15th November 1994
Pokémon Stadium
"Are you ready?" Sirius called, grinning broadly.
"Ready," Hermione said, a miniaturised Poké Ball resting steady in her hand.
"Ready," echoed her opponent—fifth-year Ravenclaw, Marietta Edgecombe.
They stood at opposite edges of a wide circular duelling field, its surface shimmering faintly with containment and impact-dampening charms. The stadium rose around them in tiers packed with students from every house, along with a cluster of Beauxbatons girls. The air buzzed with anticipation.
Sirius glanced between them, then snapped, "Begin!"
Hermione pressed the button. The Poké Ball expanded in her palm as she stepped forward and threw.
"Go, Bulbasaur."
A flash of red light resolved into Bulbasaur, landing firmly, its bulb pulsing once with a soft green glow.
"Let's go, Rufflet," Marietta called.
Rufflet burst into the arena in a flare of energy, wings spreading wide as it let out a sharp, defiant cry that rang against the curved ceiling.
Excited murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Flying versus Grass.
Marietta had the advantage on paper. Hermione however, didn't look concerned.
"Rufflet, Aerial Ace!"
Rufflet shot forward, cutting through the air in a tight, controlled arc, speed spiking as it locked onto Bulbasaur.
"Bulbasaur—Leech Seed, now."
Bulbasaur's bulb flared. A cluster of glowing seeds fired out—not aimed directly at Rufflet, but scattered across the battlefield.
Some intersected Rufflet's path. One struck its wing, clinging instantly and sprouting thin, luminous vines.
It didn't slow Rufflet.
Aerial Ace landed cleanly. The impact slammed into Bulbasaur and shoved it back across the floor.
Gasps broke from the stands.
But Bulbasaur held. It dug in, vines from the seeded ground anchoring it, bleeding off part of the force.
Hermione didn't hesitate.
"Vine Whip. Left flank."
Two vines snapped out—not at Rufflet, but at the seeded patches on the ground.
They latched on and pulled—tightening from multiple angles.
Rufflet jerked mid-air. The Leech Seed vines constricted, draining and disrupting its flight path.
Marietta's focus sharpened.
"Break it—Wing Attack, spin!"
Rufflet twisted sharply, wings slicing through the vines. Several snapped—but not all. Its speed dipped just enough for the drain to become noticeable.
"Gain altitude!"
Rufflet surged upward, climbing out of reach. The arena lighting adjusted subtly with the height shift.
Hermione pressed the advantage.
"Sleep Powder. Full spread."
Bulbasaur's bulb opened—
A soft golden cloud burst outward, drifting up in a wide cone, filling the space Rufflet had just climbed into.
"Dive through it—fast!"
Rufflet folded its wings and dropped.
The moment it passed through the powder, its movement hit a hitch. A single stutter in its wingbeat.
That was enough.
"Now—Razor Leaf."
A volley of sharp, spinning leaves launched—not where Rufflet was, but where it would be.
The first connected.
Then the second.
Then the third.
Rufflet cried out as the hits clipped its side. Its momentum broke unevenly, Leech Seed continuing to drain.
It hit the ground harder than intended, skidding across the arena floor.
Marietta clenched her jaw.
"Up! Don't let it control the pace—Peck, direct!"
Rufflet lunged again—faster, more aggressive now.
Hermione's eyes narrowed.
"Hold."
Bulbasaur didn't move.
Rufflet closed in—
"Now. Vine Whip."
The vines snapped forward at the last moment. They didn't strike.
Instead, they wrapped around Rufflet mid-lunge and redirected its momentum straight into the ground with a controlled slam.
The impact echoed through the stadium.
Silence followed.
Rufflet struggled, wings twitching—
Then went still.
The Leech Seed vines pulsed once more… then faded.
Sirius studied the Pokémon for a beat, then raised a hand.
"Rufflet is unable to continue. Winner—Hermione Granger."
---
I clapped along with the others as the battle ended.
The Pokémon Tournament was progressing exactly as I'd hoped. Phase 1—the House Qualifiers—was in full swing. The students were all in, loud and invested, and, if anything, the referees were enjoying themselves just as much.
Getting them on board had been easy.
Sirius, Remus, and Hagrid had all agreed the moment I asked.
The Howling Arcade in Hogsmeade only drew real crowds on weekends, which left Sirius and Remus with very little to do most days. Coming up to the school for a couple of hours every evening suited them perfectly—especially with Quidditch cancelled this year.
And Hagrid…
He'd puffed up with pride when I asked him to officiate—then immediately asked what Pokémon were. I still remembered the way his eyes had lit up when I showed him. Wonder, delight, and just a hint of obsession.
Creatures that could breathe fire, summon water, channel lightning—
There was no version of reality where Hagrid didn't fall in love with that.
He hadn't asked outright, but it had been obvious he wanted some of his own. So I'd left him with six Pokémon of his choice—and a very serious promise to be the best referee Hogwarts had ever seen.
Presently, Hermione recalled Bulbasaur after giving it a grateful pat on the head, then made her way over to us.
"Congratulations on winning all three of your matches, love," I said with a smile. "You're officially through to Phase 2. How does it feel?"
"It feels pretty great, thank you," Hermione replied, smiling back.
After accepting congratulations from the others, she stepped in beside me. Together, we turned our attention to the next match—Parvati Patil's Ponyta versus Seamus Finnigan's Voltorb.
"Gosh," Hermione said, watching as fire and electricity clashed across the arena, "they look so real it's hard to believe they're not alive."
She glanced at me. "How exactly did you make them? I know I saw those carvings in your lab, but these Pokémon are as different from those inanimate pieces of wood as night is from day."
I smiled slightly, considering how much to say.
"You might have suspected this already," I said, "so I'll just confirm it. Pokémon aren't exactly my original idea. They're from another world. I saw them… some time ago."
Hermione's attention sharpened. "What's it like? That world?"
"It's nice," I said honestly. "Wholesome. Idealistic. Almost… cozy. An ecotopia, really. Humans and Pokémon live side by side—working together for farming, transport, construction. Pokémon battles exist, but they're treated like sport. It's more about strategy and growth than harm."
I paused, then added, "At first, I considered going there and bringing some Pokémon back."
Hermione didn't interrupt. She already knew where this was going.
"But then I thought about our world," I continued. "We have dragons, unicorns, phoenixes. And what do we do with them?"
She didn't answer.
"We harvest them," I said flatly. "For wand cores. Potion ingredients. Anything useful."
I shook my head. "If real Pokémon showed up here, it wouldn't take long before people started cutting them open to see what they're worth."
We stood in silence for a moment.
Then Hermione said, slowly, "So… you created facsimiles. Enchanted them. And introduced them as toys."
I smiled. "Exactly."
"I started with carved wooden figures—accurate shapes for each Pokémon. Then I reinforced them with a layer of tritanium alloy for durability. After that came synthetic skin, scales, fur—plus fixed coloration."
I nodded toward the arena. "Then came the difficult part. Enchantment. Each of the thirty Pokémon needed a different set of charms—fire, water, lightning, plant-based, even suppression systems. The flying ones use modified broomstick enchantments to handle movement and aerial control."
Hermione followed easily. "Alright. I understand how you built them. But how did you give them personality?"
She frowned slightly. "I wouldn't call them intelligent, but… they react. They get happy when praised. They seem to understand when you're upset. Sometimes it feels like they can anticipate commands before they're spoken. How did you manage that?"
I glanced at her.
"How does the Sorting Hat decide where to place students?" I asked.
Hermione blinked. "The founders enchanted it to do that."
"How?"
She hesitated. "It… has a piece of their minds, doesn't it? The hat said they 'put some brains in it.'"
"Exactly."
I looked back at the arena.
"What they used is a branch of magic called Spirit Magic. It deals with incorporeal aspects of sentient beings—memories, thoughts, fragments of consciousness. It allows you to duplicate or imprint those patterns… even construct a kind of pseudo-consciousness inside an inanimate object."
Hermione went very still.
"I used what I remembered of real Pokémon," I continued, "to shape their behavioral frameworks. Not true intelligence—but something close enough to feel real."
"Voltorb!"
BOOM!
A flash of light erupted from the arena, followed by a sharp explosion.
Hermione and I turned.
Both Voltorb and Ponyta were down, faint residual sparks dancing across their bodies. Seamus stood frozen nearby, face blackened with soot.
Apparently, Voltorb had used Self-Destruct—and caught its own trainer in the blast.
Hermione stared at the scene, then slowly turned back to me.
"You cannot tell me that is normal behaviour for any kind of Pokémon."
I opened my mouth.
Then closed it again, and sighed, shaking my head.
---
16th November 1994
Care of Magical Creatures Enclosure
"Good morning, everyone," Professor Kettleburn said cheerfully to the assembled fourth years.
Those of us who remembered Professor Silvanus Kettleburn from a few years back still found it hard to reconcile that memory with the man standing before us now. He had lost half his limbs over the course of his career—a fact that had nearly pushed him into early retirement.
Now he stood whole.
His new psycho-reactive tritanium alloy prosthetics functioned perfectly and looked entirely natural. There was nothing to suggest that one arm and one leg weren't his own.
"Today you will be working in teams of four," he continued. "Your task is simple: locate, assess, and relocate a creature from point A…" He gestured toward a reinforced crate set on a raised wooden platform some distance away, "…to point B."
Hermione raised her hand. "What's the creature?"
Kettleburn's mouth twitched. "If I tell you, you'll rely on expectation instead of observation. That defeats the purpose. You're meant to identify the creature from environmental signs."
The class split into teams soon after. Harry, Neville, Hermione, and I headed toward the forest treeline, the noise of the other groups fading behind us.
A few minutes in, Hermione stopped and pointed to a patch of disturbed soil near a cluster of trees. We crouched down.
Small, neat holes. Too deliberate to be random.
"So… a small burrower?" Neville suggested.
Harry frowned. "That could be a lot of things."
"At least it's unlikely to be dangerous," Neville added.
"We can't assume that," Hermione said, studying faint claw marks near the holes. "Size doesn't always correlate with threat."
"Yeah," Harry nodded. "Just look at our Pokémon."
A faint snuffling sound drifted through the trees.
We all went still, then moved quietly toward it. The source was a fallen log, half-sunken into the ground.
Something moved beneath it.
A sleek black shape wriggled out, clutching a bent silver spoon. Its long snout twitched, eyes sharp and focused.
Then it saw us.
It froze.
So did we.
Hermione's voice dropped to a whisper. "No sudden moves."
The Niffler sniffed the air—
Then bolted, diving straight into the ground in a soft spray of dirt.
Silence.
"Well," Neville said after a moment, "now we know what it is."
"Yeah… another Niffler," Harry muttered.
"Getting flashbacks of your stolen watch, mate?" I said, smirking.
"Don't remind me," he shot back, then added under his breath, "slippery little shit."
"Chasing it won't work," Hermione said, already thinking ahead. "We need to draw it out."
I pulled a few Sickles from my pocket. "I've got bait."
Neville raised an eyebrow. "That'll definitely get its attention."
Hermione glanced toward the crate in the distance, then back at the ground between. "Then we make a path. Lead it exactly where we want it."
We spread out, blocking obvious escape routes. Hermione placed the coins where thin shafts of sunlight filtered through the trees, making them glint. She adjusted the spacing carefully, forming a clear line toward the crate.
Then we waited.
After about a minute, the ground shifted.
The Niffler popped up, nose twitching.
It spotted the first coin immediately.
It darted forward, grabbed it, then froze again—alert.
None of us moved.
A beat passed.
Then it saw the next coin.
And the next.
Step by greedy step, it followed the silver trail, drawn forward by instinct.
Hermione flicked her wand. The final coin rolled neatly into the open crate.
The Niffler lunged after it—
And disappeared inside.
Hermione snapped her wand.
The door slammed shut.
Muffled scrabbling came from within, followed by distinctly satisfied rustling.
Before we could react, slow clapping echoed through the trees. Professor Kettleburn stepped into view, looking pleased.
"Well done," he said. "Minimal stress to the creature. No injuries. No wasted effort. Excellent work."
"Excuse me?"
The voice came from nearby.
We turned.
Luna stood there, completely unconcerned, peering curiously at the crate.
"Yes, Ms Lovegood?" Kettleburn said.
"Sorry to interrupt, Professor, but Mr Bagman asked me to bring Benjamin upstairs," Luna said lightly. "All the Champions have been called."
"Very well," said Professor Sylvanus. "Off you go, Mr Carter."
---
"Good luck, Ben," Luna said when we reached the right room.
"Thanks, Luna." I gave her a quick smile.
I knocked and stepped inside.
It was a small classroom. Most of the desks had been pushed to the back, leaving a clear space in the middle. Three desks, however, had been placed end-to-end in front of the blackboard and covered with a long sheet of velvet.
Five chairs stood behind them. Ludo Bagman occupied one, chatting animatedly with Rita Skeeter, who was dressed in bright magenta today.
Fleur and Viktor stood on opposite sides of the room, both occupied with their Wiphones. A paunchy man with a large black camera—smoking slightly—watched Fleur out of the corner of his eye.
Bagman spotted me, sprang to his feet, and hurried over.
"Ah, here he is! Champion number three! In you come, Benjamin, in you come… nothing to worry about, it's just the wand-weighing ceremony. The rest of the judges will be here shortly—they're upstairs in Dumbledore's office with the expert."
Everyone looked up as I entered. Fleur offered a polite smile; Viktor gave a small nod. I returned both.
"Then we'll have a little photo shoot," Bagman went on, gesturing toward Rita. "This is Rita Skeeter—you've both met, I believe. She's doing a small piece on the tournament for the Daily Prophet…"
"Maybe not that small, Ludo," Rita cut in smoothly, her eyes already fixed on me. "Hello, Benjamin. How absolutely lovely to see you again. Have you grown taller since the last time we met?"
"Hello, Rita." I shook her hand, keeping my tone even.
"I wonder if I could have a quick word with Mr Carter before we begin?" she asked Bagman, though her attention never left me. "The youngest champion, you know… adds a bit of colour."
"Certainly!" Bagman beamed. "That is—if Mr Carter has no objection?"
"Not at all."
"Lovely." In the next instant, her scarlet-taloned fingers closed around my arm with surprising strength, steering me toward the door.
"We don't want to be in there with all that noise," she remarked, pushing open a nearby door. "Ah, yes, this is nice and cozy."
"It's a broom cupboard." I glanced around, unimpressed.
"Oh, come now—don't tell me you've never visited one of these charming little romantic spots during your time at Hogwarts?" she smirked, perching on an upturned bucket and nudging me onto a cardboard box. "No girlfriend yet?"
She shut the door, plunging us into darkness, then drew out several candles from her crocodile-skin handbag. With a flick of her wand, they floated into the air, lighting the cramped space.
"While I am in a relationship," I replied lightly, "I haven't had the occasion to visit a Hogwarts broom cupboard yet."
"I see…" Her tone sharpened with interest as she pulled out an acid-green quill and parchment. "And who is the lucky girl?"
"A very private person." I met her gaze. "As am I. I trust I don't need to remind you of our arrangement, Rita. Nothing about my friends or family."
Her smile tightened for a fraction of a second. "Of course. I was just being curious."
"Of course." I mirrored the expression. "And you can put that Quick-Quotes Quill away. Nothing good ever comes out of those."
"I apologise," she said, not sounding remotely apologetic, "but I don't have another quill."
"That's fine." I waved it off. "Use the voice recorder on your Wiphone. It'll save you the trouble of remembering what I actually said."
Her smile held, though her right eye twitched faintly. "Brilliant idea."
"So, Benjamin…" She raised the Wiphone between us. "What made you decide to enter the Triwizard Tournament?"
"Boredom, mostly." I leaned back slightly. "Not much to do this year. No Quidditch Cup—I'm sure you've heard. The tournament sounded interesting, so I thought—why not?"
"How do you feel about the tasks ahead?" she pressed. "Excited? Nervous?"
"More excited than nervous. I'm preparing as best I can. Hopefully, that'll be enough."
"Champions have died in the past," Rita noted briskly. "Have you thought about that?"
"Of course I have. I'm not an idiot." I shrugged faintly. "But Professor Dumbledore and Minister Fudge assured us they've made this tournament as safe as possible. I trust them—and the Ministry."
Rita raised an eyebrow, as if saying "Really?"
"Let's talk about something else," she pivoted. "During my walk through the castle, I noticed a number of… unusual creatures. I was told they're called 'Pokémon'—and that they come from you. Care to explain?"
"That," I said, "also comes down to the lack of activity this year. Three tasks, three days, three participants—it's not much for the rest of the school."
"So I created something everyone could take part in," I continued. "The creatures you saw aren't alive. They're magical constructs—golems, essentially. Enchanted with different abilities. Their owners—trainers—battle with them in the first Pokémon Championship Tournament."
"Another tournament at Hogwarts?" Rita leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Aren't you already occupied with the Triwizard Tournament?"
"Even if I weren't, it would be unethical for me to compete," I replied. "I created them—I understand them better than anyone. So I'm not participating."
"Tell me more about this Pokémon tournament."
"It started just over a week ago. Around three hundred participants—students from Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang, excluding the Triwizard champions. Right now, Phase 1—the House Qualifiers—is ongoing. Sixty students will move on to Phase 2."
"Interesting…" A sharp gleam entered her eyes. "And is there a prize?"
"Of course. A trophy… and a thousand galleons for first place."
"What?!" Her grip tightened on the Wiphone. "A thousand galleons? That matches the Triwizard prize!"
"I'm doing more than matching it." I let a hint of satisfaction slip through. "Second and third place also receive trophies—along with five hundred and two hundred galleons, respectively."
For once, Rita looked briefly at a loss.
Before she could recover, the broom cupboard door swung open.
I looked up.
Dumbledore stood there, peering down at the two of us crammed inside.
"Dumbledore!" Rita exclaimed, all bright delight—though I noticed her Wiphone had vanished from her hand, her fingers already snapping her crocodile-skin bag shut. "How are you? I hope you saw my piece over the summer about the International Confederation of Wizards' Conference?"
"Enchantingly nasty," Dumbledore replied, eyes twinkling. "I particularly enjoyed your description of me as an obsolete dingbat."
Rita didn't look remotely abashed.
"I was simply pointing out that some of your ideas are a little old-fashioned, Dumbledore—and that many wizards in the street—"
"I will be delighted to hear the reasoning behind the rudeness, Rita," said Dumbledore, with a courteous bow and a smile, "but I'm afraid we will have to discuss the matter later. The Weighing of the Wands is about to start, and it cannot take place if one of our champions is hidden in a broom cupboard."
"Of course," Rita said, turning to me with a polished smile. "It was wonderful talking to you, Benjamin. And I would love to hear more about this… Pokémon Championship you've started."
"Sure thing," I replied, stepping out of the cupboard. "You should visit the indoor stadium we set up for it—watch a few duels, get a feel for it. Ask any student and they'll point you in the right direction."
"That sounds wonderful." Rita's smile held as we returned to the classroom.
Viktor and Fleur were now seated near the door; I joined them. At the velvet-covered table, four of the five judges had taken their places—Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Crouch, and Ludo Bagman. Rita slipped into a corner, observant as ever.
"May I introduce Mr. Ollivander?" Dumbledore said, settling into his chair and addressing the champions. "He will be checking your wands to ensure they are in proper condition before the tournament."
I glanced toward the window and spotted Britain's premier wandmaker, Garrick Ollivander, standing quietly, pale eyes attentive.
"Mademoiselle Delacour, could we have you first, please?" said Mr. Ollivander, stepping into the empty space in the middle of the room.
Fleur swept over to Mr. Ollivander and handed him her wand.
"Hmmm..." he said.
He twirled the wand between his long fingers like a baton and it emitted a number of pink and gold sparks. Then he held it close to his eyes and examined it carefully.
"Yes," he said quietly, "nine and a half inches... inflexible... rosewood... and containing...dear me..."
"A hair from the head of a veela," said Fleur. "One of my grandmother's."
"Yes," said Mr. Ollivander, "yes, I've never used veela hair myself, of course. I find it makes for rather temperamental wands... however, to each his own, and if this suits you..."
Mr. Ollivander ran his fingers along the wand, apparently checking for scratches or bumps; then he muttered, "Orchideous!" and a bunch of flowers burst from the wand tip.
"Very well, very well, it's in fine working order," said Mr. Ollivander, scooping up the flowers and handing them to Fleur with her wand. "Mr. Carter, you next."
Fleur returned to her seat, offering me a polite smile as I passed.
"Ah, now, this is one of mine, isn't it?" Ollivander said, more animated now, as I handed over my wand. "Yes, I remember this. A single heartstring from a massive Ukrainian Ironbelly. Thirteen and a half inches… maple… supple flexibility."
He gave it a quick, practiced once-over. "It's in fine condition. You maintain it regularly?"
"Every week."
He nodded, satisfied. A flick of his wrist sent a stream of silver smoke rings drifting across the room.
"Very good."
He returned the wand, then turned. "Mr. Krum, if you please."
Viktor rose and approached with a slight slouch, offering his wand without ceremony, hands slipping back into his pockets.
"Hmm," said Mr. Ollivander, "this is a Gregorovitch creation, unless I'm much mistaken? A fine wand-maker, though the styling is never quite what I... however..."
He lifted the wand and examined it minutely, turning it over and over before his eyes.
"Yes... hornbeam and dragon heartstring?" he shot at Krum, who nodded. "Rather thicker than one usually sees... quite rigid... ten and a quarter inches... Avis!"
A cluster of small birds burst from the wand tip, fluttering out through the open window into the pale sunlight.
"Good." Ollivander handed it back.
"Thank you all," said Dumbledore, standing up at the judges' table. "You may go back to your lessons now — or perhaps it would be quicker just to go down to lunch, as they are about to end —"
But at that moment, the previously quiet man with the black camera jumped up and cleared his throat.
"Photos, Dumbledore, photos!" cried Bagman excitedly. "All the judges and champions, what do you think, Rita?"
"Er — yes, let's do those first," said Rita, whose eyes were upon me again. "And then perhaps some individual shots."
The photographs took a long time. Madame Maxime cast everyone else into shadow wherever she stood, and the photographer couldn't stand far enough back to get her into the frame; eventually she had to sit while everyone else stood around her.
Karkaroff kept twirling his goatee around his finger to give it an extra curl; Victor, whom I had thought would have been used to this sort of thing, skulked, half-hidden, at the back of the group.
The photographer seemed keenest to get Fleur at the front, but Rita kept hurrying forward and dragging me into greater prominence. Then she insisted on separate shots of all the champions.
At last, we were free to go.
---
19th November 1994
Hogwarts
Midnight lay over Hogwarts like a held breath. The lake was a sheet of black glass, the castle windows burning gold against the dark, and the grounds stretched wide and quiet beneath a thin wash of moonlight.
From the shadow of the Durmstrang ship, a figure appeared just long enough to pull an Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders—then vanished again.
Igor Karkaroff moved across the lawn as if the night itself were helping him. He passed the enormous Beauxbatons carriage, its lit windows casting soft halos over the Abraxans standing in their paddock.
Beyond that, past Hagrid's darkened cabin, lay the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Karkaroff followed the perimeter, keeping just outside its reach, until the castle lights faded behind him and the lake disappeared from view.
Then—shouting.
A furious roar followed, loud enough to stop him mid-step.
Karkaroff turned toward the sound and moved carefully past a dense cluster of trees.
Then he saw them.
Dragons.
A Common Welsh Green shifted in place, its long neck coiling with serpentine grace, wings twitching as dark smoke curled from its nostrils.
Nearby, a Swedish Short-Snout gleamed pale and cold, its scales reflecting torchlight like polished steel. Its jaws parted slightly, hinting at blue-white flame.
And dominating the clearing—a Chinese Fireball. Crimson scales glowed like embers, golden eyes blazing with unmistakable fury. It roared, sending a mushroom-shaped burst of fire into the air.
The dragons were contained within a rough wooden enclosure. Heavy leather straps bound their necks and legs, chains running down into iron pegs driven deep into the earth. Around them, a dozen dragon keepers stood watch, alert and disciplined, never letting their attention drift for more than a moment.
Karkaroff watched in silence for several minutes.
Then he turned and began making his way back.
A test of courage.
That was how Crouch and Bagman had described the first task. And Karkaroff knew enough about past tournaments to understand what that meant—dangerous creatures.
And what better place to hide them than the Forbidden Forest?
Now his gambit had paid off.
On the 24th of November, Viktor would be ready. The Hogwarts and Beauxbatons champions, on the other hand, would walk in blind.
Beneath the cloak, Karkaroff allowed himself a thin, satisfied smile as he headed back toward the ship.
Unbeknownst to him, his midnight excursion had not gone unnoticed.
High on a branch of a large beech tree at the edge of the forest sat a tiny metallic hummingbird.
Its crystal eyes did not blink as they tracked Karkaroff's thermal signature moving across the grounds—still invisible to the world.
Invisibility fooled light.
It did nothing at all to heat.
---
19th November 1994
Hogwarts
The doors of the Great Hall swung shut behind them with a heavy, echoing thud, and Fleur Delacour drew in a breath of the cold November air as though she were escaping something rather than merely leaving lunch.
"Mon dieu," her friend, Sylvie Dubois muttered beside her, tugging her cloak tighter. "Do they cook everything in butter here, or is it just tradition?"
Fleur exhaled softly, her nose wrinkling just a fraction. "It is not just the butter. It is the… heaviness." She gestured vaguely. "Every meal feels like it wishes to sit inside you forever."
Sylvie laughed under her breath. "And the cold! How can it be this cold already?"
Fleur didn't answer immediately. The wind curled through the stone courtyard, sharp and insistent, tugging strands of her silvery hair loose around her face. Hogwarts was grand, yes—impressive in its own severe, ancient way—but it lacked warmth. Not just in temperature, but also in spirit.
Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, across the Channel to her own school. To Beauxbatons.
The château rose in her mind with perfect clarity—pale blue stone gleaming under sunlight, terraces carved into the mountainside, fountains that sang as much as they flowed. Gardens that were not merely cultivated, but composed, like living art.
And always, always the music—soft choirs of wood nymphs weaving melodies through the air as students dined, their voices light and golden, turning even the simplest meal into something… sublime.
Here—
Fleur glanced back briefly at the massive oak doors.
Here there was noise. Clatter. Laughter that bordered on shouting. Plates piled high as though excess were a virtue. It was not unpleasant, precisely.
Just… inelegant.
But, no matter. Fleur had not come here for elegance.
Her gaze shifted forward again, expression smoothing.
She had come for the Triwizard Tournament.
And—she admitted, if only to herself—for curiosity.
Benjamin Carter.
The first time they had met, she had been greatly surprised. She was a little ashamed to admit that her allure was the reason Madame Maxime had brought her along to that meeting, to secure a more lucrative deal on the Wiphones.
Yet, Carter had appeared to be completely immune to her innate charm magic. He hadn't drooled at her, hadn't smiled constantly like a buffoon at her, hadn't even looked at her any more than was strictly appropriate.
So it was understandable why he had stayed on her mind even after she left his office.
Plus, he was really easy on the eyes. Not like one of those pretty boys at Beauxbatons, but a handsome young man who, in a few years, would surely turn into a symbol of rugged masculinity.
Fleur's lips pressed together faintly.
She had not expected, however, that he would already be taken.
In retrospect, it wasn't surprising. A magical prodigy, inventor, millionaire, looking like a supermodel. If he didn't have a girlfriend, who would have?
Still, Fleur couldn't help but admit that she was disappointed.
But Fleur Delacour did not chase what was already claimed. Whatever others whispered about her allure, she had no interest in becoming the center of that sort of story.
At least Gabrielle was thriving here.
That thought softened her immediately. Her little sister had taken to Hogwarts with surprising enthusiasm—spending hours each day training with her Pokémon, determined, focused, radiant with excitement for the second phase of the championship tournament.
Fleur's own Vulpix came to mind then—a warm, comforting image. Soft fur like spun silk, tails fanning out in delicate arcs, eyes bright with intelligence and quiet affection.
She would have entered the championship herself, under other circumstances. But the Triwizard Tournament offered no room for distractions.
They were nearing the front doors when a voice called out behind her.
"Miss Delacour."
She turned.
Benjamin Carter stood a short distance away, hands relaxed at his sides, expression calm but intent.
"May I speak with you for a moment?" he asked. "In private."
Sylvie's brows shot up with immediate, undisguised interest.
Fleur ignored her.
"…Of course," she said.
They stepped out onto the grounds together, the air sharper here, the open space amplifying the cold. For a few moments, neither spoke. Fleur studied him sidelong, measuring.
Finally, she broke the silence.
"What did you wish to discuss?"
"Dragons."
Fleur stopped walking. "Excusez-moi?"
"The first task," he said calmly, "involves dragons."
Fleur blinked.
Then she gave a short, incredulous laugh. "That is not amusing."
"I'm not joking."
His steady, serious expression gradually cut through her disbelief. Her smile faded.
"…How do you know this?"
"It doesn't matter how I know," he said evenly. "What matters is that I do. And so does Karkaroff."
Fleur's eyes sharpened instantly. "Karkaroff—"
"Which means Viktor almost certainly does."
Fleur went quiet for a moment, then her expression hardened, anger flaring bright and immediate. "They would pit us against dragons? Are they mad?"
Carter gave a small shrug. "I'm sure they believe they've taken adequate precautions."
"Adequate precautions?" she repeated, incredulous. "There is no such thing as a safe dragon—"
"Regardless…there are three nesting dragons in the forest right now," he continued calmly, cutting through the rising heat of her voice. "A Common Welsh Green, a Swedish Short-Snout and a Chinese Fireball. It's highly likely that's what we'll be facing in about a week."
He held her gaze for a moment longer.
"Good luck," he said simply.
And then he turned, as though the conversation were finished.
Fleur stared after him, stunned for half a second before finding her voice.
"Wait."
He paused and looked back.
"Why?" she asked, stepping forward slightly. "Why tell me this? Do you not wish to win the tournament?"
"I do want to win. And I am going to win," he said confidently. "But not at the expense of your life."
The words landed with quiet weight.
Then he gave an amused smile.
"Besides," he added, "it'd be a crying shame if a beautiful girl like you got burnt by an overgrown lizard."
He turned again and started to walk away.
And Fleur—
Fleur Delacour, who had faced admirers, rivals, and fools without so much as blinking—
felt heat rise to her cheeks.
"Mr. Carter!"
He stopped once more, glancing back.
"…Thank you," she said.
He inclined his head slightly, as though acknowledging something simple and obvious.
"And," she added, after the briefest pause, "please—call me Fleur."
A flicker of something—approval, perhaps—passed through his expression.
"In that case," he said, "you can call me Ben. All my friends do."
Fleur gave a small, genuine smile.
"Ben, it is."
He returned the smile, just as briefly, then continued on his way across the grounds, leaving her standing there in the cold.
For a long moment, Fleur did not move.
Dragons.
The word echoed in her mind, heavy with danger, with challenge, with the promise of something far beyond anything the Tournament had officially revealed.
And yet—
Almost despite herself, Fleur Delacour couldn't help smiling.