The End of Summer
Richard could never remember seeing his father look as haggard as he had then. His eyes were sunken and heavily lidded. His lips were pale and drawn up. The worry lines on his forehead, which had always been hinted at, now looked permanent. His normally trim beard had curly tufts sticking out in tangled clumps. He had been in his work robes for what seemed like three days straight. The only thing neat about his current state was the shine of his silver Department of Magical Law Enforcement badge which was pinned neatly over his heart.
Richard’s mother created quite the contrast. While his father read the Daily Prophet, she buzzed dutifully around the kitchen, casually flicking a hand here and there, whipping up a quick breakfast for his sake. Her cheerful demeanor always made her seem a few years younger than she actually was.
Two plates flew, unassisted, from the cabinet, to the table, and landed soundlessly between father and son. Bacon, eggs, and biscuits for Richard and an omelet for his father.
“Think they might let up with the investigation with the start of the term dear?” his mother asked, her voice half chipper and half concerned.
“Not bloody likely,” his father snorted between bites. He glanced from his paper down at the table. His brow furrowed in alarm. “Where’s-”
Richard’s mother handed him his coffee and sat down between them.
He took a long, deep swallow and continued. “With the attack the happened at the World Cup, they’re not taking any risks when it comes to the Tournament. Wizengamont has already put in the petitions to cancel it.”
“You mean the Tri-Wizard tournament.” Richard rarely chimed in at breakfast, preferring to give his parents the time to talk, but it was hard to ignore things that were likely going to affect him.
“Beauxbatons has already managed to pull out. I can’t imagine Durmstrang will be far behind. Though I can’t say I’ll cry over the rotten swedes not being here.” He flipped through the paper. His dad had been doing the DMLE’s grunt work since the attacks. While the Auror’s headed up the investigation, there were smaller fires to put out. Raids were at an all-time high. Any street corner dragon shit salesmen or whore that’s been seen Knockturn Alley in the past three months is getting their door kicked in. Men like his father were the ones who did the knocking.
“I can’t see them cancelling it,” Richard’s mother replied. “Shifting the rules a bit, sure, but the laws of magic that govern the Goblet are far too powerful to simply cancel it all together.” She was a studious woman in her spare time, but had never bothered to further her education.
“You would be right, dear. The word from Madam Bones herself suggests that it will be a Hogwarts isolated event. With the other two schools bowing out, security will thankfully be a minor nightmare.”
His mother gave a small smile. “Maybe you’ll get to see your father this year, Richie.”
Richard wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He stabbed at his bacon absently.
“Don’t worry, son,” his father assured. “Neither of us are that lucky,” and suddenly his father’s tone changed and he lowered his paper.
“Jokes aside, I want you to listen to me, son.” His father locked eyes with him. “There is something to all this that doesn’t sit right with me, and it shouldn’t with anyone else. This was not a freak accident, and whatever happens, keep your head down this year.” Richard could never remember seeing such a desperate look in his father’s eyes. “I don’t want you going near that fucking Goblet, do you understand me?”
“I hear you, Dad.” Both of them knew it was a lie the second the words left his mouth. Nine months later, when they saw one another again, both will have wished it hadn’t been.
The Naming of the Champions
The thrill of it had been too much to resist. Seeing his classmates, friends, and acquaintances all go forth and enter their names had been the worst type of peer pressure. Even the Weasley twins had gotten in on the fun. Their beards would be forever burned into the minds student body. Everyone from Diggory to Davies had entered, and he was going to be damned if he was seen as the only person unwilling to do so.
So, one morning, after breakfast, he had strolled up to the goblet and successfully deposited a slip of parchment with his name on it into the cup. The claps from those around him had been enough encouragement and boost to his confidence to helf reinforce his decision.
Now, with much anticipation, they all waited for the results.
He ran a hand through his thick dark hair and looked around. They were all gathered around in the Great Hall as the headmaster entered center stage. For years he had been known to put on a grandiose speech, but here his flair for the dramatic seemed to reach its zenith.
The aged wizard walked down an aisle of students and made his way to the ancient, magical cup. Fire simmered from its wooden rim and brightened as all the torches around the hall dimmed with wave of Dumbledore’s hand.
Roger Davies, his quidditch mate cupped him on the shoulder. “Exciting business, hey Richie?” he whispered. “Think there’s glory waiting for the pair of us in that old cup?”
Richard waved him off. Roger had always been a good-looking, well-meaning idiot. Well, at the very least, in Ravenclaw terms. No one in their house was stupid, but Roger’s intelligence extended to more athletic pursuits and how to pick women--or the equally challenging feat of how to get rid of women.
“If there’s any justice, it’ll place you and Sally-Anne in there together,” he jabbed between Professor Dumbledore’s grave warnings of danger. “Now shut it!” Richard hissed, “I think the first name’s about to appear.”
The Goblet’s blue flames crackled into a dark red hue. The headmaster held a strong, but withered hand out as a jet of fire exploded from the goblet. A burnt piece of parchment drifted between his fingers. “CEDRIC DIGGORY!” he bellowed. “Our first champion!”
Cheers and applause erupted throughout the hall. You could not find a more well-liked individual in the whole school. If there had been odds on whose name would be drawn first, Richard would have put everything on Cedric. Even the slytherins couldn’t complain too much--still, only a few clapped. The popular young man shook hands with Dumbledore before being quickly ushered into a back room.
The noise dimmed and, eventually, the last hufflepuff cheer died down.
The flames darkened once more, and the tension in the hall was palpable. Nonetheless, two more names must be drawn.
The flames shot forth another blackened piece of parchment.
“RICHARD CORBEAUX!”
A lot happened at once. Davies nearly pulled his head off with his congratulatory hug as the other Ravenclaws whistled and cheered. The applause that accompanied his name was muted compared to Cedric’s, but nonetheless, it was there. He felt his feet move in spite of himself and he blinked maybe once between his seat and shaking Dumbledore’s hand.
Why him?
While no one disliked him, Richard couldn’t claim to be particularly noteworthy or popular amongst his peers. He play beater for the quidditch team, but he spent a lot of time rotating with his teammates. He made good marks, sure, but most of the students in his house managed that. There was nothing about his seven years at Hogwarts that distinguished him from the average student, but here he was, being ushered into a back room reserved for ‘champions.’
Subtly, his father’s words seeped into the back of his mind.
He had only entered because he had assumed that there was no chance that his name would be drawn.
So much for that.
Richard could never remember seeing his father look as haggard as he had then. His eyes were sunken and heavily lidded. His lips were pale and drawn up. The worry lines on his forehead, which had always been hinted at, now looked permanent. His normally trim beard had curly tufts sticking out in tangled clumps. He had been in his work robes for what seemed like three days straight. The only thing neat about his current state was the shine of his silver Department of Magical Law Enforcement badge which was pinned neatly over his heart.
Richard’s mother created quite the contrast. While his father read the Daily Prophet, she buzzed dutifully around the kitchen, casually flicking a hand here and there, whipping up a quick breakfast for his sake. Her cheerful demeanor always made her seem a few years younger than she actually was.
Two plates flew, unassisted, from the cabinet, to the table, and landed soundlessly between father and son. Bacon, eggs, and biscuits for Richard and an omelet for his father.
“Think they might let up with the investigation with the start of the term dear?” his mother asked, her voice half chipper and half concerned.
“Not bloody likely,” his father snorted between bites. He glanced from his paper down at the table. His brow furrowed in alarm. “Where’s-”
Richard’s mother handed him his coffee and sat down between them.
He took a long, deep swallow and continued. “With the attack the happened at the World Cup, they’re not taking any risks when it comes to the Tournament. Wizengamont has already put in the petitions to cancel it.”
“You mean the Tri-Wizard tournament.” Richard rarely chimed in at breakfast, preferring to give his parents the time to talk, but it was hard to ignore things that were likely going to affect him.
“Beauxbatons has already managed to pull out. I can’t imagine Durmstrang will be far behind. Though I can’t say I’ll cry over the rotten swedes not being here.” He flipped through the paper. His dad had been doing the DMLE’s grunt work since the attacks. While the Auror’s headed up the investigation, there were smaller fires to put out. Raids were at an all-time high. Any street corner dragon shit salesmen or whore that’s been seen Knockturn Alley in the past three months is getting their door kicked in. Men like his father were the ones who did the knocking.
“I can’t see them cancelling it,” Richard’s mother replied. “Shifting the rules a bit, sure, but the laws of magic that govern the Goblet are far too powerful to simply cancel it all together.” She was a studious woman in her spare time, but had never bothered to further her education.
“You would be right, dear. The word from Madam Bones herself suggests that it will be a Hogwarts isolated event. With the other two schools bowing out, security will thankfully be a minor nightmare.”
His mother gave a small smile. “Maybe you’ll get to see your father this year, Richie.”
Richard wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He stabbed at his bacon absently.
“Don’t worry, son,” his father assured. “Neither of us are that lucky,” and suddenly his father’s tone changed and he lowered his paper.
“Jokes aside, I want you to listen to me, son.” His father locked eyes with him. “There is something to all this that doesn’t sit right with me, and it shouldn’t with anyone else. This was not a freak accident, and whatever happens, keep your head down this year.” Richard could never remember seeing such a desperate look in his father’s eyes. “I don’t want you going near that fucking Goblet, do you understand me?”
“I hear you, Dad.” Both of them knew it was a lie the second the words left his mouth. Nine months later, when they saw one another again, both will have wished it hadn’t been.
The Naming of the Champions
The thrill of it had been too much to resist. Seeing his classmates, friends, and acquaintances all go forth and enter their names had been the worst type of peer pressure. Even the Weasley twins had gotten in on the fun. Their beards would be forever burned into the minds student body. Everyone from Diggory to Davies had entered, and he was going to be damned if he was seen as the only person unwilling to do so.
So, one morning, after breakfast, he had strolled up to the goblet and successfully deposited a slip of parchment with his name on it into the cup. The claps from those around him had been enough encouragement and boost to his confidence to helf reinforce his decision.
Now, with much anticipation, they all waited for the results.
He ran a hand through his thick dark hair and looked around. They were all gathered around in the Great Hall as the headmaster entered center stage. For years he had been known to put on a grandiose speech, but here his flair for the dramatic seemed to reach its zenith.
The aged wizard walked down an aisle of students and made his way to the ancient, magical cup. Fire simmered from its wooden rim and brightened as all the torches around the hall dimmed with wave of Dumbledore’s hand.
Roger Davies, his quidditch mate cupped him on the shoulder. “Exciting business, hey Richie?” he whispered. “Think there’s glory waiting for the pair of us in that old cup?”
Richard waved him off. Roger had always been a good-looking, well-meaning idiot. Well, at the very least, in Ravenclaw terms. No one in their house was stupid, but Roger’s intelligence extended to more athletic pursuits and how to pick women--or the equally challenging feat of how to get rid of women.
“If there’s any justice, it’ll place you and Sally-Anne in there together,” he jabbed between Professor Dumbledore’s grave warnings of danger. “Now shut it!” Richard hissed, “I think the first name’s about to appear.”
The Goblet’s blue flames crackled into a dark red hue. The headmaster held a strong, but withered hand out as a jet of fire exploded from the goblet. A burnt piece of parchment drifted between his fingers. “CEDRIC DIGGORY!” he bellowed. “Our first champion!”
Cheers and applause erupted throughout the hall. You could not find a more well-liked individual in the whole school. If there had been odds on whose name would be drawn first, Richard would have put everything on Cedric. Even the slytherins couldn’t complain too much--still, only a few clapped. The popular young man shook hands with Dumbledore before being quickly ushered into a back room.
The noise dimmed and, eventually, the last hufflepuff cheer died down.
The flames darkened once more, and the tension in the hall was palpable. Nonetheless, two more names must be drawn.
The flames shot forth another blackened piece of parchment.
“RICHARD CORBEAUX!”
A lot happened at once. Davies nearly pulled his head off with his congratulatory hug as the other Ravenclaws whistled and cheered. The applause that accompanied his name was muted compared to Cedric’s, but nonetheless, it was there. He felt his feet move in spite of himself and he blinked maybe once between his seat and shaking Dumbledore’s hand.
Why him?
While no one disliked him, Richard couldn’t claim to be particularly noteworthy or popular amongst his peers. He play beater for the quidditch team, but he spent a lot of time rotating with his teammates. He made good marks, sure, but most of the students in his house managed that. There was nothing about his seven years at Hogwarts that distinguished him from the average student, but here he was, being ushered into a back room reserved for ‘champions.’
Subtly, his father’s words seeped into the back of his mind.
He had only entered because he had assumed that there was no chance that his name would be drawn.
So much for that.
