The Killing Curse—one of the three Unforgivable Curses.
Its infamy far surpasses that of the Imperius and Cruciatus Curses. The distinctive flash of green light is a harbinger of death, an undeniable symbol of fear.
Certainly, many spells can kill—even simple household magic could be twisted to deadly use in the right circumstances.
But no spell carries the same undeniable finality as the Killing Curse.
Dumbledore stood motionless, seemingly deaf to Barty Crouch Sr.'s questioning. His sharp gaze was fixed solely on Harry, who was now being escorted away by Professors McGonagall and Snape. Only then did a hint of relief flicker across his features.
On the other side, Madame Maxime and Karkaroff wisely chose to remain silent. This was not their affair, and it was best not to meddle.
A long silence stretched between Dumbledore and Crouch before the former finally spoke.
"The Goblet's decision cannot be overturned. You know that well, Barty."
"Yes, I do." Crouch's reply was immediate, though he had felt the weight of Dumbledore's earlier silence pressing upon him.
"But I also know the public will demand an explanation. It may have been just a dragon, but too many people saw what happened."
His sharp gaze swept across the stadium. He had no way of knowing the exact number of spectators present, but by tomorrow—or perhaps even this very afternoon—the Daily Prophet would ensure the entire wizarding world knew every detail.
If the Ministry failed to respond appropriately, the ban on Unforgivable Curses might as well be written on parchment fit for kindling.
Dumbledore's voice was calm but firm, carrying an air of finality.
"Let the first task conclude. After that, I will accompany Harry to the Ministry. The Wizengamot will decide the matter."
Crouch studied him for a moment, then nodded slightly.
"Very well. That will be our course of action."
Whether this was a mere delay tactic or something else, he couldn't say. But since Dumbledore had spoken, he would extend the courtesy of compliance. Without further protest, Crouch returned to his seat, his expression unreadable as he resumed his role as judge.
With Harry escorted off the field, Dumbledore finally turned to address the crowd. His voice, amplified by a Sonorus charm, rolled over the stands.
"There has been an unexpected incident. One of our champions, facing mortal danger, resorted to drastic measures."
The clear and composed tone of his words had an immediate effect. The murmuring and whispers among the students began to settle.
"Rest assured, the matter will be handled appropriately. But the tournament must go on. Now, let us look forward to the performances of the graceful Miss Delacour and the formidable Mr. Krum!"
Words, in the magical world, carried power. Some became curses, others prophecies.
But for a man like Dumbledore, even the simplest of statements seemed imbued with magic.
In the stands, many of the boys couldn't help but picture Fleur's dazzling presence, while others recalled Krum's commanding performance in the Quidditch World Cup.
In an instant, fear and unrest had been replaced by eager anticipation.
Sensing the shift in mood, Ludo Bagman seized the opportunity to liven the atmosphere.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, let's welcome our next champion to the field!"
Inside the Tent.
Fleur Delacour took a deep breath as she stood up.
She wasn't entirely sure what had just happened outside, but Dumbledore's words had carried an ominous weight—unexpected incident, drastic measures, mortal danger…
Krum, having played professional Quidditch, remained unfazed. He had long accepted that injuries, and even death, were occupational hazards.
But Fleur… Fleur was, at her core, still just a talented and beautiful young woman. She had never been truly exposed to such mortal peril before.
Still, there was no turning back now.
Steeling herself, she pushed aside the tent flap and strode out.
Behind her, Ino stood as well, his gaze shifting toward Krum.
"I'll go see what happened. Good luck."
With those brief words, Ino turned and slipped out through the side exit.
Something about Dumbledore's explanation didn't sit right with him.
The story had already strayed far from its original course.
And Voldemort—was he still the mad tyrant of the late war? Or was he the calculating presence that had possessed Quirrell in Ino's first year?
A truly mad Dark Lord was, in some ways, less dangerous. But a rational one…
Ino's mind drifted to his brief encounters with Quirrell in the past.
Despite the lurking malice, that Voldemort had been patient, logical—even persuasive in conversation.
This situation is becoming far more complicated.
The Triwizard Tournament no longer held his interest. The so-called "binding contract" of the Goblet of Fire? Nothing that couldn't be unraveled with the right methods.
Lost in thought, Ino had already left the Quidditch Pitch, making his way toward the castle's second floor—toward the hospital wing.
---
Harry lay on the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, lost in confusion.
He had no clear recollection of what had happened.
There had been anger—a deep, searing fury. And then, somehow, that fury had found its target: the Hungarian Horntail.
Everything beyond that was a blur.
As he looked around, he saw Professor McGonagall standing nearby, her face drawn with worry and sadness.
In the corner of the room, Professor Snape stood, expression unreadable.
"There's no serious harm," Madam Pomfrey declared after a thorough examination. "Or at least, nothing obvious. But he needs rest. His body is showing signs of magical exhaustion. I'll prepare some restorative potions."
McGonagall let out a sigh of relief.
"Thank Merlin," she muttered before turning to Harry.
"You heard her, Harry. Rest. Don't think about anything else. Leave the rest to me."
Then she turned to Snape.
"Watch over him. I have my duties as Deputy Headmistress—I need to speak with the judges."
With that, she strode out of the infirmary, her posture tense with purpose.
Now, only Harry and Snape remained.
The silence between them was palpable.
Harry simply had no idea what to say.
Snape, on the other hand, had no interest in small talk. His mind was preoccupied.
That last Avada Kedavra—it had been executed cleanly, decisively, without hesitation or embellishment.
It had been cast with absolute confidence, as if the victim's fate had already been sealed.
There was only one other person Snape had ever seen wield the Killing Curse in such a manner.
Harry remained oblivious to Snape's thoughts.
Instead, his mind had drifted to his score.
What would the judges decide? Would he even receive points at all?
Time passed in silence.
And then—
Knock, knock.
A light rap on the door.
Standing at the entrance, Ino glanced inside, taking in the scene.
Satisfied, he stepped forward and entered.