HP:BSG - Chapter 692: A Conversation Before the Goblet of Fire

When Antoine returned to the stands, he still carried the distinctive scent of the medical tent—a mixture of healing potions and disinfecting herbs.

Delaine gave him a disdainful look and asked, “Was that really necessary? You’re about to resign from Salem anyway. Why waste time comforting a little girl?”

“How could that be a waste?” Antoine replied cheerfully. “Don’t tell me that when you saw her shove her arm into that lizard’s mouth, you didn’t think about recruiting her.”

Delaine didn’t argue. His expression stayed calm as he said, “The stronger a person’s will, the harder it is to make them change sides. Bring her in if you like—but be careful she doesn’t turn into a time bomb that blows us up.”

Antoine laughed. “The people from Salem Academy don’t have such a clear sense of good and evil. To them, family, friendship, and emotion—those are what truly matter.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Besides, Hope isn’t the only one like that at Salem. The students there… They're all a little crazy. They’d fit right in with us.”

“Do as you wish,” Delaine said flatly. “But if you bring danger into our midst, don’t expect me to go easy on you just because you were the one who vouched for her.”

“Relax, relax. I’m not looking for trouble myself,” Antoine said casually. “Anyway—how’s the match going?”

“That Potter boy is about to run into Wade…”

Beside them, the “middle-aged wizard,” Grindelwald, had been silently watching the progress of the competition. 

He neither approved nor objected to their conversation. It was as if he didn’t care—or perhaps, as if he was deliberately leaving the decision to them.

…

Harry struggled forward through the narrow bramble tunnel, where even the passage of time seemed to lose meaning.

It could have been ten minutes—or an hour. In the still darkness, every second stretched endlessly long.

Although he lit his way with Lumos, the brambles still occasionally scratched his face and arms. But compared to the dangers he had faced earlier, such pain was almost nothing.

At last, a faint light appeared ahead, and Harry instinctively squinted—

The tunnel opened suddenly into a circular clearing surrounded by ancient trees. In the center stood the Goblet of Fire, resting quietly upon a moss-covered stone pedestal. Bathed in moonlight, it looked serene and mysterious.

A smile of joy spread across Harry’s face, and he took a step forward—but then he froze.

Just one pace away from the Goblet stood Wade, his back turned to Harry. He looked untouched by the ordeal—no dirt, no tears in his clothes, not even a wrinkle out of place.

Unlike Harry, who had rolled through mud, crawled through thickets, and was covered in grime with his clothes torn and bloodstained in several places.

Harry’s heart sank—but strangely, he wasn’t surprised. In fact, it felt almost… expected.

He noticed that Wade must have been there for a while. Yet he hadn’t reached for the cup, nor had he cast any protective spells. He simply stood there, calmly studying the patterns carved into its surface, as though he were waiting for something.

Moonlight stretched his shadow long across the clearing. His wand wasn’t even in his hand—it was tucked casually into his side pocket.

Harry’s breathing quickened. Several times he raised his wand, only to lower it again, unsure.

Finally, he let out a deep sigh and felt an odd sense of calm wash over him.

Dragging his weary steps forward, he rasped, “Go on, Wade. Take it. You’ve made it this far—what are you waiting for?”

Wade didn’t move. He only turned to face him.

Harry was startled to find that the gray eyes before him were not gleaming with the joy of victory—but with something far more complex, a look that bordered on pity.

His heart tightened abruptly, a tidal wave of dread surging up within him.

Wade reached up to adjust the badge on his chest and said with an unnervingly calm voice: “If we pick up the cup together, and both become champions… what do you think?”

Harry frowned. A dull pain throbbed at his scar, and irritation flared in his chest.

“Why are you trying to be polite?” he snapped. “You got here first—you’re way better than me! The champion should be you, obviously!”

A strange smile curved Wade’s lips. “But what if I told you that this cup doesn’t lead to victory… but to danger?”

He looked Harry straight in the eyes. “Would you still have the courage to touch it?”

When Wade had first arrived at the clearing where the Goblet of Fire stood, he had expected resistance—an ambush, perhaps.

According to Barty Crouch Jr., Voldemort was still following the same plan as before: to use Harry’s blood for his resurrection. He wouldn’t allow anyone other than Harry to touch the cup first.

But Wade had encountered no one. No guards, no traps, no ambush.

At first, he thought it was because he had taken a shortcut. Yet even after waiting for a long time, no one appeared. Gradually, he realized something had changed.

Perhaps because there were too many strong competitors this year, Voldemort’s followers hadn’t tried to secretly help Harry defeat them. Instead, they had relied on something far simpler—to ensure Harry reached the end himself.

When Wade examined the Goblet, he finally discovered the truth—

This time, the trophy wasn’t designed as a normal Portkey that would transport its user instantly. Instead, it resembled the circular portal rings Grindelwald had once used in Gray Fortress—a device that continuously transported whoever touched it.

That meant they didn’t need to interfere with every contestant’s progress. They only needed to make sure Harry reached the final stage. Once he saw the Goblet, he’d pick it up without a second thought.

And even if someone else was teleported before him, Harry would assume it was merely a mechanism to remove the finished participants from the forest—not a trap.

Wade couldn’t help but silently applaud Voldemort’s design. It was far safer than Barty Crouch Jr.’s clumsy meddling.

Harry frowned. “What do you mean?”

Wade flicked his wand, and all the bluebirds around them closed their eyes instantly. Harry didn’t interfere, but the tension on his face deepened.

However, on an ancient pine not far away, one bluebird remained.

It had been there from the start—placed to record the champions’ approach to the Goblet. At that moment, it was transmitting the only view of the clearing to the audience watching from the stands.

Wade pretended not to notice. He even acted overly cautious, scanning their surroundings carefully before speaking.

The young wizard’s voice was low and steady, echoing through the moonlit clearing:

“I didn’t have the dolls eliminate the others because I wanted to rob them of their chance to compete… but because the finish line of this tournament isn’t celebration and glory.”

He paused, his gaze shifting toward the Goblet.

“It’s a carefully crafted trap. The champion who wins… will become someone’s sacrifice.”

Harry’s pupils contracted sharply. His scar flared with sudden, searing pain—as though someone, somewhere, had heard Wade’s words and was filled with furious rage.

He cried out and clutched his forehead. A strange anger surged up within him, and for an instant, the green of his eyes flickered with a faint red light.

Wade’s gaze settled calmly on him. “I believe the target of this trap is either you or me,” he said evenly. “That’s why I waited here.”

His eyes drifted past Harry, as though they could pierce through the dense forest and see all the way to the distant towers of Hogwarts Castle.

“Harry,” Wade said quietly, “the reason we can live peacefully under the sun is because people like Dumbledore have borne the weight of the darkness for us. But when things reach a point where they can no longer be stopped… someone must step forward to face it.”

Harry suddenly understood. “You mean… Voldemort?”

The name fell like a stone into still water. Even the air seemed to freeze, and it was as if a silencing charm had been cast across the distant stands—turning the once-bustling audience utterly silent in an instant.

A heartbeat later, the stands erupted into a tidal wave of noise.

“Dumbledore!” Fudge shouted, unable to contain his agitation. “What are they talking about? Those two competitors—they’re just spouting nonsense, aren’t they? This is some kind of trick from Wade Grey, right?”

Even as he said it, his voice trembled with disbelief. Dumbledore’s expression, too, was marked by open astonishment.

Meanwhile, in the silent forest, Wade nodded slightly. “Most likely,” he murmured.

In his mind flashed the memory of what Dumbledore had told him before the tournament, during their private meeting in the Headmaster’s office:

“Wade, what I’m about to say may be hard for you to understand—but this time, I want you to help Voldemort return.”

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