The next morning, Rhiannon awoke and was almost immediately overwhelmed by the unfamiliar scents. Wolf smell, bird smell, something distinctly rivery, not to mention all the new humans – it was almost enough to send her straight into a panic. Luckily, panic was an old friend to Rhiannon, and she was able to catch herself just as a growl rose in her throat and she found herself propped up on one aching elbow in the four-poster bed. “Morning,” she rasped sleepily, as Padma turned over in bed with a query already on her lips. “Don’ w’rry, ‘m fine,”

“Well you look, and sound, like hell,” Padma retorted, though of course there was no real heat in it. “Unless you want your secret out by lunchtime, best fix your glamours from there.”

Rhiannon groaned and stretched, fumbling around in a fog for the round compact mirror she kept on her bedside, and in a few minutes she had her scars sufficiently glamoured and her hair warded, as it was supposed to be drizzly today. “Morning, or uh – bonjour, Cassandre, did you sleep alright?”

There was a murmur and a rustle as Cassandre looked across the room at Aurélien for help translating. Perks of werewolf hearing – he didn’t need to shout the translation back at her, and after a few moments Cassandre brightened and smiled shyly. “Oui, it is – agréable, ah, nice, in here. And the beds are, good.”

Rhiannon grinned, heartened that the shy older girl seemed to be gradually settling in despite Basil and Lisa’s hostile glares from the far side of the room. “I bet you must be hungry, do you want to meet some of my other friends for breakfast? Don’t worry, they’re nice,” she offered, with a sideways glance over at her hostile roommates. She wasn’t sure how ‘out’ Cassandre wanted to be here at Hogwarts, so it was ix-nay on the erewolf-way until someone said otherwise.

At the suggestion of ‘breakfast’ – with the full moon so very close, Rhiannon’s guess that Cassandre might have been hungry was dead on – and along with Harry, Padma and the rest of their friendlier dorm-mates, Rhiannon and Cassandre made for the Great Hall in search of breakfast.

Serve-yourself dining was messy and impractical, especially with so many varying dining needs, so aside from formal occasions, the system worked a little differently. Rhiannon couldn’t see magic, but she guessed the plates were enchanted and each student could ask for what they wanted, from a set menu folded inside each napkin. A few people stared, but Rhiannon wasn’t passing up sausages, hashbrowns and all the scrambled eggs she could fit on her plate – Cassandre wasn’t the only one hungry and itchy thanks to the impending full moon.

A hungry werewolf days from transformation wasn’t easy to divert from food, but somehow, one Beauxbatons girl managed it. Dressed in a pale blue uniform like all the other French students and wearing a purple sash around her waist, probably to signify that she was staying in Miremark, the girl was beautiful in a way that made the world seem to stop around her. She wasn’t perfect as such – a critic might fixate on her prominently arched, ascetic nose or the odd light yellow-brown of her eyes against her deep fawn skin – but she was stunning, and Rhiannon felt her breath catch in her chest at the sight. Most striking was the curtain of wavy silver-blonde hair that fell around her shoulders to almost waist-length, and as the girl stood from her seat and made her way across the hall to the great blue-glowing goblet that stood before the teachers’ dais, Rhiannon thought as if from a great distance that there was something familiar about that look.

“Who... is that?” Niniane whispered from across the table, and in all honesty Rhiannon wouldn’t have noticed her had Lavender not sharply elbowed her at the same time.

Savita, seated beside Nina, sighed and rolled their eyes, wearing something of an exasperated smile. “That, would be Fleur. Her powers are a bit stronger than most so they sometimes leak, not that she’s not a knockout without it. Even worse, she’s nice.” they replied with a little smile.

“Powers?” Luna asked curiously, still looking sideways at Fleur but their attention was taken now by a new puzzle.

“Yeah, she’s part-veela, and veela have a sort of, desire field. They can flip it to repulsion or, with practice, put off different charms but well, Fleur’s working with more power than most so it’s a little trickier for her to rein in all the time.” Savita explained with a shrug.

Rhiannon shook herself and pointedly looked away lest she be distracted again. “You – ‘d – well, shouldn’t someone, help her? Teach her? It sounds l-l-l-l-l-l-like it could be really dangerous for her.” she asked.

Savita and Cassandre both grimaced, and a look passed between them as evidently they recalled some unpleasant past event. “Yeah, you could say that,” Savita replied with a grimace. “But, there’s not really a lot of information out there on training nonhuman quirks, so... no.”

Rhiannon turned her attention back to Fleur, smiling a little dreamily as she watched the statuesque blonde place her name into the flaming goblet. The flames flickered and glowed green, then gold, then violet, before they returned to their regular periwinkle blue. Fleur turned away and probably would’ve returned to the Miremark table, had Savita not leaned over and waved to her. “What’re you doing?” Rhiannon hissed, suddenly very conscious of how short, thin and untidy she was, how imperfect a girl. If Fleur so much as looked at her, she felt she’d sink into the ground.

Savita rolled their yellow-centered eyes with a sigh. “Introducing you to the girl who started our whole nonhuman club thing? Don’t be such a useless lesbian, she’s nice.” they drawled irritably.

Rhiannon wrinkled her nose and shrank in her seat, but there was no escaping her embarrassment and she slumped down with her chin on the table in defeat.

“Salut Fleur !” Cassandre greeted the striking blonde with a wave and a shy smile. “Comment vas tu ce matin?”

"Ça va, mis à part les anglais lubriques/graveleux. Qui sont tes nouveaux copains ?" Fleur replied with a sigh, settling herself down at the table beside Cassandre and Savita, across from Rhiannon, Lavender and Luna. Niniane, seated to one side of Savita, gasped and spluttered and shrank in her chair, staring openly at Fleur as she did so.

"Certaines anglaises ne valent pas mieux," Savita interjected with a teasing smile back at Niniane – upon whom the joke was lost, being as she spoke no French. “As for our new friends – this is Rhiannon Potter, Niniane, Lavender, Luna, Hermione, Harry, Neville, Parvati, Padma, Dudley and Ginny,” they added, gesturing around to Rhiannon and those of her friends present in turn. “Don’t worry, they’re nice.”

Rhiannon could barely look up at Fleur, but she managed a wobbly smile and a wave so awkward she died a little inside. “At-t-t-t l-least I, try t-t-t-t-to be nice,” she stammered, a scarlet flush spreading down her neck and across her chest, making her uncomfortably warm under her uniform. “I’m, a w-w-w-w-were, wolf. S-s-s-s-sosoos-so sometimes I’m, not.”

“Aww, une louve-garou!” Fleur cooed, and before Rhiannon could flinch away the taller girl reached across the table and patted her hand briefly. “I see how you might ‘ave, how do you say? Clicked, that’s it. Savita might have told you, I’m Fleur, enchantée – ah, it’s, nice to meet you. Welcome to our little club de monstres, we only bite if asked.”

Rhiannon’s blush heated and to her mortification, she felt an uncomfortable stirring in her underwear. There went any chance of scuttling away to escape. “I t-t-t-t-t--t-th-think if I ever bit someone, I’d d-d-d-die inside,” she whispered, already feeling the telltale guilty cringing at the very thought – and the memories of all the near misses she’d had with her friends.

“Oh, no, of course – I didn’t mean literally. I know some independent scientists are working on a, a – médicament, a treatment? For werefolk, to restrict transmission, sort of like how they do for HIV but, it’s a long way off and it’s hard for them to get funding, too many want them to work to ah – turn you back to human instead. The biting thing was, a joke. Probably a poor one.” Fleur apologised with a grimace.

Savita squeezed Cassandre’s hand reassuringly – the tall girl had flinched at Fleur’s joke as well, and something in her dark eyes looked haunted, likely by the same thoughts that plagued Rhiannon. “And in the meantime, that’s why we all look out for eachother, right?” Savita reminded them, with a look over at Rhiannon and Dudley in turn.

Dudley grinned and brushed his hair out of his eyes. “And hey I mean if we did bite someone by accident, more family right? Shit happens and like you said – we look after eachother, when it does.” he interjected with a shrug.

Savita cackled and pointed across the table at Dudley in an exaggerated sort of way. “Now this guy? I like him. Yeah, that’s pretty much how were communities work – I have so many aunts and uncles and cousins and only about half of them are blood.”

Rhiannon honestly hadn’t considered how were families might be different in this way, and it was fascinating to learn more as, now that the ice was broken, she, her friends and the handful of nonhuman Beauxbatons students chatted back and forth until they ran out of breakfast to eat and bundled on outside to mix study with play, something Rhiannon, Hermione, Padma and their other more scholarly friends were eager for as it was a chance to learn from their new older friends. Fleur, Savita and Cassandre, along with Aurélien – the owl veela – and a pretty red-haired girl with antlers who called herself Audrey and apparently lived in Yorkshire when she wasn’t at school.

“Hey, have you seen Maxime?” Audrey asked Fleur a little worriedly, as they lay on the grass filling in diagrams of anatomy. “They were planning to enter their name earlier, I hope they’re alright.”

“Why wouldn’t they be alright?” Padma asked curiously. “I mean, you’re all in your last year, aren’t you?”

Fleur thought on it, then grimaced. “Max is a vampire, that might have... merde, of course, they were sixteen when – I’ve got to go,” she burst out hurriedly, and rushed away from their sunny hillside spot like someone had set a fire under her.

As it turned out, Maxime had indeed had an accident with the Age Line – they had been sixteen and a half when turned into a vampire, and apparently that meant they were sort of frozen, unchanging for the last four years as apparently they’d started Beauxbatons late or some such thing. Initially the officials had insisted on sticking to the rules, but Minerva was the one who had cast the spell and at the end of the day, she could withdraw it as she pleased. Which, she did – much to their displeasure – so that Maxime might be permitted to enter.

The same consideration, however, was not extended to other sixteen year-old would-be entrants which, as any trouble usually did, included the Weasley twins. Fred and George, despite being separated – this year into Miremark and Hufflepuff, respectively – were still up to their favourite pranks and of course, that included attempting entry into the Triwizard Tournament. Which, of course they did – the prize money was a huge attracting factor and it could help the Weasleys immeasurably. But they were under the legal age of majority for wizards, and that firmly ruled them out – they wouldn’t be seventeen until April, by which time two of the challenges would have already passed, legally the school would be in a heap of trouble for letting them in.

“Almost makes you wish Percy was still here,” George grumbled in the common room one evening while Padma checked the spelling on his essay. “I bet we could nudge him into competing, he’s pretty competitive when you get him riled up and he’d secretly love to win that money for the family.”

“Only almost,” Bryn Hendry, a seventh year and one of the twins’ usual friends in mischief, chimed in with a groan. “Remember when he tried to organise all us seniors’ study timetables last year? No thanks.”

There was a chorus of despairing groans from others in the common room who’d been in Gryffindor with Percy at any time, and Rhiannon giggled – even she remembered that, Percy had always been a fan of lecturing the junior students on time management as well – never mind that she and Hermione were two of the best students in their year group and that didn’t come without plenty of hard work studying. But Rhiannon understood the bitter wish – by the simple quirk that was the twins’ date of birth, the whole Weasley family had no chance at that thirteen-thousand-Galleon prize. If only Percy were still at school, indeed.

Despite the spots of prickly bitterness, overall, things settled back into a familiar rhythm much faster than Rhiannon had expected they might – full moon and all. It was a little more crowded than usual, and most were-students turned on their own before joining the group in their animal forms – a whole lot of wolves, several bears, more than a few large cats of several varieties as well as smaller carnivores like foxes and hyenas... predator animals were the most common, though there were a handful of horses and deer of various kinds, as well as several Animagi who had joined their nonhuman friends for a night-time rompand a handful of centaurs – not all of which were half-horse. It was strange, more like a giant campout than a pack roam like Rhiannon was used to but that wasn’t so bad either – Rhiannon had never been on school camp and this was a new kind of fun all of its’ own, meeting other nonhumans without so many of the restrictions a human form put on them. Cassandre in particular seemed so much more free than usual, free from needing to talk to express herself, and restrict that expression to conform – she roamed back and forth between Rhiannon’s little group and a comfortable gathering of her own friends throughout the five nights of moontime.

Moontime was a highlight, as always, and thankfully, the nicer new students were a distraction from the unspoken tension of the Triwizard Tournament. Without that to occupy her, Rhiannon would have burst from frustration andCare of Magical Creatures would have been downright unbearable. The skrewts, as Hagrid called them, were growing fast, and apparently they took issue with predator animals in their territory. Predator animals such as werewolves. And while as a fourth-year Rhiannon didn’t have the foreign students in her classes, their mixed scents gradually began to permeate the castle so that the whole place smelled less overpoweringly human – which befuddled the skrewts’ senses, it seemed, and without that blanket Rhiannon guessed she would have stuck out a lot more visibly in how much more intent the creatures were on targeting her.

With all the new friends, it was no surprise that it grew a little harder to touch base with everyone in their separate houses. Hermione was buried in work in Slytherin house – according to her, Minerva and the Prefects were dropping hints that she’d been earmarked for potential leadership next year and the student leaders had a close eye on everything she did. Ginny and Dudley were, surprisingly, enjoying themselves in Slytherin too – Minerva’s changes were beginning to show effect on the house culture, and the soft green light from the lake window was apparently kind on werewolf eyes for evening study sessions. Luna was in Gryffindor of all places, and finding the changed environment a little uncomfortable, while Nina – well, Nina had been much harder to find than usual, and evasive even when they did catch her for a moment. Rhiannon’s first instinct was to be concerned, but when Rhiannon asked Luna, she grinned mischievously and told Rhiannon to leave it. Well, Rhiannon didn’t like mysteries, but she’d managed to mind her own business for this long – she could manage a little longer.

Between everyday mysteries and settling back into a routine at a much fuller school than usual, the time until the Goblet of Fire chose its’ champions drew near in a manner not unlike having the rug pulled from beneath one’s feet. It felt as if they’d barely gotten to know eachother when all too soon the calendar read the eleventh of October and the school was doused in a haze of fearful anticipation. None of the students were under any illusions, many who entered the Tournament wanted the money to help their families rather than the supposed glory of winning – which meant that all who entered and those close to them were alive with a sick sort of worrying energy, equal parts anxious to be chosen and desperate not to be.

The same was true of students who had been unable to enter their names – they too vibrated with anxiety, bitterness and fear in a sickening wash that left Rhiannon dizzy and jittery as she wandered through her Monday classes in a haze. She knew several of her older friends, a group that had grown significantly since the foreign students’ arrival, had entered the tournament – there was every chance she would know at least one of the competitors, most likely more.

“I just hope nobody got entered as a prank,” Padma groused anxiously as they slogged through their midday Herbology class together, Rhiannon armed as always with her mask and gloves. “Not even the judges can keep track of all the names entered, just the cup.”

“Wouldn’t it be smarter to have to register names with an officiant, and then have that officiant enter names into the Goblet at the end of the day or something?” Hannah, their roommate, asked with a grimace.

“Yeah, but that would be smart – and this is Ministry-run, it’s all on tradition not practicality,” Harry quipped across the bench they worked at, all of them repotting infant Flutterby bushes that they had sprouted from cuttings.

“Doesn’t your Mum work for the Ministry?” Padma asked, bewildered.

Harry snorted, and patted down the dirt in their pot a little too firmly. “Yeah, case in point,” they retorted drily. “All of them, stuck in the mud and proud of it.”

The familiar banter between her friends helped Rhiannon remain grounded, but by the end of the day she was a quivering, nervous wreck and Nina had to half-carry her back from their final class of the day, Creatures. Both of them settled into a corner and doused their burned hands in Murtlap essence, but even the soothing potion that eased the sickening sting could not quite chase the almost electric jitters from Rhiannon’s body.

At least she had Nina – and Hermione, Luna, Ginny, Dudley and Neville, at Nina’s request. They all knew better than to ask why Rhiannon was so upset, it wasn’t like any of them could enter – she was a protective sort, no matter whose name was drawn she would be hurt and worried for them. Their presence was a comfort, and Rhiannon lapsed into silence as she curled up in the centre of their little nest, happy to listen and doze while the others talked quietly or got started on their homework. They had two hours to fill, and all of them knew that left to her own devices, Rhiannon would wear a hole in her floor worrying that time away.

Worry or not, all too soon it was time for dinner, and Rhiannon’s friends would not let her simply fret in silence without eating as she usually did. Being the night on which the Goblet would choose the Triwizard champions, they were expected to sit in their formal house arrangements, but one look at the state Rhiannon was in and Professor Sprout waved Nina, Hermione, Luna, Neville, Ginny and Dudley on into the Hufflepuff seats with a sigh.

“Rhi, you are gonna eat dinner if I have to levitate your spoon back and forth,” Hermione told her firmly. Rhiannon sniffed and giggled, despite her worry – Hermione could always be counted on to shake her gently when she was being what Hermione would call a silly goose. “I know you’re worried, but you can’t support anyone if you’re sick and hungry. Come on, open your mouth grumpy pup.”

Luna reached over and tweaked Rhiannon’s nose, which startled her enough that she opened her mouth to retort, allowing Hermione an opportunity to stick the forkful of roast chicken straight in her open mouth. Rhiannon spluttered, sneezed and scowled at them both, wrinkling her nose as Hermione retracted the fork and placed it back beside Rhiannon’s plate where it belonged, then chewed thoughtfully and sighed, delighted despite herself. “See? It’s fine. There’s not even any garlic in yours.” Luna told her with a wry smile.

“It’s delicious,” Rhiannon admitted with a soft groan, distracted despite herself by the food. Someone who actually knew how to use spices had cooked hers – usually, the lack of garlic was a depressing one given that was the only herb English cooks knew how to use regularly. Cumin, ginger, cinnamon, chili, paprika – basic staples of the Ndiaye-Granger and Lovegood kitchens, for certain, but much less bland than Hogwarts food tended to be. Maybe they were trying to impress the newcomers. Either way, it was delicious and Rhiannon retrieved her fork and dug into the rest of her meal – potatoes, gravy, broccoli and cauliflower with cheese sauce for some token greens. Even werewolves needed to avoid scurvy, Rhiannon supposed glumly as she picked at the vegetables distastefully.

At least Rhiannon was not alone in her anxious quiet. Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students alike, seated in little clusters throughout the house tables, barely said a word even to eachother. The competition isolated them all, each one a little island, and Rhiannon wasn’t sure whether to think it a blessing or curse that dessert was served before the Goblet chose its’ champions, thus prolonging the weary torment.

In any other case, Rhiannon would have skipped desert entirely and gone straight to bed. She couldn’t have chocolate, and didn’t much like ice-cream, all in all there wasn’t a lot of point to the exercise. But Hermione had sniffed out a plate of blackberry and apple pie, and would not be dissuaded from her wheedling until Rhiannon tried a bite.

“We should take some baskets with us next full moon, there’s blackberry bushes all over the moor,” Nina suggested idly through a mouthful of pie, an act which had her roommate Sally-Anne glaring at her in mock disgust.

“You Weasleys and your manners,” Sally-Anne grumbled, as if she hadn’t danced with both the Weasley twins at the ceilidh last year – something Nina knew about, pointed out and laughed at as she lobbed a balled-up napkin across the table at her roommate. Their antics amused Rhiannon, distracted her for long enough that she could drag the spoon to her lips, before a nasty, cynical little voice in her head told her no, don’t be a fool. They’re acting up for your benefit.

Because that’s what nice friends do, Rhiannon retorted inwardly, quite aware of the fact she was only talking to herself, and stubbornly carried on eating her pie. Nina was right – they should collect blackberries, they were on good terms with the house elves who, as a mark of trust, would let them cook in the school kitchens if they brought their own ingredients. The thought of that, cooking together and sharing their efforts with their wider friend group, was a pleasant one that comforted her, warming her from the inside just as much as the dessert itself did.

That warmth was fortifying, grounding, and it strengthened as on either side, Luna and Hermione each took one of Rhiannon’s hands in a firm grip. “We’ve got you,” Hermione murmured, to a soft hum of agreement from Luna and they both sort of folded themselves around Rhiannon like a comforting human cloak while she slowly finished her dessert.

All too soon, Rhiannon’s plate was bare, all smears of pie filling wiped away in a vain attempt to prolong the meal, and both her companions did their level best to simply squish the tension from the werewolf’s trembling body as the charcoal-robed official Crouch rose stiffly from his chair, his bony fingers clasped around the top of a semi-ornamental cane Rhiannon hadn’t noticed before as he strode forth across the dais to stand before them all. From a holster attached to the belt that fastened his cloak closed, he drew out a thin, twisting wand that reminded Rhiannon of a deformed bone. He whispered something, and the wand began to emit a faint blue glow of a shade that matched the eerily sparkless flames of the Goblet. “The time for would-be-Champions to submit their names has concluded, and now it is the hour for our Tournament to begin.” he intoned solemnly, and at some wordless signal the nimbus surrounding his wand brightened from blue to a brilliant gold which flared, swelled and burst, sending heatless sparks out across every corner of the room.

The wand-burst was more than a fireworks display – it was a signal of some kind, to the Goblet itself, as its’ flames too brightened to gold and spilled over its rim, sparking and turning green as they hit the floor. The whole hall, with its’ hundreds of students, fell into a trembling silence as slowly, the golden flames dimmed to a simmering red and the goblet stopped dribbling fire. The flames within bubbled and swelled for a few moments, moments that dragged on Rhiannon’s anxious heart, before it spat out a torrent of flame high into the air. Rhiannon flinched and nearly fell from her chair, and Luna’s quick reflexes were all that saved her from sprawling turtle-like on her back in the aisle.

“Hey, easy, easy,” Luna whispered, her voice soft and reassuring while Hermione rubbed circles into Rhiannon’s back, both working to get the frightened werewolf’s racing heart back down. “It’s just spellfire. You’re safe.”

Rhiannon grumbled, irritated by her own startle response, and settled back into her chair just in time to hear Crouch read out the name on the flame-conjured card. “Viktor Krumov, Durmstrang,” he intoned formally. The room erupted into murmurs, and a dark-haired figure cloaked in red stood from among the purple-accented Miremark crowd. It took only a moment to recognise him – Viktor Krum, or Krumov, as the paper stated, he was unmistakeable with his broad shoulders and stooping posture, and he drew every seeing eye in the hall as he slunk to the foot of the dais, where the officiant Crouch was gesturing.

This time, Rhiannon was ready as again the Goblets’ contents guttered, swelled and spat out another torrent of crimson fire, and she merely stiffened and trembled in her chair. Torches were bad enough – this was new, startling and stressful. But she ground her teeth together, pressed her sharp nails into the palms of her hands, and remained focused as Crouch read out the second name. “Fleur Delacour, Beauxbatons.”

Rhiannon’s heart lurched, and she couldn’t quite shake off the frisson of cold fear that flashed through her nervous system as her new friend’s name echoed into the corners of the Great Hall. Unlike the Durmstrang students who had glared jealously at Viktor, the Beauxbatons students were more open with their emotions, and though many cried and swore at the loss of their chances, they still reached out to touch Fleur’s hands, congratulate her in her passing even as Mr Crouch grumbled and tried to silence them. Rhiannon was too shy, their friendship too new to do the same, but Nyx clamoured in her mind that the Tournament was dangerous, and her friend had to be protected, however possible.

Rhiannon was so busy arguing with Nyx and the wash of sensations, impressions and instincts that the wolf forced on her, that she barely noticed as the Goblet spat out a third name. Her breaths were coming short and quick, the hands of her friends – if that was indeed still the correct word for Luna and Hermione – upon her shoulders and chest the only thing keeping Rhiannon grounded at all, and the third name read out came to her as if from a distance. Cedric Diggory.

Now it was official – this Tournament would risk the lives of not one but two of Rhiannon’s friends, and she couldn’t keep the whine from bubbling up in her throat. At least it could be passed off as crying, the hyperventilation broke it up into something more approximately human. But that thought occurred to Rhiannon at a distance only, like a popup on a lagging computer, and she settled into a miserable state in her seat on the bench, stewing in her anxiety. Over the last year, she and Nyx had grown closer in priorities and in nature, and here they were in agreement – this was the worst case scenario. It could only be worse had she befriended Durmstrang students and one of them had been chosen, but with the Freaks Club amongst the Beauxbatons students, Rhiannon had gravitated towards them and neglected getting to know the others.

“Rhi, hey, hey. Come on, wake up – they’re just about to let us go to bed,” Hermione murmured, shaking Rhiannon’s shoulder gently to get her attention through the fog. Rhiannon shook her head and huddled closer to Hermione, locking her arms around her waist, taking comfort from the warmth. Bed meant no Hermione, and no Luna. Just a sleepless night with a cranky cat who despised when her warmth source tossed and turned.

“No, stay,” Rhiannon mumbled sleepily, her throat raw and slick from whining. She coughed wetly and winced in pain at the sensation, but her fog had been cleared away and try as she might, she couldn’t simply fade away again. She couldn’t leave her friends with an unresponsive four and a half feet of bony lump to deal with, and slowly, stiffly, she extricated herself from her clinging embrace and stood, swaying and hugging herself, as others around her stood and began to shuffle off towards the exits.

Suddenly, the flames of the goblet turned gold and began to spill from its’ mouth once more, and even in the midst of her disoriented misery, Rhiannon felt the cold certainty like ice in her gut. The Goblet had already chosen three champions – Viktor Krum, Fleur Delacour and Cedric Diggory, she recanted to herself like a mantra. If it wanted to choose a fourth... something had gone very, very wrong. And the bitter, cynical part that had grown too soon in Rhiannon’s young heart knew, even before a bewildered Mr Crouch read out the final name, what that name would be... because when things went wrong, who was always at the centre?

“Rhiannon Potter,” Mr Crouch read, his voice cracking with disbelief.