Heimdall's boots thudded heavily against the stone floor of the grand halls of Asgard as he rushed through the winding corridors of the Royal Palace. His cloak billowed behind him, a silent testament to the urgency in his stride. The jubilant sounds of laughter and music filled the air, blending into the reverberating thrum of warriors and revelers inside the Great Hall. Yet, none of this reached Heimdall's focus—his mind was elsewhere, his thoughts sharp and unyielding.
He had seen the disturbance from the realms of Midgard, and what he had witnessed was no mere coincidence. The weight of fate was pressing down, and he would not stand idly by. He reached the Great Hall's towering doors, pushing them open with a force that immediately silenced the revelry within. All eyes turned toward him, and the vibrancy of the feast began to still, as though the very air had thickened with foreboding.
At the far end of the hall, King Odin sat, his broad form imposing as ever, his eyes glinting like the very heavens he ruled. Queen Frigga, regal in her grace, sat beside him, her elegance never lost amidst the weight of the crown. Their children, Thor among them, were scattered through the room, all pausing in their merrymaking to take notice of Heimdall's entrance.
Odin raised a hand, silencing the murmurs that rippled through the hall. His voice, rich and commanding, boomed across the chamber like the crack of thunder. "Heimdall, what news brings you here, interrupting the joy of our feast? Speak swiftly."
Heimdall did not bow, but his voice was still respectful, measured—resonating like the deep, calm before a storm. "My King, my Queen," Heimdall began, his golden eyes sweeping the room, meeting the gaze of each of Asgard's elite. "I bring troubling news from Midgard. The Goblet of Fire has chosen the champions for the Triwizard Tournament."
The room grew tense at the mention of the Goblet of Fire, an artifact well known in both Asgard and Midgard for its unpredictable nature. Whispers began to stir, yet Heimdall held the attention of the room with his commanding presence.
Frigga's eyes, sharp and calculating, narrowed as she leaned forward, the weight of the moment pressing down on her shoulders. "And what of this, Heimdall?" Her voice was smooth yet heavy with concern, every word precise. "The Triwizard Tournament is not unknown to us, but this feels... far more dire."
Heimdall's gaze shifted to the faces of those gathered around him. He could see the flicker of realization, the shift in energy as his words sank in. "The name of Prince Haraldr, known on Midgard as Harry Potter, has been drawn from the Goblet."
A gasp swept through the hall. Haraldr, standing near the edge of the gathering, could feel the weight of every pair of eyes upon him, like a thousand stars pressing into his chest. His throat tightened, and his grip on Susan's hand tightened instinctively. He hadn't even known he was a part of this world, much less a champion of it. His mind raced to catch up with the implications of Heimdall's words.
Eirlys—Lily Potter, as she had once been known—tensed beside her son. Her soft features, usually serene, were etched with worry. She moved quickly to Haraldr's side, her hand on his shoulder, but her voice was calm, a steely resolve in her words as she addressed Heimdall. "Heimdall, who would dare place my son's name into this... dangerous contest? This was no accident." Her tone was sharp, a mother's protective instincts roaring to the surface.
James, standing beside his wife, placed his arm around her, his expression filled with quiet determination. His dark eyes, sharp as any blade, softened when they landed on Eirlys, and then on their son. He looked like he was made of resolve and fire, and though the resurrection of his life had been a strange and complex affair, his loyalty to his family was unyielding. "We'll get to the bottom of this, Eirlys. Haraldr is strong. He won't go into this alone."
But Heimdall's gaze remained heavy, filled with an unspoken understanding of the gravity of their situation. "I do not know who placed his name in the Goblet, but the magic behind it is dark. Concealed by powerful, malicious forces." His voice was a quiet rumble, tinged with warning. "This was no random act. Whoever set this in motion seeks not only to use Haraldr, but to disrupt the delicate balance that holds the realms together."
Thor, ever the fiery and tempestuous god, could no longer hold his anger. He shot to his feet, his mighty form towering above the gathered assembly. His golden hair, wild as a storm, was a halo of fury as his booming voice reverberated through the hall. "Heimdall!" Thor bellowed, the force of his words shaking the air. "How could this happen under your watch? You are the guardian of Asgard's sight, the protector of all realms! You see all, yet this was allowed to slip past you?"
Heimdall, unmoved by Thor's fury, met his brother's glare with an unflinching gaze of his own. "Thor, I see much, but not everything. The threads of fate are woven from countless strands, and the future is never set in stone. This... this was a deliberate act of deception, cloaked in magic I could not perceive until it was too late. I failed only because they masked their intent well."
Frigga, always the voice of reason, rose to her feet, her quiet grace cutting through the tension like a sword. "Then it is clear," she said softly but firmly. "We must protect Haraldr at all costs. If there are dark forces at play, we cannot stand idle. Thor, you and your brothers will ensure that he is safe. We cannot risk losing him again."
Her words were both a directive and a plea, carrying the weight of a queen's love for her family. She turned her gaze toward Haraldr, her eyes filled with a deep, maternal care. "We will not let this happen, my dear," she said, her voice steady despite the storm that brewed within.
Thor, his fury still simmering, nodded in agreement. "You are right, Mother. No harm will come to him." His hands clenched into fists, his voice dripping with determination. "Whoever dares to threaten him will regret it."
James stepped forward, the warmth of his presence a calming force amid the chaos. "We need answers," he said, his voice low but unwavering. "We need to know who is behind this."
Haraldr looked at his parents, their resolve emboldening him. He had always known the shadows of his past were far darker than they seemed. But now, it was as if those shadows were reaching out to engulf him once again. "I'll face whatever comes," he muttered, his voice steady despite the fear that gnawed at the edges of his confidence. "But I'm not doing it alone."
Heimdall, his towering figure a silent sentinel at the edge of the room, nodded solemnly. "Rest assured, Haraldr, you will never be alone. Asgard's finest stand with you."
Odin, his voice now a deep rumble that echoed like thunder in the hall, raised his hand to call for silence. "Then it is settled. We shall protect him, we shall uncover the truth, and we shall ensure that no harm befalls the boy. The gods will not stand idle while darkness seeks to unravel what we have built."
The weight of Odin's words settled over the hall, and though the revelry had come to a halt, it was clear that this night, this Halloween, would mark the beginning of a new chapter—one fraught with peril, but also with the promise of unyielding strength and unity.
—
Loki, ever the trickster, stood with a quiet but intense glint in his green eyes, his typically mischievous smile absent. His voice, however, still carried the same smooth, calculating cadence. "Heimdall," he called, turning toward the all-seeing guardian of the Bifrost. "Under what name did the Goblet of Fire select Haraldr as a champion?"
Heimdall, ever composed, his towering form draped in golden armor, did not flinch at the sharpness in Loki's voice. He turned his unwavering gaze toward the assembly, speaking calmly, "The Goblet of Fire chose him under the name Harry Potter."
A stunned silence fell over the royal hall. The name "Harry Potter" was well-known across many realms, particularly in Midgard, but it was not a name they had expected to hear in Asgard. The weight of this revelation was felt by all present, the room now thick with tension.
Loki's voice broke the silence, a thoughtful expression playing across his features. "Ah, now that presents an interesting loophole," he mused aloud, turning to the group with a glimmer of intrigue in his eyes. "The magic of the Goblet of Fire is indeed ancient and binding, but it is also quite literal."
Thor, still with a frown of confusion etched across his face, stepped forward, his booming voice resonating in the hall. "What do you mean, Loki? Speak plainly."
Loki's smile curled at the edges, as though savoring the unfolding drama. "The Goblet chose 'Harry Potter,' not 'Haraldr Jameson Potter.' The Goblet's magic binds to the name selected, but Haraldr is not bound by the name 'Harry Potter.'"
Eirlys, her face pale but eyes bright with a mix of hope and apprehension, stepped forward, her hands instinctively tightening around her son's arm. "Are you telling me... my son does not have to compete?" she asked, her voice laced with a mixture of relief and disbelief.
Loki nodded, his smile shifting into something more reassuring. "Indeed, my dear sister. Haraldr is not compelled to join this tournament. The Goblet, in its ancient magic, responds only to the name it is given, and in this case, it is the name Harry Potter. Haraldr is free from that bond."
James, his eyes full of a rare, raw sincerity, stepped forward from his place beside Eirlys. "Haraldr," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "I know I've not been the father I should have been for many years. But I want you to know that I'm here for you now, and whatever decision you make, I will stand by it."
His words hung in the air, a mixture of apology and fatherly love. Eirlys placed a gentle hand on James' shoulder, and for a brief moment, the tension between them seemed to ease. She squeezed Haraldr's arm, her eyes filled with warmth and a touch of fear. "You have a choice, my son," she said softly, looking down at him with pride. "You are not bound to the past or to a name that no longer defines you."
Haraldr's expression remained thoughtful as he turned to Loki. "So, you're saying I don't have to fight? I can walk away?"
Loki's smile deepened, his eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and approval. "Yes, Haraldr. You can walk away if you so choose. The battle is not yours to fight unless you decide otherwise."
The words seemed to echo through the room as Haraldr glanced back at his parents. His mind raced, the weight of his family's support heavy on his shoulders. For the first time, he felt the sheer power of his own agency—he was not bound by destiny, not by the past, and not by anyone's expectations but his own.
He met his parents' eyes, seeing the love and the silent promise of support in their gazes. After a long pause, he nodded, his voice firm. "Thank you. I think I know what I need to do."
Turning back to Loki, his eyes narrowed as a new, more serious thought surfaced. "But Uncle Loki," Haraldr began, "could this be Voldemort's doing? Is he behind this?"
Loki's gaze sharpened, his mind visibly racing as he considered the implications. "It is certainly within Voldemort's capabilities," he said after a long pause, his voice carrying a note of cautious certainty. "He's always had a talent for manipulation, for twisting things to his will. If he's trying to lure you into a trap or force your hand, this would be a clever way to do it."
The room fell silent again, the weight of Loki's words sinking in. Haraldr's determination only grew. "If that's the case," he said, his voice hardening, "then the only way to confront this is to participate. Voldemort will reveal himself in the end, and when he does, we'll be ready."
James stepped forward again, his voice both steady and full of love. "You're right, son. We'll face him together. We've been through too much for you to go through this alone."
Sirius, leaning against one of the marble pillars, cracked a grin. "I'm with you, kid," he said, his voice filled with a certain youthful vigor. "The Marauders are always ready for a challenge. And the Valkyries, too, I'm sure." He winked, and Remus chuckled softly from his side, his hands casually tucked into the pockets of his robes.
"You'll need strategy," Remus added, his tone calm and thoughtful, "but above all, trust in your instincts. And don't hesitate to ask for help when you need it. No one faces danger alone—not here, not ever."
Eirlys, her voice filled with unshakable confidence, pulled her son into a tight embrace. "You are stronger than you think, Haraldr. You've faced trials that many could never imagine. And through it all, you've had the heart of a hero."
Haraldr felt the weight of his parents' love, their confidence in him, and his resolve solidified. His gaze shifted to Loki, who seemed to be scheming already.
Loki's mischievous grin returned, albeit with a touch more seriousness than usual. "Worry not, nephew," he said, his voice carrying a familiar playful lilt. "I have a plan. A delicate one, mind you, but it will be effective. Together, we shall outwit whatever dark forces await."
Haraldr smirked, feeling a strange mix of affection and wariness for his uncle. "Do you always have a plan, Uncle Loki?"
Loki's grin widened, his eyes glinting with that familiar gleam of mischief. "Let's just say... I prefer to be prepared."
Haraldr chuckled, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease for the first time in what felt like an eternity. With his family's support, Loki's cunning, and the strength of his own heart, he knew that whatever came next, they would face it together—united in the face of whatever challenges awaited.
—
The atmosphere in the Great Hall at Hogwarts was thick with tension, as the magical community struggled to comprehend the implications of a fourth name being drawn from the Goblet of Fire. The murmurs, like a gathering storm, grew louder, but all fell into stunned silence when a brilliant rainbow light flooded the entrance, illuminating the ancient hall.
"The Bifrost," Dumbledore murmured softly, a glint of recognition in his eyes.
The doors to the hall swung open, revealing the towering figures of Loki and Thor, both radiating an undeniable power that silenced the room in an instant. They were followed closely by Sif, the Warriors Three—Fandral, Volstagg, and Hogun—and a formidable group that included Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, Amelia Bones, Bellatrix Lestrange, Narcissa Malfoy, and Hagrid, all clad in gleaming Asgardian armor. Their presence was not only royal but thunderous, as if the very air bent under their authority.
Loki's mischievous smile twisted into something far sharper as he surveyed the room, while Thor stood tall and unyielding, his eyes aflame with fury. Sif's gaze was resolute, and the Warriors Three stood in perfect formation, exuding an air of readiness and strength.
Dumbledore, his posture serene but his expression thoughtful, stepped forward. "Prince Loki, Prince Thor," he said, his voice warm but laced with curiosity. "What brings you to Hogwarts in this moment?"
Thor's voice boomed through the hall as he advanced, his steps echoing with thunder. "Dumbledore!" he thundered, his voice full of thunderous rage. "Explain to me, how is it that the name of my nephew, Prince Haraldr, is drawn from this Goblet of Fire?!"
A stunned silence fell upon the room as every student, teacher, and magical creature turned their gaze to the mighty prince. Dumbledore, unfazed yet clearly concerned, did not hesitate to respond.
"Prince Thor," Dumbledore began, his tone calm and composed. "I understand your frustration. However, the rules of the Goblet of Fire are clear and binding. If the Goblet has selected Harry Potter's name, then it is final, and he must compete in the Triwizard Tournament."
Before Thor could retort, Barty Crouch Sr., ever the dutiful Ministry official, stepped forward. "Prince Thor, your anger is understandable," he said, his voice authoritative yet respectful. "But the Goblet's magic cannot be easily undone. The name it draws is binding, and Harry Potter is bound to participate."
Loki, his face twisting into a sneer, glided forward, his eyes glittering with malice. "Silence, you ignorant fool!" Loki's voice rang out, cutting through the tension in the hall. "You would dare speak of the Goblet's magic as if you truly understand it? I will remind you—my nephew is not 'Harry Potter.' He is Haraldr Jameson Potter, Prince of Asgard! Show him the respect due to a prince of my realm, or I shall make you regret it."
Crouch faltered for a moment, his earlier confidence evaporating under Loki's searing gaze. "My apologies, Prince Haraldr Jameson Potter," Crouch stammered, bowing his head slightly. "But the rules—"
Loki took a step forward, his expression icy. "You are a fool, Barty Crouch," Loki said softly but dangerously. "The Goblet of Fire does not choose names at random. It chooses them precisely, but it also operates on the logic of this world. The name it drew—'Harry Potter'—is a name that no longer holds power in this realm. It is a shadow of the past. The name it should have chosen was Haraldr Jameson Potter, Prince of Asgard, and that is the name that holds dominion here."
The hall was now hushed, the weight of Loki's words hanging heavily in the air. Dumbledore's brow furrowed, but he remained silent, listening intently. The murmurs of students and teachers alike were barely audible as they processed the truth of Loki's revelation.
Amelia Bones, ever the pragmatic head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, stepped forward, her gaze steady. "If the Goblet's choice is void, then what happens next, Prince Loki?" she asked, her voice filled with a mixture of respect and concern.
Loki's smile widened, a flash of dark humor dancing in his eyes. "The students of Hogwarts are fortunate, Amelia Bones," Loki said, "that despite this oversight, my nephew, Haraldr Jameson Potter, will still participate in this Tournament." He turned to face the gathered students, their expressions a mix of confusion and awe. "He will show you all once again the might of Asgard!" His voice boomed, echoing through the hall, every word dripping with both pride and challenge.
Thor stepped forward, his eyes narrowing, as he placed a hand on Loki's shoulder. "The time for explanations is over," Thor said, his voice commanding. "Loki, what is your plan? Our nephew will not be manipulated by the machinations of those who do not understand Asgardian law and magic."
Loki glanced at his brother, then back to the room, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "We will see to it, Thor. But first..." He turned sharply toward the ceiling, his voice cutting through the hall like a blade. "Heimdall, send down my students!"
—
The Bifrost shimmered once again, its radiant light flooding through the doors of the Great Hall with an otherworldly glow. The assembled crowd fell into stunned silence as the spectacle unfolded. Haraldr, dressed in his brilliant red and gold Asgardian armor, stepped through the portal first. Føniksbrann, the sword of legends, was sheathed at his side, its hilt gleaming in the light. The very sight of him—his regal posture, his air of unshakable confidence—demanded attention. But it was not just Haraldr who captured the room's focus.
Beside him walked Eirlys, her armor glowing orange and gold, a fiery reflection of her strength and grace. The moment she entered, a palpable energy surged through the room, as though the very fabric of magic hummed in response to her presence.
And then there was James. The sight of him alive and standing tall, clad in gleaming golden Einherjar armor, sent shockwaves through the room. The whispers grew louder, the faces in the crowd shifting from disbelief to awe. James was dead. Everyone had assumed that. Yet here he was—undeniably alive, his gaze steady as he surveyed the hall.
Haraldr's friends, dressed in their own Asgardian armor, followed closely behind him. Their faces were resolute, determined. Susan Bones, with her calm, almost serene air, walked with the quiet grace of someone who had seen the weight of battle and understood its consequences. Luna Lovegood floated in behind her, her eyes bright, filled with curiosity as always. Draco Malfoy, his once haughty demeanor now tempered by something deeper, moved with purpose beside her. Hannah Abbott, always steady and unflappable, stood with her back straight, her gaze set on the path ahead. Neville Longbottom's broad shoulders were squared in confidence, his usual warmth replaced by a hardened edge, while Tonks's vibrant personality radiated from her in an aura of unshakable resolve.
The rest of the group—Astrid, Leif, Bjorn, Sigrun, Viggo, and Skadi—followed, each one striking in their own way. Astrid's silvery-blonde hair and piercing gaze showed her strength, while Leif's broad frame seemed to tower over most, an embodiment of raw power. Bjorn, with his flaming red hair, was a firebrand in his own right, his presence fierce and unrelenting. Sigrun, with her fiery locks and unflinching spirit, carried herself as a warrior destined for greatness. Viggo, with the air of a seasoned fighter, moved like a force of nature, while Skadi—her icy blue eyes burning with intensity—glowed with an energy that threatened to freeze the very air around her.
Together, they formed an unbreakable circle around Haraldr, embodying unity, strength, and the might of Asgard.
As they walked forward, all eyes in the Great Hall were on them. Their presence seemed to fill the vast space, their footsteps echoing in the silence that had descended upon the room. The murmur of disbelief and awe began to ripple through the students and faculty alike.
Loki stepped forward, a proud smile curving on his lips as he surveyed the room with satisfaction. His voice rang out, unmistakable and rich with authority. "Behold, the Champion of Asgard," he announced, his tone laced with pride and mischief.
The room went utterly still. Even the most skeptical among them were momentarily held in awe by the sheer power and majesty that radiated from the assembled group. The sight of Haraldr, Eirlys, James, and their comrades was one of such grandeur that it left even the seasoned wizards of Hogwarts speechless.
Loki's voice rang out once more. "Ladies and gentlemen," he declared, raising a hand toward Haraldr with grandiose flourish, "I present to you Prince Haraldr, the Champion of Asgard!"
The words settled like thunderclaps, and before any of them could react, the Great Hall erupted into applause. The sound was deafening, a mixture of admiration, surprise, and respect. Haraldr stood tall, his face a picture of stoic determination, as he soaked in the reaction with quiet grace. His posture, unwavering and regal, sent a clear message: he was Asgardian royalty, a warrior chosen by fate to stand among the stars.
James's gaze flicked toward the crowd, and though his expression remained calm, there was a flicker of emotion in his eyes. The very idea that he was alive, let alone standing before the very people who had mourned him, was almost too surreal to comprehend. His lips parted slightly, but he said nothing. His presence alone spoke volumes.
From the back of the room, Dumbledore's eyes locked on Haraldr, his expression carefully measured. As much as he tried to keep his composure, the moment was unlike anything he had ever encountered. It was one thing to hear of gods and warriors; it was another to stand face-to-face with them.
His voice, when it came, was steady, but tinged with genuine curiosity. "Prince Haraldr," he said softly, stepping forward and giving a respectful nod. "We are honored by your presence. But I must ask… How is it that you are here, in this place, in this time? The world believed you lost long ago."
Haraldr's gaze flickered toward Dumbledore, his lips quirking ever so slightly into a small smile. "The world has its misconceptions," he replied in a voice that carried the weight of a thousand years. "But my destiny lies elsewhere now. I have come to fulfill it."
Eirlys, standing slightly behind him, watched Dumbledore closely, her gaze calm but unwavering. "We are Asgardians, Headmaster. Time flows differently for us, and fate has its own course. We walk that path now."
James, who had been silent up until now, stepped forward. His voice, smooth but with a steely edge, caught the attention of the hall. "I believe that answers your question, Headmaster," he said, his gaze piercing but not unkind. "The past doesn't bind us. Not anymore."
Loki grinned as he looked around at the awed crowd. "Do you see, my dear friends?" he said, his voice sharp with that familiar touch of mischief. "The mighty Prince Haraldr stands among you. And you will soon know why Asgard's Champion is not to be trifled with."
The silence that followed was palpable, as the weight of his words hung in the air. All eyes remained on Loki, on Haraldr, on the assembled warriors of Asgard.
And with that, the room fell into eager anticipation, the storm of uncertainty on the horizon as the trials of the Triwizard Tournament were about to take a turn unlike any they had ever seen.
—
The grand corridors of Hogwarts echoed with the sound of Dumbledore's steady footsteps, his robes sweeping the stone floors as he led the Asgardian party towards the chamber where the other Champions were waiting. Each step seemed to carry the weight of something monumental, the air itself buzzing with the anticipation of what was about to unfold.
Dumbledore stopped at a set of large, ornately carved doors, the shimmering light of enchanted candles flickering softly around them. With a simple wave of his hand, the doors opened, revealing Cedric Diggory, Viktor Krum, and Fleur Delacour standing in the center of the room. Their expressions were a mixture of curiosity and slight confusion, sensing the arrival of something extraordinary.
Just as Dumbledore stepped into the room, the ever-energetic Ludo Bagman burst in behind him with his signature enthusiasm, wide grin plastered across his face.
"Ah! There you are! The Champions, everyone!" Bagman's voice boomed, his arms sweeping in an exaggerated arc as though unveiling an elaborate spectacle. His loud tone seemed almost comical in contrast to the gravitas of the moment.
Cedric turned, his posture still as dignified as ever, offering a polite but slightly bemused smile at Bagman's sudden burst of energy. He was always the picture of poise, even when faced with the most absurd of situations.
Fleur, her golden locks cascading over her shoulders, gave an elegant smile but seemed more intrigued by the source of the disruption than the person creating it. Her eyes narrowed in mild confusion, though her composure remained intact as she observed the unexpected party's entrance.
Viktor Krum, his heavy Bulgarian accent barely discernible beneath his stoic demeanor, raised an eyebrow and glanced at the door, his expression showing that he was slightly perturbed by Bagman's theatrics. He was accustomed to the attention, but this? This was something else entirely.
"Well, well, well!" Bagman continued, oblivious to the champions' bemused stares. "Here we have our Hogwarts Champion, Cedric Diggory!" Bagman gestured grandly to Cedric, who gave a respectful nod, his cool demeanor unchanged. "The pride of Hogwarts, of course!"
"Thank you," Cedric said with his typical calmness, the words polite but reserved.
"And from the lovely Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, we have the stunning Fleur Delacour!" Bagman's voice practically sang her name, his grin widening as he gestured to Fleur, who gave a soft but warm smile, her French accent thick as she nodded to the room.
"Merci," Fleur said, her voice smooth and melodic, with the distinct lilt of her French accent adding a touch of elegance to the moment. She raised her chin slightly, as though preparing for what was to come.
"And of course, from Durmstrang, our very own Viktor Krum!" Bagman's voice boomed once more as he pointed to the hulking Bulgarian Quidditch star, who simply acknowledged the praise with a small, indifferent nod, his face unreadable.
"Yes, yes. Krum," Viktor said in his thick accent, not quite appreciating the exuberance. He was a man of few words, especially when surrounded by so much noise.
Dumbledore, ever the beacon of patience, cleared his throat, casting an amused yet pointed glance at the departing Bagman. "Thank you, Ludo," Dumbledore said with a gentle smile. "I believe I can take it from here."
Bagman, though momentarily stunned, finally noticed the look in Dumbledore's eyes. He raised his hands, offering a sheepish grin. "Right, right. Well, you've got it, Albus," Bagman said, before sidestepping out of the way with one last overly dramatic flourish.
Dumbledore's expression shifted, his face now serious as he turned toward the gathered champions. The room quieted, and the weight of what he was about to say settled over them all.
"My dear Champions," Dumbledore began, his voice both warm and commanding, reverberating through the stone walls of the chamber. "It seems we have an unusual turn of events ahead of us."
Cedric's brow furrowed slightly, Fleur's serene smile faltered, and Viktor's usual indifference gave way to mild confusion. They exchanged wary glances, awaiting further explanation.
"It appears that fate has seen fit to introduce a fourth champion to the Triwizard Tournament," Dumbledore continued, his tone grave but filled with an undeniable sense of purpose. "Therefore, the tournament will now be known as the Quadwizard Tournament."
The champions exchanged astonished looks. The news was unexpected, the air charged with a mix of disbelief and curiosity.
Dumbledore held up his hand for quiet. "The tasks will be adjusted accordingly to accommodate the addition of this fourth competitor. Now, I am pleased to introduce him."
The anticipation in the room seemed to heighten as Dumbledore's voice carried the next words with a sense of grandiosity.
"Prince Haraldr Jameson Potter, Champion of Asgard."
At Dumbledore's declaration, all eyes turned to Haraldr. He stood tall, dressed in his Red and Gold Asgardian armor, his regal presence demanding attention. Føniksbrann, his enchanted sword, rested at his side. As the room looked upon him, it became clear that Haraldr was no ordinary wizard, no simple contender. His very being resonated with power, a force unlike anything the Champions had ever encountered.
Fleur's eyes widened slightly at the sight of him, her French accent slipping into something more akin to awe. "Mon Dieu..." she murmured under her breath, though it was barely audible to those near her.
Cedric's jaw tightened in a mixture of curiosity and caution, the realization that the game had just gotten far more dangerous dawning on him.
Viktor gave a low, almost imperceptible grunt, his hand clenching the edge of his robe, sensing the challenge that Haraldr's presence would bring.
Luna Lovegood, standing near the back of the room with her typically dreamy expression, tilted her head slightly and whispered to Draco, "He looks like someone who's been through a thousand battles."
Draco, ever the skeptic, just shrugged but couldn't deny the air of experience Haraldr carried. His gaze shifted to the Asgardian's friends, clad in their own armors, their expressions unreadable yet proud. Among them were figures like Eirlys, with a demeanor of quiet strength, and James, who had somehow defied death itself, appearing every bit as alive as Haraldr.
Loki stood at the far end of the room, his grin wide and mischievous as always. "Behold, the Champion of Asgard!" he called out, his voice dripping with a mix of pride and mischief. He gestured toward Haraldr, who stood silently, letting the magnitude of his presence do the speaking.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Loki continued, his voice echoing through the room, "I present to you Prince Haraldr, Champion of Asgard."
The room erupted in murmurs and hushed whispers as everyone processed the weight of the revelation. The applause came, uncertain at first, but growing in volume as they grasped the significance of this new and powerful participant.
Haraldr took a step forward, his eyes meeting those of the Champions. His gaze was unwavering, full of determination and readiness. "The tournament awaits," he said, his voice firm and authoritative, and yet still carrying the underlying warmth of someone who had seen far too much to be daunted by anything.
With that, the air in the room shifted. The Quadwizard Tournament had truly begun, and it was clear that the stakes had just been raised higher than anyone could have anticipated.
---
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