After Durmstrang arrived, the professors made quick work of herding the students into the castle, intent on getting us all out of the cold.

The news that Viktor Krum, international Quidditch star, was not only still in school but here, at Hogwarts, was causing a massive stir. Girls from every House (and even a few guys) were squealing with excitement, everyone frantically trying to find something for Krum to sign.

"I don't have a quill on me – oh, if I would've known he was coming-"

"Do you think he'd sign my hat in lipstick?" one girl frantically asks, digging through her satchel.

"Do you think he'd sign my face?!" another girl eagerly asks, eyes blown wide in wonder.

"Idiots," I snort, Hermione nodding in agreement as we pass the group of girls, now fighting over the lipstick, on our way into the Great Hall.

Ron, thankfully, was being a little more subtle in his fanaticism, but not by much. He kept going on and on about Krum's Quidditch scores and statistics, and "Krum did this" and "Did you know Krum…?"

"Hey," he asks at one point, "does anyone have a quill?"

"No, I left all mine in my dorms," Harry replies, and I really can't tell if he doesn't have any quills or he just wanted Ron to stop.

I simply shake my head and ignore him in favor of checking out my surroundings. The entire castle had been cleaned up in the weeks proceeding the other schools' arrival; walls and floors had been scrubbed, paintings had been lectured on good behavior, the lawns had been trimmed, colorful flowers had been charmed to grow – someone had even gotten Hagrid to convince the giant squid to behave.

The Great Hall was the center of all the effort: the tables and floors had been scrubbed until they gleamed, and elegant banners hung from the walls surrounding each table; scarlet with a gold lion for Gryffindor, royal blue with a bronze eagle for Ravenclaw, yellow with a black badger for Hufflepuff, and emerald with a silver serpent for Slytherin. Behind the staff table at the front of the room hung the biggest banner of them all, a purple cloth decorated with the Hogwarts coat of arms.

I was paying so much attention to the decorations on the walls that I tripped over my own feet, falling forward to hit not the floor as I'd expected, but another person, causing us both to go flying.

The pure mortification of it all makes me stay on the ground for a bit, until Harry calls, "Ori? Are you okay?"

"'M fine," I respond. "You go ahead. Save me a seat."

There's a pause before Ron speaks up, "All right. If you say so."

I wait for their footsteps to recede, joining the crowd of students making their way to the tables, before I finally look up, getting my first look at who I'd run into.

The other student, a girl, kneeling a few feet away, was a girl dressed in the blue silk of Beauxbatons – she had slightly wavy, dirty-blonde hair and light skin, and she was looking at me in concern.

"Are you okay?" she asks, and I notice that her voice lacked the heavy accent that Maxime's voice had. The girl gets up off the floor and brushes her robes off, making her way over to me. "Are you hurt?"

"Uh, no," I deny, shaking my head and extending a hand for her to shake. "Orissa Black, Hogwarts. Sorry for tripping over you."

"Roselyn McKinnon," she replies, the corners of her lips quirking up. "Beauxbatons Academy. And it is okay, no one is hurt."

I pick myself up off the floor and straighten out my robes, performing a quick Scourgify just in case. I eye the other girl up and down, taking in her slightly ill-looking appearance. "Are you sure you're okay? I didn't exactly hit you lightly."

"I assure you, I am fine," she announces. "I have been through worse. Now, shall we eat before your Headmaster begins to speak?"

I give her one last look before nodding, turning around to lead her into the main part of the Hall, where the three schools had gathered.

I approach the Gryffindor table eagerly, about to take a seat when I realize the girl behind me – Roselyn, she'd said her name was – had paused. I turn around, curious, to see her gazing across the Hall, blue eyes wary.

"What is it?" I ask slowly, following her gaze to the Ravenclaw table, where the rest of Beauxbatons had found seats and were looking around the Hall with disdainful expressions.

"Erm…" she stutters, then straightens her back. "I do not wish to impose, but would you mind terribly if I were to sit at this table instead?"

"Uh…" I look around and shrug. "Okay. Whatever. You're the guest."

"It is not breaking any rules?" she asks formally, an unreadable look in her eyes.

"I don't care if it is," I shrug, taking my seat next to Harry and motioning for her to sit on my other side. She does, and I catch a hint of a smile on her lips before it disappears behind the emotionless expression that seemed a bit fake to me.

I quickly introduce Roselyn to Fred, George, Harry, Ron, and Hermione, who immediately engages the other girl in an intense conversation about French vs. English magic.

I roll my eyes but listen to the discussion with one ear as I watch Filch arrange extra chair, putting two more seats on either side of Dumbledore.

"If there are only two more guests coming, why is he setting up four seats?" Harry asks, unknowingly voicing my thoughts.

"I have no clue," I answer. "Maybe we're missing some guests?"

I shrug, looking up attentively as the doors to the Great Hall swing open, the staff filing in a line that's backed by Dumbledore, Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime. The Beauxbatons students immediately spring to their feet upon seeing their headmistress – including Roselyn, although her movements seemed a bit forced to me.

Once everyone was seated, including the students, Dumbledore steps up to the podium, immediately commanding the attention of everyone in the room.

"Good evening, students and staff, ghosts and – most importantly – guests. On behalf of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, I would like to extend a warm welcome to all of our foreign guests. May you find your stay at Hogwarts comfortable and enjoyable."

One of the Beauxbatons sitting on the side of Ravenclaw table closest to us gave a condescending laugh, voice muffled by the fur scarf she still had wrapped around her head.

"No one asked you to come!" Hermione snaps quietly. Next to me, I hear Roselyn mutter something under her breath – I couldn't hear what it was, but I was pretty sure it was insulting.

"The opening of the Tournament will take place after the meal," Dumbledore continues, "so for now, I urge you all to eat, drink, and be merry!"

He sits back down, and I turn my attention to the food that had appeared on the table. Roselyn let out a startled yelp, watching the table with wide eyes.

"What, they don't have magical tables in France?" I tease, giving her an amused look as I reach for the shepherd's pie.

"No," she replies with a breathy laugh. "This – this is unlike anything I have ever seen before."

"Glad you like it. You should eat," I advise, gesturing at the table. "It's all really good."

She nods and reaches for a seafood stew I'd never seen before, ladling it into a bowl.

"What is that?" Ron asks, wrinkling his nose.

"That, Ronald, is a bouillabaisse," Hermione responds sternly.

"Bless you."

"It's a French dish," Hermione explains as if Ron hadn't spoken. "I had it when my parents took me to France the summer before last."

I nod, remembering Hermione talking about the trip, but Roselyn perks up. "Ooh, parlez-vous français?"

"Er…" Hermione blushes, cheeks turning a deep red. "Not very well. I never got the chance to learn, I'm sorry."

Roselyn frowns slightly but nods, giving Hermione a bright smile. "It is alright."

"What did you ask?"

"I wanted to know if she spoke French," Roselyn explains with a slight shrug. "It is a beautiful, even if most of the people that speak it are…less so."

I tilt my head, wondering just what she meant by that, but – as if on cue – I'm interrupted by a heavily accented voice.

"Excuse me, are you wanting ze bouillabaisse?"

I twist in my seat to see the girl that had laughed during Dumbledore's speech earlier. She'd finally taken off her scarf, and her hair was a whitish-silver, a stark contrast to her dark blue eyes, which had just landed on Roselyn. "Hello, McKinnon."

"Delacour," Roselyn returns coolly. "Enjoying yourself yet?"

The girl – Delacour, apparently – gives Roselyn a holier-than-thou glare before turning to Hermione. "'Ave you finished wiz ze bouillabaisse?"

"Oh, yes," Hermione answers. "Here – can you give it to her, please?"

Roselyn glares at Delacour for a moment longer before nodding and taking the bowl, passing it over to her classmate, who takes it gingerly, avoiding contact with Roselyn as much as possible.

She gives the other girl one last glare and mutters, "Diable-enfant," before carefully walking back to the Ravenclaw table.

"Yeah, I don't like you much either," Roselyn calls after her, causing me to burst into side-splitting laughter.

Once I've recovered most of my composure, I study the girl sitting next to me with a careful look. "You know, you don't sound like she does. Not as French."

Roselyn blushes scarlet under my gaze. "Well, technically, I'm not…French, that is. I – it's a bit of a long story. I suppose I could explain later."

I shrug. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to." I look up to see Ron staring after the Delacour girl, almost falling out of his seat to get a view of the girl.

"That's a veela," he croaks out.

"She is not a veela, Ron," Hermione sighs exasperatedly. "You don't see anyone else gaping at her like an idiot, do you?"

I didn't have the heart to tell her that as the veela-like girl had walked across the Hall, boys' heads had turned and they, like Ron, now seemed to be speechless.

"I'm telling you, that's not a normal girl!" Ron insists. "They don't make them like that at Hogwarts!"

"Hey!" I snap, reaching across the table to smack him across the face. Hard.

"They make them okay at Hogwarts," Harry objects, also staring across the Hall, but at Cho Chang, who was sitting a few feet away from the veela girl.

"You're both idiots," I announce, sitting back and turning to Roselyn. "What's her deal?"

"I don't know," she shrugs. "If you didn't notice, we don't exactly like each other."

"That's an understatement," I snort.

"Look who's just walked in!" Hermione gasps. "It's Barty Crouch!"

I spin around so fast I almost give myself whiplash. Sure enough, sitting in the two extra seats were Bartemius Crouch, Sr., and none other than Ludo Bagman, who still owed me fifty Galleons.

I suppress a growl as I look at both of them, but especially the former – I despised the man for sending my dad to prison sans a trial.

"Um," Roselyn speaks up quietly, "are you alright?"

I blink, suddenly realizing that I'd been glaring at the head table. "Not really," I whisper. "That man, with the weird mustache, played a major hand in absolutely destroying my family and childhood."

Roselyn stares at me for a long moment before simply saying, "Oh," and reaching out to awkwardly pat me on the shoulder, an action that, in and of itself, causes me to burst into another fit of laughter.

The other girl looks shocked for a moment, but I almost catch a grin on her face.

Once I can breathe again, I distract myself by grabbing a chocolate frog off the table and opening it, biting the frog's head off as I looked at the card – merely a Merlin, which I already had quite a few of.

"Is that…chocolate?" Roselyn asks, her eyes lighting up.

"Yeah," I mutter around a mouthful of chocolate frog legs and then swallow. "Is France stuck in the Stone Ages or something? Do they seriously not have chocolate frogs?"

"Well, I've never had one," Roselyn admits. "But you don't have to-"

I interrupt her by pushing a frog into her hands. "You haven't lived until you've gorged yourself on tooth-rotting sweet candy," I insist.

"Well, I do love chocolate," she mutters, a smile spreading across her face as she opens the box, screeching as the frogs hops away. "You did not tell me it was a real frog!"

"Well yeah, that's half the fun," I scoff, using a napkin to scoop up the frog before it could get very far.

"And you can collect those cards," Ron explains as I hand the frog over to Roselyn, who quickly decapitates it. "Every frog comes with something random, so you never know what you're getting. Which one is that?"

"Felix Summerbee," Roselyn reads. "Whoever that is."

"He invented Cheering Charms," Hermione reveals. "Honestly, don't any of you read?"

Rosie shrugs and tucks the card away, reaching for a pastry I didn't recognize.

After we were all finished with dessert, Dumbledore stood again, and an excited silence falls over the crowd.

"The moment you've all been waiting for has arrived," he announces. "The start of the Triwizard Tournament is only moments away, but before I begin, I would like to state a few rules pertaining to the Tournament." His eyes seem to linger on Fred, George, and I as he says this, and I put on my best innocent look.

"First, for those of you who do not know them, these are Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation-" cue polite applause, "-and Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports." Dumbledore pauses for heavier applause, as apparently the ex-Quidditch player was known around the world.

Once the applause dies down, Dumbledore continues. "Mr. Bagman and Mr. Crouch have worked tirelessly for the past few months to make sure the tournament is completely safe…"

"In between scamming people out of their money and arresting innocent men, sure," I mutter under my breath. Hermione shushes me and jabs her arm into my back.

"...and as such, have agreed to be on the judging panel alongside Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, and myself."

Dumbledore leans forward, facial expression intense. "I will not deceive you: this tournament will not be an easy task. The challenges the champions will face will test them in every way possible: their magical ability, their strength, their intelligence, and, most importantly...their ability to be calm in the face of immense danger."

The crowd falls completely silent, students whispering among themselves.

"So, basically, people with a death wish," Roselyn whispers behind me.

"Sounds like it," I agree.

"Because of this," Dumbledore continues, "only students seventeen years of age or older maybe enter their name into the running."

"What? No!" Fred howls. "That's bloody outrageous!"

He was accompanied by disappointed groans from all over the Great Hall from students that had been hoping to enter.

"While I understand your frustration," the Headmaster calls over the noise, "I assure you, every rule we put in place is for your own safety, something we do not take lightly."

He gives us all a stern look before continuing. "As you all know, there will be three champions chosen to complete, one hailing from each school. The champions will be chosen by the most impartial of judges: the Goblet of Fire. Mr. Filch, if you will."

Filch emerges from his spot on the side of the hall, carrying an old, wooden chest.

"That's the 'Goblet of Fire'?" Roselyn asks in disbelief. "Doesn't look like much, does it?"

Dumbledore doesn't react to the chest, simply tapping it three times with his wand. The old chest opens slowly, and the headmaster reaches a hand in and pulls out an equally old, wooden cup that was fairly unremarkable…except it was filled with fire.

"I see the resemblance now," Roselyn amends. "That cup is on fire."

"Yeah, I see that, Captain Obvious," I quip, rolling my eyes. "You think that's real fire?"

"Well, maybe if they put some sort of charm on the wood to keep it from burning – or would that be on the flames itself?"

"Would you two shut it?" Ron hisses. "I want to hear."

I glare daggers at the redhead but stay silent as Dumbledore begins to speak again.

"Any student that still wishes to compete in the tournament must write their full name and school on a slip of parchment and deposit into the Goblet, which will stand in the Entrance Hall for the next two weeks, open to all that wish to enter their name. However, I will personally be drawing an Age Line around the Goblet to ensure that no one under the age of seventeen tries to enter their name." Once again, Dumbledore's eyes find Fred, George, and I with a knowing look.

"Don't know why he's looking at us," I grumble. "I, for one, am not planning on entering. It's stupidly dangerous."

"This from the girl that once played chicken with three Chasers, all twice her size, while going at top speed," George points out.

"During the most important game of the season," Fred adds. "C'mon, where's your adventurous spirit?"

"Currently, it's hanging out with my common sense," I deadpan. "Now shh. Dumbledore's talking."

"…is entering a binding magical contract that cannot be broken," the headmaster was explaining. "Once your name is in the goblet, you cannot take it out; if your name is chosen, you must compete. Please take your time to deeply consider this before putting your name in."

"Now, I think it is time we all get some rest. Goodnight to you all," Dumbledore concludes, stepping down from the podium. The Hall erupts into activity almost immediately; students are out of their seats, gathering into groups and jostling for a chance to either catch a glimpse of Krum or the Goblet.

"An Age Line!" Fred exclaims, eyes glinting with what I called the Mad Genius Look™. "Well that's easy, isn't it? All it takes is an Aging Potion to beat one of those."

"I'm not sure it's that simple," Roselyn argues tentatively. "I mean, Professor Dumbledore is a world-renowned wizard…"

"He's not that great up close," I assure her. "Trust me."

"Ori!"

"He's barmy, 'Mione, admit it!"

"As thrilling as this is," Fred interrupts, "we need help on the Aging Potion."

"It's a bad idea," I warn with a heavy sigh.

"Please?" George whines, batting his eyelashes furiously. "It would be an honor to work with you, O Great One."

I shove him in the shoulder and push down the blush that was rising on my cheeks. "You're an idiot, you know that?"

"Ah, but you love me anyways," George laughs.

"Fiiiiine," I groan. "Merlin help me, fine. I'll help you make the potion. I'm not taking it, but I'll help you make it."

The twins give identical cheers, each clapping a hand on one of my shoulders before running off to wherever.

"Are they always like that?" a quiet voice asks me, and I turn around to see Roselyn watching me with wide eyes. She didn't look put off, as most people do when confronted with Fred and George Weasley, but simply amazed.

"Pretty much," I chuckle.

"I've never seen anything like it," she admits, still sounding wonderstruck as we make our way around the crown on Krum-adoring fans. The other girl didn't seem that interested in the superstar either, but I didn't know if that was a Beauxbatons thing or a personal choice.

"Well, I'll admit they're unique, but does no one have a sense of humor at Beauxbatons?" I ask, horror seeping into my voice.

"Unfortunately, no," Roselyn sighs. "They're all a bit tight-laced, for all my efforts to the contrary."

"You say 'they' like you aren't one of them," I comment carefully, side-eyeing the other girl.

Roselyn suddenly stops talking, clicking her jaw shut and fiddling with the edge of her silky sleeve. "I…I think they're expecting me back at the carriage. If you will excuse me…"

"Uh…yeah," I stutter, confused as to what I said that made her shut down.

Roselyn nods and turns around, head held as high as when the Beauxbatons girls had marched in earlier. But after a few moments, she stops and looks over her shoulder. "I will see you tomorrow?"

"Probably," I nod. "Goodnight, Roselyn."

"Goodnight Orissa," she whispers and then walks away.

I watch her round the corner with narrowed eyes and crossed arms. There was something off about Roselyn McKinnon, the not-French girl that attended a French school.

And I would find out what it was if it was the last thing I did.