The Headmaster’s office was filled with the quiet hum of silver instruments, but Minerva McGonagall scarcely heard them over Alastor Moody’s dissatisfied growling.
She sat in a hard, high-backed chair, lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze shifting from Dumbledore — who studied his steepled fingers with unruffled calm — to Moody, who paced the room, his wooden leg thudding dully against the parquet.
‘I don’t like it, Albus,’ Moody snarled, halting abruptly beside Fawkes’s perch. His magical eye whirled madly, scanning every corner as though expecting an attack from the bookcase. ‘Too many coincidences for one castle.’
‘Coincidences are frequent guests in our lives, Alastor,’ Dumbledore replied mildly.
‘Rubbish!’ the Auror barked. ‘First this boy, Morgan. Heir to a house that’s sat in its mountains for centuries, spitting on the Ministry from a great height. A family with a reputation blacker than a Dementor’s insides. And suddenly — he transfers to Hogwarts. And, miracle of miracles, attaches himself to Potter like a burr to a robe.’
‘The Morgans have never been our enemies,’ Dumbledore said calmly.
‘Nor our friends!’ Moody countered, jabbing a gnarled finger towards the Headmaster. ‘They keep to themselves. And now look: this… boy appears, worms his way into the confidence of the Boy Who Lived, and within a month the Goblet goes mad and spits out Potter’s name. You want to tell me those two facts aren’t connected? I can smell Dark magic a mile off, Albus. And this lad reeks of it.’
Minerva felt irritation boil inside her. She detested hearing her students discussed in such terms, yet Moody’s unease found an echo in her own heart.
‘Alastor,’ she interjected, her voice icy. ‘With all due respect to your suspicious nature… you forget we are speaking of a child. Mr Morgan behaves impeccably. His academic performance gives no cause for complaint.’
‘Exactly!’ Moody spun to face her. ‘He’s too quiet. Too watchful. He’s sniffing around for something, Minerva.’
Dumbledore sighed, adjusting his half-moon spectacles.
‘Eric Morgan wrote to me personally last summer,’ he said, and the fact made Moody fall silent. ‘He asked that Kieran be accepted. The boy had… difficulties in Japan. Tristan believed Gryffindor would provide the best environment. I had no reason to refuse an old acquaintance, especially since the boy is genuinely talented. I see no evil in him, Alastor. Only loneliness.’
‘Loneliness is the best soil for Darkness,’ Moody grumbled, though his fire had dimmed somewhat.
Minerva straightened sharply.
‘We are discussing influence on the champion,’ she said sternly, ‘yet we ignore the troll in the room. Potter should not be a champion at all! It is outrageous, Albus! He is fourteen. It is irresponsible to allow a boy into the Tournament, no matter who put his name in. And now you are hunting conspiracies among his classmates?’
‘We cannot undo the magical contract, Minerva, you know that,’ Dumbledore replied wearily. ‘Harry must compete.’
‘Must compete…’ she echoed bitterly. ‘We debate whether Mr Morgan is a bad influence while sending Potter to face dragons!’
A heavy silence fell. Moody resumed his pacing, leg thudding.
‘Very well,’ he muttered at last. ‘Contract is contract. But I’ll be watching that Morgan. And Potter. If this newcomer makes one wrong move with his wand towards Harry…’
‘I rely on your vigilance, Alastor,’ Dumbledore nodded. ‘Keep an eye on them. Both of them. If your suspicions prove justified — we shall take action. But for now… let the boys be boys.’
Moody gave a dissatisfied grunt, straightened his battered robes and limped towards the door without farewell.
‘Constant vigilance,’ he muttered under his breath, slamming the heavy oak panel behind him.
Once the Auror’s footsteps had faded down the spiral staircase, Minerva seemed to deflate in her chair. All her sternness evaporated, leaving only deep, maternal anxiety.
‘Albus,’ she said quietly, looking at the Headmaster over her spectacles. ‘Tell me honestly. Are we not playing with fire? Because of rules, because of politics, because of some damned contract… we are risking a child’s life. Harry is not ready. No Morgan, no Granger can protect him in that arena.’
Dumbledore rose and walked to the window, gazing out at the dark grounds where wind bent the tops of the Forbidden Forest.
‘I know, Minerva,’ his voice sounded hollow and old. ‘I know. But this world is cruel. Harry is growing up faster than we would wish.’
He turned to her, and the usual mischievous sparkle was absent from his eyes — only infinite weariness remained.
‘This child has survived what would have broken many adult wizards. There is a core in him we often underestimate. We shall watch over him, Minerva. As best we can. That is all we can do now.’
Minerva pressed her lips together, holding back the objections that clamoured to escape. She knew Albus was right in one respect: choice had been taken from them the moment the Goblet ejected a fourth name. But that knowledge did nothing to ease her heart.