The students listened attentively as Dumbledore spoke, though not all were entirely convinced. As the Headmaster finished, a ripple of murmurs and sighs spread through the hall.
"But we still haven't changed the rule!" one fifth-year called out, voice high with frustration. "There are plenty of us who'll turn seventeen in just a few months. Why can't we also compete in the Triwizard Tournament?"
A chorus of agreement rose, a mixture of groans and indignant whispers. Some sixth-years nodded furiously, while even a few older fifth-years exchanged mutinous glances.
"Exactly!" another voice piped up. "It's unfair—why are only these students allowed?"
Professor McGonagall's eyes, sharp as ever, swept over the hall. She leaned slightly forward, lips pressing into a thin line. Even the noisiest students froze mid-sentence under her stare.
"Sit down," she said crisply. The words were short, final, leaving no room for argument.
The majority of students obeyed immediately, though a few Gryffindor twins sat back with exaggerated sighs, muttering under their breath but unable to meet her gaze. Groans continued to echo from the younger years, and whispers of protest rippled through the hall, but McGonagall's glare kept them contained, a quiet authority that needed no further demonstration.
Even as some fifth-years muttered to one another, the hall settled, if only grudgingly, into an uneasy silence.
Dumbledore raised a hand for quiet. "The champions will be chosen by the impartial Goblet of Fire. It is a most ancient and powerful magical artifact, and tonight it will be placed in the Entrance Hall. Those who wish to compete may submit their names between now and tomorrow evening. The champions will be announced at tomorrow night's feast."
At this, Barty Crouch Sr. rose again. His voice, clipped and formal, carried none of Dumbledore's warmth.
"I must emphasize," he said sternly, "that the selection of champions is binding. Once the Goblet chooses, there is no turning back. A contract, unbreakable and absolute, will bind each champion to the Tournament. Those underage must not attempt to trick the Goblet. Any who do will face consequences."
His gaze swept the hall with such severity that several students shifted uncomfortably.
Then, with a solemn flick of his wand, Dumbledore summoned the Goblet of Fire.
A large, rough-hewn wooden cup appeared upon the staff table, flames flickering blue-white from its mouth. The fire danced high, casting eerie light across the hall, and every whisper died into silence.
"There," Dumbledore said, his eyes gleaming. "The Goblet will judge fairly. May the worthiest champions rise."
************
Dinner had already been well underway, the plates heaped with steaming lamb chops, tureens of soup, and baskets of warm, crusty bread. Conversation hummed through the hall, much of it revolving around the Triwizard Tournament and the new rules that had the students whispering in excitement—or frustration.
By the time Dumbledore rose to speak, the house-elves were already moving discreetly around the tables, clearing the remains of the main courses. Within moments, platters and dishes were replaced with an array of desserts—golden pastries, chocolate tarts, delicate cream puffs, and bowls of berries glazed with sugar and cream. The hall smelled of caramel and cinnamon, making the low murmur of complaints about rules fade into anticipatory excitement.
Eira leaned toward Gabrielle, who was practically bouncing in her seat at the sight of the desserts. "Try the tarte au chocolat," she suggested, lifting a small plate carefully. "And these cream puffs—these are made by the house-elves themselves, best in the hall."
Gabrielle's eyes lit up as Eira placed a little of each delicacy onto her plate. "Merci beaucoup," she said, her voice full of delight. "They smell amazing!"
Fleur's gaze flicked between her Sister's and the dessert table. "Gabrielle," she said sharply, though with a hint of playfulness, "don't eat too many sweets. I don't want to hear you crying later because your teeth—or your stomach—are complaining."
Gabrielle grinned mischievously, tilting her chin. "Don't worry, Fleur! I'm careful. Small portions," she said, scooping a bite of chocolate tart, "it'll be fine. I promise."
Eira chuckled quietly, watching the exchange, and helped Gabrielle with another tart, guiding the younger girl's hand to take just enough for a perfect bite. Gabrielle's eyes sparkled as she savored it, her tiny hands covered in a little sugar.
At the Slytherin table, Fleur remained notably composed, but Gabrielle could not resist her mischief.
"So, Eira," Gabrielle chirped, spooning the dessert 🍨 onto her plate, "you know Fleur never stopped talking about you all summer. She even—"
Fleur's hand shot out, clapping over her sister's mouth. "Gabrielle, mange," she commanded sharply.
Gabrielle wriggled free, grinning. "—she even practiced saying your name in her sleep! It was very romantic."
Eira allowed herself the smallest smile, though she focused her eyes on her lover's cute reaction. Fleur's glare at her sister could have frozen water.
Across the table, several Slytherin boys—including Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle—were staring openly at Fleur, elbowing one another. Draco, puffed up with self-importance, turned his attention back to Viktor Krum.
"My father knows all about Durmstrang," Draco was saying eagerly. "He nearly sent me there instead of Hogwarts. He's very close with some of your governors. He—"
Krum cut him off with a grunt, reaching instead for the ice cream. Draco flushed, but pressed on undeterred.
Eira, hiding her amusement, caught Madam Maxime's gaze from across the hall. The Beauxbâtons headmistress lifted her glass of wine in a graceful toast. Eira inclined her head and offered a soft, welcoming smile in return. Maxime's lips curved ever so slightly before she turned back to her colleagues.
By the time the last crumbs of dessert were disappearing from the plates, most students were leaning back in their chairs, thoroughly stuffed. The Hogwarts students, in particular, seemed enchanted—they had never experienced a feast quite like this. French pastries, delicate cream-filled éclairs, and colorful sugared fruits shared the table with specialties from other European countries: buttery German strudels, rich Belgian chocolates, and spiced Italian biscuits.
Excited murmurs had accompanied every new dish, students eagerly tasting unfamiliar flavors, comparing notes, and exchanging bites with neighbors. Some had taken tiny portions at first, unsure of what to expect, only to return again and again for seconds, thirds, and even fourths.
At last, the house-elves stepped back, satisfied with their work, as the students leaned back, sighing in contented exhaustion. The hall hummed with quiet chatter, soft laughter, and the occasional delighted exclamation over a favorite treat. The magical ceiling above reflected the warm, satisfied glow of the hall below, stars sparkling faintly as if to mirror the sparkling eyes of the young witches and wizards.
Dessert was done. Plates were cleared, crumbs swept away, and the hall settled into a comfortable lull, the lingering sweetness of the feast still heavy in the air, leaving students full, happy, and quietly buzzing with anticipation for what the night—and the Tournament—might bring.
At last, Dumbledore rose again.
"Tomorrow night," he announced, "the Goblet will deliver its judgment. Until then, I bid you all rest well—and remember, the eyes of history are upon you."
Chairs scraped back as students rose, buzzing with excitement. Fleur stood smoothly, tugging Gabrielle up with her. But before she turned to follow her schoolmates, she leaned down, her breath warm against Eira's ear.
Fleur leaned just close enough, her voice dropping to a whisper that Eira could barely catch. Whatever she said was vague, incomprehensible to anyone else, yet it was enough to send a warmth flooding to Eira's cheeks.
Then, almost before Eira could react, Fleur's lips brushed against the corner of hers—a fleeting, daring kiss, tantalizingly close to where she would have expected it fully—and withdrew with a sly, satisfied smile. Without another word, Fleur straightened and with Gabrielle giggling at her side, she swept away toward the Beauxbâtons carriage, and leaving Eira's heart racing and a faint blush coloring her face. in the echo of her words.