Some time earlier, Little Hangleton village.

  Darkness pressed over the small community, heavy rain and gusting winds rattling shutters and bending the trees along the narrow lanes. In the distance, thunder growled, and lightning tore through the clouds, briefly revealing the lone mansion perched on the hill, its crooked silhouette flashing in and out of existence before the night swallowed it again.

  It was otherwise a typical night in the area for this time of year. And just as another flash of lightning faded, before the rumble of thunder could follow, an intense red light suddenly erupted from an upper window of the abandoned mansion, followed by a wailing scream that echoed through the storm.

  Clearly, the supposedly abandoned lone mansion was not empty after all. Inside, in the room from which the red light had erupted, firelight flickered across the walls, the flames shuddering as if afraid. A man could be seen lying sprawled on the floor, his body jerking uncontrollably, his fingers clawing at the stone as if trying to escape his own skin.

  "Crucio!"

  The word was followed by another flash of crimson and a shriek louder and more desperate than before, finally collapsing into helpless sobbing.

  Near the hearth, cradled in the arms of a short, heavyset man, was something scarcely human. Voldemort's current state was perhaps even more pitiful than it had been when he had been parasitizing Quirrell, needing assistance even to move from one place to another.

  Even so, his cruelty was no lesser than before, and the act of performing dark magic did not trouble him in the slightest.

  He wriggled slightly in Wormtail's arms, his tiny fingers curling and uncurling, "Worthless," the high, cold voice cut through the crackle of the fire. He thrashed just enough to make the wand in his hand tremble. "Worthless. You let them capture my most loyal servant and fled like frightened animals."

  The room no longer held the confidence it once had. Gone were the ranks of hooded figures, and gone was the presence that had once been thick with arrogance. Now, aside from Voldemort and Wormtail, only three remained—well, four, if the writhing figure sprawled on the floor, convulsing like a fish, was counted.

  Another broken grunt escaped him, his limbs trembling from the torture his "benevolent" master was inflicting. "My lord… mercy," he gasped, jaw straining as the words forced their way out. "It was an ambush. The Aurors… they were waiting for us."

  Voldemort's eyes flared. "Are you suggesting I am a fool?"

  "I dare not… I would never."

  He did not dare voice what truly burned in his mind, that the Dark Lord's decision had been reckless, even stupid, to strike so openly at an international wizarding event simply to make a point.

  Rosier, back then, had warned against acting so brazenly more than once, but Voldemort's arrogance had drowned out all caution, convinced that he could do whatever he wished.

  "My lord," and just then another voice cut in, one of those who were kneeling.

  Voldemort turned his gaze slowly, "Barty," he murmured, "my faithful servant. Perhaps you would care to explain."

  "It is the new Minister, my lord," Barty Crouch Jr said, lifting his head slowly. "This has his hand all over it. He is nothing like that greedy coward Fudge."

  His gaze sharpened, words spilling faster. "I believe he anticipated an attack and deployed Aurors in advance, already positioned and waiting.... Therefore, i think our priorities must change." His lips twisted into a strained, almost unhinged smile. "He should be dealt with before we act any further."

  None of the escapees present knew that Maverick had intervened as well. They had fled the moment the attack began to collapse, and the newspapers never mentioned his involvement. As far as they knew, the Ministry had earned the credit, their swift response turning terror into failure.

  "Indeed," Voldemort said at last, his fury cooling into something sharper and more calculating. "Put me down, Wormtail."

  Pettigrew obeyed instantly. He lowered Voldemort onto the worn sofa beside the fireplace with exaggerated care, as though placing down something sacred and fragile. His hands lingered a moment longer than necessary before he stepped back, eyes never leaving his master.

  "It seems this hypocritical country has finally been graced with a Minister who possesses some measure of competence," Voldemort said thoughtfully, his gaze drifting across the room. "Still, there are whispers that he is no more than a puppet, placed where he is by others..."

  A memory surfaced, and his eyes flashed red as he recalled that brief encounter inside Hogwarts two years earlier. "Caesar…" The name slipped from him thick with loathing. He had not forgotten the humiliation, how a the boy had overwhelmed him, how close he had come to being consumed by cursed fire.

  Even so, he did not entirely dismiss the boy's genius. It was undeniable, perhaps even uncomfortably close to his own. Still, Lord Voldemort stood above all others, as he always had and always would. How could a mudblood with no lineage ever hope to measure himself against him, the descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself?

  After indulging his own thoughts, he turned his attention back to his servants. "Does any of you possess a means of penetrating this new Minister's inner circle?"

  But only silence answered him. Even Crouch Jr. kept his gaze lowered, saying nothing.

  "Worthless," he spat.

  And just then, a thin, reedy voice broke the silence. "My lord…"

  Voldemort turned to see Wormtail crouching low, sinking until he was nearly at eye level with his master.

  "Surely you do not suggest, Wormtail, that you possess inside knowledge of the Ministry…" The contempt in his voice was not without reason; after all, he was Wormtail.

  Even the kneeling men let out a few breathless chuckles at the rat's audacity, but the laughter died instantly when Voldemort snapped a sharp command for silence.

  "Lucius, my lord," Pettigrew said quickly. "Lucius Malfoy. If anyone can spy on the Ministry, it is him."

  "Lucius," Voldemort repeated, tasting the name as memory stirred.

  "A coward," Barty Crouch Junior cut in. "When you fell, my lord, he was the first to publicly deny you…"

  Voldemort laughed, though whether it was amusement or disbelief was unclear. "Do you think I am unaware of something so obvious?"

  "I dare not think, my lord..." Barty said immediately.

  "But Lucius did answer my call last night, did he not?" Voldemort asked.

  A pause followed, and Barty Jr. muttered a reluctant, "Yes."

  "And what of his fate?" Voldemort continued softly. "Was he among those who died for my cause?"

  "It was chaos, my lord," one of the men said. "We do not know. He may be dead. He may have escaped."

  "Then bring him to me," Voldemort decreed. "And not only him. I want every coward who abandoned me brought before my eyes. It is time they stood once more in the presence of their lord."

  "But my lord… surely they cannot be trusted to meet you," Wormtail interjected again, bowing so low his face nearly kissed the dusty floor. While the rat appeared to speak out of concern for his master, in truth, the cowardly fool was only worried that if their whereabouts were discovered, he would be the first to be caught.

  "What if one of them leaks our whereabouts—"

  "Silence!"

  Voldemort's eyes burned with a dangerous red glint, filling the room with silent menace. Of course, had he any choice, he would not resort to this, but there was none.

  Since his supposed death, Voldemort had divided his followers into two kinds: those who feared him absolutely, never daring to betray him even after hearing of his demise, and those fools who denied him, convinced that his absence freed them from all duty.

  And yes, it was fear, not trust, for Lord Voldemort trusted no one—not even his most perfect creation, Bellatrix, who had now been removed from the equation.

  The original plan had depended on the first group, the Azkaban escapees, whom he believed were completely loyal to him, but they were gone now. Only the cowards remained, and now he had no choice but to place them at the heart of his schemes.

  Still, their fear of him remained, of that he had no doubt. Otherwise, they would never have dared to answer his summons for the attack.

  "Worthless fools," Voldemort spat. "Dozens of you, even with two Great Magi, could not capture a single cripple. And you expect just the four of you could carry out my plan?"

  No one answered. Indeed, if the Dark Lord still intended to carry out the plan to capture the Potter boy, he would need more hands. More importantly, with no way to infiltrate Hogwarts directly, only one path remained: someone with ties to the Ministry, someone capable of opening doors and finding another way forward.

  "Plans change," Voldemort said, turning his gaze toward the fire, watching the flames writhe and twist. "Direct infiltration must be abandoned. But with an insider..."

  The loss of Bellatrix and Rosier weighed heavily on him, especially Bellatrix. Whether by fear or otherwise, her devotion had always gratified him more than he cared to admit.

  And now, their absence had forced him to reconsider everything. What remained were cowards, doubters, and one trembling servant who clung to him like a lifeline. If only he had heeded caution, allowed the opportunity to present itself, and acted only then to seize that boy—

  No. Lord Voldemort does not regret, and he would not yield like a mere mortal. Yes, he was immortal, unkillable. His serpentine eyes glimmered in the firelight. He would have what he desired, and none could stand in his way... not the Minister of Magic, not that old fool Dumbledore, and certainly not a mudblood boy who imagined he could best the Dark Lord simply because he possessed a fraction of power.

  ---

  Back to the present.

  Summer still held Hogwarts in its grasp, the lingering warmth softening into a gentle evening breeze as the sun sank toward the horizon, painting the grounds in gold and deepening green.

  In that familiar scene, Maverick descended slowly from the sky, his robes fluttering lightly in the breeze until he came to a stop before one of the towers, the large windows opening directly into his office.

  A low hum slipped from him, absentmindedly thoughtful, his lips curving faintly as he tilted his head toward the tallest tower. "Normally, the old man would have summoned me the moment I crossed the wards…" he murmured, then, just as quickly, brushed the thought aside with a small, careless shrug.

  He glanced once at the setting sun, its glow spilling across the castle rooftops, then turned back to the window, letting the fading light wash over him.

  With a lazy wave, the glass panes parted, and he glided inside with unhurried grace. His office greeted him exactly as he had left it, neat and orderly, and the lights flickered to life at his approach. He shrugged off his coat and, with a casual flick of his wrist, sent it sailing to the stand by the door.

  A quick look at the time reminded him of Dumbledore's message. Dinner tonight, an important meeting, and attendance declared mandatory.

  There were still a couple of hours to spare, so he moved to his desk and sank into the soft leather of the high-backed chair. Maybe… get some work done in the meantime?

  After all, he was still a professor, and lesson plans for the new year did not arrange themselves out of courtesy alone. Besides, he wasn't the sort to procrastinate… much.

  Hmm. I should probably hire an assistant… no, wait… wasn't that the plan from the very beginning? Or had it slipped my mind? Well… I'll bring it up with McGonagall at tonight's meeting… anyways.

  With a resigned sigh, books and parchment appeared neatly before him, pages opening as pens rose to hover expectantly above them.

  He leaned back in his chair, expression calm, and allowed his thoughts to flow. At least it wasn't as tedious as it would have been for a regular teacher.

  Mother magic had its perks. In this case, he could work on several tasks at once while doing little more than thinking, so he leaned back, relaxed, and let the work begin.

  —————————

  The Great Hall rested beneath the steady glow of floating candles, their light reflecting softly off polished stone and long stretches of empty floor where students would soon crowd once more.

  The school remained in recess, and without its usual noise and motion, the space felt held in check, not empty but waiting. An important gathering was underway. At the far end of the hall, the familiar long staff table was gone, replaced by an oval arrangement that drew everyone inward.

  Nearly the entire Hogwarts staff occupied the seats, while cutlery clicked softly against porcelain as plates were nudged aside and goblets lifted, then set down again.

  "...I still don't understand the need to cancel the Quidditch House Cup, Headmaster," Rolanda Hooch leaned back in her chair, studying Dumbledore from across the table. "We managed perfectly well last year did we not? Even with the interschool tournament running alongside it."

  Dumbledore lifted his cup, took a thoughtful sip, and set it down again. His eyes twinkled mildly as he looked her way.

  "It is only for this one year, Rolanda," he replied, tone gentle but final.

  McGonagall, seated beside him, adjusted her spectacles and leaned forward a fraction, "and the Triwizard Tournament is an entirely different event," she added. "The scope, the risks, and the preparations involved simply do not compare..."

  The school's Quidditch instructor exhaled through her nose, gave a short nod, and reached for her goblet. "Very well, then," she said, setting the matter aside.

  The shuffle of plates and cutlery continued, and all eyes gradually returned to the Headmaster. Tonight's meeting had a single purpose: with Hogwarts chosen to host the Triwizard Tournament, Dumbledore wished to brief everyone on their additional roles and responsibilities before the school year officially began.

  He folded his hands atop the table and let his gaze move slowly from face to face.

  "Back to the matter at hand," he said calmly. "Rolanda, you will be working alongside Pomona, Aurora, Hagrid, and Argus as one team. You will be assisting Minerva, who will oversee the tournament in its entirety, from preparations through to the final task."

  His attention moved on without pause.

  "Severus, you and Pomfrey will be responsible for the champions' well-being before, during, and after each event. Ensure they are physically and mentally fit for the challenges..."

  Snape's dark eyes flicked toward Pomfrey for a moment before settling back on the Headmaster, and Pomfrey responded with a crisp, affirming nod.

  No one interrupted.

  "That leaves Filius," he said, turning slightly, "and Maverick. I entrust the two of you with the overall security of the tournament, both externally and within the grounds..."

  "Will the Ministry Aurors be working with us as well?" the short, lively professor asked, leaning forward slightly.

  "Yes," Dumbledore replied. "My old friend Alastor will be stationed at the castle throughout the year. Speaking of which, he will also take up the Defence Against the Dark Arts post this year. Since he will be here most of the time, I thought it sensible to combine the roles."

  "And he agreed?" Maverick asked, brow raised. "Just like that?"

  Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he leaned back slightly. "We had a productive discussion beforehand," he said, smiling.

  McGonagall glanced sideways at her mentor. "If I'm not mistaken, this is the first time a wizard of Greatmagi rank has taken the post?"

  "Indeed," Dumbledore nodded.

  Her eyes lit up, and she added thoughtfully, "Perhaps, then, the so-called curse will find itself outmatched this year."

  "I wonder how Alestor will feel hearing the two of you discuss him so casually, as if he's an experimental subject..."

  A soft chuckle rippled around the table, even Snape's mouth twitching briefly at Maverick's remark.

  Dumbledore and his deputy shared a small smile. "I did warn him, of course," the Headmaster said. "But Alastor did not seem particularly afraid."

  "When have you ever seen that man afraid of anything to do with Dark Magic?"

  "Indeed, Poppy. Even during his student days, he was fearless," Dumbledore said, rubbing his chin, eyes twinkling. He hummed thoughtfully. "He reminds me of another friend of mine, Garling—that reckless fellow." He cast a quick glance at Maverick.

  "I'll be sure to tell Teacher you called him an idiot, Headmaster," Maverick replied, lips twitching.

  Another chorus of chuckles rippled around the table. Dumbledore waved a hand, smiling. "Ah, when have I ever called him foolish, my dear professor?"

  Maverick gave a faint shrug, then returned to the matter at hand. "When will the delegations arrive, and will their staff be involved in oversight as well?"

  Dumbledore set his cup aside and smiled. With a casual wave of his hand, several neat stacks of parchment rose from the shimmer of his storage ring, drifting gracefully across the table toward each staff member.

  "Please," he said as the papers settled, "this is the proposed timeline, along with the challenges for the champions, agreed upon by the other headmasters. And to answer your last question—no. As the host school, Hogwarts will bear full responsibility for the tournament in its entirety."

  Maverick lowered his gaze to the parchment, scanning the details, while around him pages were turned and murmurs rose and fell. Dumbledore's eyes lingered on him a moment longer.

  "And lastly," he added, "regarding the matter of broadcasting. Professor, have you spoken to your fiancée?"

  The meeting continued well past the point where the food had grown cold, the meeting stretching late into the evening as details were refined and contingencies discussed.

  Eventually, chairs scraped softly against stone as some of the staff departed the castle altogether, after all, a full week of summer still remained. A few, however, stayed behind, and Maverick was among them.

  The next day, Isabella and her team arrived at Hogwarts for a more focused meeting with Dumbledore and the school's board of governors. Fees, logistics, profit divisions, and magical transmission methods were discussed at length. After all, this tournament, aside from its tradition and significance, promised to generate a substantial sum of galleons.

  On the brighter side, Maverick found himself quietly pleased by one simple truth. This year, Isabella would be spending a great deal of time at Hogwarts with him.

  Time passed as it always did, swiftly and without ceremony.

  Soon enough, the day arrived.

  As the sun dipped toward the horizon, bathing the hills in amber light, the Hogwarts Express finally rolled to a halt at Hogsmeade Station, steam billowing into the evening air as it carried with it the voices, laughter, and restless energy of a new school year beginning.

  ---

  The freshmen, like every year, were escorted by the school's gatekeeper, ah, former gatekeeper, now the Professor of Care of Magical Creatures. Hagrid still seemed to love what he had been doing all these years.

  The older students, meanwhile, climbed onto the Thestral carriages, and soon the massive silhouette of Hogwarts Castle loomed ahead. Inside the Great Hall, the teachers were already seated on the elevated platform before the long tables, waiting for the hall to fill.

  Snape, in his signature black robes, wore a face so gloomy it seemed ready to drip water, his brow furrowed tightly, presumably in a foul mood for no reason at all.

  The older students mused, probably the Defense Against the Dark Arts post the old bat had coveted for years had been taken once again, and he still hadn't gotten his wish.

  And speaking of which, the chair for that position appeared empty this year. Could the school have finally run out of luck and failed to hire anyone?

  "No, wait, is that Mad-Eye?"

  "Merlin's beard… will it really be Mad-Eye Moody filling in for Professor Lupin who resigned last year?"

  The hall buzzed with murmurs, for he was no stranger to any of them, not even the Muggle-borns. The man was famous, albeit mostly for negative reasons, despite being one of the most powerful weapons against Dark wizards in all of Britain.

  The man in question indeed wasn't sitting in any chair. Instead, he stood on the stage, his cane pressed to the floor, both hands clasped over it, sweeping the students as they entered, scanning the hall as if hunting a criminal. Not even the second- and third-year students hiding in the back rows escaped his gaze.

  His face was marred with crisscrossing scars, one running from forehead to chin, looking particularly vicious. A few timid second-years shrank behind their companions, while others exchanged glances, angling for seats farther from the podium.

  After all, no one wanted to meet that eerie magical eye for long. Moody noticed the small movements clearly but ignored them entirely.

  Some time later, the freshmen entered the hall in a line behind Hagrid, while Professor McGonagall stepped forward, placing a three-legged stool in the open space before them.

  She then pulled out the iconic Wizard's Hat from who knows where and placed it on the stool.

  For the older students, nothing was new. The hat was tattered, its brim worn, its surface coated in dust, patched with pieces of fabric of different colors. It looked discarded, out of place in the magnificent Great Hall.

  The freshmen, however, stared at the strange object, confusion written across their faces. Customarily, every year the seniors spread impromptu sorting theories during the train ride, some outrageous even, claiming the sorting ceremony might involve dueling creatures of untold power.

  And now, seeing only an ordinary old hat, the new students sighed in relief, though their eyes flicked with resentment at the snickering older students.

  With everyone ready, and as the Great Hall fell silent, a small crack appeared near the brim of the hat, like a tiny mouth, and then a melodious song began:

  Oh, welcome back, young witches and wizards,

  Gryffindor, where daring hearts will rise,

  Yet heed, for reckless flame can scorch the wise.

  Hufflepuff, steadfast, true, and just,

  Beware that patience falters into dust.

  Ravenclaw, with minds sharp and keen,

  Yet brilliance alone can blind what's unseen.

  Slytherin, whose ambition knows no bound,

  Yet hunger unchecked may bring you down.

  This year is heavy with tasks of fate…

  As the song ended, warm applause filled the hall. Even Moody, uncharacteristically, clapped softly, perhaps remembering his own student days.

  The Sorting Hat's song was never truly melodious—its tune sometimes off-key, sometimes drawn out—but no one cared. Everyone respected it. In a magical world generally lacking musical talent, this antique could compose a new song each year, perfectly aligned with Hogwarts' history and current situation.

  The applause subsided, and Professor McGonagall unfolded a thick roll of parchment, yellowed at the edges and covered in tightly written names.

  She cleared her throat. "When I call your name, step forward, place the Sorting Hat on your head, and sit on the stool. Once the hat announces your House, proceed to the corresponding table."

  "Ackerley, Stewart!"

  A tall, thin boy stepped forward, legs trembling, hands tightly clenched, ears pink. He carefully lifted the Sorting Hat and placed it on his head, then sat, eyes shut, waiting.

  "Ravenclaw!" the Sorting Hat's voice rang.

  Cheers erupted from the Ravenclaw table as the boy opened his eyes, startled, and hurried to his seat.

  The Sorting continued in order: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin. Cheers erupted from the tables until the last student was sorted into Hufflepuff, after which Professor McGonagall carefully rolled up the parchment and put it away.

  At that moment, flashes of golden light swept across the tables, instantly laying out a sumptuous feast that had the students reaching eagerly for their knives and forks.

  Dumbledore's pre-dinner speech was brief, and once dessert was finished and the plates cleared, he rose again, bringing the Great Hall to instant silence.

  "So!" he said, smiling. "Now that we are fed and watered, I must ask your attention again for a few notices."

  He recited familiar rules: students were forbidden from leaving dormitories after curfew, forbidden to enter the Forbidden Forest, forbidden to use dangerous magic in the corridors—there was a lot of forbidden.

  He then introduced the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, pointing to Moody, who was now seated with the rest of the staff. "This is Alastor Moody, an experienced senior Auror. Starting today, he will be your Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor."

  Usually, new staff members would be greeted witha loud applause, but this year, for obvious reasons, only the staff clapped, and the students—even the freshmen—remained completely silent.

  The staff's mouths twitched, all of them feeling awkward as the sound echoed dismally through the hall, and they quickly stopped clapping so Dumbledore could move on.

  Fortunately, Moody wasn't the type to care about such things. Ignoring the awkward atmosphere entirely, he stood, gave the students a slight nod, and then sat back down.

  Dumbledore cleared his throat before continuing.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  "…On another matter, I must regretfully inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup, as well as the inter-school Quidditch tournament, will not take place this year."

  At the mention, the Great Hall rippled with astonished murmurs, spreading through the room like a stone thrown into a calm lake. Students whispered to each other, disbelief written across their faces, especially the players who had been preparing for the Quidditch matches, their disappointment clear.

  The reaction was expected, and Dumbledore even allowed the murmuring to linger for a moment before continuing.

  "The reason the Quidditch matches are canceled is that a major event will begin in October and continue throughout the school year, demanding much of the teachers' time and energy. However, I believe the enjoyment this event will bring you will be no less than that of the Quidditch match."

  He paused, letting the suspense hang in the air, his eyes sparkling with excitement, and then his voice rang out, carrying across the Great Hall, warm, strong, and full of energy: "It is my great pleasure to announce that this year, Hogwarts will host... the TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT!"

  —————————

  When Dumbledore announced the news of the Triwizard Tournament, the long tables of the four Houses immediately broke into different reactions.

  Some, mostly pure-bloods and perhaps a few who had actually taken history classes from the old ghost professor, cheered, obviously having heard of the event, while the majority of the students showed puzzled expressions.

  It was understandable, and Professor Dumbledore clearly noticed the difference among the students, so he smiled gently, letting the moment stretch a bit, then continued to explain, "I imagine many of you have not heard of the Triwizard Tournament, so I will give a brief introduction. I also ask those who are already familiar with the situation to bear with us and allow your minds to wander for a moment."

  He paused, letting the Hall quiet fully before going on. "The Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of wizardry: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang..."

  "A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the tournament once every five years, and it was generally agreed to be a most excellent way of establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities, until the death toll mounted so high that the tournament was discontinued."

  "Death toll?" At the Gryffindor table, Hermione Granger whispered sharply, her eyes widening as she leaned toward her friends.

  Her alarm, however, did not seem to be shared by most of the Hall. Instead of concern, excited murmurs swelled, and students leaned toward one another with eager expressions. Even her best friends seemed far more interested in hearing about the tournament than in worrying about actual deaths that had happened hundreds of years ago.

  "There have, over the centuries, been several earnest attempts to revive the Triwizard Tournament," Dumbledore's voice continued, "though I must admit that none met with quite the success their organizers had hoped for. Still, progress is seldom made without perseverance, and I am pleased to tell you that both the Department of International Magical Cooperation and the Department of Magical Games and Sports believe the moment is once again upon us."

  "Throughout the summer, we have conferred at great length, exchanged ideas, and introduced new regulations, all with one guiding purpose in mind, which is to ensure that this time, no champion will find himself or herself in mortal danger."

  "And should the tournament conclude as successfully as I am confident it will, then it shall henceforth be held every five years, with each school taking its turn as host, so that cooperation and friendly rivalry may continue to flourish among our young witches and wizards…"

  "The heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will arrive at Hogwarts in October, accompanied by a short list of their most promising candidates, and the selection of the champions will take place on Halloween. An impartial panel of judges will determine which students are most worthy to compete for the Triwizard Cup, for the honour of their schools, and for a personal prize of twenty thousand Galleons."

  "Merlin's thick beard… twenty thousand Galleons?"

  As Dumbledore's words fell, a collective gasp swept through the Great Hall, and every student's breath seemed to hitch at once. Even those from pure blood noble families were taken aback by the extremely generous reward. For these teenagers still bound to school life, regardless of whether they were nobles or not, it was an absolutely irresistible and immense temptation.

  "I'm going for it!" Fred Weasley hissed down the table, his face lit with enthusiasm at the promise of not only glory but riches. And he wasn't the only person who seemed to be imagining themselves as the Hogwarts champion.

  Watching from the stage, Maverick took in the sea of students, each House table alive with rapt attention or hushed whispers, and without meaning to, his mind subconsciously recalled this very moment from the memories of his previous life. The general direction in which everything was unfolding was still correct, though the contrasts were just as many. All the same, it promised to be a most interesting year, and the thought drew a faint smile to his lips.

  "I can already tell we are going to have our hands full," Flitwick murmured beside him, wearing a smile of his own.

  "Not us. Professor McGonagall and her team are the ones responsible for the tournament as a whole, so they are the ones who need to keep a closer watch. I have a feeling the twins might even break the record this year when it comes to losing their House points," Maverick replied, taking an unhurried sip. "Anyways, all we have to concern ourselves with is whatever trouble might decide to wander in from outside."

  Flitwick and Maverick chuckled and cast a sideways glance toward the witch in question, seated on the other side of Dumbledore. They were not speaking loudly, but Professor McGonagall's hearing was no joke, and she caught every word her jinx mouthed fellow professors uttered, her lips twitching almost imperceptibly in response.

  Meanwhile, Headmaster Dumbledore allowed the Great Hall a moment to fully absorb the news of the prize money before continuing. "Eager though I know all of you will be to bring the Triwizard Cup to Hogwarts," he said, "the heads of the participating schools, together with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose several restrictions upon the contenders this year."

  As the Hall hushed and listened intently, the Headmaster explained, "I will not go into details tonight, for all shall be explained properly when our guests arrive. Nevertheless, I can share a few points of particular importance." He paused briefly before continuing, "Only those students whose magical energy meets a certain standard will be considered, and yes, they will first be shortlisted. From there, each will be invited to undergo a more personal assessment of their other abilities, for raw power alone has never been a reliable measure of true worth. Only after this process will candidates be formally selected."

  "And, of course," he added gently, "all of you are free to put your names forward for consideration, a notion to which I have no objection at all."

  "This," he said, raising his voice slightly as several students had already begun to murmur, "is a measure we believe to be necessary given that the tournament tasks will still be difficult and dangerous."

  He went on, "The Grandmaster of Alchemy, Nicolas Flamel himself, has been personally involved in the creation of the magical mechanisms that will oversee this process, ensuring that those ultimately selected are chosen fairly and truly meet the standards we have set." His light blue eyes twinkled as they drifted slowly across the four long tables…

  Meanwhile, at the mention of "magical energy," the long tables began to buzz once more. It was fundamental knowledge in wizarding education, and aside from a handful of Muggle born first years, every student present was well acquainted with the concept.

  "But we are all only Mage Apprentices, so what is the Headmaster talking about when he says candidates will be shortlisted based on magical energy?"

  "There are levels even within the major ranks, you know. It is like both of us earning a passing grade, except mine is fifty nine marks while yours is only forty one. We both pass, since anything between forty and sixty counts, but there is still a difference."

  "Why do I have to be the one with forty one points and not you?"

  "That's not the poin… … … just keep listening to the Headmaster!"

  Though some students were still not entirely clear on the matter, the majority had grasped that the criteria for being shortlisted depended first and foremost on raw magic. It was logical and easy enough to accept, and so there were few protests in the Hall. The only lingering concern was that no one had ever heard of a precise method for measuring magical energy, but that worried only a few students also, especially since Dumbledore had said Nicolas Flamel himself was involved.

  Ron quietly leaned toward Harry, lowering his voice, his tone full of anticipation. "Harry, just imagine, if we could become Hogwarts Champions and get that twenty thousand Galleons…"

  "You will first have to be shortlisted, Ronald." From the other side of the table, before Harry could answer, Hermione rolled her eyes.

  "You think the three of us aren't good enough to make that list?"

  "Not exactly, Ron," Harry added.

  "I don't mean we aren't good enough," Hermione went on, lowering her voice just enough for the two of them to hear. "Honestly, I'd say we could even hold our own against seventh years in a duel by now. But magical energy is magical energy, and how well we can actually use our magic, be it Charms, Transfiguration, or anything else, is a different matter altogether."

  She sighed, straightened up, and continued softly as she looked toward the stage. "Unfortunately, we are still too young. It's likely that the Hogwarts champion will be chosen from the sixth or seventh years."

  Professor Dumbledore looked at the varied expressions of the students below and, after a long pause, proceeded with the talk.

  "The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October and will remain with us for the greater part of the year," he continued, his tone softening slightly. "I trust that each of you will extend every courtesy to our guests while they are with us, and that you will give your wholehearted support to the Hogwarts champions once they have been selected."

  "For now… it is late," he said, glancing up at the enchanted clock at the top of the Great Hall, a smile touching his lips. "It is far more important than anything else that you come to class tomorrow morning feeling refreshed and clear headed. So, off to bed. Chop chop!"

  In those final words, Maverick detected the unmistakable trace of subtle magic woven into Dumbledore's voice, just enough that the students who heard it felt an instinctive urge to comply without ever realizing why.

  This old geezer really was not afraid of anything, Maverick clicked his tongue inwardly as he watched the man stroll over and sit down, already speaking to Moody as though nothing of note had happened. Shaking his head faintly, he rose from his chair and decided to call it a night as well. Following his lead, the others slowly stood up as well.

  Below, there was a great scraping and banging as students got to their feet and swarmed toward the double doors leading into the entrance hall.

  "Professor Caesar, might I trouble you to stop by my office for a moment?"

  Unfortunately, Maverick had not even taken two steps before the old goat stopped him in his tracks, and his plans for a quiet evening promptly vanished.

  "You as well, Minerva, Filius…"

  Dumbledore rose as well, with Moody following close behind, and it seemed the veteran Auror would be joining them for the meeting too.

  Oh? Was it time already? Maverick's brows lifted slightly as the thought crossed his mind, and he cast a brief glance toward Moody. Well then, it was bound to be an interesting night.

  —————————

  "I always had a feeling you monster of a kid must have had some grand conspiracy cooking," Moody growled, his prosthetic eye wandering as though it had a mind of its own, sliding between the two seated across from him and the pair flanking him on either side, fixing them in turn like nails driven through flesh, "but never did I think you were this much of a madman."

  Atop the heavy oak desk, five cups of steaming hot tea sat carefully arranged, their faint spirals of steam lifting into the tension that filled the room. The Headmaster's office felt unusually confined, crowded not by bodies but by intent, and the council assembled there kept their voices low despite wards laid thick enough to suffocate any secret long before it reached the walls.

  "You are not the first to call me mad, Mad Eye," Mavrick replied, lifting one shoulder in a careless shrug as he reached for his cup, "but here we are all the same, and every person in this room stands in agreement with my goal."

  "I do not recall ever calling you mad, Professor Caesar," Flitwick said lightly, his feet dangling as he leaned back, a small chuckle escaping him as his eyes gleamed with amusement.

  "Please, we all thought it at first," McGonagall cut in, removing her spectacles and cleaning them with deliberate care, her lips curving into a smile that did not quite reach her eyes, "and I still do, by the way."

  Dumbledore joined them with a soft laugh as well, fingers steepled atop the desk, his serenity strikingly out of place given the subject at hand.

  Their casual demeanor set Moody's brow twitching, then twitching again, his grip tightening on the arm of his chair as he looked from one to the next, all four of them speaking with the ease of staffroom chatter instead of conspirators standing on the edge of turning the wizarding world upside down.

  "You know what," he said finally, his voice rough and worn, "let me rephrase that. You are all mad." He paused, exhaling through his nose as his hand rose in a tired, dismissive gesture. "Whatever. Now that you have laid all of this out, I suppose falling in line is my only real option."

  "Oh," Mavrick said, raising his cup and taking a slow sip, his eyes never leaving the veteran Auror, "so easily decided?"

  "Do I have a choice?" Moody leaned back. "At the very least, I know I am not walking out of this office without you lot doing something to my memories."

  "That depends," Mavrick replied smoothly, setting his cup down. "Do you want us to?"

  "Stop that," McGonagall snapped, her eyes rolling. "For Merlin's sake, you are making it sound like we are some dark band of evil wizards."

  Easy for you to say, woman. I am the one pinned here by the most powerful wizard alive and an equally monstrous kid, with the pair of you hemming me in from both sides. Naturally, he didn't say it aloud, striving to keep his expression impassive while the corner of his mouth twitched despite his efforts.

  "Fine," he said after a moment, straightening. "Let's say I side with you. I have more than a few points about this whole operation that I want clarified."

  "Please," Dumbledore said, gesturing with one hand. "I would be far more worried if you did not, Alastor."

  "For starters," Moody said, turning his gaze toward Mavrick, "this double agent of yours. Lucius Malfoy. How much trust do you actually place in him, enough to be certain he will not betray you?"

  "None at all," Mavrick answered without hesitation. "But I trust my magic, and I trust that he will not believe Riddle will emerge victorious against it."

  "So you have him blackmailed."

  "I have made him realize that his survival, and that of his family, depends entirely on siding with me."

  Moody's brows furrowed for a moment, after which he let the matter drop with a short grunt. "And the other spy," he continued, turning to Dumbledore. "Should he not be joining this particular discussion?"

  "He has his own arrangements," Dumbledore replied calmly. "Severus... he knows nothing of the grander plan."

  "And he will not," Mavrick added. "I have no intention of involving him in any of my operations."

  "Why," Moody asked, eye narrowing, "if you do not mind me asking?"

  "For no reason other than the fact that he is incapable of rational thinking."

  "You really do not like Professor Snape, do you, Mavrick," Flitwick said with a chuckle.

  "Severus has his flaws," Dumbledore began, as though ready to defend the man, though Mavrick cut in without hesitation.

  "The man has the emotional control of a teenager, Headmaster. You cannot convince me otherwise."

  "Enough," McGonagall said sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose before looking back at Moody. "Please, Alastor, are there any other matters you wish to clarify?"

  "There is one last thing," Moody replied, glancing briefly at McGonagall before fixing his gaze once more on Mavrick and Dumbledore. "The bait. How certain are you that that lunatic will fall for it?"

  Mavrick nodded, unsurprised, leaning back as a slow smile tugged at his lips. "Let's just say he has no other choice. We have cut off every alternative, even planted an insider he will be forced to trust, and monitor his every move. There's really little he can do except dance on the strings we provide."

  "What Professor Caesar means," Dumbledore added gently, "is that if Lord Voldemort wishes to return, and there is nothing he desires more, then he must take that bait."

  Paired with everything he had heard earlier about the web of arrangements woven into place, and if even a fraction of it proved true, Moody had no doubt it would unfold exactly as described. He let out a weary sigh. "Merlin... I almost feel sorry for that fellow..."

  Rubbing a hand over his face, he added, "You know, I never thought I would see the day when you, of all people, orchestrated something like this, Dumbledore."

  "It is for the great... for the future of the wizarding world, Alastor," Dumbledore said quietly. "The plan is solid, it will succeed, and above all else, it will be done without harming innocent lives."

  Mavrick barely held back a chuckle, his lips twitching as he leaned forward. "Decide, Mr. Moody. The wizarding world has spent long enough hiding like birds in cages. It is time we learned how to fly."

  "How eloquent," Moody muttered dryly. "One would think you are about to liberate an enslaved people rather than turn the world upside down."

  "I beg to differ, Alastor," Flitwick said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Why can it not be both?"

  "Madmen," Moody said, though a laugh followed, genuine this time and for the first time, before he straightened as if settling his mind at last. "Very well. I will board your pirate ship. Besides, when this ends, it will be you two the ICW comes after."

  "Hardly a problem," Mavrick replied with a smirk. "There are more of us involved, though at their insistence I will not mention names. Just know that we have the numbers to say otherwise."

  "So what now," Moody asked. "Do I swear an Unbreakable Vow or something equally dramatic?"

  "I do not think it is necessary to go that far, right?" McGonagall said unsurely, glancing between Mavrick and Dumbledore.

  "On the contrary," Mavrick said, leaning forward as he drew his wand. "I say we all take one... to carry out the plan and never hinder it in any way."

  The room sank into a heavy silence, brief yet weighted with meaning. An Unbreakable Vow might sound easy when spoken aloud, but it was nothing to dismiss lightly, no matter how powerful one's magic, and they all knew it. At the same time, what was at stake was no simple matter either, and that truth carried equal weight in their minds.

  Dumbledore moved next, setting the Elder Wand upon the table, and then, one by one, the others followed, reaching for their wands as their resolve hardened. Unseen by any beyond that room, a decision that would change the fate of the entire world was made that evening, not even the portraits upon the walls bearing witness, as their entire discussion lay buried beneath dense wards and powerful enchantments, despite the venue being one of the most guarded sanctuaries in the world.

  ---

  Morning sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows of the Hogwarts corridors, scattering fragmented pools of color across the cold flagstone floor as the castle slowly stirred to life.

  Hermione emerged from the library with a stack of books hugged tightly against her chest, already deep in thought, only to nearly collide with Harry and Ron rounding the corner at an unhurried pace.

  "Merlin, Hermione," Ron muttered, eyeing the pile of books she carried with open disbelief, "it's only the first day of school."

  "Don't, Ronald," Hermione said immediately, rolling her eyes as she fell into step beside them. "Just don't."

  Harry could not help but chuckle as the three of them moved forward together. "We're heading to Professor Caesar's sixth-year Muggle Science class," he said, glancing ahead, "and I don't think it's just us."

  Hermione, ever attentive, lifted her gaze and scanned the corridor. Sure enough, far more students than usual were funneling in the same direction, their chatter far more enthusiastic and far earlier than one would expect for a morning class.

  It did not surprise her in the least, however, since the last two years had unfolded in much the same way. Anyway, she could hardly complain, as she had the very same thought in mind and was already heading that way herself.

  By now, the entire school knew what the first Muggle Science class of sixth year meant. It was not merely a lesson, but an experience, one that carried students across the star-strewn depths of space in adventures so vivid they bordered on reality. Even professors had been known to attend when their schedules allowed.

  "So what are we going to do about Professor Trelawney's Divination class an hour later?" she asked hesitantly.

  "Please," Ron scoffed, "who'd want to sit in that stuffy classroom learning absolutely nothing?"

  Harry raised an eyebrow at him, his eyelids half-lowered as though he had heard something amusing. "Are you saying you learn a lot in the other classes?"

  Ron's eye twitched at that, and from the side, Hermione could not suppress a quiet laugh at the jab.

  They soon reached the classroom door, though calling it a classroom felt generous at best. When Harry pushed it open, they were immediately met with a wall of noise and movement.

  There were a lot of students inside. No, that was an understatement. Nearly half the school seemed to be packed into the room.

  "Merlin's majestic beard," Ron breathed, staring wide-eyed. "It's even crazier than last year."

  "It feels bigger than I remember," Hermione remarked, looking around as she took it all in.

  "How else do you expect to fit half the school inside?" Harry replied easily.

  Hermione spotted a familiar head in the crowd and nodded in that direction. "There's Jean. Come on, let's sit over there."

  Meanwhile, at the front of the room, perched casually on the edge of his desk with one leg dangling, the man of the hour surveyed the sea of students with a mix of resignation and faint disbelief, his gaze sweeping across the packed hall.

  And toward the very back, he spotted something even more absurd, almost half of the professors were present as well.

  If I remember the teaching schedule correctly, Flitwick should be teaching Charms to the third years right now. The corner of his lips twitched. What the hell is he doing here?

  Time passed amid buzzing conversation and barely restrained excitement, and when the bell finally rang to announce the start of class, Mavrick let out a quiet, resigned sigh. He pushed himself upright and walked toward the center of the room, the long hem of his robes fluttering softly behind him.

  "Right then," he said, magic ensuring that every word reached its mark.

  Despite everything, his voice softened naturally, carrying the calm authority and practiced ease of a seasoned teacher as he stepped fully into view.

  "I am sure many of you have heard my name," he began, starting with the usual self-introduction. "I am Mavrick Caesar, a master alchemist, professional educator, businessman, among other things."

  A ripple of amusement passed through the room.

  "Normally, I would have each of you introduce yourselves," he continued, pausing as his gaze swept across the crowd, a smile tugging at his lips, "but I suspect that might be better saved for a later date, preferably one where half the school is not present."

  The room, or rather the hall it had effectively become, erupted into a low chorus of chuckles.

  "Muggle Science," Mavrick said, his eyes gleaming faintly, "so let us begin with a short journey."

  And with that, the first class of the year began for him once again, unfolding with all the drama and enthusiasm one could possibly expect.

  —————————

  Author's Note:

  You can find this story on Webnovel, Fanfiction, and ScribbleHub, all under the same author name: RyanFic. Updates drop first on Webnovel!

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