#so....rip

The sluggish, buttery light of late afternoon shone gently upon the burnished bricks of roadside café. Despite its modest size, the establishment was crowded and lively; many of its customers were a fraction of those just released from a brutal, but routine day of work. The majority of such people would rather head to the bar around the corner, where they could drown their sorrows and exhaustion in beers or liquor, but perhaps those who decided to sit out in the embraceful rays of fading sunlight—with a pastry and coffee in hand—only desired a gentler touch. Amongst such a crowd, tucked away at a table encroaching on the territory of an adjacent tailor shop, sat a man and his daughter.

Aurélie watched as her father added a dash of cream to his steaming mug of coffee, the contents of the porcelain cup lightened from what had been a dark roast. Her own shortcake aux friases had gone mostly untouched, due to the skittish excitement that demanded her attention. Coming to this café was a tradition between Aurélie and her father, occurring every year during the first weekend of her return to Beauxbatons. She’d leave for a week and return that Saturday, fresh with tales to tell her father before departing, once more, for a majority of the year. This time, however, Aurélie had something much more extraordinary to say.

“Je veux mettre mon nom dans la Coupe de Feu.”

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It was a glorious feeling of elation bursting through her being; excitement jolted her previously slumped posture straight; goosebumps decorated her forearms as waves of shock rippled through her body, from the ends of her toes to the tip of her nose. It was a wonder in itself that Aurélie hadn’t imploded in her seat.

The announcement was simple in itself: the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic and the Durmstrang Institute would be travelling to Hogwarts for the revived Triwizards Tournament. Rules had been tweaked, protections grew tenfold, and there would be two champions. A roll of parchment, perhaps six feet long, tumbled over the magnificent podium at the head of the dining chamber, which shone, a marvel of crystal and stone. Those who would like to attend, please sign the parchment, stated the Headmistress. Fifty of you may attend; those who choose to do so must pack their things by the end of tomorrow night.

Aurélie had pounced at the opportunity, delightedly scribbling her signature onto the parchment. She received a few disapproving looks from her classmates and may have gotten an exasperated sigh from her Headmistress, who was all too familiar with the girl’s shenanigans. It was nowt to her, however. The chance at adventure was at hand, and that was all that mattered to the girl. Not only would she head to Hogwarts, a land of personally uncharted territory, but the prospect of entering her name into the Goblet of Fire—that was the true feat of the century. Just imagining the journey of fighting her way through three incredibly perilous tasks—in reality, it was a dream come true for Aurélie. The glorious peak of her search for the most dangerous of odyssies.

“Allez-vous vraiment à Hogwarts?” cried out one of her friends upon Aurélie returning to her seat, grinning ear to ear. “And I know you’re going to put your name in that wretched Goblet! Oh, Aurélie! It’s murder going there.”

“It’s true,” said another one of her classmates, her chin pointed outwards in a pompous manner. “I hear their tables and chairs are made out of cheap wood.” Aurélie snorted at such a statement, not newfounded by the attitude of much of Beauxbatons, but still ludicrous to her as the girl could’ve fit her entire house in a small fraction of the dining chamber. While some of the students muttered of the so-called ‘unfortunate’ circumstances that plagued Hogwarts, she could hardly give such comments the time of day, especially giving her upbringing.

“Who cares about winning that Tournament anyway? It’s only foolish entertainment for those heathens at Hogwarts and Durmstrang. We’ve already got glory, fame is destined along the way, and a thousand galleons is merely pocket chang—” Aurélie’s friend clamped a hand over their mouth in horror, words having worked faster than their conscience. They looked at her apologetically, but she was too abuzz with excitement to bother reacting.

“Au contraire, mes chers amis,” laughed the electrified girl, a shower of golden sparks flew out of the wand she was grasping; those sitting near her flinched away. “Ceci est l'occasion d'une vie!”

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Her father bowed his head for a few moments, staring into his cup of coffee. It was a rather dispiriting reaction to Aurélie’s proclamation, and the girl’s animated grin faltered. Just before, he had been as equally delighted as she’d been, eyes gleaming with amazement as Aurélie colorfully described the Triwizard Tournament, not bothering to obscure any gruesome details. Of course, it was not a surprise that she desired to be a part of such an occasion, but nonetheless, he probably hoped that she would decide against it.

“Aurélie, mon petit…” He raised his head, and the look in his eyes broke her heart. It wasn’t any regular despondent expression, no—it was a desperate stare, it pleaded with her. “I beg of you. Don’t do this.”

“Mais, papa—” Aurélie protested, her prior feeling of intense jubilation crushed by a wave of disappointment. Her father held up a hand and she fell silent. The bite of strawberry shortcake she’d taken tasted vile.

“Je ne peux pas risquer de te perdre.”

And that was the end of it. The man and his daughter finished their meal in reticence, lost in the clamor and liveliness of the crowded café.

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Yet Aurélie ended up where she had always planned to; standing before the stone Goblet. A small scrap of parchment, torn off the corner of her Defense Against the Dark Arts essay—the end of a lazily written sentence tattooed the back—had her loopy signature cramped on to it. She grasped it in her sweaty palm, wondering if the ink would smear in the heat of her hand. It was midday, therefore a small crowd of people had also accumulated in the Goblet’s room, testing their courage. Some glances were concealed, though poorly. Others offered outright stares. Either way, all eyes were on the French girl, in her delicate silk uniform, glaring determinedly at the Goblet. She wanted to. God, she wanted to slip her name into the Goblet, watch the beryl flames engulf the paper. She wanted the thrill of adventure; the rush of eternal glory; the cushy comfort of owning a thousand galleons. Aurélie wanted ever the Triwizard Tournament stood for.

Despite this, her hand froze upon reaching the Goblet’s brim. She could feel the rush of warmth licking her fingers, tendrils of fire curling in a tempting fashion. She was so close. An inch further, and she could be a possible champion.

Je ne peux pas risquer de te perdre.

Aurélie’s gaggle of observers watched curiously, waiting for the girl to decide her fate. A silence had fallen upon the room; it was nearly tangible. One of them fiercely elbowed their friend, who had opened their mouth to comment. Her hand wavered a moment longer, then fell. The girl spun on her heels and abruptly rushed out of the room, now buzzing with whispers.