Part One: Nightmares and Omens
Harry Potter woke with a gasp, his scar burning with pain he hadn't felt in years. The dream had been vivid—terrifyingly real. An old man, a Muggle caretaker named Frank Bryce, discovering Lord Voldemort and Peter Pettigrew in a dark house. And then... murder. Cold, calculated, effortless.
But it was the third figure that bothered Harry most. Someone else had been there, someone whose face he couldn't quite see, whose voice he didn't recognize.
"Harry?" Ron's sleepy voice came from across the dormitory. "You alright, mate? You were moaning in your sleep."
"Just a nightmare," Harry said, touching his scar. It still throbbed. "About Voldemort."
Ron sat up immediately, all traces of sleep gone. "You-Know-Who? Harry, you don't think—"
"I don't know what to think." Harry swung his legs out of bed. "But my scar hasn't hurt like this since... since first year."
The next morning, Harry debated whether to tell Professor Gupta about the dream. Anant had become something of a confidant over the past three years, someone who understood Harry's connection to his parents, who offered guidance without judgment. But before he could make a decision, an owl arrived with an unexpected invitation.
Part Two: The Quidditch World Cup
The Weasleys had secured tickets to the Quidditch World Cup—Ireland versus Bulgaria—and Harry was invited. They traveled by Portkey, meeting Amos Diggory and his son Cedric at the departure point.
"Harry Potter!" Amos boomed enthusiastically. "Heard all about you, of course. My son Cedric talks about you constantly. Beaten him at Quidditch, haven't you?"
"Only once," Harry said modestly, feeling awkward. Cedric, a handsome sixth-year Hufflepuff with dark hair and gray eyes, smiled good-naturedly.
"Twice, actually," Cedric corrected his father. "But who's counting?"
As they walked through the massive campsite toward their tent, Amos suddenly spotted a familiar figure in the distance—a tall man with warm brown skin and dark hair pulled back, wearing robes that blended Eastern and Western styles.
"Merlin's beard!" Amos grabbed Arthur Weasley's arm. "Arthur, is that—is that Professor Anant Gupta?"
Arthur followed his gaze and broke into a wide smile. "It is! Anant! Over here!"
The professor turned, and his face lit up with recognition. He strode over with that characteristic fluid grace, and Harry noticed how other wizards seemed to part unconsciously, giving him space.
"Arthur, Amos," Anant greeted them warmly, shaking hands. "And this must be the famous Harry Potter brigade I've heard so much about."
"Professor!" Harry, Ron, and Hermione chorused, surprised to see him outside of Hogwarts.
"Didn't expect to see me here?" Anant smiled. "I'm here as a special observer for the International Confederation of Wizards. They wanted someone with competitive Quidditch experience to provide analysis."
"Experience?" Amos laughed heartily. "Professor, you're being far too modest! Arthur, did you tell these youngsters about when Anant won the Under-17 International Championship for Hogwarts?"
Harry looked at Professor Gupta with new eyes. "You played professionally?"
"Briefly," Anant said, looking slightly embarrassed. "When I was sixteen, Hogwarts was invited to participate in an international youth tournament. I was made Seeker."
"Made Seeker?" Cedric interjected with awe. "Professor, my dad told me you didn't just play Seeker—you revolutionized the position! They had to change tournament rules because of you!"
Anant waved this off, but Amos was having none of it.
"Tell them, Professor! Tell them about the final match!" Amos turned to the assembled group, his face flushed with excitement. "It was Hogwarts versus Durmstrang. The score was tied 480-480. Anant had been defending against three Durmstrang Chasers simultaneously—playing Keeper and Seeker at once!"
"That's impossible," Ron breathed.
"Not for Professor Gupta," Cedric said quietly. "Tell them the rest, Dad."
Amos continued enthusiastically, "The Durmstrang Seeker spotted the Snitch near the ground. Anant was at the opposite end of the pitch, nearly a hundred feet in the air. What does he do? He dives. Straight down at terminal velocity, no braking, no hesitation. Everyone thought he'd crash. The Durmstrang Seeker reached for the Snitch, fingers inches away—"
"And Professor Gupta caught it from a perpendicular angle," Cedric finished, "while simultaneously casting a cushioning charm to prevent a fatal crash, and pulling up at the last possible second. The match ended 630-480. Hogwarts won. People still talk about that catch. They call it the 'Gupta Dive.'"
Harry stared at his professor with newfound respect. "That's... that's incredible."
"It was reckless," Anant said firmly. "I gave Madam Pomfrey heart palpitations and Professor McGonagall threatened to ban me from ever playing Quidditch again. I was lucky I didn't break every bone in my body." He fixed Harry with a meaningful look. "Youth and talent don't make one invincible. Remember that."
Arthur Weasley chuckled. "Still humble after all these years. Anant, you fundamentally changed how Seekers approach the game. There's a reason they now have minimum safe dive distance regulations."
"Because I was an idiot at sixteen," Anant countered, but there was warmth in his voice.
Amos grew more serious, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. "You know what I tell Cedric? I tell him, 'Be grateful Professor Gupta didn't have children in your year. Be grateful he's a professor and not competing.' Because if Anant Gupta were born ten years later, every achievement you young people chase—every Cup, every trophy, every record—would already belong to him."
An uncomfortable silence fell. It wasn't meant as an insult, but the weight of the statement hung in the air.
Cedric, ever gracious, broke the tension with a laugh. "Dad's right, in a way. But I think Professor Gupta would say that's exactly why competition matters. You don't improve by avoiding challenges—you improve by facing people better than you."
Anant smiled at Cedric approvingly. "Wise words from a future champion. Cedric, your father undersells your own talents. I've watched you play. You have excellent tactical sense and team leadership. Those qualities matter more than raw athletic ability."
The group chatted for a few more minutes before parting ways. As they walked toward their tent, Ron whispered to Harry, "Bloody hell. I knew Professor Gupta was brilliant at magic, but I didn't know he was a Quidditch legend too."
"Is there anything he's not brilliant at?" Hermione mused.
Part Three: Dark Marks and Darker Omens
The match was spectacular—Ireland won, but Viktor Krum caught the Snitch for Bulgaria, ending the game on his own terms. The crowd's elation, however, was short-lived.
That night, Death Eaters attacked.
Masked figures in dark robes marched through the campsite, levitating Muggles—the campsite managers—and torturing them for sport. Panic erupted. Wizards ran in all directions, grabbing children, abandoning belongings, desperately trying to escape.
"Harry! Ron! Hermione!" Arthur Weasley shouted above the chaos. "Get to the forest! Stay together and stay hidden!"
They ran, the sounds of screaming and cruel laughter following them. In the forest, they became separated from the twins and Ginny. Hermione was nearly in tears, Ron was pale, and Harry felt his scar prickling ominously.
Then, from somewhere in the darkness above them, a voice shouted words Harry didn't recognize: "MORSMORDRE!"
A colossal skull erupted into the sky, comprised of green stars. A serpent emerged from the skull's mouth like a tongue. The Dark Mark.
Gasps and screams came from all directions. Ministry wizards Apparated into the forest, wands raised, surrounding Harry, Ron, and Hermione.
"Which of you conjured it?" a wizard barked.
"Conjured what?" Harry asked, bewildered.
"The Dark Mark! Don't play dumb, boy!"
"They're children, Amos!" Arthur Weasley arrived, breathless. "They didn't cast anything!"
"Then who did?" another Ministry official demanded.
A new voice, calm and authoritative, cut through the confusion: "No one here."
Professor Gupta emerged from the trees, moving silently despite his size. In his hand, he held something—a wand, but not his own. It was broken, snapped in two.
"I tracked the caster's magical signature," Anant explained, holding up the broken wand. "Whoever cast the Dark Mark is long gone. They left this behind—likely on purpose. It's been discarded to avoid detection."
"Let me see that," barked Barty Crouch, a stern-faced Ministry official Harry recognized from the newspaper. He examined the wand with shaking hands. "This... this is a Ministry wand. Registered to—" His face went white.
"To whom?" Arthur pressed.
"Winky," Crouch said hoarsely. "My house-elf."
They found the elf unconscious nearby, clutching the wand. Despite her protests that she hadn't cast anything, Crouch fired her on the spot, his face a mask of cold fury.
Later, as the crowd dispersed and order was restored, Harry found himself walking beside Professor Gupta back toward the Weasleys' tent.
"Professor, who would cast the Dark Mark?"
Anant was quiet for a moment. "Death Eaters. Voldemort's followers. They're using this chaos to announce their presence, to spread fear. The Mark was Voldemort's signature—his way of claiming responsibility for murders and terror."
"But Voldemort's gone," Harry said, though his scar throbbed in contradiction.
"Is he?" Anant looked at him seriously. "Harry, you've faced him twice already. You know better than anyone that dark wizards like Voldemort don't simply disappear. They linger, waiting, planning. Be vigilant this year. I sense... changes coming."
Harry touched his scar unconsciously. "My scar hurt today. This morning, before the match. I had a dream about Voldemort and Peter Pettigrew. And someone else—someone I couldn't see clearly."
Anant stopped walking. "Tell me about this dream. Every detail."
Part Four: The Triwizard Tournament
The start of term feast at Hogwarts was unlike any Harry had experienced. The Great Hall was packed not just with Hogwarts students but with visitors—delegations from two other wizarding schools.
From the entrance came a group of young women in silk robes of pale blue, moving with synchronized grace. At their head was a woman of extraordinary height—easily eight feet tall—with olive skin and dark hair piled atop her head in an elaborate style.
"Beauxbatons Academy," Hermione whispered excitedly. "And that's Madame Maxime, their headmistress!"
The Beauxbatons students performed an elaborate greeting, releasing butterflies into the air that transformed into doves before vanishing in sparkles of light. Their display was met with enthusiastic applause.
Then the doors opened again, and the temperature seemed to drop. Students entered in heavy fur cloaks, walking in military precision. They carried staffs that struck the ground in unison, creating an intimidating rhythm. At their head was a thin, sallow man with a small, pointed beard—Igor Karkaroff.
Among the Durmstrang students, Harry recognized Viktor Krum, the famous Seeker from the World Cup.
Dumbledore stood, his voice magnified to reach every corner. "Welcome, welcome to Hogwarts! We are honored to host the Triwizard Tournament—a competition that has not been held for over a century!"
The hall erupted in whispers. Dumbledore explained the rules: one champion from each school, selected by the Goblet of Fire. Dangerous tasks. Eternal glory for the winner.
"And now," Dumbledore continued, his eyes twinkling, "I must introduce several distinguished guests who will be judging the tournament. First, Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation!"
Crouch stood briefly, acknowledging polite applause.
"Next, Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports!"
More enthusiastic applause for the jovial-looking former Quidditch player.
"And finally, as a special advisor to the judges—a former Triwizard Champion himself, who has graciously agreed to provide his expertise—our own Professor Anant Gupta!"
The hall exploded. Students cheered, particularly the Hufflepuffs, who roared their approval. But Harry noticed the reactions of the visiting delegations.
Madame Maxime stood, her face breaking into a genuine smile. She approached the staff table and extended her hand to Anant, who had risen to greet her.
"Anant," she said warmly in accented English. "It 'as been too long. You are looking well."
"As are you, Olympe," Anant replied, kissing her hand in continental fashion. "Still teaching those elegant Beauxbatons charm techniques?"
"Of course. Though none of my students 'ave yet matched your performance in ze tournament." Her eyes sparkled with memory. "Do you remember? Ze second task, when you—"
"Cheated shamelessly by using Eastern water-breathing techniques that weren't technically in the rule book?" Anant finished with a slight smile. "I remember your formal complaint very clearly."
"Which was withdrawn," Olympe laughed, "when ze judges decided ancient magical traditions could not be considered cheating. You were always finding ze... 'ow do you say... loopholes?"
Meanwhile, Igor Karkaroff had approached more warily. His expression was difficult to read—respect mixed with something that might have been fear.
"Professor Gupta," he said, extending his hand.
Anant took it, and immediately everyone nearby heard a sharp intake of breath. Karkaroff's face went pale, his hand trembling slightly in Anant's grip. To those watching closely, faint wisps of magical pressure emanated from both men—Karkaroff's silver-blue and aggressive, Anant's golden and utterly controlled.
It was a test. A challenge. Karkaroff was pushing magical pressure through the handshake, a power play to establish dominance.
Anant simply smiled. He didn't push back with magic—he didn't need to. His physical strength alone, honed by decades of Kalaripayattu training, began to compress Karkaroff's hand. Not painfully, but unmistakably. The message was clear: I don't need magic to overpower you.
Karkaroff's eyes widened. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Students nearby heard him whisper, barely audible: "Monstrous..."
"Igor," Anant said pleasantly, releasing the handshake. "Still teaching Durmstrang's aggressive combat techniques?"
"Y-yes," Karkaroff stammered, cradling his hand subtly. "Though I suspect our students would benefit from studying your Hado system."
"They would be welcome to," Anant replied. "I believe magic should be shared, not hoarded. Perhaps after the tournament, we can arrange an exchange program?"
The calculated generosity of the offer—made publicly, impossible to refuse without losing face—was not lost on Karkaroff. He nodded stiffly and retreated.
Ron leaned toward Harry. "Did you see that? Professor Gupta just made the Durmstrang headmaster back down without even trying!"
"Monstrous power," whispered a seventh-year Ravenclaw nearby, who had been close enough to feel the magical pressure. "That's what Karkaroff said. Monstrous power."
Hermione was watching Professor Gupta with an expression Harry couldn't quite identify. Admiration, certainly, but something else. Something more complicated.
Part Five: The Goblet's Choice
Over the next few days, students who were seventeen or older placed their names in the Goblet of Fire—a large, roughly carved wooden cup filled with dancing blue flames. Fred and George Weasley attempted to circumvent the age restriction with an Aging Potion, but Dumbledore's Age Line rejected them spectacularly, leaving both sprouting long white beards.
Professor Gupta, witnessing this, merely shook his head with amusement. "Mr. Weasley and Mr. Weasley, if you applied half the creativity you use for pranks toward your actual studies, you'd both be top of your classes."
"But Professor," Fred protested through his beard, "where's the fun in that?"
On Halloween night, the Goblet made its selection. The Great Hall fell silent as the flames turned red and spat out a piece of parchment.
"The champion for Durmstrang," Dumbledore announced, "is Viktor Krum!"
Applause erupted. Krum, looking grimly satisfied, walked to the front and disappeared through a door behind the staff table.
The Goblet turned red again. "The champion for Beauxbatons—Miss Fleur Delacour!"
A beautiful girl with silvery-blonde hair stood gracefully. Her movement had an almost hypnotic quality—Veela blood, Harry realized. She too disappeared through the door.
"The Hogwarts champion," Dumbledore read from the third parchment, "is Cedric Diggory!"
The Hufflepuff table exploded with cheers. Cedric, looking shocked and honored, made his way forward, shaking hands with classmates as he went.
"Excellent!" Dumbledore beamed. "We now have our three champions! They will—"
The Goblet of Fire turned red again.
The hall fell into confused silence. The Goblet shouldn't be producing more names. Dumbledore caught the fourth piece of parchment, staring at it with an expression Harry had never seen on the headmaster's face: shock.
"Harry Potter," Dumbledore read quietly.
Silence.
"Harry Potter!" he called more loudly.
Every head in the Great Hall turned toward Harry, who sat frozen in his seat.
"Go on, Harry," Hermione whispered, pushing him slightly.
In a daze, Harry walked to the front, aware of hundreds of eyes on him. Some looks were confused, others angry, many accusatory. Ron's face was a mask of hurt betrayal.
"Through the door, Harry," Dumbledore said quietly.
In the side chamber, the three champions looked up in surprise. Fleur spoke rapid French that Harry didn't understand but knew wasn't complimentary. Krum frowned deeply. Cedric just looked confused.
Then adults poured in—Dumbledore, Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Ludo Bagman, Barty Crouch, Professor McGonagall, Professor Snape, and Professor Gupta.
"Did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, his voice tightly controlled.
"No, sir," Harry said.
"Did you ask an older student to do it for you?"
"No, sir!"
"'E is lying!" Madame Maxime declared. "Ze Goblet would not make mistakes!"
"The Age Line should have prevented this," Karkaroff added suspiciously. "Unless someone very powerful helped him circumvent it..."
All eyes turned subtly toward Anant, who stood with arms crossed, observing quietly.
"Don't look at me," Anant said calmly. "I've been in full view of other staff members all week. Besides, I have no reason to enter Harry into this tournament. He's fourteen—far too young for these tasks."
"But someone did enter him," Crouch stated. "And now that his name has come out of the Goblet, he is bound by a magical contract to compete. There is no choice."
"That's absurd!" McGonagall protested. "He's a child! He can't possibly—"
"The rules are clear," Crouch interrupted coldly. "Harry Potter must compete."
After much debate, it was settled. Harry would be the fourth champion, whether he wanted to or not.
Part Six: The First Task - Dragons
The days leading up to the first task were miserable for Harry. Most of the school believed he'd cheated to enter, seeking glory and attention. Slytherins wore badges saying "POTTER STINKS." Even Ron refused to speak to him, convinced Harry had found a way to enter without telling him.
Only Hermione stood by him. And Professor Gupta.
"Meet me in my classroom tonight," Anant told Harry quietly after Defense Against the Dark Arts class. "Eight o'clock. Don't be late."
That evening, Harry found Professor Gupta's classroom reconfigured. The desks were gone, replaced by an open training space. Cushioned mats covered the floor.
"You're angry," Anant observed without preamble. "Hurt. Betrayed by your friend. Pressured by expectations. Frightened of what's coming."
"I didn't enter," Harry said through gritted teeth.
"I know. I believe you." Anant gestured to the center of the room. "But whether you entered or not is irrelevant now. You're competing, so you need to survive. The first task is dragons, Harry."
Harry's stomach dropped. "How do you—"
"I'm a judge. I know all the tasks." Anant's expression was serious. "You'll face a nesting mother dragon protecting her eggs. You must retrieve a golden egg from her nest. This is legitimately dangerous, Harry. Champions have died in this tournament's history."
"What do I do?"
"What's your strength? Don't think about what Cedric or Krum or Fleur would do. What are you good at?"
"Flying," Harry said immediately. "On a broomstick, I'm... I'm really good."
"Then use that. You're allowed your wand. Summon your Firebolt."
They spent the next two hours practicing. The Summoning Charm—Accio—over and over until Harry could call his broomstick from hundreds of feet away without hesitation.
"Dragons have thick scales," Anant explained as they worked. "Direct spell damage won't work well. But they have weaknesses—eyes, wings, the soft tissue around the neck. You're not trying to kill it, just distract it long enough to grab the egg."
"Professor, why are you helping me? I mean, the other champions..."
"Are being helped by their headmasters," Anant finished. "Karkaroff and Maxime will absolutely be coaching Krum and Fleur. You deserve a fair chance, Harry. Besides..." His expression softened. "Your parents would never forgive me if I let their son face a dragon unprepared."
The day of the first task arrived. Champions drew miniature dragons from a bag to determine their opponent. Harry drew the Hungarian Horntail—considered the most dangerous breed.
In the tent, waiting for his turn, Harry felt sick with fear. Cedric had already gone and returned, looking shaken but alive. Fleur went next, then Krum.
Finally, Harry's name was called.
He walked into the arena to see a monstrous black dragon, forty feet long, guarding a clutch of eggs. Her yellow eyes fixed on Harry immediately, and she released a jet of flame that would have incinerated him if he'd been a second slower moving.
"ACCIO FIREBOLT!" Harry roared.
His broomstick rocketed into the arena. Harry mounted it, and the game changed. On the ground, he was prey. In the air, he was a Seeker—and the golden egg was his Snitch.
The crowd roared as Harry led the dragon on a chase through the air, dodging jets of flame, using the rocky terrain as cover. The dragon, frustrated, took flight after him, her maternal instincts demanding she protect her nest from this strange flying creature.
That was Harry's chance. While she was in the air, he dove—a controlled, calculated dive toward the nest. His hand closed around the golden egg just as the dragon realized she'd been tricked. She wheeled in the air, flames building in her throat.
Harry pulled up and away, the egg secure. The crowd erupted.
In the judges' area, Professor Gupta leaned toward Dumbledore. "James Potter's son," he murmured. "Flying like his father, brave like his mother. They'd be proud."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Indeed. Though I suspect the dragon-dodging technique had more to do with his teacher than his heritage." Anant just chuckle after hearing this.
Scores were posted. Despite some low marks from Karkaroff (who clearly wanted Krum to win), Harry tied for first place with Cedric.
That night, Ron finally approached Harry in the common room.
"I'm sorry," Ron said quietly. "I was an idiot. You could've died today, and I was too busy being jealous to see that you didn't want this."
Harry grinned. "You were an idiot. But you're still my best mate."
Part Seven: The Yule Ball - Complications of the Heart
Christmas approached, and with it came the Yule Ball—a traditional part of the Triwizard Tournament. Champions were required to attend with dates, opening the dancing.
Harry agonized over who to ask. He wanted to ask Cho Chang, the pretty Ravenclaw Seeker, but Cedric asked her first. Eventually, in desperation, Harry and Ron asked Parvati and Padma Patil.
Hermione, meanwhile, had been asked by Viktor Krum himself—much to Ron's obvious displeasure and surprise why she choose rival School partner.
The night of the ball, the Great Hall was transformed into a winter wonderland. Ice sculptures glittered, enchanted snow fell gently from the ceiling without making anything wet, and the house tables had been replaced with smaller, intimate tables surrounding a large dance floor.
Harry and Ron arrived with their dates to find the champions gathering for the opening dance. Cedric and Cho made a handsome couple. Krum appeared stiff and uncomfortable in formal robes. Fleur Delacour looked ethereal, her Veela heritage making her literally glow.
And Hermione...
Harry almost didn't recognize her. She wore elegant periwinkle robes, her usually bushy hair pulled into a sophisticated style. She smiled at Krum, laughing at something he said, and Harry noticed she looked genuinely happy.
But he also noticed where her eyes kept drifting—toward the staff table, where Professor Gupta sat in formal robes of deep blue embroidered with silver, conversing with Dumbledore and McGonagall.
The champions took the floor for the opening waltz. Hermione danced gracefully with Krum, but Harry saw her glance toward Professor Gupta again, a complicated expression on her face.
During a break in the dancing, Hermione excused herself from Krum and stepped outside for air. Harry, needing a break from Parvati's pointed comments about his dancing skills, followed.
He found Hermione standing on the entrance steps, staring up at the stars.
"You alright?" Harry asked.
She jumped slightly. "Harry! Yes, I'm... I'm fine."
"You keep looking at Professor Gupta."
Hermione's face flushed even in the dim light. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Hermione..."
She sighed, sitting on the stone steps. Harry joined her.
"It's stupid," she said quietly. "He's my teacher. He's an adult. I'm just a student. It's completely inappropriate and I know that, but..."
"You fancy him," Harry said, understanding dawning.
"I don't! I mean... maybe? A little?" Hermione put her head in her hands. "This is mortifying. I'm here with Viktor Krum—a famous Quidditch player who's actually interested in me—and I keep thinking about someone I can't have and shouldn't want."
"Professor Gupta is pretty incredible," Harry offered. "I mean, if I were going to fancy a professor, he'd be a reasonable choice. He's brilliant, kind, powerful, and he actually listens when you talk."
"That's exactly the problem!" Hermione groaned. "He treats everyone with respect. He answers my questions seriously instead of telling me I'm too curious. He's revolutionized magical theory! He knew your parents, Harry—he has this depth of experience and wisdom that just..." She trailed off, looking miserable. "And I'm fourteen years old. I'm a child to him."
"You're the smartest witch of our age," Harry countered. "Everyone says so."
"Intelligence doesn't make me an adult." Hermione stood, brushing off her robes. "This is ridiculous. I'm going back inside to dance with Viktor, who is age-appropriate and actually interested in me, and I'm going to stop having impossible thoughts about my professor."
She marched back inside with determination. Harry followed more slowly, feeling bad for his friend but not sure how to help.
Inside, he noticed Professor Gupta had moved to speak with Cedric and Cho. The professor was laughing at something Cedric said, completely unaware of Hermione's internal struggle. On the dance floor, Hermione was determinedly focusing on Viktor, who looked delighted to have her attention.
But Harry saw her steal one more glance toward the professor, her expression wistful before she schooled it back to neutrality.
This is going to be complicated, Harry thought.
Part Eight: The Second Task - Black Lake
The golden egg Harry had retrieved from the dragon proved to be a puzzle. When opened normally, it emitted an ear-splitting wail. Cedric, in a moment of fair play, gave Harry a hint: take the egg to the prefects' bathroom and open it underwater.
Following this advice, Harry discovered the egg contained a song in Mermish, giving him a clue about the second task: "Come seek us where our voices sound... An hour long you'll have to look, to recover what we took..."
The champions would need to rescue something precious to them from the bottom of the Black Lake.
The morning of the task, Harry woke to find Ron missing from the dormitory. Hermione was also absent from the common room. With growing dread, Harry realized they were what would be taken from him.
Neville Longbottom saved him, providing gillyweed—a magical plant that would let Harry breathe underwater. "Professor Gupta mentioned it in passing," Neville said shyly. "Said it was useful for underwater exploration. I remembered."
Harry swallowed the gillyweed and dove into the freezing lake. The plant worked—gills sprouted on his neck, his hands and feet became webbed, and he could breathe the water like air.
The underwater village of the merpeople was eerie and beautiful. Five hostages floated in enchanted sleep: Ron (for Harry), Cho (for Cedric), Hermione (for Krum), a young girl who looked like Fleur (for Fleur), and—surprisingly—a small girl Harry didn't recognize.
Harry freed Ron but noticed Fleur hadn't arrived. The young girl—Gabrielle, Fleur's sister—would be abandoned if he left her. Despite the merchiefs' warnings that he should only take his own hostage, Harry refused to leave Gabrielle behind.
He surfaced last but received high marks from the judges for "moral fiber" in saving both Ron and Gabrielle. Even Karkaroff grudgingly gave him decent points.
Fleur, who had been attacked by Grindylows and forced to withdraw, was tearfully grateful. She kissed Harry on both cheeks. "Thank you for saving my sister! I am forever in your debt!"
That evening, Professor Gupta called Harry to his office.
"That was dangerous, what you did," Anant said seriously. "The hostages were perfectly safe—the enchantment would have released them regardless. But you didn't know that, did you?"
"No, sir."
"You risked disqualification or worse to save someone else's sister. Someone you didn't even know." Anant studied him carefully. "Harry, you have your mother's heart. That's both your greatest strength and your most dangerous weakness. Your compassion will drive you to take risks others won't, to sacrifice yourself for strangers. That's heroic, but it will also put you in grave danger someday."
"Professor, I couldn't just leave her there—"
"I know. And I'm not criticizing you. I'm acknowledging that you're becoming the man your parents would have wanted—someone who protects the vulnerable even at cost to himself." Anant pulled out a small leather band engraved with intricate runes. "Which is why I want you to wear this."
"What is it?"
"A protective charm. A gift, technically, for your birthday, though I'm giving it to you early." Anant fastened the band around Harry's wrist. It resized automatically to fit perfectly. "It contains some of my most advanced Hado techniques—specifically designed defensive magic. If you're ever in mortal danger, if you face magical power that should kill you, this will activate automatically."
"Like a shield?"
"More than a shield. It's called Bakudo—'Way of Binding.' It's a dimensional technique I developed that can literally split space to block attacks. Extremely advanced magic, Harry. You won't be able to activate it consciously—it's keyed to respond to lethal threats targeting you."
Harry examined the band. "Why give me this now?"
Anant's expression grew grave. "Because someone entered you into this tournament deliberately. Someone wants you in danger, wants you accessible to threats. I don't know who or why, but I won't let you face this unprotected. Promise me you'll wear it at all times."
"I promise, Professor. Thank you."
As Harry left, Anant stood at his window, staring out at the Black Lake. Severus Snape entered quietly.
"You gave Potter the Bakudo band," Severus observed. "That took you five years to create."
"And I'll make another if needed. Severus, something is wrong this year. I can feel it—like a storm building on the horizon. Harry is in danger."
"The boy attracts danger like a magnet attracts iron filings," Severus said sourly. "Nothing new there."
"This is different. Someone powerful is moving pieces on a board we can't see yet. I intend to protect him." Anant turned to his friend. "Whatever's coming, we face it together?"
Severus nodded slowly. "Together. For Lily's son, if not for Potter himself."
Part Nine: The Third Task - Into Darkness
The month before the final task passed in a blur. Harry received private lessons from Professor Moody, the grizzled ex-Auror teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts. Moody was paranoid, twitchy, constantly vigilant—his magical eye swiveling independently to track everything around him.
Harry also noticed Hermione had become distant, throwing herself into her studies with unusual intensity. She barely spoke during meals, spent every free moment in the library, and avoided eye contact with Professor Gupta during lessons.
Ron finally confronted her. "Hermione, what's going on? You've been weird all term."
"I'm fine," she said tersely. "Just focused on exams."
"Exams aren't until June," Ron pointed out. "And you're already prepared for them. This is about something else."
But Hermione refused to explain, and eventually, they stopped asking.
The final task was announced: a maze. The Triwizard Cup would be placed at the center, and the first champion to reach it would win. The maze would be filled with obstacles, magical creatures, and challenges designed to test every skill the champions had learned.
The evening of the third task arrived. Spectators filled stands erected around the maze—a massive construction of twenty-foot hedges that had been growing on the Quidditch pitch for weeks. The champions gathered at the entrance.
Bagman announced the rules. Cedric and Harry, tied for first after two tasks, would enter first, followed by Krum, then Fleur.
"Good luck, Harry," Cedric said, shaking his hand. "May the best man win."
"You too," Harry replied, appreciating Cedric's sportsmanship.
The whistle blew.
Harry and Cedric entered the maze from different points. Immediately, the hedge walls seemed to close in, muffling sound from outside. Harry was alone.
He navigated carefully, stunning a Blast-Ended Skrewt, avoiding a patch of Devil's Snare, and outmaneuvering a Boggart that transformed into a Dementor (Harry's Patronus drove it away easily).
Then he heard screaming—Fleur's voice, high and terrified. Harry ran toward the sound but found her unconscious, red sparks shooting into the air from her wand (the sign to request removal from the maze). She'd been attacked by something unseen.
Harry continued, more cautiously now. He heard grunting and found Krum attacking Cedric with the Cruciatus Curse—clearly under the Imperius Curse himself. Harry stunned Krum and helped Cedric up.
"Thanks," Cedric panted. "Someone's tampering with the champions. We should stick together."
They ran through the maze as a team, helping each other past obstacles. Finally, they turned a corner and saw it—the Triwizard Cup, glowing blue and gold on a plinth at the maze's center.
They both stopped running at the same moment.
"You saved me from Krum," Cedric said. "You should take it."
"You've helped me all year," Harry countered. "You gave me the egg clue. You deserve it."
They stared at each other. Then, simultaneously, they grinned.
"Together?" Cedric suggested.
"Together," Harry agreed.
They grabbed the Cup at the same moment—and the world spun. The maze vanished. They were falling, spinning through space, until they crashed onto solid ground in a graveyard.
Harry's scar exploded with pain. He fell to his knees, clutching his forehead, vaguely aware of Cedric helping him up.
"Where are we?" Cedric asked, wand raised. "This isn't Hogwarts—"
"Kill the spare," a cold, high voice commanded.
A figure emerged from behind a gravestone—Peter Pettigrew, plump and rat-like, holding a wand in one hand and a malformed, baby-sized creature in the other.
"Cedric, run!" Harry shouted.
"AVADA KEDAVRA!" Pettigrew screamed.
Green light shot toward Cedric. Time seemed to slow. Harry saw Cedric's eyes widen, saw him try to dodge—
"PROTEGO!" Cedric roared.
The shield charm intercepted the Killing Curse, but barely. The two spells collided in an explosion of light that threw both young men backward. Cedric hit a gravestone hard, but he was alive, conscious, fumbling for his wand.
"Both then!" Pettigrew snarled. "AVADA—"
"EXPELLIARMUS!" Harry and Cedric shouted together.
Pettigrew's wand flew from his hand, but the creature he held spoke: "Bind them. Now."
Ropes shot from the gravestone, wrapping around Harry and Cedric, pulling them against the cold stone. They struggled, but the bonds held tight.
"Welcome, Harry Potter," the creature whispered. "And Mr. Diggory. How fortunate—two will serve better than one."
Pettigrew retrieved his wand, conjured a massive cauldron, and began a ritual. He threw ingredients into the potion: bones from a nearby grave ("Bone of the father"), his own severed hand ("Flesh of the servant"), and finally approached Harry with a knife.
"Blood of the enemy," Pettigrew said, cutting Harry's arm. Blood dripped into the cauldron.
The potion exploded. Steam filled the graveyard. And from it stepped Lord Voldemort, restored to full physical form.
He was tall, skeletal, with chalk-white skin and eyes like red slits. His fingers were long and spider-like. He had no nose, only flat serpentine nostrils. He was the embodiment of inhuman evil.
"My wand, Wormtail," Voldemort commanded.
Pettigrew scurried forward with a dark wand. Voldemort tested it, sending silver sparks into the air, then turned his red gaze on the captive teenagers.
"Harry Potter," he hissed. "The Boy Who Lived. And Cedric Diggory, Hufflepuff's pride. How delightful—two pure-bloods to witness my return."
"Half-blood," Harry spat, remembering what he'd learned. "You're half Muggle, Riddle."
Voldemort's face contorted with fury. "CRUCIO!"
Pain unlike anything Harry had experienced tore through his body. Every nerve ending screamed. Beside him, he heard Cedric also screaming—Voldemort had hit them both simultaneously.
When the curse lifted, Harry sagged against his bonds, gasping.
"Respect," Voldemort said coldly, "or suffer. I could kill you both now, but where would be the sport in that? No—you will face me, wand to wand, and the wizarding world will see that Harry Potter is no match for Lord Voldemort."
He pressed the Dark Mark branded into his arm. "My Death Eaters will want to witness this."
One by one, figures Apparated into the graveyard. Masked, robed, they formed a circle. Lucius Malfoy. Crabbe and Goyle's fathers. Others Harry didn't recognize.
Voldemort released Harry and Cedric from their bonds, then tossed them their wands.
"Run," he said mockingly. "Try to escape. Make this interesting."
Harry and Cedric stood back-to-back, wands raised. Their eyes met briefly—no words needed. They were fighting together or dying together.
"On three," Cedric whispered. "Hit him with everything."
Voldemort laughed. "Brave little Hufflepuff. Just like Anant Gupta once was. Did you know, Harry, that your precious professor defeated by Death Eater once? Years ago, when I was first rising to power, he intercepted one of my Death Eater recruitment meetings. Killed three of my followers, wounded five more, and escaped before I could arrive. He's the only reason I didn't recruit more young Slytherins during that era. Tell me—does he still teach his inferior Eastern magic?"
"One," Cedric counted quietly.
"Perhaps I'll kill him after I kill you," Voldemort mused. "A symbolic victory—destroying both the Boy Who Lived and the Golden Hufflepuff in the same—"
"TWO!" Harry shouted.
"THREE!" Cedric roared.
"EXPELLIARMUS!"
"STUPEFY!"
Both spells flew at Voldemort simultaneously. He deflected them contemptuously.
"AVADA KEDAVRA!"
Green light shot toward them. Harry and Cedric dove in opposite directions. The curse missed by inches.
They fired back—stunning spells, disarming charms, anything they could think of. Voldemort batted them aside like annoying insects, laughing cruelly.
"CRUCIO!" he shouted at Cedric.
Cedric fell, screaming. Harry ran forward desperately.
"EXPELLIARMUS!" Harry tried again, but Voldemort was too fast—
"AVADA KEDAVRA!"
The green curse flew straight at Harry's heart. This was it. This was death.
And then the leather band on Harry's wrist began to glow.
Part Ten: Bakudo 81 - Danku
The runes on Anant's gift erupted with golden light. Harry felt a surge of power—not his own, but something vast and ancient, channeled through the band.
A voice echoed in his mind: Anant's voice: "BAKUDO 81: DANKU!"
Reality split.
A massive rectangular barrier materialized between Harry and the Killing Curse—but it wasn't a shield in the traditional sense. It was a severance of space, a dimensional wall that didn't block the curse so much as erase the space it was traveling through.
The Killing Curse hit the Danku barrier and simply ceased to exist.
Voldemort's red eyes widened in shock.
But the barrier didn't stop there. Golden energy spread from Harry's wrist through his body, healing the damage from the Cruciatus Curse, mending his cut arm, restoring his magical reserves. The same light spread to Cedric, lifting him from the ground, healing his wounds.
"What is this?" Voldemort hissed, backing away from the golden barrier that now surrounded both teenagers.
In the graveyard, something impossible was happening. Harry felt Professor Gupta's magic—distinctive, powerful, protective—surrounding him like armor. The band had activated not just a shield but a complete defensive protocol, including healing and magical reinforcement.
"AVADA KEDAVRA!" Voldemort tried again.
"BAKUDO 81: DANKU!" the band responded automatically, Harry's voice speaking words he didn't understand but which carried absolute authority.
Another dimensional barrier split space. Another Killing Curse ceased to exist.
"We need to get out of here!" Cedric gasped, on his feet now. "Harry, the Cup—it's a Portkey! If we can reach it—"
They ran. Death Eaters fired spells at them, but the Danku barriers kept manifesting, protecting them from lethal curses. Lesser hexes got through—Harry felt his leg burn from a cutting curse, Cedric's shoulder smoked from a minor fire hex—but they stayed alive, stayed moving.
Voldemort roared with fury, firing curse after curse. "AVADA KEDAVRA! AVADA KEDAVRA!"
The band's magic was weakening—Harry could feel it. The barriers were forming slower, smaller. Whatever power Professor Gupta had imbued in the leather couldn't last forever.
They reached the Cup. Harry grabbed it with one hand, Cedric with the other.
"TAKE US HOME!" Harry screamed.
The graveyard vanished. They were spinning, falling, the Portkey pulling them back to Hogwarts—
And something else happened. As the Portkey activated, as the magic reached its peak, the Danku barrier pulsed one final time. The spirits of Voldemort's victims—Frank Bryce, Bertha Jorkins, and the spectral forms of James and Lily Potter—manifested briefly, drawn by the protective magic.
"Harry," James's voice echoed, filled with pride and love. "Hold on. We've got you."
"Be brave, darling," Lily whispered. "You're going to be alright. Tell Anant thank you from us. Thank you for protecting our son."
The spirits faded. Harry and Cedric crashed onto the grass outside the maze, the Triwizard Cup falling between them.
Chaos erupted. Screaming. People running forward. Dumbledore's face appeared above Harry, grave and concerned.
"Voldemort," Harry gasped. "He's back. He's got a body. Pettigrew helped him—"
"Cedric," Dumbledore said urgently. "Are you injured?"
"I'm alive," Cedric said, shaking. "Because of this." He held up his wrist, showing his own band—also glowing with fading golden light. Harry realized with shock that Professor Gupta must have given protection to all the champions, not just him but he himself has the most powerful band compare to other three.
"Get them to the hospital wing," Dumbledore ordered. "Severus, fetch Professor Gupta. Minerva, lockdown the school. Now!"
To be continued