The Goblet of Fire, having already selected three champions, should have gradually extinguished, awaiting the next tournament's opening.
But...
A fourth slip of paper leaped out, fluttering toward Dumbledore's outstretched hand.
Lys glanced over and continued speaking to Friedm: "In a moment we can test your new broomstick. The order form says..."
This slip seemed to exceed Dumbledore's comprehension entirely. His voice carried profound disbelief.
"Harry Potter."
He wasn't alone in his shock—the entire Great Hall reeled in stunned silence. But the rising murmur couldn't drown out Igor Karkaroff's sudden leap to his feet, his protests erupting in a mixture of English and German.
"The order form says the broomstick can be personally customised."
Lys discussed quietly with Friedm, completely ignoring the uproar that swept through the hall after Bagman, Madame Maxime, and the others had departed for the champions' instruction chamber.
"I hope before we leave—assuming you haven't smashed the broomstick to bits—we can add some protective charms. Though it might..." Lys nudged another Durmstrang boy beside her, signalling him to escort the students back to the ship, whilst continuing: "affect the speed just a touch, but for your neck's sake, all right, Friedm?"
Friedm's mind was split between absorbing Lys's inquiry and managing Draco's incredulous outrage about Harry Potter becoming one of the tournament champions. Overwhelmed, he could only nod frantically at both of them.
Since everyone departing the Great Hall was engaged in heated discussion about the unexpected fourth champion, the crowd's exodus crawled at a snail's pace.
Lys remained seated at the long table for the moment. Friedm juggled Draco's complaints and dissatisfaction whilst unwrapping his broomstick packaging.
He brandished the broomstick toward Draco: "Let's go test this beauty."
"Friedm! Scarhead's nabbed a qualification that doesn't bloody well belong to him!"
Friedm pulled a face: "But that's not more important than testing my new broomstick. Coming, Draco?"
After a pause, Draco narrowed his eyes: "You know what? You're absolutely right. Blaise, you lot head back first. I'll accompany Friedm and his sister to the Quidditch pitch."
"It's still early. If you don't mind, we could all go together." The boy called Blaise glanced between Draco and Friedm before making his suggestion.
Soon Lys found herself trailed by a gaggle of youngsters to the pitch-black Quidditch field.
Draco clicked his tongue in annoyance. "Blast—I forgot nobody booked the pitch tonight. All the lighting's been switched off."
Lys's stride didn't falter as she raised her wand, methodically illuminating every lamp around the stadium.
"Test your new broomstick then."
Lys shook her head watching Draco and the others trek toward the broom shed, then flicked her wand to summon one of the school broomsticks to her side. She mounted it and began circling the field at a leisurely pace.
Back in her fourth year, when she'd been wreaking havoc on the Black Lake—nearly killing herself in the process—these children were embarrassingly inferior by comparison. According to the curriculum, they were probably still struggling with the Summoning Charm, weren't they?
Though her eyes tracked Friedm's movements in circles, Lys's mind wandered to weightier matters.
Harry Potter... the boy bearing the Saviour's mantle.
He claimed he hadn't entered his name. Lys believed him—the lad clearly couldn't breach Dumbledore's age line. So what was the real cause?
Lys had to consider this carefully, because to her knowledge, there were three Death Eaters within these castle walls—herself included.
Well... former Death Eaters.
All three seemed rather lacking in loyalty, truth be told.
But Death Eaters were Death Eaters nonetheless. Any scheme that endangered the Saviour who'd vanquished the Dark Lord—all three of them were potential suspects.
Especially now, with the Dark Mark growing increasingly prominent.
Consider Dumbledore's earlier speech at the feast—unity?
When does one require unity... only when enemies emerge, surely?
As curfew approached, the castle caretaker Mr. Filch appeared at a brisk trot, sporting his rather musty tailcoat.
"You rule-breaking little... oh, Miss Lamb from Durmstrang Academy. It's nearly curfew—this lot must return to their dormitories immediately."
Lys dismounted her broomstick and nodded respectfully. "Of course, Mr. Filch. I'll send them back straightaway."
She flicked her wand, producing a sharp crack! that captured the attention of the children tangled in aerial combat above, squabbling over some prize.
Clearing her slightly hoarse throat, Lys called out: "Nearly curfew, everyone."
"Yes, nearly curfew indeed." Filch echoed dryly. "Right then, I'll be off. The castle's frightfully busy today—yes, absolutely frantic."
Lys watched his retreating figure and asked Draco, who was returning the borrowed broomsticks: "Why doesn't he carry a wand?"
"Miss Lamb, he's a Squib. See you tomorrow, Miss Lamb. Tomorrow, Friedm."
Draco answered matter-of-factly before jogging toward the castle with his companions.
The following day found Lys carving amber plates beside the lake when Draco reappeared, bristling with fresh grievances.
He'd brought two hulking followers—Lys needed only a glance to identify one as undoubtedly a Goyle offspring...
"Friedm, why... Potter... I'd rather it were some Hufflepuff... Scarhead's nothing but a fame-thieving fraud!"
Friedm munched the honey fish crackers Lys had provided, sipping milk whilst listening patiently. He then offered Draco a handful of crackers and shared some with the two followers.
Friedm tucked away the empty snack pouch and regarded Draco: "I fancy going boating—seeing that giant squid Lys mentioned. Will you join me?"
Draco eyed the slightly sticky fish crackers with distaste but dutifully popped them into his mouth:
"Not today, Friedm. I must visit the library—still have an essay to complete about our Head of House's Potions coursework. Nobody's keen on displeasing our Head of House, trust me on that."
"Trust him, Friedm. You met him before—that rather... hmm," Lys searched for the appropriate descriptor, "well... the one you encountered at Draco's home after Christmas, up at the staff table..."
Friedm grinned. "I know exactly who you mean, Lys."
"Ah," Lys acknowledged, returning to her amber carving.
"Might I accompany Draco to the library?"
Lys hesitated briefly. "Go ahead. You'll be attending classes with Draco starting Monday regardless."
Watching Friedm rinse his hands in the lake before heading castleward with Draco, Lys called after them:
"Remember—the rules here differ from Durmstrang. Mind your magic. Don't strike first."
When Friedm had walked a considerable distance, Lys shouted hoarsely:
"But if someone else throws the first hex, don't you dare hold back! You'd bloody well better not give me cause to tamper with your wand!"
Draco shot Friedm an envious glance upon hearing this.
But recalling his sister's extreme mood swings and those ice-cold stares, he quickly shook his head.
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