Chapter 295. Do You Know How to Throw Fireballs?
When Roskin noticed that Adrian Wesson was unmoved by Fleur's allure, he found it a little dull.
But on second thought, that seemed perfectly normal.
After all, Adrian wasn't one of those hot-headed young wizards; he was a seasoned, experienced one.
It was Adrian's first time meeting a witch with Veela blood, and he couldn't help taking a great interest in Fleur.
"So, Miss Delacour," Adrian leaned forward, curiosity bright in his eyes, "may I ask which abilities you've inherited from the Veela? Of course, you don't have to tell me if you'd rather not—it's your privacy. I'm simply curious."
A flicker of wariness passed through Fleur's eyes, but it quickly faded. "Only part of it. I think you felt it just now, Professor."
"Oh, I meant something else," Adrian shook his head, leaning in a little further. "I mean—can you throw fireballs?"
"Balls?" Fleur was clearly taken aback.
"Ah, yes, throwing fireballs," Adrian said, recalling, "I once ran into a true Veela. When I annoyed her, she grew a bird's head and hurled fireballs at me."
"I can't do that," Fleur replied, looking rather bemused.
It was the first time anyone had ever asked her that.
"What a pity."
Adrian spoke with a trace of regret.
Those fireballs packed a serious punch—a subject worth studying.
When the meal ended, Dumbledore rose to his feet and drew every eye; the entire Hall fell silent at once.
"I believe everyone knows what I'm about to say," Dumbledore said with a smile. "But first, allow me to introduce our two guests: Mr Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Co-operation, and Mr Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports!"
Polite applause rippled through the Hall, though it was far from enthusiastic.
Bagman waved cheerily, cheeks aglow; Crouch merely inclined his head, expressionless—his impeccably neat grey hair and robes making him look like a stern banker.
Down below, the Weasley twins were glaring daggers at Bagman—he still hadn't paid the betting debt he owed them.
Or rather, he had no intention of paying it at all.
They couldn't imagine how Bagman had the nerve to sit here; it was only because those debt-collecting goblins couldn't get into Hogwarts—otherwise he'd be in for it.
"In the past few months, Mr Ludo Bagman and Mr Bartemius Crouch have worked tirelessly to ensure the smooth running of the Triwizard Tournament. Let us show our appreciation for their efforts."
"Next, they will join me, Headmaster Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime to form the panel of judges responsible for evaluating the champions' performances."
No sooner had Dumbledore finished speaking than the students began to whisper among themselves.
"Well then, bring it up, if you please, Mr Filch."
Argus Filch, absent from view for some time, emerged from a neglected corner with Mrs Norris close at his heels.
Of course, no one was inclined to spare a glance for a cat just now.
Every gaze fixed on the chest Filch was carrying—a large, jewel-inlaid wooden casket that looked rather old.
Adrian knew what lay inside—the Goblet of Fire. Professor McGonagall had said she and Dumbledore had searched for quite some time to bring it back into the light.
Ever since the final Triwizard Tournament in 1792 had ended at Hogwarts, the Goblet of Fire had been stored away in one of the castle's junk rooms.
"This year's Triwizard Tournament will consist of three tasks, with the five judges deciding together," Dumbledore continued. "As you all know, three champions will compete, each representing a different school. I imagine you're very curious about the method we'll use to select them."
"That is—the Goblet of Fire!"
Having made the announcement, Dumbledore tapped the jewel-inlaid casket lightly with his wand.
The Hall fell instantly silent; even the sound of breathing became distinct.
"For centuries," Dumbledore said, his words seeming to carry a peculiar magic, "the Goblet of Fire has been the most impartial judge of the Triwizard Tournament. It not only recognises the names of those who enter, but sees into their hearts to decide who truly qualifies as a champion."
As his voice fell, the lid sprang open of its own accord.
With a swish of Dumbledore's wand, a rather rough-hewn wooden cup floated out of the casket.
When the casket closed again, the wooden cup settled steadily upon its lid.
At once, every eye fixed upon that seemingly unremarkable cup.
The next second, a dazzling blue-white flame shot up from within, streaked towards the ceiling, then gradually steadied, contained within the cup.
Very complicated flames…
Adrian gazed at the Goblet of Fire, thoughtful.
"Now, let me announce the most important rule for selecting the champions," Dumbledore looked around the Hall. "If you wish to enter, write your name and your school on a piece of parchment and drop it into the Goblet of Fire before the Hallowe'en feast tomorrow."
The Goblet's blue-white light lit Dumbledore's solemn features.
"I must emphasise," his voice grew grave, "this constitutes a binding magical contract. Once chosen by the Goblet of Fire, you must see the Tournament through. So please consider very carefully. Tomorrow night, the Goblet will select the three most suitable candidates."
At those words, Fleur unconsciously straightened her back, confidence written all over her face. The Beauxbatons students traded excited looks; Krum appeared entirely calm, unmoved.
Even Harry took on a pensive expression—perhaps wondering whether he ought to try to enter.
For a boy, becoming a champion was a very alluring prospect.
"One last point," Dumbledore added. "For safety's sake, only students aged seventeen or older may enter. In a moment, I will draw an Age Line around the Goblet."
"Age Line!?" Fred suddenly cried. "Doesn't that mean we won't even get a chance to try?"
"Oh, yes," Dumbledore replied mercilessly. "You've understood correctly, gentlemen."
The students began whispering again.
In fact, the age restriction was already common knowledge—Professor Flitwick's information leaflet had spelled it out clearly.
Those underage yet eager to try had prepared their own workarounds.
Naturally, the Weasley twins had as well.
Only yesterday, they had finally finished brewing their Ageing Potion—though they weren't at all sure it would work.
At last, after Dumbledore announced several points of caution regarding the Tournament, the day drew to a smooth close.
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