Ace had been joking about putting his name in the Goblet of Fire. Honestly, he would have to be barking mad to willingly compete in some death tournament fighting dragons and who knows what else. Now he had to, literally, it was magically binding. So much for anyone below seventeen not being able to partake.

As if it wasn't bad enough, Ace had to deal with Riddle—Gryffindor's prefect—but also the damn teachers who were scratching their heads trying to figure out how he did it—and if not him, then who. Meanwhile, the other blockheads from Gryffindor were congratulating him, clapping him on the back like he won the Quidditch Cup, blockheads. Though Deuce seeming jealous of the opportunity made Ace feel better. If it was anything else, he'd be smug and rubbing it in the other's face. But temporary superiority wasn't worth his life.

But the worst of it all was that you were approaching, likely to mock him for his march to an early grave.

"Yeah yeah, laugh it off while I'm still kicking," Ace scoffed preemptively, voice dripping with sarcasm. How on earth was he supposed to out-wizard you now when he’d be dragon chow before the year was out?