Not just veela Chapter One Pt. 2

Instructions

Chapter One: The Goblet's Call The library was empty except for Madame Pince’s French counterpart, Madame Vaillant, who ruled the place with a silence more frightening than shouting. She sat behind her desk with a pair of half-moon spectacles and watched me pull volumes from the shelves. Historic Magical Competitions of Europe. Defensive Enchantments for Advanced Students. Beasts of the British Isles and Their Temperaments. I carried them to a table near the back, beside a tall window overlooking the gardens. The rain had stopped. Wet roses bowed beneath droplets of water, and the marble statues along the path gleamed in the dim light. I opened the first book. The Tournament’s history was worse than I remembered. The earliest contests had not been ceremonial. They had been tests of dominance between schools that saw one another as rivals, not allies. Champions had been injured by cursed weapons, drowned in enchanted rivers, poisoned by hostile plants, and killed by creatures their organizers had assured everyone were “adequately contained.” I turned a page. A witch from Beauxbatons had won in 1792 by charming a basilisk into sleep, though the account noted that the basilisk had supposedly been “smaller than expected.” Another French champion had been disqualified for transfiguring a judge’s shoes into ferrets. I considered that one a triumph of spirit, personally. Then I found a passage about the Goblet. No name may be withdrawn once chosen. I read it twice. My fingers tightened around the edge of the page. That was the danger, perhaps—not the tasks, not even the possibility of injury. It was the certainty. If I placed my name inside, and the Goblet chose me, I would have no graceful retreat. No chance to say that I had changed my mind. No opportunity to discover that the other champions were more talented, more prepared, more deserving. I would have to stand before everyone and go forward. “You are studying already.” I looked up. Professor Dufour stood at the end of the table. She wore a dark green robe with silver buttons and held a stack of essays against her hip. Her hair, always streaked with gray despite her relative youth, was pinned back severely. “I am reading,” I said. “Of course.” Her mouth curved faintly. “And I am merely walking through the library at sunset because I enjoy the dust.” I closed the book. Professor Dufour sat opposite me without invitation. “Do you intend to submit your name, Mademoiselle Delacour?” The question landed with more weight than it deserved. “I have not decided.” “That is not what I asked.” I raised my chin. “Then perhaps I do.” She studied me for a moment. Most teachers did not look at me for long when they spoke. Some became embarrassed. Others became overly warm, as if kindness might win them something. Professor Dufour did neither. “You have talent,” she said. “More than talent. You have discipline when you choose to have it.” I waited. “But?” “But you dislike being underestimated so much that you sometimes rush to prove people wrong.” Heat rose in my face. “I do not rush.” “No?” Her eyes flicked toward the pile of books. “You learned this morning that the Tournament is being restored. By evening, you are researching historical fatality rates.” “That is preparation.” “It may be.” She leaned back. “Or it may be pride wearing the costume of preparation.” I hated that she might be right. Outside, wind moved through the wet branches of the garden. A statue of a witch holding a dove turned its stone face toward the window, though I was almost certain it had not been facing that way before. Professor Dufour lowered her voice. “There is no shame in declining, Fleur.” The use of my first name softened something in me. I almost wished she had not done it. “I know.” “And there is no shame in wanting it, either.” I looked at the old Tournament book between us. “What if I want it for the wrong reason?” “Then find the right reason before you put your name in the Goblet.” She stood, gathered her essays, and walked away. I remained at the table until the candles burned low. Find the right reason. It was an irritatingly wise thing to say.