The Goblet of Fire
The evening of October 30th was crisp and expectant. Hogwarts students, cloaks billowing in the autumn wind, assembled on the grounds before the castle as the sun dipped low. Celine stood with her fellow Slytherins near the front of the crowd, green scarf tucked neatly, her expression calm but inwardly buzzing with curiosity. Draco Malfoy leaned slightly toward her, voice low and drawling. “Let’s see if they can live up to the hype.” Blaise Zabini watched with elegant detachment, while Theodore Nott, Lorenzo Berkshire, and Mattheo Riddle scanned the horizon—Mattheo’s dark eyes occasionally flicking to Celine with quiet interest. A distant rumble grew louder. From the twilight sky came an enormous powder-blue carriage, grand as a small palace, drawn by a dozen massive Abraxan horses with gleaming coats and powerful, beating wings. They descended in perfect formation, landing with earth-shaking grace near the front steps. The carriage door opened, and out stepped Madame Maxime, towering and regal in deep blue silk. Her Beauxbatons students—elegant girls in sky-blue uniforms with delicate hats—followed in synchronized, almost floating steps. They moved with refined poise, forming neat lines and executing a graceful, unified curtsy toward Dumbledore and the Hogwarts crowd, their movements light and theatrical, as if performing a subtle dance of introduction. Fleur Delacour stood out among them, her silver-blonde hair catching the fading light like a beacon. “Bloody hell,” Ron Weasley muttered somewhere nearby, echoed by gasps and applause. The Beauxbatons delegation glided inside to warm themselves by the fires, leaving an air of sophisticated charm behind. Celine felt a small stir of admiration. Lorenzo nudged her lightly, teasing grin in place. “Graceful, I’ll give them that. But Slytherin has better taste.” Draco’s pale eyes lingered on her a beat longer, a smirk playing at his lips with clear house pride and something more personal. Moments later, the Black Lake beg
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