As the ninth Champion appeared, the flames in the Goblet of Fire went out without a sound. It was as though they had taken every sound in the Great Hall with them.
The hall remained silent for a long time. Then an uproar broke out. No one could stay calm, not even the heads of the three schools.
Karkaroff's expression shifted from dark to darker, his brows knotted tightly enough to hold up a Troll. Madame Maxime looked utterly lost, unable to make sense of what was happening.
The professors were whispering among themselves. Professor Flitwick and Professor McGonagall were exchanging opinions, while Lupin kept an eye on Will and Harry.
Ludo Bagman and Barty Crouch stood on either side of Dumbledore, speaking to him in low voices.
This year's turn of events was simply too absurd.
"There's definitely something wrong!" Karkaroff was almost roaring. His goatee bobbed with each agitated breath, and his eyes looked ready to spit fire. "Nine Champions? This tournament has gone on for seven centuries, and there have never been nine Champions!"
"Seven centuries?" Madame Maxime gave a cold laugh. "Karkaroff, you speak as if you've lived through all seven yourself.
As far as I know, Durmstrang was founded only four hundred years ago."
"Is that the point?" Karkaroff turned toward her, his face flushing and paling by turns. "I'm saying the impor—"
"Now, now." Ludo Bagman squeezed between them, waving both hands. His usually cheerful face was full of anxiety. "Everyone calm down. Arguing won't solve anything."
He turned to Dumbledore with an appeal in his eyes. "Dumbledore, you're hosting this. Say something. What exactly is going on?"
The Great Hall gradually fell quiet, and every eye turned to Dumbledore.
The old headmaster stood before the professors' table, holding a stack of parchment slips—the