"Well the situation at hand is that he didn't do it," Hermione whispered frantically as we huddled together at the back table in the library exactly a week after the whole goblet fiasco. Madame had been so angry, convinced we had been cheated, that she hadn't let us leave the carriage for a full week, saying that Hogwarts did not deserve our presence. Instead, we just festered in anger and suspicion, amplified by Fleur's long-winded, often-irrational rants.

Personal training with Fleur had been my only reprieve, since it afforded me both a change in setting and an opportunity to shut Fleur up, albeit temporarily.

Don't get me wrong; I was angry too. But having spent some time with the boy, I also knew that Harry was no match for any of those champions, let alone the tasks they would all face. He was no threat, I frequently assured my classmates. To which Fleur, if she overheard, would angrily reply, Incroyable! I'm sure You-Know-Who thought that too!

That would always work everyone up into a real frenzy.

But as all the schools seemed to have turned against Harry, including his own, I could not help but pity the boy. I found it hard to believe what Hermione was saying, but, really, why would anyone want to bring such ostracization on themselves?

"Then how did his name come out?" I asked skeptically.

"I don't know!"

"Well of course you don't. But does he—"

"He doesn't know either," Hermione interrupted firmly. "And don't tell the other Beauxbatons, but…he's scared."

I frowned. "Well he should be! The tournament kills people if they're not prepared. That's why they set an age limit."

To put it simply, Harry did not possess the skills to survive in a competition like this. Most people under the age limit didn't. Now if I had been selected out of the goblet, that would be a different story…

"Don't you think we know that, Marguerite?" She sounded tired. "That's what makes this whole thing suspicious. Sure, with a fun competition, putting the school celebrity's name in the pot could be a harmless prank, but with something that could result in his death…"

Understanding dawned on me, and I lowered my voice, leaning in closer. "You think that someone's out to get him."

"It sure looks that way," Hermione agreed. "In order for someone to have broken through the age line, it would have had to been a powerful wizard. Not many wizards can rival Dumbledore's powers."

I gaped at her as I realized what she was implying. "Mon dieu. Surely you don't think Voldemort—"

"Shh!" Hermione interrupted, looking suspiciously around the library. The only one paying us any mind was Viktor Krum, who oddly enough spent nearly as much time as us in the library. Who would have thought?

"Listen," Hermione said in a low voice, her eyes sweeping around us once more before she continued. "You can't tell anyone this—and I mean anyone—but Harry's been having dreams of Voldemort. And his scar's been hurting since this summer. Paired up with the goblet incident, I don't think it's a coincidence that Harry's now forced to participate in a deadly competition."

I nodded, mulling over her words. "I suppose it wouldn't be the first time Voldemort or one of his followers infiltrated the castle."

Hermione startled, a questioning look on her face.

"Oh, Dumbledore told me," I explained nonchalantly.

That seemed to only increase her shock.

"Why on earth would Dumbledore be having private conversations with you about that?" she asked, flabbergasted. "Do you even know him?"

"Not really," I replied, hoping to change the subject but knowing she wouldn't let up without some explanation. "He was friends with my father."

Hermione's forehead scrunched. "I just realized I don't even know your last name."

I sighed. That hadn't been on accident. I hadn't mentioned my last name to anyone in Hogwarts because I didn't want the attention that came with it. But I didn't care enough to outright lie to Hermione, so I reluctantly told her.

She gasped, brown eyes wide. "Your father was Nicolas Flamel."

It wasn't a question, which didn't surprise me.

The more time I spent with Hermione and her friends, the more I realized that the two boys could barely do anything without her. Even though Dumbledore made no mention of Hermione when speaking about the stone, I figured that in order for Harry to have made it past even the first obstacle, Hermione must have been by his side strategizing and guiding him through it.

Which means she also must have been the one who had researched the stone and my father while still trying to figure out what Voldemort had been trying to steal. She probably knew more about him than most.

"He was an exceptionally talented man. A legend," she said softly. "I was very sorry to hear he passed. Even sorrier to think that we might have played some part in it."

My heart softened at her remorse, and I let go of any remaining anger I might have felt at the students who complicated the protection of the stone.

"It was not your fault," I assured her gently. "Only one person is to blame."

Our eyes met. We both knew who that person was.

And now he might strike again.

"Keep me in the loop," I said solemnly. "I have resources—I won't go into detail, but I often act as Madame's eyes and ears in places she can't go. If you tell me who to follow, I can tell you if they have anything to hide."

Hermione surveyed me curiously. "Are you an animagus?"

I glared. "Say it a little louder, pissenlit. I'm sure the Dursmtrang boy might have missed a word."

Hermione huffed indignantly at the use of the nickname I had taken to calling her. It really just meant dandelion—since her hair reminded me of a lion's mane, but her frail bookish frame made it so that she was more flower than lion—but Hermione could not look up the definition unless I spelt it for her, which I refused to do. As a result, she suspected it meant the worst, frustrated to no end that I would keep that bit of knowledge from her, even if it was merely one word.

"I'm sorry, I got excited. I know other animagi—I met two last year, and I found them fascinating. What's your form?"

I snorted. "Telling you would take away its advantage, non?"

Hermione hesitated. "I suppose so, but it's not as if it's me you're spying on."

"That you know of."

Hermione paled, which made me laugh.

"Relax," I eased. "You're such an open book that I wouldn't even need to transform—I'd just walk up behind you and look down into the book you're reading. That should catch me up on anything I'm missing rapidement."

She laughed. "You're not entirely wrong, but I assure you I can keep a secret."

"I'm sure you can," I granted. "From the right people."

"Exactly!" she agreed, satisfied, before lowering her voice. "Anyway, if you would like to help, Harry and I have been trying to keep a close eye on Karkaroff."

"The Durmstrang headmaster?"

Hermione nodded. "We have word that he used to be a death eater."

I surveyed Hermione. The firm set of her jaw indicated complete surety, yet I wondered if that confidence was warranted.

"Is this word mere rumor?" I asked dubiously. "From what I can tell, nearly half of the wizards in England have been rumored to be death eaters at one point, your potions master among them."

"Oh yes, Snape." Hermione said his name unenthused, as if it was another word for slime. "He's usually our first suspect, but we just wind up embarrassed each time we pursue it. Dumbledore trusts him. And honestly, I can see why. Despite his vendetta against Harry, he's saved our lives once or twice, so I doubt it's him." She said that glumly, as though she wished it were him.

Well, better the devil you knew, I supposed.

"Why does he dislike Harry?"

"He didn't get on well with Harry's father and takes it out on Harry."

"Seems a bit childish," I replied, eyebrows raised. That would never fly in Beauxbatons.

Hermione shrugged. "He's also just a miserable person. Nasty to mostly everyone, as I'm sure you can tell from your potion classes."

Actually, this was news to me. Sure, the dark-robed professor was a bit colder and more sarcastic than the rest of the Hogwarts faculty, but I actually liked him best for that. We got on pretty well. I even reckoned he favored me a bit at times.

"Has Harry figured out the first task yet?" I asked, changing subjects. I kept my voice low, hyper aware of Viktor Krum's presence at the table next to us. He seemed to be around a lot these days—a suspicious amount. I couldn't tell if it was for Hermione or me. Or rather, Harry or Fleur: we were both publicly close enough to the our respective champion that it wouldn't be a stretch to imagine Krum spying for information.

After all, that's what we were talking about right now.

"Of course he hasn't," Hermione scolded. "It's supposed to be a surprise, or else it's cheating."

I stared in disbelief.

"Please tell me you're joking."

She pursed her lips, unamused.

"Mon dieu," I said with a laugh. "You British truly are dull."

"Excuse me!" Hermione protested.

"Let me clarify," I said, speaking slowly, as if to a child, my smirk widening when it further incited her. "If Harry goes into the first task blind, he is foutu."

She scoffed but mulled it over. Finally she bit her lip and asked, "Well does Fleur know?"

I smirked. "She will by the time I'm through."

Diving through the air, I made it out of the door just in time before it slammed shut behind Karkaroff, who was supposedly off to find Krum. For what, I had no clue.

I had been following the Durmstrang headmaster all week, and my verdict was that Karkaroff was the type of man that liked power games but had no real arsenal to back it up, if you catch my meaning. Pas de balles, we would call it in France.

His days mostly comprised of bumping into strangers and making them apologize as he stared down his nose at them. Yet, every time he got into a real conversation—with someone who actually mattered—his response always reverted to two things: pandering or fear.

Yes, the latter shocked me too.

All it took was a single intrusion on one of Karkaroff and Snape's brief, secretive post-potions conversations—the Durmstrang headmaster stalled outside Snape's classroom like a dejected dog most days, much to the potion master's irritation—to find out, not one, not two, but three extremely valuable secrets from the man.

First, Karkaroff was a death eater, and—here's the real shocker—Snape likely was too. It turns out that the reason Karkaroff has been harassing Snape is that they both have dark marks—the marks Voldemort branded his followers with, I learned upon further research—which leads me to the second secret.

The dark marks have been burning. According to Karkaroff, that only happens when 'the Dark Lord'—a presumptuous, prickish name if you ask me—summons his followers. So it seems like Hermione's and Harry's concerns weren't too far off after all.

But the third secret is that they aren't the only ones concerned: apparently, Karkaroff is absolutely terrified of the potential of Voldemort's return. At first I suspected he might be trying to merely deceive Snape into believing he was afraid to avoid suspicion, but after watching the bearded man hyperventilate on Snape's office floor, I'm convinced. No act could be worth such debasement.

From the look of disgust Snape reacted with, I'm sure he would agree.

All that to say, I determined that Karkaroff, though a coward and pompous ass, was certainly no loyal acolyte, and therefore did not put Harry's name in the goblet. Even if he did have it out for Harry, he was so obsessed with winning this competition that there was no way he would willingly risk that by giving Hogwarts two champions.

What I saw next would prove that even more.

"Viktor, my boy!"

Krum slowly looked up from the book he had been reading. It took me a moment to notice that Hermione sat on the other side of his book. Was that a blush on Krum's face?

"Come and join me for a walk. I want a word," the headmaster entreated warmly.

Face passive, Krum complied, sweeping up his books in one swift scoop of his large arms. Stepping in pace beside his headmaster, they both strolled out of the library and through the halls without saying a word. Karkaroff didn't speak up until they were out the castle doors.

"I have a surprise for you, my boy."

Karkaroff kept looking over his shoulder as they briskly walked through the dark forest grounds. I flew close to them, landing on Viktor's bag to avoid spider webs. Flying grew tricky and sometimes dangerous in the dark. I tried to avoid it if I could, but Karkaroff's sudden need to speak with Krum peaked my interest.

Another minute later, we came across a large clearing, Karkaroff stopping Krum just before he passed through the trees.

"No, if we pass this marker, it will trigger the alarm," Karkaroff whispered. "They will find us."

I flew up, hovering just over Viktor's shoulder to see fire swallowing up nearly the entire field like a giant red snake. It took me a moment to recognize what was in between.

"Dragons," Victor said in awe. The hairs on my antennas stood up as the famous seeker quietly swore.

"Yes, they are holding back no punches in this tournament," Karkaroff agreed gravely. "The one downside to the age limit. But not to worry, my boy. You have among the fastest reflexes in the world—I'm sure you at least will do fine."

Viktor grunted, his face shifting back to its usual impassive expression.

"I will start preparing immediately," the boy said.

"That a boy!" the headmaster cheered, grasping Krum on the shoulder as they turned to walk back to the castle.

Although I fluttered back onto Viktor's bag in shock, processing this new development. We had all known the tournament could be deadly, hence the age limit, but really—dragons? I knew that I could probably get past it no problem in my animagus form, but Fleur? Harry? What were the tournament officials thinking?

Once we were out of the forest, I flew right off Viktor's bag and into the Beauxbaton's carriage, where I knew Madame and a certain veela would be equal parts thrilled and terrified at what I had to say.

After Fleur had about a week head start in her research about defenses against dragons, I began to deliberate exactly how much I owed Hermione Granger; I considered her a friend, but did that friendship earn her the privilege of insider tournament information? She would doubtless tell Harry—that wasn't even a question. Usually, I would never do anything that would jeopardize a victory. I was a winner through and through; that's why Madame brought me along, after all.

However, in this particular circumstance, I decided that I could allow a small act of mercy in honor of my friendship with Hermione. Not only did I genuinely enjoy her company, but I wouldn't have even known about the dragons if I hadn't been following Karkaroff on her behalf. Telling her was the least I could do, especially considering her best friend would likely die in this challenge, whether he prepared or not.

It didn't help that Hermione had adopted the most inconvenient study partner while I had been holed away helping Fleur the past week. Viktor Krum now sat with her nearly every time I went to the library.

I sat with them once at Hermione's request, but it's not like I could tell her top-secret tournament information when he was there. I suspected Krum would be Fleur's largest competition, so I'd be damned if I cozied up to the enemy unless it somehow benefited Beauxbatons. And the way the quidditch star continuously stared at Hermione, it seemed like she would be the only one able to manipulate him with feminine charms at this point, not that she even noticed.

Seeing no other option, I slipped her a note one day as they sat studying together. I didn't stick around to see her reaction, but when none other than Harry Potter himself greeted me outside charms one day, I knew it could be about nothing but that.

"Are you Marguerite Flamel?"

I nodded. The Hogwarts third years exiting from my class looked at Harry curiously as they walked by, a cloud of whispers and chatters breaking out that seemed to follow Harry Potter wherever he went.

Ginny, always glued to my side when classes were in session, looked at Harry suspiciously as he fell into step next to me. "Alright, Harry?"

"Yeah—and hi Ginny," he said quickly, his voice serious and a bit flustered. "I just need to talk to Marguerite for a minute if you don't mind."

Ginny narrowed her eyes at Harry, and I watched them both in interest. From what Ginny told me, Harry Potter was like a brother to her for the amount of time he spent with their family because of her brother Ron, Hermione's redheaded friend. Yet, Ginny looked like she cared a bit too much about his interest in me, looking possessive—almost like an angry wife instead of a concerned sister.

Putting a hand on her shoulder, I drew her gaze towards me, which was still fierce. "All good, Ginny. I'll meet you in potions as soon as possible." Then for her benefit, I turned to Harry and added a bit briskly, "Whatever this is, you'll need to speak quickly. Snape doesn't appreciate latecomers."

I felt Ginny's shoulder relax a bit under my hand as she turned from me to Harry. "No—he really doesn't so you best be quick," she agreed, staring pointedly at him.

"I will, I will," he assured us both, looking entirely unphased. I nearly rolled my eyes; the whole thing had gone entirely over his head. Typical behavior for Harry Potter, I had come to realize.

With one more weighty stare at the both of us, Ginny took off down the staircase, leaving Harry and I walking slowly behind as the corridors began to clear.

"So—" I prompted when he didn't say anything for a while and just stared intently down the stairs. His face had this intense, thoughtful expression on it, his eyebrows and forehead scrunched in a way that crumpled and raised the scar on his skin.

"I don't want you to pity me," he said firmly, cutting me off.

My eyebrows raised as I waited for him to continue.

It took a moment, but when his dark green eyes focused on me, he said, "I'm grateful for the warning, I am. But I know why you did it—I know what Hermione thinks and probably speaks to you about while you're studying together. I know what they all think."

"Do you? Enlighten me." I had a feeling I knew where this was going but was curious all the same.

"You all think I'm going to die," he said lowly, bitterly. "That I'm not competent enough to compete in this competition."

"Well... are you?"

We walked in quiet for a minute, people staring and whispering at him as we walked by. I saw a few of the stupid green pins that a Hogwarts rival made about him. The sound effects of Potter Stinks whirling over Cedric the True Hogwarts Champion as his green robed classmates saw him walking down the hall followed us as we entered the dungeons.

Finally, he responded in a quiet voice, devoid of all anger. "I don't know."

At that, I stopped walking and looked at him real hard. He stumbled to a stop as well, and I felt as if it was the first time I really saw Harry Potter for what he really was: a boy just trying to survive. And in that moment, I knew what had to be done.

"Follow me," I demanded, leading him into an empty classroom. Ginny wouldn't like this, but now wasn't the time to care about crushes and feelings.

Once I heard him close the door, I whipped around, focusing on him with the same intensity that my father had once given me when he had given me a similar talk.

"Yes, I do pity you, Harry Potter, but not just because you'll likely die in this competition." Surprise flitted across his face. "And yes, in case you're in any doubt that is what Hermione's concerned about." I hadn't realized that I had become a close confidante for Hermione, perhaps even closer than Harry or Ron, until this moment, as Harry stared at me, evidently surprised that Hermione would vocalize her fear. "And she has good reason. The rest of your school seems to think it's some joke, too idiotic to grasp that it's a very real possibility, but the rest of us know differently."

He looked positively affronted, but there was no stopping the boulder I had already set in motion. I began to pace back and forth, hands behind my back, on a roll.

"This competition was designed for only the bravest, smartest, most skilled wizarding students of our age," I continued, looking him dead in the eye. "Do you know how skills are gained, Potter? They don't just drop out of the sky or are scarred on your forehead at birth. You need to work for them." His eyes narrowed at that, but I just narrowed my eyes back at him. "Every day. For a bunch of days. And then some more."

"You have no idea what skills I have," he replied lowly, stepping forward as if to fight me.

"No? Then show me," I offered innocently, arm sweeping out as I drew my wand.

"Exepelliarmus!" I dodged it with a quick wordless shield charm. His eyebrows drew in confusion, and I realized he probably wasn't familiar with non-verbal spells yet, even though he was a year older than me. Most Hogwarts students I've spoken to below sixth year weren't.

"Is that all?" I goaded.

He flushed then sent a flash of jinxes at me, each bursting into the air in a spastic explosion of colors. When the flashes subsided, each one of them successfully deflected, I raised a brow at him.

"And to think—I'm not even a dragon."

He stared back, his dark green eyes inscrutable, though his face looked noticeably redder than usual.

I turned away from him, confident he would not fire again, and resumed my pacing. "Though you have potential, Hogwarts and your celebrity status has done you a disservice. Your headmaster claps you on the back for reckless bravery yet never pushes you to grow—on your own I mean—into someone who can protect himself. He's content with you playing the knight instead of encouraging you to evolve into a more powerful player. Probably because knights are useful to him—dependent, predictable."

"Don't talk about Dumbledore that way!" Harry snapped.

"Just a theory," I said with a shrug. I had many theories about the man who let my father die for the 'greater good.' Was bitterness clouding my judgement? Definitely. Did that mean I was wrong? Only time and another meeting with the headmaster would tell.

"But Dumbledore aside, one thing is for sure," I continued, levitating a book nearby. The boy watched it carefully. "As long as you are constantly reacting to danger instead of acting to make yourself stronger, you'll never be ready when the danger hits." I threw the book at him, and though I stopped it just short of hitting him, he flinched.

"That's why I pity you, Harry Potter," I concluded. "Someone is trying to take your life right now, yes, but even if they don't succeed this time, there will be another time, and another, and probably a couple after that as well. One day they will you wear you down, unless you flip the narrative and act instead of react."

"You sound like you speak from experience," he said curiously, staring at the book I had lowered to the floor.

Just when I thought Harry Potter might be oblivious, he said something like that to remind me that he's smarter than he lets on.

"Yes," I admitted, trying to keep my face neutral, keeping myself busy by putting the book back on the shelf. "Growing up I was very sick. Apparently a dark wizard sent by Voldemort held my mother under Cruciates for about an hour while she was pregnant with me. I nearly died."

"I'm so sorry," Harry said, and it sounded like he genuinely meant it, even though I had basically just humiliated him. I could see why Hermione thought so highly of her friend.

"Don't be," I replied brusquely. "After all you killed the bâtarde." Harry chuckled, breaking the tension. "Anyways, as a child, I was very weak. If my father hadn't given me a similar talk at a young age, showing me how I could strengthen myself both physically and magically to better fend off the illness, I would have surely died."

Interest flitted across his face. "Nicholas Flamel? Were you close with him then?"

"Well, he was my father," I replied bluntly. Harry snorted but then sobered.

"I'm sorry to hear that he passed."

"Yes—well. Me too." I grabbed my bag and started to head toward the door, not ready to talk about it. Perhaps I never would be. "I have to go to potions now but remember what I said."

"That I'm weak," he responded drily. I looked over, pleased to see a half smile on his face.

"No, Potter." I rolled my eyes. "That you're reactive. Instead of just trying to survive these tasks, strengthen yourself all around, so you have the skills necessary to not die in the future. If not for your own sake, then for Hermione's—she won't stop worrying about you."

I opened the door, surprised to hear him call out a thank you as I left. Even more surprising was the mangled form of Professor Moody standing right by the door. I whipped out my wand, before I realized who it was then put it immediately down.

"Flamel," he greeted, that strange eye of his watching my wand hand curiously. I looked down to see my ring and immediately shoved my wand, along with my hand, in my pocket.

"Sneaking away for some private time with Potter, eh?" He licked his lips, a weird quirk I'd notice he had.

I scoffed at the implication. "Oh pousse-le. He's hardly my type."

Moody narrowed his eyes. "I speak French, young lass. Let's see what Professor Snape has to say about the reason you're late to his class," he grunted, grabbing me by the arm.

It took everything in me not to transform into my animagus form to escape his vice-like grasp as he angrily hobbled all the way to potions. Especially when he banged the door dramatically open with his cane, and all eyes went to us. The class grew silent.

"What is the meaning of this?" Snape's quiet, angry voice carried, even though he stood across the room.

His eyes swept immediately to Moody's hand on my arm, and by the way they flashed, I could tell he didn't like what he saw.

"Found this one closeted alone in a classroom with Potter," Moody projected loud enough for the whole class to hear. Whispers broke out immediately. When Moody looked down at me smugly, I knew that had been exactly his goal.

"Silence!" Snape snapped, and the whole class fell quiet again.

He approached Moody and I, and only looked at me when he got closer. His face was paler than usual, and it seemed to me an odd mix of disgust and—could that be?—concern.

"I'll take it from here, Professor Moody," he said silkily, threateningly. I could have sworn I heard Moody snort as he happily clunked away.

When the door closed behind Moody, I made to move to my seat, but Snape barked, "Flamel! In my office!"

I sighed. Of course, Moody had to do this with the one Professor I found somewhat intimidating.

When I entered the office, I found Snape scribbling down a note with his quill and airing the paper out to dry.

"You will take this to Professor Dumbledore," he ordered.

"But, sir—"

He silenced me with a look. I wonder if he knew this was the worst possible punishment he could have given me—to send me to the man I had been successfully avoiding for weeks.