Delirium

Chapter 32 - Consequences

In the headmaster's office, late Saturday morning in the aftermath of the season's first quidditch match, Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk, listening contemplatively as his colleagues argued, shouted, and quarrelled amongst one another.

Over twenty minutes earlier, Albus had casted a Silencing Charm throughout the office, not wanting the students that waited outside to overhear.

"This is an outrage!" Pomona Sprout shouted, Filius Flitwick avidly nodding his agreement. "We cannot possibly allow—"

"Allow! Allow! I would very much like to 'ear what you, Dumbly-dore, will 'allow' in 'zis establishment!" Madame Maxine wailed over the several shouting voices. "Because today—"

"Today is not an example of any regularities here at Hogwarts, Madame," Minerva McGonagall sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose in annoyance. "Trust that this event was truly astonishing—"

Igor Karkaroff let out a hearty laugh. "I still do not see 'vat the problem is! The match 'vas incredibly enjoyable to 'vitness—!"

"You would reward such be'avior?" Maxine gasped.

"Quidditch is a brutal sport!" Igor reasoned. "A bit of violence is to be expected."

Ludo Bagman bobbed his chin only twice, agreeing quietly.

"Hein? A bit?" Maxine echoed, looking at Durmstrang's headmaster with disgust. Then, began fanning her face sorrowfully. "Dieux aide moi," she groaned.

Albus withheld a sigh, adjusting his spectacles on his nose carefully as his staff and visitors continued their disputes.

The all-out brawl between Gryffindor and Slytherin's quidditch teams this morning was honestly the very least of his worries.

It had been unexpected—and quite heated, yes. However, Hogwarts was currently hosting the first Triwizard Tournament in over two-hundred years.

And Harry Potter was a Champion.

The first task was only a mere two weeks away, each of the four student Champions facing their own brooding, territorial dragon mare.

Harry was much too young. Much too inexperienced. He was not ready.

Albus dreaded the task.

Even now, he could not figure out how Harry had entered the Tournament in the first place.

Or, rather, who had entered his name.

It was becoming exceedingly clear to him that poor Harry had not done it himself. Without the dread of the upcoming tasks, far before the Goblet had been introduced, Albus had seen himself that something had been bothering the boy.

He had received word from a few of the more conspicuous portraits of Harry's secret correspondence with Sirius Black.

And, while Albus was curious of what might warrant Harry's urgent letters to his godfather, he did not want to interfere. If he did, he feared that, when the right time should come, Harry might not feel safe or comfortable enough to come to Albus, himself.

But Albus did not want to think about what was to come. Hardly wanted to think about it in the privacy of his own, shielded mind.

Still, he readied himself for it. Harry Potter would be his only plausible, tangible warning.

Voldemort was not dead.

He would return.

And, perhaps, much sooner than Albus had hoped.