Chapter 18: Chapter 18: The Goblet’s Choice

The Great Hall buzzed with excitement as students filed in for the Halloween feast. The decorations were more elaborate than usual—live bats flew near the enchanted ceiling, huge carved pumpkins glowed with eerie flames inside them, and ghostly cobwebs hung from the high beams, appearing and vanishing randomly. The Goblet of Fire stood prominently before the High Table, its blue flames casting strange shadows across the room.

As Arthur made his way to his usual isolated spot at the Slytherin table, he noticed an immediate difference in the atmosphere. The typical wide berth students gave him had expanded significantly, and the whispers that followed his passage were more numerous and urgent than usual. Glancing around the hall, he noted several students from various houses sporting bruises, black eyes, and other visible injuries that they were making poor attempts to conceal.

The morning’s fight hadn’t stayed secret, as expected. Twenty students suddenly showing up with injuries tended to draw attention, especially when none of them would give a straight answer about what happened. The rumor mill had been working overtime, collecting bits of the truth from reluctant admissions and overheard conversations.

“Did you hear? Twenty of them—and he didn’t even use his wand…”

“…just walked away without a scratch…”

“…floating shields all around him…”

“…knocked Rowle out with one punch, I heard…”

The whispers stopped abruptly whenever Arthur looked in their direction. Even the usually brave Gryffindors kept their distance, their courage apparently having limits when faced with the growing legend of Arthur Hayes.

At the Slytherin table, Rowle and his friends were noticeably quiet. Rowle himself had a spectacular black eye that had resisted magical healing attempts, while Warrington’s stiff movements suggested bruised ribs under his robes. They avoided eye contact with Arthur, staring intently at their plates whenever he looked their way.

The visiting students seemed particularly fascinated by this development. Durmstrang’s bulky representative from the morning ambush sat slumped at the far end of the table, his face clearly showing evidence of Arthur’s handiwork. His classmates alternated between muttering to each other and stealing evaluating glances at Arthur, their expressions a mix of grudging respect and lingering hostility.

Arthur helped himself to the feast with practiced indifference. He’d expected consequences from the morning’s events, but so far, no professor had approached him about the incident. Either they didn’t know—unlikely, given Hogwarts’ terrible record for keeping secrets—or they had chosen to ignore it. The latter possibility suggested either a remarkable level of common sense or, more likely, an unwillingness to navigate the complex politics of punishing a student who had been outnumbered twenty to one.

“Your attention, please!” Dumbledore’s voice cut through the excited chatter as the feast concluded. The candles dimmed throughout the hall, leaving the Goblet’s blue-white flames as the main source of light. “The moment has arrived. The Goblet is almost ready to make its decision.”

The entire hall fell silent, faces turned expectantly toward the ancient artifact. Dumbledore made a sweeping gesture with his wand, extinguishing the remaining candles and plunging the hall into near darkness illuminated only by the Goblet’s otherworldly glow.

“Any second now,” Dumbledore murmured, his eyes fixed on the dancing flames.

Suddenly, the flames turned red, sparks flying in all directions. A tongue of flame shot into the air, ejecting a charred piece of parchment that Dumbledore caught skillfully in his hand. The flames returned to their blue-white state as the headmaster read by their light.

“The champion for Durmstrang,” he announced, his voice carrying clearly through the silent hall, “will be Viktor Krum!”

A storm of applause erupted, particularly enthusiastic from the Slytherin table where the Durmstrang students were seated. Krum rose from his place, his hunched posture and surly expression unchanged by his selection. He shambled toward Dumbledore, shook his hand, and proceeded through a door at the right side of the Hall.

“Bravo, Viktor!” boomed Karkaroff, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Knew you had it in you!”

The applause died down, and attention returned to the Goblet. Once again, the flames turned red, and a second piece of parchment shot out.

“The champion for Beauxbatons,” said Dumbledore, “is Fleur Delacour!”

A girl with silvery-blonde hair and an ethereal grace rose from the Ravenclaw table. She moved toward the front of the hall with dance-like precision, seeming to glide rather than walk as her classmates reacted with a mixture of applause and poorly concealed disappointment—two girls were actually sobbing into their arms.

After Fleur disappeared into the side chamber, silence fell once more. The tension was obvious as students leaned forward, many Hogwarts students crossing fingers under the tables or muttering quiet spells for luck. The Goblet’s flames turned red a third time, and Dumbledore caught the parchment that shot forth.

“The Hogwarts champion,” he called out, “is Arthur Hayes!”

The announcement was met with absolute silence—a vacuum of sound so complete it seemed to press physically on the eardrums. Arthur remained perfectly still, his face betraying only the slightest widening of his eyes as evidence of his surprise. Around him, expressions ranged from shock to horror to grudging acknowledgment. At the far end of the Slytherin table, several students exchanged furtive glances, their faces showing a mixture of satisfaction and apprehension.

Dumbledore’s voice cut through the silence again, more insistent this time. “Mr Hayes! Up here, if you please!”

Arthur did not move from his seat. His mind worked rapidly, analyzing the situation. He had not entered his name—of that he was certain. Someone else had done so, and judging by the guilty looks being exchanged down the table, the culprits were not difficult to identify. But their motives made little sense. The Triwizard Tournament was dangerous, yes, but it also brought significant prestige. Why would blood purists nominate a Muggle-born as Hogwarts champion?

Then understanding dawned. They hadn’t been thinking clearly. Their hatred had overwhelmed their reason, leading them to focus solely on the danger while overlooking the honor. They had viewed the Tournament as a potential death trap rather than an opportunity for glory.

“Mr. Hayes,” Dumbledore called again, his tone now tinged with impatience, “please come forward.”

Arthur finally spoke, his voice carrying clearly through the silent hall. “Headmaster, I’m afraid you are mistaken. I never entered my name in the cup, so I am not the champion.”

A low murmur swept through the hall at this direct contradiction. At the High Table, McGonagall leaned toward Dumbledore, whispering urgently in his ear.

“Be that as it may, Mr. Hayes,” Dumbledore replied, “your name has emerged from the Goblet of Fire. This constitutes a binding magical contract. Please proceed to the champions’ chamber so we may discuss this further.”

“I entered no contract,” Arthur stated flatly, remaining seated. “And I have no interest in participating in your tournament.”

The murmurs grew louder. At the High Table, Barty Crouch Sr. had risen to his feet, his face a mask of outrage at this defiance of tradition. Karkaroff and Madame Maxime were engaged in heated whispers with each other, while Ludo Bagman looked utterly bewildered by this unexpected development.

Before Dumbledore could respond further, there was a disturbance at the Goblet. The flames had turned red again, sparks flying more violently than before. Another tongue of flame shot high into the air, and with it, another piece of parchment.

Automatically, Dumbledore reached out and seized the parchment. He held it out and stared at the name written upon it. A long silence followed, during which Dumbledore continued to stare at the slip in his hand while everyone in the room stared at Dumbledore. Then the Headmaster cleared his throat and read out:

“Harry Potter.”

The ensuing silence was, if possible, even more absolute than the one that had followed Arthur’s name. Every head in the Great Hall swiveled toward the Gryffindor table, where Potter sat frozen, his face a picture of shock and confusion.

“I didn’t put my name in,” Harry said blankly. “You know I didn’t.”

At the High Table, McGonagall had risen to her feet, swept past Ludo Bagman and Professor Karkaroff to whisper urgently in Dumbledore’s ear.

“Harry Potter!” Dumbledore called again. “Harry! Up here, if you please!”

Unlike Arthur, Potter responded to the summons. Looking dazed and uncertain, he got to his feet, stumbled slightly, and moved toward the High Table. The whispers that followed him were harsh, accusatory, filled with jealousy and suspicion.

“He cheated!” “Not even seventeen yet!” “Always has to be the center of attention…”

As Potter disappeared into the champions’ chamber, attention swung back to Arthur, who remained impassively seated at the Slytherin table. The room seemed to be holding its collective breath, waiting to see what would happen next.

“Mr. Hayes,” Dumbledore said, his voice now holding a distinct edge, “I must insist that you join the other champions immediately.”

Arthur met the Headmaster’s gaze directly, his own expression coolly evaluative. The tension in the hall stretched like an over-tightened wire as wizard and student engaged in a silent battle of wills before the entire school.

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