Hogwarts: Chill, I'm Not That Riddle-Chapter 492: The International Wizarding Championship

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"Allow me to introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Professor Alastor Moody."

The applause that followed was thin and halfhearted, barely polite. Between his scarred face and the ominous tone of his earlier remarks, it was obvious this wasn’t going to be a gentle, easygoing teacher.

At the Slytherin table, several students had gone pale. Shock and unease flickered across their faces.

They knew exactly who Alastor Moody was.

How could they not?

Plenty of their relatives had been personally hauled off to Azkaban by that man. Whenever his name came up at home, their parents spoke through clenched teeth, sometimes with more hatred than they reserved for Dumbledore himself.

Back in the day, there had been a saying in the Ministry and throughout magical Britain: half the cells in Azkaban were filled by Moody, and the other half by Crouch.

And now he was a professor.

Several young Slytherins silently decided they were writing home tonight to complain.

Reason? Simple. The man was too terrifying to be allowed near children.

Suddenly, Moody, who had been slicing into a sausage, lifted his head without warning. His magical blue eye spun at an impossible angle and locked onto the Slytherin table. The students who had just been glaring at him dropped their gazes instantly, panic flashing across their faces.

He seemed about to issue some kind of warning before returning to his lamb chops.

At that exact moment, Tom looked up as well.

Their gazes met.

Moody felt as if a needle had stabbed straight into his magical eye. The thing wasn’t even connected to his optic nerve anymore, but pain still flared instinctively. A strangled grunt escaped him before he could stop it.

Several professors looked over in confusion. Moody quickly smothered the reaction and offered no explanation.

Only Albus Dumbledore had seen the brief exchange clearly. He sighed inwardly.

Moody had taken a subtle jab at Tom earlier. Given the boy’s temperament, this level of retaliation was almost mild. Dumbledore couldn’t very well interfere. He could only hope it ended there and the two of them would keep their distance.

He understood why Moody distrusted Tom. The old Auror had seen too much darkness to trust easily. Tom’s previous actions had already unsettled him, and the massacre at the World Cup had cemented his belief that Tom would become the next Voldemort.

They had argued about it more than once.

But Dumbledore disagreed.

He had examined the situation from every angle. If he had been in Tom’s position, perhaps he would have chosen differently. But he could not call Tom’s actions wrong. Nor could he call them evil.

This was not the same as Voldemort’s indiscriminate slaughter. Dumbledore’s true concern had always been whether excessive killing would twist Tom’s soul and drag him down into becoming a dark wizard enslaved by his own magic.

Yet the boy was as lively as ever, unaffected.

That had reassured him.

...

When the students had eaten their fill and the last scraps vanished from the plates, Dumbledore rose again. This was tradition. At every start-of-term feast, he had announcements.

First came the newly added school rules and Filch’s updated list of banned items, most of which were new products from joke shops.

Then Dumbledore cleared his throat.

"I regret to inform you that there will be no Quidditch Cup this year."

"Wh-WHAT?!" Students from all four tables shot to their feet.

"You heard correctly," Dumbledore said pleasantly. "Over the coming months, we will have the great honor of hosting an extraordinary event. As we did earlier last year, we will welcome friends from around the world to Hogwarts, and together we shall strive toward a common goal."

"I am delighted to announce that the Triwizard Tournament will be held this year."

"You’re joking!" Fred shouted.

"I assure you, Mr. Weasley, I am not joking." Dumbledore beamed. "Though now that you mention it, I did hear an excellent joke over the summer about a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun who all go into a bar..."

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat sharply.

The hall fell into a collective, awkward silence.

Tom blinked. He had little interest in what Dumbledore was about to say next. But he would have liked to hear the rest of that joke. It sounded like it might have been... educational.

"For those unfamiliar with the Triwizard Tournament," Dumbledore continued smoothly, "allow me to explain. Founded roughly seven hundred years ago, it was a friendly competition between the three largest magical schools in Europe. Each school selected one champion to face a series of difficult and dangerous tasks, all in pursuit of glory."

"However, the challenges grew too perilous. The casualty rate became unacceptable, and the Tournament was discontinued over a century ago."

Students buzzed excitedly at their tables.

This reaction was not what Dumbledore had hoped for. He had emphasized the danger deliberately, intending to instill caution and gravity.

But he had overlooked something.

How many people could a competition possibly kill?

There was a certain someone present who had killed more in a single night than the Tournament had claimed in seven centuries. And had anyone flinched?

Some of the students even thought the former headmasters had overreacted.

Realizing the mood wasn’t quite what he’d intended, Dumbledore pressed on.

"With the passage of time, international exchange within the wizarding world has grown ever closer. The original scale of the Tournament no longer suits our era. This time, we will be joined by Durmstrang, Beauxbatons, Ilvermorny, Castelobruxo, Mahoutokoro, and Uagadou. Including Hogwarts, that makes seven schools participating in this grand event."

"Accordingly, the competition will be renamed. It shall henceforth be known as the International Wizarding Championship."

So basically a global wizarding school ranking tournament.

The thought surfaced in more than a few minds, followed immediately by excitement. They were familiar with the first few schools. Old rivals. Old friends. But Uagadou from Africa and Mahoutokoro from Japan were wrapped in mystery. Most of what anyone knew about them came from textbooks, and even that was vague.

"I heard Uagadou students don’t use wands at all. They’re all masters of wandless magic."

"Seriously? Then what’s the point of competing? Unless Riddle represents us."

"You’re exaggerating. That’s just their tradition. They use gestures and incantations instead of wands."

Hermione tried her best to provide accurate information to the Gryffindors around her, but her voice was quickly swallowed by the growing noise. And before long, the discussion derailed entirely.

"I heard their campus grows tons of coffee beans and cocoa."

"No, Uagadou is scary. If students mess up, they get sent to work in plantations. If they don’t behave, they get whipped."

"Come on, they’re supposed to be on the same side. Why are they tearing each other apart?"

"No wonder they don’t use wands. They wouldn’t survive if they depended on them."

"..."

At that point, even Dumbledore couldn’t rein in the chaos. Fortunately, he had already said everything that needed saying.

The feast ended in a lively buzz of conversation.

---

Back in the Slytherin common room, the younger snakes gradually calmed down and turned their attention to more pressing matters.

The new first-years needed to meet Tom and understand, very clearly, who truly ran this House. Next came the selection of prefects and the reselection of shadow prefects.

Over the past few years, students with ambition had come to realize just how important the shadow prefect selection matches were. It wasn’t only about authority for the coming year. It was a chance to demonstrate strength, to attract followers, to form circles of influence that would carry into life after graduation.

...

The competition outside was fierce. Tom, however, had already returned to his dormitory. His three roommates were still out. He had the room to himself.

He pulled out his codex.

『Tom Riddle』: Crouch. Working overtime?

On the other end, Crouch Sr had just finished a heated argument with his son, Barty Jr. Seeing Tom’s message, his eyelid twitched.

Whenever Tom reached out, trouble followed.

Still, he replied obediently.

『Crouch Sr』: Boss, I just wrapped up.

『Tom Riddle』: Excellent. You’re about to start again.

Crouch stared at the message in silence.

So that’s how it is. If I’m not dead, I might as well be worked to death.

Did Tom have any idea what the Ministry was dealing with right now? If he wanted to stir up something new, couldn’t he at least wait?

Another message popped up.

『Tom Riddle』: Are all the arrangements for the International Wizarding Championship finalized?

Crouch quickly sent over the relevant documents. The adult wizard ranking reforms had only recently been proposed and still required significant work, but the Championship had been decided months ago. Aside from minor details, most preparations were already in place.

A moment later, Tom replied.

『Tom Riddle』: Why is there a ball scheduled?

Crouch blinked, then hurriedly scanned the document until he found the line buried in the itinerary.

What was wrong with it?

Wasn’t that traditional for the Triwizard Tournament? The Yule Ball?

He typed carefully.

『Crouch Sr』: Boss, do you have any suggestions?

The response came instantly.

『Tom Riddle』: How can this be allowed? The champions are here to compete, not to indulge themselves. A decadent, bourgeois social dance has no place in a serious tournament schedule. Cancel it. Immediately.

Crouch felt his brain go numb.

Wait a second.

Aren’t we the bourgeois?

At Hogwarts, Tom closed the codex with a satisfied snap.

Sometimes the old ways are best. If you cannot solve the problem, remove its source. If you cannot repair the consequence, erase the cause.

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