Harry walked to his usual spot, the tree on the hill close to the lake of Hogwarts. His robes blew wildly in the wind behind him as he rolled his neck and stretched out his back, classes just finished, so he decided to relax. He would have to go back to the castle eventually, rather quickly in fact, with a House to run and the champion choosing ceremony later that night.

A moment away would be fine.

It was a tall oak tree with half the leaves already fallen from the top, with the bottom still a palette of oranges, yellows, and gold. It was a far cry from how it would look come winter.

"You are the grandson of Duke Wessex, no?" A voice called out from above him. Harry looked up the tree, wondering how he failed to notice her sooner.

"Great-grandson." Harry corrected, taking a few steps to the side so that he could better see the branch she sat on.

"And you are Princess Fleur, daughter of Queen Apolline," Harry stated before bowing slightly. The branches shook and whistled as a sudden cold wind blew past. Fleur shivered slightly as her silver hair blew gently behind her. She pulled her legs up before standing on the thin branch. The branch did not shake or strain underneath her weight, it was like she weighed nothing at all.

"I do not know how you British survive under your cold and your rain, your… atmosphére Britannique," she finished with half a smirk.

Harry watched quietly as the girl with silver hair climbed higher into the tree. Her movements were swift and sure as she seemingly scaled the tree with little effort. Eventually, she sat on a branch and leaned her back against the trunk, her long, pale legs dangled freely for Harry to admire. Fleur rested a finger on her cheek as though she was thinking.

"I wonder… Is it that the British match their weather, or is it that the weather matches the British? Do you know? I am ever curious about the answer!" She exclaimed, seeming honest with her question. Her eyes were wide with curiosity. Harry briefly wondered how her English was so good. Of course, he was fluent in her language too, but not to the same degree as she obviously was with English.

"What is it that you call it… a stiff tongue, no… a stiff upper lip? It's no wonder you all talk so brusquely and without flourish," Fleur continued, unperturbed by his lack of response. She raised her hand to cover her mouth before breaking into a polite giggle.

Harry remained quiet as he watched the strange girl, and after a moment she seemed to notice. "You do not talk much, do you?" She finally asked before pulling herself up and standing on top of the branch.

"Only when I have something to say," Harry replied, causing the girl to smile once more.

"Oh, good! For a moment I thought you might be slow, I was not sure after last night… but that is okay, I can talk enough for the both of us." She promised before once again climbing higher into the tree. Neither the tree nor the branches shook under her rogue bouncing or bent under her feet. The branches would only get thinner and thinner, but Fleur did not seem to mind; her smile never faded.

"Do you not wish to join me?" She called down after she, once again, stood with both feet firm on the higher branch. "The view is quite breathtaking! You would not have to take my word for it if you came up here!" She promised, one hand wrapped around the trunk with the other extended forward, below her waist, for Harry. By then she was at least fifteen or twenty feet in the air. A small smile formed on Harry's face as he studied the girl and then the branches in front of him.

Unlike with Fleur, the branches very much did not like Harry climbing on them. They creaked and complained, and he was sure that while they wouldn't dare break for Fleur, they had no problem with letting him fall. All the same, Harry climbed his way up, albeit slower than she had.

Fleur sat one branch higher than where she was last, her legs once again dangling beneath her. She studied him with a dull smile on her face as he struggled his way up.

"I did tell you, no?" Fleur asked confidently once Harry joined her. He stood on the branch just below her as he was not at all confident in the branch she sat on with his own weight, let alone their combined one. Even so, their heads were at equal height with each other as they stared out towards the lake. They were at just the perfect height to see over the yellow and orange leaves that had yet to fall.

"Just in time." She told him, looking west, towards the sun that was about to set. Harry squinted his eyes from the bright light that stared back at him when he turned. The sky was no longer dull, grey, and lifeless, but danced with orange and pink hues. The sun sat just above a tall mountain in the distance, and the shadow it cast became longer with each second. Fleur's lips hung slightly apart as she watched the sunset, and Harry struggled with which direction to watch. He could see the colors and shadows reflected just as well in her deep blue eyes than as with his own. She sat transfixed as the sun descended lower, and lower until finally, it hid behind the mountain.

A smile returned to Fleur's face as she finally returned eye contact with Harry. "You are welcome." She said before jumping down to the branch that he stood on. Harry's heartbeat leaped, and he went for his wand. But there was no need. The branch shook a bit at best, if at all.

Fleur stood no further from him than a handful of centimeters, and their robed bodies touched as the tree rocked back and forth with the wind. He could see her closer now. Her bright blue eyes seemed to glow with their own strange, unnatural source of light. Her long silver hair reached just past her abdomen and hung down without restraint. Her bow-shaped red lips…

Harry stood transfixed for a moment as he wondered if she was going to kiss him. Just as he was about to put a stop to it, she spoke again. "It is your turn to show me something amazing now, no? Impress me, Potter." She demanded, her eyes briefly narrowing. Fleur turned away, and before he could stop her, she jumped.

For a moment, the world seemed to be in slow motion as he watched. Her robes billowed in the air behind her as she fell. Her silver hair danced in the wind, similar to the colors of the sky. But he heard no screams of panic and when she reached the ground, she broke into a roll before coming out of it like a circus clown, her hands held high in the air and a large smile on her face, wider than any he had seen before. It was a smile of joy and pride like she had done that many times before.

Fleur turned around and stared up at Harry. With a curtsy, she spoke. "Adieu!" she exclaimed before running off.

Harry watched curiously as she disappeared behind the leaves of the tree, with his own thoughts wandering. What was it that Lyra had said about her? Obnoxious and arrogant?

Harry looked back to the ground beneath him and went about deciding how he would get down.

…

Harry walked through the empty halls of Hogwarts as he made his way to the Library. Most of the students were either with their friends or excitedly discussing the upcoming choosing ceremony. If not that, then they were buried in the library, studying for midterms being too busy to care for such a thing. The latter applied to Harry, though not entirely. As a champion, he would not have to take his exams and even if he did, he would do fine. He was ahead of his class in most subjects. As for friends, he had few and fewer he would wish to gossip with. But he was still on his way to the library to meet with a certain witch who was doing some work for him.

Harry's thoughts drifted back to the girl he had met just an hour or so ago. For a Princess, she was not what he expected. He didn't know many of the students from Beauxbatons, but he found himself thinking that he would not be too surprised if it was her who was chosen. Where were the rest of her classmates but huddled together in their carriage while she alone adventured out?

Harry put her out of his mind when he noticed his sister standing in front of him. She leaned against a nearby wall, gazing at a group of students at the far end of the hall.

"Flora," Harry called out, coming closer to her. She barely glanced his way before returning to the group of students.

"Why are you watching them?" Harry asked as he leaned against the wall behind her, staring from above her head.

They were a group dressed in dark red robes with white highlights, Durmstrang students. They laughed and joked loudly between themselves, as the few Hogwarts students in the halls gave them a wide berth.

"Is there someone else I should be watching?" Flora asked curiously.

"I suppose not… but why them, specifically? Do you not have classwork or friends to catch up with?" Harry asked slowly. He often found it hard to talk to this particular sister. Where Euphemia made it straightforward and easy to communicate with her, Flora made it the opposite.

"Why are you watching your sister watch them? Do you not have Headboy duties to attend to?" She asked with that dull, monotone voice of hers.

"I suppose I do," Harry answered, prepared to leave his sister to her own devices. Just then, the Durmstrang students noticed them, though it would be more accurate to say they noticed him.

"Quite the tumble? Yes?" One of the boys from the group called as they came closer. He had short, cropped black hair and a small horizontal scar underneath his eye. The group of Durmstrang students broke into a fit of laughter at the apparently hilarious joke.

Harry heard jeers and comments made between them as they continued to laugh. If they spoke a bit slower then he might be able to understand them. Unfortunately not, they joked to each other in furious German, far too fast for Harry or his sister to understand. Though he could understand pieces of their sentences and their tone well enough. They mocked him. Finally, they calmed and turned their attention back to Harry. None of them seemed to notice Flora, who stood bored beside him.

"I pity the Potters if he is their future." A boy with dirty blonde hair finally mocked.

"I see, thank you for your concern for my family. As Headboy of Hogwarts, I will take this time to welcome you to our school and nation. If you are lost or need help, please come to me." Harry said with the smallest of bows. He noticed some of their faces twitch in irritation, but their smiles had yet to fade. The boy with the scar made to speak, but before he could, someone beat him to it.

"Your grandfather killed mine." A boy with dark hair and a buzz-cut said stiffly, his eyes not darting to his friends. Instead, they were focused solely on Harry.

"I am sorry about that," Harry replied blankly. His grandfather fought in one of the numerous wars between the two great European powers, so it wasn't a surprise. He was told that Fleamont Potter was one of the greatest duelers of his generation, but Harry had never met the man, so he couldn't say for sure. But he knew that Fleamont had not died in some glorious duel as one might expect. No, one night the man simply had too much to drink, wandered into some forest in Lorraine, and never returned.

Tracing and locator magic, search parties and aerial sweeps, even hellhounds had been used in the end, but it didn't matter, it was all in vain as neither he nor his body was ever found. It was a rather sore spot for Harry's great-grandfather, Henry, who in spite, never even gave the man a memorial, let alone a funeral. His plot in the Potter graveyard still lay empty and unmarked. Harry's father liked to joke that Fleamont was not dead, but only hiding from his wife and father.

The boy with the buzz-cut stood silently as he studied Harry. Even his friends seemed a bit surprised at his actions and stared at him strangely. Finally, the boy moved and stuck out his hand. "I am Viktor Krum," he spoke with a thick accent, an accent of someone who was not German but wished to sound as if they were.

Harry took Viktor's hand and shook it easily. "Harry Potter," He replied. The two stood quietly for a moment, Krum stiff and imposing, Harry relaxed and laid-back. If he were anyone else, perhaps he might start to feel awkward or embarrassed or even afraid as Krum looked at him like he was a test subject, but he was not.

"It's nice to meet you." Harry continued after a moment.

"I see," Krum said eventually, ignoring Harry's comment and breaking eye contact. With only a glance sent to the girl standing beside Harry, Krum marched off. The group of Durmstrang students lagged after him, their faces scrunched and their voices not so loud.

"Krum… A Pureblood house of Bulgaria." Flora supplied helpfully as she and Harry watched the group depart. He nodded absently before turning back to his sister. "I know. He's also a quidditch player." he reminded her.

Flora ignored the comment as she walked past him, heading in the same direction as the Dumrstrang students. Harry, too, turned and made his way to the library.

It was a relatively short walk without the distractions of girls in trees or creepy sisters watching boys to postpone him. As he walked past, he greeted the Head Librarian, Lady Redscale, a thin woman who wore dresses from times older than many of the books she guarded.

In the back corner of the restricted center was a table packed with different books and records. They stacked high and wide in every direction. It was a miracle of physics that none of them fell off the side. Harry looked at them warily before sitting down and leaning back in the chair.

He had just closed his eyes to rest before a voice called out to him. "You shouldn't lean in the chairs, they're old." It said before the speaker sat in the chair in front of him.

Harry nodded in agreement, all the while he continued to lean back in the chair. The chairs really were old, ancient perhaps. They were a dark brown, smooth to the touch from continual use, and carved from the very trees that were cut down for Hogwarts to be built.

"Find anything interesting?" He asked as he studied the markings on the arms of the chair.

The girl, an ugly girl with unkempt bushy brown hair, looked up from the book that sat in front of her and spoke once more. "Not with you interrupting me. Come back some other time, you haven't even been chosen yet, what's the rush?" She asked, annoyed.

Harry stretched his arms around the back of his head as he leaned further in the chair.

"So?" He asked dumbly.

"So you might not be chosen, and it will not matter if I've found anything interesting." She finished now irritated.

Harry nodded in agreement as he watched the fourth year glare at him. "So you haven't found anything then?" He continued, the four legs of his chair hitting the floor as he leaned forward.

The girl's eyebrows twitched in irritation at the question. "Not so. But what does it matter if I tell you today versus tomorrow, even if you are chosen? Not to mention the possibility that you have no tournament to prepare for in the end." She questioned.

Harry folded his hands on the table. "Who else would be chosen but me, Hermione?" He asked.

Hermione shook her head, flabbergasted. "Such an ego… but how is it not wounded after last night…" She wondered out loud, confusion written on her face.

Harry's smile grew, and a small chuckle escaped him. "It's not ego if it's deserved. Now, what have you found?" Harry asked with a firmer tone.

Hermione sighed and pushed the book in front of her away. "Not much. For a tournament watched by thousands, there is a surprising lack of information about the tasks themselves-"

"So-"

Hermione rushed to finish before Harry could cut her off. "It seems location is an important factor in regard to what the tasks are. Durmstrang tournaments focus more on barbaric strength and magical prowess, while Beauxbatons focuses more on knowledge and fine magical skill. From what I've seen, both reuse old tasks occasionally. Hogwarts seems to be a bit of an outlier in that regard, never reusing tasks, never sticking to one thing. Every third Hogwarts tournament, the theme of the challenges changes. One group of tournaments was about historic battles, another about facing the champion's greatest fear. To make matters worse, in every ninth tournament at Hogwarts, the way to win itself changes until the next ninth. A little more than a hundred years ago, the worst-performing champion won the tournament. Whoever came up with that one deserves a raise…" She commented with a sardonic chuckle.

"Over two hundred years ago, the champion who managed to kill the other champions, whether it was directly or indirectly, won, so long as they didn't get caught. Obviously, those tournaments had the highest death toll ever, with all nine tournaments ending with all champions dead… its- it's insane. It doesn't make any sense. I don't understand who came up with this. Why would someone…" Hermione trailed off from her rambling.

Harry watched the Muggle-born as she ran her hands through her hair, all the while muttering to herself. It was an amusing sight, but Harry managed to refrain from laughing.

"So what's the theme this year?" Harry asked, trying to think back to the most recent Triwizard tournament. He had not seen it in person and only heard about it secondhand. A Potter won the tournament recently as well. His great-granduncle, if he remembered correctly. Though he was long dead now, of course.

Harry remembered his great-grandfather once telling him that only a fool or a second son entered the Triwizard tournament. Perhaps he was just a bit more like James than his great-grandfather realized, or cared to admit.

Hermione eventually recovered from her muttering and looked back up at Harry, who still watched her, amused. "I have no idea. This tournament is the ninth hosted at Hogwarts since the last. You're unlucky in that regard. The method to win hasn't been repeated once in Hogwart's history, and the last method was simply an average of total score and time. No doubt they will come up with something completely inane to counteract that…'' she said, her voice higher and higher in pitch as she finished the sentence.

"Can't you just ask your father or someone else in your family?" She asked with a hint of hope in her tired eyes and Harry wondered just how long she had been in the library.

But it wasn't like he abused her and put her to work hours on end. The two of them had a deal, they had since her first year. Rarely was a wizard so motivated, and rarer were they Muggle-born. Her loyalty came cheap. Access to any section of the library she should want it. Protection from purebloods and half-bloods should she need it. Various things he could do as Headboy and a Potter pureblood. When she graduated, having him as a friend would make her life dramatically easier. In return, he received a dedicated researcher for his various projects, and once again, when she graduated, she would come work for him or a Potter-run business.

Harry shook his head in response to her question as he idly picked up one of the books on the table and studied the title. "No, Father would not know. The Tournament is not run by any group or government or nation." Harry said simply. At least, that's what we're told, he thought.

"They are all rather secret about it, which is why I came to you. It is run by an anonymous body of wizards who choose their rank every five years from the population of the host nations." Harry finished, setting aside the book on blood curses.

Hermione groaned, and her head fell exasperatedly to the table. "That's… so annoying!" She whispered, quietly.

"You have no interest in it being fair play?" Harry teased.

Hermione pulled her head up to glare at Harry. "I have every interest in it being fair play," she defended hotly before her eyes drifted away, and her smile turned guilty. "It's just I know no one else does, and I would rather not be left in the dust." She continued after a moment.

Though she looked innocent in a shy, guilty sort of way, there was a spark in her eyes. Something hard that lay just beneath them, something put just out of sight— something hidden just out of sight. There had to be, she was a Muggle-born, and Hogwarts was nothing but unkind to her type.

In some ways, those who were Muggle-born were stronger than the purebloods and half-bloods, those who could see past the barrier at least. Many wizards, of any blood status or rank in their society, made the mistake of thinking the wizarding world was closed off. That one's rank was set by the status of their family, whose rank was set centuries ago.

That was true in large parts, but not completely. No one liked to mention that last fact. It was easier for many to blame their superiors or inferiors or the system. Those who were not pureblooded assumed they were stuck, no matter what they did they could never become Purebloods. They could work their entire lives and then maybe, just maybe, see their children gain some respect. They assume all that while calling people like Dumbledore the exception. That he could do what he did because he was Dumbledore, and they couldn't because they weren't. It is certainly hard, the odds are stacked against them, but it is not impossible.

Perhaps they were right in some… small way. If the world was completely free and opportunity was completely equal, then who would succeed? Perhaps, "because they are not Dumbledore," is a valid reason. Dumbledore would be a tremendous wizard in either such world, but would the rest? Those who saw the world saw the wall that stood before them and gave up. Their houses might be slightly bigger, their skills, more advanced, and their lives a bit happier. But given all the opportunity in the world, would any of them be any more exceptional than a leaf blowing in the wind?

The extent of the average Muggle-Borns' ambition always seemed to be marrying as high as they could. Many gave up under the harsh, continual beatdowns of Hogwarts. They were designed to give that effect after all. But those few who didn't give up, who wanted more than just some half-blood husband or if they were lucky, a pureblood, they always seemed to change the world more than any Pureblood could ever dream of.

Purebloods themselves fell victim to the same trap. They assumed themselves to be the pinnacle based on nothing but their father's achievements and their blood. In some ways, the purebloods were worse than the Muggle-borns. They assume they can not go any higher, not because of any physical or societal barrier, but because they have no reason to, that there is nothing higher.

They are all wrong.

Records can be falsified. Names can be changed. Histories can be erased. The world is magical, and therefore anyone with enough power can dominate it.

It disgusted him. Not the system he lived in, for he was not so heroic nor naive, it was the people, the Purebloods, the half-bloods, the Muggle-borns…

Harry shook the thoughts from his mind as he focused back on Hermione. He found her the first year she stepped into Hogwarts and plucked her from the masses. She was like Dumbledore, he decided then. She would succeed with or without his help, but was there anything wrong with giving her a push early on, to profit from her later?

More than just her brains or skills in the library, she had a unique perspective in his house. She was a Muggle-born, fourth-year girl. She ran in different circles from Flora and more importantly, she was more open to talking to him.

"Will you be joining us at the ceremony tonight, or will you stay among these books of yours?" Harry asked eventually.

"I wish they were mine." She mumbled dully, blowing a strand of hair from her eyes. "Yes, I'll be there, hopefully, to watch your ego get crushed." She told him cheekily.

Harry nodded but remained mute as he pushed his chair back into the desk, hard. The delicate balance of the book-structures shattered at the lurch, and then they toppled. Books started sliding off in every direction as Hermione cried out in panic and sprung forward, trying to catch as many of the ancient and one-of-a-kind books that fell.

Harry distanced himself from the frantic girl as he escaped through the maze of bookshelves that was the library. He nodded to Lady Redscale who could only offer a strained smile in return as she marched to the back corner of the library. The corner from where he had just come… He heard a faint shout of terror that sounded eerily similar to Hermione as the door of the library closed behind him.

Harry once more made his way through the long halls of Hogwarts, this time back to Gryffindor Tower where he would connect with his house before the feast. He took a gold watch from his pocket to check the time. Six thirty-seven, still a while longer before dinner, he pondered.

He had long since left the library and just as he slipped his watch into his pocket, he reached the Hogwart's entrance hall.

Harry watched from the sides as a group of wizards and witches entered the school. They were being escorted in by Dumbledore who spoke pleasantly with the wizard in front. It was an imperial advisor, Harry recognized, though he could not remember the man's name or position. He recognized some of the others as government or school officials as well. But some he did not recognize at all. Specifically, the group who trailed behind the officials, all of them cloaked in bright white robes from head to toe with their faces covered. They trailed behind the officials slowly, their heads never straying from what was in front of them and their members never participating in discussion with another. Harry watched the odd group as they walked past, his heart startling when he realized there was an exception.

Harry stood up straighter as the figure turned to look in his direction. He could not see past the figure's face covering so he could not see their eyes. All the same, he felt them burn into his skin like a hot iron brand.

And then the figure looked away and the feeling passed.

Harry felt his chest with his hand as he watched the group retreat further into Hogwarts. Were they the anonymous group that controlled the Triwizard tournament? Harry thought they must be as he once again started to Gryffindor Tower.