When Lyla woke up on Sunday morning, it took her a moment to remember why she felt so miserable and worried. Then the memory of the previous night rolled over her mind. She sat up and ripped back the curtains of her four-poster and sighed heavily.

"Hey now," said Daphne in a false cheery voice. "I'm sure today will be fine, and those who believe you entered yourself into this silly tournament can shove it somewhere else."

Grateful that the majority of her friends believed her short tale the night before, Lyla nodded and slowly began to dress. The moment she appeared in the common room, the few people who had finished breakfast broke into applause. Despite not many Slytherins actually liking the Potter sisters, no one could deny the excitement of a Slytherin champion. The prospect of entering the Great Hall and facing the rest of the Slytherins was nauseating.

Draco, Blaise, and Theo met them by the doorway that led into the dungeons, and the five slowly made their way to breakfast.

"How did you sleep?" asked Draco kindly.

"Terribly," said Lyla flatly. "Didn't get a wink…"

Amongst the screams and cheers from the Slytherin table at their arrival, Lyla and the rest made their way toward Arabella and Hermione. Ron was absent, which was odd yet easily explained.

"So he thinks I want to do the tournament?!" asked Lyla indignantly. "If that's the case, he's as mad as the rest of them…"

"Want to go for a walk?" asked Arabella lightly.

"Good idea," said Daphne.

The group crossed the entrance hall quickly without looking back into the Great Hall and were soon striding across the lawn toward the lake, where the Durmstrang ship was moored, reflected blackly in the water.

"Thanks, you guys, for believing me," sighed Lyla gloomily. "I was worried—"

"Well, of course, I knew you hadn't entered yourself," Hermione said. "The look on your face when Dumbledore read out your name!"

"But the question is, who did put it in?" said Blaise darkly. "Because if Moody's right... I don't think any student could have done it. . . they'd never be able to fool the Goblet or get over Dumbledore's—"

"How does Ron think I've done it then?" said Lyla loudly, kicking at a pebble at her feet.

"Oh, isn't it obvious?" Hermione said as if it was. "He's jealous!"

"Jealous?" snorted Lyla incredulously. "Jealous of what? Does he want to make a prat of himself in front of the whole school?"

"Look," said Hermione patiently, "it's always you or Arabella who gets all the attention. You know it is, and I know it's none of your faults," she added quickly, seeing both sisters open their mouths furiously. "I know you don't ask for it... but— well— you know, Ron's got all those brothers to compete against at home, and you're his best friend! And you're really famous— he's always shunted to one side whenever people see you two, and he puts up with it, and he never mentions it, but I suppose this is just one time too many. . .

"Great," said Arabella bitterly. "Really great. Tell him that we'd be happy to swap lives anytime he wants. Tell him from us he's welcome to it…People gawping at our forehead everywhere we go. . ."

"I'm not telling him anything," Hermione said shortly. "Tell him yourself. It's the only way to sort this out."

"We will not run around after him trying to make him grow up!" Lyla snapped, so loudly that several owls in a nearby tree took flight in alarm. "Maybe he'll believe I'm not enjoying myself once I've got my neck broken or—"

"That's not funny," Theo said. "That's not funny at all."

"Lyla, I've been thinking—" said Draco carefully. "You know what we've got to do, don't you? Straight away, the moment we get back to the castle?"

"Yeah, give Ron a good kick up the—"

"Write to Sirius! You've got to tell him what's happened. He asked you guys to keep him posted on everything that's going on at Hogwarts…."

"It's almost as if he expected something like this to happen," said Daphne with realization. "I brought some parchment and a quill out with me—"

"Come off it," said the sisters in unison.

"He came back to the country just because my scar twinged," said Arabella. "He'll probably come bursting right into the castle if I tell him someone's entered Lyla in the Triwizard Tournament—"

"He'd want you to tell him," said Daphne sternly. "He's going to find out anyway."

"How do you know that?"

"Oh, honestly!" said Blaise, as if the answer was obvious.

"You don't think this isn't going to be kept quiet, do you?" said Hermione, very seriously. "This tournament's famous, and you're famous. I'll be really surprised if there isn't anything in the Daily Prophet about you competing. . . . You're already in half the books about You-Know-Who, you know.. . and Sirius would rather hear it from you, I know he would."

"Ugh, okay, I'll write to him," said Lyla with defeat. "Ara, can I borrow your owl?"

"Ahh, I've just sent Nicholas home to Dudley—"

"Ask Ron if you can borrow—" began Theo helpfully.

"I'm not asking Ron for anything," Lyla said flatly.

"Well, borrow one of the school owls then. Anyone can use them," suggested Draco.

They went up to the Owlery, where Daphne gave Lyla a piece of parchment, a quill, and a bottle of ink. Blaise strolled around the long lines of perches, looking at all the different owls, while the sisters sat down against a wall and brainstormed what they should write. At last, their letter was written.

Dear Sirius,

You told Arabella and I to keep you posted on what's happening at Hogwarts, so here goes— I don't know if you've heard, but the Triwizard Tournament's happening this year, and on Saturday night, I got picked as a fourth champion. We have no idea who put my name in the Goblet of Fire because I most certainly did not. The other Hogwarts champion is Cedric Diggory from Hufflepuff.

Lyla paused at this point, thinking hard about what to write next. She had an urge to say something about the enormous weight of anxiety that seemed to have settled inside her chest since last night, but she couldn't think how to translate this into words,

Hope you're okay, and Buckbeak— Lyla.

"Finished," she told Arabella, getting to his feet and brushing straw off her robes. At this, Merlin fluttered down onto Arabella's shoulder and held out his leg.

"I can't use you," Lyla told him apologetically, looking around for the school owls. "I've got to use one of these."

Merlin gave a very loud hoot and took off so suddenly that his talons cut into Arabella's shoulder. For the remainder of their time in the vicinity, he kept his back to the group, giving small hoots of anger now and then as Lyla tied her letter to the leg of a gray owl. As they watched the owl fly off, Arabella reached out to stroke her own back. But Merlin hissed and clicked his beak furiously, soaring up into the rafters and out of reach.


If Arabella had thought that matters would improve once everyone got used to the idea of Lyla being champion, the following day showed just how mistaken she was. She could no longer avoid the rest of the school once he was back at lessons— and it was clear that the rest of the school thought Lyla Potter had entered herself for the tournament. Unlike the Gryffindors and Slytherins, however, they did not seem impressed.

The Hufflepuffs, who were usually on excellent terms with the Gryffindors, had turned remarkably cold toward the whole lot of them. One Herbology lesson was enough to demonstrate this. It was plain that the Hufflepuffs felt that Lyla had stolen their champion's glory; a feeling exacerbated, perhaps, by the fact that Hufflepuff House very rarely got any praise and that Cedric was one of the few who had ever given them any, having beaten Gryffindor once at Quidditch. Ernie Macmillan and Justin FinchFletchley, with whom Arabella normally got on very well with, did not talk to her, even though they were repotting Bouncing Bulbs at the same tray. Ron wasn't talking to her or Lyla either. Hermione sat between them, making very forced conversation, but though both answered her normally, they avoided making eye contact with each other. Arabella thought even Sprout seemed distant with her— but then again, she was Head of Hufflepuff House.

She would have been looking forward to seeing Hagrid under normal circumstances, but Care of Magical Creatures meant seeing the Slytherins too— and while many of them were pleased to have Slytherin champion, there was still Pansy and her gang of bullies.

Predictably, upon her arrival at Hagrid's cabin, Pansy was sneering.

"Ah, look, the champion," she said to Crabbe and Goyle the moment she got within earshot of Arabella. "Got your autograph books? Better get a signature now because I doubt she's going to be around much longer. . . . Half the Triwizard champions have died... How long d'you reckon you're going to last, Potter? Ten minutes into the first task's my bet."

"Ignore her!" Lyla hissed, grabbing Arabella's wrists firmly.

"She's been like this since last night," sighed Theo with a roll of his eyes. "Trying to get a rise, I expect, so just ignore it…."

Hagrid emerged from the back of his cabin, balancing a teetering tower of crates containing a very large Blast-Ended Skrewt. To the class's horror, he proceeded to explain that the reason the skrewts had been killing one another, something he said was due to pent-up energy. His solution was for each student to fix a leash on a skrewt and take it for a short walk.

"Take this thing for a walk?" Pansy repeated in disgust, staring into one of the boxes. "And where exactly are we supposed to fix the leash? Around the sting, the blasting end, or the sucker?"

"Roun' the middle," said Hagrid, demonstrating. "Yeh might want ter put on yer dragon-hide gloves, jus' as an extra precaution, like, Lyla and Arabella— you two come here an' help me with this big one...

Hagrid's real intention, however, was to talk to the sisters away from the rest of the class. He waited until everyone else had set off with their skrewts, then turned to Lyla with a worried expression.

"So— yer competin', Lyla."

"Yeah…" replied Lyla miserably.

Hagrid's beetle-black eyes looked very anxious under his wild eyebrows.

"No idea who put yeh in fer it?"

"You believe she didn't do it, then?" asked Arabella, concealing with difficulty the rush of gratitude she felt at Hagrid's words.

"Course I do," Hagrid grunted. "Yeh say it wasn' you, an' I believe yeh— an' Dumbledore believes yer, an' all."

"Wish we knew who did do it," said Lyla bitterly.

The three of them looked out over the lawn; the class was widely scattered now and all in great difficulty. The skrewts were now over three feet long and extremely powerful. No longer shell-less and colorless, they had developed a thick, grayish, shiny armor. They looked like a cross between giant scorpions and elongated crabs— but without recognizable heads or eyes. They had become immensely strong and very hard to control.

"Look like they're havin' fun, don' they?" Hagrid said happily. Arabella assumed he was talking about the skrewts, because their classmates certainly weren't; every now and then, with an alarming bang, one of the skrewts' ends would explode, causing it to shoot forward several yards, and more than one person was being dragged along on their stomach, trying desperately to get back on their feet.

"Ah, I don' know, you two," Hagrid sighed suddenly, looking back down at him with a worried expression on his face. "School champion. . . everythin' seems ter happen ter ya, doesn' it?"

None of the sisters responded to that. Yes, everything did seem to happen to them. . . that was more or less what Hermione had said so.

The next few days were some of Arabella's worst at Hogwarts. Besides Hermione and the Weasley twins, rarely did others speak to her. It was here that she found herself alone most nights, as Hermione and Blaise had begun working tirelessly on S.P.E.W. In the hours she'd have free, she spend them in deserted classrooms working on assignments, as Gryffindor Tower had somewhat become stifling. Many of her housemates appeared to have cultivated the belief that Lyla had entered her name into the tournament and had grown slightly weary of the Potters. Arabella had, in association, become incredibly isolated.

"You should just ignore Ron in turn," suggested George one morning. "I'm surprised you're just noticing this about our dear brother. He's a dense prat, he is."

"Mhm," seconded Fred, lazily spreading butter on toast. "He's not worth it, Arabella. Seriously, not worth it. He'll come around eventually…."

One late evening, Arabella was once more in a deserted class, working on Divination. She was falling dismally behind and feeling too depressed to motivate herself forward. She wished she had Lyla's determination when it came to her schooling, but not speaking to Ron surprisingly affected her in the most unexpected ways.

A small knock made Arabella jump, shaking her from her wandering thoughts.

Thought I'd find you here."

It was Cedric, and he swiftly stepped into the classroom with a small smile.

"Why are you here?" said Arabella flatly. She appreciated his appearance greatly but also dreaded what it might symbolize. Was he here to chew her out? Yell at her and treat her as coldly as the rest of Hufflepuff House?

"I came to— to see how you're doing," said Cedric hesitantly. "I haven't seen you around as of late. How are you doing these days?"

"How am I doing?" Arabella said, shaking her head in disbelief. "You've just been chosen as Hogwarts champion, and you're asking me how I'm doing?"

"One of the Hogwarts champions," he corrected, sliding into an empty seat. "You have to agree it's a bit suspicious that your sister's name came out of the Goblet…."

"So, you believe she put her name in?" Arabella huffed, pulling her Divination essay towards her. "Then you're just as mad as the rest."

"Come off it," said Cedric in a light voice. "I only meant— how else do you explain it? I'm not mad, just… just curious, you know?"

None of the usual warm feelings inside Arabella arose that typically came with the boy's presence. Instead, a small fire of irritation had ignited within her the moment he'd begun speaking. It was clear where he stood when it came to the matter.

"Oh, I've got a few ideas," said Arabella with a bark of sarcastic laughter, unable to stop herself from speaking her mind. "Ever since Lyla and I discovered what we were, we've always been thrown into something. The first year, Quirrell tried bringing Voldemort back—"

Cedric flinched.

"— and don't get me started on the second year, where his bloody diary almost caused Hogwarts to close down! And need I remind you of last year with the Dementors?"

The Hufflepuff boy's brows had furrowed as Arabella ranted, looking more and more concerned.

"It's always the same," continued Arabella bitterly. "There's always something lurking in the dark, and I reckon Lyla was put in the tournament as a way to get rid of her… I'm almost positive."

"I see what you mean," Cedric finally said. "I admit, I hadn't thought of it like that…"

"You're hardly the first to," sighed Arabella, feeling the fire inside her sputter out. "We've never asked to be the heroes, despite what people would say or think… We didn't ask to have all this mad stuff happen to us…."

"No," said Cedric softly, "I realize that…"

The two sat in uncomfortable silence, only broken by Arabella grabbing things at random and shoving them into her bag without looking up

"Sorry," she sniffed, feeling a sudden wave of embarrassment wash over her. "I should get going…"

"Wait," said Cedric, standing and walking with her to the doorway, "I just wanted to talk—"

But it was too late, and the dark-haired Potter girl had already sprinted down the corridor and out of sight before the boy could even finish his sentence.


Lyla was absolutely miserable. The closest she had ever come to feeling this depressed had been during the few months in her second year when a large part of the school had suspected her and Arabella of attacking fellow students. She was pleased that the majority of her friends believed her, but not having Ron a part of that… but she wasn't going to try and persuade Ron to talk to her if the boy didn't want to.

She could understand the Hufflepuffs' attitude, even if she didn't like it; they had their own champion to support. In all honesty, she'd expected nothing less than insults that came from them. But She had hoped the Ravenclaws might have found it in their hearts to support her as much as Cedric. She was well aware that many people disliked Slytherin House but believed that she'd been able to maintain a courteous relationship with them. She was wrong, however. Most Ravenclaws seemed to think that she had been desperate to earn herself and the Potter name a bit more fame by tricking the Goblet into accepting her name.

Then there was the fact that Cedric looked the part of a champion so much more than she did. Exceptionally handsome, with his straight nose, dark hair, and soft eyes, it was hard to say who was receiving more admiration these days, Cedric Diggory or Viktor Krum. Lyla actually saw the same sixth-year girls who had been so keen to get Krum's autograph begging Cedric to sign their school bags one lunchtime.

Meanwhile, there was yet to be a reply from Sirius, and Merlin refused to come anywhere near Arabella. Trelawney was predicting her death with even more certainty than usual, and she did so poorly at Summoning Charms in Flitwick's class that she was given extra homework—

"It's really not that difficult, Lyla," Draco tried to reassure her as they left Flitwick's class— he'd been making objects zoom across the room to her all lesson as though he were some weird magnet for board dusters, wastepaper baskets, and luna scopes. "You just weren't concentrating properly—"

"Wonder why that was," said Lyla moodily as Cedric walked past, surrounded by a large group of simpering supporters, all of whom looked at Lyla as though she were a particularly large Blast-Ended Skrewt.

Their next class was Herbology, a class shared by the Ravenclaws. When she, Draco, Blaise, Theo, and Daphne arrived at the greenhouses after lunch, they found the Ravenclaws already there, each wearing a large badge on the front of their robes. For one wild moment, Lyla thought they were S.P.E.W. badges— then she saw that they all bore the same message in luminous red letters that burnt brightly in the dimly lit underground passage:

SUPPORT CEDRIC DIGGORY— THE REAL HOGWARTS CHAMPION!

"Like them, Potter?" said Sue Li loudly as Lyla approached. "And this isn't all they do— look!"

The Ravenclaw girl pressed her badge into her chest, and the message upon it vanished, to be replaced by another one, which glowed green:

POTTER STINKS!

The Ravenclaws howled with laughter. Each of them pressed their badges until the message POTTER STINKS shone brightly. Lyla felt the heat rise in her face and neck.

"Oh, very funny," Daphne said sarcastically to Padma, who was laughing harder than anyone, "really, very witty."

"Want one, Greengrass?" asked Stephen Cornfoot, a fourth-year Ravenclaw boy who Lyla had never spoken to. "I've got a bunch, but don't touch me, wouldn't want any of that Dark Magic your family deals in to rub off and infect me…"

Some of the anger Lyla had been feeling for days and days seemed to burst through a dam in her chest. She had reached for her wand before she'd thought what she was doing. People all around them scrambled out of the way, backing down the corridor.

"Lyla," Blaise said warningly. "Don't do it… ignore them…"

"Go on, then, Potter," chucked Stephan quietly, drawing out his own wand. "Moody's not here to look after you now— do it, if you've got the guts—"

For a split second, they looked into each other's eyes, then, at precisely the same time, both acted.

"Funnunculus!" Lyla bellowed.

"Densaugeo!" screamed Stephan.

Jets of light shot from both wands, hit each other in midair, and ricocheted off at angles— Lyla's hit Padma in the face, and Stephan's hit Daphne. Padma shrieked and put her hands to her nose, where a series of boils were springing up— Daphne, whimpering in panic, was clutching her mouth.

"Daphne!"

Theo and Draco hurried forward, Blaise dragging the girl's hands away from her face. It wasn't a pretty sight. Daphne's front teeth— already a tad larger than was average— were now growing at an alarming rate; she was looking more and more like a beaver as her teeth elongated, past her bottom lip, toward her chin—- panic-stricken, she felt them and let out a terrified cry.

"And what is all this noise about?" said the voice of Sprout. She glared at the haggle of students and pointed at Sue, who was sobbing. "Miss Li, explain."

"Potter attacked Stephan, ma'am— and now she's—"

"We attacked each other at the same time!" Lyla shouted.

"— and she's hit Padme— look—"

The professor examined Padme, whose face now resembled something that would have been at home in a book on poisonous fungi.

"Hospital wing," she said.

"The idiot got Daphne!" Theo said with outrage. "Look!"

He forced Daphne to show Sprout her teeth— she was doing her best to hide them with her hands, though this was difficult as they had now grown down past her collar.

"Alright, up to the hospital wing as well," replied the professor. "And fifty points, along with detention for each Miss Potter and Mr. Cornfoot for attacking and harming fellow students! Get inside, or it'll be a week's worth of detentions."

Lyla's ears were ringing. She could have sworn Sprout looked at her with distaste as she made her way into the greenhouse. Sitting between Draco and Blaise, she saw Stephan turn towards her and flash his POTTER STINKS badge.

Lyla sat there staring at the professor as the lesson began, picturing a world where she wasn't famous and was just average and like everyone else… And then a knock on the dungeon door burst in on Lyla's thoughts.

It was Colin Creevey; he edged into the room, beaming at Lyla, and walked up to Sprout at the front of the room.

"Yes?" said Sprout curiously.

"Please, ma'am, I'm supposed to take Lyla Potter up to the castle."

"Miss Potter still has another hour of Herbology to complete," she said. "She will join when this class is finished."

Colin went pink.

"Ma'am—well, you see, Mr. Bagman wants her," he said nervously. "All the champions have got to go, I think they want to take photographs. . ."

Lyla would have given anything she owned to have stopped Colin from saying those last few words.

"Very well, very well," said Sprout, her cheeks flushing with irritation. "Miss Potter, you may go."

Lyla swung her bag over his shoulder, got up, waved at the remainder of her friends, and headed for the door. POTTER STINKS flashed at her from every direction as she walked past the Ravenclaw.

"It's amazing, isn't it, Lyla?" said Colin, starting to speak the moment she had closed the greenhouse door. "Isn't it, though? You being champion?"

"Yeah, really amazing," said Lyla heavily as they set off toward the steps into the entrance hall. "What do they want photos for, Colin?"

"The Daily Prophet, I think!"

"Oh, great," sighed Lyla dully. "Exactly what I need. More publicity."

"Good luck!" said Colin when they had reached the right room. Lyla knocked on the door and entered.

She was in a fairly small classroom; most of the desks had been pushed away to the back of the room, leaving ample space in the middle; three of them had been placed end-to-end in front of the blackboard and covered with an extended length of velvet. Five chairs had been set behind the velvet-covered desks, and Ludo Bagman was sitting in one of them, talking to a witch Lyla had never seen before, who was wearing magenta robes.

Viktor Krum was standing moodily in a corner as usual and not talking to anybody. Cedric and Fleur appeared to be in polite conversation. Fleur looked a good deal happier than Lyla had seen her so far; she kept throwing back her head so that her long silvery hair caught the light. A paunchy man, holding a large black camera that was smoking slightly, was watching Fleur out of the corner of his eye.

Bagman suddenly spotted Lyla, got up quickly, and bounded forward.

"Ah, here she is! Champion number four! In you come, Lyla, in you come... nothing to worry about, it's just the wand weighing ceremony, the rest of the judges will be here in a moment -"

"Wand weighing?" Lyla repeated nervously.

"We have to check that your wands are fully functional, no problems, you know, as they're your most important tools in the tasks ahead," said Bagman. "The expert's upstairs now with Dumbledore. And then there's going to be a little photo shoot. This is Rita Skeeter," he added, gesturing toward the witch in magenta robes. "She's doing a small piece on the tournament for the Daily Prophet. .. ."

"Maybe not that small, Ludo," said Rita Skeeter, her eyes on Lyla.

Her hair was set in elaborate and curiously rigid curls that contrasted oddly with her heavy-jawed face. She wore jeweled spectacles. The thick fingers clutching her crocodile-skin handbag ended in two-inch nails painted crimson.

"I wonder if I could have a little word with Miss Potter before we start?" she said to Bagman, gazing fixedly at Lyla. "The youngest champion, you know. . . to add a bit of color?"

"Certainly!" cried Bagman. "That is— if she has no objection?"

Lyla said nothing, not sure what to say.

"Lovely," said Rita Skeeter breezily, and in a second, her scarlet-taloned fingers had Lyla's upper arm in a surprisingly firm grip, and she was steering the girl out of the room again and opening a nearby door.

"We don't want to be in there with all that noise," she said. "Let's see . . . ah, yes, this is nice and cozy."

It was a broom cupboard. Lyla stared at her.

"Come along, dear — that's right— lovely," repeated Rita Skeeter, perching herself precariously upon an upturned bucket, pushing Lyla down onto a cardboard box, and closing the door, throwing them into darkness. "Let's see now. ."

She unsnapped her crocodile-skin handbag and pulled out a handful of candles, which she lit with a wave of her wand and magicked into midair so that they could see what they were doing.

"You won't mind, Lyla, if I use a Quick-Quotes Quill? It leaves me free to talk to you normally. .."

"A what?" said Lyla wearily.

Rita Skeeter's smile widened. Lyla counted three gold teeth. She reached again into her crocodile bag and drew out a long acid-green quill and a roll of parchment, which she stretched out between them on a crate of Mrs. Skower's All- Purpose Magical Mess Remover. She put the tip of the green quill into her mouth, sucked it for a moment with apparent relish, then placed it upright on the parchment, where it stood balanced on its point, quivering slightly.

"Testing. . . my name is Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet reporter."

Lyla hooked down quickly at the quill. The moment Rita Skeeter had spoken, the green quill had started to scribble, skidding across the parchment:

Attractive blonde Rita Skeeter, forty-three, whose savage quill has punctured many inflated reputations—

"Lovely," said Rita Skeeter, yet again, and she ripped the top piece of parchment off, crumpled it up, and stuffed it into her handbag. Now she leaned toward Lyla and said, "So, Lyla... what made you decide to enter the Triwizard Tournament?"

Lyla was still staring at the quill. Even though she wasn't speaking, it was dashing across the parchment, and in its wake, Lyla could make out a new sentence:

An ugly scar, a souvenir of a tragic past, disfigures the otherwise pretty face of Lyla Potter, whose eyes—

"Ignore the quill, dear," said Rita Skeeter firmly. Reluctantly, Lyla looked up at her instead. "Now— why did you decide to enter the tournament, Lyla?"

"I didn't," responded Lyla. "I don't know how my name got into the Goblet of Fire. I didn't put it in there."

Rita Skeeter raised one heavily penciled eyebrow.

"Come now, dear, there's no need to be scared of getting into trouble. We all know you shouldn't really have entered at all. But don't worry about that. Our readers love a rebel."

"But I didn't enter," Lyla repeated. "I don't know who—"

"How do you feel about the tasks ahead?" said Rita Skeeter. "Excited? Nervous?"

"I haven't really thought. . . yeah, nervous, I suppose," mumbled Lyla. Her insides squirmed uncomfortably as she spoke.

"Champions have died in the past, haven't they?" said Rita Skeeter briskly. "Have you thought about that at all?"

"Well. . . they say it's going to be a lot safer this year," said Lyla.

The quill whizzed across the parchment between them, back and forward as though it were skating.

"Of course, you've looked death in the face before, haven't you?" said Rita Skeeter, watching her closely. "Both you and your sister Arabella. How would you say that's affected you?"

"I don't—"

"Do you think the past trauma might have made you keen to prove yourself? To live up to your name? Do you think that perhaps you were tempted to enter the Triwizard Tournament because -"

"I didn't enter!" cried Lyla, starting to feel irritated.

"Can you remember your parents at all?" said Rita Skeeter, talking over her.

"I—"

"How do you think they'd feel if they knew you were competing in the Triwizard Tournament? Proud? Worried? Angry?"

Lyla was feeling really annoyed now. How on earth was she to know how James and Lily Potter would feel? The question was absolutely ludicrous. She could feel Rita Skeeter watching her very intently. Frowning, she avoided the woman's gaze and looked down at the words the quill had just written:

'Tears fill those startlingly green eyes as our conversation turns to the parents she can barely remember.'

"I have NOT got tears in my eyes!" said Lyla loudly.

Before Rita Skeeter could say another word, the broom cupboard door was pulled open. Lyla looked around, blinking in the bright light. Albus Dumbledore stood there, looking down at both of them, squashed into the cupboard.

"Dumbledore!" cried Rita Skeeter, with every appearance of delight— but Lyla noticed that her quill and the parchment had suddenly vanished from the box of Magical Mess Remover, and Rita's clawed fingers were hastily snapping shut the clasp of her crocodile-skin bag. "How are you?" she said, standing up and holding out one of her large, mannish hands to Dumbledore. "I hope you saw my piece over the summer about the International Confederation of Wizards' Conference?"

"Enchantingly nasty," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling. "I particularly enjoyed your description of me as an obsolete dingbat."

Rita Skeeter didn't look remotely abashed.

"I was just making the point that some of your ideas are a little old-fashioned, Dumbledore and that many wizards in the street—"

"I will be delighted to hear the reasoning behind the rudeness, Rita," said Dumbledore, with a courteous bow and a smile, "but I'm afraid we will have to discuss the matter later. The Weighing of the Wands is about to start, and it cannot take place if one of our champions is hidden in a broom cupboard."

Very glad to get away from Rita Skeeter, Lyla hurried back into the room. The other champions were now sitting in chairs near the door, and she sat down quickly next to Cedric, looking up at the velvet-covered table, where four of the five judges were now sitting— Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Mr. Crouch, and Ludo Bagman. Rita Skeeter settled herself down in a corner; Lyla saw her slip the parchment out of her bag again, spread it on her knee, suck the end of the Quick-Quotes Quill, and place it once more on the parchment.

"May I introduce Mr. Ollivander?" said Dumbledore, taking his place at the judges' table and talking to the champions. "He will be checking your wands to ensure that they are in good condition before the tournament."

With a jolt of surprise, Lyla hastily looked around and saw an old wizard with large, pale eyes standing quietly by the window. She had met Mr. Ollivander before— he was the wand-maker from whom she and Arabella had purchased their own wands over three years ago in Diagon Alley.

"Mademoiselle Delacour, could we have you first, please?" said Mr. Ollivander, stepping into the empty space in the middle of the room.

Fleur Delacour swept over to Mr. Olhivander and handed him her wand. "Hmm..." he said.

He twirled the wand between his long fingers like a baton, and it emitted several pink and gold sparks. Then he held it close to his eyes and examined it carefully.

"Yes," he said quietly, "nine and a half inches. . . inflexible.. rosewood.. . and containing. . . dear me. . ."

"An 'air from ze 'ead of a veela," said Fleur. "One of my grandmuzzer's."

So Fleur was part veela…

"Yes," said Mr. Ollivander, "yes, I've never used veela hair myself, of course. I find it makes for rather temperamental wands...however, to each his own, and if this suits you…."

Mr. Ollivander ran his fingers along the wand, apparently checking for scratches or bumps; then he muttered, "Orchideous!" and a bunch of flowers burst from the wand tip.

"Very well, very well, it's in fine working order," said Mr. Ollivander, scooping up the flowers and handing them to Fleur with her wand. "Mr. Diggory, you next."

Fleur glided back to her seat, smiling at Cedric as he passed her.

"Ah, now, this is one of mine, isn't it?" said Mr. Ollivander, with much more enthusiasm, as Cedric handed over his wand. "Yes, I remember it well. Containing a single hair from the tail of a magnificent male unicorn. . . must have been seventeen hands; nearly gored me with his horn after I plucked his tail. Twelve and a quarter inches. . . ash. . . pleasantly springy. It's in fine condition...You treat it regularly?"

"Polished it last night," said Cedric, grinning.

Lyla looked down at her own wand. She could see finger marks all over it. Gathered a fistful of robe from her knees, she tried to rub it clean surreptitiously. Several gold sparks shot out of the end of it. Fleur Delacour gave her a very patronizing glance.

Mr. Ollivander sent a stream of silver smoke rings across the room from the tip of Cedric's wand, pronounced himself satisfied, and then said, "Mr. Krum if you please."

Viktor Krum got up and slouched, round-shouldered and duck-footed, toward Mr. Ollivander. He thrust out his wand and stood scowling, with his hands in the pockets of his robes.

"Hmm," said Mr. Olhivander, "ahh, this is a Gregorovitch creation, unless I'm much mistaken? A fine wand-maker, though the styling is never quite what I. . . however. ."

He lifted the wand and examined it minutely, turning it over and over before his eyes.

"Yes... hornbeam and dragon heartstring?" he shot at Krum, who nodded. "Rather thicker than one usually sees. . . quite rigid. . . ten and a quarter inches. . . Avis!"

The hornbeam wand let off a blast like a gun, and a number of small, twittering birds flew out of the end and through the open window into the watery sunlight.

"Good," said Mr. Ollivander, handing Krum back his wand. "Which leaves. . . Miss Potter."

Lyla got to her feet and walked past Krum to Mr. Ollivander. He handed over his wand.

"Aaaah, yes," said Mr. Ohlivander, his pale eyes suddenly gleaming. "Yes, yes, yes. How well I remember."

Lyla could remember too. She could remember it as though it had happened yesterday...

Four summers ago, on her eleventh birthday, she and her sister had entered Mr. Ollivander's shop with Hagrid to buy wands. Mr. Ollivander had taken their measurements and then started handing each sister a series of wands to try. Lyla had waved what felt like every wand in the shop until, at last, she had found the one that suited her best— this one, which was made of mahogany, twelve inches, and contained a single feather from the tail of a phoenix. Later, Ollivander explained that the phoenix feather in Lyla and Arabella's wands had come from the same bird that had supplied the core of Lord Voldemort's.

Lyla had never shared this piece of information with anybody. She was very fond of her wand, and as far as she was concerned, its relation to Voldemort's wand was something it couldn't help.

Mr. Ollivander spent much longer examining Lyla's wand than anyone else's. Eventually, however, he made a fountain of wine shoot out of it and handed it back to its wielder, announcing that it was still in perfect condition.

"Thank you all," said Dumbledore, standing at the judges' table. "You may go back to your lessons now— or perhaps it would be quicker just to go down to dinner, as they are about to end—"

Feeling that, at last, something had gone right today, Lyla got up to leave, but the man with the black camera jumped up and cleared his throat.

"Photos, Dumbledore, photos!" cried Bagman excitedly. "All the judges and champions, what do you think, Rita?"

"Yes, let's do those first," said Rita Skeeter, whose eyes were again upon Lyla. "And then perhaps some individual shots."

The photographs took a long time. Madame Maxime cast everyone else into shadow wherever she stood, and the photographer couldn't stand far enough back to get her into the frame; eventually, she had to sit while everyone else stood around her. Karkaroff kept twirling his goatee around his finger to give it an extra curl; Krum, whom Lyla would have thought would have been used to this sort of thing, skulked, half-hidden, at the back of the group. The photographer seemed keenest to get Fleur at the front, but Rita Skeeter kept hurrying forward and dragging Lyla into greater prominence. Then she insisted on separate shots of all the champions. At last, they were free to go.


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