Starting at Hogwarts, Logging into Elden Ring

Draco wasn’t lying.

Although his intention in preparing "support badges" for Harry was malicious from the start, the phrase "Potter Stinks" really wasn’t something he personally came up with.

Some time ago, Draco had conducted an anonymous survey around the school titled:

"What is your impression of Harry Potter?"

His plan was simple—pick the most vicious nickname from the responses and turn it into a badge.

And "Potter Stinks" was the final result of that survey.

The origin of the nickname?

A certain Mr. Ronald Weasley—yes, Ron himself.

At the time, Ron had just received the survey form. Still fuming over his fallout with Harry, he didn’t think much about it and angrily wrote that name down.

Harry, of course, knew nothing about this.

So when Draco said it wasn’t his idea, Harry was only half-convinced.

After all, Draco had tricked him more than once.

Harry still vividly remembered first year—when Draco had lured him out at night under the pretense of a wizard duel, only to run off and report him to Filch, nearly getting Harry caught for wandering the castle after curfew.

With that in mind, Harry tossed out a cold "How childish," then turned and left.

He had more important things to do.

’Moody’ had asked him to come to his office—to talk about the tournament.

Moody’s "Advice"

’Moody’ really had called Harry over because of the competition.

More precisely, he was worried that Harry was too young and too weak, so he intended to give Harry some helpful advice—to make sure Harry didn’t get eliminated in the very first task.

After all, Harry had to reach the final stage for the plan to work. Only then could he be delivered to his master.

Harry arrived at ’Moody’s office and immediately noticed something strange.

’Moody’ was sitting behind his desk, his wooden leg removed and placed casually on the tabletop.

Across from it sat a half-spherical mirror—a Sneakoscope, designed to detect suspicious activity and sound an alarm if anyone untrustworthy approached.

Just then, a large trunk in the corner rattled slightly.

Harry glanced at it, curiosity sparked.

’Moody’ noticed as well, then turned and saw Harry.

"Ah, Harry. You’re here. Sit down," ’Moody’ said.

"Professor... what’s in that trunk?" Harry asked.

"What’s in it isn’t important," ’Moody’ replied vaguely.

"Even if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me."

After all, he couldn’t exactly say that the real Alastor Moody was locked inside.

He smoothly changed the subject.

"Have you figured out how you’re going to deal with the dragon?"

Harry answered honestly, "Not yet. But I think with my ability, I can restrain it for a while."

He was thinking of the method he’d used during last year’s final exam—subduing Draco’s dragon with a combination of spells.

He figured he could just reuse that approach.

Harry didn’t realize how naïve he sounded.

He also didn’t stop to think about why ’Moody’ immediately asked him about dragons—or how ’Moody’ knew that Harry already knew the first task.

’Moody’ suddenly snapped:

"Where’s that confidence coming from? You think you’re good in a fight? What’s the point of that?!"

The barrage of questions left Harry stunned.

Before he could respond, ’Moody’ continued:

"The Triwizard Tournament is about strategy. Charging in headfirst will only turn you into dragon dung!"

Harry’s confidence crumbled instantly.

"Then... Professor, what do you think I should do?" he asked weakly.

"You need to play to your strengths."

"Like what?"

"Like flying. You’re excellent on a broom—first-rate."

"But brooms aren’t allowed in the task."

"True," ’Moody’ said calmly.

"But the rules don’t say you can’t use your wand. One simple Summoning Charm, and your broom will come flying right to you."

Harry fell silent, deep in thought.

Using a broom really was a good idea—it was what he was best at.

If there was an easier way to win, there was no reason not to take it.

The First Task Begins

Time flew by, and before anyone realized it, the day of the first Triwizard task arrived.

The arena was built in the mountains not far from Hogwarts—a massive structure resembling a coliseum, constructed by the professors.

Arthur had contributed to its construction as well.

Snape had dragged him into the project with the line:

"With great power comes great responsibility."

In other words—Snape conscripted him as free labor.

Arthur had been genuinely stunned when he heard that line.

Professor... are you sure you didn’t take that from the wrong script?

This is Harry Potter, not Spider-Man.

And besides, the first Spider-Man movie wouldn’t even come out until 2002.

Where on earth had Snape heard that?

The arena was now packed with spectators.

"Come on, everyone! Place your bets! Big fight coming up!"

Fred and George Weasley’s voices rang through the stands.

The twins truly had a gift for making money—they never missed an opportunity.

One carried a suitcase collecting coins, while the other held up a sign listing the odds.

They moved through the crowd before the match began, efficiently harvesting students’ pocket money.

Harvesting was the right word—they were confident they’d take most of it.

As bookmakers, their odds were anything but random.

They had already investigated all four champions:

From lowest odds to highest:

Hermione

Harry

Krum

Fleur

Publicly, the twins claimed they ranked Harry second because they were afraid of an upset.

In reality, they had inside information.

From Ron, they learned that Harry had already dealt with a dragon last year.

Ron had been present during Harry and Draco’s duel—

hanging upside down all night courtesy of Hermione’s Levicorpus.

After hearing that, the twins immediately lowered Harry’s odds.

As for Hermione, there was no debate.

Even if they’d never seen her fight, they knew one thing:

With Arthur’s alchemy skills, Hermione would never be unprepared.

For all they knew, Arthur might’ve even given her a tool capable of killing a dragon outright.

And they were right.

Hermione did have such items—she just didn’t need them.

Barty Crouch stood at the announcer’s platform, his voice amplified by magic.

"Please pay attention. Today marks a significant moment.

Each of the three tasks in the Triwizard Tournament carries extreme danger.

Remain seated at all times to reduce the risk of accidents."

The Champions’ Tent

Outside the arena, the four champions waited inside a simple tent.

Winter was approaching, and the cold was already biting.

The tent had no Extension Charms—no insulation at all.

The champions paced back and forth, partly to stay warm, partly to calm their nerves.

That is—except for Hermione.

Arthur had given her a thermal alchemical charm. She felt no cold at all.

And frankly, a single dragon wasn’t enough to make her nervous.

Harry, dressed lightly to keep his movements unrestricted, was shivering.

Suddenly—flash.

A camera went off right in front of him.

Harry looked up to see Rita Skeeter, accompanied by a Daily Prophet photographer.

"Perfect," Rita said smugly.

"The fourth champion trembling in fear before the match.

If you get injured later, that’s front-page material for sure."

Krum scowled.

"This tent is for champions and their companions. You don’t belong here."

Rita had fabricated stories about all of them after her last interview—

everyone except Hermione.

Naturally, none of the champions were pleased to see her.

Especially Harry.

If Krum’s tone was unfriendly, Harry’s presence was outright hostile.

Rita ignored Harry’s glare and turned to Krum.

"It doesn’t matter. I already got what I needed."

She would regret that decision almost immediately.

Behind her, Harry raised his wand.

"But I haven’t."

"Expelliarmus!"

"Silencio!"

"Petrificus Totalus!"

Three spells in rapid succession.

Rita Skeeter instantly became a silent, stiff-legged hopping statue—

unable to speak, unable to move properly, and very much humiliated.

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