III. The Choice Three
“Mr Weasley?”
Tristan jumped in the Slytherin bench at the formal yet small voice. The whole table had also stilled. The little girl who had approached him seemed intimidated by the sudden hush, but deliberately squared her little shoulders (to Tristan’s amusement), and held out a tiny scroll.
“I’m Eleanor Anya Weasley, but you can call me Ellie, we’re cousins,” she lilted, her chin bobbing with every carefully enunciated syllable, her blonde ringlets bouncing on her head. She gulped and pushed the scroll to his hand until he took it. “Our other cousin Sirius James Potter asked me to give you this for welcome. It’s from all of us.”
She made a funny little half-curtsy and then skipped back to the Gryffindor table. Tristan looked there through his slight fringe, but no one was looking back at him, not even Sirius James, who must be the one now whispering with Ellie, who was now pouting, snatching another scroll and stomping to the Ravenclaw table, to one of the girls in powder blue seated there…
He blinked at that, and then it was too late, he had already unrolled the parchment in his hands. He barely had time to scan what was written on it, ‘Too many Weasleys, let’s make some diff’rencies!’ before neon blue smoke exploded in his face.
It didn’t even make him cough; in a blink, it was all gone. But then a similar explosion occurred in the Ravenclaw table, this one in glaring orange. And then several similar loud BOOF!’s occurred in quick succession in the Gryffindor table”olive green, sea-green, grass green, purple, lilac, mauve, hot pink, baby pink, carnation pink, it was like looking at a combusting spectrum...
“SIRIUS JAMES POTTER!”
The whole Great Hall swivelled to stare from the Gryffindor to the Ravenclaw table. The girl to whom Ellie had given the scroll was standing now, her long, thick hair a lurid orange; it looked like something sheared from a feline. The girl looked murderous. She pulled out her wand but was rendered sputtering as she saw the many-coloured heads in the Gryffindor table, shades of green, violet and pink.
As one, they all turned to Tristan next.
He grabbed a spoon and raised it to his forehead.
“Well, it matches your eyes,” said Master Chekhov dryly from the Head Table. He turned to Professor McGonagall, who was on her feet, glaring.
“Potter, what have you done to your cousins?”
“Juliet, please lower your wand, cherie,” said Madam Calasanz.
“Detention, Potter.”
“Juliet, ma chere, lower your wand.”
“Tonight, my office.”
“M’selle Weasley! Votre baton!”
“Sit down, Hogwarts Weasleys!”
“M’selle Weasley! Votre baton! Cette moment!”
Tristan watched in fascination as the white beam flew from Juliet’s wand tip straight to Sirius. For a moment, nothing happened, the whole Hall seemed to hold its collective breath. And then shiny whiskers sprouted under Sirius’s nose, three on each side sticking out in a straight line to his ears.
Madam Calasanz sank down on her seat, whether in dismay at her pupil or relief at the triumph, no one would know for sure. But even Professor McGonagall’s lips twitched. The students were all roaring with laughter. Sirius was unsuccessfully attempting to lose his whiskers (first, tugging on them, yelping, and then pointing his wand at them, but lowering it at someone’s holler of “Go on and risk Vanishing your nose or lips!”). Ellie was on the floor in spasms. Tristan gave his attention back to his mashed potatoes again, saw his blue hair reflected on his golden plate and failed to repress a snort of mirth.
***
“I have it timed, all right? Your crowning glories will return to normal right on the hour of the Choosing. That’s about fifty-three minutes away. Where’s your sportsmanship? I accepted not putting my name in; accept having your hair done in! Besides, it’s Halloween. Good look, eh?”
His cousins just scowled at him, Vi, Cleo and Olga positively wishing him death with the way they were glaring at him. All three of them had green locks in varying shades. The pinks and purples S.J had reserved for the boys. Art looked happy in his mauve.
“Can you do this shade, Ted?” he asked another seventh year beside him.
Ted Lupin scrunched his eyes and nose. A second later, his hair, which resembled Tristan’s only a second before, turned pale purple.
“Aww, mate!” Art said, looking pained. He threw a couch pillow at S.J, who ducked. It hit Holly instead. S.J cowered.
But uncharacteristically for her, Holly only blinked into the fire, took the pillow in her arms, and laid her head on it.
“You’ve been awfully, blessedly quiet all day. You having your time of the month or something?” S.J muttered, bumping her knee with his. She just squirmed away from him and transferred to an armchair, curling on it tightly like a cat, like Mackerel when nobody paid him attention or when he had tired of all the attention.
It must be her time of the month, all right, he thought, fingering his whiskers.
***
“Isn’t it time yet?”
“You have a watch, Jules, and they’ll ring a bell besides,” Marcia answered patiently for the nth time. “Your hair’s back to normal, by the way.”
Macky yowled just then, startling the two friends. Jules had squeezed his neck. “Sorry! Sorry, punkin!” Mackerel jumped off her lap in indignation and loped back inside the carriage.
“Let’s go inside, too, we still have forty-six minutes,” Marcia said, checking her watch. “And I don’t think Professor Hagrid would appreciate us sitting on his pumpkins.”
“Appreciate us what?”
Jules jumped up. Sure enough, the sturdy chair beneath her was not a chair at all, but a giant half-green, half-orange pumpkin. Marcia got to her feet shaking her head.
“You’re really scaring me. Should I ask for a Calming Draught for you? Or””
“I’ve gone mad, Marcia!” Jules moaned, clutching her friend’s arms. “I shouldn’t have put my name in! My mother would murder me! I disobeyed her and Dad! And what if I had to compete with one of my cousins? The family might be torn apart. What was I thinking? They were right; none of us should have entered. What if I’m the only one who entered and I’m chosen? What would Gram say? What would all of them say? They won’t be glad even if I win; they’ll think I cheated on them somehow, not following our orders””
“You must be talking about some stiff pureblood family other than the Weasleys.”
Jules stopped her sputtering and whirled around, pulling Marcia along with her, so that if it weren’t for the newcomer’s quick reflexes, the two girls would have intimately known the pumpkin patch. He steadied them both with a hand on each of their backs.
“Oh, Leontes,” Jules murmured, turning warm in the face. Marcia was smirking in her peripheral vision. Jules felt like flinging her best friend to the carriage.
“Salute, Herrara, where have you been off to?” Marcia asked, raising a brow at Jules.
“Exploring this Forest””
“You shouldn’t! The acromantulas are still there, it’s not safe””
“I took care, Jules. You would, too, wouldn’t you, when you become our Champion?”
“What? I”No. You heard me just now” I””
“Something as trivial as this wouldn’t shake up a family such as yours and their love for you. Don’t worry about that.”
“I agree with him, J.N.C,” Marcia quipped, still with that maddeningly suggestively raised brow. What’s gotten into her?
Jules looked back at Leontes and realised it just then: she was clutching his arms. She let go as if burned and stepped away. He smiled and stepped nearer in turn. Before she knew what was happening, he had tweaked her nose. And before she could growl or swat at him, he bent and kissed her on the forehead. “Bonne chance, bien aimé.”
“I need that Calming Draught now,” whined Jules to Marcia afterward, plopping back boneless onto the pumpkin.
***
“Abelard, I don’t know how late this letter will be, I had half a mind to try and Floo the ship, but that is bordering on indignity on your part and mine. I am sorry for leaving you so abruptly last time. I was stunned, that’s all. But I couldn’t, wouldn’t, have stopped you. Now I have this to say, son, the thing I should have said then. Please do not be tempted by the Tournament. I don’t say this out of vanity or arrogant presumption, but I have to admit you seem to be the best in your school. I’m very proud of you, but we have more to lose than to gain if you end up Champion along with a cousin of yours...”
Tristan lost hold of his father’s letter in his mind just then. Percy was right. It was too late, too late.
The lights dimmed, the whispers hushed to silence, the flames of the Goblet of Fire fanned and danced high, blue-white, bright, like lightning. All of them in the Great Hall were squinting. And then the flames turned crimson and a tongue of flame shot out, bearing a piece of parchment...
“For Durmstrang, Tristan Weasley.”
Professor McGonagall’s staid announcement was immediately drowned by cheers. Master Chekhov swelled and nodded in satisfaction. Tristan got to his feet, smiling a little at his school’s support, and walked to the chamber off the Hall. The door closed, muting the noise so quickly and suddenly, as if he’d been plunged underwater. It didn’t help his nerves. He’d gone and done it. He could only hope now.
His hope was shattered when Juliet Weasley entered. She looked ready to faint.
And faint she did when not long afterward, a pale (and still whiskered) Sirius James Potter joined them.
The things the Heads and the other two objective judges told them next were all a blur in Tristan’s mind; even the next few days were a jumble of snapshots, only some of them not out of focus.
One of them was the incident on the next day’s lunch. A dreaded crimson envelope descended on the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor table each. The owls were in a hurry to depart, just dropping the letters on the table and flying off. Predictably, the letters zoomed the rest of the way to hover before Juliet and Sirius, both of whom haven’t been to breakfast earlier that morning.
The whole Hall braced itself.
“YOUR HEADMISTRESS HAD JUST INFORMED US””
“YOU HAVE BEEN MADE SCHOOL CHAMPION””
“YOU MIGHT THINK IT MADE US PROUD, JULIET””
“NO, IM ABSOLUTELY LIVID””
“HOW DARE YOU DEFY YOUR MOTHER””
“WE TOLD YOU NOT TO ENTER!”
“YOU INDUCED HER TO EARLY LABOUR””
“YOU NEARLY INDUCED ME TO EARLY LABOUR””
“YOU HAVE A NEW SISTER NOW, SHE’S BEAUTIFUL, SYLVIA. YOU’RE LUCKY SHE’S HEALTHY. YOU’RE NOT SEEING HER””
“”BECAUSE OF YOUR STUBBORNESS””
“I DIDN’T WANT TO SEND YOU THIS HOWLER, BUT I’M DISAPPOINTED IN YOU, OPENLY DISOBEYING YOUR MOTHER” SHE MIGHT EVEN LET RITA SKEETER HAVE A FIELD DAY WITH YOU””
“AND HOW DO YOU THINK SHE’LL MAKE OUR FAMILY LOOK, SIRIUS JAMES POTTER?”
“BUT NEVER MIND THAT, HAVE YOU THOUGHT ABOUT HOW HARD AND...AWKWARD THIS WILL BE FOR YOU AND YOUR COUSINS?”
The Hall had gone so quiet even the Howlers hissing to ashes were heard. Juliet had burst into tears at her father’s indictment. Sirius moodily mutilated his chops.
The Evening Prophet stood out in Tristan’s haze as well; he was just stunned at how the Skeeter reporter could make such pieces when she had not so much as appeared anywhere he could glare her to her grave.
“The Choice Three have been picked by the Goblet of Fire, and if any Seers out there are marvelling at my prophetic words, here’s a wink to you, lovies.
“Durmstrang Institute has Tristan Weasley, Beauxbatons Academy’s belle is none other than Juliet Weasley, and Hogwarts is repeating itself with another Potter as Champion, Sirius James, eldest son of Harry and the erstwhile Weasley princess, Ginevra.
“Another set of Howlers have arrived today, confirming Mrs Hermione Weasley’s early childbirth as well as bringing Miss Weasley to hysterics.
“None arrived for Mr Tristan Weasley...”
Yes, that was something. Something to add to his list of things he was jealous of regarding his cousins.
... but Mr Potter’s reaction to his is rebellious at best.
“Your correspondent’s predictions do not end with the Champion selection.
“Shortly after the Howlers, Mr Potter is later seen escorted by his long-time girlfriend, Holly Lynton, to the hospital wing, injured from a hex by one of his cousins, a hex malevolent, malicious and unique to a son of the famed proprietors of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes...”
Tristan looked up from reading the paper and checked the Gryffindor table. Sirius was not there. But he was fine, Tristan knew, though even he had been shaken when he had seen the jinx. It had been right after lunch; Sirius was still sulking, not talking or looking at anyone as he slouched out the Hall with that red-haired girl, when one black-haired boy who looked mutinous approached them.
“You told us you won’t enter.”
“I didn’t. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“How many times do you have to lie?”
“How dare you call me a liar! But is it daring at all? Probably just your usual slowness, dimwit.”
“Sirius!” yelled the red-haired girl beside him, disgusted. “Janus, put your””
But it was too late; Janus had already fired the non-verbal curse. It hit Sirius in his middle and he immediately crumpled and clutched at his nether region. He brandished his own wand, but the girl wrenched it away from his grasp and pulled him away.
Tristan shook his head at the memory and resumed reading, but only because the paper blocked his view of the dismal Gryffindor table.
“...Mr Potter is healed and fine, although not the same can be said of his erring cousin, who we can be sure will receive his own Howler tomorrow at the latest.
“Stay tuned, dear readers. The Weasley War has begun.”
II. The Weasley War
“YOU ARE NOT TO ENTER, UNDERSTAND?”
“WE HAD TO KNOW ABOUT IT FROM RITA SKEETER FIRST, HADN’T WE?”
“HOW DARE YOU TRY TO HIDE IT FROM US! NOT A SINGLE ONE OF YOU MENTIONED IT IN YOUR LETTERS!”
“OR PERHAPS THAT IS BECAUSE YOU KNEW””
“”WE ABSOLUTELY FORBID YOU ENTERING!”
“IF PROFESSOR MCGONAGALL INFORMED US, WE WOULD HAVE KEPT YOU HOME THIS YEAR””
“SEE IF WE DON’T DRAG YOU HOME ANYWAY IF YOU DON’T WATCH YOURSELVES.”
“I can’t believe them,” Vi muttered, her face as red as the ketchup she was unknowingly smothering her sunny side-up eggs with. The Howlers smouldered to ashes with innate hot tempers (no pun intended) and the cousins in the Gryffindor table exchanged mortified and disgruntled looks, all of them except S.J.
“Yeah, leave it to our mothers to rant like one person even in separate Howlers,” he chuckled. “Or maybe they all did it together. Don’t mind the Howlers, Ellie and Lizzie, they weren’t directed to you babies; here, have more sausages.”
“How couldn’t they have guessed it after seeing the dress robes in our school lists? I’m glad I didn’t voice my suspicion of the Tournament being held again,” Cleo said absently, taking a spoonful of ketchup from Vi’s plate. Venus yelped, pushed aside her ketchup-drowned eggs, took another plate and squished the quivering yolks with her fork, eliciting twin retches from Maynard and Miguel, who sat on either side of her. S.J thumped the table in mock sternness.
“Boys! You make me ashamed of you!”
Holly thumped him upside the head. S.J quieted meekly without a retort. Maynard and Miguel smirked. “You make us ashamed of you,” they chorused. Holly raised a brow at them. “Not really,” they amended.
“It starts tonight. You think Cam, Jen and Jules will come? I hate to think of Aunt Hermione’s reaction if Jules is also forbidden to enter but Jules enters anyway. Doesn’t everyone who comes enter? And you think it’s true, that Uncle Percy’s son is in Durmstrang?” Art said, grabbing Andrey and pushing him back to his breakfast when he tried to run off with a classmate who held what suspiciously looked like a Whizbang Mini.
“I hope he is, then we can meet him and maybe even bring him back to the family, Nana would love that,” said Olga.
“What will you cousins do?” Holly asked.
The Weasleys sniggered. The ‘babies’ stilled to listen.
“Well, the mums have declared war by sending those Howlers,” Jan said slowly, grinning when his cousins all nodded. “So we’ll fire right back?”
“We’ll join. But Olga””
“Oh, tush, Art, don’t even finish, you can’t stop me entering.”
“We’ll join, too!” Billy piped up.
“Eh? You still have to learn Wingardium Leviosa, and they’re real good, you don’t want to die yet, Billy-willie.”
S.J earned a scowl for his remark. Holly threw Billy a piece of nougat. “There’s no Age Line this time, so of course you can enter your names if you like. That will be exciting!” she said, smiling from Billy to Lizzie to the Potter twins and Ellie. She shrugged and raised her eyebrows at the older cousins.
“Oh, yeah,” Art said, getting her meaning. The Goblet surely wouldn’t pick green first years.
“And what about you?” Holly turned to S.J as the first years left for Transfiguration.
“What about me?”
“Are you going to enter?”
“Oh, come on, you shan’t, S.J, how will it look?” said Jan.
“How will it look?” Holly repeated. “It’s none of my business, I know, but in my opinion, you and your families have let yourselves be influenced by the malice of Skeeter’s writing.”
Jan looked around again at the others. “No, it’s not that... But... Well... Uncle Harry’s already gone and won the last one, S.J will look like he...he, erm, wants to keep the glory to the Potters or something,” he said very quickly.
S.J gaped at his cousin. Holly did the same. Gideon went red. But curiously, they were the only ones flabbergasted and bewildered with this reasoning. The others were straight-faced, not agreeing, but not disagreeing either. Holly frowned meaningfully at S.J.
“I’m not entering. Driving myself half-mad to impress a crowd of spectators doesn’t appeal to me. If it doesn’t appeal to me, it couldn’t bring me glory. Dad’s told me as much. You know, the War wasn’t that appealing, was it?” He grinned at them; Holly was the only one who was looking him straight in the eye.
“Anyway, you lot rest assured I won’t be hording the glory to the Potters,” S.J found it so ridiculous as he said that he found it easy to laugh. “Gideon, are you?”
“Hording the glory to the Potters, you mean? Unfortunately, I still have to wait another year before you leave as Seeker, and then yes, it’s my turn.”
S.J had to grin at his brother’s cheek. Their cousins laughed as well, albeit a little awkwardly. They gathered their things for class and left, leaving S.J and Holly at the table.
“That was... tense,” Holly said, plucking her necklace’s chain with one hand and squeezing his arm with the other.
***
“Verkleinern!”
His trunk shrunk to the size of a shoebox on the floor. Tristan repeated the incantation and the shoebox became a matchbox. Satisfied, Tristan tucked this into his pocket and gave his prefectorial dorm a last once-over, not checking whether he forgot something, but because it would be a long time before he saw it again. He was leaving the Balkans. More than that, he was going to England. He wondered how his father would react. Percy must be right now occupied with his Ministry bookkeeping job in Germany, unaware that his son was about to return to their homeland.
It was amazing that Tristan, who had never been there, felt an affinity with England that he lacked with Germany. Perhaps it was simply in his blood. And he knew his father shared the feeling, Percy was just good at hiding it.
As if he had conjured him with his thoughts, there was a faint whoosh in the grate, and Tristan turned to see his father’s head in the dancing green flames.
“Father.” Tristan laughed ruefully, hiding his surprise and trepidation. Was Percy about to stop him? “What is it, sir?”
“Don’t ‘sir’ me, Abe,” Percy said, half-stern, half fondly.
“And don’t ‘Abe’ me, Father.”
“Your room looks tidier than usual. In fact, unless the Floo is doing things to my vision, I’d say your room looks barer than usual.”
Tristan was used to these tests to his integrity. He never failed, and he was not about to do otherwise now either. He patted his robe pocket. “My things are in here, Father. We’re leaving.”
Percy nodded.
“For the Triwizard Tournament.”
Percy nodded again, though this time a little uncertainly.
“At Hogwarts.”
Percy gave a very faint movement of his head here, perhaps a restrained jerk, but Tristan remained silent now. It was his father’s turn to speak. Percy’s eyes seemed to glisten, but then one could never tell with the Floo. Anyone could look teary-eyed with all the soot”
“Good luck, son.”
Tristan blinked, and with that, his father was gone.
That was all? He left his perch in his bed and went to the door, his shrug for his father’s abrupt and inadequate words lost as he shrugged on his heavier fur coat. He gave his mother’s picture on the mantel one last look and left.
Abelard Tristan Weasley had lost his fair smiling mother when he was still wailing for being thrust into the world, so he had learned from early on to cope with, and even understand, his father’s occasional peculiarities and gravity.
They were fast friends, father and son, and Tristan knew a lot of his father’s past.
It was nothing compared to going there though.
Perhaps that was why his father had suddenly retreated like a turtle curling back to its shell.
“Ah, Tristan!”
It was his headmaster, Master Pietro Chekhov, limping down the staircase from the third floor. Tristan’s private dorm was niched at the end of the second. “Dear boy, I had to go back to my office because there had been a glitch sending off the owls to your parents. But it is fixed now, and I see no reason as to delay, what parent would protest their child’s being short-listed to the Tournament, eh?”
Tristan smiled politely.
“Yes, it’s not as if there’s any danger, our world’s stable now. The Tasks would be straightforward, lethality tempered down with precautions... I just wish I’d beaten the British into thinking to hold the Tournament again, hmpf.
“And now I hear they had a leak, the secret is no longer a secret... Hmpf, of course they were literally itching to shout that they’re hosting the Tournament again! Next time, it will be here!” Master Chekhov coughed at his overemphatic speech. “Excuse me, dear boy, oh here we are, get on, get on”Bursches!” he shouted to several boys who were climbing the rigging.
Tristan stepped onto the moving gangplank, thinking about his father’s terse ‘good luck’. He was so deep in thought he never really paid attention or notice to the ship’s lavish interior. He just sat in his cabin and didn’t stir until he heard certain telltale noises outside.
He was a loner, but he had his schoolmates’ respect. He was immediately given room to the porthole outside in the hall.
The ship lurched just then, breaking the surface of Hogwarts lake. And then they were sailing to the bank, and there it was, the Flame Monument, burning high and bright in the middle of the grounds, an eternal, ardent tribute to those who had given their lives to the War, and to their convictions, of fairness, peace and unity.
Tristan knew his grandfather’s name is carved among others’ in the white marble beneath the Gubraithian fire. He would see it at last.
As he followed his headmaster up the sloping lawn to the doors of his father’s old school, it hit him: He had come here not for the Tournament at all. But would he get what he heretofore unconsciously came for? Or would he be wise to steel himself against disappointment instead?
He had several bouts of goose flesh.
The first was when he saw the Flame Monument. The next came as he stepped through the great oak doors of Hogwarts. And then he entered the Great Hall, saw the house banners, the house tables, the school crest”he almost gasped.
He shuddered again when he heard his name thundered in the Hall.
“JULIET NATALIE CLARISSE WEASLEY! I COULD NOT HAVE BELIEVED IT OF YOU! HIDING THAT PART OF YOUR SCHOOL LETTER WHERE THEY HAVE PUT INFORMATION ABOUT THE TOURNAMENT! AND USING A PATHETIC DISILLUSIONMENT CHARM OUT OF SCHOOL! AND LEAVING THE LETTER ON YOUR ARMOIRE! HAVE I TAUGHT YOU NOTHING? BUT THAT’S BESIDE THE POINT! YOUR AUNTS WROTE ME THIS MORNING. HENCE, MY DISCOVERY. WHY THE CONCEALMENT FROM YOUR PARENTS? YOU KNEW, DIDN’T YOU? WELL, I’LL CONFIRM IT NOW. YOU MAY BE SITTING AT HOGWARTS BY NOW, BUT YOU WILL NOT ENTER THE TOURNAMENT! NONE OF YOU COUSINS SHOULD!”
The disembodied female voice quieted as abruptly as his father did earlier. The silence was loud before it was broken by a cheery voice from the...Gryffindor table.
“We received much the same Howlers this morning, Jules! So don’t feel so pitiable.”
Laughter greeted this message, laughter that was followed with chatter, chatter that didn’t cease until the Headmistress’s formidable glare was sensed. Still, Tristan had already seen them, his fellow Weasleys. One in the Ravenclaw table, wearing the powder blue of Beauxbatons, and...he wasn’t sure how many there were at the Gryffindor table.
***
“...schemed this year’s Tournament reinstatement to be a private and quiet event between the participating schools, to emphasize that it is more about amity than a competition for glory, but unfortunately, it was not to be, as you well know. We apologize to our guests, and as compensation, our Ministry are as of this moment already dispensing publicity to France and the rest of Europe as well...”
Sirius tuned out some of Professor McGonagall’s words, scanning the Slytherin table furtively.
“...Madam Angelina Jordan, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports and Mr Jonas Bruce, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation...”
He kicked Holly under the table.
“Yes, I know he looks like a hairless bulldog, as you’ve said a million times already, for Merlin’s sake, S.J””
“No, it’s not Bruce, look at the Slytherin table.”
Holly pretended to take a sip from her goblet and looked. “Oh. Yes, I think I see a Weasley. He has blue eyes, like Jules.”
“He looks like our grandpa.”
“...no Age Line this time, which means...”
The tumult was immediate.
“SILENCE! OI!” Hagrid bellowed.
“Thank you, Professor Hagrid. As I was saying, while our guests have brought only a select number of contenders, you Hogwarts students, if you choose to do so, will be fortunate to know the thrill of submitting your name to the Goblet of Fire, which has always been a dependable judge in picking Triwizard Champions. It has also been re-embellished and fortified with new spells to ensure against tampering.
“It is believed”” And here S.J was distracted from staring at his cousin in the Slytherin table because of the sudden frostiness in his headmistress’s gracious tone. He looked up to see her inclining her head stiffly to Madam Calasanz and Professor Trelawney. “It is believed that our ‘mistrust’ to and ‘meddling’ with the Goblet has been a jinx during the last Tournament. So we will not be drawing an Age Line this time, to ensure good fortune, not only to our Champions, but to the Tournament and our schools.
“And now, I present to you the Goblet of Fire.”
S.J completely forgot his other cousin as Professor McGonagall opened the jewel-encrusted casket before her with three taps from her wand. Blue-white flames erupted from the depths of the casket, and then Professor McGonagall lifted the thing in which the fire burned, a wooden cup, roughly hewn, completely unremarkable, yet”
“The Arbiter, the Binder, the Commencer of the Triwizard Tournament.”
***
“So you were forbidden to enter as well?” Jules asked, stroking Marcia’s black, black hair.
They were under a beech tree by the lake, enjoying the crisp autumn, in Weasley jumpers, wrapped in scarves and cloaks. Marcia’s head was in Jules’s lap, her cousins and Holly were around them, the ‘babies’ throwing stones in the lake.
“Yeah, but””
“The usual Weasley defiance motto: Yeah but,” Leontes said, appearing out of a clump of bushes.
“What were you doing there? And what do you know about Weasley defiance?” Jules scowled, annoyed at how the git had turned from her best friend to her...what? What did you call a person who made your sweat glands, cardiac muscle and stomach organs dysfunctional?
“I know a lot about Weasley defiance, pardon the bragging tone, Weasleys. I’m Leontes Herrara””
“Jules’s childhood s”” Holly began, grinning.
“”don’t swear around the babies, Holly,” Jules cut in. Holly laughed. Marcia yelped and awoke to glare at Jules. “Don’t ever clutch at my hair like that again!”
“Pardon,” Jules mumbled. Her cousins plus Holly were sniggering.
“I’m ready to submit my name to the Goblet, will you come with me?” Leontes asked nonchalantly, done with shaking hands all around and looking at them all, making it a blanket statement.
Jules herself had a little piece of parchment in her pocket, burning a hole there for two reasons: to get rid of it with a good Incineration Charm or to drop it in a blue-white fire. She couldn’t decide which to give in to.
“None of them had entered their names in either, so don’t look so conflicted.”
Jules looked at Holly. The girl was smiling, and if S.J was not blind to that and the way those hazel eyes gleamed and glinted, Jules was certain Holly would be family.
“Funny how you sound like S.J sometimes.”
“Do I?” Holly laughed, twining her arm through Jules’s. “Even with Leontes’s eloquent observation of ‘the Weasley defiance’, you’re all still hesitant, I know. Billy wanted to put his name in this morning with the rest of his classmates, but he backed away at the last moment.”
“Ah, so that’s why he’s broody today.” As Jules said that, they saw Billy kick S.J in the shin.
Jules froze. They had entered the entrance hall, and there was the Goblet of Fire, beckoning silently.
Holly and Marcia both squeezed her arms in comfort.
After Leontes put his name in and made Ellie, Lizzie and Vi squeal at the red sparks that flew, they all proceeded to the Great Hall and sat down. As it was Saturday, there were still people breakfasting, among them the Durmstrang students, in the Slytherin table.
“Lucky you don’t sit your O.W.L’s until sixth year,” said Jan. Olga winced and nodded fervently.
Before Jules could reply, the people in red robes all rose from the far table. Holly was now whispering something to S.J, who stared at the Durmstrang students with unusual interest. Jules followed his eyes and saw someone there who looked familiar, though she hadn’t seen him before.
“Sacré-dieu, is that””
“Our cousin, yeah. His name’s Tristan. His headmaster’s quite fond of him,” said Art, already standing up.
They all followed him.
Tristan was the first in line to drop his name in the Goblet, so he was done by the time they all filed into the entrance hall.
Jules saw he had blue eyes like hers. He looked like their Granddad Weasley.
Only after the rest of his classmates had put their names in did he look at them looking at him. He flushed and acknowledged them with a nod.
***
I. Clay Cup
Molly didn’t like the nods S.J and Jan were exchanging. But she let it pass as she hugged Hermione by the hearth.
“Mum, just Floo us if they get too unruly, hmm?” her daughter-in-law said, hugging as tightly as she could with her five-month old belly. Molly nodded, rolling her eyes at Juliet, who grinned at her behind her mother’s back.
“You’d think this is the first time we’re doing this, dear! We’ll be fine!”
Hermione gave a look full of meaning to her eldest daughter and went away in her special maternity Portkey. Ron gave a cheery wave, hugged his mother and spun away on the Floo, followed by the rest of Molly’s children and their wives. Ginny and Harry left last, because their five-year-old Gabby couldn’t go to sleep without a certain Mum-and-Dad song and story routine.
And then, at last, at last, Molly was alone in the Burrow with her grandchildren. She beamed at them as they began opening packs of marshmallows to roast in the fire. But it suddenly burst into green flames and Ron’s head popped in the Floo.
“The guilty Weasley or Potter who did this, reverse it NOW!”
“What happened?”
The kids giggled louder. Molly herself bit her cheeks. It was obvious. Ron had gone bald. There was a whoosh and then another bald head joined Ron, Harry. And then there was Charlie. Bill, too.
Molly cast a Silencing charm in the room before the laughing racket woke the babies already asleep upstairs. When they calmed a bit, she lifted the spell. She had to make an effort not to look too much at the grate, though, where her sons looked like eggs roasting.
She cleared her throat and tried to sound stern. “This isn’t funny; reverse this now, whoever did it.”
“Nana, whoever did it has to do the de-gnoming all next summer, eh?”
“That’s not fair! The gnomes guard the place when Gram’s not here.”
“Settle down, Olenka and S.J”I did see you and Jan exchanging dubious nods a while ago. Go on and give your fathers back their hair.”
That did it; Arthur began howling from the mantel. Molly took one look at her husband and fell back on her chair, laughing.
***
Afterwards, Molly kissed Arthur good night and crept upstairs.
It was midnight, and the frogs and crickets were making a nice cacophony. Underneath the hum of the night, Molly could still distinguish the sound she had always lived with, and had sorely missed when her children started at Hogwarts: the sound of breathing.
There had been losses in the war, and she still shed tears sometimes, but her grandchildren gave her joy and made her forget. Shortly after her eldest grandchild, Abby, turned eleven, she began this tradition of having her grandchildren sleep over at the Burrow two nights just before they went off to Hogwarts again.
The house seemed to relish it as well. It was the one time that it was full, noisy and lively as before. The rest of the year, Molly hopped from home to home, none of her children allowing her to live alone at the Burrow or spend all her time at Ginny and Harry’s either.
But August thirtieth and thirty-first were Burrow-days.
Molly now opened her bedroom. The babies slept with her, and there they were. Harry and Ginny’s eight-year-old Stef and his brother, Gabby, were ensconced in the magically-deepened and widened window seat. All of the Potter children had black hair, although all of them had Ginny’s brown eyes as well. They were all hoping that the new baby coming in January would finally inherit Harry’s green eyes.
On the large crib-like bed beside Molly’s were five little ones, four girls and one boy, all of them with flaming red hair. Four of them were Ron and Hermione’s. Ten years’ worth of anxious wait after Juliet’s birth resulted in five-year-old Fabiana, four-year-old Robin, three-year-old Rona and two-year-old Josh, Ron’s only son so far.
It was a running joke in the family and Ginny and Hermione laughed every time Ron whined to Harry about wanting more sons and Harry whined about wanting a daughter.
On Josh’s right, with a hand on his tiny waist, was Charlie and Annika’s four-year-old Aimee, Molly’s sweetest granddaughter. Perhaps it had something to do with Annika, a Russian girl Charlie met after the War. Annika was shy and quiet, but always gentle and amiable, always the one who mediated between furious parents and the rowdy kids.
In the next room, the incoming first year ‘babies’ that year had asked her to Vanish the bed and had made a tent from an old Gryffindor banner. For the first time, Molly had five to send off this year.
Harry and Ginny’s twins who had their eleventh birthday that day, Maynard and Miguel; Fred and Verity’s younger set of twins, Lizzie and Billy and Charlie and Annika’s Ellie. There were still sleepy mumbles coming from the tent. Molly didn’t stop them; after all, it was their night, and they had plenty of time to catch up on sleep tomorrow.
One landing above, Molly stopped, remembering whose room this originally was. She shook her head, opened the door and recoiled at the sound of snoring. The room had been magically expanded, and here Arthur Ivan and Camilo Arthur, both seventeen, Charlie’s and Bill’s respectively, held court. All the boys except Sirius and Jan were here, snoring away on the bunk beds: Harry and Ginny’s Gideon, Molly’s only grandchild born in the year 2006; twelve-year-olds Andrey, Jonathan and Mark”Andrey the only one not a twin. Jon and Mark were Bill’s and Fred’s. Their female halves were one floor above them.
The girls’ boudoir had also been enlarged, giving room for their fancy lace-canopied beds and individual vanities. Each Weasley girl comes to the boudoir at age thirteen. So far, there were six in residence, because although Joanna still had another year to go, she was doted on by her sisters Abby and Jen, and cousin Jules.
Abby, with hair a perfect fusion of red and gold, was now twenty-one, but she still kept the tradition and always asked for leave at the Gringotts branch in France where she had already joined her father, to be with her grandmother for the Burrow-days.
Jen was Bill and Fleur’s third child at sixteen. She alone inherited her mother’s overconfident and rather haughty nature. Molly fondly admitted it fit her though, because Jen was growing up to be a stunning beauty, with hair like corn silk and large thrush’s egg blue eyes, that it was good she was intimidating, or boys wouldn’t leave her in peace.
Olga, fifteen, was her mother’s twin, blonde hair and brown eyes. She was fondly called Olenka, a Russian pet name that still puzzled the young ones. Aunt Annika called them all manner of ‘odd’ names.
Juliet was also her mother’s twin, though she had inherited her father’s lankiness. She had filled out in all the right places though, so she was not skinny but rather willowy like her Aunt Fleur. Molly tucked the kicked blankets around this volatile granddaughter of hers. Sometimes, Juliet still asked her father to go back to England, but Ron seemed to enjoy not having to be constantly in his brothers’ (particularly Fred and George’s) not-always-good graces. And after destroying Horcruxes, being Head of Gringotts Curse-Breaking held a charm. On the other hand, Hermione, to better look after her babies, worked by correspondence with the Ministry’s law departments.
Venus, fourteen, was George’s only daughter. Very aptly named, with dark auburn hair and her mother’s dark-lashed ice-grey eyes. Fred and George had agreed to have only two children each so that no child would suffer insufficient parental attention, what with their demanding business. George and his Muggle wife, Athena, who owned several strip malls, had Janus, and then Vi. Fred had two sets of twins. Cleo was one of Fred’s. Cleopatra. Black-haired and with beautiful, shining black eyes. Mark Antony’s twin.
With a wry smile, Molly finished checking the girls and withdrew to the attic. Here, Janus and S.J schemed and planned and unknowingly imitated Fred and George in general. These two, both with black hair and brown eyes, were also born within seven days of each other, which perhaps accounted for their similar naughty temperaments.
The ghoul groaned in the ceiling. Molly winced as if S.J and Jan were infants. “Silencio!”
***
“Surprise!”
“My word,” was all Molly managed, at the sight of a veritable feast laid for breakfast, and her grandchildren all seated at the table in their Weasley jumpers.
“Sit down, ma chere grand-mére, see if we’ve captured the taste your pancake,” Abby said, pulling Molly to the head of the table. Through the hall to the living room, she could see Arthur beaming.
“I made the kippers!”
“After the first and second batches burned.”
S.J threw a crumpet at Juliet.
“S.J! The kippers are perfect, dear. And your fruit cocktail looks wonderful as ever, Juliet.”
Molly squeezed Abby’s hand. “You can be a mother soon, darling. However did you manage your cousins?”
Abby flushed. “Oh, er, some handy soporific charms, Gran.”
The table roared with laughter. The youngsters on high chairs yawned.
Molly let that pass. She knew how rowdy the brood could be. They ate. Molly beamed her praise at the cooking, although her pots and pans were all so accustomed to yielding to her will after so many years that she thought perhaps S.J had tried to do something wicked to the kippers, hence, their burning for the first two batches.
As always, she let them talk. Gone were the days when she guarded as much as listened. Her grandchildren knew they could talk in front of her. Molly had raised her own children well enough; her grandchildren were being brought up as nicely.
“Will they call me Queen Elizabeth when they Sort me?”
“No, they only use first names along with your surname.”
“How’s Holly?”
“How’s Leontes?”
“Jules, Macky’s chewing on my socks again!”
“Well, your socks were in my bed again!”
“You have to eat fruits, Josh, or you won’t be able to play Quidditch.”
“I can’t believe the Harpies admitted him! They’re supposed to be all-female!”
“He is almost all-female.”
“Eleanor Anya Weasley, if you wear my bra again””
“Don’t squish, don’t squish”Ugh!”
“What do I have to do to cure you two of your egg yolk-phobia?”
“Where did you get that?”
“At the getting place.”
“Why is it hairy?”
“Coz it ain’t hairless.”
“What’s that, Stef?”
“AAARGH!”
“AAARGH!”
“AAARGH!”
“Look what you done! He doesn’t like oatmeal! Spiders don’t like oatmeal.”
“That’s right; they’re partial to bran cereal.”
“Stef! Throw that hideous thing away! Calm down, you three!”
***
“Nana, waz zat?”
They all looked at Josh, who was pointing a stubby index finger at the mantel.
“I thought you were asleep, honey,” Molly smiled, giving her grandson a melted marshmallow. For once, Hermione was not around to oversee her children’s and nieces’ and nephews’ teeth’s safeguard, another attraction of Burrow-days.
It was just about half an hour after dinner, and they were all squashed into the living room, the older ones jostling for position in front of the fireplace, the babies nodding off in the sofas. The day had passed in a whirlwind: for the kids and boys, playing Quidditch and swimming in the pond; for the boudoir residents, painting each other’s toenails and baking with Gran.
Their trunks were all packed and ready even before the start of the Burrow-days, so they only need wake up early tomorrow morning for the big family breakfast, together with their parents, under the erected purple and gold marquee in the garden.
“Nana! Whaz zat?” Josh asked again, bringing Molly back from her musings.
“Sorry, sweetie. This is the Cup of Victory, given to your dad, mum and Uncle Harry.”
Almost all the other children knew about the cup, all of them had once asked about it. And when they did, Molly always answered in that same cryptic sentence, wanting her grandchild to ask away the rest of the story.
Josh yawned. “Waz vic-toh-ry?”
“Victory means ‘winning’, Josh-bosh,” S.J answered, popping another marshmallow in the boy’s mouth. Josh spat it back out onto S.J’s hand.
“That will teach you to feed my brother when he’s curious about something,” Jules said, laughing.
“But he didn’t do that with Gran!”
“Well, it’s Gran!”
“Wadid we win?”
“A war, punkin. You know, like Quidditch, but very bad. Nasty. Not a friendly game at all.”
There was silence except for the tree frogs, crickets, and Olga’s marshmallow now sizzling on the fender.
S.J threw Josh’s rejected marshmallow onto the fire. “I’ve wondered, you know, Gran, why this Cup’s made of clay. Shouldn’t it have been something impressive? Like platinum or silver at least?”
“You know that this Cup is the one where they ignited the Flame Monument, S.J. Isn’t that impressive enough?”
“Oh. Yeah.”
Everyone was now looking up at the cup again.
It was rather crude, just a wide bowl and a wide base with a stumpy stem between. But it was carved with runes, the same charms and spells whispered and chanted when the Gubraithian fire had been conjured as a tribute to the War.
On its right stood framed photographs of Ron and Hermione. On its left were a photograph of Harry and the bronze plaque bearing the dedication of the Cup to the trio.
molded and baked by magick in Merlin’s Kiln,
the Igniter of the Flame Monument,
is entrusted to Mr Harry Potter,
Mr Ronald Weasley and Miss Hermione Granger,
and their heirs.”
“Harry, Ron and Hermione told me it belongs here in the Burrow, to all of you children. Perhaps, S.J, you can bring us something of silver or platinum yourself.”
Molly looked stricken as she said it, but it was too late. All her grandchildren blinked as though absorbing her statement. She exchanged a look with Arthur. They were both thinking of another child, who had been perhaps too obsessed with bringing home something impressive. Molly hastily turned back to her children.
“But there’s no need, S.J. I like the clay, dears.” She didn’t continue until all of them had looked at her. “Listen to me. It has its own magic. And I’m not talking about the runes. It may not sparkle or glint, but it’s warm. And it’s always there. Not something you will have to climb mountains or dive underwater for. Clay is, erm, earth, right?” Molly took a deep breath. Abby jumped to her side, sat on the arm of her chair and put an arm around her shoulder. Molly didn’t realise it, but her eyes were glistening. And it was this that had her grandchildren clinging to her every word.
“And unless you’re proud and blind to your ambitions, you wouldn’t dismiss it. Just like family, eh?”
They all nodded sombrely.
Just as Molly was beginning to regret being emotional and preachy, ruining their supposedly fun night, Josh jerked awake again and mumbled, “Waza... Howler?”
Author’s Note: There you have it, lovies. From I to X!
You can read it this way if you wish, from I to X, but I underwent pains just to keep the chapters connected and flowing even with the unorthodox (I love this word!) sequence. ^_^
I know this mustn’t have been as exciting as the rest of the entries into the Challenge, but I decided to concentrate on the Tournament being an instrument of “amity rather than a competition for glory”, you see. Also, the War being finished is such a good change, so I revelled in it, not opting to add another darkness either. Come to think of it, I never write dark, high-conflict things, hehe. I couldn’t do it with grace! Bear with me, merci!
All the Weasley children have lovely names. If you wish to see those that I have not mentioned yet, please go to my bio. It didn’t feel right to insert them all here. I tried. They crowded out and crippled narration. I already went overboard just enumerating them all!
‘Verkleinern’ is the German counterpart of ‘reducio’. I don’t have a German HP book; I only translated ‘reduce’ in Encarta. *wink*
Oh, and yes, S.J, Jules and Tristan all win the Tournament. That’s why there were three silver cups in the end in Molly’s mantel. Firenze was the one supposed to give the Triwizard Cup. And he will only give it to you if you give him clay. He laughed because he was amused that all three cousins won and had made similar choices. ^_^