with the utmost seriousness."
His voice lowered.
"The moment the Goblet chooses its champions, those chosen will be bound by a magical contract."
The room went still.
"This is not a competition to enter lightly. Once chosen, there is no withdrawal. The tasks you will face will be difficult. Dangerous."
Dumbledore folded his hands calmly.
"So I ask all of you to consider carefully before submitting your name."
The doors at the far end of the Hall swung open.
Every head turned.
The Durmstrang delegation marched in.
Their boots struck the stone floor in slow, heavy rhythm.
At their center walked a tall, broad-shouldered figure whose name half the wizarding world already knew.
Viktor Krum.
The Hall erupted into whispers.
"Is that him?"
"It is!"
"Merlin, he's enormous—"
The Bulgarian Seeker walked with a slightly hunched gait, his heavy steps making him seem almost awkward on the ground. His dark eyes swept across the Hall with the tired boredom of someone far too used to being stared at.
He barely acknowledged the whispers.
His gaze moved across the Ravenclaw table.
The Hufflepuffs.
The Gryffindors—
And then it stopped.
The Slytherin table.
More specifically—
Arthur Reeves.
For a fraction of a second, the chaos of the Hall disappeared from Krum's perception.
Seekers were trained to find the one thing that mattered in the middle of noise.
The Snitch. Or danger.
Arthur sat perfectly still among the restless students around him.
A cold, coiled presence that radiated the quiet certainty of a predator watching a field full of prey.
Krum's instincts sparked immediately.
Recognition.
Arthur lifted his gaze slightly.
The two looked at each other across the Hall.
Neither blinked. Neither looked away.
Krum's expression shifted.
Slowly.
The corner of his mouth curled upward.
A small, knowing smirk.
Arthur didn't smile.
But his eyes sharpened.
Across the Hall, the Bulgarian Seeker gave the slightest nod.
Barely noticeable.
A silent acknowledgment between two competitors who both understood something the rest of the room did not.
Around them, the Hall continued buzzing with excitement.
Students were already arguing about who would enter.
But Arthur watched the Goblet's flames flicker once more.
And thought quietly:
The real game hasn't even started yet.
◇◇◇◇
For twenty-four hours, the Goblet of Fire burned in the center of the Entrance Hall.
It sat upon a narrow pedestal between the marble staircases, the blue-white flames inside it crackling softly like contained lightning. The Age Line surrounding it glowed faintly across the stone floor—a thin ring of shimmering gold that pulsed whenever someone approached.
Students came in waves.
Seventh-years stood in clusters, whispering nervously while clutching folded pieces of parchment. Sixth-years argued loudly about who had the best chance. Younger students crowded the railings of the staircases above, leaning dangerously far over just to watch.
Arthur stood halfway up the marble staircase, one hand resting on the cold stone banister.
He had been there for almost ten minutes.
Watching.
Each student approached the line carefully, stepping over it with the exaggerated caution of someone walking through an invisible trap. Then they would approach the pedestal, drop their name into the blue flames, and retreat while the crowd reacted with cheers or mockery.
It was almost ceremonial.
A ritual of teenage ambition.
Arthur felt nothing.
Below him, the Goblet's fire flickered and twisted like it was breathing.
Fred and George Weasley marched forward together with the confidence of men who had already decided this was a brilliant idea.
The crowd buzzed with anticipation.
Arthur leaned slightly against the railing.
Auren muttered quietly. "This should be entertaining."
Fred winked dramatically at the watching students.
"Don't worry, everyone," he called loudly. "We've done extensive magical research."
George nodded solemnly.
"Hours of it."
Both twins lifted their feet—
And stepped across the Age Line.
For exactly half a second.
Then the line exploded.
A blast of golden magic erupted outward like a shockwave, launching both twins backward through the air. They slammed onto the stone floor with identical groans.
The Entrance Hall erupted into laughter.
But the laughter doubled when Fred and George scrambled to their feet.
Long white beards had erupted from their chins, flowing down to their knees like something out of a wizarding portrait.
George tugged on his beard in horror.
Fred looked at his brother.
"Well," Fred said thoughtfully.
George sighed.
"I suppose we should've expected that."
Even Arthur exhaled faintly through his nose.
Above the noise, someone approached the staircase.
Arthur didn't need to turn to know who it was.
The Golden Trio stopped beside him.
Harry leaned on the railing beside Arthur, watching the Goblet below.
Ron folded his arms.
Hermione kept glancing between Arthur and the fire like she was trying to solve an equation that refused to balance.
Ron broke the silence first.
"So," he said casually.
Arthur didn't look at him.
"So?" Arthur replied.
Ron gestured toward the Goblet. "You're not going to try?"
Arthur finally turned his head slightly.
"Try what?"
Ron shrugged. "Getting past the Age Line."
Arthur looked back at the Goblet.
Ron continued, a hint of challenge creeping into his voice.
"I mean, if anyone could figure out how to trick it, it'd probably be you."
Arthur said nothing.
Ron kept going.
"Bet you've already worked out three ways around it."
Arthur watched another seventh-year drop their name into the flames.
The Goblet swallowed the parchment instantly.
"No," Arthur said quietly.
Ron frowned. "No?"
Arthur shook his head once. "I haven't."
Ron stared at him like that was the most suspicious thing he'd ever heard.
"Why not?"
Arthur turned his gaze toward him slowly.
"Why would I?"
Ron blinked.
"For eternal glory," he said immediately, like the answer should have been obvious. "And the prize money."
Arthur held his gaze.
Ron shrugged again.
"And you know… not dying a nobody."
The words hung there.
Hermione stiffened.
Harry glanced sharply at Ron.
Arthur was very still now.
His hair—normally black with faint streaks of gold threaded through it—shifted slightly in the torchlight.
The gold streaks darkened.
Ron didn't notice.
Arthur's voice stayed calm. "Glory."
"Yes," Ron said, nodding.
Arthur tilted his head slightly. "You think that's what this is about?"
Ron frowned. "What else would it be about?"
Arthur gestured toward the Goblet below.
"A magical contract that forces children to risk their lives for spectacle."
Ron scoffed.
"Oh, come on. It's a tournament. People compete all the time."
Arthur's eyes narrowed faintly.
"They compete knowing the risks."
"And the champions will know them too."
"They'll be chosen," Arthur corrected.
Ron rolled his eyes. "Same thing."
Arthur stared at him.
For the first time, the gold streaks in his hair began to fade.
Hermione noticed immediately.
Her eyes widened slightly. "Arthur—"
Ron kept talking.
"You're just saying that because you're not old enough."
Arthur's fingers tightened on the railing.
"I'm saying it because it's pointless."
Ron laughed. "Pointless?"
"Yes."
"Winning the Triwizard Tournament is pointless?"
Arthur turned fully toward him now. "Yes."
Ron looked baffled. "Why?"
Arthur's voice dropped slightly. "Because it's a school trophy."
Ron stared at him. "And?"
Arthur's eyes were colder now.
"I've already touched the only prize that mattered."
Ron blinked.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Arthur didn't answer.
Harry watched him carefully.
There was something different about him now.
Hermione spoke quietly.
"Arthur… what happened to you in the past one year?"
Arthur didn't respond.
Below them, the Goblet crackled softly.
Another name disappeared into its flames.
Ron shifted uncomfortably.
"Right," he muttered. "Well. Sorry for asking."
Arthur finally stepped away from the railing.
His hair had gone completely black now.
Not a single gold streak remained.
He walked past them. Draco following.
But the air around him felt heavier somehow.
Harry turned slightly. "Arthur."
Arthur stopped.
For half a second, it looked like he might say something.
Then he shook his head once.
"No," he said quietly.
And kept walking.
Harry watched him disappear down the staircase, a strange unease settling in his chest.
◇◇◇◇◇
Halloween night settled over Hogwarts like a held breath.
The feast had ended, but no one had moved to leave. Golden plates had vanished from the long house tables, leaving polished wood gleaming beneath the floating candles. The enchanted ceiling above the Great Hall showed a clear autumn sky, stars shining coldly through thin drifting clouds.
But no one was looking up. Every eye in the room was fixed on the pedestal at the center of the Hall.
Upon it burned the Goblet of Fire. The blue-white flames flickered slowly, casting restless shadows across the stone floor.
Arthur sat at the Slytherin table, one elbow resting lightly against the polished wood, his gaze steady on the fire. Around him, the entire Hall vibrated with tension. Students whispered nervously. Some clutched the edges of the table. Others leaned forward like spectators waiting for the first strike in a duel.
Albus Dumbledore rose slowly to his feet. The murmurs faded almost instantly. He stepped beside the Goblet, candlelight glinting off his half-moon glasses.
"The moment has arrived," Dumbledore said calmly. His voice carried easily through the silent hall. "The Goblet will now decide which three students will carry the honor—and the burden—of representing their schools in this year's Triwizard Tournament."
Arthur watched the flames. They shifted slightly. Almost like a living thing stirring in its sleep.
"Character," a voice murmured in the back of his mind. Smooth. Amused. "How quaint."
Auren.
Arthur didn't move.
"You're awfully quiet tonight, Arthur."
"I'm watching."
"Of course you are," Auren replied lazily. "You always watch. But even you must feel the hunger in that cup. It's not looking for 'character,' Arthur. It's looking for fuel."
"Correction," Ardyn's voice sliced through the dialogue, cold and analytical. "The Goblet is an ancient impartial arbiter. It is currently scanning the magical signatures submitted. It is a process of elimination based on peak output and potential. There is no 'hunger,' Auren. Only data."
"Data," Auren hissed in a way that sounded like a dark laugh. "You'd call a forest fire a thermal event."
At the center of the Hall, the blue flames suddenly turned red. A jet of fire shot upward—and a charred piece of parchment burst from the Goblet. Dumbledore caught it easily.
"The champion for Durmstrang," Dumbledore read, his voice booming through the rafters, "will be Viktor Krum."
The Hall shook with cheers. Arthur watched Krum rise with that heavy, stoic grace, his eyes flicking briefly toward the Slytherin table before he disappeared into the antechamber.
"He's looking for you, Arthur," Auren purred, his voice a low vibration in the back of Arthur's mind. "He knows a fellow predator when he sees one. He's probably disappointed he can't compete with you."
"Statistical correction," Ardyn's voice interjected, cold and clinical as a scalpel. "Krum is evaluating potential threats. Since Arthur did not submit his name, Krum's assessment of this tournament's difficulty has likely dropped by sixty-four percent. It is an efficient use of his observation."
"Oh, shut up, you calculator," Auren snapped. "The boy's bored. Just like we are."
The flames turned red again.
"The champion for Beauxbatons... is Fleur Delacour!"
More applause, mostly from the boys who looked dazed as the silver-haired girl glided past.
"A Veela," Ardyn noted. "An interesting biological variable. Her allure is currently affecting sixty-eight percent of the males in the room. Good thing you were emotionless from the start."
A third time, the fire flared crimson.
"The Hogwarts champion... Cedric Diggory!"
The Hufflepuff table exploded. It was a roar of pure, unadulterated joy. Cedric stood, looking every bit the golden boy, and followed the others.
Dumbledore stepped forward, his hands raised to quiet the room.
"Excellent!" he cried. "We now have our three champions. But in the end, only one will go down in history. Only one will lift the Triwizard Cup! This is a moment of unity, a moment where—"
The Arcane Core in Arthur's chest gave a sudden, sharp throb. It wasn't pain—it was a warning. The magical signature of the room shifted, turning heavy and sour.
"Arthur!" Ardyn's voice was a sharp alarm. "A magical thread has connected with your signature—the Goblet seems to be claiming you."
"Finally!" Auren roared, his voice filled with a savage glee.
But Arthur didn't want this. Not here. Not now. He felt the cold, ancient grip of the Goblet's contract trying to latch onto his soul—a chain forged in blue flame.
He didn't think. He didn't cast a spell. But deep within him, that obsidian, predatory sovereignty he had brought back from the North recoiled in pure, instinctive disgust. His magic didn't just resist; it pushed.
It was a subconscious reflex.
The Arcane Core hummed with a terrifying frequency. Arthur's energy surged out of his skin in a silent, invisible shockwave, searching for a way to deflect the incoming bond. It looked for the nearest available anchor—the nearest vessel that shared a similar weight of destiny. Similar to what he did to Lockhart in his second year
The thread of the contract, diverted by Arthur's soul-level rejection, snapped outward like a whip.
At that exact moment, the Goblet of Fire turned a sickening, bruised purple-red.
A fourth piece of parchment shot into the air.
Dumbledore caught it, his smile dying instantly. His hands trembled—just a fraction. The Hall went into a silence so deep it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room.
"Harry Potter," Dumbledore whispered.
"What?" Auren's voice was a snarl of pure confusion.
"An unexpected result," Ardyn murmured, sounding genuinely shaken. "You didn't just reject the contract; you forced it onto the path of least resistance."
Arthur sat perfectly still. He watched Harry stand up, looking small and broken, his face the color of parchment. He felt Ron's eyes turn into daggers of envy. He felt Hermione's hand fly to her mouth.
"He's going to die," Ardyn said flatly. "His survival probability against these tasks is less than five percent."
"Then he should have been faster," Auren spat, though he sounded annoyed at the missed opportunity for chaos.
Arthur looked at Harry, then his gaze shifted to the High Table. He saw the horror on McGonagall's face, the calculating glint in Snape's eyes, and the sheer, unmasked terror in Dumbledore's gaze.
Arthur took a slow, measured sip of his apple juice. The gold rings in his eyes flared, reflecting the dying embers of the Goblet.
He hadn't intended for Harry to be the sacrifice. His magic had simply chosen to protect its master from the cage.
"The game is officially on," Arthur thought, his voice echoing in the chamber of his own mind.