Chapter 296. The Goblet of Fire Attempt
The next day.
Though it was Saturday, the students woke even earlier than on a school day—undoubtedly because of the Goblet of Fire.
The Goblet stood in the very centre of the Entrance Hall, set atop the same stool that usually held the Sorting Hat.
Around it were four fine golden lines, enclosing the Goblet in the middle.
This was the magic cast by Albus Dumbledore, meant to bar students under seventeen.
On his way to breakfast in the Great Hall, Adrian Wesson found the Entrance Hall packed with onlookers.
Everyone was curious to see who would put a slip with their name into the Goblet.
Wesson, however, fixed his gaze on the four thin lines.
To the students, they were merely four ordinary lines, but he could see the delicate structure of the magic within.
"No wonder it's Dumbledore…" Wesson murmured in admiration.
Ordinary spells would never break this barrier.
Of course, forcing a way through wasn't impossible—Finite Incantatem could do it—but that wasn't a spell an ordinary student could master.
Just then, a commotion rose behind him.
Looking back, he saw the crowd part to open a path as the Durmstrang students, cloaked in fur capes, approached in a neat file.
At their head was their Headmaster, Igor Karkaroff, likewise wrapped in a silver-grey fur cape, hair and beard both iron-grey and trimmed to perfection.
His eyes were small and sharp, and when they swept across the crowd there was a trace of disdain.
Wesson frowned slightly, noticing that Karkaroff's gaze paused on him for several seconds—as if assessing or appraising him.
That was hardly a friendly gesture.
Karkaroff gave Wesson the slightest smile, then moved his eyes on and led his party straight to the Goblet of Fire. He circled it twice, then announced to his own students:
"Go on, submit your names."
The Durmstrang students moved at once, queuing forward to drop in the slips they had prepared in advance.
Each time a slip was swallowed by the blue flames, the tongues of fire leapt high, spitting a few brilliant sparks and drawing waves of gasps from the onlookers.
Viktor Krum went last, his movements clean and economical—just like the way he moved in a Quidditch match.
When they were done, Karkaroff led his students into the Great Hall with heads held high, the entire process brisk and efficient.
That brisk, no-nonsense display left the students with an indistinct sense of awe.
"Durmstrang's champion has to be Krum," a familiar voice said nearby.
Wesson turned and saw Harry, Ron, and Hermione, who had slipped into the crowd at some point. It was Ron who had spoken, his face full of admiration.
Harry and the others spotted Wesson watching the spectacle as well, and hurried over.
"Are you here to put your name in?" Wesson asked off-handedly.
"We're not old enough yet," Harry said with regret, shaking his head.
Ron started counting on his fingers. "I'm two years and four months short."
He pulled a face, clearly unwilling to accept it.
"Don't fret so much about the age restriction," Wesson chuckled. "An age limit is only a small test. If you ask me, Dumbledore set this barrier precisely so you'd try to find a way past it—otherwise he could have used something far more absolute."
"Really?" Hermione blurted, sounding rather startled.
Wesson hadn't lowered his voice, so those around them heard him plainly.
At once, murmurs broke out.
At that moment—
"I did not say that, Professor Wesson."
Dumbledore's unhurried voice came from the side.
Everyone fell silent at once.
Dumbledore was strolling out of the Great Hall, wearing a purple, patterned robe that day.
"Then perhaps I misunderstood," Wesson said, unmoved. "There's no harm in trying, is there?"
"Ah, that much is permitted."
Dumbledore smiled slightly, then gave the students a conspiratorial wink. "Be bold, children. But I must remind you that Miss Fawcett of Ravenclaw and Mr Summers of Hufflepuff are currently being treated by Madam Pomfrey. They seem to have tried to make themselves a little older, and evidently both failed."
A ripple of sniggering ran through the crowd; several students exchanged knowing looks.
At the same time, Wesson keenly noticed Fred and George lurking behind a pillar, furtively working on something—they had plainly heard Dumbledore's words.
"Do you think Fawcett and Summers used Ageing Potion?" Fred asked his brother, worried.
"No idea," George gulped, "but it's too late. We've taken the potion; we can't back out now."
"Let's go!" Fred said with gallant resolve. The two drew a deep breath in unison, straightened their backs, and stepped out from behind the pillar.
"Make way, make way."
As the pair neared the four golden lines, the entire Entrance Hall fell silent.
Not far off, Ron also noticed the twins and muttered, "Aren't their birthdays in April? They're still a few months short…"
Wesson folded his arms, intrigued.
These two, unwilling to give up even with Dumbledore's warning.
"Three, two, one," Fred whispered the countdown.
Together, they lifted their legs and stepped across the golden line.
In an instant, a dazzling flash of gold—accompanied by a sharp snap, like a whip crack.
Fred and George were flung back by an invisible force, hurled high into the air.
Dumbledore, apparently prepared for this, flicked his hand without haste. A gentle glow caught the twins and lowered them safely to the floor.
By the time they landed, however, the two had already changed—their chins were draped with thick white beards reaching their chests, and their hair had turned snowy white.
Peals of laughter erupted from the hall.
The twins looked at each other and immediately understood what had happened.
"Whoa!" George yelped, stroking the beard that had suddenly grown. "Didn't see that coming."
Fred yelled to the bystanders, "Hey, anyone got a mirror? I want to see what I look like."
"You look exactly alike," someone replied.
"I did warn you, gentlemen," Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Off you go to Madam Pomfrey; she'll know what to do. We anticipated this might happen."
Shouldering each other along, the twins shuffled away.
"Anyone else care to try?" Dumbledore looked around, his gaze sweeping slowly over the students' faces.
The Entrance Hall was dead quiet; everyone instinctively hunched their shoulders.
"Caution is a virtue," Dumbledore said with another wink and a smile. "You still have plenty of time to try."
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