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Chapter 3 - Resoluteness

The evening sunlight streamed into Fleur's second-floor bedroom, lighting the room ablaze and casting lengthening shadows across her books.

She stood from her desk and fell back on her bed with a sigh, two days before she was scheduled to return to Beauxbatons. Her thoughts returned once more to the events following the Quidditch World Cup. Who was that wizard that saved her, and what happened to him?

She hadn't been able to forget that one initial, fleeting moment of eye contact she'd had with the wizard. How could one moment could hold so much depth? The scene stuck at the forefront of her mind with startling clarity.

It'd been a long time since she'd not seen even a hint of glaze in a complete stranger's eyes as a result of her allure, and what puzzled her more his identity. She could've sworn that in the moment, she'd recognised him entirely based on his famed description, but now she wasn't so sure. Gabby will never stop teasing me if I start asking after her childhood hero, let alone try to convince her that I might have met him. Papa isn't so sure either.

Once Fleur had awoken in her bedroom, she'd immediately called for her father. He'd told her with absolute certainty that no one was found near her, and they'd searched the area thoroughly on account of her charred assailants. His relief at finding her largely unharmed had been compounded by the British aurors notifying him that she would not be investigated for the event, regardless of its nature. Odd.

Her father had adopted a sour expression as he detailed the eagerness with which the British officials had brushed it off as a freak accident, even when their own countrymen were involved. The aurors had kept her attackers identities hidden if they knew them. Apparently their deaths had been kept out of the British tabloids too and the incident had gone unreported. Surely by Papa's description the destruction of such a large area of forest would have raised a few eyebrows.

The only reminders of the incident she'd had included feeling particularly drained the following day and a few grazes on her arms from the rope's chafing.

She'd been unable to provide a cohesive memory from the event, it simply coming out as a haze of green and blue flashes illegible to others in a penseive. Even when Fleur had sworn to him that a boy had saved her and attempted to defend them before being struck by a curse, he'd cast another worried glance towards her and repeated his earlier statement. The spells they had used would pick up all traces of magic, including the user if they were nearby. It made no difference if they were dead or alive. A few of her attackers had been found with that exact method, one having been flung over fifty metres from what must have been the force of her initial outburst as he succumbed to her flame, his remains landing in the crown of a tree. Any that lived must've remained quiet.

Grappling at her memory, Fleur tried as best she could to recall the events exactly as they'd happened. Had she imagined the boy? What was real, and what had she imagined? She tightened her grip on her bedsheets in frustration. That spell he was hit with looked like what may have been the killing curse, they said it was a bright green. A chill ran down her spine at the thought. She hadn't heard the words spoken, but did recall her education of the Unforgiveable Curses.

The events following had given her a rare appreciation for her heritage. Fleur didn't hate that she had veela ancestry, she was very proud of it. Only when others came into contact with her is where a blessing became a burden. If only I was able to burn my way through those ropes before that boy got caught up in everything with me. If he was real, that is. No, I know he was. She had no problem with the knowledge that she'd caused the deaths of those disgusting individuals, it was only his fate that left a lingering guilt within her.

Dismissing the subject from her mind for the third time that day, Fleur rolled off the bed and resumed some last minute revision to clear the thoughts that had run rampant all week.

Harry sat still at the Gryffindor table following the sorting, the realisations of the train ride echoing through his mind. He turned ever so slightly to peak through the top of his fringe at Ron and Hermione, who occupied the space to his left. Ron fidgeted with the silver cutlery whilst Hermione had directed her full focus to Dumbledore's speech. Some students seemed to still be staring at their new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, whose electric blue magical eye shot around at such a speed it appeared to be attempting an escape from its socket.

A sudden cheer from the students brought Ron back to the present moment, head swivelling to find the source of their reaction and cutlery thudding to the table. Harry followed his gaze to the Headmaster's lectern at the front of the Great Hall, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"This year, Hogwarts will play host to the Triwizard Tournament. It is a centuries-old competition between the schools. Do not, however, lose yourselves in competitive spirit entirely, as the tournament is a most excellent medium through which to build great friendships and connections with the witches and wizards of greater Europe. Dare I say you may never have an opportunity quite like this ever again."

Dumbledore paused, head lowering to peer over his half-moon spectacles at the audience. He appeared to adjust himself in preparation for what came next.

"Three champions from three schools will compete for the chance to become the Triwizard Champion. The champion shall win no less than a thousand galleons, the Triwizard Cup for their school, as well as take the eternal glory that comes from such an achievement for themselves. With great reward, comes great risk. Do not take this tournament lightly, as it will test the limits of even a most proficient witch or wizard. Many have died in pursuit of such glory, especially within tournaments past. The Ministry has therefore decided that only of-age witches and wizards will be eligible to put their name forth for selection."

The Great Hall erupted with the same force as an explosion, a few shouts of "Rubbish!" ringing out clearly through the wall of noise. Harry identified the source of them as the Weasley twins, who sat just a few places down the table from him. Just as they had roused the beginnings of a chant, a great boom immediately cut it off and returned the students' attention to the Headmaster.

Dumbledore withdrew his wand from in front of him, pausing for a moment to ensure he had reclaimed their attention. The sudden silence had great effect.

"These are the terms decided by our Ministry of Magic, in corporation with the foreign ministries, that allowed us to recommence the running of the Triwizard Tournament. I encourage you to not spoil such an opportunity and I have great faith that you will all make the most of it. All contestants will be selected on the 31st of October, with our guest schools arriving the day before. You will have a full day to enter your names, should you wish to."

Dumbledore's unusual seriousness startled Harry, and he was sure more than a few students had picked up on his lack of more eccentric speech. He withdrew from the lectern and flicked his wand, heralding the appearance of the usual great quantity of food that was came with the start-of-term feast.

Ron's hands promptly darted towards the chicken. Harry was sure that, if he looked closely, he'd find scorch marks seared onto the surface of the wooden table. Hermione noticed too, quite unsurprisingly as such a feat was sure to turn a few heads.

"Really, Ron, did nobody ever teach you any manners?"

Ron gave as much of a shrug as he could with two hands full of chicken, and around a mouthful managed to get out a "But I'm hungry." Perhaps he was only fiddling with the cutlery to give Hermione the impression that he'd actually use it.

Shaking himself out of nostalgic reminiscence of feasts past, a cold dread settled in his stomach as he once again returned his attention to the abnormality of the past few weeks. Deciding he'd had enough, he mustered the courage to raise the issue.

"What's been with you guys this summer?"

Ron stilled and gave an awkward glance towards him before his eyes tracked to Hermione. She sighed.

"We noticed that you seemed different this summer, especially after the World Cup," she answered.

"Different?"

"You don't usually read for one, do you?"

Ignoring Ron's renewed impression of a vacuum cleaner, Harry gave her an odd glance. "What does reading have to do with anything?"

Readjusting her seated position, Hermione turned to face him with an expression he couldn't quite place. "I thought if we gave you some space, then maybe you'd you know, go back to normal. Everyone needs space sometimes."

Wouldn't that just encourage me to spend more time on my own?

"But why would you decide that?" he asked in return. "What's so different anyway? I just thought I would do my homework and try to get ahead a bit for this year too. Flitwick's told me many times about how good of a student my mum was, and my dad was Head Boy. Surely I should try at least a little bit harder?" Especially now that Uncle Vernon isn't getting my report card.

Hermione thought for a moment, before responding.

"Sorry Harry, we were just worried. I think it's a good thing you're starting to take your education more seriously."

"It's fine, just maybe ask me first at least," Harry replied.

"We just want what's best for you." Hermione gave a pause, looking at Ron expectantly. "Right, Ron?"

Snapping out what could only be described as a poultry-fuelled hypnosis, he jumped slightly before looking to Harry. "Yeah mate, we just thought it was a bit weird, that's all."

Relief washed over Harry. They have always been there for me, after all.

Doubt crept in when he remembered their aloofness over the summer. Does Ron have a say in this? Why does he listen to Hermione like that? Oh well, at least I know why now.

"Thanks guys, I'm alright though. You've no need to worry."

Hermione gave him a brief smile and a nod before turning back to her plate.

Spearing some potatoes onto his fork, Harry thought back to his academic efforts in previous years. Some half-hearted study and a seemingly natural talent for Defence Against the Dark Arts wouldn't get him too far in the long run, and he wouldn't be proud of a mostly mediocre result. He was sure that if he had parents, or different relatives for that matter, they'd want him to do his best. Even Sirius would probably be happy if I did well in my classes.

With a renewed resolve, he allowed himself a moment of appreciation for his summer efforts, as much as it did affect him to have Ron and Hermione act in the way they had. Perhaps it'd be best if he was a little more dependent and more focused on his own interests, since few seemed to be looking out for those in his place. Oh well, I'm sure they'll understand eventually if they don't already.

Even Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore had only showed up in the aftermath of the previous three years' events. Sirius was indisposed, and he wasn't sure where Professor Lupin had gone after last year. A sense of independence might actually help him more than harm him.

The feast ended, and all the houses returned to their dormitories for the first time in months.

Harry leaned over the side of his dormitory bed, digging through to the bottom of his trunk and fishing out the photo album Hagrid had gifted him in his first year. He leafed through the pages, coming to a halt at the animated picture featuring a baby Harry held in between both of his parents. His earlier ruminations rushed back to him, combined with the lingering shame from being bested by his assailants at the World Cup. He still had no clue about the fate of that girl. I will be something, and I will not settle for less.