"Are we allowed to attack each other inside the maze?"
Fleur Delacour had finally figured out what she wanted to ask. As she spoke and opened her eyes, many people present turned to look at her.
However, Regulus Black, who had been sitting in that spot, was nowhere to be seen.
"Mr. Black had to leave early, but I think he left because he guessed what you were going to ask," Gabrielle Delacour explained as she held onto her sister's arm. When Regulus Black left earlier, he had smiled at her, and that one smile made the little girl blush instantly. His gaze conveyed many things—one of them being that he knew Fleur was about to ask a question he wasn't suited to answer.
"I want to know the answer to that too. Looks like the maze in the third task isn't just filled with creatures—other champions count as enemies too."
Harry Potter looked absolutely certain.
If more than two people touched the trophy's pedestal at the same time, it would be immediately removed. That rule could be used to sabotage others. If someone was just a second too late, they could ruin another's chance at victory.
For a single champion to secure the trophy, it meant all the others had to be out of the picture. Regardless of the reason for their absence, if that condition wasn't met, complications could arise.
Of course, one could also wait at a location where the trophy might appear, hoping that the other champions' struggle would move it to the pedestal right in front of them. But something that lucky would probably require a good dose of Felix Felicis.
So in the end, the answer was clear: the champions could indeed attack one another. Combine that with the traps and mechanisms already in the maze, and the goal was simple—ensure you're the last one able to reach the trophy, and you win.
News of what happened in the Great Hall spread quickly among the students, and Hogwarts was soon buzzing with intense discussion. The same was true for the French and German students.
In fact, students from all three schools began subtly and deliberately keeping their own champions away from the others.
That was because too much contact could lead to someone inadvertently revealing strategies or tools they'd use in the maze.
Aboard the Durmstrang ship, Stanislas Ivaneski was summoned to the headmaster's office. The entire room resembled a pirate captain's quarters from ancient times—and indeed, it was located at the stern of the ship.
Headmaster Igor Karkaroff emerged from a small adjoining chamber, looking weak in his dressing gown. For reasons unknown, the Dark Mark on his left arm had begun to burn again. The same thing had happened before arriving at Hogwarts.
He's coming back. That rumor was spreading like wildfire among the old Death Eater circles. No one knew the exact time Voldemort would return, but Igor Karkaroff knew this latest burning had started after that brat Harry Potter had nearly drowned—and his left arm had felt like it was roasting over a fire for the rest of the night.
The Dark Lord is at Hogwarts. It sounded absurd, but his body told him otherwise. The Dark Lord was at Hogwarts—or at least, his magic was.
It seemed even under Dumbledore's protection, Hogwarts wasn't exactly a safe haven.
Still, talk of Voldemort's return remained nothing more than shadowy speculation. The Triwizard Tournament was about to hold its third event, and as the headmaster of Durmstrang, this was no time for him to back down.
Looking at Stanislas Ivaneski, Karkaroff couldn't help but feel a headache coming on. This big oaf was dumb as a rock. If not for his passable magical skill, which barely qualified him to compete, Karkaroff would never have allowed such a fool to represent the school.
How could a fairly capable wizard be so dim-witted? Karkaroff felt a pounding behind his eyes.
"Drink?"
He poured himself a glass and then, after a moment's hesitation, poured one for the fool across from him.
The small shot glass held a drink called Jägermeister, also known as the "Holy Stag." It's a type of herbal liqueur made from 56 ingredients sourced from around the world—herbs, flowers, spices, and fruits.
For example, cinnamon comes from Ceylon, ginger from South Asia, pomeranze from Australia, and red sandalwood from East India. Naturally, some of the ingredients remain undisclosed.
Various additives are ground and blended in specific proportions, then soaked for two to three days in a solution of alcohol and water with a concentration of about 70%. This allows the fragrances and colors from the plants to infuse into the liquid. The soaking process is repeated many times over a period of roughly five months, until all the aromas and colors are fully absorbed into the base components of Jägermeister. After that, the mixture is aged in oak barrels for a full year.
Finally, this Jägermeister base is blended with alcohol, liquid sugar syrup, caramel, and soft water to complete the final adjustment.
Only then is the 35% ABV herbal liqueur produced.
This is where Muggles prove to be useful. If such a brewing method were attempted by a wizard, no one can say what the final product would be—but it most certainly wouldn't be a drinkable liquor.
And if it somehow did turn out to be a drink, it would no doubt be a potion-level creation.
He set the bottle down, condensation trickling down its surface. Fresh from the ice bucket, the liqueur was still delightfully chilled.
He took a swig of the icy drink and couldn't help but shiver, followed immediately by a surge of heat rushing through his body, like being hit by a jolt of electricity.
"Viktor Krum is the pride of Durmstrang! He's been our best Quidditch player since his first year, maintaining both his image and his performance all the way until now—no easy feat."
Igor Karkaroff poured himself another glass and downed it in one gulp.
"Yes, Headmaster! I'm aware,"
Stanislav Ivanesky knew tonight's meeting was for a serious conversation. Though he was reluctant, he had no intention of becoming a disgrace to Durmstrang.
"It's good that you understand. Fame is hard to earn, but easy to destroy. All it takes is for him to lose to you, and his reputation will be ruined. If Viktor Krum loses to a student from another school, people will blame it on chance or the competition itself. But if he loses to you, they'll compare the two of you—and they won't say you're stronger than Viktor Krum. They'll say he lost to you."
Igor Karkaroff poured himself a third glass and, like before, downed it in one go.
"Yes, Headmaster! I understand."
Stanislav Ivanesky looked at the chilled liqueur in front of him, a storm of emotions churning in his heart. Cold and clear—just like his own state of mind. Despite his seemingly dull and clumsy appearance, he was chosen to compete in the tournament for a reason—his magical ability proved he was far from stupid.
"It's good that you understand. If you win, Viktor Krum's name will be destroyed, and it will be difficult for you to elevate your own. You're not someone who has stood out since childhood; you're not cut out to be a celebrity. But you can be the comrade of a star. In the maze competition, if you prioritize Viktor—assist him, protect him—then when he wins, Igor Karkaroff will share in that glory alongside him."
Igor Karkaroff placed the bottle back in the ice bucket and flipped the shot glass on the table upside down.
It seemed the conversation was over. There was no need for an agreement—this was an order, pure and simple. Just carry it out.
"Rest assured, Headmaster! I will do it."
Stanislav Ivanesky picked up the shot glass in front of him and downed the now-lukewarm liqueur in one gulp.
He knew his mission: in the maze event, to become Krum's shield and also his sword. To sacrifice himself for the victory of Durmstrang Institute of Magic—that was his purpose.
Because if Viktor Krum triumphed, it meant Durmstrang had triumphed. And if he played his part well, Stanislav Ivanesky would be remembered as the knight who protected his comrade—even if it meant shouldering infamy.
He flipped the glass upside down on the table, stood up with resolve, and strode out of the headmaster's office.
A fierce aura, the will to fight, began to gather around Stanislav Ivanesky. A few passing students, sensing the intensity, were so startled they quickly made way for him.
This brute had clearly been fired up—like he'd swallowed gunpowder!
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