Disclaimer: Nothing is mine; everything is J K Rowling's.
Sorry, this one took a while to write and is a tiny bit shorter than the rest because I liked ending it as it is. (Only a couple hundred words were lost though.)
And it's Fleur, triple disappointment ;)
Chapter 13
Fleur was the last champion to arrive at the wand-weighing ceremony, slipping embarrassedly through the door until she realised the wand-maker was not yet present and relaxed. Krum was leaning against the wall on the far side of the small room, staring at nothing in a rather broody fashion. The strong-browed Bulgarian looked slightly unkempt, his robes ever so slightly disarrayed, as if he had been interrupted from doing something rather more active. His headmaster, in contrast, was immaculately dressed. The silver-goateed man stood, close-mouthed and rigid, next to his champion, warily eying anyone in the room that passed too near to either of them.
The Hogwarts champion, Cedric Diggory, stood in the centre of the floor, rocking back and forth on his heels as they waited. He seemed oddly at ease, even with Madam Maxime towering over him.
The final competitor, though Fleur hesitated to think of him as such, had been abandoned to the wiles of the reporter Rita Skeeter. The two of them had withdrawn into the only unoccupied corner as the colourful, blond woman sought to extract anything she could write about.
Better him than me, Fleur decided, though she was a little put out the reporter had not tried to speak to her, or any of the other champions from the look of things. She would have thought he first target should be the ones that were chosen properly, and actually had a chance of winning.
The boy looked surprisingly unruffled at being the focus of Miss Skeeter. He had composed his face into the sort of effortless, charming smile Fleur normally found herself the target off and was nodding along attentively to whatever the woman was saying.
He had not, Fleur noted, actually answered any of her questions with anything more than that bright smile and a few vague words. This was something that the woman's bright, green quill seemed to find distressing as it hovered agitatedly behind her, swaying, twirling and often dipping towards her notes, but never getting so far as writing anything.
A Quick-Quotes Quill.
They were a sure sign of a reporter who liked to give their articles a personal touch. The sort of characteristic flourish that left the article's subject wondering just how their words had been so misrepresented when they read it the next day.
The boy was doing a masterful job of fending Rita Skeeter off and from what Fleur could see she didn't seem to have noticed. The reporter's eyes were sparkling with unsuppressed glee, even as her quill writhed disconsolately behind her.
It was then that she noticed the tip of Harry's wand protruding from his sleeve and tucked alongside the inside of his palm. It was glowing ever so faintly. Rita Skeeter could not possibly see it from the way his hand was angled and no hint of anything suspicious could be seen from his relaxed, casual posture. The only sign that the fourteen year old had outwitted the journalist was that subtly concealed two inches of wand and an ever so slightly amused glint in his eyes.
He earned a little of her respect for that.
'I think it is time the ceremony began.' Albus Dumbledore had entered the room and, as he always did, commanded its attention with a gentle, aged authority. He gestured very politely at the wall that was least in the way of proceedings. 'If you'd be so kind as to release our youngest champion, Rita.'
'Of course, headmaster,' she smiled victoriously. She slid graciously to the back wall and began, to Fleur's quiet delight, an inspection of her notepad. She had never seen anyone's face shift from glee to fury so fast, nor flush that particular shade of puce. The boy inclined his head with an innocent smile when she looked up at him and poor Rita Skeeter frowned in confusion, unable to realise what had happened. For a fourteen year old, he had played that very well.
'Let me introduce you all to Mr Garrick Ollivander, Britain's finest wand-maker.' Dumbledore stepped aside, and in the moment everyone else's eyes flicked past him Fleur alone caught the flash of surprise as he glanced at the Boy-Who-Lived.
The wand-maker was a tall, thin man. He had odd, silver eyes that shone brightly out from underneath a wrinkled brow as he peered curiously at each of the room's occupants.
'Ladies first, perhaps,' he suggested softly.
Fleur would have preferred to go last, but stepped forward regardless.
She handed him her wand, perfectly polished as of the last two nights and waited for his response with come curiosity. Many wand-makers, including the one who had actually made her wand, were surprised by its unusual core.
Mr Ollivander turned it over in his long, delicate fingers. 'Nine and a half inches of inflexible rosewood,' he noted, 'but with an uncommon core.' He cast an eye over her curiously and Fleur tensed. 'Veela hair, I would imagine.' He had no further reaction as she feared he might.
He twirled it round once more, eyeing both her and her wand with interest. 'A beautiful wand, both within and without. You have a strong bond with your partner, Miss Delacour,' he remarked approvingly.
'Orchideous,' Ollivander murmured and a bright bunch of yellow roses swirled into existence at its tip. He nodded, satisfied, and returned her wand to her. The thirteen roses fell to the floor.
Glad that her part in the ceremony was done she retreated back next to her headmistress, taking the place of the Hogwarts champion as he moved forwards.
Fleur watched the wand-maker curiously as Cedric passed over his own wand. There was much she could learn about her competitors from their wands.
'Ah,' Ollivander smiled faintly, 'I remember this wand. Twelve and a quarter inches long, ash, and still as springy as when it left my shop. You've kept your wand very well, Mr Diggory.'
'I polish it often,' the Hogwarts student admitted embarrassedly.
'As we all should.' The wand-maker ran a finger along the length of the wand. 'A single hair from a very impressive male unicorn for a core.' Ollivander flourished the wand exuberantly and stream of burgundy wine sprang from it, fountaining over the floor.
The wine formed a puddle around the roses. The wand-maker was beginning to make quite a mess.
'Mr Krum,' Ollivander beckoned. The dark, surly Bulgarian slid off the wall and strode to the centre of the room. He took care not to step in the wine, Fleur noticed.
Krum proffered his wand stiffly to the silver-haired man, stepping back while the wand-maker examined it.
'Hornbeam, ten and one quarter inches, thicker than one usually sees, and quite rigid.' Krum nodded, eyeing the wand rather protectively.
'This is a creation of Gregorovitch,' Ollivander mused. 'Judging by your age it must have been on of his last.'
'It was,' Durmstrang's champion replied, in a thick, eastern european accent.
'A fine crafter of wands, Mykew Gregorovitch, with a knowledge of wand lore second to none.' Ollivander swept the hornbeam wand into the air. 'Avis,' he commanded.
A small flock of white birds, adorned with green and red bands across their wings flitted into the rafters of the room, chirping excitedly. 'Excellent,' the wand-maker, enthused.
Ollivander looked around until his eyes came to rest on the fourth champion, but none of the surprise or distaste she might have expected appeared.
'And Mr Potter.' At the boy's name the man smiled more widely than Fleur had yet seen.
Hogwarts additional, unofficial extra stepped up, his wand sliding smoothly from his sleeve before he passed it into the long-fingered hands of Ollivander.
Fleur did not miss the look of consternation that flitted over the face of Albus Dumbledore when the fourteen year old presented his wand.
'A wand reborn,' Ollivander whispered, spinning it in his fingers. 'Ebony, eleven inches and a third, in such condition it appears it was only made yesterday.' A ghost of a smile passed across the faces of both the boy and Ollivander.
'Perhaps my finest work,' the wand-maker admitted, 'and certainly the most complex. The shards of the phoenix feather core of your first partner, consumed by basilisk venom. A liquid heart.'
The boy has had two wands?
It explained the frown on the face of Hogwarts' headmaster. Having had two wands was not uncommon for an auror, or wizard with a hazard occupation, but for a fourteen year old to have had his wand damaged beyond repair was virtually unheard of and that was without including the fact his second wand was like no other Fleur had ever heard of.
A liquid core. Basilisk venom. The toxin should have melted the wood.
'A bond that has survived destruction and risen again, stronger than almost any I have seen over the last fifty years.'
The wand-maker did not test the wand immediately, but continued to turn it over, stroking its length as lovingly as one might caress the cheek of their child.
'What has this wand seen?' the man murmured very softly, spinning it deftly between his fingers and closing his eyes. 'Oh my,' the wand-maker whispered after a moment.
Ollivander slashed the wand through air across his chest in the direction of Harry.
A twisting, writhing, silver serpent the length of Fleur's arm coalesced in the air between the two of them, coiling about the shoulders of the boy before fading away into nothing.
'Perfect,' the man breathed.
Fleur tossed her silver hair. There was nothing astounding about the test. A snake was one of the easiest things to summon.
At least it did not make any further mess.
The boy's headmaster was staring very intently at the back of the boy's head. His eyes, normally calm and wise, held a hint of concern about them as he gazed at his student. Fleur fancied there was a touch of pride there too. For a fourteen year old she had to concede he was different. His inexplicable ability to not notice her had been proof enough of that and his unusual wand was simply confirmation there was something else to him.
Fleur briefly considered speaking with him as they all followed Dumbledore back towards the Great Hall.
In the end she did not. Madam Maxime would not approve of her fraternising with the competition, and it would be most unwise to associate with him while Rita Skeeter was lurking. His vexation of the reporter combined with her veela heritage would create an article far more potent than anything she might have previously concocted.
He probably would not even notice me trying anyway.
The boy had left the group early on regardless, branching off up the first floor corridor. Fleur had little doubt that if she followed him he would shortly vanish.
'Come with me Fleur,' her headmistress instructed, leading her down towards the carriage. 'I trust you were paying attention to the ceremony, there was much to be learned about your rivals from it.'
'I was,' Fleur assured her.
'What did you deduce?'
'Cedric Diggory is a steadfast, hard-working and honest, but while he is gifted he does not seem an exceptionally powerful wizard. Viktor Krum is powerful, stubborn and unyielding. He will be my fiercest competition.'
'And Harry Potter?'
'He is unusual,' she replied hesitantly. 'Ollivander seemed to favour him.'
'Perceptive as always,' Madam Maxime complimented. 'I believe you are right about Hogwarts' original champion. Krum, though, has hidden depths and, judging by the spell Ollivander performed, excels in the air.'
'He is a quidditch seeker for his country,' Fleur told her headmistress, surprised she did not know already. Madame Maxime nodded.
'Be wary of the boy,' she warned. 'I have never seen a liquid core wand, nor do I know what it implies about his magic, but ebony denotes power and having a basilisk venom core speaks for itself.'
'I will not ignore him,' Fleur reassured her headmistress.
He does enough of that for both of us, she thought bitterly.
'He is unlikely to prove a rival being fourteen,' Madam Maxime explained, 'but he may have one or two surprises that could harm your standing against the others.' She drew Fleur to one side of the path.
'The other champions will soon, if they haven't already, be told about the first task. This is to be expected.'
'Will I?' Fleur asked hesitantly.
'Of course,' Madame Maxime exclaimed. 'I am… stretching, the boundaries a little, but we are going to go get a glimpse of it now. Follow me, Fleur.'
Her headmistress bypassed the carriage and walked into the edge of the woods that bordered the school. Fleur pulled a face and picked her way carefully through the mud after her. She was not wearing particularly sturdy shoes and it was hard going.
Madame Maxime kept going, clearly aware of where she was heading, and the trees grew thicker around them. The forest was a dark place. It was named the Forbidden Forest to keep out students of all ages and a host of rumours surrounded it. She had been here long enough to hear a few of them, mostly in relation to where the tournament might take place. Acromantula, werewolves, centaurs, giants and worse were supposed to have the place their home. Walking among the dark pines she couldn't help but agree with those that thought the place a fitting home.
Is the task taking place out here? Fleur wondered. She couldn't say the idea filled her with enthusiasm. It was dark, cold and damp. Fleur liked none of those things.
A light, a wavering, reddish-orange glow appeared up ahead and Madame Maxime drew her to one side again. 'As it is a little unusual for me to take you here you should cast a disillusionment charm. I know you are adept at the spell.'
Fleur cast it quickly, choosing not to wonder how exactly her headmistress knew about her ability. It was a useful charm that only grew more so when nobody was aware that you could perform it, so Fleur had kept her use of it a secret from all but Gabrielle.
'Good,' her headmistress declared, 'you've improved. Follow me.'
The glow grew brighter and waves of hot air began to billow pleasantly past Fleur, catching her hair, as they grew near to some kind of clearing.
The hot wind swiftly grew oppressive and sweltering until even Fleur, whose veela heritage granted her some resilience to heat, was sweating horribly by the time they passed through the tree line. Four, massive cages dominated the newly made gap in the trees.
White-hot flames billowed from them, too bright to see any detail past. The silhouettes were enough for Fleur to recognise what was trapped within them.
Dragons.
Madame Maxime had disappeared sometime between reaching the glade and Fleur first seeing the cages, but she could remember the rough direction back to the carriage so she wasn't unduly concerned.
The dragons were far more worrying.
Veela were resistant to heat, being naturally able to conjure fire themselves, but fire hot enough to melt steel was not the so easily resisted. If Fleur was caught in the inferno she would be ashes in seconds, veela or not, and that was not how she planned to end her tournament.
Edging a little closer, but extremely aware that dragons were capable of exhaling flames for several metres, she tried to get a better view of them.
Even this close the heat from their flames was all but unbearable. Sweat was running from her forehead and down her back in rivulets, it was unpleasant and her uniform starting to stick to her.
Dragons were not something Fleur had studied in great detail. She liked charms, enchanting and duelling, not running away from magically resistant creatures that expelled gouts of fire.
They were, however, still susceptible to her sleeping enchantment.
The nearest, a red-scaled, snub-snouted thing that thrashed angrily and spewed fire everywhere it could see, had very protuberant eyes. They were a gleaming, viridian green and filled with a wrathful intelligence that made Fleur shiver instinctively. Dragons had no natural predators, and nothing to fear. They were tameable, but only just, hovering between the two uppermost classes of dangerous creatures. It seemed the tournament was going to carry on where it had left off with the cockatrice.
Immediately behind the red dragon was another cage; it contained the largest of the four dragons. It appeared as little more than a shadow even when the nearer was not breathing fire. Black, jagged scales, tattered, ebony wings that were furled around a vicious-looking, serpentine body, and a back and tail covered in cruelly curved spines.
That is a dragon to avoid.
Its head snapped round when the red dragon rattled its cage and Fleur found herself looking straight into a set of bright, yellow eyes. She had never seen so much malicious intent in the eyes of any creature. Underneath its malevolence was a wild, furious intelligence in the glowing, golden orbs that glowered out from under the shadows of four, bronze horns. It hissed with rage and lashed its tail through the bars, scoring a deep scar into the ground. Fleur glimpsed a set of spikes that coated its tail like barbs when the dragon retracted it.
Definitely a dragon to avoid.
All of the creatures were enraged and dangerous, but there was something hungry and feral about the black one that made the rest seem rather less scary.
The other two were further away and Fleur was not foolhardy enough to try and tiptoe past the cages to see them closer. She had seen more than enough of what was to come tomorrow.
She crept back from the glade, keeping well away from the circle of scorched earth and charred leaves that surrounded the ash filled clearing.
Madame Maxime was waiting a few minutes walk back through the forest.
'What do you think?' she asked.
'I think whomever gets the black one is going to regret putting their name in the goblet,' she answered honestly, still a little disturbed by the malice of those yellow eyes.
'The Hungarian Horntail.' Madame Maxime gave the malevolent creature a name. 'I'm not sure it's even tame, from what I was told by Hagrid and his dragon-keeper friend they had to send a fourth on very short notice.'
It's the boy's fault that thing is here, Fleur realised. If I have to face that beast I will hex him halfway to death afterwards.
It was probably an empty threat. The contest between any fourteen year old wizard and a dragon was likely to end very swiftly in favour of the magical creature. Fleur would have to settle for hating him posthumously.
'Do you have a plan?'
'My enchantment, the sleeping one,' she answered.
'The one that makes use of your veela nature,' Madame Maxime remembered. 'A solid plan, but I might suggest having a back up idea, just in case.'
'I know to go for the eyes,' Fleur considered, 'and I know enough curses and hexes that once I hit it will stay blinded for long enough.'
'Practice,' her headmistress insisted firmly, 'and don't mention the dragons. I was not really meant to show you, even if the others will all know by the end of the day.'
They had reached the carriage, so Fleur took her leave of Madame Maxime and quickly returned to her room to read up on the creatures.
Dragons have few weaknesses, if faced with one it is best to distract it and flee. If fighting is the only recourse then its weak spots are the eyes and, on some weaker breeds, the softer scaled belly and armpits.
Fleur somehow doubted that the ebony monster with its glaring yellow eyes was one of the weaker species. It looked like it had sprouted straight from one of Gabrielle's nightmares.
Her enchantment was her best bet if she actually had to face the dragon down. There was a faint hope that the task could be accomplished by more subtle means. Distracting the dragon, or preferably even avoiding it completely. Since there was one for each of the champions it seemed unlikely they would all be part of the event together so she could not allow the others to deal with the creature and then face her competitors instead.
Retrieving her wand from her waist Fleur decided the best spell to use against the dragon if her sleeping enchantment failed was probably the conjunctivitis curse. It would swell the eyes of the dragon shut and give her a chance to lure it or distract it away. She doubted the task would be to actually defeat the creature. It took ten wizards to deal with an adult dragon at the best of times.
'Conjuncto,' she snapped, jabbing her wand towards one of the small floral patterns on her pillow.
The curse was flickered across the room and struck its target dead on, tearing a small hole in it. Satisfied, Fleur mended the pillion and tucked her wand back through the belt of her uniform.
There wasn't a great deal else she could to prepare for a dragon at such short notice. The first task was tomorrow, close enough that she could almost hear the cheers of the Beauxbatons students.
They will probably be cheering the dragon.
She sniffed disdainfully. It would not matter who they cheered or if they did not cheer at all. They would still be there to see her bypass the monstrous creature and witness her victory. Even the boy would have to be watching her, especially if he needed ways to get past his own dragon without dying.
Fleur did feel a little sorry for him now. At first his reluctance to participate had felt like an insult to her and their schools, but now she realised it was more likely to be a healthy survival instinct. It did beget the question, once again, of how his name had come from the goblet when he was so disinclined to participate, if it had at all.
Albus Dumbledore's glimmer of worry and pride over his student at the wand-weighing ceremony came to mind immediately.
Is there some larger game afoot? she wondered. Beauxbatons might be in France, but the legend of the Boy-Who-Lived was just as prevalent there. The headmaster was old, very old, truth be told, perhaps he was grooming his successor. A wizard he hoped would continue his legacy and ideals after Dumbledore was gone.
The Triwizard tournament did strike Fleur as a good way to toughen anyone for a dangerous road ahead, but fourteen was far too young to compete, liquid core wand or not.
It does not matter, she reminded herself. I have my own dragon to worry about.
The memory of malevolent yellow eyes and a bone-barbed tail lashing across ground reduced to cinders by fiery breath was more than enough to redirect Fleur's pity back to herself.
Any dragon but the Horntail.
AN: Please read and review. Thanks to all my reviewers, especially the constant ones.
P.S. Anyone who knows about the symbolism of roses gets an extra clue of what is to come ;)
