Draco was sitting on the Slytherin table with his housemates having dinner. By now he had completely checked out of their conversation. They have been going on and on about the Triwizard Tournament and who will become champion; a word Draco had heard so many times during dinner alone it has lost its meaning and become a string of strange syllables.
Someone had left parchment, a bottle of ink and a quill on the Gryffindor table for people to use and either through peer pressure or just plain bandwagon following, half the Hogwarts graduating class volunteered themselves for slaughter. From Slytherin alone Warrington, Bole and Derrick had put their names on the goblet.
Warrington was the most eager of them, unbearably so. He only shut up about the tournament when some beautiful soul cast a Silencio on him. Draco had to admit even he had been excited about the tournament, if only just a little, but the novelty had worn off sometime around evening yesterday and now he was ready for their guests to leave.
It made zero sense to Draco for a tournament which attempts to promote international cooperation, to only have three participants. It would be way more logical for the entire school to participate. Pit the first years of the three schools against each other in age appropriate challenges in one day, then the second years the next day, and so on and so forth. Of course, supervising hundreds of children and teenagers would be a difficult task, but it would match the supposed spirit of the tournament better than how it currently works. Whoever came up with this tournament had a fetish for the number three, Draco reckoned.
To him the best thing about the tournament has been the diversified meals they had been served the past two days. Finally the kitchen elves cooked something that was not pumpkin-based, no doubt to make Hogwarts’ foreign guests feel at home. The crème brûlée he had for dessert in particular Draco found delicious, it tasted just like Dobby’s. The Malfoy’s new elf, Marty, is perfectly adequate and in a lot of ways better than his predecessor, but Draco still missed Dobby in all of his bonkers glory.
“A moment of your attention please,” Minister Crouch called out. He was next to the goblet, inside the rune circle. “The champions will be revealed soon. Would anyone still like to enter the tournament? This is your last chance.”
A short Durmstrang girl with black wavy hair sheepishly raised her hand. “Имате ли пергамент и перо?” she asked her colleagues, who all shook their heads no.
“We have parchment here, if you’re looking for it,” a Gryffindor boy with mousy hair said and made a writing motion with his hand so the girl would get the message. She walked over to him.
“Look at this beautiful display of cooperation, this is what this event is all about,” Crouch beamed at them.
“I concur,” spoke Dumbledore from his throne, “Ten points to Gryffindor!”
Draco rolled his eyes. The geezer did not even attempt to hide his bias these days. A Gryffindor could sneeze right on his face and Dumbledore would award the student points for having such a good aim.
It bothered Draco. Dumbledore was a big war hero, he was the man who killed bloody Grindelwald. He should be more formidable. Perhaps he once was and heading Hogwarts for decades rotted his brain and made him the loon he is today.
The guest headmasters weren't terribly impressive either. The Beauxbatons headmistress is a disgusting half-giant and the Durmstrang High Master, who at least looks the part of a dignified educator, is actually an uncoordinated buffoon. Yesterday afternoon Draco had seen Karkaroff running down the path that leads to the boathouse, gripping his inner left arm like it was bleeding. He was in such a rush he tripped three times and bumped so hard into a Hufflepuff girl she fell on her bum. He didn’t even stop to berate her for being in his way.
The Durmstrang girl, who now had written her entry slip, awkwardly approached Crouch and the goblet, then threw her slip into the blue flames and darted back to her seat.
“Anyone else?” Crouch asked and scanned the hall for more wannabe champions, “No? Then I don’t see the point in delaying the sorting any longer. I know you are all very anxious, and frankly, so am I.”
“Yes please, put an end to this already,” Draco muttered under his breath.
“This can go,” Crouch made an X in the air with his wand and the circle of blue runes dissipated. He then pointed his wand to the goblet and said “Eligo,” the goblet’s flame changed from blue to a deep crimson; the flame burst upward into a tall pillar of fire and shot out a tiny slip of parchment which floated right to Minister Crouch’s hand.
“Let’s see,” he examined the slip, “Our first champion is from the Durmstrang Institute. Congratulations Mister Viktor Krum!”
Krum raised both arms in celebration and his colleagues around him clapped, hollered and patted him on the back. He got up and joined Crouch, who was beckoning him over.
Draco had talked to Krum briefly during the afternoon and was left disappointed. Krum’s English is very poor so all of Draco’s sentences were met with a monosyllabic answer, a head nod, or a grunt. His flattery seemed to either not be understood or ignored completely. And most frustrating of all, the Malfoy name seemed to mean nothing to Krum. All around it had been a horrendously dull conversation. That was Draco’s ultimate judgement of the seeker superstar, dull. Good thing Krum was handsome, at least Draco’s eyes were engaged when they talked.
The goblet turned crimson a second time and released another slip to Crouch. “The champion from the Beauxbaton Academy of Magic is Miss Fleur Delacour!”
The girl, who Draco had guessed was part veela judging by how some of his housemates went gaga at the mere sight of her, smiled brightly. Most of her female colleagues frowned, or smiled weakly and then frowned when she wasn’t looking at them. Some even started to openly cry in frustration, though it didn’t seem to faze Delacour in the slightest.
The male Beauxbaton students, however, cheered loudly for Delacour. Her biggest supporter was the cute blond boy she was sitting next to. He hugged Delacour warmly and when he let go, she left her seat and joined Krum and Crouch.
The goblet repeated its performance a third time and Crouch snatched the slip from the air. “And last, but not least the champion of Hogwarts School of Wizardry and Witchcraft is...” Minister Crouch paused for dramatic effect. In his peripheral Draco could see Warrington with closed eyes and fingers crossed mouthing “Cassius Warrington, Cassius Warrington”.
“...Mister Draco Malfoy!” Crouch announced.
The Great Hall fell silent.
Then Draco’s friends erupted in cheers. “Way to go Draco!” Zabini congratulated, Crabbe and Goyle patted him on the back, Parkinson gave him a quick side hug and kissed his cheek. Even Theo, who had never shown interest in quidditch or any sort of competition, smiled softly at him and clapped. None of his housemates could tell how bewildered Draco was at this turn of events because he did not let it show on his face or demeanor. He simply got up and confidently strutted to join his fellow champions.
He would worry about finding, and punishing, the culprit for his predicament later. Right now Draco’s head was preoccupied with thinking of a way to turn this situation around. As confident as he was in his abilities Draco had no intention of putting himself in harm’s way for a meager thousand galleons, an ugly cup and so-called “eternal glory”.
Perhaps he could lie and frame Roger Davies. Ravenclaw is dangerously close to overcoming Slytherin for the House Cup and their captain had thrown a hissy fit after they lost spectacularly to Slytherin during their quidditch match. No, he had to pin the blame on a Gryffindor, Snape would back up his lie without question then.
“Barty, I believe there’s been a” started Dumbledore, but he was interrupted when the goblet’s flame turned crimson once again and released another slip of parchment, which floated to the palm of a perplexed Minister Crouch. “This can't be right,” he mumbled.
“It seems like the goblet has decided to give us another Hogwarts champion,” he announced and Draco could hear some gasps from the audience.
Draco sighed with relief. His salvation had arrived. Whatever prank someone tried to pull on him had failed, the goblet had seen through it. Now the rightful champion would be called and Draco would always be able to brag to his friends that the goblet chose him, but he was robbed of the chance to compete. An ideal scenario if there ever was one. Draco smiled. Perhaps Warrignton had been chosen after all.
“Mister Harry Potter, would you please join us,” Crouch called.
Draco's smile grew wider. This was even better. Of all people, Potter would take his place. Draco was very much looking forward to watching him suffer through the three tasks. Maybe Potter would even die.
Potter awkwardly walked up to join Draco and the others after being pushed by that mudblood girl of his. He looked so out of place standing next to Draco and the others.
“Well isn’t this a surprise?” Minister Crouch asked rhetorically, voice shining with amusement. He turned to the audience. “Everyone, please give a-”
“Excuse me Barty,” Dumbledore interrupted, “but it seems we have some issues to discuss. Champions follow us.”
Dumbledore got up from his throne and entered a chamber behind the staff table, along with the foreign headmasters. The champions and Crouch followed them. While walking around the table to reach the chamber Draco was so immersed in his fantasy of Potter being bisected by an acromantula he missed the worried glares most of his professors sent his and Potter’s way.
“What are you smiling for Malfoy? Was this your doing?” Potter hissed in Draco’s ear.
Draco smirked, “I have no idea what you’re talking about Potter.”
As soon as the chamber doors closed Madame Maxime started to complain. “This is unacceptable Albus!” she yelled at Dumbledore, “Your school produced not one, but two cheaters.”
High Master Karkakaroff was right behind her, “They broke the rules set by your county’s government and embarrassed you in front of your students and staff. I expect you shall be expelling them, Albus.”
“Then I’m afraid I shall be disappointing you, Igor.” He turned to Minister Crouch. “Barty, it seems we’ll have to cancel the results of this sorting and try again.”
“That is not doable Albus!” Minister Crouch protested, “That will throw off the entire cronogram. Besides they si-”
“Those two boys are not the right age,” Maxime insisted.
Minister Crouch rolled his eyes. “The age restriction is merely Fudge’s attempt to sabotage me and water down my tournament. In all past editions students of all ages could participate.”
“Who cares how the tournament worked in the past!?” Madame Maxime shrieked, “They are not the right age for this edition, Crouch. You’re putting them in unnecessary danger.”
“Sirs, and madame,” Draco started, “I think that our course of action is obvious. The goblet made a mistake when it chose me, which it then corrected by choosing Potter as my replacement. It is clear he's the actual champion.”
“Hey wait a minute Malfoy, I nev-” Potter tried to butt in, but Minister Crouch cut him.
“You misunderstand lad,” he corrected Draco, “the goblet has not chosen a replacement for you, it has chosen two champions for Hogwarts. You’ll both have to compete.”
The realization of what Crouch’s words meant slowly dawned on Draco and his face went from a grin to a far off stare. “Wh..what?” was the only thing he managed to croak out.
“I didn’t put my name on the goblet, Professor. You have to believe me,” Harry pleaded with Dumbledore. “Could I see the slip with my name? I can prove it’s not my handwriting.”
It was actually not a bad idea, Draco thought. Dumbledore seemed to agree, he nodded at Harry. “Well, Barty, could we see the slips?” he asked.
“Oh,” Minister Crouch went pink, “I vanished them. I hate clutter. Either way it would not matter if you had written the slips or not, the moment your name came out of the fire, a magical contract was signed. You can not give up now.”
“I’m sorry Harry, Draco,” Dumbledore lamented, “My hands are tied.”
Another wave of despair hit Draco. How did this happen? Potter was meant to be the champion. Potter was meant to make a fool of himself and give Draco material for years worth of jokes and insults. How did Draco get roped along? He could die in the tournament. Actually, really, bloody die for real. Or worse, perform terribly and become a laughing stock. Draco’s breathing started to become ragged, his heart was slamming against his chest, faster and faster.
“Madame, vous ne pouvez pas laisser ces petits garçons participer au tournoi. Ils vont se blesser,” the Beauxbaton girl implored her headmistress. Draco would have berated the half-breed for calling him a little boy if he wasn’t too busy panicking. He felt like the room was spinning and had to concentrate just to keep standing still.
“C'est hors de mon contrôle maintenant,” Madame Maxime bemoaned.
“S-so it is decided then?” High Master Karkaroff asked. He looked almost as panicked as Draco.
“More competition. Good,” Krum said as if that settled the matter.
“Thank you for your contribution Viktor,” Minister Crouch pretended to care, “May we return to the Hall now?” Karkaroff and Dumbledore nodded.
“I do not agree with this, but I see that I’ve lost,” Madame Maxime complained one last time.