Chronicles Of Arth: Prince Of Shadows

"I insist upon resubmitting the names of the rest of my students," said Karkaroff. He had dropped his unctuous tone and his smile now. His face wore a very ugly look indeed. "You will set up the Goblet of Fire once more, and we will continue adding names until each school has two champions. It's only fair, Dumbledore."

"But Karkaroff, it doesn't work like that," said Bagman. "The Goblet of Fire's just gone out - it won't reignite until the start of the next tournament -"

"- in which Durmstrang will most certainly not be competing!" exploded Karkaroff. "After all our meetings and negotiations and compromises, I little expected something of this nature to occur! I have half a mind to leave now!"

"If you want to kill off your champion, Karkaroff, then go ahead," growled a voice from near the door. "You can't leave your champion now. He's got to compete. They've all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?"

Moody had just entered the room. He limped toward the fire, and with every right step he took, there was a loud clunk.

"Convenient?" said Karkaroff. "I'm afraid I don't understand you, Moody."

"Don't you?" said Moody quietly. "It's very simple, Karkaroff. Someone put Arthur's name in that goblet knowing he'd have to compete if it came out."

"Evidently, someone 'oo wished to give 'Ogwarts two bites at ze apple!" said Madame Maxime.

Arth scoffed.

"By entering in a fourth year student? More like trying to kill me off."

"I agree, If anyone's got reason to complain, it's Kingscrown," growled Moody.

"Why should 'e complain?" burst out Fleur Delacour, stamping her foot. "E 'as ze chance to compete, 'asn't 'e? We 'ave all been 'oping to be chosen for weeks and weeks! Ze honor for our schools! A thousand Galleons in prize money - zis is a chance many would die for!"

"Maybe someone's hoping Kingscrown is going to die for it," said Moody, with the merest trace of a growl.

An extremely tense silence followed these words. Ludo Bagman, who was looking very anxious indeed, bounced nervously up and down on his feet and said, "Moody, old man. . . what a thing to say!"

"We all know Professor Moody considers the morning wasted if he hasn't discovered six plots to murder him before lunchtime," said Karkaroff loudly. "Apparently he is now teaching his students to fear assassination too. An odd quality in a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Dumbledore, but no doubt you had your reasons."

"Imagining things, am I?" growled Moody. "Seeing things, eh? It was a skilled witch or wizard who put the boy's name in that goblet. . ."

"Ah, what evidence is zere of zat?" said Madame Maxime, throwing up her huge hands.

Arth frowned.

"Do you know not of the object we are speaking of? It is THE Goblet of Fire. Do you think a simple charm can hoodwink the Goblet?"

"Exactly! They hoodwinked a very powerful magical object!" said Moody. "It would have needed an exceptionally strong Confundus Charm to bamboozle that goblet into forgetting that only three schools compete in the tournament.. . . I'm guessing they submitted Kingscrown's name under a fourth school, to make sure he was the only one in his category.. . ."

Moody gave everyone in the room a Dark look.

"And I'm sure that all of you know by now how many enemies Maxwell Kingscrown, the boy's father, has."

Arth sighed.

"I just have to bloody participate in this stupid tournament, right? I'll do it."

"Ah, but Dumbly-dorr -"

"My dear Madame Maxime, if you have an alternative, I would be delighted to hear it."

Dumbledore waited, but Madame Maxime did not speak, she merely sighed.

"If zis boy was not ze grandson of my friend, I wood have been furious! However, I shall let zis go."

Karkaroff looked furious but soon sighed.

"I guess it's fair. The boy is obviously was forced into this tournament. And I owe his father."

"Well, shall we crack on, then?" Bagman said, rubbing his hands together and smiling around the room. "Got to give our champions their instructions, haven't we? Barty, want to do the honors?"

Mr. Crouch seemed to come out of a deep reverie. "Yes," he said, "instructions. Yes . . . the first task . . ."

He moved forward into the firelight. Close up, Arth thought he looked ill. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and a thin, papery look about his wrinkled skin that had not been there at the Quidditch World Cup.

"Then let us begin."