#task:

          The answer was that it was matchless when it catered to his own hedonism. Lucien had been one of the earliest to step up to the crackling flames; the sun was still inching over Hogwarts’ murky lake, and students had barely begun to trickle into the Great Hall for breakfast. He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pinched the wrinkled slip of parchment between his thumb and forefinger. Without a second of hesitation, he let it fall unceremoniously into the fire. Tendrils of blue-green flared out to seemingly embrace its latest entry before quickly retracting back behind the brim of the stone cup. He couldn’t help but smile. Would anyone back home believe that he actually did it? Did he even believe that he had just dropped his name into the Goblet of Fire? Hogwarts and the entirety of the Triwizard Tournament often felt like a dream he hadn’t yet awoken from — but similarly, being at Beauxbatons just last week was like a distant memory he couldn’t quite hold onto. He knew that with time he would get used to it all, but at the same time, he hoped he never would.

          The temporary return to Beauxbatons had been all but lost in the haze that was the first week back, doused in the rumors and loud exuberance that came with the sudden announcement of the Triwizard Tournament. An intricately carved glass podium had been placed by the mouth of the Beauxbatons dining chamber soon after the Headmistress gave her grand speech. A lengthy scroll was laid out on surface of the podium, its curled end dramatically splayed out onto the shimmering marble floor. For the first couple days, it was surprisingly barren with the exception of a few inky signatures. A sign-up sheet — solely for the carriage bound for Hogwarts. While plenty boasted that they were going to be in the running for fame and fortune, there was no way to know for sure beyond mere speculation.

          Lucien’s crowd didn’t care for it much. He had been so ecstatic that he could’ve leapt out of his skin, he was shaking so much with excitement when the Tournament was announced, but his friends, on the other hand — his partners in crime, his allies, his posse — if their sense of adventure had been piqued at all, they drowned any sign of it in frivolous shrugs and unconcerned laughter. They were typically a pack of charming jokesters, indulgent but fun-loving. Bon vivants. Lucien had been sure of it until now. Their reactions to the announcement had been ambivalent, ranging from halfhearted interest to downright revulsion toward the idea. He didn’t have a clue where their minds had flown off to. This had to be the opportunity of the century, or at the very least the opportunity of the current year.

          He had instantly gravitated toward the inevitable thrill of the Tournament. Of course the tasks would be dangerous; the gamble was where the fun would be found. “Come on, it doesn’t seem that bad,” he offered optimistically. Lucien theatrically pulled a self-inking quill out of his book bag and touched the tip to his tongue to get the ink running. His eyebrows bounced suggestively as skepticism painted itself across the faces of his audience. “Carpe diem et tout ça, non? A year away from Beauxbatons for ‘eternal glory’ or whatever? Why not?”

          “Luc.” A stocky boy across the table let out a hearty, genuine laugh. “You’re just fucking around, right?” he asked, a hint of bewilderment in his tone. “Who needs the Triwizard Tournament when you ‘ave Beauxbatons?” His mouth pulled into a teasing smirk. The comment was immediately received with a chorus of chuckles and howls in agreement.

          Lucien rolled blue eyes toward the lofty ceiling. They couldn’t possibly believe that Beauxbatons was truly the peak of living, could they? He himself had collected stories upon stories throughout the years; late nights and empty wine bottles out on the lawn, potions-gone-wrong and transfigured pets in unsuspicious dorms, blinking virgins and undone ties left in dimly lit classrooms. But Beauxbatons had its limits. There was repetition. There were “traditions” they had grown too fond of, ruts they had dug themselves into.

          “Plus ça change,” he replied casually. The Tournament would be a different kind of fix, an electric atmosphere that he so desperately needed.

          “What’s that supposed to mean?” The words were oddly stiff, though they tumbled out alongside a light, playful laugh.

          “I don’t know; maybe I’ll even enter my name.”

          “A vraiment?” came a quick reply.

          “Peut être,” Lucien said shortly, shrugging indifferently.

          But maybe not indifferent enough. He was prompty treated with blank faces, silverware skidding to a stop across all plates, and a chalice held still in the air. Their looks were scattered between mouths half-opened and well-intentioned smiles, as if they were all trying to decipher Lucien’s motives. An unspoken schism until —

          “You’re crazy, Luc,” subsequently followed by nervous laughter.

          Another pause.

          A flurry of conspicuous glances were tossed around the table, as if silently urging one another to be the next to speak up. Better crazy than boring, Lucien almost quipped, but he was too intrigued by this unexpected stalemate, knowing better than to spin it into a one-sided debate. He lazily stroked his chin with the feathered end of his quill. “And?” he simply prodded.

          Someone let out a light cough. “And didn’t somebody die last time?” they inquired hesitantly, concerned.

          “And spend a whole year at ‘ogwarts?” another chimed in, pointed nose wrinkled in disgust. “Not even if Merlin ‘imself begged me to.”

          “And how are you going to survive a Tournament if you can hardly survive Potions class?”

         “You can’t even produce a full Patronus yet!”

         “Your boggart is a bug, non? You’re scared of bugs and you want to face a — a dragon, possibly?”

          “And you aren’t very tall! From what I hear, zhose Durmstrang guys could beat you to a pulp.”

          “T’as pas de couilles,” a final voice defiantly stated.

          Lucien perked up, leaning in toward the table. A new surge of energy began to ripple through him. “Say that again?” he dared them, his gaze burning into theirs.

          Their smile was bright, but mocking. “T’as — pas — de couilles,” they enunciated slowly.

          You don’t have the balls.