CHAPTER 368: THE CHAMPIONS(II)

The Goblet’s flames died back to blue once more, the hall slowly settling into tense silence again.

It did not last. With a sudden flare, another slip of parchment shot into the air, curling in the firelight. Dumbledore caught it, his eyes glinting as he read aloud.

"The champion of Beauxbatons," he announced, "is Fleur Delacour."

The Beauxbatons students cried out, a mixture of joy and heartbreak. Some burst into tears, their disappointment raw, their voices echoing in French. Others clapped with trembling hands, trying to be supportive though they longed for their own names to be called.

But Fleur did not seem to hear any of it. She rose in one graceful sweep, her silvery hair spilling down her back like liquid moonlight. She held her head high, every line of her body regal, her eyes fixed not on the Goblet but on the Slytherin table.

Eira tilted her head, confusion flickering in her eyes.

As Fleur glided forward, she turned slightly at the last moment. With no hesitation, she stepped directly to Eira, leaned down, and wrapped her arms around her. It was no fleeting gesture of courtesy. It was a long, close embrace, Fleur’s cheek brushing against Eira’s hair, her perfume a heady sweetness that clung to the air. Her body pressed close, her touch lingering just a little too long, her lips curving into a smile that only Eira could see.

Then, tilting her head so her lips hovered just beside Eira’s ear, Fleur whispered in velvet French, her voice low enough that no one else could hear.

« Tu vois, maintenant que j’ai été choisie comme championne... je veux ma récompense. Et tu sais très bien laquelle. »

["You see, now that I’ve been chosen as champion... I want my reward. And you know very well which one."]

Eira froze, her breath catching. Heat rushed to her face, her ears burning crimson because she did know exactly what Fleur was asking. She tried to steady herself, but when Fleur’s warm breath puffed teasingly against her ear, a shiver coursed down her spine, leaving her trembling in spite of herself.

With that, Fleur drew back gracefully, her eyes glinting with mischief. She gave Eira one last knowing smile before turning to rejoin her schoolmates, every step of her retreat carrying an air of triumph that had little to do with the Tournament.

The Great Hall gasped.

"Did you see that?" hissed a Gryffindor girl.

Lavender Brown leaned forward at once, her voice dripping with triumph. "See? I told you they’ve got a very unusual relationship. Normal friends don’t cling to each other like that."

Parvati Patil’s eyes followed the pair, narrowing slightly. "Now that you mention it, it’s really suspicious. They touch each other constantly... almost like they forget anyone else is watching. That’s not friendship. That’s something else entirely." She smirked. "And did you notice what she whispered in her ear?"

Lavender’s lips curled. "No, I couldn’t hear it, but I swear it wasn’t English. Definitely something secret."

Parvati leaned closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "All the more reason. Let’s just wait and see. I really think we’re right—they’re hiding something. Imagine if they’re secretly dating."

Lavender let out a delighted laugh. "Oh, that would be so scandalous. Can you imagine the gossip? The icy White Matriarch and the Beauxbâtons champion sneaking around together."

Meanwhile, at the other side of the Gryffindor table, Ron was still staring, his ears pink. "Harry, look at them," he muttered. "They’re so close, it’s like no one else even exists. And Fleur—she’s gorgeous. Especially tonight." His voice dipped into a hopeful whisper. "Do you think I’d have a chance if I asked her to be my girlfriend?"

Harry gave him a look of pure disbelief before bursting into laughter. "You? Ron, you can’t even string three words together when a girl talks to you. You’d trip over your own feet before you got near her."

Ron scowled. "That’s not true."

Harry grinned. "It is. But don’t worry—when you finally manage to get through a whole sentence without turning scarlet, I’ll buy you a Butterbeer to celebrate."

Ron ignored him, eyes still fixed dreamily on Fleur as she glided back to the champions’ area, her hair catching the light like liquid gold.

The murmurs and whispers filled the air like buzzing bees. The professors exchanged glances, the visiting headmasters watching with narrowed eyes. Eira pressed her lips together, her expression calm, though her cheeks felt warm where Fleur’s embrace had lingered. Tracey nudged her under the table, eyes wide with wicked delight.

"Well," Tracey whispered, "that was not subtle at all."

Before Eira could reply, the Goblet blazed again. Sparks flew high into the enchanted ceiling, and another name emerged.

Dumbledore caught it and read in a clear, ringing voice.

"The champion of Hogwarts," he said, "is Harry Potter."

The hall went silent.

The words seemed to hang in the air, impossible, unreal. Students stared at one another, mouths open, some gasping in disbelief. Harry sat frozen, his goblet of pumpkin juice still in his hand. His heart had plummeted into his stomach, his ears ringing with the sudden hush.

Ron gaped at him. "Harry... Harry, your name... it’s you!"

Harry could not speak.

Dumbledore’s calm voice carried across the silence. "Harry Potter," he repeated. "Please come forward."

Slowly, as though in a dream, Harry pushed back his bench. Hundreds of eyes bored into him. He felt them all, a weight pressing down on his chest, but his legs moved anyway, carrying him up the central aisle. He heard the whispers rise behind him, sharp and accusing.

"He’s underage!"

"He cheated!"

"No way, not him!"

"Again!"

But he walked on, numb, his scar prickling faintly, his breath shallow. He reached the front, where Dumbledore gestured calmly to the door through which the other champions had gone.

Harry walked through it, the murmurs of the hall fading behind him until there was nothing but silence and the sound of his own footsteps.