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Harry escaped the Great Hall the moment breakfast ended, ignoring the whispers that followed him like a swarm of pixies. He needed space to think, somewhere away from the accusing stares and the weight of collective judgment.
The courtyard near the Transfiguration corridor was blessedly empty this time of morning, most students heading to their first lessons, the stone benches and old fountain offering a moment of solitude. Harry collapsed onto the nearest bench, dropping his bag beside him and letting his head fall back against the cold stone wall.
Think, he told himself. There has to be a way to figure this out.
Someone had entered his name. Someone powerful enough to fool the Goblet of Fire and Dumbledore's age line. Someone who wanted him in the tournament badly enough to risk exposure. The question was: why?
Moody's words echoed in his memory: Maybe someone's hoping Potter is going to die for it.
Harry was contemplating the cheerful prospect of someone actively trying to murder him...again...when a pair of identical voices shattered his concentration.
"Well, well, well."
"What have we here?"
Harry opened his eyes to find Fred and George Weasley standing before him, identical grins plastered across their faces. They looked like cats who'd cornered a particularly interesting mouse.
"Not now," Harry said tiredly. "Really not in the mood."
"Oh, but Harry," Fred said, plopping down on his left side.
"We've been looking everywhere for you," George added, claiming the right side and effectively trapping him.
"Can't imagine why," Harry muttered.
The twins exchanged one of their patented telepathic looks, then turned to him with expressions of exaggerated awe.
"So, Harry Potter," Fred began, his tone mock-reverent. "Master prankster. Keeper of secrets. Defeater of age lines."
"We're genuinely impressed," George continued. "How'd you do it?"
Harry didn't look up. "I didn't."
"Oh, come on—" Fred started.
"—we're not mad—" George added.
"—we're in awe, actually—"
"—getting past Dumbledore's age line? That's art. Pure art."
"I didn't do it," Harry repeated, his voice flat and exhausted.
Fred leaned closer, stage-whispering: "You can tell us. We're professionals. We appreciate fine prank work when we see it."
"The paper ball demonstration was brilliant," George said admiringly. "Classic misdirection. Make everyone think the simple methods don't work while you've already succeeded with something more sophisticated."
"I. Didn't. Do. It." Harry finally looked at them, meeting their eyes with all the frustration and anger he'd been holding back. "I didn't enter. I didn't cheat. I don't want to be in this bloody tournament."
The twins exchanged another look, but this one was different—longer, more serious. Their jovial masks slipped slightly, and for the first time since they'd arrived, they actually looked at him.
"You really didn't," Fred said slowly, all humor draining from his voice.
"No," Harry said quietly. "I really didn't."
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant sounds of students passing in the corridor beyond.
"We believe you," George said finally.
Harry's head snapped up. "You do?"
"We still remember what you did for our sister," Fred said, his expression unusually serious. "With the Chamber. The basilisk."
"You saved her life," George continued. "Went down into the bloody Chamber of Secrets alone to face a thousand-year-old monster. And then you didn't brag about it. Didn't tell anyone the full story. Didn't use it for attention."
"Someone who does that," Fred said, "doesn't need to cheat into a tournament for glory."
Harry felt something unknot in his chest. The twins' belief shouldn't matter this much. They were practically strangers, really—acquaintances at best, united only by their shared love of chaos. But it did matter. Their approval, their trust, somehow validated him in a way the Prophet article and the courtyard stares couldn't undermine.
"Thank you," Harry said quietly. "Really. That... means something."
George grimaced. "Problem is, most of Gryffindor doesn't see it that way."
"They think you've outdone yourself," Fred added. "The paper ball thing was genius misdirection. Everyone's convinced you're just refusing to admit it because you don't want to get expelled before you compete."
"Percy's particularly insufferable about it," George said with distaste. "Keeps going on about how you should 'admit your guilt and face the consequences with honor.' Git keeps using words like 'integrity' and 'responsibility.'"
"Sounds like Percy," Harry said with a bitter laugh. "Great. So I'm guilty until proven... what? It's impossible to prove I didn't do something."
"Basically, yeah," Fred confirmed.
"For what it's worth," George said, "we're on your side."
"And we'll spread the word," Fred added. "People listen to us. Eventually. Maybe. Possibly."
Despite everything, Harry found himself smiling. "Thanks. Really."
The twins stood in unison, stretching as if they'd accomplished their mission. But then Fred paused, exchanging one more look with his brother.
"One question though," Fred said casually.
Harry immediately became wary. "Yeah?"
"If you were going to cheat," George said, his tone purely hypothetical. "Hypothetically speaking, of course."
"How would you have done it?" Fred finished.
Harry stared at them. "You're asking me to explain how I would have cheated if I'd actually cheated, which I didn't?"
"Purely academic interest," George assured him.
"For future reference," Fred added with a grin. "You know. In case we ever need to enter a magically binding contract while underage."
Despite this whole stupid mess, Harry found himself actually considering the question. It was a puzzle, and Ravenclaw instincts died hard.
"I doubt I actually could fool the Goblet," he admitted slowly. "It's ancient magic, far more sophisticated than anything a student could manage. But if I had to try..." He paused, working through the logic. "My best bet would be to use a powerful enough Confundus Charm to make the Goblet temporarily forget what names it had already accepted and it's rules. Then, while it was confused, submit my name before it could reset its parameters. You'd have maybe a three-second window before the Goblet's defenses kicked back in, and still even if it would have worked, I would be considered as a student of Hogwarts by the Goblet, so that means, there would still be a chance someone else was simply chosen instead of me like Cedric or Angelina, whoever put my name there, made the Goblet think there is a fourth school, so I would be chosen no matter what."
The twins' eyes lit up like children on Christmas morning.
"That's brilliant," Fred breathed.
"Absolutely brilliant," George agreed.
"Why didn't you—" Fred began, then caught himself at Harry's pointed look. "Right. Because you didn't. Obviously. We knew that."
"Obviously," George echoed, not quite meeting Harry's eyes.
They left with identical pats on Harry's shoulder, their long strides carrying them back toward the castle proper. Harry watched them go, feeling marginally better than he had twenty minutes ago.
As they reached the courtyard entrance, their voices drifted back to him:
"He really didn't do it," Fred said, his voice thoughtful now rather than joking.
"Which means someone else did," George replied.
"That's worse, isn't it?"
"Yeah," George said quietly. "That's much worse."
Harry slumped back against the wall, their words echoing in his mind. They were right. If he hadn't entered himself—and he absolutely hadn't—then someone else had put his name in that Goblet. Someone who wanted him in the tournament. Someone who, according to Moody, might be hoping he'd die in the process.
The courtyard suddenly felt a lot less peaceful.
Sirius Black - Dawn, Grimmauld Place
The letter arrived with Hedwig just as the first gray light of dawn crept through the kitchen windows of Grimmauld Place. Sirius had been awake for hours—he rarely slept well these days, twelve years of Azkaban having permanently destroyed any ability to find true rest—and was nursing his third cup of coffee when the snowy owl tapped insistently at the window.
He recognized Harry's handwriting on the envelope immediately and felt his stomach drop.
Harry never sent urgent letters. The kid was independent to a fault, having learned early that asking for help often brought more trouble than it solved. If Harry was writing at dawn, something was very, very wrong.
Sirius tore open the envelope with shaking fingers and read.
By the second paragraph, his coffee cup had shattered on the floor, forgotten.
By the fourth, he was on his feet and moving toward the fireplace.
Someone entered Harry's name. The Goblet. Binding magical contract. Can't withdraw. Moody thinks someone's trying to kill him.
The words blurred together as Sirius's vision went red with rage. Not again. Not again. How many times could the universe target this boy? How many times could fate throw him into mortal danger before—
No. He wouldn't think like that. Wouldn't let fear paralyze him the way it had when Peter had betrayed James and Lily.
Sirius grabbed a handful of Floo powder, threw it into the fireplace, and stuck his head into the green flames.
"Andromeda Tonks!" he barked. "Andy, I need you. Now."
His cousin's face appeared in her own fireplace moments later.
"Sirius? What's happened?"
"Harry's in danger. Someone's entered him in the Triwizard Tournament. Magical binding contract—he can't withdraw. I need to get to Hogwarts now, and I need—" He took a breath, forcing himself to slow down. "I need family. People I can trust. Will you come?"
Andromeda didn't hesitate. "Give me ten minutes. Ted and Nymphadora are here—we'll all come."
"Thank you," Sirius said, his voice rough with emotion. "Andy, I—"
"Save it," she said firmly. "Family helps family. We'll be there."
Twenty minutes later, all four of them stepped through the Floo network directly into Dumbledore's office at Hogwarts—the Headmaster having granted emergency access the moment Sirius's Patronus had arrived with frantic explanation.
Sirius barely registered the familiar circular room, the sleeping portraits, the silver instruments. All he could think about was Harry. His godson. James and Lily's son. The boy he'd failed to protect again.
"Mr. Black," Dumbledore said gravely from behind his desk. "I've sent for Harry. He should arrive shortly."
Sirius nodded tersely and began pacing, unable to stand still. Behind him, he was vaguely aware of Ted Tonks greeting Dumbledore politely, of Andromeda's sharp eyes taking in every detail of the office, of young Nymphadora—Tonks, she insisted on being called—bouncing slightly on her heels in her official Auror robes, her hair bright purple today.
The door opened.
Harry Potter - Late Morning
Harry had been attempting to pay attention in Charms—Professor Flitwick was discussing the theoretical foundations of the Protean Charm, which would normally fascinate him—when a house-elf appeared with a polite pop beside his desk.
"Headmaster Dumbledore is requesting Master Harry Potter's presence in his office," the elf squeaked. "Right away, if Master Harry pleases."
Every head in the classroom turned toward him.
"Of course, Harry," Flitwick said kindly, his high voice sympathetic. "We'll catch you up on what you miss."
The walk to Dumbledore's office felt longer than usual, Harry's mind racing through possibilities. Had they found out who entered his name? Was he being expelled after all? Had something happened to—
The gargoyle statue leaped aside before he could give the password, revealing the spiral staircase already in motion. Harry stepped on and let it carry him upward, the familiar rotation doing nothing to calm his nerves.
He knocked twice on the heavy wooden door.
"Enter," came Dumbledore's voice.
Harry pushed open the door and froze.
Sirius stood in the center of the office, looking like he'd dressed in whatever he'd grabbed first—his robes slightly rumpled, his dark hair wilder than usual. But it was his expression that made Harry's chest tighten: he was very worried.
"Harry," Sirius breathed, crossing the distance between them in three long strides. His hands gripped Harry's shoulders. "Tell me everything. Don't leave anything out."
"I wrote it all in the letter," Harry said, but even as he spoke, he could see it wasn't enough. Sirius needed to hear it, needed the reassurance of Harry's voice confirming he was alive and whole.
Beyond Sirius, Harry registered the other occupants of the office. Dumbledore sat behind his desk. Andromeda Tonks, standing near Ted Tonks, offered Harry a small smile. And Nymphadora Tonks, her hair shocking purple today, stood in official Auror robes, Harry was sure he had wore those clothes very quickly.
Harry was not sure what to make of the Tonks yet; he had never really known them before the summer. After it was proven that Sirius was innocent, Harry started living with his godfather during the summer. Two weeks after the summer started, Sirius received an owl from Miss Andromeda Tonks, who wanted to meet with him and atone for thinking that he was the one who betrayed the Potters.
This led to Harry and Sirius having dinner with them in a restaurant where Harry met the Tonks for the first time, it was a long dinner, and Harry had spend most of the time speaking with Nymphadora who he quickly learned was an Auror and preferred the name Tonks instead. After this dinner, Harry and Sirius met with them a few more times during the summer, developing a friendship.
"From the beginning," Sirius said, guiding Harry toward a chair but remaining standing himself, too agitated to sit. "What happened?"
So Harry told them. He recounted the moment his name emerged from the Goblet, the shock that had rippled through the Great Hall, the immediate accusations. He described the confrontation with the other champions, Fleur's contempt, Karkaroff's fury, Madame Maxime's disbelief.
Sirius's expression grew darker with each sentence, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
When Harry reached Crouch's pronouncement about the binding magical contract—compete or lose his magic permanently—Andromeda made a sharp sound of outrage.
"That's barbaric," she said, her cultured voice sharp with anger. "To force a child into mortal danger under threat of becoming a Squib? The contract's original purpose was to ensure champions completed what they willingly entered, not to trap unwilling participants."
"The magic makes no distinction," Dumbledore said quietly. "Once the Goblet accepts a name, the contract is absolute."
"Convenient," Tonks muttered. "This smells like a setup, Professor. Someone's playing a long game here."
"The question," Ted said in his calm way, "is whether they're after Harry specifically, or if they just needed any Hogwarts student and Harry was simply accessible."
"It's Harry specifically," Sirius said flatly, his voice hard as steel. "It's always Harry specifically. Because he's James's son, or because he's the Boy Who Lived, or because some dark wizard with a vendetta—" He cut himself off, breathing hard.
Andromeda moved to her cousin's side, placing a hand on his arm. "Sirius. Focus. Emotion won't help Harry now."
Sirius closed his eyes briefly, visibly struggling for control. When he opened them again, some of the wildness had faded, replaced by cold determination. "Right. You're right." He turned to Dumbledore. "What are we doing about this?"
"I believe Harry," Dumbledore said, his blue eyes meeting Harry's directly. "However, belief is not protection. The magical contract is binding—Harry must compete in the Tournament. There is no legal recourse, no loophole that would allow him to withdraw."
"So he's trapped," Sirius said bitterly.
"He is bound," Dumbledore corrected gently. "But he is not alone. The Ministry is investigating—Barty Crouch and Ludo Bagman are both looking into how this could have occurred, though I suspect their efforts will be... bureaucratic."
"Useless, you mean," Tonks said bluntly.
Dumbledore's lips twitched. "I did not say so, Miss Tonks."
"Professor Moody is conducting his own investigation," Dumbledore continued. "His paranoia, while occasionally excessive, may prove useful in this instance. He sees conspiracies in the morning post, so he'll certainly see one here."
"The real danger," Andromeda said, her sharp mind cutting to the heart of it, "is during the tasks themselves. Harry will be isolated, vulnerable, with hundreds of eyes watching but unable to help. If someone wants him dead, those tasks provide perfect cover."
"The first task is November twenty-fourth," Dumbledore said. "Three weeks from now. We have that long to investigate, to prepare, and to ensure Harry has every advantage we can provide."
"I'm staying," Sirius said immediately, his tone brooking no argument. "At Hogwarts. I'm not leaving Harry here alone."
"I anticipated as much," Dumbledore replied, and Harry could have sworn he saw approval in the Headmaster's eyes. "I've already arranged guest quarters for you. Officially, you're visiting your godson during a difficult time. Unofficially—"
"I'm making sure no one gets close enough to hurt him," Sirius finished grimly.
"We can't stay permanently," Andromeda said, her tone regretful. "Ted and I have our work, and Dora has her Auror duties. But we'll visit regularly. And I have... connections in the Ministry. I can make discreet inquiries, see if anyone's heard whispers about who might have the power and motive to do this."
"I can coordinate with the Aurors assigned to Hogsmeade," Tonks added. "Keep my ears open. Maybe someone's been asking suspicious questions, buying unusual supplies. Dark magic leaves traces."
"And I," Ted said with a self-deprecating smile, "can provide moral support and make sure Sirius doesn't murder anyone important."
Dumbledore nodded gravely. "Then we have a plan. Harry will compete—he has no choice—but he will do so with the full support of his family and the staff of Hogwarts. I will assign additional protective measures around the school, and we will discover who did this and why."
The formal discussion seemed to conclude, and Sirius immediately pulled Harry aside, his hands still gripping his godson's shoulders as if afraid he might disappear.
"How are you really?" Sirius asked quietly, his gray eyes searching Harry's face. "Not the public version. The truth."
Harry felt his carefully maintained composure crack slightly. "Everyone thinks I'm lying," he admitted, his voice rough. "Even my own house. They look at me like I've betrayed them, like I'm some glory-seeking liar who'd risk becoming a Squib just for attention."
Sirius's expression darkened. "Your dad went through something similar in fifth year. Snape accused him of using dark magic to win a dueling competition. People believed it because James was flashy, confident, always at the center of things. The accusation ate at him for months."
"How did he deal with it?" Harry asked.
"Proved them wrong," Sirius said simply. "Not with words—with actions. He competed in the next tournament, won fairly and obviously, and made everyone who'd doubted him feel like idiots." Sirius squeezed Harry's shoulders. "You'll do the same. You're James's son—you've got his talent and your mother's brilliance. You'll survive this tournament, win or lose, and everyone will see the truth."
"And if they don't?" Harry asked quietly.
"Then fuck 'em," Sirius said bluntly, earning a scandalized look from Andromeda across the room. "Sorry, Andy. But seriously, Harry—people who won't believe you when you tell the truth aren't worth your time. Focus on the ones who matter. Like—" He paused, a strange expression crossing his face. "Like family."
Harry narrowed his eyes, recognizing deflection when he saw it. "Speaking of which, how's your mystery romance going?"
Sirius's cheeks actually colored slightly. "That's—we're not discussing my personal life right now. We're discussing your imminent mortal peril. Priorities, Harry."
Before Harry could press, Andromeda joined them.
"Harry," she said, her voice warm, "you have family now. Not just Sirius. All of us. The Tonks family doesn't abandon our own, and you are very much our own."
Harry felt something hot and tight in his throat. He swallowed it down and managed a small smile. "Thank you. That—that means a lot."
"Plus," came Tonks's cheerful voice as she bounded over, her purple hair bouncing, "you've got an Auror in the family now. That's got to count for something, right, kiddo?"
"Definitely," Harry agreed, finding her energy oddly comforting.
From his desk, Dumbledore cleared his throat. "If I might interrupt this family moment—which I am genuinely pleased to witness—there is one other matter we must address."
They turned to face him.
"The Duelling Race," Dumbledore said. "It remains optional, of course. But I know you were quite looking forward to entering before... recent complications."
Harry felt a pang of regret. He had been looking forward to it. The Duelling Race was open to anyone third year or above—a chance to compete on his own terms, using skills he'd actually worked for rather than being thrust into something he'd never asked for.
"The first rounds will be held on the third of November," Dumbledore continued. "You still have time to submit your name to Professor Flitwick if you wish to participate."
"Absolutely not," Sirius said immediately, his tone brooking no argument. "Harry's got enough on his plate without adding a duelling competition."
Andromeda nodded in agreement. "Sirius is right. The Tournament must be your priority, Harry. You need to focus all your energy on preparing for tasks that could kill you, not dividing your attention with optional competitions."
"Plus," Sirius added, "people might see it as further proof you're guilty. That you're deliberately taking on more responsibilities, seeking more glory, more attention. It would just make things worse."
Ted and Tonks exchanged glances but said nothing, apparently content to let the others make their arguments.
Harry stood very still, his jaw tightening as he processed their words. They meant well—he knew that. They were trying to protect him, to reduce the burden on his shoulders. But something in him rebelled at the idea of letting the Tournament dictate every aspect of his life, of giving up something he'd actually chosen because someone else had forced him into something he hadn't.
"No," Harry said quietly.
"Harry—" Sirius began.
"No," Harry repeated, louder this time, meeting his godfather's eyes. "I'm entering the Duelling Race."
"Harry, be reasonable," Andromeda said. "You have limited time and energy. The Tournament—"
"The Tournament was forced on me," Harry interrupted. "I didn't choose it. I didn't want it. Someone else put my name in that Goblet and bound me to compete against my will. But the Duelling Race?" He straightened his shoulders. "The Duelling Race is my choice. I'm the one putting my name in. I'm the one deciding to compete. Not someone else. Me."
"Harry," Sirius said, his expression torn between pride and worry, "I understand what you're saying, but—"
"You told me Dad proved himself through actions," Harry said, turning to face his godfather fully. "That he competed and won and made everyone see the truth. How am I supposed to do that if I let the Tournament control everything? If I give up things I want because of what someone else forced on me?"
Sirius opened his mouth, closed it, and looked helplessly at Andromeda.
"People will see it as arrogance," Andromeda said, trying a different approach. "As further proof that you're seeking glory, that you can't help but throw yourself into the spotlight."
"Then let them," Harry said flatly. "They already think I'm guilty. They already think I cheated. What's one more competition going to change? At least in the Duelling Race, I'll be there because I chose to be. That matters to me, even if it doesn't matter to anyone else."
"Harry—" Sirius tried again.
"I'm entering," Harry said firmly, his green eyes flashing with the same stubbornness that had defined both his parents. "This is my decision. I'm making it. And I'm not going to let whoever put my name in that Goblet take away the things I actually want to do."
Sirius looked like he wanted to argue further, but couldn't quite find the words. Andromeda looked like she disapproved of everything Harry just said, but she did not say anything; she did not know Harry as well as Sirius.
"The boy's got a point."
All eyes turned to Ted Tonks.
"What?" Ted said mildly. "He does. Someone's trying to control his life, manipulate him into a dangerous situation. Letting them dictate what else he can and can't do—that's just giving them more power. At least this way, Harry's taking back some control."
"It's tactically sound too," Tonks added thoughtfully. "If Harry backs down, hides, avoids anything that might make him more visible—that looks guilty. But if he carries on, competes in something everyone knows about, acts like someone with nothing to hide? That's a statement."
Sirius looked between his cousin and Ted, his expression anguished. "But what if something happens during the competition? What if whoever entered him is watching, waiting for another opportunity?"
"Then they'll have to do it in front of hundreds of witnesses in a controlled environment," Tonks countered. "Honestly, Uncle Sirius, the Duelling Race might be one of the safer places for Harry right now. Rules, judges, medical staff on standby. Bit different from wandering around the castle alone."
"I still don't think you should do this, Harry, but this is...this is your choice," Andromeda said a little reluctantly.
Sirius turned back to Harry, studying his godson's face. Whatever he saw there...the determination, the need for this small piece of autonomy...seemed to convince him. His shoulders sagged slightly in defeat.
"You're so much like your mother when you've made up your mind," Sirius said quietly. "Stubborn as a hippogriff and twice as dangerous when someone tries to tell you what to do."
"Is that a yes?" Harry asked.
Sirius sighed heavily. "It's a 'I'm not going to stop you, but I'm going to worry about it constantly.'"
"I can live with that," Harry said with a victory smile.
From behind his desk, Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with what might have been approval. "Then I shall inform Professor Flitwick to expect your entry, Harry. I believe he'll be quite pleased—you are his star student, after all."
"Thank you, sir," Harry said.
"However," Dumbledore added, his tone becoming more serious, "I must echo the concerns expressed here. You will be under scrutiny, Harry. Every action, every choice, will be examined and interpreted through the lens of suspicion. The Duelling Race will be no exception."
"I know," Harry said simply. "But at least it'll be my choice to be there."
Dumbledore nodded slowly. "As you say. Your autonomy, your agency—these are not small things. Sometimes the greatest act of defiance is simply choosing one's own path, regardless of what others think we should do."
"Exactly," Harry said, feeling validated.
"Though I do hope," Dumbledore continued, the twinkle returning, "that you'll prepare adequately for both competitions. It would be rather unfortunate if your desire for autonomy resulted in you being spectacularly defeated in a public forum."
Despite everything, Harry found himself smiling. "I'll do my best not to embarrass Ravenclaw, sir."
"See that you don't," Dumbledore replied. "Professor Flitwick would never forgive me if his favorite student failed to represent the house well."
As the meeting finally drew to a close and they prepared to leave Dumbledore's office, Sirius pulled Harry aside one more time.
"You're sure about this?" he asked quietly.
"I'm sure," Harry confirmed. "I need this, Sirius. I need something that's mine."
Sirius studied him for a long moment, then pulled him into a fierce hug. "Then go win both the bloody competitions," he said roughly. "Show them all what a Potter can do when he's actually trying."
Harry hugged him back.
"I'll try," Harry promised.
"You'll do more than try," Sirius said, pulling back and gripping his shoulders again. "You'll succeed. Because that's what we do. We survive, and we win, and we make everyone who doubted us eat their words."
Harry grinned. "Now that sounds like a plan I can get behind."
Fleur Delacour
"—and did you see ze way 'e looked at me during Charms yesterday?" Amélie was saying, her dark curls bouncing as she leaned forward conspiratorially. "I think Cedric Diggory might actually be interested—"
"'E is ze Hogwarts champion," Marie interrupted, rolling her eyes. "Of course 'e looked at you. 'E was probably just being polite. Ze English are very concerned with politeness."
"Unlike ze Americans," Sophie added with a giggle. "Remember when we visited Salem? Zey were so... forward."
"At least zey were honest," Margaret said, buttering her toast. "Better zan ze English boys who stare but never speak."
Fleur tuned out the boy talk, finding it tedious. Her classmates could waste their time mooning over Hogwarts students if they wished. She had more important things to focus on.
"Fleur," came Claudette's voice from across the table, drawing her attention. The seventh-year prefect was smiling warmly. "We 'ave not properly congratulated you yet. A champion! Beauxbatons' pride!"
Several others murmured agreement, raising their teacups in a small salute.
"Merci," Fleur said graciously, inclining her head. "I will do my best to represent our school with 'onor."
"You will do more zan zat," Jean-Philippe said confidently. "You will win. Everyone knows you are ze most talented witch Beauxbatons 'as produced in decades."
"Though ze competition might be more difficult zan expected," Laurent added, his tone turning sour. "Now zat zere are four champions instead of three."
The mood at the table immediately shifted. Several students exchanged dark looks.
"Potter," Sophie said, sounding deeply disappointed. "I cannot believe 'e actually cheated. 'E seemed so... nice during ze tour."
"Nice?" Fleur's voice was cool. "Of course 'e seemed nice, Sophie. Zat is 'ow con artists work. Zey charm you, make you trust zem, and zen zey reveal zeir true nature."
"But 'e 'elped me with my bag," Sophie protested weakly. "When ze clasp broke, 'e fixed it so gently—"
"A simple repair charm," Fleur interrupted dismissively. "Anyone can cast a repair charm. It does not make 'im trustworthy."
Margaret frowned thoughtfully. "I 'ave been asking around about 'im. Ze Hogwarts students—well, some of zem—zey say 'e is actually very talented. One of ze best students in 'is year, despite being only fourteen."
"Only fourth year," Amélie added. "And already 'is professors speak 'ighly of 'im. Apparently Professor Flitwick—ze tiny one with ze squeaky voice—'e thinks Potter is some kind of prodigy in Charms."
"And Transfiguration," Laurent admitted grudgingly. "I 'eard some Ravenclaw students talking. Zey said 'e was already working on sixth-year material."
Fleur set down her teacup. "I never called 'im talentless," she said, her voice carrying clearly. "After all, to fool ze Goblet of Fire—an ancient magical artifact protected by Dumbledore 'imself—one would 'ave to be very capable with magic."
She leaned back slightly. "But being talented and being 'onorable are not ze same thing. 'E is clearly gifted. 'E is also clearly an attention-seeking English dog who cannot stand to let anyone else 'ave ze spotlight."
"Fleur—" Sophie began.
"No, let me finish," Fleur continued, her accent thickening with conviction. "'E spent two days showing us Hogwarts, yes? Making jokes, demonstrating 'is cleverness, ensuring everyone was watching 'im. And zen, ze very next day, ze paper ball spectacle. More attention. More students focused on 'im. And now—" she gestured elegantly, "—now 'e is a Triwizard champion. Ze youngest in 'istory. Ze most talked-about person in ze entire castle."
"You think 'e planned all of it?" Jean-Philippe asked, his eyes widening.
"I think," Fleur said carefully, "zat Harry Potter understimated how dangerous this Tournament is, we did not know that if you lose a single trial in this Tournament, you lose your magic, none of us did, we were told after we were already chosen as champions, so it's possible that he would have not entered if he had known that becoming a champion means risking his magic, but still, he should have not have cheated, even if the Tournament was not risky just for some extra glory."
"But what if 'e is telling ze truth?" Margaret asked quietly. "What if someone else entered 'is name?"
Fleur's eyes flashed. "Zen 'e would be fighting to get out of ze Tournament, not calmly accepting it. 'E would be demanding Dumbledore find a way to break ze contract, not sitting in ze Great Hall looking martyred while everyone whispers about 'im."
"'E did look rather upset yesterday," Claudette observed neutrally.
"Of course 'e looked upset," Fleur replied. "Because people are questioning 'im. Because 'is grand plan is not working as 'e expected. 'E wanted admiration, but instead 'e is getting suspicion. Zat is what 'urts 'is pride—not ze danger, not ze competition, but ze fact zat people see through 'im."
Sophie still looked uncertain. "I just... I liked 'im. During ze tour. 'E was funny and clever and—"
"And you were charmed by 'is performance," Fleur said more gently, recognizing that Sophie's feelings were genuine even if misplaced. "It is not your fault, ma chérie. 'E is good at what 'e does. But charm is not ze same as character."
"What will you do when you face 'im in ze Tournament?" Laurent asked, his tone eager. "Will you show 'im what real talent looks like?"
Fleur's lips curved into a smile that held no warmth. "I am ze best duellist Beauxbatons 'as ever produced. I 'ave trained since I was seven years old. My mother taught me ze ancient techniques of ze Delacour family, and my father ensured I 'ad access to ze finest instructors in France."
She picked up her teacup again, sipping delicately before continuing. "'Arry Potter may be talented for a fourteen-year-old English boy. But I am extraordinary by any standard. When ze first task arrives, 'e will realize 'e 'as bitten off far more zan 'e can chew. And I will be zere to show 'im—and everyone watching—exactly 'ow wide ze gap is between us."
"You sound very confident," Amélie said admiringly.
"I am not confident," Fleur corrected. "I am certain. Zere is a difference."
Jean-Philippe raised his goblet. "To Fleur, our champion, who will put ze arrogant English boy in 'is place."
Several others raised their cups in agreement, toasting her success. Fleur accepted the gesture with regal composure, though inside she felt a flicker of something she didn't want to examine too closely.
It wasn't doubt—she refused to call it doubt. Potter was talented, yes, but he was also fourteen and reckless and clearly convinced of his own brilliance. The fact that he'd entered the Tournament at all proved he had more arrogance than sense.
And yet...
She remembered the way he'd cast that library spell, showing the magical memory of every reader who'd touched the books. The complexity of the charm had been impressive, even if she'd dismissed it at the time. And the way he'd disarmed the chair charm this morning at breakfast—she'd been watching from the Beauxbatons section of the Ravenclaw table, and his reflexes had been nearly instantaneous. Most students wouldn't have noticed the charm until it was too late.
Fleur pushed the thoughts away. It didn't matter how talented Potter was. He was still a cheater, still an attention-seeker, and still standing between her and the glory that should have been hers alone.
"'E will regret cheating 'is way into zis Tournament," Fleur said quietly, more to herself than to her classmates. "When ze tasks begin and ze real danger starts, 'e will realize zat attention is not worth dying for."
"Do you think 'e might actually die?" Sophie asked, her voice small.
Fleur looked at her, considering. "Ze Tournament 'as killed champions before. If Potter is not as talented as 'e thinks 'e is... zen yes. 'E might die."
Fleur felt something uncomfortable twist in her chest at the thought. She knew Potter was a cheater, and he would lose for being cocky and unprepared, but dying? Fleur did not want him to die. He did not deserve that fate.
"But does it really matter?" Amélie asked suddenlyl. "I mean, if 'e did cheat—if 'e really did find a way past ze age line—doesn't zat show 'e deserves to compete? Zat 'e is clever enough to belong 'ere?"
Several heads turned toward her in surprise.
"No."
"But—"
"No," Fleur repeated, her voice sharp as cut glass. "Cheating is just a shortcut, Amélie. A way to avoid ze work, ze effort, ze earning of success. One must never cheat to reach ze top. One must always earn things fairly, through talent and dedication and 'ard work. Zat is what separates those who truly deserve zeir achievements from those who simply... take what zey want through deception."
Her accent had thickened, the way it always did when she felt strongly about something. Her hands, resting on the table, had curled into loose fists.
"If Potter cheated 'is way into zis Tournament," Fleur continued, her blue eyes blazing, "zen 'e 'as disrespected every person who followed ze rules. 'E 'as made a mockery of fairness itself. And 'e deserves to lose—not to die, but to be shown zat shortcuts do not lead to victory. Only 'onest effort does."
Amélie looked taken aback by the intensity of Fleur's response. "I... I did not mean to upset you, Fleur."
Fleur took a breath, forcing herself to relax her hands, to smooth her expression back into calm composure. "You did not upset me. I simply believe in ze importance of earning one's place. Anything else is... unacceptable."
The table fell silent, and many of the girls glanced at one another, not sure what to say.
"But zat is 'is choice," Fleur continued, her voice hardening again as she pushed away the uncomfortable feeling in her chest. "'E chose to enter. 'E chose to risk 'is life for glory. Whatever 'appens in ze tasks, 'e brought it upon 'imself."
She stood gracefully, breakfast finished. "If you will excuse me, I 'ave preparation to do. Ze Tournament waits for no one, and I will not be unprepared."
As she walked away from the table, Fleur heard Sophie whisper to Margaret, "She really 'ates 'im, doesn't she?"
Margaret's response was thoughtful. "I think she is more worried zan she admits. Potter is clearly talented, even if 'e is a cheat. And if 'e actually proves to be competition..."
Fleur kept walking, refusing to acknowledge that she'd heard. Margaret was wrong. She wasn't worried. She was simply... prepared for all possibilities.
That was what champions did. They prepared. They planned. They won.
And they never, ever took shortcuts.
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