Bets and Champions

Olivia Middleton's POV

We're all waiting for Dumbledore to wrap it up already. Every year, it's the same long-winded speech. Three more years and I'm done—I chant it like a mantra in my head while fiddling with my fingers under the table.

"And now, please join me in welcoming the lovely ladies of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic and their headmistress, Madame Maxime," he announces, and instantly, every head swivels toward the massive doors.

In float a group of beautiful girls in blue-grey silk, elegant and glowing, like they've walked straight out of a painting. Behind them is their giant of a headmistress. "Blimey, that's one big woman," Seamus mutters under his breath while Ron openly gawks at the girls' backsides. I nudge Hermione and mutter, "Boys will be boys," with a dramatic eye-roll. She giggles, eyes twinkling.

The girls put on a short little show that makes the entire male population of the Great Hall erupt in wild applause. Another eye-roll. "And now, our friends from the north. Please meet the proud sons of Durmstrang and their headmaster, Igor Karkaroff."

The doors open again, and in struts a group of intimidating boys in heavy fur-lined cloaks, followed by a brutish-looking man with an ego bigger than his nose. And then... Viktor Krum walks in. The Viktor Krum. Ron practically combusts beside me.

I brace myself for the fanboy meltdown. It comes in waves.

Thankfully, the feast begins soon after, and we all dive in. The food is ridiculous, as usual—platters upon platters of rich, steamy, glistening dishes, some unfamiliar, probably added for our guests.

Midway through the feast, four helpers carry in this tall, ornate golden box and place it on the platform behind Dumbledore.

"Your attention, please," Dumbledore says, now standing near the box. "Two words: Eternal glory." And there it is—the start of the madness. He explains the Triwizard Tournament, the history, the rules, the danger. Then he gestures for Mr. Crouch to step forward.

Just as Crouch begins, thunder cracks across the enchanted ceiling—so loud I flinch. Moody reacts in a blink, casting something that steadies the stormy skies. "What do you think he's drinking?" Seamus leans in, eyeing the flask clutched in Moody's hand.

"I don't know," Harry answers, "but it's definitely not pumpkin juice."

Crouch's speech drones on, and finally, Dumbledore opens the golden box. Inside it—there it is—the Goblet of Fire, roaring with wild blue flames. It's beautiful. Hypnotic, even.

"The Goblet of Fire," Dumbledore announces. "Anyone wishing to submit themselves into the tournament need only write their name on a piece of parchment and drop it into the flame before Thursday night."

As we start to rise and file out, Hermione grabs my hand. "You guys go ahead," she says to the boys. "We'll catch up." We walk toward the staircase, and she gives me a look. That look. "Now... do you mind explaining yourself?"

I already know what this is about. Draco and me. The summer.

I take a sharp breath, sit down beside her, and try to form the words. But nothing comes out at first. Talking about what happened still makes my stomach twist and my throat close. It claws up my insides until the only thing I can do is cry.

Tears roll hot and fast down my cheeks. I'm sobbing before I even realize I've broken.

Hermione wraps her arms around me, holding tight. "Oh, Olivia... I'm so sorry. I thought the others might cover for me when I didn't visit. Luckily, Malfoy did—but even he got there late. Why does everything bad happen to you, Liv?" I feel her tears on my shoulder. She's crying with me.

"As much as I hate Malfoy," she says, voice thick with emotion, "I'm glad he was there for you. And him being... nice? Who would've thought? You've changed him, Olivia." I shake my head and wipe my face. "Mione, I know I don't need to say this to you, but please—"

"Not to a single soul," she finishes, wiping her own tears. I smile, weakly.

And then we hear him.

"What are you crying for?" We both look up. Draco stands a few steps above, staring down at me. I shake my head, whispering, "Nothing." Hermione stands. "Go in the courtyard. Behind that big tree—no one will see you there."

She gives me a soft smile and walks away, leaving us alone. Draco reaches out his hand. I take it.

The night is quiet as we walk side by side into the courtyard. No words, just the rustle of leaves and our steps on stone. "Draco?" I say softly. "Mhm?" he answers, scanning the space like he's expecting someone to jump out at us. "What are we?"

He stops walking. Looks right at me.

"That's the damn question, Olivia," he says, gently cupping my face. His eyes search mine like he's desperate to understand something neither of us can name.

"I don't know," he admits. "You make me feel... good. Which is messed up because, at home, around my father, I have to be this version of myself that he approves of. His pride and his name always come first. 'Malfoys are superior.' 'Blood purity matters.' He's carved those words into my brain."

He drops his hands and sits on the cold bench, defeated. "It's frustrating. I want to get close to you, but those words... they still echo when I do. And I'm tired." I sit beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Draco, you can always talk to me. No matter what happens. No matter my blood status. That's bullshit, and we both know it. And you can trust me. Always."

He doesn't say anything. I press a kiss to his cheek.

Then I stand.

"You didn't answer my question, not really. And I get it. If this—us—doesn't fit into what you were taught to believe, I understand if you want to keep your distance."

He looks up, pain flickering in his eyes.

"Thank you again... for the summer," I whisper. "I'll see you around, Malfoy."

After last night, Draco's been ignoring me.

I know—it's only been a day—but in the Great Hall, he's insufferable. He bullies my friends, throws around flirtatious comments like they mean nothing, and just before class? He shoves me down the bloody stairs while muttering "filthy Mudblood." He knows I'm not Muggle-born. But no one else here does. He's still keeping that promise—to keep my secret hidden. Just... with more bruises, apparently.

The next morning, we're headed to DADA with the Slytherins, which already promises to be hellish. It's taught by the infamous ex-Auror, Alastor Moody. Mad-Eye himself. The man looks like he's chewed glass for breakfast. Always sipping from his flask, twitching like he's been cursed one too many times.

"When it comes to Dark Arts, I believe in a practical approach," he grumbles, scrawling Unforgivable Curses on the board. "What?" I blurt, unable to stop myself. He's got to be kidding. That's illegal. Even in my... training, they taught me theory only. Never practice. I was warned—don't use them. Not unless you want to go to Azkaban.

"Five points from Gryffindor for speaking out of turn, Miss Middleton," he growls without even turning around. Bloody hell. Does he have eyes in the back of his head? I can hear Draco and his little Slytherin fan club snickering behind me. I roll my eyes so hard I almost fall off my seat.

"The Ministry says you're too young to see what these curses do," Moody continues, as if I haven't just embarrassed myself. "Well, no doy," I mutter, snapping my book shut. "Another ten, Miss Middleton. Keep it up and it'll keep doubling."

I sink in my seat. Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant.

"I say different," Moody growls, turning to face us fully now. "You need to know what you're against. You need to be prepared." He scribbles 1, 2, 3 on the board, and before I can even process what's happening, he barks, "And someone tell Finnigan to stop sticking gum under his bloody desk."

Everyone whips around. Seamus freezes mid-sneak. "No way," he mutters to Dean. "He can see behind his head too?"

"And hear across classrooms," Moody roars, chucking a piece of chalk that smacks Seamus square on the head. Then he turns back to me. "Since you enjoy interrupting so much, Middleton—give me the three Unforgivable Curses."

I stand, pulse racing, staring at the board. My voice is even. Cold. "The Imperius Curse. The Cruciatus Curse. The Killing Curse." He nods. Writes them out as I say them. "Ten points to Gryffindor for knowing the answer."

Small mercy.

"Let's see how these work, shall we? Middleton—care to demonstrate?" What? "No, sir. I'm fine," I say with a forced smile, trying not to vomit. "Up!" I rise, groaning under my breath.

He walks to his desk, scoops a spider from a jar, and with a flick of his wand, enlarges it until it's the size of my hand. "Imperio," he says casually.

The spider begins to dance. Tap-dancing. Spinning. Crawling up the chalkboard like it's in a circus act. The class roars with laughter. Except me. And Hermione. Then, just like that, his wand flicks again. "Crucio."

The spider screams—or at least, I think it does. I didn't know what that curse actually did before. Now I wish I still didn't.

I stare at the thing writhing in agony, my face frozen. I don't flinch, don't blink. That's what he wants—a reaction. I won't give it to him.

But inside? I'm crumbling.

"Stop it!" Hermione stands, her voice sharp. "Can't you see it's hurting her?! Stop it!" Moody finally shifts his gaze from me to her. He clears his throat, scoops up the spider, and tosses it—onto Hermione's desk.

And then—

"Avada Kedavra."

The spider's dead. Just like that.

My breath hitches. My knees almost buckle. "The Killing Curse," Moody says flatly. "Only one person has survived it. And he's sitting in this room." He nods at Harry. "Dismissed."

Hermione grabs my arm and hauls me out of there like I'm about to collapse. "Brilliant, isn't he?" Ron says as we step into the hall. "Completely mental—but he's faced real evil." "There's a reason those curses are unforgivable," Hermione mutters, rubbing my back. "To use them on us... poor Olivia. She's still shaking."

I don't say anything. I can't.

Then—because today clearly isn't done tormenting me—Moody appears behind us. "Are you alright, Middleton?" he says, hand landing heavily on my shoulder. "I want to show you something. Let's have a cup of tea."

The audacity.

"No!" I yell, pulling away and bolting. I don't stop. Not until I reach the Black Lake.

It's raining. Cold. Doesn't matter. I drop to my knees at the shore, robes soaking, hair plastered to my cheeks, and finally let myself sob. "I know you're there, Malfoy," I whisper, wiping at my face—useless, with all this rain.

He steps out from behind a tree. Sheepish. Guilty.

"Erm... just checking if you were alright."

I stand slowly, robes clinging to me. "Why do you care? You've been ignoring me all day. Humiliating my friends. Pushing me down the stairs. Flirting with every girl in sight just to make me jealous."

"I—" he starts.

"Don't," I snap. "Don't bother. No one does, really."

And I walk away.

After a few days, we're all sitting in the Great Hall when Fred and George start bickering—again. Their voices rise above the usual buzz of mealtime chatter, pulling me out of the book I'm pretending to read. I'm seated away from Harry and Ron, who are currently too busy drooling over some Beauxbatons girl's arse to notice anything else. Typical.

Dean, Seamus, Neville, Hermione, and I are at the Gryffindor table together, doing our best to ignore the twin chaos. "What are you two on about?" I whisper-shout, glancing over the top of my book. Fred leans in with a mischievous grin. "Now would you settle a bet for us, love?" I shut the book with a sigh. "What kind of bet?"

"Dean, you don't mind helping us, do you?" Fred asks, already dragging him into whatever madness they've cooked up. Dean looks up, wide-eyed and wary. He's the kind of guy who never causes trouble—kind, chill, always polite. I like Dean.

"You're gonna lose," George mutters as Fred nudges Dean's arm. "Just put your hand around Olivia's waist," Fred says casually. "What?" Dean blurts, and I echo him with my own, "Excuse me?"

"Dean, seriously, don't do it if you're uncomfortable," I tell him quickly. He sighs. "They'll prank me later if I don't. If you're okay with it...?" I nod, unsure but curious. "Go on, then." Dean gently rests his hand on my waist. Nothing inappropriate—just enough to play along.

Fred grins wider. "Right. So, as we all know, half the school fancies our Liv here. George reckons there's only one bloke bold enough to actually make a move—Cedric. I say it's four."

"Four?" Hermione chimes in, her interest clearly piqued.

Fred points toward the Ravenclaw table. "Seamus, look over there—Rafael's trying very hard to focus on Luna, but I swear he's seconds away from storming over here."

I turn slightly and catch Rafael scratching his head, obviously distracted, eyes flicking between Dean's hand and my face. His messy hair makes him look... annoyingly good.

"Seconded," I mutter, trying not to smile.

"Right, second," Fred says. "Neville, eyes on the Slytherin table. What's Malfoy's face say?"

We all peek—subtly, kind of—and sure enough, Draco looks like he's about to hex Dean across the Great Hall. "Oh boy. He looks like he's going to kill Dean," Seamus laughs, shaking his head.

"Third—Hufflepuff table. Cedric. Go on, Liv, check him out."

I glance over. Cedric's trying to mask his expression, but he's failing miserably. That tight jaw and clenched fork give him away. I nod again.

"And don't all look at once," Fred says, now smirking. "Hermione, eyes on Potter. He was chatting up the Beauxbatons girl's arse, but where are his eyes now?" Hermione peeks and gives a smug nod. "Dead at Liv's waist."

"Alright, Dean, take your hand off her and let's watch the fireworks fizzle," Fred instructs. Dean shrugs and moves away, and instantly, I watch their expressions shift—Rafael relaxes, Cedric goes back to eating, Harry looks away—but Draco? Nope. Still scowling like he wants to set the whole table on fire.

"Who's the loser now?" Fred sings, as George rolls his eyes and passes over a handful of sickles. "Wow. Four houses, four blokes," Seamus says, grinning at me as I sip my pumpkin juice. "Please," Fred scoffs, now counting his winnings. "Liv could have anyone in this castle. That's been firmly established."

The next day, Hermione and I are sitting by the Goblet when Cedric drops down beside me. "Hello, Liv," he says softly. "Hello, Ced," I reply, closing my book and turning to face him. He's fidgeting—nervous—and I already know what's coming.

"Yes, I know you're here to put your name in the Goblet," I say before he can even begin. "And you're sitting beside me because if you did it without telling me, I'd get mad." He stares at me like I've just read his mind. I offer a small smile.

"I won't get mad, obviously it's your choice. I know how much this means to you—just... just be careful, okay?" I rest my hand on his, and he lifts it gently to his lips, kissing it. My cheeks flush, and so do his, right before one of his friends clears his throat and tugs him away.

Cedric gives me one last look, and I nod. That's all he needs. He walks forward and drops his name into the Goblet.

Then, chaos enters.

The twins march in holding vials of potion like trophies.

"We did it!"

"Brewed it this morning!" they cry in unison.

"It's not gonna work," Hermione sings, unimpressed. I'm still seated beside her when Fred suddenly scoops me up and drops me next to him, squeezing in close to Hermione too.

"You could've just asked me, you know," I mutter, brushing imaginary dust from my sleeves as Harry sits on my other side. I offer him a small smile—awkward. We haven't spoken properly since that jealousy incident.

"Oh yeah?"

"And why is that, Granger?" George teases Hermione.

"You see this? It's an Age Line. Dumbledore drew it himself. A genius like him can't be fooled by something as daft as an Aging Potion," Hermione explains like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"My money's on Hermione," I say confidently. George spins around. "Oh, a bet, is it?"

"Ten sickles," I grin. "Each," Fred adds.

"Done."

They drink their potion dramatically, step up on the bench, and leap over the Age Line. For a second—nothing. They drop their names into the Goblet, triumphant.

"Better be ready with—" Fred starts, but he doesn't get to finish.

Blue flames roar up, and they're hurled backward by an invisible force. They hit the ground in a heap, groaning. The Great Hall erupts in laughter. I laugh too, shaking my head as I collect my winnings.

Time blurs until the evening, when it's finally time to announce the champions. The atmosphere is tense, everyone from fourth year and above gathered in the Great Hall. No house tables tonight, which means Cedric is sitting right beside me. He's nervous—I can feel it in the way his hand shakes slightly in mine.

I squeeze his hand. He glances at it, then at me, and smiles. Dumbledore steps up. "Now, let's see who the first champion is." The Goblet flares and spits out a parchment. "The Durmstrang champion is Viktor Krum."

Applause echoes around the hall. Krum walks through the crowd with ease and exits. "The champion from Beauxbatons is Miss Fleur Delacour." She glides out with grace, and my stomach twists slightly as Dumbledore prepares for the next announcement. I silently beg the universe—not Cedric.

"The Hogwarts Champion is Cedric Diggory."

I stand, clapping, but my heart isn't fully in it. Cedric stands, beams, and walks up to Dumbledore. They shake hands, Dumbledore gives his shoulder a firm pat, and Cedric walks back toward me. He leans in, kisses my cheek, and heads out of the hall with a confident grin.

Dumbledore smiles. "Very well, we now have our three champions. But in the end, only one will go down in history, winning the Triwizard Cup." He gestures toward the gleaming trophy. Everyone turns to stare at it—except Snape. He's still watching the Goblet.

My brows knit. Why is he—?

Before I can finish the thought, the flames erupt again. Another parchment bursts into the air. Dumbledore catches it. Frowns. Scans the crowd. "Harry Potter!" he bellows. A beat of stunned silence. All eyes whip toward Harry. My heart sinks.

Why? I think for a moment, How could he be so—

But then I see his face. Pale. Shaken. Utterly confused.

He didn't do it.

"HARRY POTTER!" Dumbledore roars again, his voice echoing.

Hermione shoves Harry forward, and I catch Ron's expression—blazing with disbelief and betrayal. My stomach knots. Something is wrong. Terribly wrong.

Harry would never put his name in.

Merlin help him.

Hello, my lovely readers! I hope you're enjoying the story. And of course, introducing Louis as Rafael. Share your thoughts. Thank you for reading!