Marauders - Always - Part One

CXCIX: The First Task Begins

"Harry! Good-o!" Ludo Bagman's voice was too jovial, too excited. It was as though he'd been transported to the Champion's tent rather on accident and had mistaken the gallantry for a happy event like a wedding or a birthday party. He clapped Harry Potter on the shoulders with a giddy, child-like happiness that contrasted sharply against the nervous, glum mood of the tent. Harry's shoulder shook from the enthusiasm Bagman had clamped on with. "Come in, come in, make yourself at home!"

Fleur Delacour looked up from the stool she sat upon, her stomach churning horribly. Madame Maxime had dropped her off at the tent ten minutes early, ahead of the other Champions, and left her there, having to go 'round to the enclosure to join the other judges. "Remember my girl that you are just as strong as those boys," Maxime's voice had rumbled, "And twice as qualified!" 

But Fleur felt more like a child.

Which made her all the more sick to her stomach to see Harry Potter there - an actual child.

"Well, now we're all here - time to fill you in!" Bagman said, voice as bright as his violently yellow Wasp robes. "When the audience has assembled, I'm going to be offering each of you this bag from which you will each select a small model of the thing you are about to face!" Ludo Bagman shook a velvet bag at them. "There are different -er - varieties, you see."

Fleur looked around her. Viktor Krum, Cedric Diggory, and Harry Potter all looked varying shades of resigned.

"And I have to tell you something else, too..." Bagman paused, trying to remember, then snapped his fingers, "Ah, yes. Your task is to collect the golden egg." 

Fleur's mind spun.

Collect the golden egg?

Collect an egg... from a dragon? A gold one no less? Dragons were terribly fierce defending their nests... and all the more so over a golden artifact. It couldn't have been a regular egg or an egg of steal or bronze or copper or glass or -- literally anything else. No, it had to be gold.

When Bagman left, promising to be back shortly, Fleur sank onto a stool and stared at the tent wall numbly. A hundred thousand thoughts were racing through her mind and she felt powerless to stop them. They were dizzying and she felt her stomach wrench and twist so violently, she was certain she would throw up. She leaped to her feet and rushed out the flap of the tent, turning to the edge of the woods and bending face first over a brush at the edge, violently retching into leaves.

"Oh, whoa there!" came a voice from behind her and she felt a hand steady her, grasping onto her shoulder just before she tipped forward and another hand scooped her hair up from her neck, holding it back before the sick got all in the braid. Another wave of nausea shook through her and she threw up all the harder, the stinking mess striking the grass and splashing onto a pair of very nice, very cool dragon-hide boots.

When she was done, she turned and looked up and found herself looking into the square-jawed face of a very handsome ginger man. Her eyes widened and her breath caught. If her heart hadn't already been racing... it might've raced then.

The man's eyes danced with amusement. "You're the Beauxbaton champion," he said.

"Oui," she stammered. "Fleur Delacour," she replied.

"I believe you're meant to be in there," he said, pointing to the tent.

"I didn't want to get ze sick all over ze other champions," she said, fighting to keep her voice level. "And are you supposed to be here?"

"Probably not," he said, "I have loads of conflict of interest, see."

"Oh?"

"Yeah." He smirked, "See... first off, my brother's best mate is one of the Champions."