Sorry for the delay, I had some trouble with my PC.

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“Cassy, Cassy, Cassy.” The voice curled like smoke. “Knew you’d show up eventually.”

Cassian stepped forward, checking around. “Nice disguise.”

“Cheers.” Barty smirked. “Could’ve done with a better haircut, though.”

Cassian didn’t answer. He flicked his wand and immediately felt it drag. Like casting through bogwater. His brows pinched. The diagnostic spell landed on Potter. The boy was okay. Stunned but breathing.

“Explain,” He said flatly, as he looked around to see if anyone else was hiding.

Barty grinned. “Since when do you bark orders at me? Did you forget who’s the top dog, Cassy?”

Cassian’s jaw locked so tight he nearly cracked a molar.

“Oh, don’t pout,” Barty said, tilting his head. “This is too fun. So here it is.”

He gestured lazily to the Cup behind them, its glow humming like it had no idea it was about to ruin someone’s year.

“You lot keep thinking it’s just a trophy. But it’s older than Hogwarts. Pre-founding magic. They started to use it for the tournament much later. It’s anchored through the Leylines, etched in something even your darling ward system can’t override.”

Cassian didn’t move. “Get to the point.”

“The Cup can bind Champions. That’s the beauty of it. The second your name gets pulled, it’s a pact. And that magic is law. Blood, body, magic, choice.”

Barty’s smile widened, proud like a man reciting the final move of a masterpiece. “The Cup’s too heavily warded during the task,” he said. “Layered protections, fed by the tournament’s magic. While it’s active, you so much as try tweaking it it’ll lash out. Blow your arm off, curse your blood, take your magic, maybe all three.”

He stepped forward slightly, wand trained on Cassian.

“But once a Champion touches it, the task ends. The Cup goes dormant. All those protections, that power humming around it, it quiets.”

His eyes gleamed.

“And here’s the trick, if someone enchanted it before the task began, weeks before, even, those changes stay buried. Hidden under the tournament’s own magic. The moment it drops back to idle, that spell wakes up. Portkey activates. And boom, Champion’s gone before anyone can blink.”

“When did you even do it?” Cassian then realized, “Barty Sr…”

Barty laughed, “Yes! Before he was sacked out of the office, he was working with foreign delegates. Winky was following him to office from time to time. When they pulled him, she brought me straight in.”

Cassian swore softly. “So the moment the Cup thinks it’s done…”

“Portkey fires. Since its magic overrides Hogwarts’, it’ll cut through the anti-Portkey wards as well,” Barty said with a laugh, spreading his hands like it was obvious.

Cassian sighed in relief. Lucky break, he’d told Ash to keep Champions out. All of them. No one left to touch the Cup. If the Cup didn’t think it was finished, it wouldn’t go dormant, and without that, no Portkey. No snatching Potter off to gods-know-where.

He adjusted his grip on his wand. “You’re an idiot,” he said. “You spent all that effort setting up a trap, and forgot the Cup only sleeps when a Champion wins. Potter’s not one.”

Barty’s grin faltered. “And whose fault is that?”

“Why go to all that trouble?” Cassian asked. “A full year of pretending. You brewed Polyjuice on school grounds, taught classes, ran the Defence curriculum… why? Why not grab him in Hogsmeade? Or on a late-night stroll? You’ve seen how often that boy breaks curfew.”

Barty cackled madly, amused and bitter all at once.

“Oh, you really think it’s that easy, do you?” he said, shaking his head. “You think I could just drag a student out of Hogwarts like a sack of laundry? Do you even know how paranoid your precious Headmaster is? The wards on this place, Cassy… Founders and generations of Headmasters made this castle a vault. You sneeze near a staircase the wrong way and he hears about it.”

He then shook his head, “And he… the Dark Lord…” He tilted his head. “He has a plan for Potter.”

Cassian squinted, lips thinning.

Barty caught it, and grinned wider. “Oops. Nearly slipped there, didn’t I?” He clicked his tongue. “But since you’ll be dead in ten minutes, might as well let you in on the joke. I turned the Cup into a two-way Portkey.”

Cassian’s heart slowed a beat. “Two-way.”

“Mm.” Barty gestured. “We rigged it so that when Potter won the tournament, and he would have won it, I’d have made sure of that, he’d touch the Cup, vanish to our chosen spot.”

His eyes were gleaming now.

“And once the Dark Lord was done with him, once he’d bled what he needed to rise again…” Barty leaned forward slightly, voice quiet now, reverent. “We’d send his body back here. Still holding the Cup. Like a trophy.”

Barty’s grin turned vicious. “Imagine it. Hogwarts’ own boy hero, dead on school grounds. In front of everyone. Parents. Staff. Foreign schools. Press… Blood on Dumbledore’s hands, because his tournament sent him there.”

Cassian’s grip twitched on his wand. “You wanted to gut the school from the inside.”

Barty shrugged, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “And it would’ve worked. Potter wins. Vanishes. Dies. Cup returns. No signs of foul play. Just… an unfortunate incident in a very old, very temperamental artefact.”

Cassian’s mind reeled.

This wasn’t just about killing Potter.

The tournament was the perfect excuse. International event, unpredictable elements, dangerous tasks. If someone died, it would be chalked up to risk. Maybe misjudgement. Maybe unfortunate timing. But never murder.

And the Cup? That was clever. Its enchantments were tied into five layers of international magic. The leylines… Once activated, its portkey trigger would slip under Hogwarts’ usual ward net.

A true autopsy wouldn’t find traces of Voldemort. Not if they cleaned the body. Burned the trail. If Potter turned up dead with no sign of outside interference, people would blame the task. They’d grieve. And Dumbledore would answer for it.

And if that happened…

Voldemort could stay hidden.

That meant he either hadn’t risen fully yet, or, more likely, he wanted to wait. Stay in the shadows. Rebuild. Gather strength without painting a target on his back. If Potter died before Voldemort was ready to reveal himself, the wizarding world wouldn’t even know where to aim.

And by the time they realised it wasn’t an accident?

Too late.

Cassian narrowed his eyes. “You weren’t trying to kill a boy. You were trying to kill a symbol.”

Barty’s grin stretched. “And now? You’ve gone and ruined it.”

He flicked his wand.

Cassian stepped sideways, fast. Sparks ripped across the air where his chest had been.

Barty’s wand flashed again, a razor-thin bolt of blue slammed into the ground near Cassian’s feet, carving a scorch line through the grass.

Cassian crouched, sending a crackling ankle-breaker skimming across the clearing. Barty caught it mid-air with a snap of his wrist, twisting the spell sideways into a hedge. Leaves burst outward in a plume of green.

They began circling, boots burning black trails in the grass.

Barty moved first. “Cruc-“

Cassian fired before the word finished. Silent slice, aimed for the chest. It hit, Barty grunted and dropped, rolled with it, and came up with that grin still plastered across his face.

“Bit rude,” he said. “I liked this robe.”

Cassian didn’t reply. His next spell was sharp and fast.

Barty matched it. The clash cracked mid-air, showering the clearing with sparks.

Cassian winced. That one pulled harder than it should’ve.

He cast again, nothing complex, just a knockback, but the recoil jarred his wrist.

Barty tilted his head. “As always, you are weak, Cassy.”

Cassian ignored him. Cast again. His magic wasn’t responding the same. It felt like casting through fog.

Every new spell dragged something from him. The next shield came late, too late, Barty’s jinx clipped his shoulder and spun him off-balance. Pain flared bright, biting down to bone.

Cassian staggered back, caught himself with a grunt, and circled again.

Barty was watching with a wide smile.

“You feel it yet?” Barty asked, wand loose in his hand.

Cassian spat blood and braced. What the hell he was talking about?

Barty’s laugh cut through the dark. “You know, I got the idea from you. When I first crawled out of Azkaban, I heard you were a teacher. A bloody teacher. Cassy, the useless little git, lecturing children. Thought maybe someone nicked your name and was playing pretend.”

Cassian gritted his teeth.

“Old Regulus must’ve given up trying to sculpt you into something decent, yeah? Found some poor sod, shoved your hair in a potion, and called it an upgrade.”

“Then it hit me. Why not do the same?” Barty spread his arms. “I mean, if Hogwarts will hand you a wand and a title, surely they’ll let me play professor.”

He cackled, full-body shake and everything.

Cassian squinted at him.

Moody’s face grinned back. “Still, what happened to you? You couldn’t even cast Lumos last I saw.”

Cassian ignored him. His eyes flicked to Harry and back to the Cup.

He could try to cast Lumos Noctis, haul Harry out and vanish. But if he was right then Crouch had been there during the World Cup. Then the bastard knew the spell too. Worse, he might’ve laid traps for it. One stray Avada, and they’d be scraping Potter off a hedge.

But he could try. Take a chance. Dive and hope.

He was halfway to a decision when footsteps came pounding up the path behind him.

He turned in dread, wand twitching.

Mingyu stood there, wild-eyed and grinning like he’d solved a riddle with crayons.

“Our school has Dragon guardians!” he shouted. “I’ve been hiding from them before I was fifteen!”

Cassian blinked. Fuck.

Mingyu stepped into the clearing. Then his eyes landed on the Cup. On Moody. On Potter.

He frowned. “Did I… lose?” Then, spotting Harry sprawled out, added, “Wait. None of you are Champions. What are you doing here?”

Barty turned. His grin returned full force.

“Though I need to improvise, you lost, Cassy. I’ll deal with you later.”

Before Cassian could move, Barty flicked his wand.

A rope snapped into existence, one end already knotted around the Cup’s stem. The rope split into two loops, one going for Mingyu, one for Potter. It coiled like a striking snake, and slammed around Mingyu’s chest. The boy yelped, feet lifting off the ground as the rope yanked him forward, straight toward the Cup.

Cassian didn’t think.

He lunged, grabbed Harry by the collar, and shoved him away. Hard.

Harry skidded away over the grass.

Barty’s rope missed the boy by inches.

But Mingyu’s hand slapped the base of the cup at the same instant Barty held onto the rope.

And Cassian’s shoulder… got caught by the rope that was coming for Harry.

There was a jerk behind his navel. A crack of wind and colour. Then… the maze vanished.

The Cup took them.

(Check Here)

You’ve found: Tome of Countless Eyes

Grants unlimited passive observation.

Cursed to prevent speech. Must be dropped to contribute anything of value.

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