The blue of her blazer seems exceptionally bright in the carriage lights, the already darkening sky of the Hogwarts grounds turning it into an exceptional colour. It made her bitter that she wasn't the only one wearing it. The uniform was terrible that way, making it so she looked pitifully the same as everyone else.

It was hung over her arm as she stood around with the other students, each buzzing with barely contained excitement, each hoping that their name will be called — because they were a much smaller number than the others, she believed, and it gave them all a much greater chance at the tournament. Has Iola wanted to compete she would have felt the same way, though, at least she would have been able to present herself better than they were. Dancing around with loud giggles and overly confident remarks was simply embarrassing.

Rolling her eyes at the lot of them, she settled at the back of the group, avidly avoiding her mother's hawklike gaze as she finished making herself presentable.

She was shown up late for the set meeting time, having taken her potion as she was told and set into a walkabout that castle that had gotten her so lost that she had to cut her quidditch practice short, Aveline was beyond furious. Her drills were likely to become more difficult.

It wasn't the first time she wondered if she ought to quit one of them — duelling or quidditch— but she could never quite decide which she would miss more. Being a Keeper was something that she adored, something that felt incredibly normal and dirty and freeing. It was something that everyone enjoyed, that everyone loved, and Iola loved that it gave her the chance to feel like she wasn't stuck up.

Because she knew that's what people said about her, even if it wasn't true.

But duelling was all she had ever known, all she had trained for all her life, and leaving it behind now when she was so good when she craved that thrill of the win that let her know she was the best... Iola was addicted to the sensation.

Shaking her head, she dismisses the thought as something to be considered later. Much later, as in, if it ever came up that she needed to make a decision because right now she was more than willing to do both

Though, she could do without her mother's intense style of training.

Iola pulls on her blazer, shrugging into the cover from the warmth with a contented sign — buttoning it with nimble fingers as she trails behind the rest of the group.

The big, giant groundskeeper was upfront, speaking to the headmistress with this misty-eyed hopefulness, this sort of odd, instance attraction that she wasn't sure she had ever seen before.

She bites down on her grin to hide it from her Aveline's disapproving stare. She didn't much like the people here, it seemed.

"He is rather odd," one of the boys comment quietly, mumbling the words. "I don't know why the Madame is humouring him."

"Perhaps you should mind your business, then," Iola snaps, running her fingers through her hair. "I doubt anyone has ever humoured you before."

"Don't be foul, Bouchard, it's unbecoming," Henri LeBlanc rebuts snidely.

"Presuming you have the right to speak to me is unbecoming. Your voice is giving me hives," she drawls, linking her hands behind her back. "Hold your tongue or I'll hold it for you."

"Uptight, little—"

"Do you wish to upset me?" Iola rounds on him, her wand already held loosely in hand. He takes a step back, not having seen her pull it. "Do you wish to issue a formal challenge?"

Sofie pops at her side, a terribly tight smile pulled at her cheeks. "Whatever you have to say of the Madame's friends is an insult to her and our school. I won't stand for it," the girl says, cocking her head slyly. "But if you think you can speak ill of my dearest friend, I will not stop her from tearing you apart."

"You won't stop her?" Henri bristling. "You can't fight for yourself?"

Sofie laughs. "Do you forget who she is? Iola is more than capable of taking care of herself."

"Go away and keep your unnecessary opinions to yourself," Iola orders, dismissing him with a careless wave of her wand.

She doesn't turn to watch him leave, not needing to as she turns to her friend with a small frown. Sofie wasn't facing him as she scowled after the parting boys, watching as they rejoined the line up to the castle.

"I truly wish they hadn't been invited to come. Oh, things are going to be terrible dealing with him," Sofie remarks, shooting daggers with her eyes. "I hope he isn't chosen as Beauxbatons champion. How embarrassing..."

"He won't be champion. He's far too stupid a boy," she relents, letting go of her slight anger at the interference. "Besides, I have no doubt Fleur will be chosen. She's who I would pick."

"You don't think it'll be Francois?"

"No offence, Sofie, but the boy is not very... he's not the type that'll win," Iola says. "He is smart and likely incredibly resourceful, but... Fleur just has a better chance, I believe."

"That's fair. Do you think the Durmstrang champion will be Viktor Krum?"

"Who else would it be, the Poliakoff boy? Not likely."

"Don't be sarcastic. I don't like it."

"I am not being sarcastic. I am being logical. They are the best choices," she corrects. "Though, I do wonder who will be the Hogwarts champion."

"Well, we're about to find out," Sofie states, grabbing Iola by the hand to pull her along closer to the front so she was near Madame Maxime, her friend, and her mother.

Fleur was there as well, standing tall and noble as though she was ready to be chosen. It was a good tactic, holding yourself with the upmost confidence and certainty. It would be terrible if it was one of the idiots behind her as opposed to her friend.

"Look at the Madame and her friend. Is it not romantic?" Sofie whispers suggestively. "Do you wonder what their children would look like?"

"Hush, you! That's not appropriate."

"Oh please, there is nothing wrong with wishing happiness upon others," she says. "Can't you play along just once? What do you think?"

Iola sighs. "Fine. I would hope they have the Madame's refined, elegant air and the man's dark, expressive eyes. They would be rather big, though."

"Very big," Gerome whispers, forcing himself between the two. "Some would say, giant."

Her open palm rams into his sternum, knocking the air from him as he stumbles away.

"Don't say such stupid things! You know how the Madame detests it."

"It was a joke!"

"I don't find you terribly funny. If you want to make others laugh, you'll have better luck as a mime."

"Haha, you're hilarious," Gerome grumbles, rubbing his chest. "You would make a wonderful clown. You have the looks for it."

Growling, she spins about to smack at him again, reaching up to punch his smug grin. "You disgusting little troll! I dare you to say that again."

Francois grabbed her before she could move too far, holding her back with a grunt at the force he wasn't expecting. "Your mother is looking. Beat him later."

The boy's indignant cry went unacknowledged as she faced forward to straighten herself out, avoiding her mother as best she could no matter how badly she wanted to look up at the woman.

It didn't stop her from glaring at the boy.

They joined the Ravenclaws at their table again, the extravagant feast too much as it was laid out before them, and she picked at the tiny portions she served herself. She took the carb-heavy foods, munching with a happy hum as she tried to try a little bit of everything. There was no stress on her part to hear the results, not really caring as the others sat on the edge of their seats.

The announcement would come when Professor Dumbledore was ready, or rather when the cup was ready, and there was really no point in wasting her energy by getting herself all worked up.

Sofie must've felt the same as she calmly at her dinner, speaking quietly to Francois with cheeks flushed a deep red. It was ridiculous how smitten she was with the boy, such a foolish emotion that made you do stupid things.

It didn't stop the small bead of envy that infected her thoughts, festering dangerously in the back of her mind encouraging temptation for something she had never had any interest in before. Love was for suckers, Aveline had sworn by the statement. It only felt you hurt and alone and she wasn't going to risk the fortitude of her heart and mind for something that could compromise her every goal and dream.

That would be stupid.

"Does this feast have to last forever?" Gerome complained, stabbing at his escargot. "Isn't this too much food? How can anyone eat this much?"

"They must need it to provide energy for all of their shivering in the cold," Sofie quips, tearing out the inside of a roll to dip into her soup, placing the crust to Francois' plate.

How disgustingly domestic. How close were they already?

"Or maybe they simply have a greater love for heavier meals," Sofie continues.

"Does it really matter what it is?" Iola asks, pointing her fork at the boy. "If you aren't hungry then just stop eating. Patience is a virtue, not stuffing your face."

Fleur looks at them, a tiny smile curling her lips. "That is not what Sofie's Nona would say. Do you not remember the time Madame Bouchard allowed you to visit for a week in the summer?"

Iola shudders. "I have sworn never to return to Italy unless I absolutely must."

"That's nice. Boycott my family then," Sofie laments, waving a hand around her face dramatically.

"Oh, relax. No one is boycotting anything," Fleur says. "Iola is far too busy to boycott."

"Hilarious."

"Is it?" Fleur asks innocently. "I didn't think so."

"Why do you pick on your friends?" Gabrielle questions, the young girl not looking away from her plate as she spoke, easily hiding her beaming smile. "It's no wonder you have so few."

Iola laughs at her friend's flustered reaction and the way she instantly starts to scold her sister. She can't help the loud way the sound burst from her, a high chiming sound that draws attention to her.

The high, joyous feeling doesn't leave until much later when the golden plates are returned to the spotless state and the food is cleared away.

The noise levels increase with the excited buzz that fills the air sucking the life from her as she feels her eyelids grow heavy. This anticipation that all others were suffering from was starting to give her a migraine.

And finally, Professor Dumbledore stood, Madame Maxime and Professor Karkoroff following suit, and the hall grew silent once again, instantly relieving the tensions from her shoulders. The names would be called and everyone would be able to relax again, thankfully.

Then they can grow excited for something worthy — like the actual tasks and the mysterious dangers that they would bear witness to.

Iola itched to see how they would play out.

"Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision," said Dumbledore. "I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions' names are called, I would ask them to please come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber" — he indicated the door behind the staff table — "where they will be receiving their first instructions."

He took out his wand and gave a great sweeping wave with it. They were plunged into a state of semi-darkness, all the candles except for those floating in pumpkins on the ceiling going out.

It made the blue flames of the cup flare brighter, almost like striking lightning that the burned her eyes.

The flames in the cup suddenly began to burn a bright red, sparks began to fly, and her heart jumped in her throat despite herself.

Sofie grabs her arm, manicured nails biting into her skin. "It's time," she hissed, bouncing in her seat.

A tongue of flame shot into the air, carrying a slightly charred bit of parchment that was suspended for a moment, hanging still, before it began to flutter down to Professor Dumbledore's outstretched hand.

"The champion for Durmstrang," he read, in a strong, clearvoice, "will be Viktor Krum."

Iola claps, searching happily for her friend, clapping him on the back as he strode down the row between their tables.

The clapping died down, attention focused on the cup for the next name. Sofie's grip grew tighter.

"The champion for Beauxbatons," said Dumbledore and she grew still, tense, "is FleurDelacour!"

Relaxing instantly, Iola jumps to her feet, cheering loudly for her friend in the most embarrassing of fashions. For a moment, a tiny moment, she would admit that she was frightened her name would be spewed from the treacherous flames, but it really was impossible for an underage witch or wizard to be called.

"Bravo, Fleur!" she shouted loud enough to be heard. "We shall win for sure, now!"

The girl gets up with a contained grin, pushing back her hair as she sweeps down toward the staff table.

The other Beauxbatons students are silent for a moment, watching as their champion disappears behind the door before they start to show their disappointment. Camille and Simone burst into tears.

"Are you serious?" Sofie seethes. "Do you have no self-respect?"

"Did you honestly believe you would be chosen?" Iola growls, leaning across the table so she was speaking directly at the girls, quiet enough that no one would hear. "This is why you are not our champion. You are an embarrassment. Control yourselves!"

"Stop crying," Gerome grumbles, uncomfortable at the sight of tears. "Madame Bouchard will have no issue with pulling you from the hall in front of everyone."

It's not the most effective way to get someone to stop their tears but it does the job as they pull themselves together, hiding their faces as they realize what they had done.

Iola clenches her jaw. "How disgraceful."

Most of the Hogwarts students already thought less of their school as it was, believing them to be too feminine and soft. 

And the Goblet of Fire turned red once more; sparks showered out of it; the tongue of flame shot high into the air, and from its tipDumbledore pulled the third piece of parchment.

"The Hogwarts champion," he called, "is Cedric Diggory!"

A boy from the Hufflepuff table stood, clambering down toward the table as people made a grab for him as he passed. His house was ecstatic, showing their pride as they banged on tables and stomped their feet.

The other houses were pleased as well, it seemed, since the applause for the boy continued long after he had left the room, their shouts ringing in her ears.

"Excellent!" Dumbledore called happily as at last the excitement began to die down. "Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on,you will contribute in a very real —"

He stops, freezing as the flames turn red once more. And just like before, they shoot up with a scrap of paper floating in suspense, slowly making its way down to the professors awaiting hand.

It's silent as he glance at the name once, then twice, before he says, "Harry Potter."

No one moves, at least, not loud enough to hear, and Iola does the same, silently turning to search for the boy at the long table of burgundy red.

He was there, of course, his wide round frame glasses slipping down his nose as he sat perfectly still, gaping silently up at his headmaster. He was so shocked, poor thing, his face an unhealthy shade of white, bordering on green.

"Harry Potter," Professor Dumbledore called again. "Harry! Up here, if you please."

Finally, the boy got up, walking down the as if he was being sentenced to Azkaban, tripping on the hem of his robes before he finally made his way to the table to be ushered into the other room.

She faced the teacher again, expectant. Her mother stood stiff, with pinched lips and murder raging in her eyes.

Professor Dumbledore cleared his throat, sharing a look with the other headmasters and teachers. "After such an exciting turn of events, it is unfair to ask for you to return to your beds, but I am afraid that is exactly what I must do. To bed, all of you."

Iola stands, stretching her back as she stands from the table. It takes a moment for the frozen disbelieving students to do the same, slowly shaking themselves out of their stupor.

Her blazer is buttoned up and hat adjusted on her head when Aveline appears before her, gripping her wrist tightly as she drags her to the room the champions have disappeared to.

"Mother? What are you doing?" She asks incredulously, glancing over her shoulder to Sofie that stood uncertainly. "I'll see you at the carriage. Don't wait for me."

"I'll wait up for you," Sofie calls back, waving her fingers.

She's shoved into the other room, forced to stand before small gathered crowd with a shove. Their eyes sting as they look to her expectantly.

"Madame, how is it they have two champions?" Aveline questions calmly, coming around to stand by the headmistress.

"It appears someone had entered Harry's name under a fourth school," Professor Dumbledore answers.

"How is it fair that you have two champions for your school? We should be allowed to call forth another student of our own," her mother argues, looking to Madame Maxime for support.

The woman seems to agree as she nods, even as Fleur looks completely affronted.

Soon Professor Karkaroff is also agreeing and they are all yelling all over again.

She shrinks back toward the door, not liking the direction this was going in at all because Aveline had a way of getting what she wanted somehow, impossibly, and if her mother continued down this path then she would be stuck all over again.

"We can't just pick students to join. The cup has already gone out," Bagman stresses.

"We do not need the cup to pick names," Aveline counters, heavy gaze falling to Iola. "If we are allowing underage students to join then my daughter is the clear choice."

"Mother!"

"Quiet, girl."

"But, mother, I don't want to be in the tournament!"

"You don't know what you want! Now be silent!" Her mother scolds.

Iola swallows thickly.

"The rules of the tournament are clear. Only those chosen by the cup may compete," Bagman reiterates, voice growing louder as he tries to make his point. "No one more, no one less. Harry cannot back out, no one can step in. That is all."

"We must follow the rules, Madame. It is only a misfortune that something has gone wrong this time," Iola says, hoping the tone of her voice was enough to convey how badly she did not want to be part of this. "I am sure that Harry did not mean for this to happen."

"I swear I didn't!" The boy blurts, nodding along eagerly.

"Madame, you should have seen how scared he looked when he was called. I feel bad for him. He's not prepared and the task are dangerous," she says, speaking in quick French. "And if he was truly entered under a different school then he is far too young to perform such a powerful confundus charm so as to trick the Goblet of Fire."

"That isn't the point, Iola," Aveline growls. "The point is they have double the chance at winning now."

"I believe in Fleur. Adding another Champion will only make it seems as though we don't."

"Yes, that's quite right, thank you," Madame Maxime says, a hand coming to rest on Fleur's shoulder. "The rules are final. There is nothing we can do to change them now—" her tone is one of acceptance, not of belief, but it's enough to make the others calm down on the topic for now.

She takes it as her chance to flee, silently slipping from the room as the go on to speak about the first tasks. She would be in trouble when her mother got to her. She would just have to make herself sparse. It would work out.

Iola sprints to back to the carriage, changing quickly before climbing into Sofie's bed next to her.

The girl turns over, wide awake and expectant. "Tell me everything."

"Harry Potter is going to be in the Triwizard Tournament."

°°°
Vote,
Comment,
& follow me on wattpad

Haha let me know what ya think?? I love me some comments :)))

Unedited

2019-12-12