Status: Rewrite of "A Little Bit of Love and Laughter" -- ongoing

Of Pranks & Princes

A Little Friendly Competition

Life as Roger's girlfriend was… different, though not necessarily in the ways Emily had imagined for herself. She got more attention than she was used to at first, both good and bad. Some of the fifth year Ravenclaw girls who spent their free time ogling Roger seemed almost in mourning now that he was officially off-the-market. They would whinge and gossip and stare almost menacingly at Emily from across the room, as if to shoo her away. But she was happy with Roger — they were both happy. And their relationship cemented Roger's place with her and Violet at the Ravenclaw table and on the walk to the few classes they shared, and, as expected, that meant they were seeing less and less of Fred and George.

It seemed a fair trade-off initially— Roger was sweet and handsome and bright. He was a welcome guest at Friday afternoon Potions studies. He held doors open for the girls and escorted Emily back to the common room in the evening, like a real gentleman. He was polite and well-spoken and undeniably charming. Plus, Violet loved him enough to make up for anybody (namely, three anybodys in particular) who didn't. If there were any valid complaints about Roger, Emily sure couldn't think of them.

Except, perhaps, his jokes which oscillated between offensive and tasteless at worst to corny and chuckle-inducing at best. Emily wasn't used to being the sole source of humour in every conversation — and, in fact, she didn't find herself much good at it, though Roger would be sure to disagree. That was a forte best left to the twins.

Maybe that was why Emily was so desperate to smooth things over with the boys, her boys. They hadn't spoken to her in what felt like weeks and actively avoided her otherwise, whether she had Roger in tow or not. They even seemed cross with Violet, whose only guilt came by association. When they tried to claim to Violet that they hated Emily 'fraternizing with the enemy', Violet was quick to point out that 1) House politics were historically absurd, 2) as a Ravenclaw, Roger wasn't in any sense 'the enemy', and 3) as Ravenclaws themselves, perhaps she and Emily were. That shut them up.

The enemy, ha! Emily just couldn't understand it; nobody was really an enemy at Hogwarts, except for House Points and the Quidditch pitch. Though that was something — maybe the only thing — they had in common: Quidditch. Well, Quidditch and her. She wondered if maybe pent up testosterone could be to blame for this whole stupid mess. It sure seemed to be a contributing factor in the twins' constant posturing, which she was grateful Roger didn't feel the need to do. Even Lee put up a machismo front in public — she imagined to help the twins save face when they did it and looked stupid. Which they did… often. Maybe it was a sign that they missed her as much as she did them, even if none of them would admit it.

But by the time late October came, bringing with it the full force of autumn, Roger and Emily were old news anyway…

Details of the Triwizard Tournament were kept hush, though the students were eager for answers. Dumbledore promised more information 'in good time', which left everyone wondering when good time would be.

Apparently, that time was October 30th.

There were signs up in the Entrance Hall before then, of course, and the prefects had been given notice even before that, but in the week leading up to Halloween, the Tournament was all anyone could talk about.

"How d'you think they pick the Champions?"

"Dumbledore's probably got a preset list."

"Who do you reckon will be picked from Hogwarts?"

For Emily, there was far too much else to worry about. With the impending arrival of the two competing schools, the prefects were warned that they would have to be on their best behaviour. Harder still, they would need to ensure that the rest of the school followed suit. She knew that the Gryffindor prefects, in particular, had their work cut out for them…

Still, all the prefects were ultimately responsible for any mishappenings that went on while Hogwarts had visitors. And Dumbledore was careful to make that especially clear.

Before dinner that night, he gathered the prefects into the Entrance Hall. He stood at the fore of the room, looking bolder and taller than any of them had seen him before. And as he greeted each of them by name, his lips curved into a gentle grin.

"I assume you know about our incoming guests," he said, and the students nodded in response. "And I trust that you will all do your best to represent this school."

None of the students much knew what to expect from the other schools. Rumours spread but few people could confirm their validity. Emily especially didn't know what to expect, how the other schools would compare to Hogwarts, how similar the other students might be. Or how different. Emily — even more than anyone else — knew nothing of the wizarding world beyond Hogwarts.

Dumbledore spoke again, this time focusing his friendly gaze on the Heads from behind crescent shaped eyeglasses. "Miss Alden, Mr. Bradley, I'll entrust you with helping me greet the schools upon their arrival; the other prefects can remain in the Great Hall with their Heads of House."

"Of course, Professor," said Greg Bradley, the Head Boy from Slytherin, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Dumbledore's question wasn't optional and didn't necessitate an answer. But, as always, Dumbledore was gracious and replied with a polite nod.

"The schools will be arriving shortly, so I'll ask that you prepare." The prefects began to head out, but Emily felt a hand on her shoulder — Dumbledore's hand.

"Miss Prince, you speak French, yes?" Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as they met hers, and he smiled. "Severus was telling me that —"

"Yes, sir," she said, quick to answer in hopes that nobody else would hear the other name Dumbledore mentioned. "Just a bit."

"Then I hope it might not be too much of me to ask that you extend our Beauxbatons guests a friendly welcome?"

"Oh… of course not," she stuttered. "I'll do my best."

When Dumbledore smiled, Emily could see the whole of his face crinkle beneath his whiskers. "You have my thanks."

Roger was waiting by the Entrance Hall door for her, and she ran over to him, kissed him quickly on the cheek.

"Where're you off to?" he asked as he wiped his face clear of her lip gloss.

"Favour for Dumbledore," she said, more nonchalant than she expected with the weight of her newly-assigned responsibility. "But I'll see you later."

"Yeah, maybe later we can really spend some time together," he started and gave her hand a gentle squeeze, "y'know, just us."

"Sure," she said before she even knew she did, before she realized what he meant.

Oh.

"You coming, Em?" came Allison Alden's call over her shoulder.

Emily shot Roger a knowing smile and rushed over to where they were waiting for her.

She walked slowly behind Dumbledore and Allison as they headed to the front grounds to greet the Beauxbatons guests, and as she started to rehearse what she'd say upon meeting them, she realized just how rusty her French was.

"Nous sommes… hereux?" she started under her breath as she fiddled with the lining of her pockets. "Avoir — no — vous avoir ici? Shoot."

From in front of her, Allison asked aloud, "You do know French, right?"

"I do," Emily argued. "Well, I did…"

"So, what then, did you forget?" Allison chucked as she glanced back to Emily. "Because you sound like you're trying to speak Gobbledegook."

Bloody hell…

Emily groaned and practiced again, more focused, more deliberate this time, and while it was still broken French, it was arguably better. But it still wasn't right.

"At least that sounded remotely French. I still have no idea what you're trying to say, but…" As they continued walking, Allison wrapped her braided black hair — all thirty metres of it, it seemed — into a tight bun at the top of her head. Although she was keeping the conversation light, Emily knew that the tight bun was a sign that things were serious — this was more important than anyone let on.

And that, of course, only served to make Emily more anxious.

"Relax," Allison said, looking over at her with a small smile, and Emily let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. "You know this is just Dumbledore courting you for Head Girl next term."

Her? Head Girl? Surely that was a mistake, though she felt that about the last few years too — that her name was accidentally submitted instead of Violet, who would have made much more sense as a prefect. Emily tripped into trouble at every turn; she was a magnet for it, and her bad reputation with Severus, the detentions, points deductions, general punishments, didn't help the matter. She couldn't figure out what possessed Flitwick to recommend her name, much less what possessed Dumbledore to accept it…

"Already? We're barely started with this term!"

She was desperate to ask Allison how she knew, what she had heard.

"He moves fast, Dumbledore," Allison said with a shrug. She walked in long strides. "Had me shadowing Penny this time last year too."

Penelope Clearwater, Allison Alden, and then her? That couldn't be right.

"Three Ravenclaws in a row, though?" she asked once the realization caught her, and she sped her pace to catch up.

"It's not about house; it's about the person. So be on your best behaviour this term, Emmy." Allison paused before swinging her arm over Emily's shoulder with a slight 'thud.' She shot her a half-playful, half-serious smile. "No trouble."

"No trouble," Emily repeated, her voice shaky. She was not convinced.

Easier said than done.

They stood at the Entrance Hall once they caught up to Dumbledore and awaited the Beauxbatons carriage, and when it approached, pulled through the sky by a fantastical pair of Pegasus, Dumbledore looked both calm and giddy in the same. The carriage landed more haphazard than intended, surely, skidding through the grass and mud in the courtyard as it slowed to a stop.

The students filtered out, one by one, in an almost endless line, the last of whom was followed by a gargantuan woman with black bobbed-hair and gauche red lipstick, clad in a knee-length fur coat. She ducked her head when passing under the entryway and bent down to greet Dumbledore with a kiss on each cheek.

"A pleasure to see you again, Madame Maxime," he said, oblivious to the mark she had left on his face, and Maxime smiled through parted lips.

Emily thought Allison Alden was tall, but next to Madame Maxime, she looked to be as small as Professor Flitwick — and Flitwick himself was the mouse beneath Maxime's elephant feet. The woman cast a shadow over the Entrance Hall and her whole student body.

Dumbledore stopped and looked to Emily, who took it as her cue to begin, looking up at the Beauxbatons headmistress.

"Bonjour et bienvenue!" she said, grateful for her strong start. "Nous sommes, uh, hereux de vous avoir ici pour le, um, Triwizard Tournament…?" Was there a translation for that? She tried not to think too hard on it as she continued, "Fais comes chez vous!"

When she finished, she tried her hardest not to grimace. Her pronunciation was a wreck, and she still couldn't be completely sure that she was even saying anything that made sense.

"Nicely done," Dumbledore whispered with a gentle pat on her back.

A smile parted Madame Maxime's deep red lips. "Ah, Albus! You did not tell me you had such lovely students." She turned to glance down at Emily. "Merci, mon cher."

"Yes, Miss Prince here is a prefect for Ravenclaw house and a shining example of our Hogwarts best."

Emily tried not to blush at the compliment.

"Then she will be entering to compete, no?" asked Maxime.

"Me?" Emily shook her head. "Oh, no. I'm too young."

"Quelle dommage…" Maxime turned to Allison with a new, slightly smug look coating her painted lips. "Et toi?"

"Miss Alden is our Head Girl, and I've already encouraged her to enter," said Dumbledore, breaking effortlessly into the conversation once again. "I imagine she'd be worthy competition for any Beauxbatons champion."

Allison nodded with a proud grin, and Maxime huffed in response. "We shall see."

Dumbledore walked the Beauxbatons students and Madame Maxime to the Great Hall doors and ushered Allison and Emily back inside before he scurried over to greet Durmstrang school, which arrived shortly afterwards, a full-size sailing ship rising from the centre of the Black Lake. Emily could only imagine how little the Giant Squid enjoyed the intrusion.

The two girls found seats at the Ravenclaw table before the visiting students made their grand entrance. The entirety of Hogwarts sat in the Great Hall waiting with baited breath for their arrival. Then, suddenly, the doors blew open, almost as if by a gentle breeze, and the Beauxbatons students were officially introduced. They fluttered into the Great Hall, each step part of an elaborate, beautiful dance. They were captivating to watch.

And evidently, all the Hogwarts boys agreed, each one practically drooling over the Beauxbatons girls as they flitted past. Emily even caught Roger staring a bit too intently as they passed him, and he embarrassedly mouthed an apology. There was no denying that the girls were beautiful — one could go so far as to call them gorgeous and not be accused of exaggeration — and even the boys had faces that looked chiselled from marble. They all wore pale blue blazers, tailored perfectly to sit against graceful curves, the colour a perfect contrast to every skin tone represented in the group. Each student moved with a refined finesse until they reached the Ravenclaw table. There, they stopped and stood perfectly straight, their hands neatly folded behind their backs as they awaited their headmistress.

Madame Maxime's arrival brought the Hogwarts students from awe to amazement. She was taller even than Hagrid, the largest man many of them had ever seen. She had to duck through the doorway, not for one moment losing an ounce of grace as she made her way through the Great Hall. Where the Hogwarts students — and the Gryffindors, in particular — had cheered and whistled for the Beauxbatons girls, they had gone silent now, and the only sound they could hear was Maxime's heeled shoes echoing against the stone.

Contrasting Beauxbatons, the Durmstrang students seemed to be made entirely of muscle, etched with hard lines as opposed to delicate curves. Each step they took was a march in perfect unison as their matching red overcoats bristled behind them. Their headmaster was a living shadow as he skulked in behind his students, clad in silver furs from head to toe. He was accompanied by a student, broad-shouldered and stocky, and when they stepped into the Great Hall, everyone got a better look at them — and at the student, in particular: professional Quidditch seeker, Victor Krum.

Emily, of course, had no idea who Victor Krum was, but she seemed in the minority. Even Allison was staring goo-goo-eyed at Krum as he passed through the hall.

Murmurs and whispers filled the Great Hall until Professor Dumbledore stood at his podium, his face softened with a grin as he made his announcement. "The Triwizard Tournament is about to start."

As the students waited with baited breath in eager anticipation, Dumbledore introduced the additional guests who were seated at the faculty table at the front of the room — Ludo Bagman and Bartemius Crouch, Senior from the Ministry. He then described the tasks in vague detail, explained how a champion would be determined to win. Then he ushered in a large casket encrusted with jewels. At its introduction, the room went silent.

"I have been intentionally vague about the selection process for champions. Although the Tournament will be judged by Mister Crouch, Mr. Bagman, and the Heads of Schools, we will play no part in determining which champions will compete. The three champions will be chosen by an impartial selector — the Goblet of Fire."

With a wave of his wand, the casket revealed a tall wooden cup filled with dancing purple-and-blue flames, and the entire room erupted in amazing oohs and ahs.

"Eligible students will have twenty-four hours to enter themselves for consideration. Each must simply write his or her name and school onto a piece of paper and drop it into the goblet, which will reside in the Entrance Hall, accessible to everyone for entry. And tomorrow night, Halloween, it will identify the students it deems worthy to champion each school."

Dumbledore, almost sensing the wide-eye gazes at the goblet from the students, continued to explain his precautionary measures against underage entrants: an age line. Emily glanced at the Gryffindor table to see Fred and George whispering excitedly to each other.

Like any old ageing potion would be enough… though Fred and George wouldn't have brewed just any old ageing potion, she was sure.

When he spoke again, the excitement in Dumbledore's face was gone, and he looked suddenly solemn. "I must impress upon all aspiring champions that this Tournament is not to be entered lightly, as once a student has been chosen to participate, he or she must compete to the very end. Therefore, I hope that each student is sure of his or her decision prior to submitting an entry."

Emily felt her stomach sink. When the Tournament was first introduced, Dumbledore had mentioned a death toll, but Emily had been sure that he was exaggerating. Or perhaps she had simply hoped that he was. But as he repeated the sentiment in front of all three schools, it felt much more real, much more dangerous and deadly than it was in theory. She couldn't remember seeing Dumbledore so serious…

"But for now, it is time for bed." Dumbledore set a weak smile upon his face. "Best of luck to all, and I will see you again tomorrow evening!"

The prefects began to gather the students to return to their downs while the other schools' students continued in the other direction, but Roger was distracted by the new visitors. Emily tapped him on the arm.

"You coming?"

When he turned to her, it was like snapping out of a trance. "Duncan, Ced, and I were going to go meet the other schools real quick. Maybe we can hang out later?"

Emily shrugged in defeat, and he kissed her on the forehead before running off with the others.

She went to head back with the rest when she caught sight of two tall, red-haired boys slipping away towards the staircase opposite Gryffindor tower. Emily snuck behind them, far enough that she was just a shadow. She knew where they were going, and she knew why. It was all for the stupid Tournament — the gold, the glory.

But that didn't mean she'd let it happen without one last effort to stop it.

They were giddy with excitement, crouched over their cauldron, now fully brewed and primed for consumption. George pulled three miniature flasks from the pocket of his robes, and Fred spooned a small amount of the ageing potion into each.

"That extra one for me?" she asked, and the boys nearly jumped from their skin. George seemed relieved once he realized it was her. Fred was less so.

He said, "Don't be stupid. You wouldn't be caught dead entering your name."

"No, you're right. But neither should you."

"But we want to enter, Em," George said, holding two of the vials in his hand. "We know what we're doing."

"Don't need your approval either," Fred said, his voice a deep growl.

"I — I just don't want anything to happen to you," she said, focusing her eyes on his, and then turned to George, "to either of you."

Fred scoffed. "Surprised you're not giving us that haughty age-line, breaking-the-rules nonsense…"

"Well there is and you are," she started and took a deep breath, "but I thought the argument that I don't want you dead would be more compelling."

George looked briefly sympathetic, but Fred's face remained hardened.

"Bet you won't put up this much fuss when Davies enters. 'Fraid of a little friendly competition?"

"It has nothing to do with that." The insinuation, in itself, was insulting. It didn't occur to her that Roger would enter at all.

"Cut the prefect bollocks," said Fred with a flippant wave of his hand.

"It's not bollocks," she snapped, her eyes brimming with tears. "And I'm not saying it as a prefect. I don't give a damn about the trouble, but you could die, either of you… and then what?" When neither responded, she let out a resigned sigh. "Please just sleep on it, okay?"

"Why?" George asked, turning to face her. Fred put out the flame beneath their cauldron.

"Because I'm your friend, and I'm asking you to." She clenched the sleeve of her robes in her hands, rubbed the fabric between her fingers.

Fred scoffed and jumped up. "You know bloody well that excuse doesn't work for everything."

Emily took a small step backwards so that he wasn't looming over her and said, "I can't see how this is even remotely similar."

"Oh, really?" Fred took another step toward her.

"…Am I missing something?" George asked from the floor. He didn't move into the line of fire between them.

"'Don't get yourself killed' is hardly equivalent to 'stop spending time with your boyfriend because it offends my precious sensibilities'."

George piped up with a perceptive, "Oh."

They'd had this same argument several times before, and it always came back to this, to Roger and how much they disliked him. She had long stopped trying to defend him; it was a waste of her breath.

"You're so thick," Fred snapped beneath the furrow of his brow.

"And you're selfish." She went to turn on her heel, but he stepped in front of her.

"No. You're being unfair."

Emily went to push him away. "Oh, shove off."

"Now, now," George said as he dove to stand between them, "let's not do this here…"

There was a moment of quiet, where all Emily could hear was her pulse and her ragged breathing, until she growled, "Forget it. If you want to throw everything away and play this stupid game, fine. Your choice." She turned to leave but looked back at them one more time with softened features, and she clenched her jaw before speaking again, "Just… be safe."

And with that she headed back to the Ravenclaw common room. With each step, she grumbled an additional insult or curse, punctuated with a huff.

Arrogant

Pig-headed

Self-centred

Moronic

Git!

Once she got to the top of the staircase, and well out of earshot, she let out a deafening groan and fell back against the wall. A bout of unexpected tears washed over her as she slid to the floor, pulling her legs to her chest. They didn't listen; they never listened, even when it was important, even when it was life or death. They could get hurt, they could get themselves killed, and what would she do then? Even in their worst fight, which she could hardly remember before this one, she couldn't bring herself to imagine going without them, and that, if only they would understand, was the reason she argued so adamantly against the Tournament, though she knew it was ultimately a waste of her breath and her time. But what if Fred and George did enter, as she knew they would, and what if they were chosen to compete, and what if something happened to them in the competition? What more could she do? She wracked her brain for some alternative that she hadn't yet considered.

But there was none. She had to resign herself to that fact. All she could do was cross her fingers and hope that the goblet would pick someone, anyone, else.

After a while, once her body finished shaking against the tears, once she had exhausted herself, she relaxed against the stone wall with a few deep breaths, felt her heart slow, let her hands go steady — and in all the craziness she somehow found a moment of peace in the corner stairwell before she continued off to Ravenclaw tower.

At least time with Roger would be a welcome distraction. It was nice to know she was wanted, appreciated, respected. And the prospect of a little fun, she remembered, was a nice bonus.

She found a seat in the now-empty common room in front of the fireplace and waited. For what felt like forever, she stayed, sitting cross-legged on the plush armchair and trying not to wonder how much time had actually passed. Her body was indented in the plush fabric as she shuffled into a different spot. Nothing was comfortable.

So she paced with deep breaths, like moving would help the time pass quicker, like it would make the silence less blaring in her ears.

There was not a sound coming from the corridors outside nor from the stairwell below. The common room itself had been still since she stepped inside.

At some point, she had to admit that he wasn't coming.

When she walked up to the girls' dorms, everyone was asleep already, so she skulked to her four-poster, exchanging her robes for pyjamas once she drew the quarters closed. Though she tried to fall asleep, and though she was exhausted, she couldn't stop thinking about Roger — where he was and why he didn't come back. He was never one to blow off a date, no matter how informal. And he had been the one to bring it up; he was the one who seemed to want it. It was hard not to stew on the varied possibilities, hard not to feel hurt and embarrassed that she had wasted so much time waiting.

She lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling for what felt like hours, still hoping that she might hear him enter the common room below, until her eyes grew heavy and closed, and her laboured breaths lulled her to sleep.

Hogwarts was abuzz the next morning with the chatter about the Tournament, with each student of age rushing to enter. A long line of seventh years and Durmstrang students snaked around the Entrance Hall, and Emily had to push through to get to breakfast.

Roger saw Emily before she saw him and was quick to call her over.

"Em! There you are," he said with a rather unsettling grin as if he was looking past her rather than at her at all. He scooted over to make a seat for her near him, but she didn't take it.

With her arms folded against her chest, she demanded, "What happened to you last night?"

He didn't even flinch at her tone, accusatory though it was, just replied, "Oh, yeah, I'm sorry about that."

She was careful to note that it wasn't an answer. In fact, it barely even felt like an apology.

In the time it took for her to think up a response, he continued, "I've been waiting for you."

"For me?" she asked, still unsatisfied as she took the seat and shoved a spoonful of porridge into her mouth. "For what?"

Roger let out a chuckle and draped his arm over her shoulders, pulling her into a tight side-hug. "I couldn't rightly enter the Tournament without my number one fan, could I?"

Emily tried not to cringe at the sentiment, forcing a smile as she shovelled more food down her throat.

Roger scribbled his name in near-illegible chicken scratch on a torn shred of parchment and thrust himself up from his seat at the Ravenclaw table, grabbing Emily by the arm alongside him. "C'mon; I want to do it now."

She heard her spoon clang against her half-eaten bowl as she begrudgingly accompanied Roger to the Entrance Hall. As they passed a group of Beauxbatons girls, he puffed his chest out, slowing his pace until they passed.

He made a show of it, the walk to the goblet, passing through Dumbledore's age line, and tossing his name inside, each step there and back taken with deliberate, measured confidence. Emily was, admittedly, unimpressed.

"You know," he said to her once he had finished, "it's a real shame you can't enter."

Emily rolled her eyes. "Yeah, a real shame… I'm so devastated to avoid a chance for near-death."

"You all right?"

"I'm fine," she said, her voice a grumble.

He took her hand in his and patted it with his other as he beamed. "It's not too bad, though, Em; you can still root for me."

Emily forced a smile to match. "Yeah…"

"Oh, c'mon, are you still mad that I was out?" he asked with a scoff. His eyes glanced briefly over her face but didn't linger. "I really am sorry."

She pursed her lips together and let a deep breath roll from her tongue. What good would it do to still stew on it? "Just forget it."

They re-entered the Great Hall, and Emily rushed back to finish her breakfast before the dishes cleared themselves. Roger shot her a quick and impersonal 'bye' before disappearing off again. She had almost missed him leaving.

Emily sat at the table in silent dejection, stirring the porridge in her bowl. Her stomach sank with each attempted spoonful, and she finally pushed it away, watching as the bowl and its contents disappeared from the table.

She was sure she'd regret that decision by lunchtime.

When breakfast was almost over and the Great Hall finally cleared out, the twins ran into the Entrance Hall followed by a chorus of rapturous applause. In their hands were the vials of ageing potion they had saved from last night. Lee trailed behind them with the third one looking less enthusiastic about the plan.

But the twins were eager. They grinned at each other and passed knowing nods before downing the potion.

So far, all was well.

Emily leaned against the wall and watched intently, more so than she wanted to, as they hopped across the age line with no notable consequence. It at first seemed like it could sense their trick, but it remained steady.

Then, they threw their names in, and when the goblet's fire sucked them up, the two gave each other congratulatory praises. They were so caught up in the moment that they didn't notice the fire's newfound scarlet glow, but Emily saw it.

There was no time to say anything before the fire shot out, sending their names out with it, and knocked them sideways onto the ground. When they stood up, their skin was wrinkled, their bodies frail, and their red hair replaced with grey and a matching beard — a message to all others that the age line was not to be fooled.

Lee quickly shoved his vial back into his pocket and rushed over to help the twins who were now fighting over whose fault the failure had been. The spectacle entertained the students at first, but they grew silent once other students began to enter their names. The boys, meanwhile, were escorted to the hospital wing.

The hospital wing was sterile and stunk of medicated herbs and potions when Emily walked in. She passed Sarah Fawcett and a Hufflepuff boy named Summers at the beds closest to the door. The boys were set next to each other on hospice beds, moaning and groaning and still shooting off insults to each other. As Emily approached, Fred and George were both still grumbling like old men, but their wrinkles had faded, their hair returned to its standard colour, the whiskers nearly gone.

"Ah, here comes the sentient 'I told you so,'" said Fred as he sat himself up against his pillow.

"Actually," she said, "I'm here to apologize."

Fred's eyes didn't move from her face. "Apologize? You?"

"I do that sometimes, yeah."

"Apologize for what?" asked George.

"For being horribly unsupportive." She took a calming breath and sat in the chair between their beds and looked from one to the other. She continued with charming facetiousness, "Can you find it in your gracious hearts to forgive me?"

"You're really laying it on thick, eh?"

"Of course she's sorry now, George," Fred said, crossing his arms. "She's got what she wanted."

Emily clenched her jaw, flexed the muscle before finally replying, "What's that?"

"We can't enter the Tournament."

There was a moment of silence that intercepted when Emily couldn't figure out what to say. But Madam Pomfrey appeared over her shoulder and practically pushing the three of them out the door, saying, "I've got plenty else to worry about with this ageing potion nonsense; you lot are free to go."

Though it was a Monday, classes had been cancelled for the day, so there was nowhere anyone needed to be. It was too chilly to spend time outside, and there were so many students in the castle that each common area felt too claustrophobic, so there was little to do but wander. With each step the twins moaned and whinged, complaining that the potion they'd been given to combat the age line's effects effectively emptied out their stomachs. Emily's grumbled in unison to remind her that no, two spoonfuls of porridge did not a sufficient breakfast make.

With an impish half-smile, she got an idea — brilliant, if she did say so herself. She turned to the boys, her boys, and offered, "How would you feel about an apology pie?"

And as she snuck down to the kitchens, with the twins following close behind, Fred smiled for what seemed like the first time in a while. "You know, Princey, I think we can forgive you after all…"

Later that night, the three schools gathered again in front of the goblet, and Dumbledore spoke briefly about the Tournament once more before dimming the lights and awaiting the goblet's choices.

It started with Durmstrang's Victor Krum, the obvious choice. The boy was built like a castle, himself, with the muscle and face of a professional Quidditch player.

The cup then spat out a lace doily, on which was written the name of the Beauxbatons champion — Fleur Delacour. She stood up, and Emily recognized her from the night before, from where she stood at Madame Maxime's side. She was tall and slender, her face contoured with a subtle rouge. Her platinum blonde hair was pulled up in a ponytail, the sleek locks cascading down the curvature of her back. And then she smiled, a bright white, like pearls arranged in a perfect line.

Roger let out a cheering whistle in harmony with several others before she sat back down.

When it came time to choose for Hogwarts, Roger took Emily's hand in his own, squeezed it tight, and waited rather impatiently. He sat perfectly still and silent, like a statue holding its breath.

The entire hall was quiet until the goblet's fire hissed and spat out its third and final name.

"Cedric Diggory," Dumbledore announced, and Cedric jumped up from his seat, looking almost shocked. It took a moment for disappointment to pass amongst the remaining students before they could cheer for him as well.

He was as good a choice as any, Emily thought. And better him than Fred or George — or Roger, for that matter. At least he stood half a chance…

Dumbledore began his closing marks, congratulating the champions and encouraging fair and friendly competition throughout the Tournament, when the goblet grew a deep purple, its flames roaring above its rim. The room went silent as a single torn parchment fluttered down into Dumbledore's hand, and he announced a fourth champion:

"Harry Potter."
♠ ♠ ♠
So sorry for the lack of updates! Shortly after the last chapter went up, my fiancé and I chose a wedding date, so I've been planning like a madwoman. I hope the wait for new chapters won't be this long ever again. Let me know what you think so far!