A thousand tiny cuts can kill just as surely as a single blow to the heart. 
— Uncredited

Gauche 
(n.) unsophisticated and socially awkward 

Azalea POV 

Crouch stares each of us down, his assessing gaze turning bitter when it lands on me, as he briefs us about the first task—a test of courage. Harry's chest puffs up at that, the portrait of Gryffindor pride, and I'm sure I catch Cedric rolling his eyes as he glances at my brother. 

When Crouch completes his sentence and says that our first task will be a test of courage in the face of the unknown, I consider eating something bad and delivering myself to the safety of the Hospital Wing. Vik should survive just fine without a fourteen-year-old failure of a partner. 

"...Owing to the demanding and time-consuming nature of the tournament, the champions are exempted from end-of-year tests." 

I stifle a holler and grind my heels into the tiled floor because jumping in excitement would be against this setting's decorum. Harry appears to be fighting the same battle, because his fingers subtly wind through mine and squeeze with a death grip as he forces the corners of his lips not to rise, making him look rather unstable in the head. I squeeze his hand right back, the only outlet I have right now, and it soon turns into a fight of who can break the other's hand first. 

I win when Harry lets out a pained squeak that interrupts Dumbledore's closing formalities, causing all eyes to snap to him. I quickly snatch my hand back, busying myself with nodding attentively to whatever Dumbledore had been saying, and pretend like I don't know the boy beside me. 

"I vill see you tomorrow. Get back safely," Vik softly pats my head and exits with a silent, brooding Karkaroff following a beet-red Madam Maxine, frowning Fleur, and the over-the-moon French boy whose name I can't recall. 

"Harry, Cedric, Azalea, I suggest you go up to bed. I am sure your houses are waiting to celebrate with you, and it would be a shame to deprive them of this excellent excuse to make a great deal of mess and noise." Dumbledore smiles at us, and I paint it as a conniving one because I'm biased and dislike him. 

Cedric leaves first, and we trail after him like obedient underlings until we're out of that cursed chamber. 

"So, we're playing together this time," Cedric says, smiling slightly, speaking to Harry. 

"I suppose," Harry mumbles, looking rather dull in the torchlight of the empty Great Hall, none of the previous excitement in sight. 

"Ah," Cedric pivots towards me and regards me curiously. "And we'll be playing against you." 

"Mhm," I say, suddenly feeling very small and childish in front of an attractive, unnervingly tall senior. 

And then he rocks back on his heels, hands loosely resting in his pockets, and asks the real question. "How did you get your names in anyway?" 

I nearly scowl. 

"I didn't. I didn't put it in," Harry says, staring up at the older boy. "I was telling the truth." 

Unimpressed and unconvinced, Cedric's wary gaze falls on me. I cross my arms and let my scowl show. It's irrational to be so immature, because from a third person's view, I'm clearly in the wrong, but I'm tired and sleepy and didn't get to enjoy dinner. Any girl would be cranky if you put her in my shoes. 

"Okay..." Cedric trails off as he glances between the two of us again, then slowly retreats. "See you, then." And he turns around and walks off towards Hufflepuff's rooms. 

The corridors are dead silent this late in the night. The only sound is the ear-piercing one of complete silence and the faint memory of the echoing Great Hall. My boots click against the flagstones, and Harry's trainers scuff along beside me, both of us wrapped in the kind of quiet that feels like a held breath. 

"So," I say finally, because if I don't, I'll implode. "You're sure you didn't enter your name?" 

He shoots me a look. "Yes. You're sure you didn't?" 

"Yes." 

A beat of silence. 

"Then what the hell is going on?" he mutters. 

"No clue. Could be sabotage, could be a really twisted prank, could be the Goblet developing sentience and deciding it wants us dead." 

Harry gives me a flat look. "Funny." 

"I'm serious. Do... students really die in the Tournament?" 

He hesitates just a second too long. "Sometimes." 

The pause is worse than a yes. I shove my hands into my pockets, pretending I don't feel the cold creep into my bones. 

"I don't like this," he says quietly. "This doesn't feel like— like something we can just get through. What sadistic things do you think they've got up their sleeve? Dragons? Mermaids?" 

"That's ludicrous," I say, almost smiling. "I'm sure it can't be that bad." 

"I'm just saying that it's—" 

"Dangerous?" I finish for him. "Yeah. That's kind of the selling point." 

He shakes his head, like if he moves it enough, the thought will shake loose. "I don't know how we're supposed to—" 

"We'll figure it out," I cut in before he spirals. "I always do. And, if the past three years are any indication, you always do. I'm just new to the whole life-threatening extracurricular thing." 

That earns me the tiniest twitch of his mouth. 

We walk in silence for a few more turns, passing flickering torches and the occasional suit of armour that seems far too interested in our conversation. 

When we reach the point where the staircase to Gryffindor Tower splits from the route to the dungeons, Harry stops. 

"You're going to be okay in Slytherin?" he asks, and it's not just small talk—his brow is furrowed in that way that means he's been worrying about this the entire walk. I nearly hiss in annoyance, since he seems to ask me that every time we split ways here, but he gives a shit, and I've always wanted someone to give a shit, and I finally have that, so I've got no right to complain. 

So I simply shrug. "It's fine. At least now you only have to worry about one of us instead of splitting the stress. Efficiency, you know?" 

"That's not—" He lets out a stuttered, disbelieving laugh. "That's not how it works." 

"Sure it is. You've got Ron and Hermione breathing down your neck, ready to leap into mortal danger at any second. I've got..." I tilt my head. "...a house full of future Dark Lords who might be mildly offended if I die too early. See? Balance."

"You're not funny," he says, but there's a faint smile pulling at his lips.

We stand there for a moment, the joking stripped away, the reality of the turn of events sitting heavy between us. 

"Just—don't do anything stupid," he says finally. 

I grin. "You're going to have to be a lot more specific. Besides, I should be telling you that. You're a guy." 

That gets me an eye roll, and he turns towards his staircase. "See you tomorrow, Az." 

"See you, Potter," I say, and head towards the dungeons. 

We walk away from each other, and the silence that follows is heavier than the one before. 

●⁍●⁍●    

The common room is cold in more ways than one. I don't even get three steps in before the silence hits—not the nice, companionable kind, but the kind that hums with teeth. The stiff, brittle, ice-on-a-window quiet. Conversations die mid-sentence. Eyes follow me. 

Theodore Nott flicks me a raised brow from across the room from his armchair—half curiosity, half judgement, like he's mentally rewriting his opinion into something far less charitable. Crabbe and Goyle don't even pretend they weren't talking about me, or try to mask their scowls; Goyle mutters something that makes Crabbe smirk, and he responds with something about "attention-seeking Gryffindor stunts" loud enough for me to hear. 

Fine. Whatever. 

I don't break stride until Blaise Zabini steps directly into my path, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. He doesn't look angry—in fact, his expression is almost bored. His hand brushes lightly against my arm, guiding me toward one of the couches with a practised ease that's meant to look friendly. 

I should say no. But the entire room's watching, and I'm not about to give them the satisfaction of seeing me retreat. So I let him guide me, even as Pansy slides in on my other side like a well-placed chess piece. 

Blaise leans back, ankle over knee, looking utterly at ease. "So. Big day for you." 

I snort. "Oh, you think?" 

He hums. "Not every day someone gets picked for the Tournament. Especially... unexpectedly." 

This is grating on my last nerve. "I. Didn't. Enter. My. Name," I say with finality. I'm sick of saying the same thing over and over. 

"I didn't say you did," he says easily, surprising me enough to make me glance at him. His tone's calm, even—no mocking smirk, no bite. Just smooth sincerity. "And I believe you." 

No, he doesn't. Does he? "You do?" 

"Sure. Doesn't make much sense, does it? You've only just transferred—hardly had time to make the connections to pull something like that off." His gaze flicks briefly toward the fire, then back to me. "But it does make me wonder how your name got in at all. Someone must've gone to a lot of trouble."

I shrug, pretending I'm not hooked. "Maybe they thought it would be funny." 

"Maybe." Blaise tilts his head, studying me. "Or maybe they thought you'd be useful in there. Someone who can take the heat, make an impression." 

Pansy gives a quiet little laugh. "She's already doing that." 

Blaise ignores her. "Just... strange timing, that's all. Right after the Goblet shuts, Potter's name comes out, and then yours." 

The implication in his tone makes me bristle. The audacity of this Flobberworm. I give him a flat look. "You're not about to tell me Harry did it, are you?" 

His expression doesn't flicker. "I didn't say that, either. You came to that conclusion all on your own." He raises his hands in mock surrender. "Though it's alright if the thought's been hounding you. None of us is taking Potter's side over yours." 

I rear, my scowl back. "Stop putting words in my mouth." 

"Of course." He tilts his head, voice smooth as silk. "But... it does make you wonder, doesn't it? Who did?" 

"I'm not wasting my time on wild guesses." 

Blaise smiles faintly. "Not wild guesses. Just practical ones. You're not stupid, Azalea. If someone wanted to put you in the spotlight, to make sure the whole wizarding world was watching... who better than your brother? He already thrives on it. You'd just be collateral."

I let out a sharp laugh. "That's ridiculous. Harry wouldn't—"

He shrugs, deliberately slow. "Maybe not on purpose." His gaze flicks towards the fire again. "But fame's a tricky thing. Even the best intentions get... warped."

The words slide under my skin before I can stop them. He says them like they're not even important, like he's just idly chatting—but the seed is planted.

"I'm just saying, if someone wanted you both in, for whatever reason, it wouldn't be impossible to arrange. If they knew the right people. Or the right magic. You certainly don't, but there are others." 

It's vague enough that I can't pin anything on him, but sharp enough to worm its way under my skin. "With that logic, it wouldn't be outlandish to suggest Malfoy had a hand in all this." I stand. "And don't ever try to paint my brother as the bad guy. I'm going to bed." 

Blaise just leans back on the sofa, unbothered, shrugging like he'd been making idle conversation and nothing more. "Good night, Potter." 

I walk away, the tension between my shoulder blades refusing to ease. His words start circling, pulling at threads I'd rather not tug. The truth is, I don't know these people—not really. I'm a foreign piece on someone else's board. Blaise is clever—too clever to just stir trouble for fun. And honestly, how much do I really know about anyone here? I'm an outsider in every way—one that half the House already wants gone.

Who... who can I truly trust in this castle? I don't know any— 

Viktor. 

My chest loosens with a sudden, deep exhale. I have Viktor. We're a team, and I know for a fact that he'll be on my side no matter what. I have Viktor, and Sky, and even Cove. Even if she's with me only as parchment and ink. 

Merlin, I'd kill to have her here with me right now. 

I'm almost at the little black door sheltered in a section where the wall juts out, separating the common room from the dorms—the one where the girls' dorm spirals left and the boys' dorm climbs right—when I see him leaning against the wall like he's been waiting. 

Draco. 

●⁍●⁍●    

"Have to admit, I honestly didn't think you'd be stupid enough to condemn yourself to a death sentence. If attention is what you want, just ditch Harry and pledge allegiance to Slytherin. I'm sure the crowd will have a field day with that," Draco says, looking up from the envelope he'd been reading. He does a double-take as he looks at me, and his lips twitch upwards. "You're certainly burnt out."

"Goodnight, Draco," I mutter, sidestepping him. 

"Leaving so soon?" He shifts, blocking my way with a casual ease that makes my irritation flare. "Thought you'd want to savour the moment. Your name's on everyone's lips now, and it's not even bedtime." 

"Really?" I say, exasperated. "I hadn't noticed." 

He slides the crisp white parchment into his robes, looking at me with noticeable attention. "You've been in the castle all of five minutes, and you're already making history. Thought you'd want to bask in it." 

"Well, as you can see, I'm preoccupied with trying to get to my room and crash, so excuse me." 

Nope, he steps right into my bubble of personal space, and something about the proximity unnerves me in a very different way. 

"Not really in the mood to bask, Malfoy. Congratulations, you've had your dig. Step aside."

He, honest-to-Merlin, pouts, his pale cheeks and pale eyes a stark contrast to the delicate pink of his lips. "But we haven't even discussed how you're planning to survive your glorious little suicide pact with Potter." 

I stop tracing his features and slap on today's trademark scowl. It's all everyone's been asking for this evening. "I'm not—" 

"Oh, spare me the denial. Your name, his name, same night, same tournament. Honestly, it's very on-brand for you two. Overly dramatic, attention-seeking, downright concerning." 

My jaw tightens. "I have better things to do than waste my night arguing with you." 

"And yet, here we are," he says, smiling in that infuriating manner of his. 

"As. I. Said." I sidestep him again, and he takes the step with me. I step left, and he follows, and when I go right, he mirrors my movements. "Better. Things. To. Do. Stop being a dick." 

His smirk deepens, and he steps closer. Not too close—just enough to make the space feel smaller. "Like what? Sketching your will? Practising your hero pose?" He tilts his head. "Dumbledore surely isn't forcing you to take part... is he?" 

"He's not," I snap.

"So you did, in fact, volunteer." His brows lift in mock surprise. "Merlin, you're bolder than I thought." 

I'm sick of him. I'm so so so sick of everything. I need a bed, a duvet, Knox, and Cove. "For Merlin's sake, get out of my way. I don't need you to make this worse, Malfoy." 

"Making it worse?" He laughs softly, and the sound echoes off the walls like a death knell. "I'm just trying to understand what really happened—something about not trusting the rumour-mill and all that. A third-year isn't supposed to be in a death tournament, is she?" 

His words cut a little deeper than he probably intends. A flicker of unease passes through me, but I refuse to show it. "I didn't put my name in," I snap, and then I bite my lip. "I don't know how or why it happened, but it's happened. Nothing I can do now." 

"That's the thing." He tilts his head. "If you really didn't put your name in—if this is all some... 'accident'—well, it does seem like Dumbledore's style to condemn a Potter to a bloodbath." 

What's that supposed to mean? I fold my arms. "Your point?" 

He shrugs, brushing an invisible speck of dust off his robes. "And if you did put your name in," he continues, "Well, I'm impressed. It's arrogant. Reckless. Absolutely suicidal. But impressive." 

Yeah, screw him. 

I arch a brow. "So you think I'm either a mastermind or an idiot?" 

"Why not both?" His smirk widens. "I've heard you'll be skipping finals, and that alone almost makes it worth it. I'm sure the rest of us will think of you fondly while we rot in exams." 

I can't help but laugh. "Right, because I'll just be lounging around and braiding arteries while you suffer." 

His smirk splits into an almost-grin, before it fades. "You seem worryingly alright for someone who might not live past the year. Aren't you afraid?" His eyes gleam with interest. And challenge. 

I hesitate. 

"I've got Viktor. We're a team." 

"No, you don't," Draco's face scrunches, and he looks at me like I'm demented. "You'll be dealing with your tasks, and he'll be dealing with his. If anything, you've got to look out even more so, because he isn't on your side anymore, not if he wants to win." He rubs the bridge of his nose. "Merlin, you're daft." 

"We're a team," I enunciate, staring right back at Draco's high and mighty gaze. "I think that translates to us looking out for each other." 

Draco frowns, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. "You're telling me they teamed you up for the Tournament?" I nod, and his eyebrows hit his hairline. "That's not how it works." 

"Yes, well, we're not supposed to have more than three champions either, are we?" 

Draco looks contemplative, surprised. It's nice to see something other than a scowl on his face. It brings out the softness in his features. 

He catches me staring at him, and my heart lurches. I force myself not to look away like I was doing something wrong, and mirror his stance, keeping our eyes locked. 

And, yep, his smirk is back. "That certainly makes things interesting. Tell me, does he plan on carrying you through every task, or are you going to do something useful?" 

Alright, two can play this game. 

"Draco," I start slowly, drawing his name out as I let a grin slowly spread across my lips. "Are you jealous?" 

He starts, an eyebrow quirking upwards as his gaze drags from my head to my feet and then back to my eyes. "Don't flatter yourself. I'm not envying the position of a guard dog." 

"No, that's not what I— not jealous of Krum." The fact that he would even consider that thought process is saying something. "Are you jealous that the Goblet didn't pick you?" 

Draco stiffens. 

His eyes narrow at me, and his self-absorbed smirk falls away. 

I take a step forward, and his head dips to keep our eyes locked. I look up at him with a smile that I'm sure infuriates him as much as he does me, and I hear the audible click of his clenched jaw. 

"Bet you're just jealous you lost your chance at eternal glory and fame." His gaze is blank, unwavering, as the tip of my shoe hits his, and I decide this is close enough. 

"That," I say, staring at the eyes I now realise aren't just pale silver, but have hints of onyx and gold in them too. "Or you're upset you lost your chance to get cosy with my brother. Merlin knows you've been pining after him for how long because you seem to love obsessing over him." 

As soon as the words leave me, his teeth bite down on his lower lip, and when his shoulders shake, I realise he's biting back a laugh. 

And then he turns his head to the wall and shuts his eyes, body shaking with silent laughter. 

I kick him in the shin. 

"For the record, I don't approve. Fall in line and find someone else to screw," I say, stepping away from him. He turns his head towards me, still leaning against the wall, and the sight of his grin steals my breath. 

"Don't worry, Potter. I don't do half-breeds." His gaze rakes over me, and this time, there's a definitive suggestion in it. "Though, you're far more my type than he ever could be." 

"What?" 

I trip on my own feet and reach for the wall to steady myself so I don't kiss the floor, and I scramble between staring at the blonde and picking my jaw off the ground. 

"That is the game we're playing right now, aren't we?" he says with saccharine innocence, and I don't know if I want to slap him or... 

Still leaning against the wall, he slides forward, his lips split in something between a cruel smile and a bright smirk. "Take a look in the mirror once you're back in your dorm, Potter. You're blushing again. Reminds me so much of August, really." 

At a loss for words, I shove myself off the walls and dart around him, making for the little black door to freedom. "I've got no clue what you're talking about," I say over my shoulder as I pull the door open. 

The air carries the sound of his soft laughter to me, and his voice filters through the space between us. "Sleep well, Scarlet. You'll need it." 

I slam the door on him. 

●⁍●⁍●    

"As much as I'd understand if you ripped into Pansy's throat, I don't think Snape would be very pleased," I tell Knox the next morning as I button up my uniform and rummage through my belongings for my socks. "She isn't worth dying for." 

Knox, annoyed by the decree, rolls onto his back on my pillow and stares up at the ceiling with his haunting matte eyes, ignoring me. 

"Wow, okay, sorry for giving a shit about you," I mutter, slipping my wand into my robes and dropping down to lace my boots up. 

The dorm is empty, save for my owl and me, courtesy of my tossing and turning all night and falling asleep well past midnight. I awoke only when Knox dug his claws into my scalp and screeched into my ears. The other girls had been half-dressed by then, and by the time I was done scrubbing my teeth, they were long gone. 

A small mercy. 

While Daphne and Millicent had cast me multiple heavy doses of side eyes, they didn't bother saying anything to me. Pansy, on the other and quite obvious hand, ran her tongue like she was on Broadway. 

Just when I thought things were settling down. 

When I head to the Great Hall for breakfast, my first instinct is to run my gaze across the Gryffindor table in search of Harry. He isn't anywhere to be seen, though, and I don't find Hermione around either. There's one sad, sulking Ron at the table sporting a ginger scowl, and I decide that I'm better off not approaching and asking him. 

My second instinct is to hunt for Viktor, and I find him at one end of the Slytherin table. In fact, all of Durmstrang's students have claimed that end as theirs, apparently no longer mingling with Hogwarts's crowd, save for a few scarlet robes in Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, surrounded by a fan club. 

Great, everyone's having an awesome time. 

Compulsively, my gaze eventually finds the mop of pale hair, shining like a halo among his friends' darker shades. They're on the other end of the table, as far from Durmstrang as possible. Opposite the Slytherin boys sit Pansy, Daphne, and her younger sister Astoria, graphically gossiping. 

At the double doors, I hesitate. 

Then I slowly make my way towards the far end of the long table, tuning out the stares and sorry whispers. The sound of my boots clicking on the castle floors boosts my confidence—because boots are the absolute best, period—and I let a small smile slip onto my lips as I approach Viktor and Skylar. 

I'm not prepared for the raucous cheering that erupts from the group when I approach, and my smile falters. Skylar barks a laugh and asks an attractive witch to scoot over so I can drop in between her and Vik. 

Still unsure, I slowly lower my ass on the wooden bench, glancing at Vik to ensure this is all normal and I'm not about to have my head severed. 

From the Head Table, Madam Maxime shoots us a reproachful look, but beams when Igor offers her a Bulgarian sweet I can't recognise from down here. In the staff table behind them, Hagrid's face wilts like a sad blossom. Snape's I'm-going-to-feed-you-owl-droppings eyes narrow on me, and I duck behind Viktor's mammoth frame. 

"Bloody beautiful day, innit?" Sky hoots, raising his goblet of water. "Toast to our favourite Quidditch and Triwizard Champions!" 

Oh, that's what this is about. 

I blush, more from embarrassment than humility, and stuff my face with French pastries so I don't have to talk as our small crowd echoes choruses. 

"Sky, that is quite enough," Vik says, shaking his head. "Ve 'ave only been chosen, not crowned vinners." 

"Oh, you'll win," the witch beside me says, waving him off. "You always do. Your winning streak is terrifying." And then her gaze falls to me. "And she's pretty cute, too. Looks like someone with a decent spine." Her head tilts, and her short red hair brushes her jawline. "Hi, love. I'm Anastasia. Skylar and I will be tutoring you on the Dark Arts so you don't get yourself or Krum killed. Best clear your schedule by evening." 

I— what? 

I look at Viktor, who looks just as surprised as I, and then at Sky, who shrugs. "You're not the worst witch, but you're certainly not the best, and you need at least half a shot at survival. It'd be a shame to bury you." 

The crème brûlée in my mouth loses its taste. 

I tell Sky to fuck right off and politely thank Anastasia for her offer. She nods, winks, and returns to arguing with Sky. 

"Are you alright?" Vik whispers to me as conversation surges again, and I quickly nod. 

"Just a little off-balance, you know. But yeah, I'm fine," I whisper. Boisterous laughing sounds in the hall, a decibel above the usual buzz, and before I can stop myself, my eyes flick to the other end of the table where Blaise and Pansy seem to be splitting apart with laughter. Pale eyes and pink lips snag my attention, and the amusement that radiates from Draco's face makes my own lips twitch upwards. 

I look away and curse. 

Pathetic, Azalea. You're absolutely pathetic. 

Viktor raises an eyebrow, and I shake my head. "Sorry for butting in here, by the way. After last night, my publicity isn't exactly because I'm an A-lister celebrity, and I can't find Harry, so..." 

My words trail off, and I feel miserable and pathetic. I might as well slap on twin labels of loner and loser on each of my cheeks. 

Vik smiles softly and ruffles my hair. "It is o-kay. Ve like having you around any vay. Do not be upset that those losers have nothing better to do vith their lives except gossip." 

"Don't be sweet, that's scary," I say as my sullen smile dissolves into a small grin. He slides an extra serving of chocolate croissants my way, and that cloud of loserness completely dissipates. 

Yet despite everything, as Vik turns to talk to another Durmstrang student, and conversation flows around me animatedly about things I'm wholly unfamiliar with, I can't help but feel like I don't belong. 

Not Durmstrang, not Hogwarts. Not Slytherin, not Gryffindor. 

I'm straddling two worlds and belong to neither, and it sucks. I sigh and lift my goblet to my lips, hiding the stinging in my eyes. 

I wish Cove were here.  

●⁍●⁍●    

The morning after feels like walking through a fishbowl. Everywhere I go, there are eyes—darting to me, away from me, back again—as if staring too long might hex them on the spot. The whispers are worse. Too low to make out every word, but sharp enough to pierce through the noise of the Great Hall.

The Slytherin common room is no warmer than it was last night. The muttered insults aren't even subtle anymore. Crabbe and Goyle make a show of loudly discussing "people who lie about not wanting attention," and Pansy tosses me a glance so drenched in disdain it might as well be dipped in venom. Theodore Nott just raises a brow from behind his pumpkin juice, like he's still trying to puzzle out how I managed this stunt.

Even outside my House, the temperature isn't much better. Gryffindors glare like I've stolen their precious golden boy's crown. Ravenclaws dissect me like a particularly challenging riddle. Hufflepuffs... well, they just look disappointed, which is somehow worse.

Classes drag. 

In DADA, Moody watches me with both eyes—magical and otherwise—and it's impossible to tell if he's assessing me as a threat or as prey. Something about him just doesn't feel right, and I'm hit with the oddest resolve to never be within a six-foot radius of him alone. 

By the time lunch is over, I've mastered the art of ignorance. Every sideways look and muttered remark is a stone in my pocket, and they're getting heavier, but ignorance is bliss and I like bliss. 

I take the long route after Herbology, skirting around the courtyard where I can hear a cluster of third-years whispering my name. The November air is sharp, slicing away the lingering smell of greenhouse soil. The lake is silver under the cloudy sky, its surface ruffled by the wind.

I'm halfway down the slope when I spot Harry. Hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders hunched, kicking a rock down the path without much care where it lands. His head lifts at the sound of my footsteps, and for a moment, we just look at each other—the boy who definitely didn't put my name in the Goblet, and the girl who's somehow paying for it anyway. 

"This is where you've been hiding all day?" 

"You're the one who skipped Hagrid's class," Harry crosses his arms indignantly and kicks his rock right into the lake. Merlin, the poor merfolk. 

"Yes, well, excuse me for not being a fan of those pointless Blast-Ended Skrewts." 

Harry rolls his eyes and drops down on his ass, resting his forearms on his knees as he gets cosy by the riverbank. Expelling an exhausted breath, I follow suit. 

"Hello," I say, restarting our conversation. Harry snorts. "Did Gryffindor give you shit for getting chosen?" 

"Not really, no. There was an entire party waiting back at the common room when I entered, and everyone was celebrating, and it might have been cool if Ron wasn't mad at me." A humourless laugh, and he rips out a fistful of grass, flatly staring beyond the lake. "He's upset I get all the attention and feels like my shadow, according to Hermione. Which, I think, is stupid, because I'd gladly hand over my Championship pass to him if I could." 

Looking at him not-so-not-seriously, I say, "Think we could swap lives for a bit? I'd much rather complain about hero-worship than deal with being shitted on." 

Harry sends a questioning look my way. I drop my head back, staring at the sky longingly. "Slytherin's being a bitch to me, because I'm not their Champion. I think they might have been less hostile if I'd been playing for Hogwarts, but seeing as I'm playing for Durmstrang... you get it, right?" 

Harry blanches, and I honestly don't get how he can be the older one. He's like a sassy kid with a soft heart who just needs a hug. 

"Snape isn't going to be much help in shutting them up, will he?" I shake my head. "Yeah, figured. You know, maybe—maybe—you should talk to Professor McGonagall. She might not be the Head of your house, but she hates bullies." 

My face twists in a you're-not-being-serious look. 

"I'm not running to a teacher like a loser." Even though I've been feeling that way for a while now. "Besides, it's not bullying, it's just peak immaturity. Kind of funny at times." 

Harry, for all his inherent sass, remains unamused. I decide to divert the subject. 

"For what it's worth, Ron sounds like an immature bastard, too. Perhaps he's got more Slytherin in him than he likes to admit." 

Harry snorts, and I smile, but we're cut off when a branch snaps behind us, shattering the stillness. I whirl, instinctively reaching for my wand, and Harry does the same beside me. 

I wince when my eyes land on a seething Ron and a grimacing Hermione. 

"You know, mate, I'm really starting to see the resemblance between you two," Ron spits, glaring at me for a moment, then turning that glare on Harry for solid seconds before stalking off towards the castle. 

Hermione, head in her hands, curses under her breath like a harlot. When she looks up at Harry, exasperation lines all her features. 

"Honestly, Harry? I just managed to convince him to come talk to you so you two could work it out and—" She throws her hands in the air, gesturing wildly. "—did you absolutely have to talk about that now?" 

"I—" Harry stutters, glancing at the path where Ron stomped away, a grimace forming on his face, too. "I had no idea—" he starts, hands up, but Hermione shakes her head, muttering something about boys, and chases after Ron, not sparing me a single glance. 

Ouch. 

"That went well," Harry says, staring at Hermione's retreating figure like he wants to chase after his friends. 

"Sorry," I mumble, because I'm a shitpiece. Apparently, since my life's spiralling, I'm unconsciously dragging him down, too. 

He waves me off and turns to face the lake again, forehead resting on his knees. 

Neither of us speaks after that, not even as we head back to the castle for dinner. 

●⁍●⁍●    

Snape might have barely glanced at me in Potions, but that doesn't mean I'm off his radar. No, that man's a hawk, vulture, spymaster, jellyfish, and— and— fucking— teapot all rolled into one person. 

Dinner was about as fun as can be expected when I'm neither Hogwarts nor Durmstrang. But I have to admit, Sky, with his charisma, and Vik, with his... Krum-ness, have managed to paint me in a bright light. I don't think a single scarlet-robed student has shitted on me. Hogwarts, though, is an entirely different story. Immaturity is at an all-time peak. 

But that's not why dinner was a thumbs-down experience. Sky was in a foul mood for some forsaken reason and decided to announce that my so-called training starts tomorrow right at the asscrack of dawn. 

Well, from six thirty to eight, actually, but Durmstrang's staying on their ship for the duration of their visit, and he'll be teaching me out there since he—rightfully—doesn't trust Hogwarts's crowd, and I'll have to wake up, brush, shower, do my hair, get dressed, walk all the way to the Great Lake, and be there by six-thirty, so, naturally, I'll have to drag myself out of bed by four-forty-four am. 

And they said being a Champion would be a privilege. 

I'd much rather write finals than deal with this. 

As a result, I skitter out of the Great Hall the second I clean my plate, determined to get in bed by ten and squeeze in as much shuteye as possible. I refuse to sacrifice my beauty sleep. Consequently, I'm not paying my surroundings much attention—everyone's still at lunch, so I won't have to worry about bumping into anyone, right? 

Apparently not. 

I slam into a brick wall, and I'm sure the impact dislocates my nose. 

"Miss Potter." Severus Snape's tunnelling black gaze digs into me like claws, and I take a mortified step backwards, accepting my impending doom. 

"...hi," I say lamely, still backing away. 

"Take another step," Snape says, his voice articulated with as much grace as silk, "and I'll see to it that the only corridors you walk for the remainder of this term are those between here and detention." 

I freeze on the spot. Excellent. Paralysis by Snape. My favourite. 

"Sorry." 

He prowls forward a fraction, his shadow blotting out the torchlight. Not wasting time, he cuts to the chase. "You seem to have made my job easier. I wish to speak with you." 

"Is that not what we're doing right now?" I say before I can think twice, and Merlin's blasted balls do I abhor my tongue. The look Snape sends me tells me that he, too, abhors it, and it's a look that's far from pleasant. 

Maybe if Draco were on the receiving end of Snape's glares a couple of times, he'd be in check. 

"As I was saying," Snape continues with his trademark unnerving stare. "You will present yourself in the Trophy Room tomorrow morning at nine sharp. Skeeter will be waiting." 

"...Skeeter?" 

Snape's eyebrow arches, lethal and elegant. "Rita Skeeter. Journalist, Daily Prophet. Surely Durmstrang receives newspapers?" 

"Yeah, we— I mean, yes, sir," I stammer, because looking like a fool seems to be the new Tuesday. Go figure, a Karkaroff act-alike never goes out of style. 

"She wishes to document Hogwarts' Champions. You will answer her questions clearly and concisely, without dragging the reputation of my House through the muck. Do I make myself plain?" 

Do I make myself plain. I should start using that. 

"Yes, sir," I mutter quickly, trying not to imagine being chewed alive in ink and headlines. 

He turns on his heel, robes cutting the air. I watch him sweep three steps away before panic jolts through me. What in Merlin's cursed name is an interview supposed to be? I hadn't had to deal with that even when I starred in the bloody World Cup. 

"Wait!" 

Snape halts like death has been interrupted. He turns—slowly, deliberately—his expression carved in stone. His head tilts, and it's the kind of glance reserved for unfortunate insects about to be squashed. "Yes?" 

Heat rushes up my neck, and I swallow. My throat feels like sandpaper. "I just—" My hands flap helplessly before I shove them into my pockets. Maybe Harry is the older one after all. "...is it... is it going to be— okay?" 

The silence that follows is worse than an Avada Kedavra. 

"Okay?" he repeats, like the word offends him. 

"The interview, I mean," I rush, hands flapping uselessly. "Are they... are they going to, you know, twist things? Screw with my head? Make me look like a complete idiot?" Like you are, right now. 

His silence stretches. Impulsively, I crack my knuckles, and when he frowns disapprovingly, it might just be the most human expression I've ever seen him sport. 

Finally, he exhales, sharp as a knife through fabric. "The press thrives on sensationalism, so naturally, the Prophet feeds on scandal. You may assume Skeeter will not hesitate to contort your words into whatever grotesque spectacle sells."

My stomach drops through the floor. Brilliant. A national audience, again, for me to make a fool of myself in front of. 

"But," he continues, voice lowering into that cold, velvety register that makes everyone in a ten-foot radius reconsider life choices, "if you are clever, you will leave her with nothing worth warping. Remember who you represent. Do not hand her your throat on a platter." 

I blink up at him, my heart hammering too loud for me to think. "That... doesn't sound very promising." 

"Reality rarely is," he snaps back, but there's no true bite in it anymore. 

For a heartbeat, he studies me, unreadable, like he's measuring whether I'll drown or keep afloat. His mouth tightens, then loosens by a fraction, and the sharp edge of his expression dulls—barely perceptible, but it's there. "You will find, Miss Potter, that silence can be the strongest defence. Do not underestimate it." 

I nod furiously, like my head might fall off if I don't. 

It's not comfort exactly, but it isn't the death sentence I expected either. 

He sweeps away down the corridor, black robes billowing in pure, dramatic, Snape-fashion. 

I stay rooted to the flagstones, feeling like I've just been wrung out and hung to dry. I sag against the wall, legs jelly, lungs trembling. Would you look at that—I get to be murdered in print before the Tournament even does the job. Fantastic.