"There we are, perfect. You do clean up nice."
...Well, it was nice of Daphne to lie, Liz guessed.
Coming down from Charms, Liz and Daphne had turned to continue down toward Slytherin while everyone else went in to lunch. Some of their friends made jokes about them sneaking off together, but really Daphne had just offered to help her get ready for this afternoon. Liz didn't know what was appropriate for bloody press conferences, and Artèmi and Fleur were going to be there, so she was more than a little self-conscious about it. Even if Daphne preferred Mistwalker aesthetics, she had been taught all the proper noble shite, so.
(Liz wouldn't have minded using the opportunity for alone time, but she kind of had somewhere to be, so.)
Liz was a little screwed when it came to this stuff due to simply not owning very many clothes — at least compared to most girls, anyway, it certainly felt like she had a lot of shite now. She was especially short on shoes, which limited their options considerably. Daphne thought finding something that would work with her nice white boots meant to go with her formal robes (the ones she'd worn her first time at the Wizengamot) was a good idea, and Liz honestly still liked the extra couple inches from the heels (even if they did make her slightly clumsy), so. Flipping through her closet, Daphne eventually picked a relatively plain blue dress with white stitching Liz had only worn a couple times — it was muggle-made, but Daphne said you couldn't really tell — and one of the collection of fashion scarves she'd picked up was mostly a pale blue, which would work, because apparently she was wearing blue today. She'd be keeping the Mistwalker-style beaded bracelets, just because she liked them, but Daphne said some gold would be a good idea, to match the sparkly bits in her boots — she could just wear Lily's necklace again, that one she'd gotten from James (Liz wore it pretty often, but not to class, didn't want to lose it), she poked through Lily's jewellery box, picked out a pair of earrings, gold with blue...
Actually, those were alchemical glass, not gemstones, and the metal was coloured brass and not real gold, must be something she'd bought before marrying James and suddenly having money. Daphne asked how she could tell, but she honestly had no idea, she just knew.
Daphne did her hair, because the stuff was completely impossible and Liz always had a shite time trying to do it herself. She went ahead and plaited in some strings of Mistwalker-style beads while she was at it, because why not. (Liz did like how the colours of the beads worked against the black of her hair, it just wasn't something that was very easy for her to do herself.) Her piercings should also be cleaned and polished, just in case — that only required dipping them in a potion Daphne already had sitting around for her own and letting them air dry for a few minutes, so not a big deal. Liz could get out the ones in her ears just fine — she had switched them out for some of Lily's things a few times — and her lip, but the one in her eyebrow was a lot harder for her to get out, for some reason. So, Daphne did it for her, which was a little awkward, some part of Liz cringing at the hands pawing at her face, but it wasn't a big problem, just, uncomfortable. And Daphne also put it back in for her, which meant basically re-stabbing her with a little bit of metal, which was possibly even more awkward, but oh well.
And there were a few cosmetic charms, she... Well, Liz did know some, but she was always worried that she'd overdo it, or just get something wrong, whatever, she didn't know. This was the sort of shite girls were taught by, like, mums or older sisters or whatever — Liz didn't have any of those, and she had no fucking clue what she was doing. She could theoretically use actual makeup instead of magic, but she didn't know how to do that at all, and if you fucked up a charm you could easily cancel it and just try again, so. Also, the spells were kind of neat — since they were right against your skin, they could be anchored straight into your magic, sustaining them and preventing them from being taken out by interference or a stray dispel. (Made the spells much more complicated and therefore more difficult to cast, the ones little kids would be taught first were simpler, but Liz had just taught herself the adult ones. Out of Witch Weekly, not that she'd ever admit that out loud.) So, she didn't need Daphne to do the spells for her, just to tell her if she was doing something wrong.
Her fingernails were turned a light blue to match her dress — that much was easy, at least — she darkened her lips several shades, just for contrast, and also very carefully sketched a thin dark line around her eyes, trying not to poke anything sensitive with the tip of her wand. It wasn't super obvious, she could barely even tell it was there in the mirror...well, it kind of made her face seem very slightly different, but it was hard to put her finger on how. The point was, magical cameras could be pretty shitty at reproducing shapes with subtle colour differences, especially since she and the Champions would be at a little bit of a distance, so, with her lips and her eyes fiddled with slightly to make a little extra contrast her face would come through better. Or, so Daphne claimed, anyway. Lightly layering a spell to, sort of, smooth out the little blemishes and imperfections everybody's skin had — not a lot, that quickly started looking very fake if you did too much, the effect was pretty subtle — carefully tying that one off into her magic, and she thought that was it. Over the last few months, if she was trying to look nice for whatever reason, she would also do this fake eye shadow thing that was kind of sparkly, glittering whenever she blinked (maybe a little much, but she thought it was pretty), but Daphne thought it might interact weird with the flash of the cameras, so. Never mind.
And now she was standing in front of the mirror, ready, or as ready as she was ever going to be, Daphne looming over her shoulder, smiling at her through the reflection. All saying she cleaned up nice, and...Liz's instinctive reaction to that was to assume she was lying. Which was very silly, Liz was literally reading her mind right now, she knew Daphne liked how she looked. She just...didn't get it. It was hard to believe, she was actively watching Daphne's thoughts and she still had trouble believing it.
That was kind of a pre-existing problem, sure — Daphne was bloody gorgeous, but Liz was, well, herself, so (clearly Daphne just had weird taste) — but it was possible she was being especially neurotic about it today of all days. Well, she was kind of always neurotic about her body, hating how she looked was, just, normal — she didn't used to care, really, until puberty came up and started messing with her head, because of course. There were good days, rarely, and most of the time she just didn't think about it, but when she did think about it, well. She knew there were going to be cameras at this bloody thing, pictures would be in newspapers and shite...and not just in Britain, but also Aquitania and France and Daneland and who the fuck knew where else, would be seen by thousands and thousands of people, most likely.
And in those pictures, she was going to be standing right next to Artèmi and Fleur, who were, just, unfairly beautiful, the both of them. By contrast, she couldn't help feeling like she was going to look like a...
Well, she'd nearly thought "troll", but she was too fucking short for that comparison to feel right. Um, maybe a goblin or something?
...They did have a reputation for being cold-blooded, violent bastards, so, yeah, let's go with that one. Goblin.
(Next summer couldn't come quickly enough — Liz was so fucking sick of looking like shite all the time. Or, feeling like she did, anyway, she was aware that it was at least partially just in her head. Whatever.)
Liz didn't say anything, but, either it was clear on her face — it didn't look like she was having much of an expression at all to Liz, but maybe Daphne was just better at reading people than she was — or Daphne knew her well enough to guess what she was thinking anyway. An odd cool shiver in her head Liz didn't know how to read, Daphne let out a soft little sigh. Shuffling closer to Liz's back, her arms gently circling her waist, Daphne rested her chin on Liz's shoulder, the scarf shifting around a little tickling her neck. Still watching her in the mirror, Daphne nearly said something about wishing Liz wouldn't think about herself like that, that she'd believe Daphne when she said that sort of thing, but she knew Liz didn't want to have that conversation (and also that she could see Daphne thinking about it anyway). With another sigh, she turned her face more into the crook of Liz's neck, breathing in — Liz noticed her noticing a hint of Liz's shampoo still lingering, because mind magic could be weird like that sometimes.
"I know," Liz muttered. "Sorry."
"You needn't apologise, for that." Daphne's breath tickled a little, against her neck, which was...kind of distracting. "I know you have difficulties with this sort of thing. I'm not offended, only..." She wasn't sure what word to use here — Liz would call it sad, or maybe frustrated, hard to say for sure. "Don't trouble yourself on my account."
Of course, Liz had known Daphne would say something like that, too. She just didn't know what else she was supposed to say. It did bother Daphne, and, it wasn't like there was anything she could do about it. Not until next summer, at least...
Liz was aware that being her friend could be kind of difficult sometimes — Hermione didn't really think so, but she was about as mentally off as Liz (if in a very different way), but pretty much everyone else did at one time or another. Trying to date her was...probably worse. Daphne had never really complained about Liz being, well, Liz, not even silently in her head, but still. Liz herself got tired of dealing with her shite all the time, she couldn't imagine how frustrating it must be for everyone else.
(That thought made her feel kind of...bad. She wasn't sure what to call that feeling, exactly, but it definitely wasn't pleasant.)
(Not for the first time, Liz thought that Daphne would probably be better off with someone else.)
Daphne's mind turning warm and smooth and...something against hers, Liz just stared blankly into nothing, fingers idly running along Daphne's arms around her waist. She still didn't entirely get the hugging thing, it could be kind of awkward sometimes — Daphne must be leaning over weird to get that angle, didn't seem to be bothering her... — but Daphne's mind was comfortable, so she wasn't really complaining. And, she was getting better at the, like, physical stuff. Still very much a work in progress, but. Daphne could be kind of...touchy, especially when they were alone together, so, was getting plenty of practice, she guessed. She still didn't get nearly as much out of the physical part of this stuff as Daphne did, but she did like, just, floating in Daphne's mind and magic, so, she guessed as long as both of them were getting something they liked out of it that was fine, right?
She didn't know, feelings were stupid and hard.
A flick of her wrist brought her wand to her hand, Liz quick checked the time. "I should get going — I'm supposed to be there soon."
Daphne let out a little hum, making Liz twitch — she could feel it through her scarf. "I suppose I should let you go."
"Mhmm."
Of course, Daphne could be kind of touchy, so she didn't really want to let go, kept the hug going for another moment. "Very well, then." Daphne started straightening, pulling away, her arms loosening from around Liz. Though they didn't go away entirely, Daphne's hands lingering over her hips — that was...kind of distracting. Trying to ignore that, Liz grabbed her bag off the counter — the one she'd picked up in muggle Paris, with some basic papers and emergency stuff, including her calming potion, which she planned on taking a sip of just before the event — and slung it over her shoulder, forcing Daphne to move one of her hands out of the way. She turned around, shivering a little as Daphne's hand circled around her back before lifting away.
"You know, if you keep being distracting, I'm never going to—"
Liz wasn't really surprised — she was still pretty deep in Daphne's mind, so she saw the decision to do it before Daphne actually got around to it. But it was still slightly startling when one of Daphne's hands took her elbow, the other landing on the hip not taken up by her shoulder bag, and then Daphne was kissing her, her mind crashing hot and smooth and giggly against Liz's, making her abruptly light-headed. Without really thinking about it, Liz's arms came up over Daphne's shoulders, helping to hold her up at a more convenient angle (though the heeled boots also helped with that), Daphne's arms tightening around her waist, one long slow kiss, Liz's breath clenching hot and tense in her chest, her stomach lurching (like missing a stair or tipping into a dive), and then a second, a light brush of the tip of Daphne's tongue along her bottom lip, Liz let out a shivering breath, her lungs not quite cooperating. Tentatively, her skin crawling (in the distracting, exciting way), Liz followed along as Daphne started deepening the kiss, just a little, her breath hot and, Liz's scalp and the back of her neck tingling—
Daphne's hands drooped a little, settling more over her bum, a sharp, unsettling thrill shooting over her head to toe. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, honestly — a bit much, her nerves sizzling and her heart jumping up her throat — but it did startle her out of it, the warm comfortable haze that had been quickly settling over her breaking in a blink. A hand lightly pushing at Daphne's chest, Liz stepped back, stumbling a little as the heels caught against the tile, Daphne steadying her with a hand on her elbow. Liz tipped back forward, resting her forehead around Daphne's collar, gasping for breath — it couldn't have been more than a handful of seconds, but fucking hell...
"Are you all right?" Daphne was aware that Liz could react very strongly to unexpected touches around...certain areas — and since Liz had (unnecessarily) explained everything in her apology letter last spring, Daphne knew about the sofa, so she knew what it was about, just in general. But, sometimes things bothered her, and sometimes they didn't, it could be really inconsistent, so Daphne didn't know for certain where the lines were. Which, honestly, Liz didn't know where the lines were herself, it took her by surprise sometimes too.
Except, this hadn't been one of the bad moments, but Liz could be so bloody weird for no apparent reason, she didn't blame Daphne for not being able to tell the difference. "I'm fine, just." Nerves tightening her throat, Liz hesitated just for a second. "This damn thing is going to be awkward enough without showing up super turned on." Especially since Artèmi and Fleur, at least, would definitely be able to tell...
Her mind ringing, Daphne struggled not to smile, not wanting Liz to think she was laughing at her — which was silly, Liz was reading her mind right now. Because Liz could be pointlessly neurotic about this shite sometimes, it'd taken her a bit to start admitting that out loud, but it hadn't taken her very long to figure out that Daphne was tickled by it. Well, "tickled" was the wrong word, but Liz didn't know what to call it. It was a good feeling, certainly, and since Liz wasn't really at a point yet they could do anything about it, seemed like the least she could do. "I see. Well, I wouldn't want to make it more difficult for you."
Rather than directly respond to that, Liz just pushed a feeling of exasperation at Daphne's mind. She was kind of lying — the thought of Liz being so distracted by sexy thoughts about Daphne that she was all worked up at this silly press event thing was rather gratifying and weirdly thrilling — but she was aware that Liz wouldn't find it nearly as amusing, so. (Daphne was such a pervert, none of their friends had any idea.) She still didn't understand why Daphne liked her so much, but it was kind of, well, whatever.
Not really sure what to say here, hesitating for a second, Daphne having sexy thoughts about Liz having sexy thoughts was giving her sexy thoughts, because mind-reading could get weird like that sometimes. "I really do need to go, see you later." A steadying hand on Daphne's shoulder, Liz tipped up on her toes for a last kiss, pushing a mental image over into Daphne's mind while she was at it — one of the showers in here, the water pounding hot against her back, Daphne laid out beneath her, Liz's head against her chest and her hand between—
Okay, she was stopping herself right there, not really doing herself any favours right now. Liz pulled away and turned to walk off, her first couple steps teetering a little until she got her balance back properly (stupid heels), Daphne's mind glowing warm and giggly at her back. Trying to walk was only making it more obvious she was super turned on at the moment, ugh, if she could not be leaking, that'd be great...
(Bodies were kind of gross sometimes, honestly, but it was best to not think about that.)
By the time Liz got upstairs and over near the duelling hall her face had cooled off...or, mostly, at least, she didn't think it would be too noticeable. Liz noticed there were a clump of people hanging around the door into the duelling hall, she jerked to a stop, and then backtracked, taking a side hallway around back toward Helga's Gallery. There were back rooms connected to the duelling hall, apparently, sort of like the waiting rooms and stuff there'd been for the tournament in Romania — Liz had never seen them before, but she assumed the note she'd been sent must be accurate. The press and judges and observers and people would all get seated before the Champions were brought in all at once, instead of wandering in in whatever order they showed up, they'd be stashed in one of the waiting rooms until it was time. Of course, Liz didn't know where those were, but the note had said it was off Helga's Gallery...
"Ah, Miss Potter!" She twitched at the call from Flitwick — eyes trailing over the ancient engraved wall, a tangled mat of branches scattered with leaves and flowers and finely-detailed little sculptures of all kinds of animals (supposedly dating to the Founders' time, designed by one of Hufflepuff's nephews), she hadn't really been paying attention, startled. "Come come, in here," he said, clawed goblin hand waving her toward an open door.
"Hey, Professor. I'm not too late, I hope."
"No, we have a few minutes yet. We'll need to wait on Miss Ingrid in any case — she went down to meet her family at the wardline, but it shouldn't be long now." Liz had no idea who the hell "Miss Ingrid" was, but by process of elimination it had to be the second Durmstrang Champion/ Who the other two schools were picking wasn't going to be officially announced until this event. (Though of course Beauxbatons was picking Artèmi, that really wasn't a question.) Flitwick stepped out of the way as she neared the door, ushering her on through before following right after her.
The room was wood-panelled, and pretty plain and empty, just a couple long benches along the floor and a few old wardrobes against the walls. There was a little table with a pitcher of water and some cups just there, and there were a few tapestries which she assumed hadn't been there before, the emblems of Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang — the elves must have been through here. Cedric, Artèmi, Fleur, and Viktor had all beaten her here, all of them joined by adults she assumed were parents or other relatives. Liz recognised Amos Diggory by sight — he was the Director of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and a huge racist bastard (it was kind of in the job description) — but the rest were all new to her. Artèmi was with a man who was almost certainly her father, similarly small and delicate — though less so, more masculine but still somewhat androgynous, like Sirius — and just as pale and blond; Fleur was sitting with two practically identical-looking women who were definitely veela, probably her mother and an aunt — Liz had heard a rumour somewhere that Fleur's father (step-father?) was human, in the ICW's diplomatic corp somewhere, must be too busy to make it; Viktor was joined by a rather stiff, dark-haired woman, probably his mother, and a very similar-looking man (though with a somewhat less prominent nose) who seemed too young to be his father — a brother or a cousin, maybe?
They had been told they could bring their families to this, so Liz had expected the extra people — Liz didn't really have one of those, though, so she'd be alone. Severus had offered to cancel his afternoon class so he could attend, but she'd told him not to bother, it was fine.
Liz barely had enough time to sneak a tiny sip of her potion — going over to the water table so she could put her back to the room, mostly inconspicuous — before she started getting roped into introductions. She got cornered by the Diggorys first — Cedric was amusingly exasperated with how cool his father was being with Liz. Not sure what he'd expected, they were political enemies, and it wasn't really a secret that Liz thought his Department was fucking awful. Not to mention he didn't believe Liz had been entered against her will, trying to steal his precious boy's thunder on top of kicking his arse in quidditch, so there was that. Also, apparently Amos was super-racist about Parselmouths too? Liz hadn't even realised that was a thing, because apparently they had to keep coming up with new stupid racist shite just to confuse her.
(She was positive snake-speak wasn't something humans had picked up by mixing with 'lesser beings', definitely not a sign of 'creature blood' of any kind, but whatever.)
While Cedric was still trying to subtly guilt his father into being polite, they were joined by Artèmi and her father — they had been talking to the Diggorys when Liz had come in, so they weren't much behind. Mr Cæciné — Liz was told his first name, but forgot it almost immediately — was all weirdly formal for all of five seconds before Liz told him to cut that shite out, Artèmi's mind shivering with amusement. (The Cæcinés were a super old formerly noble family, so they had a lot of the silly 'proper' etiquette that the nobility here insisted on, but Liz just found tedious.) Their talk was pretty bland and uninteresting, not helped along by Liz not really giving a damn about Artèmi's dad, and kind of hating the same basic small-talk adults always seemed to want to do with young people, all about their classes and their friends and their hobbies and blah blah...
After a little bit, Artèmi dragged her off toward the Delacours, leaving her father with the Diggorys. Artèmi wasn't so subtle of a mind mage that Liz had missed the mental interaction between the Cæcinés just beforehand — she wasn't looking close enough to pick up the details (Artèmi would definitely notice), but she suspected Mr Cæciné was intentionally keeping the Diggorys occupied so they wouldn't follow Liz to the Delacours, so Amos wouldn't be super racist about the veela and make everyone uncomfortable. There was a pulse of cool exasperation from Artèmi, it seemed Liz had guessed right. Artèmi shoved a feeling/thought in her direction — not directly pushing it into Liz's mind, but just kind of colouring the air around her so she picked it up anyway — the impression she got not super clear but Liz understood that the initial meeting between the Diggorys and the Delacours had gone badly, the Cæcinés had been managing them ever since.
Chloé Delacour was weirdly fascinated with Liz. Fleur had come with her mum, Apolline, and also Chloé, who was a...cousin, of some kind? The Delacours were a bloody huge family, supposedly, and they didn't explain exactly how Apolline and Chloé were related, but Liz guessed it didn't really matter. Talking to the veela trio was somewhat overwhelming, their minds very loud, in the way that veela could be, and Chloé bloody staring at her wasn't making it any easier. Liz had no idea what was going on there, it was weird. The woman looked like she was in her twenties, maybe, but was definitely a lot older than that — it was hard to guess age with magic involved, and it was even worse with veela, who supposedly aged even slower—
She's sixty-two.
It was a little odd that Artèmi knew that off the top of her head, also stop that! Anyway, sure, mages lived about twice as long as muggles, so that wasn't even properly middle age yet, but supposedly veela and lilin could live three to even four times as long as muggles — reading up on them after the duelling tournament over the summer, Liz had seen plenty of names in history with ages in the three-hundreds — so she was still relatively young by their standards. So, she was still super pretty, hair all shining silver and skin smooth and flawless, her eyes an inhuman orangish-gold, almost seeming to shine in the— Ugh, bloody veela. Anyway, she just kept staring at Liz, her attention sharp and clingy, crawling over her skin, her mind open and attentive, throwing off pulses of...something. Liz wasn't sure what to call that, exactly. Curious, maybe, with a bit of uneasiness in it, reminding Liz most of walking into a social situation where she didn't really know what she was doing, she was definitely going to fuck it up — coming through a little clearer, since veela and lilin basically compelled Liz to feel whatever they were feeling, not the weird shite her mind magic (/psychometry) did, but Liz was kind of shite figuring out her own feelings in the first place, so. Didn't know what this was about, this woman seemed far too interested in Liz, it was kind of unnerving.
Since Liz's mind was fucking loud, Artèmi was definitely picking up a bit of what she was thinking — also, Liz could feel her hovering nearby, like a creep. She hadn't realised this until just now, but it seemed Severus was actually unusually contained and polite for a mind mage. (Liz had assumed him picking up less than she did was just because she was shite at keeping herself close, but Artèmi seemed to be eavesdropping way more than Severus did, so.) While Liz got increasingly uncomfortable with Fleur's aunt staring at her, there was a wiggling, wavering uncertainty in Artèmi's head, prickles tingling up her spine. It was just another distraction making it even harder for Liz to focus on the polite nonsense of the introductions, not fun. After a long hesitation, Artèmi finally slipped into Liz's head, She's married to your aunt.
I said stop that! What she'd actually said registering a second later, Liz blinked. Wait, what? What aunt? I don't have an aunt. Besides Petunia, but she didn't count. And also Narcissa, she guessed, technically...
I don't mean to intrude — I'm not "hovering like a creep," your presence is spread in such a large area around you it's hard for me not to see what you're thinking. Actually yeah, that made sense, Severus said the same thing... You truly must work on your occlumency. Unless you're trying to give every mind mage and veela/lilin in the room a headache.
The thoughts Artèmi was slipping into her head weren't explicitly words, the impression she used to refer to veela and lilin didn't directly translate into English, but Liz knew what she meant. Of course, she hadn't realised they were sensitive enough to pick up on Liz's mind being loud.
They can. When you met on Hallowe'en, Fleur thought you were doing it intentionally to more clearly communicate, as her people do. I've already explained for you that the accommodation of her preferences wasn't intentional.
...Because Liz was a sloppy incompetent mind mage, Artèmi meant but didn't spell out explicitly. Shut up. Anyway, what the fuck is this about an aunt? Distracted by the mental conversation, she might have checked out from the verbal one, the Delacours giving her an odd look, Chloé feeling a little concerned — that her attention was making Liz uncomfortable, she was pretty sure. They'd been talking about maybe duelling professionally after school, right...
Once Liz was finished making a comment about not knowing that else she'd do with herself, Artèmi thought, Lise fled to Aquitania rather than consent to a proper betrothal, back in the early 60s, for which she was disowned by her father. Your grandfather, I believe. Liz caught that the Potter family drama had been kind of a big deal in Society circles at the time, Artèmi's dad had told her the story once, but she didn't spell out that part. She met Chloé while attending the healing programme at Beauxbatons, and they married in 1970. They have four half-veela children now, all of whom are currently attending Beauxbatons.
Wait a second, half-veela? That wasn't supposed to be possible. Nobody knew for sure — they were sort of protectively paranoid about this stuff, not wanting to give mages ammunition to maybe genocide them out of existence — but it was generally assumed that veela laid eggs. They simply weren't compatible with humans, reproductively. There were a small number of mixed individuals, just in the last couple decades, due entirely to the work of an Aquitanian blood alchemist who'd managed to—
...
An Aquitanian blood alchemist who, unless Liz was very much mistaken, was named Lise Delacour.
A slight hint of amusement slipping into Artèmi's mind, she added, Née Elizabeth Potter, yes. I hadn't realised you were entirely unaware of her existence — I had assumed you were named for her. Perhaps as a signal of your father's intent to reconcile, that went unfulfilled with his passing.
...Well, if she were, it was hardly like her parents would have told her that. Being dead and all. This is fucking awkward. Liz hoped Chloé didn't intend to say anything about it (was that why she'd come up with Fleur's mum in the first place?), because Liz would rather, just, keep doing her own thing and have absolutely nothing to do with the aunt she hadn't even known existed until just now, thanks. (Honestly, assuming this Lise woman wanted anything to do with her all of a sudden, she could piss right off — Liz was already starting to get a little angry that she'd left her with the Dursleys, and no thanks, she had enough to deal with already, she didn't need that shite right now.) Chloé's attention on her was making it kind of hard not to think about what she'd suddenly learned, and what wasn't being said, just, ugh, fuck you, Cæciné. Also, why the hell do you know all this anyway?
Lise is somewhat well known back home. Also, I'm friends with Fleur's younger sister, and Lise happens to be her favourite aunt. We've never met, but Gabbí talks about her now and then. Artèmi thought "friends", but she meant they were sleeping together — the mention of the younger Delacour girl brought the familiar web of memories and associations springing up in Artèmi's mind, and Liz picked up enough to be certain they were having sex. Veela/lilin have a different understanding of interpersonal relationships than most humans. For them, that close friendships may be rather more intimate is appropriate and even expected.
Okay then, given their reputation as flighty sex vampires, Liz couldn't say she was surprised by that. (Artèmi was a little irritated by the characterisation, but she could tell Liz personally wasn't racist about it, so she let the thought pass by without comment.) That didn't really explain why Artèmi had just gone along with the expected veela friendship thing...though, she was a mind mage, maybe that made a difference. Also, Liz wondered if this meant Artèmi liked girls, or if the weird veela sex magic stuff just ignored that entirely, which would make sense when she thought about it. Whatever, not Liz's business. None of this was her fucking business — she could feel the tension starting to build, even through her calming potion, her throat just starting to tighten and her scalp tingling.
So, at the first opportunity, Liz excused herself from the stupid pointless smalltalk, turning to go introduce herself to Viktor's family — not that she gave a damn, but slipping away just to go hide in a corner would probably seem rude. Artèmi was a bit amused with her general social incompetence, but if she meant to mock her about it she didn't get the opportunity to, Liz only had to walk a couple metres before Artèmi wasn't right at the edge of her mind anymore. She was still aware of Artèmi's presence over there, just, dimmer, no different than any other random person in the room. Well, somewhat different, actually. Now that they weren't inside each other's auras, she could better feel how Artemi's mind sort of spread out a little more than the average person, cool tingly threads wafting around her. Mostly focussed on Fleur and Apolline and Chloé, occasionally pulsing with one feeling or another, Liz assumed imitating the pushing-their-feelings-at-everyone-all-the-time thing that veela did. Occasionally, bits would reach out to other people in the room, but very thin and ephemeral, the contact light, just coming to the edge of their aura before backing off again — idly keeping track of where everyone in the room was, Liz had noticed in her pensieve that her mind magic did a similar thing. Just, way, way louder. She was definitely less contained than Severus, watching her magical presence reminded Liz more of herself, enough that Liz could tell she was there, but much more subtle.
So, yeah, Artèmi was probably right about the mental contact actually being Liz's fault. If she understood how this stuff worked correctly, the only reason Artèmi could talk at Liz the way she had was because she was a mind mage, but she'd probably been telling the truth about not hovering like a creep (she would have felt a lie), Liz was just shite at keeping herself to herself. Good to know.
First impression here, but Liz thought she kind of liked Viktor — he was about as blunt and asocial as she was, and seemed to have equally little patience for smalltalk. His brother Antoniy was far more gregarious, and honestly a bit much, and his mother Marina was very cold and stiff and honestly rather rude. Unlike Cedric, though, Viktor and Antoniy were completely unsurprised that their mother didn't like Liz. The drama around Liz and Dumbledore had been bandied about in the Bulgarian papers, because Dumbledore was stupid famous over there in particular for defeating Grindelwald — Bulgaria had been on the conservative side in the Revolution, and kind of gotten their arses kicked — and Liz caught from Antoniy (who didn't seem to notice her presence at all, unlike Viktor and Marina) that Liz publicly rejecting Dumbledore and switching to Ars Publica and hanging around with weird insular communes had been interpreted as showing neocommunalist sympathies. (Liz wasn't sure how that followed, she suspected Bulgarians had no idea what Mistwalkers were, but whatever.) It turns out, Marina's father had been part of the Bulgarian task force sent with the initial invasion of Illyria, an invasion had which ultimately failed as Revolutionary reinforcements from central Europe pushed conservative forces west toward Venice and east into Romania — Viktor's grandfather died in the fighting around Craiova, supposedly killed by Grindelwald himself, when Marina had been, like, three or four or something.
So, Marina was taking Liz supposedly being a neocommunalist now personally, because of the death of her father...for some reason. Liz didn't get how those two things connected — also, she'd had no idea people in eastern Europe legitimately thought she was a neocommunalist? — but people could be irrational sometimes. It wasn't like she cared that this random woman was being a bitch. Liz was only here to get away from Chloé, and she'd almost certainly never see Marina ever again once the Tournament was over, so, whatever.
Thankfully, she didn't have to tolerate the awkwardness with the Krums for very long. They'd only been talking for a couple minutes when an unfamiliar dark-haired girl turned up with a man who was presumably her father, plus a younger girl (maybe nine or ten) who might be a sister — Ingrid was back, and they could finally get started. Flitwick conjured and hopped up onto a step-stool, so people would actually be able to see him, drew everyone's attention with a sharp clap of his hands. Sharper and louder than it should be, actually, Liz suspected he'd used a wandless noise charm. Once the conversation had quieted, he chirped (in French), "All right, everyone! We're all here now, so we can go ahead and get this show on the road!
"Through that door," he said, pointing to a plain door on the back wall, "is our duelling hall. We've decided it would be most convenient to exploit the room for the event. In front of the platform, you'll find Britain's premier wandmaker, Garrick Ollivander, escorted by a pair of Hit Wizards as is expected in these silly old-fashioned events. For those unfamiliar, those are the men in the blue cloaks — public security, in short." Skilled wandmakers were kind of an important resource, there were a lot of incidents in history where they'd been kidnapped or murdered during public appearances, so. It wasn't so much of a concern anymore, but wandmakers were still always guarded by battlemages at public events, tradition. "You will present your wands to Master Ollivander one by one, and he will confirm they are in working order, and then you will take your seats. There will be a brief statement from Director Zabini concerning the events of Hallowe'en, the adjustments being made to the Tournament, introductions of the judges, and so forth.
"The floor will then be open to questions — Director Zabini will moderate, and translate questions and answers as necessary. The event will be held primarily in French, but it is natural that some people will have more trouble with the language than others. It is not widely spoken in this country, and there is— Do any of you have difficulty with French?" Ingrid raised her hand immediately, soon followed by her father (after nudging him with an elbow), Cedric joining them a moment later, looking a little sheepish about it. "Very well, I'll let Zabini know. I expect we'll be able to conscript your Headmaster or one of the judges to interpret if necessary, I don't imagine it will present too much of an obstacle."
Probably realising Ingrid might not have caught all of that, Viktor leaned in and started muttering to her. Flitwick ignored them and just kept going. "There will be seating to the side for family, and parents may interject if they like. Ah, Miss Potter, is Severus on the way, or maybe Sirius? or Sylvia?"
Liz was slightly surprised that Flitwick used Sirius's first name, but she guessed she probably shouldn't be — Sirius was super-friendly with literally everyone. "No, it's just me today."
"Very well, then." Flitwick seemed slightly unhappy with that, for some reason, but he went on without comment. "It's been decided that Ollivander will see the senior Champions first, and then the junior Champions, in tournament sequence. That is, Durmstrang, Beauxbatons, and finally Hogwarts. So, Champions, if you could all line up in front of the door please — Mr. Krum, Miss Delacour, Mr. Diggory, and then Miss Ingrid, Miss Cæciné, and finally Miss Potter. Go on then, up you get."
Liz hung back as everyone started moving — she'd be last, so she could wait for everyone else to get themselves together and just slip in behind — wondering why Flitwick kept calling her "Miss Ingrid". She was pretty sure Ingrid was a first name? Maybe it was like in Gaelic, where their last name wasn't actually a proper surname, so they preferred using titles with given names. Now that she was thinking about it, one of their judges was named Oskarsson, so it was certainly possible — if they were still literal patronymics, and not frozen into surnames like in muggle Britain, then it would be kind of silly to call someone Mister Your Dad's Son. It was similar in Gaelic, except their last names were usually referring to famous ancestors or something, so they were also just first names. Like, to Gaelic ears, if you called Severus's new girlfriend "Miss Ailbhe", it'd sound like you were trying to talk to a woman named Ailbhe, since that was also just a given name. And you couldn't say "Miss Ní Ailbhe" either, because that was basically saying "Miss Several-Times-Great-Granddaughter of Ailbhe (the Famous One)", which was very silly.
(She'd heard English speakers incorrectly use "Mr. Caoimhe" multiple times, which was extra silly, because Caoimhe was a girl's name.)
It was a little weird and confusing, but whatever, not really Liz's business. She assumed that's what was going on with "Miss Ingrid", anyway. And also not really important to think about just now, but she had to do something with herself while waiting for everyone else to get their shite together.
There was some confusion over whether the family members were supposed to be in line with the Champions (obviously not), but eventually they had it figured out, Liz finally slipping into her spot behind Artèmi. She grimaced a little as she got close enough that their mind magic started mixing up again — there was a noticeable chill around Artèmi, but her magic wasn't that unpleasant to be around, it was just a little irritating having her mind there. Like little needles stuck under her skin. She realised it was kind of rich to complain about it, considering it was actually Liz's fault — from her perspective, it felt like Artèmi's mind seeping into hers, but she realised it was technically the other way around, Liz spread out enough that Artèmi's mind was inside her aura — but there wasn't really anything she could do about it, just had to live with it. Good thing she'd taken some calming potion, this would be bloody impossible without...
Artèmi thought it was a little odd that her magic felt cold to Liz. (Not really cold, more like a cool autumn breeze, and oddly...glittery, but Artèmi probably wasn't paying close enough attention to get that distinction.) Apparently, light magic normally felt hot to dark mages? That made intuitive sense, she guessed, but Liz wasn't surprised she was weird. There was literally nothing normal about her, so.
There was a brief delay, and then Flitwick pushed the door open, stepping out in head of the group. Viktor followed a second later, the rest of the Champions filing through behind him. The duelling hall looked much the same as always, with the addition of banners hanging on the tall wooden walls, Hogwarts and Beauxbatons and Durmstrang — though those weren't new new, had turned up a few weeks ago. One set of stands had been folded down, seating a scattered mix of people — the stands weren't full by any means, but there were still more people than Liz thought was entirely reasonable for something so pointless and silly — a table with six chairs atop the shoulder-high (on Liz) duelling platform, covered in a colourful tablecloth Liz couldn't make out from this angle. Despite the height of the platform, with the audience in the stands they were mostly level, some actually sitting well above where the Champions would be. They weren't coming from straight behind the platform (the other set of stands, still folded into the wall, would be in the way), so she could see there was seating separate from the stands, a row of chairs occupied by the Headmasters and the judges, to the side a block of chairs presumably set out for family members.
As they approached the platform, there were several sharp pops and flashes of light — ugh, cameras, of course, bloody stupid...
Flitwick led them around to the open aisle between the platform and the stands, where the creepy old wandmaker was waiting, a pair of uniformed Hit Wizards looming a few steps behind his shoulders. Liz had expected they'd be doing the actual Weighing of the Wands part of this whole nonsense up on the platform, but apparently not — glancing up, they'd put the table pretty much right at the edge of the platform, wasn't really room to do it up there without the table itself getting in the way. Ah, the tablecloth, facing the stands the fabric hanging off the front of the table was split into thirds, each showing the colours of the three schools. Apparently they had assigned seats?
It wasn't just Ollivander and the Hit Wizards on the floor, there were also photographers around. Now that they were at a more convenient distance for the pictures, there was a noticeable uptick in the flashing lights, Liz grit her teeth, trying not to visibly flinch. She hated having her picture taken — she could feel their attention crawling over her, heavy and sharp, ugh...
Their line came to a halt, there was a bit of chatter, Liz wasn't really paying attention — she was too busy trying to ignore the eyes like wasps crawling over her skin, her fists clenched tight at her sides. Eventually Viktor was called forward, approaching the wandmaker...who seemed kind of out of it, standing there staring blankly into space, seemingly unaware of the noisy crowd around him. (Creepy bastard, honestly.) Viktor was rather stiff, clearly uncomfortable with the cameras flashing at him. As Viktor (rather reluctantly) held out his wand, handle-first, Ollivander finally came alive, startling into motion to accept it — gently, with both hands and a little bow, which Liz assumed must be the appropriate thing to do when handling someone else's wand.
Ollivander held Viktor's wand close to his face, eyes narrowing, turning it this way and that, his fingers running over the varnished surface. "Hmm, Regensburg Imperial, yes, yes." His voice was amplified somehow, carrying over to Liz as clearly as though she were standing right next to him, despite the low mutter. "Ah ha! Unless I'm much mistaken, this is a Gregorović creation, yes?"
Viktor seemed to relax, just slightly, some of the tension going out of his shoulders. "Yes, Master." In the sense of the master of a craft, Viktor meant — Liz didn't know what the protocol for talking to a master wandmaker in a formal event like this was supposed to be, she'd just go ahead and assume Viktor knew what he was doing.
"Yes, he has quite a distinctive style, here in the focussing elements." Ollivander pointed at a part of the wand, which was very silly, because it wasn't like anyone else could see what he was looking at. "Though, he's been in the craft for some decades, and has developed greatly in that time — I'm more familiar with his early work, I nearly didn't recognise his hand on this one. Very well-balanced and practical, elegant work. And, of course, in prime condition, and well-suited to the tone of your magic. Let's see..."
The grip of the wand found its way into Ollivander's hand, a jab conjured a little bird — bright and colourful, probably a tropical species of some kind. It flittered around their heads for a few seconds, musically twittering, before fluttering down to land on Viktor's shoulder. He turned to give the little construct a bemused look, drawing a couple laughs from the audience.
"Yes, perfect. Good luck, Mister Krum," Ollivander finished, holding the wand out to Viktor, laid out on both hands and bowing a little again.
Viktor took his wand back with a little respectful nod, and silently turned toward the platform, started climbing up the stairs even as Fleur was called up. Her walk to the wandmaker was really more of a glide, the same smooth graceful sway some of the purebloods got. Liz knew now that the weird veela mind magic stuff was definitely sensitive enough to feel the hostility rising from the stands, but Fleur walked with her head held high, clearly not letting it bother her. But then, she was probably used to idiots being stupidly racist by now. She offered her wand with a flourish, Ollivander accepting it with another little bow — as smooth and easy as the one he'd given Viktor, if he cared at all that Fleur wasn't human he wasn't showing it.
"Ah, ah, ah... Late Alexandrian, certainly, but... Quite an eccentric style, very modern, but I'm afraid I don't recognise the crafter. Ooh, the filters on the channelling elements, fascinating, fascinating. This wood, this is...ebony?"
"It is African blackwood, Master." Liz felt her eyebrow twitch — assuming grenadille d'Afrique meant what she thought it meant, that was the same blackwood the furniture in her bedroom was made out of. The stuff was pretty, and held up to enchantments pretty well, but she'd never heard of people making wands out of the stuff. But then, Liz had just read European sources, wandmakers preferred to use locally-sourced, naturally-grown woods, and obviously African blackwood obviously didn't grow here outside of specialised greenhouses, so. But still, neat.
"I see, I see, yes. But...is this a veela feather?" Ollivander asked, surprised muttering rising from the crowd (along with an increased pulse of displeasure from the racists in the audience). Which, sort of fair, Liz hadn't thought that was a thing people did? Veela were magical enough, of course — especially in their transformed forms, which obviously was where a feather would come from — but from what she'd read, using materials from beings could be...difficult. The ritual of wandmaking tended to preserve an impression of the sources of all the materials, and impressions from intelligent beings could almost give a wand a mind of its own. (Also, human magic was often incompatible with that of other beings, but obviously that wasn't a problem for Fleur.) It wasn't impossible to do — Ollivander himself famously crafted wands with phoenix feathers, and despite just looking like birds phoenixes were beings — but it was much more difficult.
"Yes, Master — my grandmother's."
"Ah, yes, that would do it."
...Liz had no idea what that meant.
"It appears to be in excellent condition, but...let's see if I can..." A twist of the solid black wand and a muttered incantation, Ollivander conjured a bouquet of flowers — blue, white, and yellow, Beauxbatons colours. Liz could tell from here that they hadn't come out quite right, the form of the blossoms unnatural, leaves misshapen, the stalks twisted and running into each other oddly. "Dear oh dear." Leaning a little closer to Fleur with a little smirk, Ollivander muttered, "Your wand doesn't like me, I think. In any case, it is very fine work, and it seems to agree with you. Good luck, Miss Delacour." He dispelled the flowers with a flick of his wrist before offering Fleur her wand back, Cedric called forward next.
Ollivander seemed to brighten the instant his fingers touched the wood, wrinkled face further crinkling with a smile. "Ah ha! And this is one of mine, I recognise it well. Crafted of a cutting from a particularly grand ash tree and the tail hair of a gregarious male unicorn, a light and energetic match, yes, marvellous. And still bright and enthusiastic after years of use. Let's see..." A swirl of Cedric's wand, and Olivander cast several rings of...well, it looked like smoke, with the way it billowed and rippled, but it looked too solid for that, almost metallic somehow, smooth and silvery. The rings undulated as they moved, drifting out toward the stands, wavering larger and smaller in an irregular rhythm, before eventually breaking apart, dissolving into little blue-silver sparks and winking out. Liz had no idea what that spell was, but she guessed it was pretty, at least. "Ah, perfect, wonderful. Good luck, Mister Diggory."
Ingrid was called up next — Ingrid Hannasdottir, apparently, Liz had probably guessed correctly about the name thing. Liz hadn't really paid much attention to Ingrid before now, but she was a relatively plain-looking girl. Taller than Liz (but wasn't everyone?), the trousers and jacket she was in making her figure not particularly obvious, her face, just, you know, normal, average. Her hair was kind of neat, a warm brown with just a hint of auburn to it, and super long, held back in a plait reaching almost all the way down to the back of her knees. It did seem like that might get in the way, but Liz still thought it was cool — she was always so jealous of girls whose hair actually behaved...which was basically everyone else except Hermione, so...
Humbly accepting Ingrid's wand, Ollivander chirped, "Ah! Here we have another Gregorović creation. No no, this isn't Gregorović himself, a student of his — perhaps...Eide Holst, I believe?"
"It is, Mestar." The title didn't come out in French, presumably whatever the hell they spoke in Daneland.
"Yes, of course, good. Eide Holst is a young man, still, but has great enthusiasm for the craft, his work as elegant as it is beautiful — and this is no exception. Hmm, hmm, let's see..." Ollivander's test of Ingrid's wand was somewhat more complicated than the others, which Liz guessed made sense, if the bloke who'd made it was a relatively inexperienced wandcrafter. He conjured three separate streams of water, simultaneously levitating them in twisting bands around himself and Ingrid, the water soon coming back to his open hand. Another spell condensed and transfigured the water into an oversized blue gemstone of some kind, a last spell dissolving the crystal into a rain of greenish sparks, the pinpricks of light bouncing against the tile floor a couple times before swiftly winking out. "Yes, yes, perfect. I'll have to keep an eye on young Master Holst, it seems. Good luck, Ingrid Hannasdottir."
And then Artèmi was called up next, her ridiculously fancy dress, white lace and glittering silver, swaying with each click of her heels. Liz was aware that Artèmi tended to make herself up all super sweet and feminine when she wasn't going to be fighting — she'd seen pictures in bloody sports magazines, because of course — which, some of the people she'd talked to thought that was kind of incongruous, but Liz didn't really get that attitude? She meant, obviously athletic girls were still girls, so why not. She'd probably do something similar herself, if she had the looks to pull it off (and also knew how to dress herself properly). Of course, not everyone was like that, Liz wasn't sure she'd ever seen Katie wear a skirt, but that was fine too. Just, whatever, you know.
Also, Artèmi's mind wasn't pressed against hers anymore, so Liz could stare at her a little without getting caught. That was a really pretty dress, but the lace and shite, Liz would be worried about accidentally tearing it...
Ollivander accepted Artèmi's wand with another little bow, and immediately brightened again, like he had for Cedric's. "Ah ha! Yes, Third Attican Revival, certainly — I'm a master of the same style, you know. This is... This would be the work of Elio d'Onofrio, I believe?"
"Yes, Master, it is. My family travelled to Taranto specifically to meet with him."
"And a wise choice that was! Elio is quite talented, nothing short of an artist. Yes, yes, holly and phoenix, perfectly attuned, wonderful." Considering how light her magic was, and how much she liked fire spells, Liz was zero surprised that Artèmi's wand had a phoenix feather core. "Your wand is in excellent condition, and in good spirits — the magic you have been casting agrees with its temperament quite nicely. However, this wand will not allow me to cast even the simplest of charms with it, its loyalty to you is absolute." Returning the wand with a bow, he said, "Good luck, Miss Cæciné."
Artèmi turned to climb the stairs up to the platform, and Liz was distracted from trying not to stare at her legs by all the eyes in the room suddenly slamming back to her — she flinched, sharp enough she was sure it was visible. Gritting her teeth, her chest already starting to tighten (eyes crawling on her skin like wasps), Liz stiffly crossed the several steps between her and Ollivander, drew her wand. Her hand tense and twitching, it was unreasonably difficult to loosen her grip and hand it to him. Honestly, as much as her duelling had improved over the last few months, she was still more dangerous with mind magic than with a wand, and she'd be able to break binding hexes and the like barehanded, it wasn't like she was making herself more vulnerable by temporarily handing it over or anything. Attention raking over her like a physical pressure, sharp and tingly, the cameras flashing in her eyes, it was, just, hard, that was all.
"Ah, and this is another of mine! White willow and unicorn hair, I remember it well — the unicorn who donated the tail hair for this wand was a venerable mare, particularly gorgeous and prideful, a majestic example of the species. For a moment there, I nearly feared she would sooner run me through than surrender even a single hair. Let's see, let's see..." Ollivander turned her wand in delicate fingers, silvery eyes focussed...but not on her wand, quite, she didn't think. There was an odd feel on the magic around him, branching and wavering, almost...
It reminded Liz of the heritage potion, oddly enough. Was Ollivander using some kind of scrying to read the condition of her wand? Huh. She wasn't really surprised Ollivander was a Seer, since he was a creepy bastard. When she thought about it, that did make sense — divination was more likely than analysis spells to reliably predict whether a wand would fail during the course of the Tournament — but if she'd known what he'd be doing ahead of time, she might have hesitated even longer to hand her wand over. She had committed crimes with that thing, after all. (Though the most serious one hadn't actually been done with her wand.) Liz did have psychometry herself, and she didn't get really clear echoes like that from anything, but who the hell knew what another Seer might pick up.
If Ollivander was picking up anything objectionable — his mind was smooth and cool and...shimmery, she couldn't tell what he was thinking without intruding — he wasn't showing it at all, giving her wand the same fascinated, academic interest as all the others. This bloke was obviously a huge nerd for wands. "Yes yes, the materials are still perfectly attuned, the varnish... How curious, have you been directing freeform magic through this wand?"
"Ah...yes, sometimes, I think. If you mean what I think you mean, Master, I'm not sure." She assumed he meant spells that weren't properly formalised charms, just, basically doing wandless magic but channelled through a wand for an extra power boost. Summoning her wand to her hand might also count, since that was freeform magic targeting her wand, and she'd done that plenty of times. (Sirius had said that was a requirement for joining the Aurors like it was supposed to be hard, but it really wasn't.) Sometimes, when she wanted to do something basic, like move something around her or warm something up, she just kind of pushed the right magic through her wand without really thinking about it — she'd thought she was just casting the normal spell silently, but Sirius had said those didn't feel like proper charms and more like wandless magic (with the suggestion that she could probably stop using her wand entirely for the little things with some practice), so. That was probably the sort of thing Ollivander was talking about, but she wasn't really sure.
"I see, curious, curious. The varnish is well-saturated with a lingering echo of your magic," Ollivander said, gesturing along the length of the wand, as though pointing at something, "a phenomenon that is not unexpected with extended use, but quite unusual at your age, after only three short years in your hand. However, as with Miss Cæciné up there, this echo will prevent me from casting even the simplest spells with your wand." There was a little chatter from the crowd at all that, Liz grimacing at the attention on her thick and fascinated, but Ollivander hardly seemed to notice. "But regardless, this wand remains in excellent condition, and I am certain it will serve you well for decades to come. Good luck, Miss Potter," again proferring her wand up with both hands and a little bow.
The eyes didn't leave her immediately, following her up the stairs — clawing over her back, her skin crawling, Liz grit her teeth so hard it was almost painful. She hated it when people stared at her, and staring at her back was always worse. (She didn't know if it was because she was subconsciously expected an attack, or if it was by association with that bad experience of people staring at her arse on the Romania trip, but it didn't really matter.) Also, trying to climb stairs in heels was always slightly awkward, and being stared at didn't help. Consciously breathing smooth and regular, she managed to keep her head mostly straight, the eyes drawn off her again as Blaise's mum started talking. And this was with a dose of calming potion, she didn't want to think how miserable this would have been without...
Looking over the Champions' table, Liz grimaced. They were set up with Hogwarts in the middle and the other two to either side, and Cedric was on the Durmstrang side and Artèmi toward the middle...putting the only empty chair right next to Artèmi. At that distance, Artèmi would definitely be inside Liz's aura again — since Liz sucked at occlumency, if Artèmi didn't bother keeping her out they'd probably be reading each other's minds the entire event. It was a little weird that Artèmi didn't seem inclined to isolate herself from Liz's too-loud mind, but Liz guessed she would be used to veela doing their thing...
(Or, maybe Severus really was just weirdly private and neurotic for a mind mage, she guessed she didn't know.)
By the time Liz sat down — Artèmi's cool, glittery mind again slipping into Liz's mental space, she grit her teeth — Zabini had already dismissed the wandmaker, moving straight into the announcements for the day. She didn't beat around the bush, started right out with Liz inexplicably being selected as a fourth Champion — which had eyes flicking back to her again, Liz tried not to visibly react. Apparently, the judges had exploited the pensieve kept at Hogwarts, with memories taken from themselves and various student volunteers, to confirm that Liz hadn't gotten anywhere near the Goblet the entire time it'd been here, and they were confident that there hadn't been any opportunity for her or anybody else to convince the Goblet to pick an additional person. However she'd been entered, it must have been done at the Ministry, after it woke up late on the 27th but before being moved to Hogwarts the evening of the 30th. There was an ongoing criminal investigation looking into it — it turned out using binding magics on someone without their consent was against the law, so, since they were satisfied Liz hadn't entered herself, she was now considered the victim of a relatively serious crime committed by person or persons unknown.
Which was the first Liz was hearing about this, actually. It was a welcome development, she guessed, especially if it got everyone to shut up about doing it herself for whatever stupid reason, so she wasn't complaining. Not that she was particularly optimistic about that — Ron Weasley, for example, was almost certainly going to keep being an arse for no good reason — but it couldn't hurt.
(It turned out, the criminal investigation hadn't been opened until the internal investigation Sirius had mentioned in his last letter had officially concluded someone had infiltrated the Ministry to subvert the Goblet and enter Liz against her will. Severus had received formal notice from the First Auror, who'd decided to personally oversee the politically-charged case, late the previous evening — it had been late, so he just hadn't gotten around to telling Liz about it before the Weighing of the Wands, and it wouldn't turn up in the Prophet until Sunday morning, so.)
Zabini explained the deal the judges had come to, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang each picking an additional Champion and calling it even. Liepiņš had even suggested having a set of junior and senior Champions going forward might make future Tournaments more interesting — and having larger events in general would invite more participation from the student body, further developing the original three-person contest into more of a general competition between the schools — but that would be a matter for later. Once that was out of the way, Zabini quick introduced all the judges (again), before turning back to the Champions. Why didn't they all stand and introduce themselves quick, where they're from (Beauxbatons and Durmstrang were both international schools), what sort of unique specialties or talents they have, you know, that kind of thing (with a joke about the wagering not being able to get off the ground until they had some feel for their relative abilities, to a few chuckles from the audience).
...Because that sounded fucking miserable, that was why. She wasn't the only one who thought so, even with Cedric and Ingrid sitting between them she could feel Viktor's mind lurching with exasperation and discomfort.
But Zabini wasn't asking Liz (or Viktor) for their opinion, waved up to the Champions' table — how about they start at the left side and work over. Zabini meant her left, so first was actually Fleur. Born in April '77, on the Delacours' lands in Gascony (which was in Aquitania), blah blah, pretty decent with charmwork, especially in more delicate stuff like spell analysis and healing, but was also great with graphic magic (runes) and had a particular fascination for wardcrafting and cursebreaking, blah. Fleur sounded surprisingly nerdy, actually, Liz hadn't expected that...but then, magical knowledge directly translated to magical skill, so the Goblet was hardly likely to pick a flighty Lavender Brown type.
Feeling faintly amused, Artèmi commented straight into her thoughts, Fleur is near the top of her class. And Beauxbatons was a way bigger school than Hogwarts, so that was kind of a big deal. People do seem to forget that, I haven't the slightest idea why. She did have ideas why — racism and misogyny, mostly — she was just being silly.
Sure, Liz was just saying. Though, the longer she thought about it, it was a stupid thing to think — especially since Liz was pretty damn girly herself sometimes, and she was such a fucking nerd. And now she was remembering Severus's I regret to inform you, but you are a girl comment, for some reason. Whatever, not important.
Still laughing at her on the inside (though with a hard, unpleasant undercurrent Liz didn't know how to read), Artèmi stood up to take her turn. Liz was a little taken aback right away, when she pronounced her own name...kind of weird. Mostly, Artémisia Cæciné was just pronounced like you'd expect in French — the only minor exception was the first syllable of her last name using a hard C and an è instead of an é — but this time it came out more, like, are-there-me-shaw say-she-nah, which was not even close to the same. Like, Artèmi was pronounced like that, just without the -shaw at the end, but still, weird. Liz had already noticed that Artèmi spoke French with a bit of an accent, and supposedly they spoke a different language in Aquitania — maybe this was just how her name was actually supposed to be pronounced? Weird, but whatever.
Anyway, Artèmi was from a place she called nar-voo-nor, which Liz was pretty sure was Narbonne, and her birthday was in January of '79, meaning she was only a year and a half older than Liz. She was a hell of a duellist, which of course everybody in the room already knew, and had a particular talent for light and fire spells, which shouldn't be a surprise to anyone who'd seen even one of her fights. Oh, and she was a mind mage now, obviously.
Artèmi sat down, and now it was Liz's turn — who knew how many dozens of eyes immediately zeroed in on her, her skin crawling, she physically cringed away in her chair before getting control of herself. She noticed the confusion from Artèmi, because apparently that stuff wasn't normal for mind mages, just as foreign to Artèmi as it had been to Severus. Because Liz was just lucky like that.
Stiff and uncomfortable, Liz pushed herself to her feet. Trying to ignore the attention on her, the storm of thoughts and feelings filling the room, Liz stared blankly up and to the left — and scrambled to figure out what the fuck she was supposed to say. "So. Um, Liz Potter. Hi." Mostly just stalling for time, she gave the crowd an awkward little wave, the tenor of everyone's minds on the air flickering a bit with a soft sort of bemusement, a few low chuckles reaching her ears. The pleasant, warm tingling made her feel a little better — or slightly less under assault by everyone's minds yelling at her, anyway — enough she managed to find words. "Since this is apparently relevant for some reason, I was born in Cambria—" Mages preferred not to use the name Wales. "—in July of Nineteen Eighty, though I actually live in Éire now," consciously using the Gaelic name instead of the French. "'Unique specialties', I don't know. I'm pretty good with battlemagic, I guess, and I'm a mind mage, obviously, but I think I'm actually best with witchcraft, just in general. Though I'm not sure how useful that's going to be for the Tournament — I have the feeling sitting down and brewing a potion at people isn't going to get me anywhere."
That got more laughter...for some reason. Liz wasn't trying to be funny, but she guessed she'd take it.
"Oh, and I'm a Seer — mostly just psychometric, but I get flashes of premonition now and then too—" Which was odd when she thought about it, because the heritage test said Lily's oracle talent hadn't passed on to Liz. Though, that was a soul magic thing, and those could sometimes spontaneously appear, so that didn't necessarily mean anything. Still weird. "—but that's probably more of a disadvantage than anything. Turns out, being a Seer...kind of sucks?"
...Okay, she wasn't trying to be cute, but she guessed she'd take that too.
"Speaking of, I can feel you all staring at me, and it's uncomfortable — save me, Cedric," she finished, flopping back down into her seat. Cedric was giving her a funny look, rather taken aback — most people knew being a Seer could be miserable, but just as a general thing, they mostly had no idea how, like the specifics — but he recovered quickly, springing up to his feet for his turn. Presumably, being his usual charming self, the atmosphere in the room stayed pretty warm and light.
Liz didn't hear much of it, though, distracted by Artèmi. There'd been a little flash from her when she'd mentioned being a Seer, but Liz had been focussed on talking and not making too much of an idiot of herself, hadn't been paying attention. Which was silly, that was common knowledge now...in Britain. And, actually, that was even a recent thing, when she thought about it — it'd been referenced in the Witch Weekly article over the summer, indirectly, but it'd never been explicitly stated that yes, Ellie Potter is definitely a Seer now until the Hallowe'en update thing earlier just this week. Everyone at Hogwarts — or at least anyone she had any contact with at all, or who'd caught gossip (the latter group much larger than the former) — had known for longer than that, but Liz wasn't sure whether it'd gotten to people outside of the school until literally...now, pretty much. And Artèmi probably hadn't seen the recent Hallowe'en memorial issue of the local newspaper, so, it actually wasn't weird that she might not know that.
...It had come up in the talk after the Champion selection, so Fleur presumably knew. But apparently she hadn't thought to mention it to Artèmi — because, you know, why would she bother.
Liz didn't really get why it was such a big deal, though? Like, yeah, psychometry could kind of fucking suck sometimes — she probably wouldn't need to take nearly as many mental health days without the constant stress of being battered with everyone else's shite all the time — but she wasn't sure what that cold, shivering...something in Artèmi's head was about.
Mental health days?
Yeah, sure. What about it? Because Artèmi was a cheater mind mage, she was definitely picking up Liz's defensiveness over it. It was kind of pathetic that some days she couldn't even, just, get through classes like a normal person, she couldn't help feeling rather...self-conscious, about it. But, Severus supported her just hiding in her dorm room for a day or two if she needed a break — in fact, he kind of insisted that she do so when she felt it was really necessary — so she tried not to let being a complete fucking mess bother her too much.
Artèmi mind turned with some kind of thought, too far into her own mind-space for Liz to see what without intruding. Why don't you simply take a grounding potion?
Because fuck grounding potions, that's why. "Just take a grounding potion" was pretty much every non-Seer's first impulse, but Severus had admitted the first time he'd mentioned them that the side-effects could be kind of terrible. And, the first other real Seer she'd ever talked to fucking hated them — Miss Eva had been put on multiple different formulations through her childhood and teen years, and did not recommend Liz do the same — so, yeah. It sucked sometimes, just existing, but she suspected grounding potions wouldn't be an improvement.
...How old were you when your mind magic triggered? Artèmi was aware Liz had been an active mind mage longer than her, but she didn't know by how much.
Liz didn't know what that had to do with anything, but okay. I was eight.
A hard, white-hot lurch slashing through Artèmi's mind, she jolted in her seat, turning to stare at Liz. You're a psychometric Seer and a childhood legilimens? Artèmi was also thinking about what little she knew about the whole being an unwanted abused orphan thing (the Aquitanian papers hadn't printed any details, but she'd picked up things since coming to Hogwarts, and of course there were the memories Liz had flung at her in their duel), but she didn't explicitly communicate that part to Liz.
...Yes?
Gods have mercy, how are you still sane?!
Well, that's a stupid fucking question — I'm pretty sure most people would say I'm not. She knew Artèmi meant in the completely losing touch with reality sense, like could happen to childhood legilimens sometimes, especially ones who grew up with no knowledge of magic...and probably double especially ones who were also Seers, when Liz thought about it. By childhood legilimens standards, she was relatively functional, since she could go to school and interact with kids her age without too much trouble. Pretty much everyone thought she was weird, yes, but she hadn't completely imploded or resorted to reflexively altering the minds of everyone around her all the time, the stereotypical childhood legilimens things, so. Add in the usual Seer stuff on top of that — or less add in and more multiply against, since the effects of the additional mental stress would cause exponentially higher risks of disaster — and Liz guessed she had beaten the odds, somewhat.
Though, it was pretty common for childhood legilimens to accidentally break themselves somehow — altering your fundamental identity was inherently risky, so doing it instinctively with no understanding of what you were doing was insanely dangerous — and Liz had definitely done that. That was why her mind was so fucking loud, you know? She'd broken something somehow when she'd still been tiny (she had no idea how or when, honestly). She couldn't stop channelling magic through her mind all the time, it just felt normal to her — like, the same way she wasn't aware of her heart beating, and couldn't consciously stop it if she wanted to. In their duel, Artèmi had been all, psh, pathetic, learn occlumency you loser, but Liz was pretty sure she physically couldn't, not until she fixed whatever the hell she'd broken as a small child. Severus had suggested as much, at least. (She didn't think Severus quite got that she couldn't turn it off, but he had said she'd need to stop doing it, he just didn't understand how impossible that was.) And, considering she was pretty sure she'd somehow instinctively altered the character of her own soul, and that shite was insanely fiddly and complex, she was pretty sure fixing it simply wasn't possible. At least not without serious risk of breaking her mind even worse. So.
Yeah, she was pretty sure she wasn't sane. Technically. If she were, she probably wouldn't need the mental health days. She meant, obviously?
Leaning back into her seat, Artèmi's mind retreated inward somewhat, shifting hot and cold and unsteadily wavering. Quietly horrified by how fucked up Liz was, she was pretty sure. Which, fair — Liz was aware her life was kind of absurd.
By the time Liz was done being distracted by Artèmi, they were already up to Viktor's turn — she'd missed the beginning, but Viktor claimed to be a pretty good duellist, with special skill in combat transfiguration. That was news to Liz, honestly. She'd kind of expected him to be a stupid jock type, which was a little silly, since a lot of the other quidditch players here at school could be surprisingly nerdy...but not really that silly, because all the articles she'd seen in sport magazines and shite and the gossip floating around, none of it had ever suggested he was anything other than a stupid jock type. She hadn't looked into him that closely, but still. Of course, he had gotten through Durmstrang's entrance exams — that'd been before he turned out to be a famous quidditch star, but even so, Durmstrang didn't make exceptions for any reason, everyone had to get through the same strict admissions process — so she probably should have assumed there was more to him than met the eye. She just...hadn't really thought about it. Which was foolish, yes, but Liz would admit she could be a thoughtless idiot sometimes.
The combat transfiguration in particular was pretty impressive. Transfiguration of a volume necessary to be useful in a fight was very energy-intensive — especially since you'd almost always have to rely on conjuration, and they didn't even start that until NEWT level — and the depth of visualisation necessary meant it was also more attention-intensive, meaning it was extremely difficult to adapt to a particular situation on short notice. The people who'd used any conjuration at all in the junior division at the summer tournament were in the single digits, including Katie, but she'd only done a little bit to block polarised spells — and also sometimes animals, for distractions, but she used realised charms for those, which was cheating. You sometimes saw more in the senior division, but it was still pretty rare. Viktor was implying that he used quite a lot of it, actually, which was very unusual.
And not just for his age, but kind of at all? The power and attention demands meant transfiguration was an inefficient choice compared against charms of similar utility, no matter what your age — combat transfiguration was very rare, even among highly-trained battlemages in actual war. Outside of a few exceptional cases, like metamorphs (including Dora), or sometimes especially talented alchemists (like Dumbledore), it only came up in very limited situations, like blocking 'unblockable' curses. Some random bloke having special talent with it was...unusual. Especially since Viktor wasn't even in Durmstrang's duelling team, and if he was really so good with combat transfiguration he definitely should be. Maybe he was just too busy with quidditch? Liz was planning to drop quidditch so she could focus on duelling (and studying for Competencies), maybe Viktor had just done the opposite. Still, very interesting, she was actually looking forward to seeing him fight now, if only out of curiosity.
Speaking of combat transfiguration, she really should track down a shop where she could buy a memory of Dumbledore's duel with Grindelwald — they didn't send the things through owl post, and the summer had been kind of a mess, she'd never gotten around to it. Supposedly that fight was one of the few in recorded history to even feature combat alchemy, which was ridiculous...
Anyway, once that was done, there were a few more comments from Zabini, before they moved straight into the questions. Some of the creeps in the stands would raise a hand, Zabini would pick one, they would ask their question, either of a specific Champion or the six of them in general, and on and on it went. It was mostly pretty tedious, really, nothing too special — not so different from the things that would be yelled at them at the various brief press events she'd been roped into in Romania. The major difference being that there'd been a lot going on in Romania, so she could get away with just ignoring the questions and letting someone standing next to her (usually Katie) answer instead, but here there were only six of them, so that didn't really work. You know, basic how do you think you're going to place in the tournament, what do you think of this or that competitor, what made you decide to enter, do you have an opinion on this or that scandal tangentially related to the event, blah blah, nothing particularly interesting. In the directly Tournament-related stuff, there was the special detail of the changes being made due to Liz being entered, but Liz could perfectly honestly say that it was total shite and she hated everything and everyone involved, and none of the other Champions were complaining — Artèmi and Ingrid both said they were happy for the opportunity to compete, and the senior Champions all claimed to be pleased they had someone to collaborate with in the group tasks (Liz suspected the three of them had coordinated that response ahead of time) — so, that genre of questions went fine for Liz, she guessed.
Of course, the questions couldn't be all innocuous, there was some nosey shite too — hence, creeps. There were several questions to Viktor about whether there was any truth to the rumours that he was sleeping with this or that woman...most of whom were celebrities in eastern and central Europe, and significantly older than him. (They did realise he was still in school, right?) Most of them just got a flat no, with absolutely no elaboration, Liz could feel his building exasperation and disgust and sheer not wanting to be here even with Cedric and Ingrid between them. At one point, Viktor claimed that he wasn't dating anyone at the moment, and hadn't since before he'd joined the Bulgarian National Team (which was at least a couple years ago now), but seemingly nobody believed him — which, naturally, just made him even more irritated with them all.
Well, at least someone hated all this as much as Liz did.
These weird fucking 'journalists' seemed inordinately interested in their love lives, which was super fucking creepy, given that they were all underage. Well, okay, she guessed the senior Champions technically weren't (though Fleur at least was definitely still a minor in her home country), and Artèmi and Ingrid would be considered legal adults in Britain, but it was definitely creepy in Liz's case at the very least — she was over thirteen, yes, so sex-related stuff wasn't legally a problem, but it was considered socially unacceptable before courtship age, which she hadn't quite gotten to yet. (Kids screwing around with each other before courtship age, fine; adults sticking their noses in, super weird and creepy.) Though, the especially nosey questions were mostly directed at the other Champions, so Liz guessed people did realise that.
Viktor had his, of course, and Ingrid mostly managed to get through that topic untouched, thanks to being almost completely unknown. Her mother was a locally-influential politician, apparently, but Ingrid wasn't important enough for there to be rumours floating around — at one point, she was (teasingly) asked if her boyfriend would be visiting for the Tasks, to which she'd simply said (in her native language, translated through Liepiņš), that she didn't have one, and it was left at that. Cedric got some, which wasn't a surprise, since he was a very handsome boy (she'd heard, incessantly), and was also known to be dating the Ravenclaw seeker...something Chang, Liz had honestly forgotten her first name. She was a pretty mediocre seeker — compared against Liz, Katie, and Cedric, she was obviously the worst in the school — and Liz had absolutely no contact with her outside of quidditch, being in a different house and a different year, so she just didn't care enough to remember practically anything about her. Oh, some of the Ravenclaws said Chang had a reputation in-house for being kind of a judgemental bitch (the stories reminded Liz of Lavender, sort of), which didn't say great things about Cedric's taste, but other than that.
It was pretty subtle, they didn't come out and say it, but Liz got the feeling a couple of the questioners were being weirdly racist about the good pureblood boy dating some girl who didn't even have the decency to have been born white. That was...strange. Liz was used to British mages pointing their stupid racism at nonhumans — aside from shite to do with muggleborns and muggles, racism within their species was much more rare. (And reminded her of Vernon more often than not, which was always uncomfortable.) Which was extra stupid, because, didn't these people claim to just care about magic, and having a long purely magical heritage and blah blah blah? Supposedly the Changs were kind of a big deal back home — Chang's immediate family had been planted here to build long-term social/economic ties with the West, very similar to the Patils in that way — so, it didn't really seem consistent to Liz. But then, you could hardly expect people who were fucking stupid enough to believe race as a concept made any sense at all to be consistent about their fucking stupid nonsense, so. Still weird. Cedric was picking up on it too, his mind flittering with discomfort, trying very hard to stay polite like a good Hufflepuff.
Fleur got the sort of nosey shite you'd expect pervy bastards would think was appropriate to ask someone who was basically a weird magic sex vampire, the questions sometimes coming off very racist (especially from the British press). The racist-sounding questions immediately prompted questions from the Aquitanian press, asking whether Fleur had safety concerns with staying in this backward human-supremacist shithole for several months — the delivery amusingly snide, sparking glares between different members of the crowd, Liz burst into giggles before she could stop herself. Some of the questions directed at Fleur (and also Artèmi) were so flagrantly offensive that Zabini refused to translate them, but both Fleur and Artèmi understood English perfectly fine, so several times they spoke over Zabini to tell the racist reporters to piss right the fuck off. Liz had to fight an inappropriate smile every time — Artèmi's mental commentary was far more colourful (and violent) than what she said out loud, which didn't help — and she wasn't the only one, chuckles breaking out now and then.
(Ingrid was definitely racist against veela herself, and Cedric was uncomfortable with them, if not as bad as some of the people Liz had noticed could be about it — sitting next to him through this conversation, Liz was now certain Cedric was less absurdly racist than his father, but he had still grown up with it all — which, being so close to them made Artèmi and Fleur's sniping less funny. Or, more difficult for Liz to enjoy it, anyway, Cedric and Ingrid's discomfort itching at her. Whatever.)
Artèmi was included in the racist shite because she was asked once if the fact that she was dating Fleur's younger sister at all presented a conflict of interest. Of course, Artèmi insisted that they weren't dating — which they weren't, apparently, veela could just be, er, very friendly — but pureblood idiots thought being a race traitor was basically just as bad as being subhuman, so they didn't let that one go. Especially since it was coming from an old noble family like the Cæcinés, Liz guessed. The Aquitanian press were mostly backing up their Champions with this nonsense, but one reporter brought up a scandal involving Artèmi's parents, seemingly just to make her uncomfortable. Though, he was just kind of obliquely referencing it, maybe a messy divorce or something?
They never married. My parents are second cousins — I understand I'm the product of a youthful indiscretion involving some sort of alchemical intoxicants.
...Oh. Incest would also do it, Liz guessed. Should Artèmi be just coming out and telling her this?
It's hardly a secret. My mother is a somewhat famous battlemage these days, so the circumstances of my conception have since become public knowledge back home. This particular journalist happens to be from a neocommunalist publication — I expect he's mentioning it for political reasons. Because fuck the nobility, even the small shreds of it that were left, but Artèmi didn't explicitly spell that out. Which was fair enough, Liz guessed. You know you're a noblewoman yourself.
Yes, well, Liz had never claimed to not be a hypocrite. Also, a lot of the big famous names in the muggle left, at least, had been class traitors, so she was pretty sure that was fine.
Anyway, Liz did get some of the nosey shite, but compared with the plain pervy creepiness directed at Viktor and Fleur, it wasn't really that bad. That she was dating Daphne had been announced in the bloody Prophet (fuck that rag, honestly), so obviously there were some questions about that, but it was relatively innocent. Yes, she had gotten the piercings at the Greenwood — they were neat, she liked them, and she was definitely getting more later, so there. Only one question crossed the line — some woman from Witch Weekly asking whose dorm room they preferred, suggesting they were sharing one — but Zabini told the woman off and just moved right on to the next question. So Liz was never put on the spot too much, it wasn't that bad.
One reporter asked — translated through Liepiņš, presumably this one was from Daneland — whether she had any concerns with Dumbledore being one of the judges, considering their very public falling out. As much as that question was getting close to things Liz didn't want to talk about, she actually didn't mind it, since she could use it as an opportunity to piss on Dumbledore in public for a couple minutes. You see, Liz would argue that they hadn't had a "falling out" of any kind — before a relationship could messily implode it had to exist in the first place. Liz had literally never heard Dumbledore's name before, upon finding her own way to Charing after her Hogwarts acceptance letter had come in right around her eleventh birthday, the goblins had told her he was her legal guardian, and she could count the occasions they'd had any contact whatsoever after that on the fingers of one hand. The first time they'd met, he'd literally forced her back with her abusers, so, as far as she was concerned, their "falling out" was the default state of affairs between them, the public just hadn't known about it until recently.
(Liz picked up plenty of confusion and sharp cold displeasure on the air, which was a bit baffling, before she remembered they were mostly foreigners — she already knew from Sirius that the foreign papers had included far fewer details than the British ones, gossipy bastards, so maybe this was news to some of them? Whatever.)
Maybe Dumbledore would use the Tournament to take out his frustrations on her, but that would be a super shitty thing to do, considering literally all of this was his fault. But even if he did, it wasn't like she gave a damn about her scores in this bloody thing anyway — she'd be happy with surviving and not completely embarrassing herself in the process. So yeah. Did that answer your question?
Liz had to try very hard to not openly smirk at Dumbledore — that would kind of ruin the angle she was going for here. Nobody else was laughing, so.
Feeling rather horrified again, and also oddly bemused, Artèmi thought, Most people don't find child abuse amusing.
Well, Liz thought she was funny, anyway.
All told, as uncomfortable as everyone bloody staring at her was, and as intrusive as some of the questions could be, it wasn't that bad. Taking a calming potion beforehand had been the right move, but it could have been worse.
Except then they moved on to pictures, which really couldn't be worse — Liz hated having her picture taken. The little crowd was breaking up, the various press people and also random spectators who'd just decided to show up — now that Liz was actually looking, there were a smattering of students from all three schools in there — and while most of them seemed to be leaving, all the camera people were coming up and— Ugh, it was miserable. She didn't know why people's attention bothered her so much more when they were taking pictures but it made her skin crawl, her throat knotting, she hated it.
She managed to stick it out through the group shots, which were also miserable, but at least people's attention was diffused enough it wasn't too bad. There were a couple with all six of them, sure, but someone had the idea of doing some of all the girls, which were uncomfortable for a different reason. Liz continued to be annoyingly short, but Artèmi was actually almost as short as she was (purebloods), Fleur and Ingrid taller than the both of them by enough that it was pretty convenient to frame them up with Liz and Artèmi in front, Fleur and Ingrid looming over their shoulders. And, with the bloody Cæciné on one side and the fucking veela on another, people's eyes voraciously clawing at her, Liz was, just, uncomfortably aware of the fact that, well. Ingrid was relatively plain, but Artèmi and Fleur were fucking gorgeous, and here Liz was all...
Goblin, she'd settled on goblin. Yeah, it was irritating.
Artèmi picking up on her discomfort and shoving some soft, warm feeling at her didn't really help, just made the atmosphere in here even more stifling, she could barely breathe.
Eventually, they started peeling off people for solo shots, and Liz was done now, thank you. Claiming that them all looking at her was starting to physically hurt probably wouldn't go over great — people always thought she was exaggerating when she said that sort of thing, which was irritating, because she almost never was — so Liz just said she had a meeting with Rita to get to. It helped that she was actually telling the truth about that, as overwhelmed as she was at the moment it was easier to come up with a story when she didn't have to lie.
She was over halfway to the door — the same one she'd come in through, so she didn't have to worm her way through the people still lingering around the main doors — when she heard a call of her name. Gritting her teeth against a groan (she did not want to be here anymore, okay), she hitched to a stop, turned to— "Oh, Director Zabini. What is it?"
Blaise's mum was dressed somewhat more normal today, in the sort of professional robes you saw all over the place at the Ministry or certain well-to-do magical enclaves. She still looked bloody amazing, because she always looked amazing — Mirabella Zabini was irritating like that. "I don't know if you recall, but we were going to gather the Champions together to discuss the First Task after the event."
...She'd forgotten about that, but she still really didn't want to be here anymore. "Can I, just, not? The crowd was a lot, I'm— I'd really like to be alone for a bit now." She did have a meeting with Rita arranged, but it'd just be Rita and Daphne there, she didn't even have Bozo along today. So, that'd just have to be good enough for now, she guessed.
Zabini hesitated for a second, Liz had long enough to worry she was going to try to drag her back, before she said, "Very well. I have cousins with the Sight, I understand needing to take a break now and then is perfectly ordinary. I suppose we can depend on Mister Diggory to fill you in later — though you may always approach one of the judges or even write to me at the Ministry if you have questions."
Writing the Director of Education if she had questions about a school tournament seemed like a bit much, but whatever. "I'm sure Cedric will catch me up. You might have noticed, he's such a Hufflepuff."
Zabini's lips twitched. "Yes, I see he is that. I do have this for you before you go." She reached into her robes, pulled out a thick pamphlet sort of thing and— Oh! It was the rulebook, right, Zabini was going to bring her a permanent, non-conjured copy, she'd forgotten. "Do feel free to get in contact with me if you need anything, at any time. I truly regret that you were dragged into this, Miss Potter, and if there's anything I can do to help make up for it. I'm not formally part of the even, so I'm not bound to follow the rules of the Tournament — there is assistance I can give you without consequence that the judges and the staff, including your guardian, are barred from providing. I'm not much of a battlemage myself, I'm afraid," Zabini said, with a sort of self-deprecating smirk, "but I can give you inside information on the Tasks, at the very least."
...Okay, then. "Um, I'll probably take you up on that." It would circumvent Severus's problem with getting the information in the first place — he was still allowed to teach her things, obviously, but they'd immediately cut him out of the loop, so. "Thanks?" It came out in a sort of awkward rising tone, she was, just, kind of blindsided, okay...
"Of course, sweetheart. Now, I should get back there. Feel better, Miss Potter." Zabini shot her a final brilliant grin, before turning smartly and clicking her way back toward the platform, her heeled boots beating a steady rhythm against the tile. For a few seconds, Liz just watched her walk away, frowning in confusion.
That was...odd. That was odd, right? It certainly felt odd, she wasn't entirely sure what the fuck just happened. She should probably ask Blaise what the fuck the deal with his mother was, because that was odd.
(Not that Blaise ever answered questions about his mum — in his defence, most of them were trying to figure out whether there was anything to the rumours that she'd murdered her previous six husbands, which Liz was also curious about, but.)
Liz went right through the waiting room thing she'd met the other Champions in, coming out into Helga's Gallery on the other side. She looked around, quickly spotted Daphne some metres down the hall to the left, fingers lightly tracing over the tangled branches carved out of the wall. (It was very detailed work, and Liz assumed the forest theme would appeal to the Greenwood sense of aesthetics.) Daphne heard her coming, turned and said something, but Liz wasn't really listening, exhausted. Walking right up to her, Liz grabbed her hand — Daphne's mind pressed against her, smooth and warm and soft and comfortable, pushing away some of the unpleasant prickles lingering from the picture-taking. The tension already starting to dribble out of her shoulders, Liz let out a sigh, leaning forward a little to let her forehead rest against Daphne's collar.
Surprise flittering in Daphne's head for a moment — Liz was aware she didn't exactly do things like this very often — it smoothed over again pretty quickly, her free hand coming up to gently run through Liz's disobedient hair. "Had a difficult time in there, I take it." Daphne was acting pretty casual and matter of fact about it, but she was a bit flattered that Liz had come straight to her for comfort, which...Liz hadn't thought about it like that. Not consciously, at least. But Daphne's mind was comfortable, she guessed.
Distracted by that weird realisation, Liz wasn't sure what to say, so she just went with a noncommittal hum. "Have fun in Herbology?"
"Of course." Daphne actually enjoyed Herbology, weirdo. "Do we have time before we're supposed to meet with Skeeter?" So they could go somewhere and relax for a little bit, she meant.
"...No, we really should go see her straight away."
"Ah." She didn't move to let go of Liz, though, her thumb running over Liz's knuckles, free hand gently rubbing down Liz's back. It was nice, and Daphne's mind was comfortable, and Liz was, just, unreasonably tired — it couldn't be much later than four in the afternoon, but dealing with crowd was always exhausting. (Especially when they were taking bloody pictures.) She really would rather just go find a room somewhere and do nothing for a couple hours. She'd probably end up falling asleep again, but Daphne hadn't seemed to mind the last time that'd happened...
But she should try to stay on Rita's good side. Especially since she didn't really ask that much, and since they'd made their deal there'd been an obvious improvement in the tone of the shite about her that turned up in the papers. Witch Weekly was going to do a whole special thing about the Champions, a main article but also little profiles on all six of them, which was silly but whatever. If they were going to do that nonsense, she'd rather Rita be writing her profile (with her cooperation and Severus's oversight) than that creepy bitch who'd asked which of their dorm rooms Liz and Daphne were sleeping in. So.
Forcing out a sigh, Liz reluctantly leaned away — she kept a hold of Daphne's hand, though, her mind still pressing warm and soft into hers. "We should get going. She's in one of the little common rooms over here, come on..."
[are-there-me-shaw say-she-nah] — In my dialect of English, "shaw" is pronounced with an /ɑ/ — the same sound as the "bath" vowel in RP — but in many dialects of British English it's pronounced /ɔ:/ (the "thought" vowel), which...doesn't actually exist in my dialect. There's a tendency in many English dialects, particularly American ones, for the /ɑ/ and /ɔ/ vowels to merge together, so, for example, the sound in "palm", "lot", "cloth", and "thought" — pronounced /ɑ:/, /ɒ/, /ɒ/, and /ɔ:/ in RP — are all /ɑ/ for me. In Liz's dialect, a final /ɔ:/ might break into a centralising diphthong (probably /ɔə/) depending on context, but "shaw" is close enough of a phonetic spelling to be getting on with. Oh, and Liz's dialect is non-rhotic, obviously — "there" sounds something like /ðɛ:/ (the "square" vowel in RP), which is also close enough. Liz actually doesn't pronounce "are" with the R, but she knows it's 'supposed' to be there, so it's the best she can come up with. Not a perfect phonetic spelling in Liz's dialect, but it's not going to get much better than that. Oh, and the "nar-voo-nor" is Narbona, which is indeed Narbonne in Occitan — again, the "nor" only works because Liz's accent is non-rhotic.
And yes, it was worth thinking about that hard, obviously, why wouldn't I?
Bluh. Took longer than I expected, due to this scene getting away from me — I actually did an edit for once and cut ~4500 words I decided were completely unnecessary — and also just feeling inexplicably miserable lately. Writing has been slow and hard, thanks to being tired all the fucking time, no idea why.
Anyway, yeah, I don't think I have anything else. Oh, obviously Liz doesn't have the brother wand, for reasons. Right, that's it from me, bye.