A heavy silence hung in the air as the nine champions stood motionless in the chamber, all eyes fixed on Harry and Vincent—one visibly tense, the other looking thoroughly done with the entire ordeal.
The three Beauxbatons students whispered to one another in French, while the Durmstrang group remained silent, all of them casting the occasional glance their way. Some of those looks were clearly accusatory, but a few carried a hint of curiosity—Krum among them.
"It really came down to this, even after everything that's happened," Vincent thought with a sigh, his eyes drifting toward the chamber doors. "I wonder if Dumbledore will tell them the truth. And if he does... will the headmasters tell their students?"
Dinner had long since ended, and the rest of the students had cleared out of the Great Hall, heading off to their dormitories or housing. Still, given the night's events, it would be difficult to find anyone who planned on getting much sleep.
The quietness of the chamber persisted for a while, and the wait began to wear heavily on those present. Even the Beauxbaton girls had stopped chatting. Vincent glanced at Harry, who's eyes darted about the chamber trying hard to avoid eye contact with the other students.
Eventually though, the silence was broken. A loud sigh was given by Nicholas Nott, whom up till this point had stood silently next to the two boys the whole time. He half turned his head, his gaze resting on Harry's before moving to Vincent.
"Someone's probably going to explain what's going on," Nicholas said, glancing around the chamber. "But just to get this out of the way—for the rest of us—I'll ask anyway. Did you two put your names in the Cup?"
Vincent let out a dry chuckle. "Would you believe us if we said no?"
Nicholas paused, thoughtful. After a moment, he shrugged. "Maybe."
"We didn't."
"Hah! Yeah, right."
All eyes shifted to the black-haired boy standing beside Krum, who sneered at Vincent with open contempt.
"Nikolai, don't—" Krum warned, placing a firm hand on his shoulder, but the boy shrugged it off.
"A Muggle and the so-called Boy Who Lived," Nikolai spat. "What, that wasn't enough fame for you two? Trying to prove something to the rest of us?!"
Vincent, taken aback by the hostility in his tone, couldn't help but notice how fluent the boy's English was. There was a trace of an accent, but unlike Krum's rough and broken phrasing, Nikolai's words were sharp and precise.
When neither Harry nor Vincent replied, Nikolai scoffed. "Figures. Guess we can add 'spineless' to your titles."
"They're telling ze truth."
The voice came from the shorter Beauxbatons girl. Eloise Bernard hadn't taken her eyes off Vincent since the conversation began. Her gaze was steady, unwavering.
"...And we're all just supposed to believe that?" Nikolai snapped, frowning.
Nicholas, watching her closely, narrowed his eyes in thought—then lifted his brows in realization. "Legilimency."
"Oh, handsome and smart," Eloise said with a grin, finally tearing her gaze from Vincent and locking it onto Nicholas's disapproving stare. "Oh, don't look like zat. It's not like I did it on purpose."
"...So, a natural-born, then," Nicholas said, his tone softening. "You have my sympathies."
Eloise blinked, briefly taken aback by his comment—then offered a small, bittersweet smile. "Thank you for your kind words."
"Well, I don't buy it," Nikolai cut in sharply. "That still doesn't explain what just happened out there."
"Do you really think that a fourth year and a Muggle could have awakened an Entity of Flame?" Nicholas asked, his voice calm but pointed.
Nikolai glared. "That Muggle shouldn't even be here."
"Entity?" Vincent raised an eyebrow at the term, but didn't respond to the provocation. There was no point in escalating things any further.
"Yet here he is," Nicholas said dryly, gesturing toward Vincent. "Whatever happened tonight—tampering or not—it woke the Entity slumbering inside the Goblet. And judging by its reaction, it wasn't exactly thrilled about being disturbed. It intervened. Balanced the scales."
Sylvie Flamel folded her arms, eyes narrowed in thought. "And yet, it still accepted them. Chose them, even."
"Exactly," Nicholas said with a nod. "This wasn't the Goblet functioning as a tool—it was the Entity speaking. Choosing. And if anyone here thinks two students could force something that old and powerful into doing what they wanted..."
"Impossible," Nina Fortner said flatly.
"Right," Nicholas agreed. "So if you're wondering why we have nine champions, don't look at them—look at what answered through the flames. That wasn't an accident. Someone, or something wanted these two to compete against their will."
"But why them, though? Who vould even vant to gain from having those two boys in zis Tournament?" Nina asked, her brow furrowed.
Nicholas gave her a flat look. "While I can't speak for Wong here, I'm sure you've all heard the stories about the Boy Who Lived. There are plenty of people out there who'd like to see him fall—or worse. One in particular... someone most people still won't even dare to name. Need I spell it out?"
Silence fell over the chamber once more—thicker and heavier than before.
Vincent glanced around. He could see it in their expressions—the tension, the sudden pallor. Just the mention, even indirect, was enough to chill the room. Even Nikolai's posture faltered, his earlier bravado quietly slipping away as the unspoken name settled into everyone's minds.
The silence was once again interrupted as Dumbledore strode into the room, leading both Madame Maxime and Igor Kakaroff, both of which had completely pale expressions. Snape followed closely behind with Professor McGonagall in tow.
"It seems Dumbledore filled them in," Vincent thought as the Headmaster of Hogwarts cleared his throat.
"I am certain you all have many questions," he said, his voice calm but firm, "and I assure you, answers will come. Your Headmasters will speak with you in due course, and I will personally ensure that all concerns are addressed. But for now..."
His gaze swept across the room, lingering briefly on Harry and Vincent before continuing.
"...the Tournament must proceed. The Goblet has spoken—and more loudly than any of us could have anticipated. The nine of you have been chosen, and you are bound by a magical oath to compete—an unbreakable vow sealed by ancient magic."
Karkaroff's mouth opened as if to protest, but one look from Dumbledore silenced him.
"You may doubt the fairness of it. You may question the motives behind these selections. I do not blame you. But the moment the Entity awoke, it ceased to be a matter of rules. We are now beholden to something deeper—and it is watching."
A nervous shuffle spread through the room.
"Get some rest. Tomorrow, your preparations will begin. For now... consider this night a turning point, and tread carefully in the days ahead."
All the champions departed with their respective Headmasters. Vincent caught sight of Krum, who gave him a brief nod of acknowledgment. He realized that Krum had spoken only once during the entire exchange—just a few words to hold back a teammate—and nothing more.
"Where did all that energy from the first day go?" Vincent couldn't help but think as he watched the group vanish past the chamber door.
Dumbledore remained behind, along with Snape and McGonagall. Seeing that it was only the Hogwarts students left, he decided to address them.
"Tonight, the Goblet has spoken in a way none of us expected," he began, pacing slowly before them. "It has chosen nine champions instead of the usual three. Such an occurrence cannot be ignored, nor can the magic behind it be dismissed."
Dumbledore looked at each of them in turn, his expression softening. "Again, I'll ask that you get some rest. Tomorrow, after consulting with the Ministry, we'll inform each of you on what to expect and how to prepare for what lies ahead. Ah—Nicholas, a word, if I may?"
Nicholas frowned slightly in confusion but followed Dumbledore out of the room, leaving only Harry, Vincent, and the two remaining professors behind.
"Dumbledore's right," said McGonagall gently, ushering the boys toward the door. "You both need rest."
Snape said nothing, his eyes following them with a cold intensity as they walked. He and McGonagall only turned away when the boys reached the base of the marble staircase, leaving Harry and Vincent alone for the long, quiet journey back to Gryffindor Tower.
"You doing okay, bud?" Vincent asked, glancing sideways at Harry, who looked pale and distant.
"I... had a dream," Harry murmured. "This morning...I meant to tell you after, but I was too preoccupied with what was going on."
"The same one? With the old man and the snake?"
"No... this one was different." Harry rubbed at his scar absently, his brows furrowed. "I can't remember all the details, but I was in a room—huge, like the Great Hall. There were people there, a lot of them. Each holding weapons."
Vincent's pace slowed.
"And they were red," Harry added quietly. "All of them. Red like blood."
A chill ran down Vincent's spine. He faltered, a shiver crawling over his skin, but Harry didn't notice—his mind was elsewhere, eyes glazed as he searched his memory.
"There was a man too," he continued, voice dropping to a whisper. "Sitting on some kind of throne. His eyes were red, glowing. And I think I spoke to him. I said something—I made a—"
Harry suddenly clutched his head.
"ARGH!"
He stumbled, nearly dropping to one knee as pain flared behind his eyes. Vincent was at his side in an instant.
"Harry?!"
Vincent caught Harry by the shoulder just before he collapsed completely. The boy's breathing had turned ragged, his hand still pressed hard against his scar.
"Hey—hey, breathe, Harry. What happened? Talk to me."
"I—it burned," Harry hissed, his voice strained. "My scar... it's never hurt like that before. Not even in first year."
Harry steadied himself against the stone wall, wiping the sweat from his brow with a trembling hand. "It felt like... something was pulling at me. From the inside. Like I was being watched through the dream. Whoever that man was—I think I made a deal with him. I can't remember what it was, but... it felt important. Dangerous."
He looked up, eyes wide and uncertain. "Vincent... what's happening? What's going to happen now?"
Vincent met his gaze, and for a moment, all the weight of the night settled on his shoulders.
"...I don't know," he admitted softly. Then his expression hardened. "But whatever it is—we'll face it. I'm with you. Every step of the way, pal."
Harry gave a shaky nod and continued up the steps, leaning on Vincent for support. Neither boy spared a glance toward the sounds of celebration echoing from the dormitory—whatever festivities their housemates were caught up in felt worlds away.
...
Vincent made his way to the fireplace in the now-empty common room. He sank into a seat nearby, letting the heat wash over him like a warm blanket.
He barely registered the presence behind him until he felt a shift in the air. Turning his head, he found himself face to face with Arnya Tepes, her expression as unreadable as ever as she sat in her red wheelchair, with Nyx sitting on her shoulder.
"...You wanted to see me?" she asked, voice low and even.
Vincent gave a small nod, turning fully to face her.
"I think... we're long overdue for a talk."
They held each other's gaze in silence for several moments—neither flinching, neither blinking, as if locked in a quiet contest of wills.
It was Arnya who broke the stare first. Her eyes drifted to the fireplace, watching the flames flicker and dance in the hearth.
"What is it you wish to know?" she asked softly.