Harry Potter and the Triwizard Gambit - Chapter - 11

The Goblet of Fire flickered with eerie blue light at the head of the Great Hall, smoke curling from its rim like a serpent.

Everyone had already clapped when the names were called: Victor Krum for Durmstrang, Fleur Delacour for Beauxbatons, and Cedric Diggory for Hogwarts.

And then, it happened.

The goblet flared—again.

A fourth name was ejected into the air in a burst of red-orange fire.

Albus Dumbledore caught the parchment mid-air.

A hush fell across the Great Hall.

Dumbledore turned, reading the name in clear disbelief. “Harry Potter.”

The silence didn’t break immediately. It hung like fog—cold, untrusting, surreal.

Harry stood still, blinking at the head table.

“Go on then,” Dumbledore said gently, eyes cautious.

But Harry didn’t move.

It was Jason who stood from the table. “Harry didn’t put his name in.”

A murmur spread, not of shock, but agreement. Ginny, Hermione, Neville, the Weasley twins—they were all nodding.

Even Susan Bones, seated with her fellow Hufflepuffs, stood and turned to face the Hall.

“If Harry says he didn’t put his name in, then I believe him,” said firmly. “He’s not that kind of man.”

The Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs began to murmur in agreement. After everything Harry had done, the clubs he led, the inventions he made, the integrity he’d shown—there was simply no way he would cheat.

But the Durmstrang table was whispering, not in support, but suspicion.

Igor Karkaroff leaned back in his seat, arms folded, staring at Harry with narrowed eyes.

“Convenient, isn’t it?” muttered a Durmstrang boy beside him in Slavic. “Now Hogwarts has two champions.”

The Beauxbatons students weren’t much better.

Madame Maxime had her arms crossed, face stiff with skepticism. “Eet is suspicious. Eef he did not want to be Champion, why not step away?”

“I didn’t do it,” Harry said, finally standing. His voice was clear, loud enough to reach the entire hall. “I did not put my name in that goblet. I don’t want to be in the tournament.”

Barty Crouch had risen from the head table. “It is a magically binding contract, Mr. Potter. Those chosen by the Goblet must compete, or risk forfeiting their magic.”

Harry clenched his jaw. “Then I’ll participate. But I won’t try to win. I’m not interested in glory or prizes. I just want this to end.”

The Hall quieted.

It was the most Harry thing to say—blunt, honest, and selfless.

“Let them say what they will,” she whispered to Luna beside her. “We know who Harry is.”


The Stars Club members gathered in the Room of Requirement, a fire crackling as if summoned by their own mood.

Harry sat in the center, legs crossed, arms resting on his knees.

“Do you think someone really tricked the Goblet?” Neville asked, pacing.

“They must have used a Confundus Charm,” Hermione muttered. “The Goblet is powerful, yes, but it can be manipulated. Especially if someone knew how to fool the age line and make it think there was a fourth school.”

“I bet it’s Karkaroff,” Neville said. “He’s a slimy bastard.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Fred frowned. “What do they gain from putting Harry in danger?”

“Maybe it’s a trap,” George added. “Force him into the tournament, get him isolated during a task, and—boom.”

“I won’t win it,” Harry said again. “I won't do any tasks. That way no one can say I’m taking something that isn’t mine.”

Jason leaned forward. “You can’t throw the match, Harry. That’s not who you are.”

“I can survive it without trying to win,” Harry replied. “There’s a difference.”

Sirius, who had appeared through a secret passage earlier that evening, now sat in an armchair beside Remus. His face was drawn but calm.

“If this is a setup,” Sirius said slowly, “we’ll be watching every step of the way. You’re not alone in this.”

Harry offered a small smile. “I know.”

Remus nodded. “And the entire Stars Club will have your back. That means 80 eyes watching the castle, the grounds, and anyone suspicious.”

Hermione looked around. “And we’ll all help Harry prepare to survive.”

There were nods all around the firelit room.

In a dark chamber below the castle, a man stirred a cauldron thick with green fog. A small, grotesque creature rested nearby in a box of runes.

“Everything is set,” the man whispered. “The boy is in the tournament. Let the game begin.”



It had only been three days since the Goblet of Fire had chosen Harry Potter as the fourth champion of the Triwizard Tournament.

In that short time, Hogwarts had already begun to treat him differently.

Officially.

No longer bound by the normal curriculum, Triwizard champions were granted exemptions from regular classes to give them time to prepare for the dangerous tasks ahead. For Fleur, Victor, and Cedric, it was a welcome reprieve. But for Harry, it was a golden opportunity.

He didn’t want to sit through Snape’s contemptuous glares in Potions or the soul-numbing monologues in History of Magic. He had already mastered most of the standard curriculum through his years of self-study and the Club’s constant academic grind.

So, instead of dreading the mountain of homework others were buried under, Harry disappeared into his own world.


The heavy door creaked open as Madam Pince unlocked it with an ancient iron key. She eyed Harry warily, as if he might blow something up just by standing too close.

“You’re sure you’re allowed in here?” she asked for the third time that morning.

Harry nodded, holding up the parchment from Headmaster Dumbledore, sealed in purple wax. “Signed by the Headmaster himself.”

She snorted. “Well, don’t go touching anything cursed. And if you hear screaming books… best to leave them be.”

Harry stepped past her into the Restricted Section.

It was a world unto itself—dark, quiet, and breathing with the weight of centuries. Faint silver chains bound some of the books, others pulsed softly like sleeping beasts. Titles in faded ink gleamed under the glow of enchanted lanterns.

He felt strangely at home.

He reached for a thick tome titled Runic Protections in Ancient Magical Architecture and carried it to a solitary table tucked between two towering shelves. He set down a satchel filled with parchment, ink, and a sandwich Norky had packed for him that morning.

As he opened the book, he allowed himself a slow, satisfied breath.

No classes. No Snape. No distractions. Just knowledge.


Hermione stormed over to him during lunch, hands on hips.

“You are infuriating, you know that?” she said, her voice just above a whisper.

Harry blinked up from his seat. “Good morning to you, too.”

“You get unrestricted access to the most secret part of the library and you don’t even look smug about it?”

Harry grinned. “I wasn’t going to rub it in.”

“I’m not jealous—well, maybe a little—but you better be taking notes. I want copies.”

“I’m studying for myself,” Harry said, buttering a scone. “Not for this tournament.”

Hermione’s eyes softened. “I know. That’s what makes it even more frustrating.”

Fred leaned in. “Did you find any spells that make Snape disappear yet? Because that would be worth writing down.”

Neville laughed. “Or at least turn his robes into pink silk. That’d be poetic justice.”

Harry chuckled but waved them off. “I’m not studying for pranks. I’m building something. Learning how magic fits together. Like… the bones of it.”

Hermione looked intrigued. “That’s... advanced.”

“Exactly,” Harry said, finishing his tea. “This is the only time in my life no one is telling me what to read or when to turn in homework. It’s freedom, Hermione.”


The enchanted room shifted itself to match Harry’s needs. Tonight, it had transformed into a private study lined with tall shelves, a bubbling fireplace, and chalkboards covered in ancient symbols. A stack of books on ritual magic, defensive enchantments, and magical history lay open before him.

Harry summoned a quill with a flick of his fingers, noting that his wandless magic had grown sharper.

He scribbled:

Arithmantic patterns in warding circles – compare with Runes of Binding.

Experiment with combining shielding charms into structured arrays.

Read deeper into Parselmagic scrolls.

There was a quiet knock on the door. It opened gently.

Sirius stepped in, holding a butterbeer.

“Still here?” he asked.

Harry looked up. “I can’t stop now. There’s so much I don’t know.”

Sirius smiled, setting the bottle down. “You remind me of your mum. She used to do the same thing—get completely absorbed. James used to joke that she had a relationship with the Hogwarts library.”

“Sounds familiar,” Harry said with a smirk.

They sat together in silence for a moment, the fire crackling.

“You don’t have to prove anything, Harry,” Sirius said softly. “To anyone.”

“I’m not trying to,” Harry said. “Not anymore. I’m just… trying to be ready.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

Harry didn’t answer immediately. He stared into the fire.

“For whatever’s coming next.”



The November air was crisp and biting, the sky hung low with gray clouds. A thin mist curled around the stone towers of Hogwarts as if the very castle held its breath for what was to come.

It was the day of the First Task.

Inside the champions’ tent, the atmosphere was thick with tension. The canvas walls did little to block the muffled roar of the crowd gathering in the arena beyond. Hundreds of voices rose in cheers and chants, every house, every nation calling for their champion.

Harry stood beside Cedric, Fleur, and Viktor, all four eyeing the brown, weathered bag that sat on the center table like a curse waiting to unfold.

Barty Crouch Sr., sharp-eyed and formal as ever, stood straight as a pike as he addressed them. “The First Task is simple in concept, but far from simple in execution,” he began, his voice flat but commanding. “Each of you will face a nesting mother dragon. Beneath her, among the rocks and charred bones, lies a golden egg. You are to retrieve it. The egg contains your clue to the next task.”

Fleur looked pale.

“Retrieve the egg,” Crouch continued. “That is your only objective. Do not kill the dragon. Do not be killed by the dragon. Any tools or spells are allowed. Do what you must… but survive.”

Harry could feel the pounding of his heart against his ribs. Dragons. Real dragons. He had heard the rumors, of course, but now it was real—there would be fire, wings, teeth, and rage.

“Each of you will draw a dragon from this bag,” Crouch said, lifting the velvet pouch. “Miniature versions, charmed to resemble the real beast you will face.”

Viktor Krum went first. His hand disappeared into the bag, his face unreadable. When he withdrew it, clutched in his palm was a tiny, snarling Chinese Fireball, its scales gleaming red-gold.

Next came Fleur Delacour. She reached inside, murmuring something in French under her breath. She pulled out a Welsh Green, its emerald wings flaring softly as it hovered in her hand.

Cedric gave Harry a reassuring glance and stepped forward. He drew the Swedish Short-Snout, a smoky blue miniature that snarled softly before settling in his palm.

Then it was Harry’s turn.

He stepped forward slowly, every pair of eyes on him. His hand dipped into the pouch and—

Something burned.

It was faint but unmistakable—a warmth that pulsed through his fingers and into his chest.

When he pulled his hand back, the dragon was not elegant, nor small.

It was a Hungarian Horntail, black-scaled and vicious, even in miniature. Its wings were jagged and sharp, its eyes flickered with cold malice, and its spiked tail lashed through the air like a whip.

There was a beat of silence.

“Ah,” said Crouch quietly. “One of our more… spirited contestants.”

Harry forced a breath through his lungs. He had once flown through a thunderstorm on a prototype broom, had fought a basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets—but none of that made this feel any less insane.

And then, to his horror, Crouch added, “Mr. Potter, you will be going last.”


Harry sat alone now. The others had gone out one by one to the sound of screams and cheers. His hands rested in his lap, fingers cold despite the fire lit in the corner.

From the crowd’s reactions, Fleur had managed to get the egg—though her sleeve was scorched and her hair singed. Cedric came back limping, a nasty gash down his left arm. Krum had charred robes and a bloodied lip.

They all returned alive.

But the Horntail waited for him. And no matter how confident he felt flying or fighting, dragons were a different kind of magic. Old magic. Primeval.

The tent flap opened, and Sirius stepped in. He wore his dragon hide coat, black and worn, and his eyes were serious.

“You look like your dad before his first real duel,” he said, sitting down beside Harry.

Harry glanced at him. “Scared?”

“Terrified,” Sirius said with a grin. “He tried to hex his own boots off so he could run faster.”

Harry laughed, weakly. “Not helpful.”

Sirius put a hand on his shoulder. “Harry, listen. You don’t have to win. You don’t even have to impress anyone. You just have to get that egg. Focus. Think like a flier. That dragon might have fire and claws—but it can’t turn as fast as you can in the air.”

Harry nodded slowly. “Thanks, Sirius.”

There was a pause.

“You’ve already faced worse,” Sirius said quietly. “And you survived.”

A voice called from outside: “Harry Potter!”

Sirius stood, pulling Harry to his feet. “Go show them why you’re a Potter.”