August 27th, 1994

Hermione was very strange about things, Charissa thought. Most of the time, she couldn't quite predict what would set her off. Not surprising, she guessed, since she had only a very rough idea of what was considered proper in muggle culture and what wasn't. So she'd mostly taken with stepping lightly. She didn't want to be pushy about this, certainly not — that was one of the Rules, in fact, one Mum had very firmly told her a couple years ago now. No matter how frustrated it made her sometimes, she'd wait for Hermione to work through...whatever was going on in her head these days, she honestly wasn't sure exactly what. She hadn't even kissed Hermione yet, despite how hard it was not to — she'd barely managed to stop herself that time a few weeks ago now, and it wasn't getting any easier.

There were some minor benefits, though. For one thing, Hermione had taken to sitting rather closer to her than before. They were riding up to the castle in one of the carriages right now, and the things were supposed to be able to fit six, but Hermione was so flush against her she wouldn't be at all surprised if they could squeeze in a seventh. This was a mixed blessing, to be honest — when Hermione was so close to her like this her thoughts had a tendency to slide down avenues that were quite pleasant, but had to be shoved aside before she got too wrapped up in them. She didn't want to slip and do anything to make Hermione uncomfortable while she was, ah, distracted. Well, she actually sort of did want to make Hermione uncomfortable, but uncomfortable in a very specific way, and, nope, that wasn't something she was supposed to be thinking about, stop that.

By the thin smirk pulling at Luna's face, which she could see clearly from where the other girl was sitting in the opposite bench, she was perfectly aware of exactly what was going on in her head. Because she just had to maintain a friendship with an empath. Cursed bloody Seers...

It wasn't all great. Hermione had also taken to grabbing her hand and just, sort of...hanging on to it. Which she found faintly annoying, but had quickly learned to pretend she was fine with. For one thing, with how cautious Hermione was being about everything, she really didn't want to make things more difficult than they had to be. And, well, when she'd freed herself after just a couple seconds, Hermione had looked almost...hurt? And that'd just been uncomfortable. So she'd quickly come up with the excuse she wasn't comfortable with Hermione locking up her wand hand like that, just in case she needed it — fortunately, it had actually been her wand hand Hermione had grabbed that time, too — so, if she could just avoid that one. Thanks to that memory of hers, she guessed, Hermione had hardly even touched her right hand since, and instead seemed to have claimed her left. Which was fine. The hand-holding thing still felt...weird. To her. She really didn't get it, didn't see what the point was, but. Whatever.

And it might make her vaguely uncomfortable, but at least it wasn't all the time. Case in point: the instant Jas swung the carriage door open Hermione let go, slid a couple inches away. She was still holding on to that muggle idea, that intimate relations between people of the same sex were somehow inappropriate. Hermione had even thought to warn her ahead of time that she'd probably back off in public. In front of their friends, Charissa's family and various cousins, was apparently just fine, but not the student body at large. Not that that especially bothered Charissa either. To be perfectly honest, it might even be something of a relief. If it got out she was seeing a muggleborn girl... Well, there would definitely be talk among the other Noble Houses, Dad would probably get a few snide comments he'd then complain to her about, it might even end up in those mindlessly banal society pages, because, ð'Vurgen, they never had anything interesting to talk about, did they? No, not really anything she wanted to deal with right now. So Hermione's shyness was just fine with her.

At least, for the moment, anyway.

A few minutes later, they were walking into the almost tactile noise of the Great Hall, and Charissa plopped down to a seat with the other Ravenclaws, Hermione immediately slipping in next to her — to her left, she noted with a slight smirk. She absently glanced up to the staff table, then froze, frowning in confusion. 'Anyone know what Severus is doing here?'

'You mean Master Snape?' That was Sorcha, sitting a few seats down from Charissa and her hangers-on settling in around her. 'He teaches Alchemy. You didn't know? I thought he was your noðaþir or something.'

'No, I knew that.' Much like how a few new electives opened up to students starting in third year, NEWT students had a couple extra classes available to them as well. Alchemy was one of them, and Severus had been teaching it since a couple years before she'd started here. Not surprising: there really weren't that many Master Alchemists available in Britain, and he was rather famously talented. But he only taught two sessions a week, and had very minimal office hours, so he was almost never in the castle. Hermione could probably count the number of times he'd shown up for a meal on one hand. 'And no, he's not my noðaþir.' Charissa left unsaid that she'd rather have him than her actual noðaþir, who never ceased to annoy her. 'I just meant he's never down here.'

Sorcha gave a helpless sort of shrug, as if to say, Who knows what goes through that man's head?

Not that Charissa had much more an idea than she did.

But, well, Seers were cheaters. From where she was sitting on the opposite side of the table, next to Jas, Luna leaned a bit forward, spoke in something of a stage-whisper. 'It looks like an academic discussion. It's not.'

Charissa glanced back to the staff table, picking out Severus again. He was sitting right next to Professor Vector, and they were in the middle of what seemed to be a rather energetic conversation. Huh. 'Colour?'

Luna was also facing in that general direction, but not gazing directly at them, her stare above their heads and to the side, distinctly unfocused. Because, of course, Luna technically wasn't looking at them at all. Charissa and Jas had finally managed to convince Hermione that Luna wasn't mad at all — she consistently used a set of imaginary creatures (mostly ones her father, who was mad, had made up) as a comparatively inoffensive metaphor to get across what she noticed with her talents without freaking anybody out. Hermione had, after several attempts, finally managed to convince Luna that that metaphor wasn't comparatively inoffensive at all. It just made her sound completely nuts. They'd come up with some colour symbolism instead. If anyone asked, she'd just say she was reading auras or something — even though that wasn't a thing that actually existed, it was a thing some people believed existed, so it was relatively easy to pass off.

When Charissa had pointed out that little trick was rather Slytherin of her, Hermione had just said it was the obvious thing to do.

After a long moment of humming to herself, Luna said, 'Green, mostly. Some black and orange, but mostly green.'

Charissa had to think about that one for a moment. Orange Luna had assigned as a very conscious reference to the Weasley twins, who she'd grown up not far from — could be anything from light-hearted teasing to cruel mockery, depending on context. Black was either hatred or fury, that sort of thing. Green could mean a lot of things, but the most prominent was lust. Not too hard to figure out, then. 'Oh. Good luck to him, then. They'd be a fun couple.'

While Sorcha wasn't in the know as far as exactly what Luna could do, she'd obviously put it together herself; by the wide grin on her face, she agreed.

As everyone else moved to something else, Charissa heard Hermione mutter under her breath, 'There, was that so hard? Nargles and blitherspits, honestly...' She smirked, shaking her head to herself.

Trying not to look too bored, Charissa sat through the by-now familiar chatter of students catching up after a summer apart, then the Hat belting out yet another of its empty songs, then the slow, one-by-one Sorting of the new first-years. She recognised most of the names, even if she didn't know the kids they were attached to personally, but she didn't really expect anything else — insular society, selective school. She focused slightly more intently when she heard 'Potter, Linden' called up. Her younger brother waltzed on up to the little stool, sat himself down, and Professor McGonagall set the Hat down on his head. Practically on his shoulders, really, but the thing was oversized for even most adults, for some reason. Some moments passed, the Hat silent. This was taking longer than Charissa had thought it would. Maybe she had been wrong about—

'GRYFFINDOR!' The Hat was whipped away, and Linden popped to his feet, swept over to the raucously cheering table decked in red and gold. Charissa let out a long sigh.

There was likely no hope for him at all, now. She'd hoped at least one of her brothers wouldn't have been entirely corrupted by their father and their uncles...and Aunt Alice, she guessed. Mum didn't count: she'd said the Hat would have put her in Slytherin, but it'd told her it likely wouldn't be very fun for her, being muggleborn and all — then came its inability to decide between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor. Being told that had made Charissa feel much better about her own Sorting. She guessed Linden had been doomed from the start, but she could still hope Perry was still redeemable. Maybe Hufflepuff, he seemed the type.

No matter how often she heard people badmouth Hufflepuff, she'd still rather see her brother there than have yet another brash, thoughtless, aggravating Gryffindor in the family.

Through the characteristic noise of Gryffindor House, Charissa heard Jas mutter to himself, 'And thus proceeds to be surprised...absolutely nobody.' However disappointed she was, Charissa couldn't help smiling a little at that. He did have a point, there.

'You know there's going to be teams filled with NEWT students, right.'

Charissa frowned at Morag's back, slightly elevated from her position a few steps lower on the stairs. To be completely honest, she probably should have expected comments like that, but it still annoyed her a bit. So she might have sounded slightly annoyed when she responded, her voice already raised to cut above the tromp of feet climbing the girls' stair. 'I do beat the stuffing out of NEWT students in the duelling club all the time, you know. Neville and I are two of the highest-rated members who aren't also on one of the Hogwarts teams.' And their numbers were somewhat inflated from their practice duels with each other, but no point in explaining that. 'Susan isn't far behind us, either. I think we'd do better than you're assuming.'

As they turned onto their year's landing, Morag sent her something of a disbelieving look. She tried not to be too annoyed by that. 'I can't imagine you're really that good. ð'Vurgen, it's our first day of fourth year, no one should be that good.'

Before she could say anything past her suddenly-sprouting smirk, Hermione said, 'I've seen one of her practice duels with Neville. It was sort of scary, honestly.'

Charissa held back a wince. Before, Hermione had mostly avoided her duelling lessons, for reasons Charissa had never really bothered to ask about. But soon after they started doing whatever exactly this was they were doing, Hermione had dropped by during one of her practices with Neville. It'd been days before Hermione had stopped being strangely skittish around her. 'You don't really need advanced difficult spells to duel well anyway, just be quicker and smarter than whoever you're up against. My mother is also a bit ridiculously powerful, always was, and I think I inherited a bit of it.'

Which was a perfectly reasonable-sounding explanation for the advanced difficult magic she did use, the occasional thing someone her age really shouldn't be able to manage. A child of a sorceress wasn't guaranteed to become one themselves, but it did happen. Of course, both she and her mother were pretty sure it actually had something to do with her Faetouch. Mum had said that, while she had been unusually talented at Charissa's age, she still had Mum beat when it came to the raw power she could draw on. But she didn't really feel like explaining that. She'd decided right away to keep the Faetouch thing as secret as possible, a decision Mum had instantly backed her up on. She hadn't even told Hermione yet, and neither did she ever plan to.

At the least, Morag seemed to accept that. With a slightly disbelieving shrug, but still.

A few minutes later, minutes Charissa mostly spent setting up her desk, Hermione slipped out of the room, toothbrush and toothpaste in hand. She still thought it a little odd Hermione insisted on doing that. Charissa used a charm for the same purpose, one she had offered to teach Hermione, but she'd sort of awkwardly refused. Oh well. She started changing for bed, listening to Morag babbling off about some pointless society gossip, honestly she wasn't paying that much attention. By the names dropped it didn't have anything to do with anyone she was closely related to or was all that familiar with, so she didn't see why she would care. One of those things about other people she still didn't really understand.

She belatedly realised, if Hermione's usual itinerary applied, exactly what state she would be in when the other girl got back. Her face split into a wide smirk; luckily, Morag seemed to think it was in reaction to whatever she was talking about, that could have been awkward to explain.

Her guess of the timing came out almost exactly right. She was standing in front of her trunk in nothing but her sleep shorts, turning her thin little top — which she'd only started wearing to bed in the first place because Hermione got all uncomfortable when she caught her without it — around in her hands to get it oriented correctly to slip over her head, when a high squeak at the door announced Hermione's return. Charissa glanced that way quick to see Hermione's face was rapidly flushing a deep red.

Charissa took the moment her face was obscured while putting the stupid thing on to suppress the slight smugness trying to fight its way into her expression.

When she could see again, Hermione had shifted over to her own trunk, her back turned to Charissa, flipping through her clothes. She also noticed Morag had broken off practically in mid-sentence, giving Hermione's back something of a weird look. Not surprising, it was a bit obvious how much more awkward than usual Hermione was being. She'd gotten the impression British muggles were by default enormous prudes, and Hermione had clearly absorbed a bit of that mindset — Charissa and Morag, and some of the other girls on occasion, had made Hermione uncomfortable when it came to certain things almost from the beginning. But Hermione had gradually gotten used to it over the last couple years. This level of sudden awkwardness was very conspicuous.

Of course, Charissa knew exactly why. Morag didn't have that information, though.

Charissa got an idea. In the second after she got the idea, she really, really, really wanted to do it. She could have stopped herself, sure. But she couldn't quite remember just now why exactly she always did that.

She slid across the floor, making her steps as soft and silent as possible, until she was standing shortly behind Hermione. Trying to make her smirk slightly less potentially annoying, Charissa said, 'Maïa?'

Hermione started at that. Not too unexpected, since Charissa didn't think she'd used her nickname once ever — Charissa didn't like the one Jas had picked for her, to be honest, so she'd sort of avoided using Hermione's as a subtle thanks for her not using it. But she felt like it this time, so why not. It took a second, Hermione's shoulders lifting and falling in a long breath, before she turned around to face her. Her smirk fought her again at how Hermione's eyes kept slipping down before snapping back up to hers. She was basically in her knickers right now, sure, but it still...amused her? Yes, amused her. That felt almost like the right word. Her voice just the slightest bit shaky, Hermione said only, 'Yeah?'

Forcing herself to move slowly and gently, giving Hermione every chance to pull away if she wanted, Charissa slid closer, until she could feel Hermione's robes through her much thinner sleepwear, a slight tickling against her legs. An ecstatic thrill skittering across her skin at what exactly she was about to do, Charissa raised both arms, settling them over Hermione's shoulders, crossing at the wrists behind her head. Ignoring the slightly panicked look on Hermione's face, she leaned up on her toes a little — ergh, she wished she were taller — and lightly touched her lips to Hermione's.

Ooh, yes. Much better than that practice Dora had given her, she hadn't been wrong about that. A tingle ran through her, a head to toe shiver of electric delight, a sudden surge of warmth spreading hips through chest. It took a fair amount of concentration to keep her lips loose, force them not to tighten with a smile. Yes, very nice. She held her place for a moment, absently noting with no little disappointment that Hermione was still as a statue, before slipping back slightly. Just far back enough that she could see Hermione's face, though slightly out of focus, which was certainly more distance than she wanted right now.

It was hard to tell from this close, but that looked like an expression of shock staring back at her. For a couple seconds, nothing more happened, Hermione just silently staring back at her, Charissa starting to wonder to herself if this had been a really stupid idea. But then, Hermione moved, her arms slowly, cautiously, folding over Charissa's lower back; her breath caught slightly when Hermione, still with clear gentle hesitance, hugged Charissa slightly closer to her. Forcing down the giggle clawing at her throat from the sudden flood of giddiness rising in her chest, Charissa slid her own arms in slightly, fingers slipping a little into Hermione's curly, slightly scratching hair, pulled herself again up to her lips.

She noticed instantly Hermione had never done this before. It was really obvious, with how awkward and clumsy and unsure she seemed. But Charissa entirely didn't care. She was far too light and warm, far too pleased right now to give a damn. Besides, Hermione would be getting plenty of practice in the near future, if she had anything to say about it. They kissed again and again, for what felt like long minutes, light, soft touches fluttering just at the surface. Everything was skin, and hair, and heat, and the slight mintiness from that toothpaste stuff on Hermione's breath, and Charissa felt so full of light and fire, the rush of life and magic, she was internally surprised she hadn't set her own clothes aflame yet.

Or Hermione's, for that matter.

But she had to stop. That familiar heat was rapidly sharpening, that familiar heavy pressure in her chest, driving her forward, seducing her into action. Action she was very aware Hermione would not be comfortable with. Shame. So, with a private grimace of will, she slowly yanked herself away from Hermione's softness and warmth, pushed back against Hermione's arms until there was a whisper of air between them. Smiling up at a somewhat dazed-looking Hermione — okay, fine, to be perfectly honest, probably smirking again — she said, 'Good night.'

All Hermione managed was a slightly shaky, 'Mm-hmm.'

Yep. She was definitely smirking. And, as she walked over to her own bed, if there was somewhat more of a sway to her hips than usual, well, she couldn't really be blamed for that at the moment, could she?

For the first few seconds after she slid the curtains around her bed closed, there was nothing but silence on the other side. Then Morag said, 'When did that happen?' She sounded distinctly surprised. Almost suspiciously surprised, actually, like she hadn't thought such a thing were even possible.

It took a long moment for Hermione to find her voice. And even then, she still sounded a bit breathless and unsteady. Charissa couldn't help feeling slightly smug at that. 'A few weeks ago. She, ah, asked me out back in April, but I kinda, a little...stalled...I guess...'

'Hmm.' Charissa heard the fluttering of curtains, likely Morag slipping into bed. 'As long as you two remember to put up silencing barriers, I don't care. Go nuts.'

The only response Hermione had for that was mortified stammering.

Charissa again forced back a giggle. Speaking of silencing barriers, she reached for her wand. Kissing Hermione like that had left her very warm and tingly and tense — she had something she had to take care of before she'd be able to make it to sleep any time soon. She made sure to pick a unidirectional variety, and listened very carefully for the softest shuffling of cloth from the room beyond, the soft flutter of breath, all she knew of Hermione changing for bed.

All she knew, but far less than she imagined.

October 31st, 1994

When she'd first heard of the Tournament this year, this was not at all what Hermione had been expecting. She'd thought it would be a big event, sure, but still rather modest in scale, to match the smaller and more insular magical society.

But what she hadn't known at the time was that the peoples of the ICW, and a few immediate neighbours, had a long tradition of having a sizeable gathering every decade or two, festivals often running for months. Even now, there was a long series of extravagant international celebrations going on all over the Continent, festivities planned to continue for roughly a year overall, the entire thing planned to celebrate the fifty year anniversary of the fall of Grindelwald. Hogwarts had been chosen to host the Tournament exactly because Albus Dumbledore, who'd defeated the man himself, just so happened to be Headmaster. Apparently, the mages of Europe were using the occasion to go absolutely insane. The opening feast of the Tournament was no different.

The open, relatively flat space between Hogsmeade village and the gates isolating the school grounds had been entirely transformed. It was the only place in the valley big enough. An enormous area of earth had been hollowed out into the slightest of depressions, the curve downward barely noticeable. At the center was a circular stage, a long table running across it, the familiar yellow and blue starburst banner of the ICW draped over as a tablecloth, the Goblet of Fire crackling fitfully atop a plinth nearby. Surrounding the center were dozens and dozens of tables, each curved to various degrees to suggest concentric circles. The tables were divided into sectors, each decorated slightly differently — Hermione thought the tablecloths, displaying the insignia of one member nation or another, were originally provided by the ICW organisers, but the multitude of guests had obviously made their own additions.

And there really were a multitude of guests. Hermione was positive there were more mages here than she'd ever seen in one place before. Hundreds of them, thousands of them. The air was filled with the overlapping chatter of numerous voices, languages from dozens of nations mixing into a chaotic jumble. The occasional burst of magic from here or there, or the multiple sources of ethnic music she couldn't even identify, didn't really help. Honestly, it was all conspiring to give her a bit of a headache. It was practically impossible to keep up a conversation with either Charissa or Luna, despite that they were sitting right next to her.

So she'd mostly spent most of this enormous group feast...festival...thing watching the people around her. She'd never seen mages from a country other than Britain before. The place was chaotic enough that she didn't really pick up a lot, but she noticed there was a great variety of traditions across Europe; the people in no two sectors dressed exactly alike. One group of people had her blushing nearly every time she looked in their direction. Not everyone was wearing the same sort of style, but she noticed one that involved something rather similar to a waistcoat extending to roughly the navel, but with beads braided into streamers of cloth flowing from every hem, the thing worn open over bare chest, almost always paired with delicately pleated skirts, most extending to the knees, but some shorter and some longer, everything made of a patchwork of bright colours. With how cool it was tonight, Hermione was certain they were using warming charms; by their skin tone, on the average a darker shade than nearly any other, she knew they had to be from the eastern Mediterranean, couldn't be used to it. But what made her so awkward was the fact that the same thing was worn by both sexes, varying only slightly in cut and decoration — which meant, only about a hundred degrees or so around the circle from her, were dozens of men wearing skirts, and dozens more women who were essentially topless. There were a few styles of clothing around that were unusual, sure, and a few might be playing at the edge of risqué, but these were the only ones she'd consider just plain indecent.

After a short, shouted exchange with Charissa, Hermione learned those people were Belak. She guessed that made a little bit of sense — Crete did have one of the hottest climates of any nation present. And at least now she knew what magical destination to avoid on a vacation, if she didn't want her face to be red the whole time.

Above people chattering and laughing and singing, sparks were occasionally thrown into the air by one reveller or another, the air painted with magical light in all colours of the rainbow. Enchanted constructs in the form of flying creatures or beings both extant and mythical buzzed over their heads, occasionally getting in minor, simulated scuffles with each other. Maybe some of those hadn't been great choices — simulacrum of some of the less popular beings were targeted by one group or another. One Hermione recognised as the natural avian form of a caryd had a wing taken off by a quartet of cutting curses from her own sector or one of their neighbours, she hadn't seen for sure from her angle; one harpy had even been brought down by amassed spellfire from the Greeks. While both acts of vandalism had been met by scattered cheers, the instant outpouring of rage from nations more friendly with either group drowned it out by a fair bit. When the caryd had been hit, Hermione had momentarily been convinced the Aquitaines were about to attack the British. It hadn't helped that she'd noticed Charissa draw her wand under the table until the moment had passed, even though they were nowhere near the front, so to speak.

The point was, it was very loud, it was very chaotic, and Hermione was getting an enormous headache.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Headmaster Dumbledore got to his feet from where he sat at the center of the raised table. Hermione had to wonder if he'd gotten the position of honour, so to speak, for this event because he was the Headmaster of Hogwarts or Supreme Consul to the ICW. Or maybe even in recognition of his famous duel with Grindelwald? She guessed it didn't really matter. The aged sorcerer got to his feet, walked around the table, and came to stand within a few paces of the Goblet. A wide smile on his wrinkled face, the characteristic twinkle in his eye visible even from here, he raised both hands at his sides, patiently calling for silence. It took quite some time for him to get it, but eventually everyone was quiet, the sheer number of people great enough the occasional fidgeting and whisper still filled their depression with noisy susurring.

And Dumbledore gave a speech. Rather more lengthy a one than Hermione would have thought appropriate. All going on about mages across the world uniting as brothers and sisters, working together for common purpose, peace and understanding and so forth and so on. And a section of standing firm against the reach of darkness, which Hermione didn't think could be very politic of him — laws regulating "dark" magic, which Hermione had learned from Lily via Charissa wasn't even a factually accurate term, were far more broad and strict in Britain than nearly anywhere else. Of course, Dumbledore was talking about hate and fear and suffering for the most part, but metaphorical hinting at the Dark Arts was obvious, even if he didn't directly say it. But anyway, he did manage to go on, the entire speech amplified to everyone present through the tables before them, instantly translated to the dominant language of the disparate nations each table hosted, the dinnerware all rattling slightly with each syllable.

Apparently those enchantments had been a nightmare to design and test; there were reasons such things weren't used all the time.

Finally, long after the sun had set, just as Dumbledore finished up talking about the process of the Tournament itself, and where Champions should go tonight immediately after they were selected for more specific instructions, the blue-white fire in the Goblet suddenly flared a bloody red, sharp crackling partially hidden by the crowd's collective gasp. Charissa gave a peculiar flinch next to her, her hand Hermione had long ago taken under the table tightening in a jerk. Huh. What was up with that? Her sensitivity to fire magic, maybe? She shrugged it off, and just squeezed back. A slip of parchment was shot out of the Goblet, fluttering so perfectly to Dumbledore's hand Hermione knew he had to have used magic to make it happen.

Unfolding the parchment in his fingers, Dumbledore's voice again rattled out from the table. 'The Champion from the Instytut Krakowie is—' Dumbledore left a dramatic pause, the air around going still with anticipation. '—Viktor Rumenov!'

The applause for this Viktor Rumenov was much more exuberant than Hermione would expect. While the outpouring of noise from the sector with tables all bearing the golden Bulgarian lion — apparently, that symbol was used in both worlds — was completely expected, the ecstatic cheering from all sides confused her. She asked Charissa if there was a reason for that, and then Luna, who could tell her what Charissa hadn't known: Rumenov was apparently a famous quidditch player. Oh, well. Alright then.

When Rumenov, a tall man with a somewhat awkward gait and dark hair cropped shorter than nearly any wizard she'd ever seen, was off the stage and squirreled away, the Goblet again flared red, with another flinch from Charissa, and Dumbledore again snatched a slip of parchment out of the air. Actually, that wasn't parchment at all, but plain, far more modern-looking paper. 'The Champion from i Attikí Akaðimía is—' And another hushed, dramatic pause; can't fault Dumbledore for lack of showmanship, she guessed. '—Efrosini Avju.'

Far more moderate cheering, though the Greek mages, as well as the Turkish, Belak, and Egyptians — none of the three were technically part of the ICW, here as guests — were plenty loud enough to make up for it. Hermione thought she heard some of the Egyptians and Belak singing, but she couldn't tell what it was. Certainly wasn't in English anyway. Efrosini Avju herself was a rather short girl, looking thin and tiny through the blue and gold uniform of the practically ancient school of magic near Athens, her skin tone and features looking distinctly Middle Eastern to Hermione. Her long, curly black hair was held back by a distinctive red headband she'd noticed a minority of the Greek students were wearing; there was a white and black design in the centre, over her forehead, but Hermione had no idea what it meant. Unlike Rumenov, who'd seemed bored with the whole thing, Hermione could see from here Avju had a brilliant smile on her face, maybe even closer to a smirk, and almost seemed to be laughing.

The process repeated, Dumbledore again snatching a slip of paper shot out from the spitting Goblet. Oh, no, parchment this time, not paper. 'The Champion from Institutet av Durmstrangr is—' The predictable pause again. '—Asbjørn Troelsen!'

As the crowd went crazy again, the Germanic nations notably noisier than the others, Hermione took a moment to examine the third Champion. Wearing the brown and red Durmstrang uniform, he was a tall, broad-shouldered young man with long dirty-blond hair and a wide smile on his face. She knew Durmstrang had a bad reputation as a school catering to the Dark Arts. A reputation she knew to be factually false. Durmstrang did offer a few electives in subjects that were regulated in Britain — they taught both runic casting and simple blood magic as electives to upper-years, their equivalent of NEWT students, and their Healing curriculum included a number of black and white magics both they wouldn't be allowed to freely teach in Britain. Of course, so did most other schools on the Continent; runic casting was unusual, but the school's curriculum was otherwise European standard.

She really had no idea why Durmstrang had such a terrible reputation in Britain — she gathered from the perfectly welcoming reception Troelsen was getting it wasn't as bad elsewhere. Was it only because it was Grindelwald's alma mater? because Britain was so much more restrictive on what magics were permitted to citizens? She didn't know. Whatever the reason, Troelsen didn't look any more dangerous of a sort than the other three. Despite his somewhat imitating stature, he certainly seemed more warm and friendly than Rumenov.

Again, the newly-selected Champion wandered off, and again the Goblet spat out another name — the slip Dumbledore snatched out of the air was paper again. 'The Champion from Academia de Bèubastons is—' Hermione blinked a bit at the name, but almost instantly figured it out; that must be what they call Beauxbatons in provençal, which was, after all, the language used by mages in the area the school was in — Beauxbatons, she'd learned, wasn't in the magical nation in France that actually spoke French. Weird people didn't always call it Bèubastons then, come to think of it. She wasn't so distracted not to notice a flicker of annoyance cross the Headmaster's face. '—Fleur Delacour.'

Well. This was interesting. The reception to this name was not at all like the others. The Aquitaines and the French were still cheering and applauding, and the Greeks, Egyptians, and Belak seemed not far behind them, but everywhere else things were far more ambiguous. She saw plenty of people only politely clapping, a number of people distinctly annoyed. She even heard booing — disproportionately from the British sector of the audience. Really? The older girl gliding up to the stage didn't strike Hermione as that controversial, not enough for everyone to get all silly over. She was wearing the same deep blue uniform as the other Beauxbatons students, the silks in a somewhat thinner, briefer, less anachronistic style than was common in Britain. She had the same short, narrow-brimmed hat as the others — Hermione had noticed hats in general had never gone out of style in magical Europe as they had on the muggle side — with the only major difference being three white-brown feathers tucked into the side. She was tall and graceful, skin so pale and flawless she almost seemed to glow in the evening darkness, a long braid of hair draped over her shoulder such a bright gleaming blonde it looked to be liquid silver.

Actually... She looked...rather nice. Really nice.

What...what had she been thinking about again? She couldn't...

Hmm...

She jumped at the feel of Charissa's breath against her ear, her face rapidly flushing red. Charissa said, 'Well, so much for the Tournament part of the Tournament.'

It took Hermione some moments to find her voice again, working at the muscles in her throat until they finally responded properly. The process went a fair bit faster once shimmering hair and swaying hips finally faded out of sight. 'What?'

When Charissa spoke again, she sounded fairly amused. 'Do I have to teach you occlumency now?'

Hermione turned to glance at the other girl, which was rather difficult to do with how close she was sitting — practically the only way they'd be able to hear each other here without shouting into each other's ears. 'Teach me what?'

She didn't answer, just smiled, shaking her head to herself a little. 'Delacour isn't her real name. It's just what Clan Çyr calls themselves in French. Fleur probably isn't her real name either, come to think of it, but that's not really the point. Unless something really weird comes up, I'd be shocked if she doesn't win.'

'Oh.' The Çyr, she knew, were a clan of carīdwð, one of the more influential ones in western Europe. The carīdwð, of course, were Fae. Lesser Fae, but still Fae. Hermione would even wager a guess this particular caryd was most likely iyumē — most of their kind ever seen out in the human world like this were. Which was sort of surprising at first. In their own culture, iyumē carīdwð were sort of comparable to the male gender in humans. She had known at the time such things couldn't necessarily be equated across species, but Delacour had just seemed so pretty...and graceful...beautiful, really...

She had to clear her throat again.

Doing her best to ignore the teasing smirk on Charissa's face, Hermione stared steadily up at the stage, where the Goblet was again flaring red. The Headmaster snatched the slip of parchment out of the air, the fire in the Goblet guttering out entirely an instant later. 'The Champion from Hogwarts Academy—' Hermione could practically feel the tension in the British section all around her as Dumbledore again let a dramatic pause linger. A wide grin on his face, he called out, '—Cedric Diggory!'

The cheers from the British were so loud Hermione winced, clapped both hands over her ears. Was that really necessary? She watched as Diggory, looking nothing but a slightly smaller, slightly bouncier version of Troelsen in Hogwarts black and Hufflepuff yellow, sprung up to his feet and flounced up to the stage. She didn't know very much about Diggory, to be honest. She knew he was a Hufflepuff prefect — sixth-year, she thought — and captain for their quidditch team. Decent marks, she'd heard, in Hogwarts' junior division duelling team as of just this term, his father someone of some importance in the Department for the Regulation of Magical Creatures. Actually, he might even be the Director, Hermione couldn't remember for sure. It was a bit odd for her not to be able to remember something, but when she'd heard of the current policies of the Department she'd been entirely furious, so that could have something to do with it. She hadn't heard Diggory make any fuss over Professor Lupin, so he might personally be better than the bigots in the Department, she didn't know. Very likely candidate for Head Boy next year. She didn't know much more than that.

Oh, except for how thoroughly fanciable seemingly every girl (and more than a handful of boys) in the school found him. The last couple years, she'd overheard people gush over him almost every day. Ridiculous.

A few minutes later, after another grandiose speech from the Headmaster, they were all dismissed, the Hogwarts students quite firmly ordered to head straight back to the school. She fully expected many of the upper years to hang back to participate in the festivities extending further into the night, but she, at least, would rather be heading back in. It was starting to get sort of late. So she and Charissa got to their feet, started pushing their way through the crowd in the direction of the gates to the grounds. Well, Charissa did most of the pushing; Hermione was perfectly fine with being guided through the chaotic morass by the hand.

After what felt like far too long, but was probably only a couple minutes, the crowd thinned significantly, reduced to a stream of students heading toward the castle. Still noisy, but not nearly as bad. She noticed after a glance they were surrounded by their usual group — there was Luna right next to her still, then Jas over by Charissa, Gwyneira and Ginny trailing along with him, and a few steps behind Charissa—

Oh. Great. Black was there, aggravating smirk and all. At least she wasn't saying anything. She just seemed to be...staring, with almost gleeful delight, at where Charissa was still holding her hand. Erm.

Hermione turned her head back to face forward, doing her best not to be too self-conscious.

'So,' Jas was saying, 'I bet you a hundred galleons the Delacour bird wins.' Hermione momentarily wondered if he'd intended the use of "bird" to be literal. Then she couldn't help wondering if Jas really had a hundred galleons to bet with. That was, what, twenty-five thousand pounds?

But Charissa just snorted, said in a low drawl, 'I don't feel like giving you a hundred galleons for free right now, no.' She heard Black snicker a little, and had to withhold the urge to turn a glare back at her.

'At least the other events should still be interesting.' That comment was from Ginny, and the sharp derision on her voice was very obvious. After a moment of confusion, Hermione belatedly remembered the political leanings of the Weasley family — no, she wouldn't expect them to be very pleased to find a caryd in a Tournament like this. Actually, she wouldn't be surprised if Ginny had relatives who wouldn't be pleased with the idea of carīdwð being allowed wands.

She couldn't help feeling depressed over British politics. On the one hand, there was the Dark alliance, who were quite insistent about preserving traditional law that never failed to strike Hermione as authoritarian. On the other hand, there was the Light alliance, who were much more liberal when it came to individual freedoms for humans, but were far less permissive than even the Dark when it came to non-humans — laws restricting the freedoms of werewolves and various Fae races, restricting the movements of merpeople and centaurs and such, all those sorts of things were almost always proposed by Light politicians, and passed by overwhelming Light consensus. Some of the people in neither, instead part of the neutral Bones–Longbottom alliance, were a fair sight better, sure, but even they were hit and miss. And, since seats in the Wizengamot were hereditary, and there was very little hope of that changing any time soon, there was precious little Hermione could ever pray to do about it.

Stupid archaic magical Britain and their stupid outdated authoritarian oligarchic nonsense...

'Mm.' The hum was from Luna, who was staring up at the sky in her usual dreamlike daze. 'You're still planning to put together a duelling team, yes?'

Hermione felt Charissa's slight shrug through their joined hands. 'Yes, Luna, I am. I've got Neville, Tracey, and the Gaunt twins who've already agreed.'

'The Gaunts? Alex and Hesper? Really?' Ginny, once again with annoyance and hatred on her voice. She was in the same year with the Gaunts and, Hermione knew, they did not get along. Not that Gryffindors and Slytherins really ever did, and not that Hermione's opinion of those two was much different than hers, but still.

'Yes, the Gaunts. They're only third years, sure, but they're not bad. And they have that whole twin bond going for them. They should be brilliant in doubles.'

Hermione somehow managed not to shudder at the thought.

'Hmm, two spots left. I'd take one, if you like.'

Hermione started, turned to stare over at Luna. What? Was Luna serious? Did she even know how? Hermione was certain the tiny, delicate, spacey little girl wasn't even in the duelling club, Charissa would have mentioned it. And she was just so... She wasn't being serious, was she? By the doubtful tone on her voice, Charissa's opinion must be much like her own. 'I don't know about that, Luna. Have you even done much duelling before?'

'Not really. I've done a little practice with Auntie, but not a lot. I still think I'd do well.'

'Oh, right, somehow almost forgot Cassie Lovegood is your aunt.' When Hermione shot Charissa a confused look at the emphasis she'd put on Lovegood's name, she added, 'Perfect singles record in the ICW student tournament, couple decades ago.'

...

Well. Hermione certainly hadn't seen that one coming.

'I don't know, Luna,' Charissa was saying when Hermione returned to reality. 'I don't want to have too many from younger years.'

'How about I come to a duelling club meeting, and beat you in a challenge?'

A smile on her voice, Charissa said, 'Well, if you challenge me and win, I suppose I'd have to let you in, wouldn't I?'

'Alright, then.'

Hermione still wasn't sure if Luna were serious or not. But then, she felt that way about Luna most of the time.

From just behind them, Black said, 'And the other open spot?'

Charissa turned to stare at the younger girl, looking distinctly baffled. Not surprising, really: she'd just almost turned Luna down because she didn't want too many younger students, and Black was a year under even her. She was only a second-year, had barely even started in the duelling club a few weeks ago. But after a moment of staring at her, Charissa shrugged. 'I suppose you can challenge me too, if you really want. Don't expect me to go easy on you just 'cause you're my cousin, though.'

'Wouldn't dream of it.'

Hermione didn't know what it was, but something about Black's crooked smirk sent an unpleasant chill down her spine. Shaking her head to herself, she turned back around again, slipping slightly closer to Charissa.

She really didn't like that girl.

noðaþir (IPA: /nɔ.ðɑ.θɪr/ roughly "no-tha-thir") — Brīþwn term for godfather. Made up by smashing together the Welsh word for "sponsor" and Irish word for "father". And yes, her actual noðaþir Charissa referred to is Sirius.

[those people were Belak] — The style of clothing described is inspired by a few frescos found in Minoan palaces in Crete, with a little bit of influence from elsewhere. The same could be said of most Belẽs cultural details I have in my head, actually.

Viktor Rumenov — Yes, I changed Viktor's last name. The name was picked to be as close as possible phonetically, but actually be a Bulgarian surname. In case you're wondering, no, he's not related to the similar-sounding Russian Imperial House. His father's name is just Rumen. And no, he doesn't go to Durmstrang. He instead goes to my headcanon school that's actually linguistically/culturally/geographically appropriate. Krakow is pretty far away from Bulgaria, but it's still a lot closer than where JKR says Durmstrang is.

Efrosini Avju (Greek: Ευφροσυνη Αβτγωυ) — Something like "eff-roh-see-nee ahv-jew"; not perfectly correct, but close enough. The last name is actually Turkish, would be rendered Avcı in the Turkish alphabet. Part of that pause was just Dumbledore figuring out how the hell to say "τγωυ", it's not a sequence of letters used in native Greek. Also why he didn't say this name quite as enthusiastically as Viktor and Asbjørn, he was less sure of himself.

Asbjørn Troelsen — The "j" is a y sound, and the "ø" is close enough to an "oh" you might as well just say that. It's not a sound in English.

Academia de Bèubastons — Occitan; pronounced roughly "uh-coh-day-myah day behw bahs-toons", though there would be variation depending on exactly where the speaker is from. I am guessing somewhat, especially on "academia" — I couldn't find very good Occitan resources, I actually had to make up the word, spent some time agonising over how it should be pronounced, and thus what diacritics it should have, before deciding it was fine with none. I'm crazy. And yes, it is still called Académie de Magie Beauxbâtons in standard French. I'm going with the author's original assertion the school is near Cannes, and, well, I'm sorry JKR, but they didn't speak "French" in that area of France until very, very recently — like, twentieth century recently. Which brings me to my next note...

Provençal (French; IPA: /prɔ.vɛ̃.'sal/, roughly "pro-vehn-sal") — Nerd time. The many languages and dialects descended from Latin long ago developed into three major groups. Traditionally, these are separated by how they say "yes" — the "oïl" languages in the north half of France, parts of western Germany, and southern Belgium (including French); the "si" languages in Italy, parts of Switzerland, extreme south-eastern France, and most of Spain/Portugal (including Italian/Spanish/Portuguese); and the "òc" languages in the south half of France and the eastern shore of Spain (including Catalan). "Provençal" is the French term for the òc language ("Occitan") spoken in Provence; it's called Provençau ("proo-vayn-sau") in itself; but since Hermione speaks French she says provençal. With nationalistic language programs in the early twentieth century (and to a somewhat lesser extent through to today) and the advent of mass communication, the various Occitan languages have been quickly dying — in Provence, only about 15% of the population still natively speak Provençau — but I wouldn't expect the muggle linguistic situation to affect the magical community nearly as much. They should still speak Provençau. Even if I moved the school to its retconned location in the Pyrenees, they should still speak one Occitan language or another — or hell, maybe even Euskara! Speaking French French there wouldn't make any sense. Sorry, JKR.

Aquitaines (French; IPA: /a ki tɛ nɛ/, roughly "a-key-teh-neh", but that last vowel may or may not drop, dunno, don't speak French) — There Hermione goes speaking French again! As I've mentioned before, national borders on the magical side in my headcanon aren't quite the same as they are in real life. They tend to follow linguistic/cultural borders, not non-magical national ones. The magical country Hermione is referring to, called Aquitània natively, covers most of the south half of France, as well as, oh, the east-northeast quarter of Spain or so, speaking Occitan languages like Provençau and Gascon and Català, with a small minority of Euskara-speakers. The name comes from an influential pre-Roman tribe native to the southwest of France, who gave their name to a large Roman province (the Aquitaine region of France got the name from the same source).

Çyr — pronounced something like "hurr" (IPA: /çy:r/) by the carīdwð; close enough, anyway, that vowel isn't in English, same one written ī in Brīþwn words. In French, pronounced sort of like "sear" (IPA: /si:ʁ/)