Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated productions belong to JKR.

Chapter 7- All the World's A Game

They have dragons down there. Real, live, scaly, fire-breathing dragons. I've seen Norbert before, Harry told me about the task, but that can't compare to actually seeing them.

Oh God. What if he can't do the charm right? He barely got it right this morning– he still hasn't gotten that half-quarter flick of the wrist down– he's going to be nervous and his concentration– that pillow only responded about 80% of the time– what if he forgot to unlock the tower window– would the trainers just let the dragon attack him– I knew I should've taught him some defensive jinxes– there was that one I found the other day in Defensive Magic–

Oh. That was, well, amazing. Harry! I knew you could do it. He still got hurt, I hope he's ok…on another note, I need to look up corporeal illusions in the library. I'm sure Professor Babbling wouldn't object if I did an extra credit project.

- Hermione

This wasn't how she'd imagined it. In her mind, all of this played out differently – she would walk out, flash a perfect smile at the adoring crowd, serene and, of course, gorgeous. Or sometimes it was a hostile crowd, but that was alright. By the end, she'd always win them over. She'd stride onto the field, whirling her wand and outwitting her competition in a stunning display of grace, poise, and sheer kickassery. With what she'd prepared? None of them stood a chance.

At least, that's how it was supposed to go.

Now that she was actually facing down the beast? Suddenly, all of her confidence seemed sad, childish. She swallowed, trying to stride – briskly, she told herself sharply, don't you dare let your knees waver – into the stadium, hoping no one could see her terror. Fleur clenched her fingers. Ari would have refused to let anyone even suspect she was scared, and even Ari couldn't do what she was going to. She'd gone over this in her head a thousand times before, practiced a smaller version in the carriage with the windows drawn. She could do this. She could. No three-ton, scaly, fire-breathing monstrosity was going to keep her from – really, she could do this.

Bagman– that simpering, cheerful imbecile– shouted something from up in the announcement booth, but it didn't register. She couldn't worry about that. The sunlight was blinding, the crowds roar enough to give her a migraine, and she could see Madame's calculated, piercing stare, but she couldn't afford to worry about that now. Focus, she needed to focus. All that mattered was the end of it, the score, the victory, the Cup. And in between there and here was nothing but her fear and the brilliant green dragon at the other end of the stadium. A line from an old fairy tale sprung to mind, unbidden – it's easy, good Sir. All you have to do is slay the dragon.

It wasn't the largest kind of the different species– thankfully– but it could still kill her. Easily. Well, if an imbecile like Ser Hoel could defeat a Welsh Green, she certainly could.

The dragon stirred.

Fleur ducked behind the nearest pillar. The entire stadium had been remodelled into a rocky terrain, with pillars, boulders, and mounds of rocks, all to make it easy for the Champions to hide. And not die. Shaking her head, Fleur mentally ran through her plan, scanning the arena, picking out key locations.

She breathed deeply, then picked up her wand and etched a glowing rune into the pillar she was leaning against. Sprinting to the next pillar, she etched another rune into its surface. The dragon raised her head, watching her mistrustfully. Fleur watched it warily, sketching a rune into the third pillar, this one charred by the flames of an earlier battle.

Evidently, the Welsh didn't deem her much of a threat. It curled lazily around it's eggs, ignoring her. Fleur realized her breathing had eased. She shook her head, trying to choose another flat surface, drawing a perimeter of runes at her end of the field. Watching the Welsh warily, she slipped behind a rock (right, like that's going to stop a rampaging dragon) and started to chant. Smooth runes slid out of her wand, hovering like liquid smoke in the center of her circle. As she began chanting faster and faster, the runes began to coalesce in the air, whirling and blending together into an amorphous haze.

Fleur paused, and flicked her wand at each of the six pillars she'd etched.

"Issa."

"Mannaz."

The blot was starting to take form, centering, bubbling, stretching.

"Nauthise."

"Heyboe."

It was acquiring a greenish tint, rippling through the air as it solidified.

"Vunyu."

She gritted her teeth, her wand steady.

"Eihwaz," Fleur shouted, as a beam of light careened into her illusion. She watched it's arc, hoping, knowing, but not quite – there was a loud crack.

A fully-formed Welsh male roared into life. Fleur held her wand steady, pointed at the dragon and reached out with her mind. Feeling the shadowy link, she whipped back to watch the real dragon, rising from its nest, steam rolling from its nostrils.

"Dragon, meet Crépin." It was somewhat satisfying to give her ex-boyfriend's name to a scaly, hulking beastie. Or it was, till she realized the Welsh had taken flight, thrashing its wings and barreling straight towards her illusion – and herself.

Fleur's eyes widened and she froze for a fraction of a second, paralyzed by the three tons of snarling muscle about to pounce on her. Then instinct kicked in, and she ran. The Welsh stopped just short of Crépin, hissing and puffing its chest, hoping posturing would scare the male away.

Backing away, Fleur ducked behind a rock. She pointed her wand at her illusory dragon, and whispered a charm. Crépin snarled, issuing a jet of blue-green flame across the field.

That was all it took.

The Welsh roared, charging at the illusion. Spitting fire, it rushed at the male, lashing its claws at Crépin's head. Fleur's wand swept down. Crépin ducked, his skull grazed by a curved incisor, and then tried to launch into the air. The Welsh's tail swung behind the illusion, dashing it to the ground.

Fleur grimaced. "Maybe I should have name the female Fleur," she muttered, picking slowly towards the nest, focused on the battle between the dragons. If she could keep the Welsh occupied long enough to snatch the golden egg, she should make it to the end without a scratch.

She renewed her assault, directing her dragon. Crépin launched at the female, his teeth digging into her shoulder. It snarled, scratching at his wings, tearing open the sinewy, gauzy strips. Fleur gritted her teeth, as the corporeal illusion began to dissolve. Pouring energy into the link, she forced the dragon to stabilize. The dragon's parted, circling each other warily, snorting jets of flame.

The nest was only feet away. She took her eyes of the dragon, sprinting towards the eggs, crouching over them. Sparing a glance for the dragons, she saw the Welsh hissing, but it seemed wounded – blood leaked sluggishly from its shoulder, and its left wing had been brutalized. Fleur arms closed around the golden egg, but as she rose, she stumbled.

The illusion started to fade. Panicked, Fleur whirled around, delving through her link and firming up the dragons borders. She shivered. "Merde," she cursed. The illusion is too large, she realized, fear creeping up her spine. I don't have enough energy to sustain it. Desperately, she scanned the stadium for an energy source, something, anything to draw on, but all she could see was stone and dirt.

"Merde," she repeated – and ran. The finish line was only halfway across the stadium, and if she could just keep the male dragon till then –

The Welsh pounced. Crépin roared, but Fleur ignored him, trying to dash across the field without being seen. She slipped, and the egg rolled into a hollow. "Merde, merde, merde," she muttered, scrambling for it, ignoring her scraped knees. Grabbing the egg, she saw the Welsh biting at Crépins throat, a vicious assault. The link broke, pounding back into her head. She winced, but Crépin dissolved, the male Welsh dissipating into green smoke.

The female stepped back, swishing its tail.

Abandoning subtlety altogether, Fleur started to sprint. The dragon turned, eyes drawn immediately to its nest. It let out an ominous growl. Glancing back over her shoulder, Fleur saw its eyes scan the stadium – and lock onto hers.

It limped into the air, dragging its left wing, but still moving faster than she could. The finish line was so close, just there, she just had to get past that and the dragon trainers would take it down, it was so close –

The dragon spat a plume fire towards her. Pivoting, she conjured up a shield, buckling under her guard. The shield wavered, but the dragon broke of the flame. The dragon was closing in, and she turned and ran, trying to duck the hissing jets of fire. She dove to the right, just dodging a spurt of twisting blue. Only feet from the end, she could feel it bearing down on her, it's enormous wings casting pitch shadows over her head –

Fleur screamed. A streak of fire caught her sleeve, her arm bursting into flame. She saw a familiar redhead step forward, wand drawn, looking horrified. "Aguamenti," she gasped, "Aguamenti!"

She conjured another shield and stumbled backwards, reeling with pain. Fleur collapsed. Her knees gave out as the snarling dragon landed in front of her, and she tumbled, slipping, falling – over a line marked in white.

Someone pulled her out of the way, dragging her back as a team of trainers surged forward. Conjured ropes and grapples dragged the Welsh Green to the ground, its tail nearly clubbing one of them in the ribs. There was a sharp flash; the dragon roared as its wings were pulled flat. Fleur pushed away the arms cradling her and struggled to her feet, dizzy from exhaustion and her sharp spines of pain rushing up her shoulder. She lurched towards the medical tent.

He held out a hand to steady her. "Hey, just let my help you," he said, his voice almost exasperated. "Those burns need treatment right a- "

"I just battled a dragon," Fleur cut in curtly. "I can manage walking."

She glanced back at the Welsh green, muzzled and being herded away, and stumbled. He caught her wrist and steered her into the tent. She folded onto a cot, clutching her arm. A grey-haired harridan started fussing over her, lathering creams onto her arm and clucking about unnecessary dangers. Fleur tuned her out. The poultices and anesthetics worked almost immediately, the racking pain fading to a dull throbbing. Her eyes drooped shut, but she forced them open.

They fixed upon the man who'd helped her up. He was gorgeous, really quite good-looking – and that was a real achievement for a ginger. His hair wasn't quite ginger, more a burnt burgundy, pulled back in a nonchalant tail. Or it was meant to look nonchalant, at least, but Fleur could tell when someone assigned the appropriate value to hair care. Dull, brown eyes were balanced out by a square jaw and a dangling dragonstooth earing.

"Are you a dragon trainer?" she asked, consciously working not to slur her words.

He looked up. "What, me? Nah," he answered, grinning lazily. "I work for Gringotts."

She frowned, sure he was mocking her. "And what would a banker be doing anywhere near the a dragon fighting ring?" Her tone was sharply accusatory.

The man shrugged. "It looked fun."

Fleur's forehead creased, but before she could think of a reply, Ari burst through the tent. The younger girl was pale, but clearly composed. She slowed to a walk, but couldn't resist throwing her arms around her sister.

Wrapping her uninjured arm around Ari, Fleur asked sleepily, "Now, Merle, you weren't worried, were you?"

Ari drew away, casting a suspicious look at the crazy banker. He was watching them, smiling slightly.

"Thank you for helping Fleur," she said stiffly.

"That's what I signed on for." He stood. "Bill Weasley."

"Bill Weasley, banker," Fleur added drily.

He grinned again, clearly enjoying her discomfort. "You're welcome, Ms. Delacour. I'll see myself out," he added, the tent door swishing shut behind him.

"Crepin?" Ari looked up, a hint of a smile playing around her lips.

Her sister snorted. "It seemed appropriate."

"Very," Ari's eyes drifted to the clock and she sat up straight. "Well, ready to see what the judges thought of dear Crepin?"

Fleur's eyes narrowed. "Oh, absolutely," she said, watching the Potter and a redhead (yet another Weasley?) rising to hear the scores. Walking to the judging panel, it dawned on her that she was just as nervous about this as the dragon. Well, at least this time I have no trouble keeping my posture.

Ari hung back at the tent entrance, with 'Deus and the redhead. Diggory's girlfriend emerged from the tent to join them, biting the nail of her pinkie.

Crouch was conferring with Bagman – was he really wearing those ridiculous stripes to the Triwizard Tournament? – but he broke off, seeing the champions approaching. Potter glanced at the others nervously, but Fleur looked straight forward, adamant that she'd hold her head high.

"Fleur Delacour," Crouch announced.

Madame was first. She gave her Champion a piercing look before raising her wand. A silvery ribbon shot out of the tip before twisting into the number nine. Dumbledore was impassive as his twisted into a seven. Sixteen, she recorded mentally. Karkaroff, five, that low bastard. Bagman, eight. Twenty-one. Twenty-nine. That's too low, too low. She watched Crouch with bated breath. Seven.

Fleur bowed to the audience, smiling graciously, but in her head she was calculating. Thirty-six. Usually winners are forty and above the first task. She waved, stepping back as Krum stepped forward. But champions have won with less. There was one year when Hogwarts got five on the first, and they still won. It depends on the judges, it's all relative…

Krum was next. Six, seven – 10 from Karkaroff? Bastard, she repeated to herself. He came in at 34. He was the only one who hadn't been injured, so his method must not have been particularly elegant…

Diggory's score totaled to thirty. Six points wasn't all that much of a margin, and the burns streaking his face seemed pretty severe too…

But Fleur was ahead. Not by much, but she was first. The only one left was the extra Hogwarts boy, and, frankly, it shocked her he'd gotten past the dragon at all, little as he –

She caught her jaw before it dropped. Forty? What had he done to get forty points?

She walked back with the other champions. Ari led her back into the tent, casually congratulating Potter on his score. Fleur tried not to scowl. Her sister pushed a replenishing draught into her hand, saying something about reporters.

She was beaten – by a fourth year? This wasn't how she'd imagined it at all.

They hung back as the students filed back into school, Fleur's thumb idly running over the locking mechanism.

"Don't open it here," Ari cautioned, glancing around.

"Everyone's back at the castle, Merle. Don't – " she stopped, her eyes narrowing. That woman with plastered blond curls and that obnoxious voice was interrogating two students on the pathway. "Ari, that's her."

"Who, Granger?"

"No, not that one, the reporter. The one who couldn't bother to spell my name correctly," she answered thinly.

Ari raised her eyebrows, watching Potter arguing with Skeeter. She looked at Fleur's feral grin. "Cheri, it's really a bad idea to make enemies out of reporters."

"Who's making enemies?" Fleur answered brightly. "Let's go do a good deed." She glanced back at her sister. "Come on, Ari, live for a little payback." Ari shook her head, muttering that the anesthetics must have gone to her sister's head.

"That, or the pain," she added, as Fleur dragged her down the path. "You really should be lying down, you – " She stopped as soon as they were in earshot, pulling her wrist out of Fleur's grip and straightening herself. Sighing, she fell in step with her sister's stride. "Well, do try not to assault this one," she whispered.

"I didn't assault anyone!" Fleur whispered back, indignant. "I just scratched him a bit, and he was stalking me. Besides, I'll be polite to this one."

Ari's lips twitched.

Fleur glowered. "I will. I swear."

"Look," Potter was protesting. "I'm not 'desperate to find comfort for a past of heartbreak'. And Hermione and I are just friends, so I - " Two of his friends were with him – the girl with shrubbery for hair looked even more incensed than the dragon.

Skeeter's quick-quote-quill perked up as she stopped interrogating Potter and turned towards the two girls.

"Ms. Skeeter," Fleur announced loftily. "I imagine you'd like an interview. Obviously, we'll want to speak about your recent column."

Skeeter looked annoyed. "I'm sure, dear, but I'm interviewing Harry at the moment, and -"

"You know, as a reporter, you should really wait for your victims to finish their statements," Fleur answered hotly. "You don't seem to know how my last name is spelled, so perhaps that's where the confusion is coming from. D.E.L.A.C.O.U.R. Delacour. Now, that name really ought to mean something to you, but reading your columns, I can only hope – "

Ari took Granger by the arm, pulling her away. Potter and Weasley watched uneasily, but she beckoned them along with her.

"Ari, I need to – " Harry said.

She shook her head. "Look, aren't you some kind of minor celebrity here? You should know by now, it's really just easier not to give them anything to work with."

Granger was nearly in tears of rage. "She called me a 'controlling shrew riding Harry's coattails'! How can the Prophet print this kind of rubbish?"

Ari stopped, looking at her oddly. "Look, usually this kind of thing blows over eventually. I mean, you're just getting press because of the Tournament, right? Don't do anything crazy, and they'll get bored and move on to Fleur or Diggory."

"Well, you weren't the one she was writing about. Everyone saw that article," Granger was wringing her hands. "Everyone. And they'll all read the next one." Weasley reached out and patted her arm awkwardly.

"Well… you're mundane-born, right?"

She looked at Ari quizzically. "I'm muggle-born, yes."

"Is Skeeter? Mundane-borns are allowed to sue halfies or other mundane-borns under mundane law sometimes. And Albion's libel laws are notoriously loose. There's some special circumstances that have to fit, but I imagine you'll want to look into that."

Granger scowled at her. "Look, you might have the money for a lawsuit," she began defensively.

Ari put up her hands, glancing down the walk. Fleur was walking towards them, looking over-pleased with herself. "They're pricey," Ari said, looking back at Granger. "But maybe just the threat will make her hold off on the worst slurs." She raised her eyebrows at Fleur, who just smiled back.

"Truly, though, Granger? The best thing is to keep a low profile. Leeches like her hook onto someone else after awhile."

Shifting uncomfortably, Granger nodded. Ari tried to smile reassuringly, but she feared it only looked frosty. The sisters broke off, heading towards the Beauxbatons carriages.

"Hey, um, thanks." Granger called.

"Yeah, just don't get used to it," Ari answered, hurrying after Fleur. "So," she asked her sister. "What did you say to her?"

"I just bludgeoned her with the family name," Fleur answered calmly.

"Interesting choice of words," Ari grimaced. "That's not going to work, Cherie. It's just going to make her remember you."

"I did say we were doing a good deed. At least I helped. 'Keep a low profile,'" Fleur repeated mockingly. "Once you're in the public eye, you don't get to chose when to leave. You know that as well as I."

"We have no obligation to help them."

Fleur stopped short. "Merle – you know what it's like reporters following you day and night, always trying to take a comment out of context or dig up a scandal. You can't really say it wasn't worth a little tangle with a reporter to spare someone that. Really, whatever she's going to print, it's been printed before."

Twisting the key to their carriage, Ari looked back. "Maybe. Or maybe they ought to learn the same lessons we did."

"Still studying?"

Ari looked up, startled. Blaize Zabini was grinning down at her, broomstick in hand. He leaned down and snatched the Potions book out of her hands.

"It's Saturday, Delacour. Come play Quidditch with us," he demanded.

Ari blinked, shocked for a second. Then she rose slowly, wary eyes trained on Zabini.

"No, thank you," she said stiffly. "We have an exam Tuesday, after all. And at least I can brew a Doxy antidote that doesn't give you hives." As far as she could tell, he was better than most, but last week's testing session had been a disaster for everyone. Snape had fed a poison to a variety of vermin; she and Neville had watched their Hemlock rat die horribly, but they'd saved all the rest. Goyle managed to set one on fire.

Blaise held the book out of reach. He had at least half a foot on her, and Ari wasn't going to humiliate herself and jump for it. Grinning, he wheedled. "You're always on the lawn with a book. You need to have some fun."

Ariane crossed her arms. "Yes, you're right. Studying? In a school? What was I thinking?"

He laughed, completely undeterred by her sarcasm. "Alright," he said, handing the textbook back. "But I'll get you to come out with us someday." He dashed after Michael Corner, flashing a smile back at the dumbfounded girl.

She sat down, back to a tree, confused. Most Beauxbatons students avoided her – they'd learned to stay away from her scathing, contrary, supercilious firebrand of a sister. Ari was just as frosty, friendships only formed through the niceties of political etiquette. Longbottom, Potter, Granger, and now Zabini – none of them fit familiar patterns.

And she didn't like it.

Exhausted, Fleur shut the history book, pushing it across the desk. She leaned back and stretched her arms above her heads. The burns had healed. On her nightstand stood a small pot of ointment for the fading scars, which she picked up idly.

Rubbing the pale cream over her shoulder, Fleur glanced at the door to her sister's room. I should find some way to thank her, she thought. Pharmacy brands always seemed to irritate her skin; one moisturizer had even covered her arm in little feathers. Ari tailored the potion to her sister's needs.

She flicked her wand at her reading light, extinguishing it. Lying in the darkness, her mind reeled with possible tasks. Any further attempts at espionage could result in expulsion. The Tournament Rules were clear, but Dumbledore would know them in and out by now – he may have found a safe way to exclude her. And if he hadn't, he might try anyway. Maxine couldn't tell her, she was bound by the Cup. Her mother refused to give her forewarning. Fleur could hear her lectures about integrity already.

That left speculation. She'd scoured records, looked for recurring patterns of –

Her door creaked open.

"Ari?" she asked, languid. There were footsteps, but no answer. Fleur sat up in bed, grabbing for her wand. There was a blinding flash, a muttered curse, and a numbness spread over her.

A shadow loomed above as her head sunk into the sheets. Slowly, her eyes closed.

A/N: Yes, it's been ages since our last chapter. We give up; there's no way to predict when we'll manage to get these out. For what it's worth, the last few months have been crazy for us, but come the New Year, things should settle down at least a little.

In any case, Happy Holidays! In the spirit of Christmastime, be generous and drop a review.

-Echo & Kibou