#triwizardtask

It was inevitable from the start.

Nikola knew he was going to enter his name, neatly scribed on a slip of thick parchment, into the stone goblet ever since the announcement was made. Perhaps the boy had even known before that. Back when his mother sent him away to scale mountains and fend for himself for days, despite only being a boy; when she educated him of the importance of status and glory, that he had to be something; when she offered no remorse for her own son, until he learned to do the same. There was an unquenchable thirst in needing to prove himself, not only to the world but most importantly, to his mother. It was a need to validate that he was more than a half-blood. He knew his lineage would force him to work twice as hard, to show that that was just as good as a pureblood, that he would meet his mother’s standards. The desire to be the best was strong. It masqueraded as acquiring stellar marks in school; it was the itch to not only win but conquer every single Quidditch game; it was Nikola’s sweat and blood and tears in keeping himself a nonpareil.

Such ambitions, however, could be written off as a student being overzealous in what they wanted to accomplish. It wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough, until now. The Triwizard Tournament was the boy’s call to arms. Winning wasn’t just a desire of his—it was a need. Anything less would be unacceptable. Anything less would warrant that cold, steely gaze of disappointment from his mother, and perhaps something further. A circumstance that Nikola feared more than anything else in the world.

“You’re a disgrace.”

The words would be cooly spoken. His mother’s eyes would bore into his for the last time; most likely he would be an ignominy afterwards, not worthy of a glance. Nikola would live up to his life’s capacity in that moment, useless being the gentlest descriptor. It was the self-fulfilling prophecy of being anything less than pureblooded.

Such a scene, even hypothetical, froze Nikola’s heart, turned his palms clammy with sweat. His usual sangfroid could be gobbled up in a matter of seconds, given the moment to dwell upon such thoughts. Losing was not an option. But before the boy could even lose, there was a matter of his name being picked in the first place. This goblet—the Goblet of Fire—would by some means be able to tell who was worthy of being a Triwizard Champion. Nikola wished it was a person rather than the ancient artifact deciding his fate. A human was so much more fickle, such an easy thing to manipulate. His being a Champion would have been guaranteed, given such kismet.

Nikola couldn’t tamper with such an old source of magic, however. The object, as the Durmstrang boy had seen during their first night at Hogwarts, was plain. More like an oversized clay cup than anything. And despite the Goblet being old magic, it’s first use had been in the last Triwizard Tournament, which was well known for ending in tragedy. The boy didn’t dare meddle with something he had so little information about.

Yet there he was, twisting the piece of parchment between his fingers as he walked to the room where the Goblet was kept. Nikola was nervous, not of the danger in what could lie ahead, but whether or not he would be selected. What was he to do otherwise? Watch one of his classmates compete, alongside these other wretched schools?