The air inside the arena had not lost its taut, electric weight after Fleur's performance. The crowd was still buzzing, voices rising in a mixture of French, English, and Bulgarian, carrying Fleur's name in scattered cheers and hushed admiration. Eira sat back in her judge's seat, her pale fingers curling loosely against the armrest, the faintest smile tugging at her lips as Fleur disappeared into the champions' tent with her golden egg clutched against her chest. Relief ran through her veins, but she kept her face as unreadable as polished glass. Occlumency held her calm like steel chains, though the warmth in her chest threatened to crack it.
"Next!" Ludo Bagman boomed, his magically magnified voice bounding off the stadium's high walls. "Our third champion—representing Durmstrang Institute—Viktor Krum!"
The crowd erupted, this time with a fervor unmatched even by Cedric's welcome. Girls shrieked his name, waving scarves, enchanted banners, and in some cases even tossing rose petals into the air that floated down in a sparkling haze. The Durmstrang supporters, clustered together in thick wool cloaks, roared in unison, stamping their boots like soldiers at parade.
Eira's expression remained carefully neutral. She leaned back slightly, resting her cheek against her knuckles, green eyes following the famous Bulgarian Seeker as he strode into the arena. He moved with a heavy-shouldered determination, wand already in hand, his dark brows furrowed in his usual permanent scowl.
Krum did not bow theatrically to the Chinese Fireball dragon as Cedric had, nor did he attempt to charm it with subtlety as Fleur had done with her Veela heritage. Instead, he wasted no time: his wand slashed through the air, and instantly the Chinese Fireball reared, screeching as its eyes were assaulted with a powerful Conjunctivitis Curse.
The crowd gasped as the dragon recoiled, roaring in pain, thrashing its spiked tail violently against the rocks. The very earth trembled beneath its rage. The Chinese Fireball's blinded head swung side to side, jaws snapping, wings beating with such force that they sent gales of dust into the stands.
"Oh! Aggressive approach from Krum!" Bagman shouted gleefully into his sonorous charm. "Straight for the eyes—yes, the Conjunctivitis Curse! Effective—very effective indeed!"
The Chinese Fireball's claws gouged the earth as it stumbled, sightless, its fire blasts going wild into the air. The stands erupted with both awe and horror. Some girls screamed in fright and excitement, clutching at one another, while others cried out encouragement in broken Bulgarian.
Eira, however, narrowed her eyes, her gaze fixed not on Krum but on the cluster of glittering eggs piled beneath the Chinese Fireball's massive belly. The dragon thrashed so violently that several eggs were sent skittering down the rocks. Then it happened: with one brutal sweep of its tail, the creature crushed two eggs beneath its bulk. The crack of breaking shells rang like gunfire in the tense silence that followed.
But Krum pressed forward, darting beneath the distracted dragon, lunging for the golden egg. Dust swirled as he rolled aside, narrowly avoiding a fireball that scorched the ground where he had stood. He scrambled up, clutching the egg high, and the crowd exploded with triumphant roars.
"He's done it! Yes, very clever curse work there!" Bagman bellowed, his voice nearly drowned in the cheers. "Ladies and gentlemen, Viktor Krum has secured his egg!"
The stands shook with the fervor of Durmstrang students chanting his name. Girls squealed, some sobbing with exhilaration, waving enchanted signs that proclaimed Marry me, Viktor! in glowing script.
At the judges' table, however, the mood was far more complicated.
Dumbledore stroked his beard, eyes twinkling though his voice was grave. "A bold strategy. Risky, but effective. Though, I fear the dragon eggs…"
"Accidents happen," Karkaroff cut in sharply, leaning forward with a wolfish smile, his pointed beard trembling with indignation. "The boy succeeded. That is all that matters."
"Non," Madame Maxime hissed under her breath, her massive form taut with restrained anger. "To crush ze eggs—mon dieu, unforgivable…" She shook her head, muttering a string of sharp French curses too quick for most to catch.
Eira caught every word. Her green eyes glimmered, cool as steel, and when Bagman called for the judges' scores, she knew precisely what she would do.
"Dumbledore first," Bagman called cheerfully.
"8," Dumbledore said, raising his wand.
"Madame Maxime?"
"7," she said curtly, chin lifted high.
"Mr. Crouch?"
"8," Crouch intoned with his usual stiffness.
"Mr. Karkaroff?"
"10!" Karkaroff barked immediately, his voice booming with triumph. "Perfect! Flawless!"
The crowd of Durmstrang supporters roared in approval, stamping and clapping.
"Mr. Bagman?"
"Ten!" Bagman shouted, clearly caught up in the frenzy.
"And finally… Miss White." All eyes turned toward her.
Eira did not flinch beneath the weight of the stadium's attention. Slowly, gracefully, she uncrossed her legs, raised her wand, and spoke in a calm, cutting voice that carried through the enchanted amplification.
"Two."
The effect was instantaneous. Gasps rippled like waves through the crowd. The Hogwarts students exploded into wild cheers, leaping to their feet, clapping and hollering. But the Durmstrang students and some fans of his well mostly girls erupted in boos and shrill protests, stamping their feet and screaming in outrage.
Karkaroff shot upright in his seat, face red with fury. "Two? TWO? This is an outrage! What trick is this? What insult? The boy performed brilliantly!"
Eira turned her head slowly toward him, her expression cool, almost mocking. "Well, you see," she said in her clear, precise tone, "I am a very animal-loving person. Unfortunately, your champion's reckless actions resulted in the destruction of two dragon eggs. Eggs that could have hatched into mighty creatures—snuffed out because of his carelessness. For that, I believe two points is both justified and merciful."
The Hogwarts section roared even louder, stamping their feet and chanting her name now—Eira! Eira! Eira!—delighting in her icy rebuke.
Karkaroff spluttered, his fists clenching against the table. "This is cheating! From the start, this entire arrangement has been cheating! Why add another British judge, eh? An extra score for Hogwarts—scandalous!"
Madame Maxime's booming voice cut him short. "Nonsense. She gave her score, and she explained it clearly. You do not like it, Igor, but zat is your problem. I, for one, find myself entirely in agreement with Miss White."
Eira flicked her eyes to her, catching the warmth of the headmistress's tone. For a heartbeat, Maxime's expression was not that of authority but of a winning smile, confident and quietly radiant. Then, with a cough, Maxime straightened, regaining her regal posture.
Karkaroff slammed a fist against the table. "Unfair! Biased! Corrupt!"
"Steady on, Igor, steady on!" Bagman said hastily, raising both hands as though calming a beast. "The scores stand. That makes… let's see… forty-five points for Viktor Krum!"
The Durmstrang supporters cheered fiercely, though the boos aimed at Eira were equally loud. Still, she sat serene, eyes half-lidded, entirely unaffected. She had made her judgment, and she would not falter.
And when Madame Maxime leaned down ever so slightly, whispering in rapid French, "Très bien, ma chère, très bien," with a smile she tried to hide, Eira allowed the smallest flicker of satisfaction to warm her chest.
('Very good, my dear, very good.')
The air in the stadium was still buzzing from Viktor Krum's daring display and the controversy that followed. Some were still muttering about the eggs; others about Eira's cold dismissal of Karkaroff. But soon, the noise shifted, the atmosphere thickening with anticipation. There was only one champion left.
"Ladies and gentlemen, witches and wizards of every age!" Ludo Bagman bellowed, his voice magically amplified so it seemed to bounce off every wall. "Prepare yourselves, for it is my unparalleled honor, my absolute delight, my singular privilege to present to you the final champion of this extraordinary Triwizard Tournament… representing none other than the illustrious, world-renowned, ever-brave Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry… the Boy Who Lived, the Defier of Darkness, the Seeker of Glory, the Conqueror of Dangers… Harry James Potter!"
The eruption of sound nearly split the air. Hogwarts students leapt to their feet, waving scarves, shouting his name, while others booed or muttered darkly, their resentment of his contested entry still lingering. Yet there was an undeniable current of thrill that shot through the crowd—he was only fourteen, the youngest, and now it was his turn.
Eira leaned back slightly in her chair, green eyes sharp as glass. She did not fidget or tense as Fleur had entered the arena, nor did she feel the quiet scorn she had when Krum had broken the eggs. Instead, her gaze was analytical but nonchalant,though deep within she was curious—what would Dumbledore's chosen boy do?
Harry strode into the enclosure, his small frame dwarfed by the high rocks and the looming figure of the Hungarian Horntail. Gasps and nervous whispers surged as the dragon shifted, its enormous wings twitching, black scales glistening like forged steel. Its yellow eyes locked on him, molten fire dripping from its maw.
Harry raised his wand.
For a heartbeat, the crowd held its breath. Then—
"Accio Firebolt!"
The words cracked across the arena. Silence followed, puzzled, until suddenly a speck appeared high above the stands. Then a streak, fast, a dart of sleek broomstick slicing through the air like an arrow—his Firebolt. It dove, heedless of the roars of the crowd, straight into his outstretched hand.
The stadium exploded. Cheers shook the air, Hogwarts students nearly deafening in their elation.
Bagman shouted himself hoarse. "Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! Summoning his broom! He's going to fly for it, ladies and gentlemen—an absolutely superb bit of thinking!"
Eira's lips curved faintly. She could not deny it. For someone so young, it was quick, clever, and simple. No unnecessary flare. Just the right choice.
The Horntail shrieked, claws tearing at the ground as it lunged forward. But Harry was already astride his broom, shooting upward like a dart of lightning. The dragon reared, its wings unfurling in a massive sweep, fire belching from its jaws as it tried to snap him from the sky.
Harry flew like a streak, weaving, diving, rolling—the broom obeying his every touch, his every instinct. He skimmed the dragon's head, swerved away just as a blast of flame roared behind him, and then looped wide around the arena. The crowd screamed with every close call, clutching at their faces, some even hiding behind hands.
"Look at that flying!" Bagman howled in delight. "No wonder he's the youngest Seeker in a century!"
The dragon's tail smashed against the rocks, shattering them into shards, but Harry kept moving, baiting it, drawing it higher and higher, away from the nest of eggs. The Horntail roared, trying to snap him out of the sky, but Harry dived suddenly, shooting downward in a breathtaking plummet.
Gasps burst like thunder from the stands as he pulled up at the last instant, shooting low across the ground—and there it was, the glittering nest of eggs, the golden one gleaming among them. He darted forward, leaned low, and in one smooth sweep, he snatched it up.
The crowd went wild.
Harry soared upward, golden egg clutched tight against him, Firebolt gleaming in the sun. He looped once above the arena before landing lightly, triumphant, a grin breaking over his face.
"It's done! He's done it!" Bagman bellowed, almost dancing in his chair. "Harry Potter has got the egg!"
The Hogwarts students screamed themselves hoarse, stamping, waving, hugging one another in sheer excitement. Even those who had doubted him seemed swept up in the fever of his success.
At the judges' table, reactions varied.
"Excellent flying," Dumbledore said warmly, eyes glinting with pride.
"Very good indeed," Barty Crouch muttered crisply, making a neat note on his parchment.
Madame Maxime inclined her head, grudging respect in her heavy gaze. "Precise," she admitted softly, though her lips pressed tight as if she were loath to praise a rival school's student.
Karkaroff, however, gave a dismissive snort, leaning back in his chair with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.
Bagman, flushed with excitement, clapped his hands together. "Time for the scores!"
"Dumbledore?"
"9," said the headmaster with a smile.
"Madame Maxime?"
"8," she said, voice cool.
"Mr. Crouch?"
"9," came the stiff reply.
"Mr. Karkaroff?"
"4," he said at once, lips curling. The boos that followed nearly drowned his voice.
"Mr. Bagman?,Opps it's me heheheh."
"Ten!" Bagman bellowed, raising his wand high.
"And finally, Miss White."
Eira raised her wand slowly. The hush that fell over the arena was tangible—students craned to see, curious how she would judge the Boy Who Lived.
"Ten," she said clearly.
The cheers erupted instantly, loudest of all from Hogwarts. She held her wand aloft, her voice calm as she added, "For his quick thinking, for choosing the one method that guaranteed success, and for finishing it with both skill and cleverness, I give him ten points."
The applause thundered so loud the ground seemed to shake.
Karkaroff snorted loudly, shifting as if to protest again, but caught the icy edge of Dumbledore's gaze and the weight of the crowd's approval. His mouth shut with an audible snap.
Bagman beamed. "That gives Harry Potter… let's see… a total of fifty points! And that brings us to our standings…" He turned toward the crowd, his voice rising gleefully. "In first place, we have Fleur Delacour with 51 points! and Second place goes to Harry Potter with 50 points, and third to Cedric Diggory with 48 points! And the last place goes to Viktor Kurm with 45 points!"
The crowd cheered again, though the divisions were obvious—Durmstrang chanting for Krum, Beauxbâtons supporters applauding Fleur, and Hogwarts roaring with pride for Harry and Cedric.