Chapter One: The Goblet's Call. The first rumor reached us at breakfast. It traveled faster than any owl, quicker than the silver spoons floating between the tables, quicker even than Madame Maxime’s sharp gaze whenever someone dared speak too loudly in the dining hall. By the time I had taken my second sip of coffee, every student at Beauxbatons Academy seemed to be whispering the same impossible words. “The Triwizard Tournament.” I set down my cup. Across from me, Célestine nearly dropped her croissant into her chocolate. “They cannot be serious.” “No one has said it is serious,” I replied, though my voice came out quieter than I intended. Around us, pale-blue silk uniforms shifted as heads bent together. The high windows of the dining hall showed a wet autumn morning: rain sliding down the glass, the lake below the château dark and restless, the mountains beyond it hidden by cloud. Normally, the room felt graceful, orderly, civilized. That morning it buzzed like a disturbed hive. “The Tournament was stopped,” Célestine said. “Too many people died.” “Precisely,” said Étienne Morel from farther down the table. “Which makes it exciting.” I gave him a look. Étienne smiled in the infuriating way boys do when they believe recklessness is the same thing as courage. “The rules must have changed,” said Amélie, leaning close. “They would not restore it otherwise. My cousin’s father works for the French Ministry. He says there has been discussion for months—international cooperation, magical games, strengthening alliances after… everything.” She did not say the name of the last war. Few people did. Not casually. “And Hogwarts?” Célestine asked. Amélie’s eyes brightened. “Hogwarts, of course. And Durmstrang.” That caught my attention more than it should have. Durmstrang had a reputation even in France. Severe winters. Severe teachers. Severe students, if the stories were to be believed. They trained duellists. They taught things Beauxbatons considered inelegant at best and dangerous at worst. Still, I had seen photographs in magical newspapers—students in dark fur-lined uniforms, a great ship on a black lake, a castle said to move its location with the seasons. Hogwarts was different. Less mysterious, perhaps, but no less famous. The British school had produced brilliant witches and wizards, strange inventions, celebrated Aurors, and, according to every French parent I had ever met, a concerning number of disasters. “It will not be at Hogwarts,” Célestine declared. “The British cannot organize a prefect patrol without someone falling down a staircase.” “The Tournament moves between the schools,” I said. “You know an awful lot about it,” Étienne said. I lifted one shoulder. “I read.” That was true. It was not the whole truth. When I was younger, I had found an old book in my mother’s library: A History of the Triwizard Tournament: Glory, Grief, and International Rivalry. Its leather cover had cracked at the spine. The pages smelled of dust and firewood. I had read it beneath the window of my room, long after I was supposed to be asleep. Three schools. Three champions. Three tasks. Dragons. Labyrinths. Enchanted lakes. Riddles written in blood-red ink. Victories remembered for centuries. And deaths. So many deaths that, eventually, the Tournament had ended. I had told myself then that it belonged to the past. A beautiful, terrible story, nothing more. Now, as rain struck the windows and the entire academy whispered around me, the past seemed to have opened its eyes. The tall doors at the far end of the hall swung inward. Every conversation vanished. Madame Olympe Maxime entered with her usual impossible presence. She was magnificent in a deep violet gown beneath a long black cloak, her dark hair swept into a gleaming coil. She did not hurry. She never hurried. The very room seemed to make way for her. Behind her came Professor Broussard, our Charms master, looking as though he had swallowed a Bludger, and Professor Dufour, who taught Defense Against the Dark Arts and looked almost cheerful. That was unsettling. Madame Maxime reached the raised platform before the faculty table and looked down at us. Her gaze moved slowly across the hall. “Mes enfants,” she said. No one spoke. “I am aware zat you ‘ave all ‘eard certain rumors.” A rustle moved through the room. Célestine gripped my sleeve under the table. Madame Maxime’s expression did not change, but I saw a flicker of satisfaction in her eyes. She knew exactly how much anticipation she had created.
“Zey are not rumors.” The hall erupted. Students shouted questions in French, English, Spanish, and the occasional impatient burst of Italian. Someone at the Sphinx table shrieked loud enough to make several enchanted candles sputter. Étienne stood halfway from his seat before Professor Broussard snapped, “Sit down, Morel!” Madame Maxime lifted one hand. Silence returned at once. “The Triwizard Tournament,” she said, “will be restored zis year.” For a moment I heard nothing except the rain. Then my heartbeat began again. Madame Maxime continued. “Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, Durmstrang Institute, and Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry ‘ave reached an agreement under the supervision of our Ministries. Zis Tournament will be ‘eld at Hogwarts.” Célestine made a face, as though Hogwarts had personally insulted her. “Each school will select one champion,” Madame Maxime said. “Zere will be age restrictions. Only students of seventeen years or older may submit zere names. An impartial magical object—the Goblet of Fire—will choose ze champions.” The Goblet of Fire. Even the name felt ancient. I remembered an illustration from the old book: a heavy wooden cup carved with runes, blue-white flames rising from its mouth. It had stood on a stone pedestal in a hall full of shadows. Beneath the drawing, there had been a sentence: The Goblet does not choose the worthiest. It chooses those it judges capable of meeting what lies ahead. I had stared at that line for a long time. Madame Maxime was still speaking. “Students selected as champions will represent not only zemselves, but Beauxbatons. Zey will be bound by magical contract. Zis is not a game. It is not an excuse for foolishness, vanity, or showing off.” Her eyes paused on Étienne. He looked offended. I nearly smiled. “Students who wish to be considered will receive further instructions before our departure. We leave in two weeks.” Two weeks. A strange sensation passed through me—not fear exactly, though fear was there. It was closer to standing at the edge of a high diving platform, looking down at water so far below that it did not seem real. The sensible thing would be to stay where I was. I had excellent marks. I had friends. I had a future. My parents would expect me to complete my studies with distinction, perhaps enter the French Ministry or work in international magical relations. There were many ways to become admired without placing my name inside an ancient object designed to send children into mortal danger. But admiration had never been quite enough for me. People saw my hair first. Then my face. Then, if they were especially observant, the way others looked at me. They decided who I was before I opened my mouth. Beautiful. Proud. Part-Veela. Difficult. They did not see the hours I spent practicing spells until my wand arm ached. They did not see the books stacked around my bed, the notes tucked into the margins, the way I memorized defensive counter-curses because I hated being caught unprepared. They did not see how often I had wanted to prove that I could be something more than a lovely distraction. The Triwizard Tournament would make them see. The thought arrived uninvited. It settled in my chest. No, I told myself. Absolutely not. By the end of breakfast, I had decided I would not enter. By the time we left the hall, I had begun to wonder what kind of enchantments the first task might require. By lunch, I had remembered the chapter about champions who had survived by using transformation magic. By evening, I had borrowed three books from the library. I told myself they were only for research.
