SD: CH163 - Rising Tensions Part 3

    An excerpt from the Daily Prophet… 

A TOURNAMENT FOR ALL… OR JUST ONE?
CONTROVERSY BREWS AT HOGWARTS OVER AGE SHIFT AND SPONSORSHIP POLITICS

 By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent

“The Triwizard Tournament returns to Hogwarts for the first time in over a century — but not everyone is raising their goblets in celebration.”

For the first time since the last blood-soaked failure of the Triwizard Tournament in 1792, Hogwarts has been selected to host the legendary magical competition. International cooperation is at an all-time high, thanks in no small part to the daring heroism of young Harry Potter, who reportedly saved French dignitaries from assassination and aided in the aftermath politics of the highly publicized Quidditch World Cup disaster.

For many, Mr. Potter is more than a boy. He is a symbol — of resilience, of unity, of a future Britain that doesn’t bow to fear.

But in the aftermath of Harry’s many public victories, questions are beginning to bubble beneath the surface of the celebration.

A Sudden Rule Change — A singular beneficiary?

As per the initial Directive submitted to the ICW earlier in December last year, the age requirement for entry into the Triwizard Tournament stood firm at nineteen years, allowing only students that had passed their OWLs successfully the chance to submit their candidature. But after a surprising emergency session held behind closed doors on August 30th between the Heads of State of all three participating schools and other relevant personnel, the age requirement was quietly lowered down to sixteen.

No official statement has explained the shift.

And while it has allowed a significantly larger pool to submit their names for the competition, one name has gained far more attention than others.

Harry Potter.

The coincidence, to some, feels less like a happy accident… and more like preparation.

Insiders from the Department of International Magical Cooperation suggest the rule change was a "collaborative decision," citing pressure from unnamed foreign ministries and "recent demonstrations of magical maturity from younger witches and wizards."

No names were given.

But one cannot help but note that the only young wizard of age sixteen currently hailed in both French and Bulgarian press is… our own.

An Icon or an Exception?

Let us be clear: Mr. Potter is a hero. His actions have earned him international gratitude. No one forgets the image of him dueling beside the French Minister or offering healing magic far beyond his years. The wizarding world owes him a great deal.

But here at home, questions are quietly gathering around Headmaster Albus Dumbledore.

Was it truly necessary to reduce the age limit for a deadly tournament whose previous attempt led to fatalities?

And more pointedly: was this done at the urging of Hogwarts’ own leadership?

Whispers abound that the Hogwarts Board of Governors received the new age rule as a fait accompli — bypassing the usual vetting protocols. Several have expressed concern that “this Tournament is being shaped around Harry Potter’s legacy, rather than skill.”

Dumbledore, ever silent on procedural matters, has so far refused to comment.

A Divided Castle

The internal tension at Hogwarts is reportedly escalating. Anonymous sources from within the school confirm that certain upper-year students, particularly from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, are growing vocal in their frustration.

“We respect Potter,” one sixth-year student said. “But the rest of us aren’t training our entire lives to be outshone by a boy who’s already been on the front page ten times before his fifth year.”

This reporter also notes whispers of unrest between former friends, including one known to be Potter’s longtime companion, now said to be preparing his own Tournament entry.

Even more curious: Hogwarts’ own Hermione Granger, an academic darling until recently, has reportedly developed a sudden violent streak when it comes to defending Potter — including an incident in the Gryffindor common room that sources described as “embarrassingly public.”

Ministry Response: “No Interference — But Active Oversight”

Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge, when reached for comment, praised Potter’s international achievements but clarified:

“This is not about one boy. This is about tradition, about unity, and about the future of magical education. The Ministry supports the Tournament — and Hogwarts — but we will be observing closely to ensure no individual, no matter how famous, is afforded undue advantage.”

Sources suggest the Ministry may be assigning an official observer to Hogwarts during the Tournament.

There is no doubt that Mr. Potter is a remarkable young man, and one whose courage has inspired not just Britain, but magical communities across the world.

But when a competition built on danger, legacy, and diplomacy suddenly reshapes itself around a single boy’s profile, the question must be asked:

“Is this the resurrection of an age-old tradition? Or the crafting of a coronation?”

Only time — and the Goblet — will tell.

Until then, the world watches.

....

....

Office of the Minister of Magic… 

The office of the Minister for Magic had never felt so cold.

Not even the enchanted fireplace, crackling with bottled summer heat, could thaw the quiet that had settled after Rita Skeeter’s article had made its way to every corner of the country. 

Minister Cornelius Fudge sat behind his enormous desk, fingers steepled, eyes narrowed at the front page of the Daily Prophet. Rita Skeeter’s article was spread before him like a dissected animal.

“…resurrection of an age-old tradition, or the crafting of a coronation?”

He pursed his lips. Damned Rita. Too sharp by half. And yet... useful. When pointed in the right direction.

The smell of over brewed tea lingered in the air, curling through the walnut-paneled room like a nervous thought. Cornelius slowly stirred his cup. No sugar. He’d lost the taste for it recently.

The door creaked open.

"Minister, you wanted to see me?"

Dolores Umbridge’s voice was all butter and arsenic. She glided in wearing a pale pink robe and a matching bow perched in her curls like a rosette on a toad.

Fudge gestured without looking up. “Close the door, Dolores.”

She obeyed.

He didn’t speak right away. Just tapped one plump finger on Harry Potter’s face — right there, top left corner, looking noble and irritating.

Dolores took the seat across from him without being invited. She folded her hands neatly over her clipboard.

“You’ve read it?” he asked.

“Three times,” she answered brightly. “Skeeter’s getting sharper.”

“Too sharp.”

He placed the spoon down with a little more force than needed. The clink echoed like punctuation.

"Am I to take it the article displeased you, Cornelius?"

He grunted. “I feel like I’m stranded, Dolores. None of this makes sense. I always knew Lucius was slippery, but this? Stirring half of Europe into panic, disappearing and destroying his own name and fame, and all of this for what? Leaving me behind with terrible PR with just a hero-shaped hole in public trust?”

Dolores tilted her head. “One that was very quite nicely by a Potter.”

“Yes, that’s the part that doesn’t make sense. I’ve met the boy before. Nice, lovable, shies away from public attention. Not a good thing if you want to be in politics, but I suppose he’s got too much fame ever since he could walk and talk. There was that little bit about Sirius Black too last year, but thankfully that was wrapped up by the dementors for good. But this summer… it’s like everything went nuts.”

Dolores said nothing.

“Taking over his family fortune. The entire thing with letting Lucius’s brat off the hook despite the unforgivable, his dealings with Narcissa Ma… Black… All of this… unexplained mess that Lucius caused and vanished, leaving Potter in charge of House Black’s assets… None of it adds up.”

“You think there’s a conspiracy?” She asked slowly.

“I think somebody played a very clever game from the shadows,” said Cornelius, frowning. 

“Potter?”

Cornelius shook his head, or at least, tried to, before freezing midway. “I am… I can’t be sure. Had this been last year, I’d have said no. But I’ve met him at the World Cup, Dolores, hobnobbing with me and the others like a seasoned politician. But… no, maybe a tool at best. Not this… malicious.”

“Albus Dumbledore is pulling the strings then,” said Dolores. “Maybe a couple of more articles from Skeeter? Casting doubt on the Headmaster while keeping our precious golden boy polished like a Galleon.”

Fudge sighed. “That’s the problem, Dolores. He is golden. Gilded in every paper from here to Paris. France adores him. Bulgaria’s singing his praises. And now this Tournament — this bloody Tournament — is shaping up to be a pottery wheel spinning around one boy’s legacy.”

A dark scowl formed on his face. “And then there is Bones. She’s no longer the neutral DMLE head. I remember the Bones and the Potter families go way back. Taking up the Potter Regency… she’s taken the boy under her wing. Publicly. Legally. She’s playing the long game.”

He exhaled, slow and bitter. “With Lucius gone, I don’t have a pureblood purse to lean on. The Montroses are too cautious. The Notts and Selwyns? Too bloodthirsty. The Gamps are cowards. And Potter’s faction — Potter, Black, Bones — is clean. Too clean.”

“Dangerous,” Dolores corrected.

“Worse,” Fudge said. “They don’t need me.”

He stood and crossed the office, facing the enchanted window where artificial daylight streamed over an illusion of Diagon Alley. A family of magical mannequins shopped cheerfully in the frostless spring, unaware that their Minister was watching them crumble from within.

“They’ve taken the press. They’ve taken the narrative. I can’t even call the boy reckless anymore — he’s the reason the French and Bulgarians signed on to this bloody Tournament in the first place.”

He turned.

“And now Amelia Bloody Bones is the one overseeing his vaults, his political protection, his public face.”

Dolores smiled a little. “Which means you can’t touch him. Not directly.”

Fudge tapped a finger to his temple. “Exactly. If I push too hard, I’m the Minister who bullies orphans and war heroes. But if I do nothing... he grows.” 

“And what do you want me to do?”

He leaned forward. “That boy is powerful. Too powerful. And Dumbledore keeps feeding it. Quietly. Subtly. Like a gardener raising a Mandrake and hoping no one hears the scream.”

Umbridge’s eyes glittered. “Then perhaps it’s time to trim the hedges.”

Fudge looked at her for the first time.

“I want you at Hogwarts,” he said.

Dolores blinked. “Officially?”

“Not yet,” he said. “Publicly, you’ll be ‘liaison and representative from the Ministry of Magic,’ — a friendly observer ensuring tournament compliance. But privately?” He leaned back. “You’re to watch Dumbledore. Watch Potter. Watch everyone.”

“And if I find something?”

Fudge smiled without warmth. “Then you bring it to me. And we’ll decide together what’s in the best interest of magical Britain.”

Umbridge’s fingers twitched. “There will be resistance.”

“From Dumbledore?”

She smiled. “From everyone.”

“Then be polite,” he said. “And be persistent.”

He stood, rounding the desk. “This isn’t about ruining Potter’s image. He’s still valuable to us. Useful. Inspirational. But he’s unpredictable. And I don’t like unpredictable things getting popular.”

Dolores rose with him, straightening her spine with pride.

“And Dumbledore?” she asked.

Fudge’s eyes darkened.

“I don’t trust anyone who’s silent while the world burns louder for their chosen boy than for their government.”

He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a sealed parchment.

“Here. Your official transfer.”

Dolores took it with reverence.

“And Dolores,” Fudge added, “do try to smile.”

Her grin was terrible.

“Of course, Minister. Hogwarts will never know what hit it.”

....

....

Inside Amelia’s temporary quarters at Hogwarts… 

The room was silent except for the slow crackle of wood in the hearth and the soft scratch of a quill against parchment.

Amelia Bones didn’t look up from the Prophet she was annotating, red ink blooming in elegant cursive across Rita Skeeter’s front-page feature. Words were underlined. Margins were filled. Asterisks and arrows created a map of misdirection — implications layered beneath praise, gentle poison woven into ceremony.

She didn’t need to read it twice. She had memorized it by the time breakfast was done.

Across the room, Hestia Jones was cleaning her wand with a cloth soaked in ashroot oil, movements precise, almost meditative. Emmeline Vance, meanwhile, sat perched on the windowsill with her knees pulled up and her sleeves rolled to her elbows, flipping through a thick dossier bound in blue dragonhide.

The three of them had barely spoken since morning.

It was better this way.

“You’ll notice,” Amelia said at last, “she never accuses Harry of anything. Not directly. Not once.”

“She doesn’t need to,” Emmeline replied, eyes flicking up. “She accused everyone around him. Dumbledore, the Goblet, the Ministry, the judges, the castle ghosts if necessary. She painted the target and left it blank.”

“Crafty cow,” muttered Hestia. “This isn’t a hit piece. It’s an invitation. She’s telling Fudge: if you want to move against them, now’s your moment.”

“She’s overreached,” Emmeline muttered.

Amelia said nothing. Her fingers traced the corner of the article, now folded to show only the headline.

“... resurrection of an age-old tradition? Or the crafting of a coronation?”

The implication was clear. Harry wasn’t just participating — he was being anointed. And Dumbledore was once again cast as the aged puppet master pulling his strings.

But no one dared question Harry directly. Not with the blood of foreign diplomats still drying on his wand, not with the French Ministry singing his praises, not with Bulgarian editorials calling him “the Iron Youth of Britain.”

No, the game was subtler now.

Undermine the structures around him. Sow doubts in the roots — not the fruit.

“No,” Amelia corrected, finally setting down the Prophet. “She’s done exactly what we expected. She’s laid the bait. And we’ll let the fools bite.”

A silence. Then:

“Fudge?” Hestia asked.

“He isn’t foolish. He’s smart enough to know what he’s lost. Malfoy was his shadow arm — money, favors, secrets. Now Lucius is a ghost and Fudge is naked. He’s terrified of Harry, but he’s more terrified of me.”

“You?” Emmeline smirked.

“I’m the one who knows where the bones are buried,” Amelia said simply, smirking at Emmeline at her clever use of the pun. “And now I’m sleeping in the same tower as his biggest liability. He doesn’t know whether I’m Harry’s leash, or his blade. Cornelius Fudge is a coward. And cornered. And that makes him more dangerous than ever.”

She turned toward the fire, crossing the room with that distinctive grace — the kind that never invited softness, only precision. Silently, she began reordering the parchments. Student rosters. Incident logs. Daily psychological profiles. The tension at Hogwarts wasn’t abstract anymore — it had names, voices, and fault lines.

“Seventeen student incidents this week,” she read out softly. “Ten arguments turned verbal. Four physical. Three magical.”

Amelia didn’t blink. “Divide by house.”

Albus Dumbledore had gotten old. In his haste to get all his opponents in one basket, he had ignored what he was giving them. The poor fool had never really thought about the implications of letting a seasoned Legilimens a free reign on the student body under the guise of checking for ‘residual effects of the imperius curse’.

And, while it was illegal to cast Legilimency upon a student without prior permission, the same couldn’t be said about using eavesdropping charms or enchanted little familiars to spy on them.

“Tomorrow, we’ll see movement. Subtle, at first. Flitwick will ask more questions than usual. Sprout will talk of ‘balance.’ Someone in the Ministry will push for curriculum reviews. Percy Weasley might arrive with scrolls. They won’t be threats — not yet. They’ll be probes.”

Hestia looked up. “And when they realize there’s no ground to probe?”

“Then they’ll escalate. That’s what cowards do. Cornelius might even send someone to have a closer eye on things.”

“So long as it isn’t Umbridge,” Hestia growled.

Amelia snorted softly, and picked up a file from the low shelf beside the fire. It was thin but heavy — one of her private files. Not Hogwarts-led. Not Ministry-issued. It was something else entirely.

She tossed it to the table between them.

Emmeline opened it.

Inside: names, notes, behavioral deviations.

It was a student observation file.

Chang, Cho — increased contact with Diggory; elevated aggression in defense of House honor. Davies, Roger — initiating informal debates around “age fairness”; recent shift in rhetoric. Johnson, Angelina — aligning with Ravenclaw/Hufflepuff unity cause; tracking with Roger. Brown, Lavender / Vane, Romilda — forming influence circles around emotional proximity to Potter. Weasley, Ronald — observed increase in impulsivity; possible trigger manipulated by Hermione Granger.

“She’s punishing him,” Emmeline murmured. “Hermione.”

“He deserves it,” Hestia said bluntly.

“He does,” Amelia agreed. “But more importantly, Harry wanted her to. He told her what Weasley did, what he said, who he chose. He wants it remembered. Even if the girl thinks she’s playing judge and executioner, Harry’s the one that put her on the path.”

Emmeline leaned back, hand resting on the dossier.

“I heard Susan was quite vocal about her support for Harry,” voiced Emmeline, and Amelia smirked. She was rather proud of how far her little Susie had grown this summer. Not only was she resisting Diggory, she was attacking anyone who questioned Harry’s integrity. Hannah Abbott was with her — no surprises there, while Macmillan was cracking under group pressure, but hadn’t quite broken yet. The Patil twins were surprisingly on Harry’s side, though whether that was because of loyalty or private agendas remained to be seen.

“I don’t understand,” said Hestia. “From what Harry told us, the Triwizard Champions were originally selected from sixth and seventh years. What changed?”

“Harry did,” said Amelia. “As much as we hate to admit it, the Triwizard isn’t just a scholastic competition, it is a show. A commercial enterprise upon which a lot is staked. Harry saved Sebastian Delacour and the Bulgarian Minister of Magic is already in Harry’s pocket. Between all that, and saving Britain’s arse from the Quidditch World Cup massacre, lowering the age was a political thank you, wrapped in a favor.”

“Even if that favor gets him discredited?”

“Not their problem,” said Amelia with a scowl. “The Department of International Magical Cooperation claimed that recent events showed that magical maturity is not solely defined by age. They have heard the tales, read about the exploits, and the basilisk sales deal is the icing on the cake. Diggory and Davies can yell and protest all they want, but the truth is that the international audience wants to see Harry Potter performing on the international stage. Lowering the age limit is merely an excuse to legitimize his participation.”

“So… if Diggory and the others want to become the Hogwarts Champion…” Hestia began.

“Then they’ll have to prove that they are better than Harry Potter,” said Emmeline. “Though it’s more interesting to see Albus’s reaction over it. Not that I’m surprised, after everything.”

Amelia pursed her lips. The Headmaster didn’t seem even the slightest discomfited. If anything, he looked satisfied. Like a gardener watching kindling catch on damp wood and knowing it would eventually light.

She exhaled, slow and sharp.

To the casual observer, Albus Dumbledore appeared every inch the genial sage — eccentric robes, twinkling gaze, maddening riddles laced with syrup and shadow. But Amelia had served through two wars and across four Ministers. She knew predators when she saw them.

And Dumbledore — for all his sweetness — was a strategist.

No. He wouldn’t intervene in the unrest bubbling up across Hogwarts. Not because he was indifferent. But because he was measuring it.

He wanted to know how far it would go.

That was the part that twisted inside her — not fear, but a slow, iron-cold clarity. Dumbledore saw this growing student rebellion not as a threat to Hogwarts, but as a diagnostic tool. A pressure gauge. A barometer for the ideological fault lines running through a new generation of witches and wizards. And by letting them rise, he was watching for who would break — and who would lead.

And that meant he was deliberately withholding power. Not because he lacked it — Merlin knew Albus Dumbledore could quiet a riot with half a word — but because he understood the value of silence.

The Ministry, Amelia thought, would have moved quickly — with decrees, with discipline, with punitive restructuring and restricted speech. That was how Cornelius operated. How Bagnold had before him. Control through policy. Stability through force.

But Dumbledore?

Dumbledore wanted them to reveal themselves.

Amelia leaned back in her chair, eyes fixed on the crackling fire. She replayed the expressions of the students during the forum — Cedric’s controlled outrage, Davies’ accusatory logic, even Zacharias Smith’s cautious insinuations. All of them had been navigating a system they didn’t trust anymore.

And Dumbledore had let them voice it all.

He hadn’t defended Harry. He hadn’t defended the school. He’d let the tension fester, let the Ministry fumble its defense, and waited — not to de-escalate, but to see what Harry would do.

Because what would interference do?

It would clarify the target.

If Dumbledore silenced the unrest, the anger would turn to Harry with renewed vigor. If he punished the students, they’d unify against him. Either way, he would polarize the school.

Instead, he was doing nothing.

Not out of neglect. Not out of hesitation. But because he understood the oldest rule in warfare and politics alike:

“Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake.”

And right now, the Ministry was making a mistake. The students were making several. But Harry? Harry was playing it quiet. Playing it cold. Watching them all burn energy while he stored his own.

Dumbledore was gambling — not on Hogwarts surviving the unrest.

He was gambling on what would emerge from it.

And that terrified her. 

“Director, in all his tales, Harry never mentioned a student uprising. Nothing like this.”

“In his tales, he was little more than a puppy that had been kicked too many times, as a fourth year. Not the… Harry, we know.” She exhaled sharply. “Like it or not, the future is changing, for better or worse. We have to be ready for whatever curve balls it throws our way. Speaking of,” she turned to Hestia. “Have you gotten the data I asked for?”

“About the Goblet?” asked Hestia. “Still in the cogs. The Department of Mysteries is being quite cagey about it.”

Amelia frowned.

“Did you say who asked for it?”

Hestia bobbed her head. “They claimed that the Goblet is the presiding judge for the Triwizard Tournament. They claim that leaking the history of the goblet might allow a third party to enchant it. And as the Regent of House Potter, you are officially in ‘conflict of interest’.”

She arched an eyebrow. “I am also the DMLE Director.”

“They are advising to select someone from the Auror squad to act as the DMLE representative in this case. They even suggested you consider Auror Gawain Robards for this.

Robards? Amelia mused. Robards in many ways, was much like her. Focussed, rule-abiding, often to a fault and nut stubborn. His track record was practically unbeatable, and the only reason he was still not Chief Auror was because he lacked any and all sense of tact that was often necessary in dealing with the bureaucracy.

Still, it was mightily odd for the Department of Mysteries to stick their nose into Ministry bureaucracy.

“If I might ask,” said Hestia. “Why are you interested in the Goblet’s history?”

At her raised eyebrow, Hestia clarified. “I mean, you already knew that the tournament was in the works for quite some time. And you said it yourself, given Harry’s performance during the World Cup, the lowered age requirement is a thank-you wrapped in a favour.”

“That was before I knew about the committee’s decision to let the Goblet be the judge,” said Amelia. “If Voldemort put Harry into the Triwizard and had him survive the tasks, there has to be a reason for that, right?”

“He was portkeyed —”

“If all that sick bastard wanted was to portkey Harry to a foreign site, use his blood and kill him, then there were endless ways to do so. There was absolutely no need to twist the entire tournament to select a fourth Champion, and make him survive dragons, mermen and all sorts of dangers just for that. Make no mistake, Harry might be a survivor, but back then, he was just a fourth year. We cannot expect him to know exactly what Voldemort had in mind.”

“But Voldemort is —”

“What? Sealed away? Didn’t stop him from trying to possess me, did it?”

That shut her up.

“Send a letter to the ICW Archives. See if it is possible to get a courtesy copy of the Goblet’s history. After what happened at the World Cup, I don’t want to find myself dealing with the repercussions of dealing with a magical relic that nobody truly understands.”

“What if we just cut short this red tape and get the details directly from one of the organisers?”

“Miss Jones,” said Amelia curtly, turning over the pages of her file. “You are the assistant to the Director of the DMLE. Surely you do not expect me to allow you, much less join you in anything illegal?”

She grabbed a quill and underlined a name.

“Absolutely not,” said Hestia with a straight face.

“Good,” she said, and held the file up. “I have marked some names in there. Some of them have unflattering histories, which might cause issues in the tournament proceedings. We don’t want anything to ruin our image.”

“Absolutely,” Hestia repeated, and grabbed the file.

“Good, so long as we are in agreement.”

And then she turned and left. 

Hestia watched her go, and then opened the file. Inside it was a list of people that were involved in the Triwizard. And among them, was underlined a single name.

Ludo Bagman.