Chapter 199
Mr. Barty Crouch Sr. seemed to snap out of his thoughts. He hadn't spoken a single word during the earlier argument, as though his mind had wandered far away. Now he looked worn and haggard. Deep shadows hung beneath his eyes, and his wrinkled skin was as pale as paper.
During the Quidditch World Cup, he had been full of energy and authority.
Your son is standing right in front of you, Malfoy thought, a trace of sympathy rising in his heart.
But in a sense, the man had only himself to blame.
Alastor Moody leaned half his body against the fireplace. His normal eye was half-lidded as he observed everything in the room. Now that Harry Potter had successfully entered the Tournament, there was no need for him to expose Kakarov's flaws.
"Alright," Crouch said. "Guidance… yes… the first task…"
Soon, Crouch gave a vague explanation of the first task—so vague it was almost meaningless.
According to him, the task would test the courage of the Champions. Facing the unknown bravely was an essential quality of a wizard, so the content would remain secret. He only mentioned the timing of the task.
"But—" Igor Karkaroff began, clearly dissatisfied.
"We will discuss compensation separately, Headmaster Karkaroff," Crouch cut in immediately, anticipating another argument.
Harry, meanwhile, was distracted. His thoughts lingered on what Crouch had said—Champions could skip exams.
Ron would be insanely jealous if he heard that, he thought.
"We should be going," said Olympe Maxime, glancing at the quartz clock beside the bookcase. "Fleur, come along."
"I'm looking forward to the Tournament," said Fleur Delacour with a faint smile as she looked at Malfoy. She flicked her long silver hair behind her before turning and following Madame Maxime out of the room.
---
"Well done, Harry!" Ron shouted excitedly.
The Gryffindor common room was filled with celebration—cheering, shouting, and whistling echoed everywhere.
"That was unexpected. When the third name came out, I thought Slytherin had crushed us. Didn't expect Harry to pull off something like that," said Fred, raising an eyebrow.
"The Triwizard Tournament should be renamed the Fourwizard Tournament now," George joked.
"Harry, how did you do it?" Hermione Granger asked. Her sharp instincts told her something wasn't right.
"I… don't know," Harry said, shaking his head helplessly.
He felt a flicker of guilt—he had lied. At the same time, he recalled what Moody had told him not long ago.
---
After a Defense Against the Dark Arts class:
"Professor Moody—wait, I have something to ask," Harry called out, stopping him.
The classroom was empty now, and what remained on the desks were less "teaching materials" and more the remains of experimental creatures.
"Potter, I know what you're going to ask," Moody said bluntly. "You want to enter the Triwizard Tournament."
"You have to believe in your own ability, Potter. Someone who once defeated the Dark Lord won't be stopped by a mere screening spell."
His tone was strange, his normal eye narrowing slightly. No one could tell what he truly felt toward the boy who had once brought down his master.
"Is… is that so?" Harry asked uncertainly, thinking Moody might just be brushing him off.
"But—" Moody suddenly changed tone. His magical eye twitched.
"Even if you put your name in, there's no guarantee the Goblet will choose you. You don't have absolute confidence in that, do you?"
"No one does, Professor," Harry replied—but he sensed something more behind Moody's words.
"I do," Moody said with a faint smile. The expression didn't match the eerie movement of his magical eye.
"This isn't the place to talk," he added. "Come to my office."
Harry hesitated for a moment, then followed.
---
The wooden door creaked open.
Harry remembered being here before—with Ron and Hermione, waiting for Remus Lupin, even meeting Sirius unexpectedly.
Back then, the room had been filled with strange creatures Lupin brought for lessons. Now, it was filled with unfamiliar objects—tools from Moody's days as an Auror.
On the desk sat a large cracked device—Harry recognized it immediately: a Sneakoscope, though much larger than his own. Nearby was a twisted golden device that hummed softly. On the wall hung something like a mirror, but it reflected nothing—only shadowy, indistinct figures moved within it.
"You're interested in my Dark Detectors," Moody said, handing one over.
"Thank you," Harry said, examining it closely.
"Now then," Moody continued, "back to our topic."
"You want to enter the Tournament, but frankly, your chances are slim. Most competitors are older—like Cedric Diggory from Hufflepuff. And from Slytherin… that boy who worked with me last year—I acknowledge his strength."
Each word weighed on Harry, dampening his hope.
"But there's a reason there are only three champions," Moody went on, abruptly changing direction.
"That's obvious," Harry replied, almost echoing Hermione. "If one school had two champions, it would cause trouble. The Goblet has restrictions."
"What if there were a fourth school?" Moody asked.
"But only Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang are participating," Harry said immediately.
Moody's two eyes locked onto him.
"What if there were a fourth school?" he repeated slowly.
Harry's body stiffened. Then his eyes widened in realization.
"That's against the rules, Professor!"
"Which rules?" Moody said calmly. "In my class, you cast dark magic on live creatures. Do you think placing a small charm on an object will get you expelled?"
…
"Professor… one last question," Harry said.
"Go on."
Moody chuckled and limped over to a worn sofa, sitting down heavily. His magical eye and Harry's green eyes met.
"Your father—James Potter—I owed him a great deal," Moody said quietly.
"For his son… I don't mind bending my principles a little."