When my father and I used to study for hours in the lab, he would tell me about butterflies of all things.

"They are beautiful and noble creatures," he would say, that old voice of his somehow still strong despite his vocal cords being decades old. Unlike my parents' friends, he would speak only in English to me, which is why my accent happened to be much better than my friends'. As with everything my father did, that too, I believe, was calculated.

"I suppose," I would reply, feet swinging off the side of the table as he stirred his portions. "They're a bit girly, though, papa."

"No, no," he would insist. "In Greek, butterfly translates to psyche, the soul. They are neither feminine nor masculine. They represent us all."

Then he would tell me the tale of Psyche. One of his favorite stories to tell:

"Long ago, the Greeks believe there lived a beautiful human woman named Psyche. So beautiful in fact that the goddess of love and beauty, Aphrodite, sent her son to strike the fair maid down in jealousy. His name was Cupid."

"But Cupid shoots only love arrows, Papa."

"Exactly, my little Marguerite—what better way to shoot down a soul than romantic love? The goddess Aphrodite knew this to be true, and so she sent down her son to snuff out Psyche's life."

"Well then what happened?"

"He fell in love."

"He can't fall in love! He is love! He makes other people fall in love! It's his job."

"Yes, well he didn't do his job very well when he saw Psyche. It's not every day that true love himself meets the embodiment of soul, and when he did—well, the connection was instant. Some say he pricked himself on his own arrow, but I believe his heart had already made its decision well before that."

"Does he take her away?"

"No. She's brought to him when an oracle tells her parents she will marry a monster that neither gods nor humans can resist. Though they marry, Cupid hides his appearance from her, warning her to never look upon him."

"Well why would he do that?" This was the part of the story that always annoyed me most.

"I suppose love is sweeter when it is blind, or rather when the soul blindly falls into it. There's a sweet innocence, a simplicity, to the soul following love's lead in complete trust. Don't you agree?"

"How would I know?"

"You will in time." He would chuckle, always sounding so sure of himself, as if he knew something I didn't. "Anyway, that blind trust didn't last—it never does for anyone, and eventually Psyche looked at her husband while he was most vulnerable in sleep. He wakes when her candle burns him. Enraged that Psyche betrayed his trust, Cupid flies away, vowing that she will never see him again and leaving her stranded on the mountain."

"What? That's so cruel!"

"Well, despite what he said, he didn't intend to leave her there forever. He was just hurt, especially since the candle burned him as she stood over him that night. But she doesn't know that, and so she goes off on three impossible quests given to her by Aphrodite in order to prove her worth and win him back. However, in the last task, she opens a box that sends her into a deep sleep."

"Does she die?"

"No. Psyche represents the soul, and the soul never truly dies."

"Oh…then how does she wake?"

"True love. Cupid returned for her. He then brings her up into Olympus and gives her ambrosia so that she can live forever alongside him. Hence why the soul, though human, is considered immortal, entwined in an intimate relationship with love forever."

"What does this have to do with butterflies, papa?" I would always ask, utterly confused.

"Psyche means butterfly, my darling. When I see them, I think of her story; how she started on the ground, but now can fly. How the soul transforms through life, eventually morphing into something as free as the air. And I think of the part love plays in it all."

I never fully understood his answer then, but now I suspect that his fascination with butterflies had much more to do with his own impending death than any interest in beauty, tales, or love for that matter.

The soul is immortal, he would say. I know he took comfort in that, and I do too, because he was right, I think as I look down at the onyx ring in my hand until the carriage bumps up, nearly knocking the ring out of my grasp.

Must be more turbulence, I think. We had been hitting bad winds since the castle fell in view. Likely a built-in defense around the British school.

"Facile, 'orses," Madame Maxime shouts out the window, before slamming it shut, the roar of the wind falling dull with it. "We are landing, girls—and boys." The few boys we had brought with us humped indignantly. Our school was majority female, so they were not unused to being left out. "Please remain seated and remember ze protocol we discussed; you will exit ze carriage only when I deem it safe, and in double file. Ze Hogwarts students will be inside, but I assure you zat Durmstrang will be watching. Every impression counts."

Nervous chatter broke out within the massive carriage, which hosted about a hundred of Beauxbaton's finest students. That is, those above the age of 17.

Both Madame Maxime and I had been furious when the British Ministry of Magic insisted on an age-limit regulation that kept me from competing, so much so that Madame agreed to let me come along, the only student below the age of 17, as a compensatory prize for both me and her. That way, I could still see the foreign school and watch the tournament up close, while she had both her star pupil and spy to show off and beckon at her call.

Next to me, the only other logical choice for Beauxbaton's champion sat silent and confident, unlike the chattering girls around us. Madame often liked to seat us together since she liked to keep us both close to her.

"You ready for this, féerie?" I asked Fleur, using the nickname I began calling her when she one day mockingly called me by Madame's name for me—papillon, butterfly. Veelas technically were a type of Slavic fairy, but she didn't like to acknowledge that for the same reason I didn't like to be called 'butterfly'; no one takes a fairy seriously.

"Naturellement," she snapped, and I snorted. "I will bring such glory to Beauxbatons zat it will be spoken of for decades—non, centuries. My competitors will wish zey never set foot on ze field. I will destroy zem from ze inside out."

Though I snickered at her dramatics, I believed her.

With her blonde hair sleek and pulled back, Fleur looked more warrior than fairy most days—certainly nothing to laugh at. She was exceptional just as I was; top in all her classes, hardworking, ruthless in combat, persuasive, intelligent, and altogether fierce. With her veela charm to top it all off, she embodied everything Beauxbaton stood for: strength cloaked in beauty.

"Then give them hell, cheveux argentés."

We exchanged smirks, which was as good a white flag as any for our unspoken truce.

Once we stepped into the halls of the old but admittedly beautiful castle, I decided that my old Beauxabton rivalries would temporarily die as new ones with our rival schools took their place. The Durmstrang, as Madame promised, awaited us outside in perfect formation. As Madame walked to meet their headmaster midway, I felt the stares of the Durmstrang boys in their thick dark woolen uniforms on Fleur and I as we headed the two lines of Beauxbatons, awaiting Madame's directions. When one pointed leerily towards Fleur, I glared, stepping slightly in front of her to block her from his view. The blonde girl raised a brow but nodded in thanks.

I nodded back. Fleur would doubtless be Beauxbaton's champion, and therefore she would be mine as well. I intended to win, so my champion would need to be above reproach.

Then Madame fell between Fleur and I once more and we proceeded to walk in formation through the castle, the Durmstrang boys falling behind us.

"Remember, walk gracefully girls—and boys." Madame turned to us, speaking in a low, commanding voice before we entered the two grand doors to meet the Hogwarts students. "Chins 'igh, posture pristine. You are ambassadors of all Beauxbatons right now, so do not let zem forget what we are: untouchable."

Madame always had a way of achieving the grandest entrance, and today was no different.

She walked in first, the beautiful, proud, imposing figure that she was looming over the shocked Hogwarts students who all sat at four long tables, gaping at her as she approached their headmaster.

After she walked halfway down the aisle, Fleur and I led the rest of the Beauxbatons, just as Madame had asked us to—she had timed it perfectly to maximize both the shock of her impressive presence and the combined effect of Fleur and I, which I must admit—we made a striking duo.

Leading the right side was Fleur, pale and beautiful as the moon, with her silver hair tied up neatly and her willowy frame moving just gracefully enough that she looked like a warrior elfin princess out of some Celtic fairytale book.

Then, leading the left, there I stood as the sun to Fleur's moon, her contrast in just about every physical quality. Nearly half a foot shorter than her—due to age, but also pure genetics—I walked alongside her with more fire than grace, each step propelled by the lithe muscles that more than made up for my lack of height in a fight. My raven black hair fell around my shoulders in loose waves, braids crowning the top together. Whenever anyone dared to meet my eye as I walked down the aisle, I fiercely stared back at them, knowing exactly what they'd see: green eyes so piercing they appeared nearly neon against the contrast of my olive skin. To my satisfaction, most of them shrunk back under my gaze.

Besides Fleur and I being Madame's favorite, there was a reason she chose us to lead side by side—together, we represented the duality of Beauxbatons. We both were beautiful yet intimidating, and we painted a nice picture: fire and ice, passion and precision, youth and maturity. A range of the different threats Hogwarts might face from us.

The headmaster, the famous Albus Dumbledore, kissed our headmistress like an old friend and she greeted him just as warmly. She then nodded to us to take our place at the table we had discussed: the blue one, referred to as the Ravenclaw table.

After the Durmstrang students marched in with a less breathtaking but more aggressive display, the Hogwarts headmaster led Madame Maxime and the Durmstrang headmaster—Karkaroff, Ilearned—to their seats. We rose in respect as Madame stood, not sitting again until our headmistress sat down. Some of the Hogwarts students giggled, but we just stared at them blankly and they quieted, embarrassed.

Their headmaster then jumped into a welcome speech.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and — most particularly — guests," said Dumbledore, beaming at us. "I have great pleasure in welcoming you all to Hogwarts. I hope and trust that your stay here will be both comfortable and enjoyable."

Fleur laughed beside me, earning the glares of a couple of Hogwarts students, and I smirked a bit. May the psychological warfare begin.

"The tournament will be officially opened at the end of the feast," continued Dumbledore. "I now invite you all to eat, drink, and make yourselves at home!"

The food wasn't awful, but only because my parents often fed me English dishes when I was younger. Fleur raged to me that the only French option was Bouillabaisse.

"Mon Dieu, these culturally insensitive idiotes," she ranted as she shoved aside some stew. "Zey provide only Bouillabaisse for a French option, zen zey don't even provide enough at each table for us to eat."

"Calm down, pixie princess." I sighed, just wanting to eat my dinner. "Your veela temper is showing. Do you see any more potatoes?"

She scoffed standing up. "If you want your potatoes, come with me. You'll see 'ow useful my veela temper can be."

I rolled my eyes, following her as she swished imperiously over to the table decked in red. I knew exactly what she planned to do.

"Excuse me," she asked a redheaded boy so sweetly it made me want to gag. "Are you wanting ze bouillabaisse?"

I heard nothing and assumed the boy was gaping like an idiot. I pushed aside Fleur to see that I was, of course, correct. I was also surprised to see that it was the same redheaded boy from the forest. And beside him was the female friend and none other than Harry Potter.

"Yeah, have it," said Harry, pushing the dish at us.

"You 'ave finished wiz it?" Fleur continued, milking the moment for all it was worth. She loved flustering people. I rolled my eyes and caught the female friend of their looking at me curiously. She had big curly hair that was a bit untamed, but she was overall pretty, and the way she glared at the still speechless redhead made me think they might be a thing.

"Yeah," the redheaded responded breathlessly. "It was excellent."

"Yeah, yeah," I cut in dismissively, shoving beside Fleur to get to the table. "We'll also need those potatoes too."

They looked at me in surprise.

"You don't have an accent," Harry said.

"And you're Harry Potter," I countered. I had questions for him, but I wasn't in the mood just now and I doubted he was either. "Potatoes, please?"

Harry looked even more surprised but a small grin tugged at his lips as he offered me the plate. With thanks, I took it and head off after Fleur.

"Why couldn't you just follow my lead?" Fleur asked, slightly miffed.

"Because I'm not a veela and would just look like an idiot if I tried to copy your weird mind control tactic." She didn't even need to speak to boys for her veela nature to work it's magic. Even as we walked back to the table lugging two plates full of food, Hogwarts boys stared at her as if she was an angel sent directly from heaven for them.

Disgusting.

"Don't be jealous."

"I'm not. I still got my potatoes, no? I've got my own mortal charm, oh elfin princess."

"Absurde," Fleur scoffed, flipping her hair and staring loftily at the potatoes as we sat. "Forcing zem to give you zeir potatoes, which zey clearly still wanted, with nothing more zan an 'aughty demand? Zat is more like coercion, not charm."

I shrugged as we sat, remorselessly popping the spoils of our venture in my mouth. "Po-tay-to Po-tah-to, oui?"

She just shook her head and turned to engage some Ravenclaw girl next to us who had been staring at us with wide eyes, but I caught a slight smile on her face beforehand.

Intent on doing more research about the onyx ring I wore on my finger, which my father claimed to have retrieved from England, I headed straight to Hogwarts' library after dinner, convinced that if any place had information about the powerful artifact, it would be this hub of British learning.

No sooner did I take a seat with a copy of Deathly Hollows: a Trail Through the Centuries than a voice nearby startled me into dropping the book.

"Hello there, I'm Hermione Granger." The curly haired girl who was friends with Harry Potter stared down at me, hand out and smile unusually confident for a girl our age.

"Hello. Marguerite," I replied slowly, putting my book down as I surveyed her. She was a tiny little thing, probably around the same size as me, but I doubt her thin frame held the same muscles as mine; she looked far too bookish for that—I could see her being the type that nearly malnourished herself when she got her hands on a particularly good book.

My mother told me she used to be like that when she was a child and always urged me to find a balance, lamenting the time she time she lost holed up in a library in the prime of her youth. You can always read books when you're older, she would say.

As I looked around, I noted that most students seemed to share my mother's belief; the tables around us were mostly empty, though a Durmstrang boy sat close by at the table next to what I could only assume were Hermione's books.

"I wanted to introduce myself," Hermione continued. "You seemed friendly at the feast."

I rose a brow skeptically. "Is that so?" I'm pretty sure I had been the opposite.

She blushed, confirming my thoughts.

"Well," she said, looking around, a bit frazzled. "You seemed like the type who I would like to befriend, at any rate."

I stared at her, bewildered. What types of people did this girl usually befriend that she would see potential in the girl who forcefully demanded their potatoes? But then I remembered.

"Ah, je vois, Harry Potter steals people's food too, then?" I asked knowingly.

She blanched and sat down beside me, lowering her voice urgently, though I had just been joking. "Harry does not steal people's food. He's one of the nicest people you'll ever meet. I just meant that you don't seem like the other Beauxbaton girls."

I snorted. "You mean Fleur."

"The blonde girl?"

"Oui. Fleur Delacour. She is a rare breed and likely our champion. You'll not find many like her in Beauxbatons or anywhere for that matter." I chuckled to myself before adding, "Unless, of course, you visit the eastern forests in Bulgaria."

Hermione gasped. "So she is veela then?"

I rolled my eyes. "Only one-eighth. Though she acts as if she's full when it suits her. Your lot seems especially susceptible to her charms."

Now it was Hermione's turn to roll her eyes. "Yes—well. Some boys lose all sense when they see a pretty face."

"Like your redheaded friend?" I asked.

Her responding hmph made me smirk. Perhaps she fancied him after all.

"So, Marguerite. What are you doing in the library on your first day here?" she asked, looking around. "As you can see, most students at Hogwarts try to avoid it if they can."

I raised the book, hoping she didn't read the cover. "Light reading."

My father warned me to avoid telling people about the stone if I could help it. People are greedy by nature, he would say. I certainly didn't hold onto the Philosopher's Stone for so long by mouthing off about it to strangers.

But alas Hermione's eyes lit up in interest. "The Deathly Hollows? I've never heard anything about that. What is it?"

"The stuff of legends," I said dismissively. "An English folktale that I'm researching to get a better idea of the culture."

"Oh—well let's hear it, then."

I sighed, realizing must be the type that can't bare not knowing every piece of information that crossed her path. Figuring that indulging her curiosity would lead to the least possible nosiness, I gave her a brief overview of the story, automatically hiding my ringed hand beneath the table when it came to the part about the Resurrection Stone.

"Fascinating," Hermione praised when I finished the tale. She gazed at the book in my hand curiously. "And people believe these hollows are real—traceable?"

"Only imbéciles."

"Then why are you reading it?"

"Can't you tell je suis un imbécile?" I deadpanned. To her credit, she laughed. "So why are you in the library, Hermione Granger?" I asked, turning it on hwe.

She shrugged. "I'm always in here. If you come here often, which I had I feeling you would since you're here the first day, you'll see me frequently. That's why I introduced myself."

"Ah, that's unfortunate. Not that I'll see you often, but that you're here so much. You need what we call in France équilibre—balance. Play with your friends more; I know you have them. My maman always used to tell me to save as many books as I can for when I'm old with a body too tired to do anything but sit."

Hermione blushed, looking down at one of her books, playing with its fringe. "I know, you're right. That's actually my goal for this year. Last year was so out of control that the school even gave me a time turner to keep up with all my classes."

"What's that?"

"It turns back time so you can live in the past in a parallel thread to your original actions in the timeline."

"Pas de merde!" I gasped, covering my mouth and lowering my voice as the Durmstrang boy looked over. "How is that possible? Why does France have none?" I demanded.

Hermione shrugged. "It's a British invention. I suppose the French never figured it out on their own and the Ministry of Magic never offered one to replicate. Which makes sense; it could be dangerous falling into the wrong hands. The rules of time travel are very strict, you know. I wouldn't be surprised if the only reason the school is authorized to keep one is because Dumbledor keeps it under strict lock and key behind his desk. He's the most powerful wizard of our age—no one is getting past him."

My mind whirled with possibilities at this new discovery. I had been grieving as though their deaths would be permanent for the past 3 years. Of course, I had the Resurrection Stone for comfort, but I couldn't speak to them often through that, lest my father get angry.

You cannot live among the dead, he would say. Arguing with one's dead father was not the best feeling in the world; the only thing worse than fearing you're disappointing your dead parents is having them directly confirm to you that you are. Needless to say, I could count on my hand the amount of times I used the stone after that, though its presence continued to comfort me.

However, this changed everything. If I had a time turner, I could go back to visit my parents while they were actually alive—to how things used to be. There would be no specters, no stone, no dead father angrily telling me to move on with my life: just us, together again. Perhaps I could even prevent their deaths entirely.

I thought it over quietly as Hermione eventually bid farewell, returning to her studies at the other table.

Hermione was correct; Albus Dumbledore was the most powerful wizard of our age. There was no way around that. Though I excelled at nearly every subject—so much so that Madame had taken to showcasing me as a protégé—I was not delusional enough to think that I could just waltz in there and steal an artifact from the most powerful wizard alive that would give me control over time itself.

No. There was only one viable option; I would need to convince him.