𝐁𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞 𝐀𝐦𝐞 | 𝐇.𝐏.

𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝟒 - 𝟑

"Sit down! Sit down, please," Dumbledore was yelling out to the whole of the Great Hall. "Now is the moment you've all been waiting for. The champion selection."

I looked to Potter excitedly. "I hope it's Angelina," I whispered.

"Me too. Or at least a Gryffindor," he responded.

Dumbledore outstretched his hand, sweeping it through the air. The scones hanging from the wall dimmed, until their flames were nearly extinct. He stepped slowly up to the goblet. The fire inside turned bright red, and a slightly burnt piece of parchment flew out. Dumbledore caught it between his fingers.

"The Durmstrang Champion," he began, "is Viktor Krum!"

The Durmstrang students cheered and clapped him on the back as he took his slip from Dumbledore and walked past the teacher's table into a closed-off room.

A moment later, the goblet glowed red again. Another smokey name appeared.

"The champion of Beauxbatons... is Fleur Delacour!"

Most of the girls applauded politely, but some burst out into tears and buried their dainty white faces in their hands, wailing in despair. Fleur came forward, shook hands with Dumbledore, and walked through the same door Krum had.

The goblet turned red one last time, and a name came out one last time. I held my breath.

"The Hogwarts champion... Cedric Diggory!" 

All the Hufflepuffs stood, cheering the loudest and looking extremely proud. Glory rarely came to the Hufflepuff house, and when it did it was cherished greatly. I clapped along with everyone else, only slightly disappointed. 

"Excellent!" Dumbledore said, throwing out his arms. "We now have our three champions. But in the end, only one will go down in history. Only one will hoist this chalice of champions, this vessel of victory. The Triwizard Cup!" 

And he pointed to a cloth-concealed shape that Mr. Crouch had brought out. The cover was ripped away, revealing a gleaming trophy made of crystal and glass, glinting in the faint light. It was absolutely gorgeous.

Suddenly, Snape took a step forward. I looked to the goblet again. The flame was twisting in all directions, much like it had when it had given Fred and George their beards. The fire turned red, brighter than ever. Everyone gasped.

Dumbledore read the fourth piece of parchment that had fallen swiftly into his hand.

"Harry Potter," he muttered.

I looked to Potter in astonishment and grabbed his arm. 

"No..." I mummered.

"Harry Potter?" Dumbledore said again, louder, looking around the hall for him. When Potter didn't move, Dumbledore yelled his name again.

"For goodness sake, Harry," Hermione whispered, shaking him up out of his seat and pushing him forwards. He came up slowly, taking his name from Dumbledore's furious figure. He cautiously walked past all the professors, McGonagall patting his shoulder reassuringly.

"He's a cheat!" A boy shouted.

"He's not even seventeen yet," another added angrily.

Once he had disappeared through the door with the rest of the champions, Dumbledore quickly went up to Snape. After whispering with him for a moment they passed through the door, most of the teacher body following after them. 

The entire hall broke into confused and outraged conversation. Weasley looked hurt, hiding it with anger. Hermione looked just as shocked as I felt, and Fred and George looked simply jealous. The Hufflepuffs were protesting on about how the Gryffindors always took their spotlight, and there was arguing all around. It was pandemonium.

Only McGonagall emerged from the room, twenty minutes later, looking flustered and worried sick. 

"Everyone, back to their dormitories at once," she instructed. "Your Prefects are in charge. Go, quickly."

No one dared disobey her with her crooked hat, which was always meticulously positioned, and falling apart bun, which never had a hair out of place. When we got back to the common room, Percy was so distracted that he didn't mind us waiting for Potter to come back before going to our dorms.

Well, Hermione and I decided to wait for him. Weasley went straight to bed with no explanation but an irritated expression on his face.   

We must have sat around waiting for an hour before Potter stumbled through the portrait hole, rubbing his face tiredly. 

I jumped up. "What happened? Are you alright?"

"I'm a Triwizard Champion," he said, looking down at his feet.

"Oh, Harry," Hermione sighed, coming forward and rubbing his arm sympathetically.

"Where's Ron?" He asked, looking around.

"He went straight upstairs," I answered. Then more quietly, "I think he's cross with you. He thinks that you found a way to put your name in the goblet without telling him."

"Is he mad?" Potter exclaimed.

"I know, Harry," Hermione said. "But can't you see? He's jealous of you."

"Why in the world-" he began.

"I know it sounds crazy to you," she continued, "but he's always felt second-best to you. Anyone would. You're Harry Potter. He feels like he's only ever been seen as your best friend, and nothing more."

"That's absurd," Potter scoffed. 

"But it's true," I said softly. "Just talk to him, alright?"

"Alright," he sighed. "In the morning. I feel absolutely terrible."

I felt worse than terrible. I felt like this year was already doomed for The Boy Who Lived.

True to his word, Potter spoke to Weasley in the morning. The second he walked down into the common room, determinately ignoring us, I waved him over.

"You better come over here, Weasley," I said loudly. He reluctantly shuffled towards us, not looking anyone in the eye.

"How did you do it?" Weasley finally asked. Potter only looked at him, confusion etched onto his features. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. Might have let your best friend know, though."

"Let you know what?" Potter asked, annoyed.

"You know bloody well what," he replied. 

"I didn't asked for this to happen, Ron. Okay?"

Now Weasley wouldn't respond.

"You're being stupid," Potter said, about to turn away.

"Yeah that's me," Weasley shot back. "Ron Weasley, Harry Potter's stupid friend."

Potter walked up to him until their toes were touching. "I didn't put my name in that cup," Potter spoke angrily. "I don't want eternal glory. I just want to be..." he sighed. "Look, I don't know what happened last night, and I don't know why. It just did, okay?"

Weasley rolled his eyes and walked away. "Piss off," he mumbled under his breath, but Potter caught it. He began to go after him, but I caught his arm. 

"Leave it," I advised quietly. Hermione gave look to me that told me to stay with Potter, and she left to go follow Weasley. 

"What's wrong with him?" Potter inquired furiously.

"I'm shocked you've just now realized there's something wrong with him after four years of being best friends," I replied. When that didn't make him laugh, I tried a different approach.

"What if we went and did something fun? Oh, I have the perfect idea. Shall we study for the first test of the term?" I asked in mock cheerfulness.

"Isn't that something you'd want to do with Hermione?" Potter responded awkwardly.

"Don't be silly," I said. "I hate studying with Hermione. She'll scold me if a corner of my parchment is on her side of the table, and she's insufferable because she always knows more than I do. Let's go." And I basically pulled him out the portrait hole, nearly forgetting to actually grab our books on the way out.

Once we got there and found a table, I pulled out some Charms work. Potter took out the same assignment, but seemed very fidgety and nervous, like he was afraid to breath too loudly in my presence. After about twenty minutes, when I had been listening to Potter tap his quill on the edge of the table for so long that I thought I was going to have a psychotic episode, I slammed my book shut.

"You know what you need, Potter?" I asked.

"What do I need, Alexandra?" He replied tonelessly.

"A good Quidditch game," I answered. "One on one? You already know you're going to win. Just for fun?"

After a moment's hesitation, he gave in. "Alright," he sighed, but already looked happier at the prospect.

We reached the pitch, and I pulled one of the school's spare brooms out of the nearby shed. 

"I feel as though you have multiple unfair advantages," I complained, comparing my old Shooting Star to his brand new, top-of-the-line Firebolt that Draco liked to pretend he wasn't terribly envious of. I was also considering the fact that Potter had much more natural talent than me in the first place.

Still, we passed the ball back and forth to each other for a couple of hours, taking turns guarding and trying to score. Potter definitely let me have some shots, but I took them as victories in my book just the same.

In the end, Potter won, which was inevitable, but I didn't care. I had enjoyed myself so much that the sting of loosing, which I despised, wasn't so strong. 

As we walked back through the school, laughing and joking, I felt proud of myself. Potter looked clear-headed and much more content with his mind off of Weasley. The only other person that could ruin the moment was Draco. And so, of course, it was Draco who came from the opposite direction, alone for once.

"Potter," he said cooly. "Where's the Mudblood and the Weasel?"

"Not sure, Malfoy? Why so concerned?" He replied defensively. 

"Just curious as to who my dear sister spends her time with privately," Draco answered. "I have to say, I'm surprised. You could do so much better," he said sympathetically, looking at me with what I hoped was only a protective glint in his eyes.

"Really? Who would you have paired me with? Nott?" I asked sarcastically. "I'm sure father would love that. Another one of his Death Eater friend's obnoxious sons. What a lovely way to create family ties."

Draco ignored my little comment and stepped up to Potter menacingly. I was pleased to see Potter standing his ground.

"You stay away from my sister, you hear?" Draco asked menacingly, poking a finger at Potter's chest.

"Sure, Malfoy," Potter sighed. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm expected elsewhere."

Draco hummed suspiciously, but continued on just the same, with only a single threatening glance over his shoulder. 

"I'm sorry," I winced. "He think's that you... that we're..." I stumbled over my words.

"I kind of got the memo," Potter said, saved me from embarrassing myself further. 

"Right," I cleared my throat. I couldn't do anything with Potter without someone giving me a look, or voicing something entirely unnecessary. Sure, my friendship with him was confusing, but that didn't mean we were... together. The thought was laughable.

The next morning Potter tried to pretend that he didn't have an interview with the rest of the champions for the Daily Prophet, but it was useless. Weasley was on the other side of the table, and I knew he really hated all the attention. 

But still, he attempted to stall it by coming up to the Owlery with me. I needed to send a letter to my mother concerning my school robes, as they were getting too short around my ankles. But once we got up there, another owl came with a letter to him.

He unfolded it, and I read over his shoulder.

Harry, 

I couldn't risk sending Hedwig. Ever since the World Cup, the Ministry's been intercepting more and more owls, and she's too easily recognized. 

We need to talk, Harry, face to face. Meet me in the Gryffindor common room at one o'clock this Saturday night. 

Make sure you're not around anyone that wouldn't be pleased to see me.

-Snuffles

PS. The bird bites.

The owl bit my finger, which happened to be hanging by its beak.

Later that week I slipped out of my dorm, assuming that it had to be one o'clock by now, like Sirius had suggested. I had no idea how he was going to speak to us, but I knew that he had found a way to get into the castle once last year, even with the added security of dementors. He could do it again.

As I padded across the carpet, I bumped into someone in the dark.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," I gasped. Then I squinted. "Potter?"

"Alexandra?"

"Oh, thank Merlin," I breathed out a sigh of relief. "I really wasn't in the mood to explain why I was creeping around the common room in the dark."

"Yeah, me neither," he said as my eyes adjusted to the light. Suddenly, I felt slightly uncomfortable with our current situation. Potter and I were alone, in the dark, standing only in our pajamas and maybe a little closer than necessary. 

"How do you reckon Sirius is going to get in here?" I asked to break the stifling silence.

"I dunno..." Potter trailed off. "I just hope it's not anything too risky."

I flopped down on the nearest armchair and put my head in my hands, eyelids fluttering. Honestly, why could Sirius only speak to us at this outrageous time of night? At least let me have some toast first.

"Hey, Alexandra?" Potter suddenly asked.

"Hmm," I hummed, half asleep.

"You know what Draco said that day when we were coming back from the Quidditch pitch?" He began nervously. I opened my eyes all the way at this.

"Yeah..." Then I jumped up. "Potter, the fire!" 

There, Sirius's head was emerging from the dwindling ashes. Potter jumped up as well, and we both kneeled in front of the grate. 

"Sirius! How-" Potter tried to ask, but Sirius cut him off.

"I don't have much time, so let me get straight to it," he said. "Did you or did you not put your name in the Goblet of Fire?"

"No!" Potter insisted. I shushed him.

"I had to ask," Sirius apologized. "Now, tell me about this dream of yours. You mentioned Wormtail and Voldemort. But who was the third man in the room?"

"I don't know," Potter answered.

"You didn't hear a name?"

"No. Voldemort was giving him a job to do. Something... important," Potter said carefully.

"And what was that?" Sirius urged.

"He wanted... me," Potter finally replied quietly. "I don't know why, but he was going to use this man to get to me."

"But... it was only a dream, right?" I said, looking for reassurance more than I was convincing anyone.

"Yes. It's just a dream," Sirius said, but he didn't sound very sure of himself. "Look, Harry. The Death Eaters at the World Cup. Your name rising from the cup. These are not just coincidences. Hogwarts isn't safe anymore."

"What are you saying?" Potter whispered.

"I'm saying the devils are inside the walls," Sirius said gravely. "Igor Karkaroff? He was a Death Eater. And no one, no one stops being a Death Eater. Then there's Barty Crouch. Heart of stone. Sent his own son to Azkaban." 

I hadn't even known about Crouch. A door opened behind us.

"Do you think one of them put my name in the goblet?" Potter questioned quickly. 

"I haven't a clue who put your name in that goblet, but whoever did is no friend to you," Sirius said. "People die in this tournament."

I swallowed hard. Potter shook his head and his breathing became uneven, like he was beginning to really panic for the first time since he become a champion.

"I'm not ready for this, Sirius," he said anxiously.

"You don't have a choice," was Sirius's helpful response. There were soft footsteps, and then a shadow came down the stairs leading to the boy's dormitory. 

"Someone's coming," I hissed.

"Keep his away from the worst, Alexandra," Sirius instructed hastily. There were many things that could mean, but I nodded and stood.

"Oh, it's you two," Weasley said. 

"What? Is there a problem here?" I asked, pushing past Potter. I was itching to pick at something with Weasley for being such a large and unnecessary part of Potter's stress.

"I just heard voices," Weasley replied defensively. "You're probably just helping him practice for his next interview," he scoffed, and walked back up the stairs. 

After sharing a look, Potter and I hurried back to the fireplace. But Sirius's head had disappeared, along with the last flickers of fire. I picked up a newspaper laying on the floor. The headline read "Teenage Tragedy," and a large image of Potter was placed underneath.

"What's that?" Potter asked curiously, but I hid it behind my back.

"Nothing," I said far to quickly.

"Let me see it."

"No," I said, backing up and holding it over my head. Unfortunately, Potter was just the right height taller than me where he could steal it. I winced as his eyes scanned the page, his face turning angrier and angrier the longer he read.

He crumpled it up suddenly and threw it into the fire. 

"I hate her," he said, evidently talking about Rita Skeeter, the author of the article. 

"I hate her too," I agreed. "And she's not even close to finished with you."