#triwizardstask1

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.”

                                                                                ♦

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!”

                                                                               ♦

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.

                                                                              ♦

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.

          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.

He is allowed to stay awake, (mostly) alone in the hallways, while everybody else is fast asleep. The castle speaks to him in looming whispers as his gentle yet firm footsteps resonate off the stone-cold walls, wand held in a loose grasp in his right hand. He relishes solitude, oh, he delights in it—for in the dark, there is no need to hold back. There is no need to bury his piercing, apathetic gaze under amiable smirks. His casual friendliness serves as an armour, shrouded in easygoing smiles and flirty glances, and clad in it he comes off as good-humored, easy to talk to, teasingly hilarious—which is exactly what he wants to be seen as. The façade is awfully easy to keep up; he is a snake, after all. It comes to him so naturally that he wouldn’t know how to act without it.

The Great Hall is empty. Devoid of laughter and warm candlelights, nothing but a sense of eerie tranquility surrounds it. The soft crackling from the Goblet of Fire is the only sound that cleaves the dark silence.

Hands stuck inside the pockets of his trousers, Tarian dares to take a step closer.

The Goblet is infamous, of course. He has watched a countless number of his peers walk up to it, each clutching a piece of parchment. He has watched a myriad of different emotions flicker across their faces—fear, anticipation, hesitance, glee, pride—, and up close, he thinks he understands why. As his eyes follow each lick of the flames, their dancing tongues reflecting off his blue-green orbs, a strange mixture of reverence, awe, and apprehension flares up inside him.

The promise of fame and one thousand galleons—the temptation is strong in its allure, he has to admit. Yet the Slytherin doesn’t move in his stance, head cocked to one side, an unreadable expression descending upon his features.

He doesn’t put his name in. He doesn’t need the affirmation. Eternal glory offered by the Tournament is not what he seeks. Tarian is confident in his own self; his worth will never be determined by outside persuasion. He is—

                    — He simply is. He is here. He is in the present tense. He is a bridge, not an end, creating his own values and beliefs; he is the one who wills his own will.

It was inevitable from the start.

Nikola knew he was going to enter his name, neatly scribed on a slip of thick parchment, into the stone goblet ever since the announcement was made. Perhaps the boy had even known before that. Back when his mother sent him away to scale mountains and fend for himself for days, despite only being a boy; when she educated him of the importance of status and glory, that he had to be something; when she offered no remorse for her own son, until he learned to do the same. There was an unquenchable thirst in needing to prove himself, not only to the world but most importantly, to his mother. It was a need to validate that he was more than a half-blood. He knew his lineage would force him to work twice as hard, to show that that was just as good as a pureblood, that he would meet his mother’s standards. The desire to be the best was strong. It masqueraded as acquiring stellar marks in school; it was the itch to not only win but conquer every single Quidditch game; it was Nikola’s sweat and blood and tears in keeping himself a nonpareil.

Such ambitions, however, could be written off as a student being overzealous in what they wanted to accomplish. It wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough, until now. The Triwizard Tournament was the boy’s call to arms. Winning wasn’t just a desire of his—it was a need. Anything less would be unacceptable. Anything less would warrant that cold, steely gaze of disappointment from his mother, and perhaps something further. A circumstance that Nikola feared more than anything else in the world.

“You’re a disgrace.”

The words would be cooly spoken. His mother’s eyes would bore into his for the last time; most likely he would be an ignominy afterwards, not worthy of a glance. Nikola would live up to his life’s capacity in that moment, useless being the gentlest descriptor. It was the self-fulfilling prophecy of being anything less than pureblooded.

Such a scene, even hypothetical, froze Nikola’s heart, turned his palms clammy with sweat. His usual sangfroid could be gobbled up in a matter of seconds, given the moment to dwell upon such thoughts. Losing was not an option. But before the boy could even lose, there was a matter of his name being picked in the first place. This goblet—the Goblet of Fire—would by some means be able to tell who was worthy of being a Triwizard Champion. Nikola wished it was a person rather than the ancient artifact deciding his fate. A human was so much more fickle, such an easy thing to manipulate. His being a Champion would have been guaranteed, given such kismet.

Nikola couldn’t tamper with such an old source of magic, however. The object, as the Durmstrang boy had seen during their first night at Hogwarts, was plain. More like an oversized clay cup than anything. And despite the Goblet being old magic, it’s first use had been in the last Triwizard Tournament, which was well known for ending in tragedy. The boy didn’t dare meddle with something he had so little information about.

Yet there he was, twisting the piece of parchment between his fingers as he walked to the room where the Goblet was kept. Nikola was nervous, not of the danger in what could lie ahead, but whether or not he would be selected. What was he to do otherwise? Watch one of his classmates compete, alongside these other wretched schools?

The tournament itself doesn’t scare her in the slightest. It isn’t a lack of bravery or any insecurity on her part that fuels her decision to abstain. The point is that she doesn’t want it. This search for vain glory makes no sense to her and she can’t understand everyone who thinks otherwise. Can’t understand the way they seem to be able to look at the whole thing as a cause for excitement.  

The tournament would end; the champion would be named and then what? The sort of people who could win something like this wouldn’t stop there and fade into a semi-famous existence. Far from it. They’d want more. More fame. More glory. More recognition. An endless pursuit. Where did their pursuit of glory end? She’s ambitious, convinced that she’s destined for great things but not this way. She’s learnt what the search for this kind of glory can do to people, to a family, to lives and she wants no part of it. Drink deep or taste not. She’s sticking with the latter.

     She had written down her name on a piece of parchment before the announcement night was over (even though it was only later that she put it in). Victoire Apolline Delacour-Weasley, the name written in surprisingly delicate handwriting compared to her usual messy letters. The note felt like it was burning a hole in her pocket as she observed others put their name in, and thus she forced her way past the circle of students surrounding the Goblet of Fire and stopped before it with a hand perched on her hip. As she felt the heat of the flames touching her face, putting her name in the Goblet seemed surprisingly daunting – but she had successfully gathered the attention of the other students, so there was no time for her to back out now. A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, mostly for show, and with a dramatic flick of her wrist, she threw her note into the fire.

     It was only when the flames consumed her name that she allowed the doubts to creep in for a moment – what if the Tournament ends in a disaster like the last one, what if she can’t handle the tasks, what if she isn’t smart enough for this, what if she can’t live up to her mother and uncle, what if she ends up achieving nothing ( like everyone always said ) & was setting herself up for embarrassment? The smirk on her face faltered. But, like always, Victoire was not one to linger on anything but enjoyable thoughts, and so she quickly forced the insecurities away, her lips pulling up into a satisfied smile.

Or, according to some, she was foolish for even dropping her name into the cup. 

Either way, she didn’t care. All she cared about was the piece of parchment clutched in her hand, Evangeline Quinn scribbled in looping, messy letters. It would be one of the few times she’d ever use her legal name. 

Perhaps part of her was bored, itching for some excitement that only seeing her name being plucked out of the flaming Goblet could quench it. And though she loathed to admit it, as flippant as she seemed, part of her wanted to prove herself. For a girl who seemed to not give a fuck about anything, she seemed to give an awful lot of fucks about proving her mother wrong. Look at me, winning the Tournament would proclaim, look at what I can do with magic. Aren’t you proud?

The thought brought something close to a sneer on her lips, but she quickly masked it with a confident smirk, tossing her name into the flames licking at the Goblet’s edges with a nonchalant gesture.