The entrance hall was quiet for the moment. Most nominees had put their names into the cup yesterday almost immediately after the announcement. With only some hours to go, there were only a few people left who had decided to make last-minute nominations for themselves. James was one of them.

Beside him was Larissa and Moe and Victoria, who all insisted on being moral support. Given the butterflies in his stomach, he wasn't sure if their attempt really worked, but he appreciated their presence nonetheless. Larissa was practically vibrating in her spot, Victoria looked somewhat anxious on his behalf, and Moe stared at the goblet, likely trying to decipher some of its magical secrets. If James unfocused his eyes a little, he thought he too could see a faint mirage of magic within and extending beyond the goblet, but they disappeared as soon as he blinked.

A flash of yellow caught his attention and he saw Cedric, Emily, and Cho standing on the other side of the room. Seeing James, Cedric's face split open in a grin and he strode over. James could see a scrap of parchment in his hand.

"Finally decided, have you?" he said. "Not that it matters, since I'll be the one to get it."

"Will you, now," said James. Cedric's attempts to stir his competitiveness didn't quite work, but knowing he'd put in that effort buoyed his spirits somewhat.

"I'll be honest, I'm kind of glad Lyra's not allowed to participate," he said. "Not that I think she'd be interested. She's rich enough to not notice a thousand galleons."

"And what do you plan to buy with it?" said James.

Cedric scratched his stubble. "Dunno, honestly. A new broom? Send my parents on vacation? Or I could be boring and save up. You?"

"Funds to kickstart my curse-breaking career, maybe," said James, looking back at the goblet.

"Fair enough," said Cedric. "Ready?"

Truthfully, James wasn't sure. But he followed Cedric anyway, and the small crowd hushed as they stepped over Dumbledore's Age Line. Nothing happened. Not that he should be surprised — James had turned seventeen over a month ago, after all, and also turned seventeen a couple decades ago too. A little sardonic smile touched his lips. Given those extra years, it would be rather embarrassing if he didn't provide a good show at this tournament, supposing he got chosen.

The cup was a plain object, the closer he looked at it. Faded carvings encircled the rim, one of which appeared to be a knight charging down a wyvern on a beast far too small for him. He took a slow, deep breath. He couldn't let his courage be challenged before he even placed his name in it.

James met Cedric's eyes and then glanced down at the scrap of parchment in his hand. Slowly he raised his hand over his head and deposited it into the cup. Cedric did the same, and the Goblet of Fire flared, the eerie blue glow momentarily becoming a bright white. He exhaled as they stepped back out, and it felt like a weight had disappeared from his stomach. It was out of his hands now. Alea iacta est.

"I bet you'll get it, James!" Larissa said with a beaming smile.

"Pshaw. You're mad if you think anyone other than Cedric freaking Diggory will get it," said Emily, from Cedric's side. "James is too silly."

"He's not silly!" Larissa insisted. "But if you're so confident your boy toy will get it, then why don't we make a bet?"

Emily looked torn at that suggestion. "That's — I —"

"It's alright," said Cedric. "If James gets it, then I know he deserved it. I'm okay with that."

James felt a spark of something at that, a mixture of happiness and regret and a million other things forming a bittersweet cocktail of emotion. Cedric was a lot more deserving of these sorts of opportunities than James ever was. He was selfless, and caring, and kind — whenever Cedric did anything, he never did it with only himself in mind, but the people he loved.

One day, James might learn to be half as good as him.

James took one last glance at the goblet, the entrance hall once again left in silence. From the other exit, Cedric took a moment to turn around and send a thumbs-up in James' direction, which he reciprocated. When it was just the four Ravenclaws left in the hall, James glanced at his watch.

"I should get going," he said, sweeping his gaze over them all. "Thanks for the support."

"You're welcome!" said Larissa.

"Where to?" Moe said, before shaking his head. "Right, your Alchemy class with George Weasley. Dare I even ask what you two do in there?"

James raised an eyebrow, but Moe only chuckled, amusing himself with whatever degenerate thoughts were running through his head. So James bade them farewell for the moment, and they split up in their respective ways, him heading to the arithmancy classroom and the others back to Ravenclaw Tower.

He hadn't actually expected Dumbledore to permit the formation of an entirely new course just because he'd asked. James hadn't even known there were alchemists in the school aside from Dumbledore himself, and that man juggled a dozen balls in the air at all times. As it turned out, Vector had been among the last of those who had studied alchemy under Dumbledore himself — and now, it seemed, all his sucking up was paying off its dividends. Even then, it was hard to believe Dumbledore had given the go-ahead, since he'd probably have to pay Vector a little extra now. There were only two students there, after all.

It could've been more, but James' friends had all turned him down, citing increased workload for their N.E.W.T. courses. Ironically it had been George — who couldn't care less about his other subjects — that ended up taking him up on it.

James frowned a little as he once again wondered what Dumbledore could be playing at. Economically, two students probably didn't justify the creation of an entirely new class and raising Vector's salary to match, but he'd gone ahead with it anyway. Could it just be that Dumbledore had shown favor to one of his best students, one that went out of their way to speak to him? Would he do this for any student who asked and had shown the drive to take it seriously?

As much as James simply wished that he was just one of Dumbledore's favorites, he had to wonder if there was something beneath it. He wasn't the most politically savvy person, and while he was intellectually aware that Dumbledore was a chessmaster and a genius both, it wasn't as though he could see through the smoke and mirrors. But occasionally he could see the effects of it, like Crouch Senior suddenly taking Dumbledore's side on matters that he might have previously disagreed on, leaving the Wizengamot to scratch their collective head — or something like a seventeen-year-old suddenly gaining a professorship at Hogwarts.

Lyra was the icon, naturally. Her natural beauty and her — to put it politely — eccentricity made her an intriguing figure, toeing the line between insanity and charisma. She also wasn't afraid to speak her mind, and she spoke it well, not to mention she was the one who'd had grand ambitions in the first place. She was undoubtedly going to be the face of the Order once it gained more legitimacy and Dumbledore himself stepped down, whether she herself wanted it or not.

Cedric would probably be the true leader, though. He was no Octavian, but he was intelligent, charming, and empathetic enough to guess what most people were thinking at any time. He was good at compromise and managing groups, good at shouldering responsibility and taking advice in areas he was unfamiliar with. Good qualities for any leader to have, and by the way the entirety of Hufflepuff flocked to him like a big brother figure, he knew how to use them.

The twins were also important pieces, if Dumbledore's recent interest in them was any indication. If their business of making toys and joke products succeeded — which James knew it would — then they would be in a position to tap into the entirety of Magical Britain's youth, including the many that did not attend Hogwarts. With some clever marketing, they could influence an entire generation of witches and wizards in training. And that was a sobering thought.

Nymphadora was also being groomed for a leadership position in the Auror Corps, though she was too focused on the present to see it. Bill had uncommon training and expertise from his career, and was happy to share it with the Order. Harry Potter was already a household name, a living legend, and would also eventually inherit Sirius' considerable wealth. There were a number of others as well that James had occasionally seen in Order meetings, some from Hogwarts and some not, whose purposes that he was unsure of, yet doubtless they existed.

So where did James fit in? He wasn't all that special. He was just a kid from two Muggles and, while he had the reputation of being an advanced student, he wasn't brighter than Lyra, nor as charming as Cedric, nor as talented as Fred and George. When James had proposed these alchemy lessons, had Dumbledore seen a way to provide him with a new skill, promoting a pawn, as it were? He just didn't know, and it bothered him.

Or, as James wanted to believe, maybe Dumbledore was just being nice.

His musing concluded just in time as he opened the door to the familiar arithmancy classroom and stepped inside. George was already there, listening intently to Vector, who was looking over a sheaf of parchment. It was strange seeing George so serious. It was almost unnatural, considering his usual personality.

"Ah, James," said Vector, adjusting her spectacles. "Good afternoon."

"Hullo, Professor," he said, pulling out the seat beside George. "What's this?"

"Something I've been working on," said George, rhythmically tapping the corner of a sheet. "I was inspired by that spell of yours, actually. The Caveman Curse. I overheard the Patil girl — the Gryffindor one — call Malfoy the Younger… something. Can't remember what. Malfoy obviously has no idea what it means either, so he can't exactly accuse her of anything, can he? Now imagine you had a pair of enchanted objects bound to each other, and you can speak in your own language while others hear only gibberish."

"Clever," said James, a smile forming. "And I assume when you say 'gibberish'..."

"Behold, the Caveman Clubbers," said George, gesturing at the mess of parchment. "While you're holding it, everyone else only hears grunting from your mouth. Soon as you hit someone over the head with it, they can understand you. That's the theory, anyway. Haven't got a prototype yet."

"So if one kid buys it, then all their friends would have to as well," said James, and George chuckled.

"I am very impressed by your talent in enchanting and arithmancy, George," said Vector, "but I will admit to being concerned about your glee in taking money from children."

"What else are they going to spend it on?" said George.

Vector rolled her eyes in a display of familiarity that no other students got to see. "Just open page eighty-nine, please."

James took his textbook from his bag as George cracked his own open. Vector ran them through the revision questions for Chapter Seven, which they had completed the week before. Vector was definitely the right choice for tutoring alchemy, not only because she was among the few that had the knowledge but because she was among the few that could cram the two-year curriculum into one year instead, allowing James to graduate early as planned. With how much Vector had done for him, James didn't have the heart to tell her that he just wanted alchemy over and done with to do his own thing, and that he'd only proposed it to gain some insight into the little souvenirs he'd passed onto the Department of Mysteries in the past.

(Fucking Alchemists, Moody's voice rang in his mind.)

James also suspected that the two-year course wouldn't cover the topic of activating a Philosopher's Stone anyways, so there was no point studying it in-depth. Unless he could somehow meet Nicolas Flamel again and ask how it worked without giving away that Lyra had basically stolen it and he'd covered for her, the Stone would likely remain sitting at the bottom of her enchanted purse for a while yet.

"I have a question, actually," said James, and Vector nodded.

"Go ahead."

"How come only one attempt at creating immortality was successful?"

"If you wish to be technical about it, there are multiple reported successes of immortality," said Vector. "But the definition of immortality varies. The Philosopher's Stone, for example, cures all ails and restores the body to its prime, but could something that requires multiple, repeated uses be called a true Panacea? People argue to this day whether Flamel's Elixir is indeed the Magnum Opus or simply a very advanced medicinal potion. There are other methods, of course, vile ways indeed…" Vector trailed off. "I do not know the method by which people split their souls, for example, except that they are very dark rituals, and that I am likely better off not knowing them."

"But… none of these are true immortality," said James.

"What even is true immortality?" said Vector, intertwining her fingers. "Is it an existence like that of dementors? People do not yet know what immortality even entails — is it even possible to remain human, in body and mind, and call oneself immortal?" She shrugged. "Immortality is simply someone's ability to not die from various causes, as far as we know. Perhaps this will sound silly and quite obvious, but the problem with checking if someone is truly immortal is that you won't be alive to see it."

George opened his mouth and made to retort, but closed it.

"The short answer is, I have no idea," said Vector. "I suspect you could get better answers from the Headmaster or anyone who's studied the subject in more detail than just for their N.E.W.T.s."

"Then, in your personal opinion," said James, "do you think dementors can die?"

George frowned, and Vector shifted uncomfortably. "I personally believe that they, like all things, can be destroyed," she said. "Not in the same manner as us. We have yet to find any means to remove them permanently, after all, but again, we are mortal. We do not perceive the world as they do, and operate on different laws of nature."

James bit his lip. Even among beings of literal magic, James was an outlier. Unless he really was in a coma and hallucinating everything, he had more insight than most into the nature of mortality. His soul — for there was really no other option — had been transferred somehow, or by something.

Lyra had heard her name, her old name, in Azkaban. Hypothesis one was that some entity scanned her memories and repeated them aloud. He doubted Nymphie or Gael were capable of such a thing, since neither had seen through his disguise, but with Legilimens like Dumbledore or Voldemort in the world, it wasn't impossible that someone or something in Azkaban had seen through them. Or, hypothesis two, something that made a pit of dread open in his stomach, some incomprehensible being existed in Azkaban, or below it, or behind some veil of which no mortal could glimpse through; and perhaps it was this thing that had dragged their souls into this world of higher mysteries.

"Sorry about that," he said, noting George and Vector's lingering discomfort, and trying to ignore his own. "Just a passing curiosity."

"It's quite alright. Shall we finish these and head to supper?"

James and George packed their belongings and waited for Professor Vector to finish putting away her own things, before holding the door open for her. With the night being what it was, many of the torches that kept the corridors lit had been turned into carved pumpkins. Magic made decorations easy, he supposed, which was why Hogwarts was bedecked for every conceivable holiday. Christmas, Halloween, Easter, May Day, even Valentine's — the school was usually filled with some manner of decoration, and often created by students. McGonagall, for example, always arranged practical Transfiguration tests before these dates, and hung the students' art up the next day.

George split off from them, with Gryffindor Tower being in the opposite direction, and for the moment Vector and James were left alone. They pointed out their favorite pumpkins as they walked, with James finding a remarkably good carving of the iconic scene with Jack Torrance. With a clear victor found, they walked in silence once more, until Vector spoke.

"Did you nominate yourself for the Tournament, James?"

"I did, yeah," he said. "Just before I got to class."

"Good," she said simply. "I look forward to seeing you in action."

"I haven't been selected yet," said James.

Vector glanced at him. "Mhm. Do put on a good show, James — I plan to make Severus and Minerva each ten galleons lighter by the end of it."

With that, she swept into her office and disappeared. James blinked at the abrupt departure, before sighing out his nose and continuing his way back to Ravenclaw Tower. Maybe he was overthinking everything after all. Mr. Weasley, Larissa and Vicky, now Professor Vector. All of them were nothing but supportive, and none of them even seemed concerned on his behalf — well, except Vicky, but she probably had anxiety anyway.

Whatever good feeling he had vanished when he approached the eagle door knocker.

"What is the capital city of Luxembourg?"

James' breath whistled out through his teeth. He supposed he should be glad it didn't ask him too many riddles anymore, because he'd heard them all at least once, but now it presented him with trivia questions like these. The other day it had asked him how many flavors a Baskin Robbins had, and he'd been stuck outside counting to thirty-one like a complete moron. This wasn't even America, for god's sake. "Brussels. No? Luxembourg?"

The door swung open and James scowled at a trio of younger students who skidded to a halt in front of him. "No running in the doorway," he said, and they pretended to be contrite until he passed by. He weaved through the bookshelves and made his way up to his room. Moe raised his head from a comic book he was reading, and when James dropped his bag beside his bed, he swung his feet off his own.

"Is it dinnertime?"

"Inshallah, brother," said James.

"Sod off." They went downstairs and made their way out of the common room. "So, I heard you were talking to Delacour earlier today. And you didn't invite me? I'm hurt."

"Trust me, you're better off for it," said James. "She ignored me the whole time."

"Ah, but you have as much charm as Hagrid's compost bin. Like all things, beauty needs to be cultivated. Like I do."

James rolled his eyes at Moe's preening. "I think you're overestimating the effect of spending a galleon-twenty on beard oil."

"Hey, it smells nice."

"It smells like a Wampus Cat marked its territory on your face."

The great hall was nearly full by the time they entered, and steam rose from the tables, filling the air with the scent of homely food. Larissa waved from near the front, and the boys sat beside them. Once more, the Beauxbatons girls were sitting opposite them. It was easy enough to see who had nominated themselves from the way they sat; though Fleur, as always, seemed to be entirely comfortable. James saw Vector enter from the side entrance and seat herself at the head table, next to Sinistra.

The food was just as excellent as always, and James decided to reduce his dinner portions so he could try out a few more desserts. Tarts, pies and cakes — he just had to get the Mont Blancs too, he hadn't had those in forever. While he was stuffing himself with enough lemon tart and eclair and ice-cream to the point he might be sick in a few minutes, Filch stepped out briefly from the hall to cart in the goblet of fire. Dumbledore nodded graciously as the caretaker placed the goblet on the podium. The sounds of conversation, while it did not cease, became quieter.

Soon enough, the food disappeared and the plates returned to its spotless golden gleam; when Dumbledore stood a moment after that, the hall fell into silence. The headmaster leisurely approached the podium and stood beside the goblet. James let his eyes roam the hall. All students were tense, but there were a few here and there who almost looked like they were ready to leap out of their seats. Angelina Johnson was one of them, and there was Peregrine Derrick from Slytherin. And just opposite him, more than a few of the Beauxbatons girls were tense, but James' eyes were drawn to the one he knew would become a competitor.

Fleur met his eyes, then, as if sensing his gaze. The corners of her lips quirked upward, as though she already knew who was going to be called.

"The goblet is almost ready to make its decision," said Dumbledore. "When the champions' names are called, I would ask them to please come to the top of the hall and go through to the next chamber, where they will be receiving their first instructions."

With that announcement, Dumbledore drew the Elder Wand from his sleeve and gave a sweep across the hall, extinguishing all light save those of the carved pumpkins, allowing the ghostly, blue-white flames of the goblet to flicker ominously. A few people glanced at their watches, and James could hear the creaking of furniture as people shifted in anticipation.

Suddenly, the goblet flared red; a few students flinched at the shock of it. A scrap of parchment was spat into the air, and drifted gently down until Dumbledore caught it. He held it out near the once more blue-white flames to read it in its light.

"The champion for Beauxbatons," said Dumbledore, and gave an appropriately dramatic pause, "is Fleur Delacour."

Fleur stood, her hair sweeping behind her, and walked up between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables towards the head table. James saw Amelie's jaw clench. While James did feel bad for a few of the other Beauxbatons students — a few of them had broken down into tears — he knew that if anyone deserved it, it was Fleur. Granted, he hadn't known her for very long, nor managed a proper conversation with her — okay, maybe he didn't know her all that well, but she was probably pretty talented if she got it the first time around.

Mere seconds later, the goblet turned red again, and another piece of parchment was propelled into the air.

"The champion for Durmstrang," he said, "is Viktor Krum."

The silence was shattered with cheering and applause. The Durmstrang contingent, the Slytherins that sat with them, and anyone really who held any interest in Quidditch cheered wildly, though none were quite as enthusiastic as Karkaroff. Despite the overwhelming support, Viktor remained stone-faced as he marched up and disappeared into the adjacent chamber.

Sounds ceased once more as the hall was thrown back into darkness. Everyone was silent, and nobody moved. Perhaps it was only his imagination, but this silence seemed longer, the goblet more uncertain. Pondering, perhaps. How much did the goblet know about him? What made someone worthy? James leaned forward, and even that motion felt slow, as if he were swimming through honey. James felt like he was trapped inside a painting, frozen in time in a world that didn't seem quite real.

Then, once more, and for the last time for the next five years, the flames turned red, and Dumbledore snatched the parchment from the air. Even from so far away, even from through his half-moon glasses, James could suddenly see Dumbledore's blue eyes with perfect clarity.

"The Hogwarts champion," he said, "is James Stark."