222: Chapter 222 The Goblet of Fire Arrives

"No entries allowed for anyone under seventeen? Is Dumbledore treating us like caged babies?"

Fred Weasley stood on the Gryffindor long table, his voice drowning out half of the Great Hall. George immediately stepped onto a stool, waving the parchment in his hand toward the staff table. The twins chimed in with one singing and the other following, even getting the upper-year students to jeer along.

"We're only three years away from seventeen."

"It's just a matter of time, Professor."

"Time solves everything best."

Professor McGonagall's face was stern, a string of sparks erupting from the tip of her wand. "Mr. Weasley, get down from that table. Say one more word, and I'll have you graduated early."

George jumped off the table and winked at Fred. When Fred sat back down, he still shouted toward the staff table, "The Age Line can stop normal students, but it can't stop geniuses."

"Nor can it stop fools," Snape spoke from the staff table, and the Great Hall instantly quieted by half.

Draco poked the potatoes in his plate with a fork, lowering his voice, "Are they really planning to fool the Age Line?"

"They'll fool themselves first," Zabini said, holding a goblet of pumpkin juice with a look of amusement in his eyes. "I bet ten sickles that someone grows a beard on their face within three days."

Pansy chimed in, "I bet five sickles that Gryffindor makes a fool of themselves first."

Nott didn't participate in the bet. He spread open an old book, the pages of which held microprinted materials about the Triwizard Tournament. The words were dense, even marking the years the tournament was suspended.

"The last time it was officially held, three champions died," Nott read aloud. "Another seven were permanently disabled. The Ministry of Magic suspended the tournament for over a century, and now they're bringing it back. That means someone really wants it to happen."

Allen lay slumped against the edge of the table, his eyes half-closed.

At the staff table, Moody was tapping the floor with his wooden leg. His flask was placed on his left, cap facing outward so he could reach it at a moment's notice. Snape didn't even look at him, but Dumbledore was conversing in low tones with Bartemius Crouch.

Crouch wore stiff, crisp robes, the collar buttoned up high, and there was little color in his face. Beside him, Ludo Bagman laughed loudly, holding a schedule of events and waving it back and forth toward the students.

"The Ministry of Magic set the Age Line together," Allen said. "Crouch is in charge of it."

Draco looked up. "After the Quidditch World Cup, he still dares to show his face?"

"He dares," Allen said. "Daring and being clean are two different things."

After the feast ended, a large open space was cleared in the middle of the Great Hall.

Dumbledore stood in front of a brazier, beside which sat a crude wooden goblet. The surface of the cup was engraved with the crests of the three schools, its edges covered in dust, so that even the firelight seemed swallowed when it shone upon it.

The goblet of fire.

Students crowded on both sides of the long tables, and even the Wizards in the portraits poked their heads out from the edges of their frames. Fred and George squeezed into the front row of the crowd, each clutching a piece of parchment with their names written on it.

Moody leaned against the side of the staff table, his magical eye rolling around.

Allen did not move forward.

Within the Portable Space, the golden patterns on the north side extended a thin thread from beside the ebony box, pressing through flesh and skin toward the center of the Great Hall. The cracked pocket watch did not light up, but the golden patterns stopped near the bottom of the cup, as if hitting a thick stone wall.

That was no ordinary magic item.

The blue-white flame in the cup jumped once.

Several layers of overlapping magic structures briefly surfaced before Allen's eyes. Name, age, school, witness, registration qualifications—all conditions were intertwined into the same contract. Whoever threw their name in, the goblet of fire would record it.

It would not listen to explanations.

Nor would it acknowledge regret.

"Contract magic," Allen said in a low voice.

Nott leaned in half a step. "Intensity?"

"Heavier than the Hogwarts enrollment contract," Allen said, looking at the goblet of fire. "Once selected, withdrawing will cost a price."

Zabini put down his cup. "How heavy is the price?"

"It depends on what the caster wrote," Allen paused. "But once the cup starts choosing people, the rules will override personal will."

Draco didn't look very good.

He didn't want to admit it, but after the Quidditch World Cup, he had grown much more wary of the Ministry of Magic, his father, and everyone standing in high positions. People in the stadium had also said it was safe, yet the flames had burned all the way to the tops of the tents.

Dumbledore raised his wand.

A thin line of gold fell from the tip of the wand, tracing a complete circle around the goblet of fire. The golden line rapidly rose, forming a translucent barrier that separated the students from the goblet of fire.

"The Age Line," Dumbledore said. "Only those who are seventeen years of age or older, and qualified to represent their school in the competition, may pass through."

Fred and George exchanged a glance.

"Shall we try?" Fred asked.

"A person always has to pay a little price for science." George stuffed the parchment into his collar.

Hermione stood beside the Gryffindor long table, hugging her books, and said with a frown, "They're going to be sent to the hospital wing."

Ron lowered his voice. "They always find a way."

Harry looked at the goblet of fire and said nothing.

He hadn't planned to enter. But when the words "Triwizard Tournament" fell into his ears, he still thought of the Dark Mark rising in the World Cup campsite, and of that deflected Stunner in the woods.

Allen sat at the end of the Slytherin long table, and he too saw the look on Harry's face.

"Don't let him near the cup," he said.

Draco looked over following his gaze. "Potter wants to show off again?"

"If he gets close, someone else will show off for him."

Nott's pen tip paused. "You think something will happen to the goblet of fire?"

"It has already been placed here," Allen said. "Crouch, Moody, Dumbledore, students from other schools, witness of the whole school. If someone wants to push someone onto the stage, this is the most suitable cage."

Pansy felt a chill run down her back. "Who would use the whole school's students as a cage?"

"Someone who wants a student to die," Zabini said.

A heavy sound suddenly came from the doors of the Great Hall.

First was Beauxbatons.

A huge blue carriage stopped outside the Castle, twelve winged horses breathing fire as they pulled the carriage down to land in front of the stone steps. When Madame Maxime walked into the Great Hall, even Hagrid had to tilt his head back to look at her. Behind her followed a group of students wearing blue silk uniforms, with Fleur Delacour walking in the front, her silver hair very striking under the candlelight.

A chorus of lowered discussions broke out in the Great Hall.

The chicken leg in Ron's hand dropped onto his plate.

Hermione kicked him.

"Don't make a fool of yourself."

"I'm not making a fool of yourself," Ron picked up the chicken leg. "I'm just... is she a Veela?"

Harry said nothing.

As Fleur passed the Gryffindor long table, several upper-year boys stood right up. Hermione rolled her eyes and lowered her head to continue taking notes.

Afterwards, the doors of the Great Hall were pushed open once more.

The students of Durmstrang walked in wearing thick fur cloaks, stepping in neat strides. Viktor Krum walked at the very front, broad-shouldered and gloomy-faced, followed by Igor Karkaroff.

Draco's eyes lit up. "Krum."

"You watch Quidditch too?" Zabini asked.

"I've watched him catch the Snitch."

"The last time he caught the Snitch, Bulgaria still lost."

Draco's face darkened. "Can you shut up?"

After entering, Igor Karkaroff first looked at Dumbledore, then towards Moody. He squeezed out a trace of a polite expression on his face, but his footsteps noticeably bypassed Moody by half a step.

Moody's magical eye stared at him, the cap of his flask unscrewed, the mouth brought to his lips.

Allen watched the two of them.

Igor Karkaroff feared Moody.

The real Moody had captured Death Eaters; it was very reasonable for Igor Karkaroff to fear him.

If the fake Moody was Barty Crouch Jr., Igor Karkaroff would fear him too. He had once betrayed Lord Voldemort, and had given up a string of Death Eater names at the tribunal. For the surviving old Death Eaters, both madmen and traitors were to be avoided.

The pieces of information piled together, growing heavier and heavier.

Dumbledore raised his goblet to welcome the students from other schools. Ludo Bagman smiled as he introduced the tournament at the side, while Crouch was only responsible for correcting the rules, annoyance written all over his face.

"The goblet of fire will make its choice on Halloween night," Crouch said. "One champion per school. Once the names are thrown in, they are bound by the contract."

Hermione immediately raised her hand.

"Mr. Crouch, if a student's name is entered by a third party on their behalf, how is their personal consent confirmed?"

Crouch looked at her, his brow furrowing. "The goblet of fire will identify qualified entrants."

"I'm asking about intent."

"The magic contract only recognizes names and conditions."

Hermione's face sank.

Harry also looked up toward the goblet of fire.

Allen closed his eyes for a moment.

"Did you hear that?" he said in a low voice.

Nott wrote down on paper: "The contract does not verify personal intent."

"So someone can use the cup to kidnap someone," Zabini looked at Crouch. "The Ministry of Magic wrote the loopholes quite thoroughly."

Draco pinched the knut at his cuff. "If someone really enters Harry, Dumbledore can surely cancel it, right?"

"It can't be canceled," Allen said. "Once selected by the goblet of fire, cancellation equals breaking the contract."

"Then he'll be forced to participate?"

"Yes."

Pansy drew a sharp breath. "Three tasks, and it's a tournament where people die?"

"Originally it wasn't just three tasks," Allen said. "If someone tampered with the cup, the rules could also be manipulated."

When the feast ended, the students surged toward the goblet of fire.

Fred and George squeezed out of the crowd, their hair as white as frost, their beards hanging down to their chests, the two of them still mocking each other. After Professor McGonagall rushed over and deducted twenty points from Gryffindor, the twins couldn't stop laughing.

Some upper-year Slytherins were also eager to try.

Flint stood outside the Age Line and beckoned to Draco. "Malfoy, come take a look. If your father is willing to fork out some money, maybe the Age Line will mistake who you are."

Just as Draco moved his feet, the knut inside Allen's sleeve gave a soft clink.

Draco stopped.

He looked at Flint, lifting his chin. "You go over first. If you really can fool Dumbledore, I'll write you into the family annals for you."

Flint sneered, leading two upper-year students across the golden line.

The next moment, the goblet of fire burst out a circle of golden light.

The three of them were blasted away, their beards growing all the way from their chins down to their waists, with red rashes breaking out on their faces. Nearby students burst into laughter, Pansy covering her mouth, and even Nott drawing a crooked line on the margin of his notebook.

Flint crawled up, his expression looking as ugly as if he had eaten a bad slug.

"Are you writing it in the annals?" Zabini asked.

Draco glanced at him. "Writing it. The title will be called Flint and His Beard》."

Allen did not join in the laughter.

The goblet of fire burned quietly within the golden line.

The golden patterns on the north side circled the outer layer of the contract, returning below his wristbone. It brought back a piece of vague structural information: the cup had completed the main contract, but the outer layer retained a school authentication slot that could be tampered with.

If someone were to add a fictional school to it.

And then stuff a name inside.

The goblet of fire would select a fourth champion according to the rules.

Allen opened his eyes and looked toward the staff table.

Moody was tilting his head back drinking, his magical eye staring at the goblet of fire, lingering for a very long time.

"The fourth position is still empty," Allen said.

Nott raised his head. "What position?"

"Reserved for a dead person."