The cheers for Cedric still thundered through the stands when Bagman, flushed with excitement, raised his arms for quiet. His voice carried effortlessly over the noise.
"Now, ladies and gentlemen, the second champion to face the first task—representing Beauxbatons Academy of Magic—give a cheer for Fleur Delacour!"
The crowd responded instantly, their voices swelling into cries of her name. The students of Beauxbatons rose to their feet, waving their pale blue scarves, their cheers more melodic than the thunderous roars of Hogwarts but no less fierce in loyalty.
The flap of the champions' tent moved, and Fleur emerged. She carried herself with composure, her back straight, her wand already poised in her slender hand. Her silver-blonde hair shimmered in the thin November light, catching every glint like spun glass. From a distance, she looked every bit the picture of grace and confidence, though Eira knew better. She could see the tautness in Fleur's shoulders, the faint shadow of strain in her face.
Eira's heart clenched out of worry and nervousness. She forced herself to breathe evenly, drawing up Occlumency like a cloak over her emotions. The cool discipline of her mind slipped into place, steadying the storm inside her. Her pulse slowed, her expression smoothed, but her green eyes never wavered from Fleur. Every step, every flicker of her wand, she followed with the unblinking intensity of someone who would not allow herself to look away.
Beside her, Madame Maxime leaned forward, her vast figure tense. She whispered rapidly in French under her breath, words tumbling with emotion. "Allez, Fleur… courage, ma fille… tu peux le faire. Ne te blesse pas, je t'en prie… pas une égratignure." (Go, Fleur… courage, my girl… you can do it. Don't get hurt, please… not a scratch.)
The handlers released the dragon, a Common Welsh Green, smaller and less aggressive than Cedric's Short-Snout, but no less deadly. Its scales glistened dark emerald, and its wings unfolded with a leathery snap. A hiss escaped its jaws, curling with heat.
The crowd gasped as the Welsh Green lowered its head, eyes fixed on Fleur. It inhaled sharply, the glow of fire beginning to build in its throat.
Eira's fingers curled around the arm of her chair, her calm expression betraying nothing, but her mind was aflame. Every instinct in her screamed to move, to shield Fleur, to do anything but sit still. Her Occlumency held her in place, a barrier between her heart and her face, yet tension knotted deep in her chest.
Fleur raised her wand, her movements deliberate and graceful. Then, with a voice steady as music, she cast. A shimmering veil of silvery mist flowed from the tip, delicate at first, then spreading, curling, thickening into a charm that wove across the dragon's line of sight.
"Magnificent!" Bagman cried, almost leaping from his chair. "The Conjunctivitus Curse, ladies and gentlemen! A difficult and risky spell, and Miss Delacour has cast it flawlessly!"
The dragon roared, thrashing its head from side to side. Its eyes clouded over with a milky film, its movements suddenly disoriented, clumsy. It snapped at empty air, swinging its head wildly as it tried and failed to see clearly.
The crowd gasped, then cheered in awe, their voices rising higher and higher as Fleur moved. She walked with light steps, every inch the dancer, her wand still raised as she maintained the spell. She passed the edge of the dragon's line of fire with elegance, weaving through the rocks as though the arena floor itself bent to her path.
"Brilliantly executed!" Dumbledore remarked, his voice carrying quiet admiration. His eyes twinkled as they followed Fleur's progress. "The precision of her spellwork is remarkable. Few would have dared to rely on a Conjunctivitus Curse against such a beast. Her control is excellent."
Madame Maxime's large hands pressed together, her knuckles whitening. She whispered again with herself, faster this time. "Oui, Fleur, continue… doucement… prends l'œuf et pars… tu y es presque." (Yes, Fleur, go on… gently… take the egg and go… you are almost there.)
Barty Crouch's quill scratched briskly, his expression approving. "Efficient and elegant," he said crisply. "Very fine discipline. Very French like."
Karkaroff scoffed audibly, rolling his eyes. "Bah. Relying on one spell. It is nothing special. Any clever student could blind a beast. A fragile trick at best."
Eira's gaze flicked to him, cold and sharp. In her mind, a single thought seared with contempt. How dare this petty little man diminish her skill. How dare he reduce Fleur's elegance to 'nothing special.' She forced her Occlumency tighter, smoothing the fire from her expression, but a faint curl of disgust still lingered in her eyes.
Her reply was measured, soft enough to be polite, yet every syllable laced with venom. "Strange, Headmaster. You dismiss courage so easily, as though you have long practice finding ways to avoid recognizing it. Some men, after all, grow quite skilled at hiding their marks. Perhaps that is why true bravery seems so difficult for you to appreciate."
The words landed like a spark on dry tinder. A hush swept across the table. Karkaroff stiffened, color draining from his face as his eyes darted around, searching the others for judgment. Though she had not spoken the word, everyone present understood what she meant.
Karkaroff's eyes narrowed at her, his voice rising with a brittle edge. "What is your problem? Why are you so hostile toward me, from your words?"
Eira did not flinch. Her green eyes locked onto him, calm and unyielding, her tone deceptively smooth. "Well then, let me ask you instead, Headmaster. What is your problem? Why must you drench every judgment in such bitterness? Two champions risked their lives before our eyes, and instead of acknowledging their effort, you sneer and spit on it. That is not the voice of a headmaster, but the bark of a common bully. Or perhaps you simply enjoy sounding like a thug in fine robes."
A low murmur swept through the judges' seats and the audience nearest the dais.
Karkaroff's pale face flushed scarlet. His hands trembled on the arms of his chair as his composure began to crack. "I will not accept this… this disrespect from a little girl!" He spun toward Dumbledore, his robes flaring. "Dumbledore, I never thought I would be humiliated at Hogwarts by your own student. Is this what you teach them here? Insolence and scorn?"
Dumbledore, however, only folded his hands, his eyes twinkling with quiet amusement. His voice was mild, genial, almost playful. "Karkaroff, my friend, I am afraid you are mistaken. Miss White is not here as my student. She sits as a fellow judge, equal in voice to you or me. One thing more—she is also a Governor of Hogwarts. In that capacity, if I am not mistaken, she may be counted among my employers." He gave a small shrug, the faintest smile playing at his lips. "You see, I cannot very well tell my employer what she ought or ought not to say. Her opinion is her own, and I am, alas, obliged to respect it."
A ripple of soft laughter escaped Bagman, quickly smothered. Even Madame Maxime's lips twitched at the corners before she smoothed her expression.
Eira leaned back in her chair, offering Karkaroff a slow, mocking smile that cut deeper than any word.
Karkaroff leaned toward her, his voice a hoarse whisper meant only for her ears. "Outrageous."
Her smile only deepened. And in that moment, it was not he who held power, but the girl he had tried so desperately to belittle.
Down in the arena Fleur reached the nest. The dragon thrashed, its tail smashing against rocks, but its blinded eyes could not find her. With a single swift motion, she reached into the clutch, lifted the gleaming golden egg, and cradled it to her chest. Not a hair out of place, not a scratch upon her skin.
The crowd erupted. The sound was deafening, cheers ringing out from every corner of the stands. Beauxbatons students shouted her name, their melodic voices singing her triumph, while Hogwarts students clapped in admiration. Even some Durmstrang students gave reluctant applause, unable to deny what they had just witnessed.
Bagman's voice was jubilant, cracking with excitement. "She's done it, ladies and gentlemen! Fleur Delacour has the golden egg, and she is flawless—absolutely flawless! Not a scratch, not a stumble—what elegance, what precision!"
Eira's lips curved into the faintest of smiles, her chest swelling with something warm and fierce. Fleur was radiant in her victory, the egg gleaming in her arms, her poise never faltering. Eira's Occlumency cracked just slightly, enough that her eyes softened, glimmering with pride.
The dragon was subdued by the handlers once more, dragged back under heavy enchantments. Fleur crossed the arena floor with the golden egg and lifted it high to the crowd. Her hair shimmered like light itself, her face aglow with triumph.
Maxime let out a long, shaking breath. "Bravo, ma fille… magnifique…" she whispered, her eyes moist with pride.
Eira's hand, still curled on the armrest, finally relaxed. She exhaled quietly, steadying herself, though the warmth in her chest lingered like a secret flame.
Bagman turned once more to the judges. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, the judges' scores for Miss Delacour!"
Madame Maxime immediately raised her card: 10. Her eyes shone with pride, her smile fierce.
Karkaroff scowled, his movements deliberately slow as he lifted his card: 4.
The crowd booed, the sound sharp and angry. Maxime's head snapped toward him, her eyes flashing.
"Unfair!" she snapped, her French accent cutting her words like steel. "She finished flawlessly, without injury, with elegance and precision! How dare you belittle her performance! It is prejudice, nothing more!"
Karkaroff sneered but said nothing, though his smugness lingered like a foul odor.
Barty Crouch lifted his card crisply: 9.
Dumbledore followed, serene as ever, with 9.
Bagman, still grinning, raised his card high: 9.
Eira was last. She held her card with no hesitation, lifting it cleanly into the air. The bold number gleamed: 10.
The crowd roared their approval, cheers rising to the heavens. Fleur's face lit with a smile, brilliant and proud, her gaze flicking briefly toward the judges' box. Her eyes found Eira's for the briefest moment.
Eira, still calm and composed, allowed herself a tiny nod, a secret spark in her eyes that was meant for Fleur alone.
Bagman's voice boomed over the din. "That gives Miss Delacour a total of fifty-one points! An extraordinary performance from Beauxbatons' champion!"
The applause rolled on, joyous and unending. Fleur, flawless and victorious, raised the egg again, her figure shining like light against the tumult of sound.
Eira sat in silence, her heart swelling with pride and relief. She had never felt more prouder, and never more grateful to see her lover safe and unharmed.