The Goblet's flames blazed higher, casting long shadows against the stone walls of the Great Hall. The students held their breath as the first scrap of parchment shot into the air.
"Cedric Diggory."
The Hufflepuff table erupted with cheers. Cedric rose, cheeks flushed, and made his way to the front under a hail of applause. Even Harry joined in, clapping for someone who deserved it.
The fire flared again.
"Fleur Delacour."
The silvery-haired girl from Beauxbatons rose gracefully. Whispers rippled through the crowd as she glided forward, looking as though the moment had been hers all along.
A third flare.
"Viktor Krum."
Durmstrang roared, pounding their table. The famous Seeker barely twitched, lumbering toward the front with his usual stoic calm. Three champions. One from each school. The Hall buzzed, excitement rising now that it was decided.
But the Goblet wasn't done.
The flames twisted, unnatural, a blue-white firestorm that spat out another slip of parchment. Dumbledore snatched it midair, brows knitting as he read. His voice carried across the silence.
"Harry Potter."
The Hall froze. Every eye swung toward him. The sound of his own name was a hammer blow to the skull. Harry sat motionless, heart pounding. He hadn't put his name in. He hadn't.
Dumbledore's voice cut sharper this time: "Harry Potter!"
The walk forward was agony. He could feel their stares like knives — suspicion, envy, betrayal. Ron's mouth was twisted in disbelief. Hermione's eyes pleaded with him to explain. But there was nothing to say.
He reached the front. Dumbledore took the parchment, frowning deeply. "This… was not expected."
Karkaroff's voice hissed like a curse. "A fourth champion? Impossible."
"It cannot be," Madame Maxime agreed, towering over the table.
"The Goblet has spoken," Dumbledore said at last, though his gaze on Harry was heavier than the words.
The Goblet's flames guttered behind them. Harry looked back once. For the briefest second, he thought he saw something in the fire: a pale moon burning through the blue. His scar gave a faint pulse, not Voldemort's familiar poison but something colder.
Later that night, Harry dreamed.
The air reeked of salt and iron. He stood on a black shoreline, the sea sluggish and gray, littered with shattered masts. The sky was wrong no stars, only a swollen pale moon spilling dead light.
A whisper coiled through his skull, voiceless yet clear.
Paleblood…
From the surf rose a shape both man and beast, eyes glimmering like pits. Harry ran, but the waves dragged him down, knives of cold slicing his legs. He fell, choking on brine and blood.
The pale moon filled his sight.
And then nothing.
He woke gasping in Gryffindor Tower, sheets soaked, scar burning faintly. Shadows writhed on the walls, shifting in ways firelight shouldn't allow.
Far below, in the Great Hall, the Goblet of Fire flickered once more before collapsing to embers.