𝐎𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐄, little malfoy

Chapter Seven

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October 1994

THE HALLOWEEN FEAST was a spectacle of vibrant festivity, with pumpkins brimming with sweets, orange streamers draped across the Great Hall, and a swarm of live, blinking bats swirling beneath the enchanted ceiling.

Giant carved pumpkins leered from every corner, jagged grins flickering ominously in the dim light. Despite the grandeur, Draco Malfoy barely registered the scene. His mind was elsewhere, preoccupied with memories that twisted through his thoughts like dark tendrils.

Hogwarts' ghosts glided through the walls, trying to startle the first-years with eerie shrieks and ghostly moans. Draco, however, remained indifferent to the Bloody Baron's ghoulish antics. He glanced up, unimpressed by the spectral figures floating above.

Instead, his focus drifted back to the Beauxbatons girl—the one with those haunting sapphire eyes. The unsettling familiarity gnawed at him, a whisper in the back of his mind that he couldn't shake.

"Shut up, you nimrods," Zabini interrupted, breaking the dull monotony of the Slytherin table's idle chatter. He leaned in, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. "I've got the inside scoop. Warrington put his name in the Goblet this morning."

Crabbe and Goyle grunted their approval, mouths stuffed with food. Nott, always quick to stir trouble, threw a roll at Marcus Flint, temporarily distracting him from ogling a Beauxbatons girl across the hall.

"We can't let a Gryffindor win," Nott sneered. "And all anyone talks about is Diggory." Flint smirked, returning the roll with a well-aimed toss before resuming his silent admiration of a redhead. 

"Angelina from Gryffindor put her name in, too," he muttered, disgust seeping through his voice. "As if she stands a chance."

Draco, still lost in thought, stabbed at his untouched pumpkin pie. His frustration flared. "Can you believe Dumbledore put an age restriction on the tournament? The Ministry's ridiculous for thinking we're not ready. Some of us could wipe the floor with the competition."

"Not you, apparently," Nott taunted, grinning darkly.

Draco shot him a withering glare. "If I were a champion, the others would look like fools next to me," he snapped, venom in his tone. The idea of being barred from the competition infuriated him, adding fuel to the simmering anger beneath his composed exterior.

The feast dragged on, each bite tasteless to Draco. He could feel the restless energy in the hall building, anticipation mounting as the moment for the champions' announcement drew near.

His classmates fidgeted, craning their necks to watch Dumbledore, eager for the ceremony to begin. Draco, however, was consumed by the image of the girl with the sapphire eyes, a memory he couldn't quite place but also couldn't ignore.

At last, the golden plates vanished, and the noise in the hall spiked before quickly dying down. All eyes turned toward Dumbledore as he stood, his presence commanding the attention of the room. Professor Karkaroff and Madame Maxime flanked him, their expressions tense, mirroring the anxious crowd.

"The Goblet is nearly ready to reveal its champions," Dumbledore's voice resonated, his tone calm but filled with gravity. "When your name is called, please come forward, walk along the staff table, and proceed to the next chamber."

With a wave of his wand, the hall was plunged into semi-darkness. The only light came from the flickering candles inside the carved pumpkins and the Goblet of Fire itself, casting a brilliant blue glow that illuminated the eager faces of the students. The flames within the Goblet flickered wildly, turning from blue to an intense red, signalling the moment everyone had been waiting for.

A burst of sparks erupted from the Goblet, and a piece of parchment shot into the air. The entire hall held its breath as Dumbledore caught it, lifting it to the light.

"The champion for Durmstrang," he announced, "is Viktor Krum."

Applause and cheers echoed through the hall as Krum, ever the stoic figure, rose from his seat and trudged toward the front. Pansy Parkinson sighed dreamily, watching Krum with thinly veiled admiration. Draco merely rolled his eyes, disinterested.

But then the Goblet sparked again, and another piece of parchment fluttered into Dumbledore's hand. "The champion for Beauxbatons," he said, "is Fleur Delacour."

Draco's attention snapped to the Beauxbatons students. There she was—the girl with the long, golden hair and sapphire eyes. He stared, transfixed, her resemblance to his mother as a child unsettling him all over again. The innocent smile she wore only deepened his confusion.

"It can't be her," he thought, yet the gnawing sense of familiarity wouldn't leave him.

Hogwarts' champion, Cedric Diggory, was announced to wild cheers, but Draco barely noticed. His gaze remained fixed on the Beauxbatons end of the Ravenclaw table. He couldn't tear his eyes away, even as the hall erupted into chaos with the sudden announcement of Harry Potter as a fourth champion.

"Harry Potter?" Dumbledore's voice rang out, and a stunned silence gripped the room before erupting into a cacophony of disbelief and anger.

The commotion snapped Draco back to reality, but his mind stayed tethered to the girl. As the crowd surged, he found himself pushing through, determined to find her. It felt like searching for a Snitch, the goal just barely out of reach.

"Wait!" Draco called, his voice rising above the noise. He finally caught sight of her golden braid, weaving through the crowd. "Wait!" He shoved his way forward until he tapped her on the shoulder, his breath coming in short bursts.

She turned, her eyes narrowing in annoyance. "Yes?" she asked, her tone sharp as she lifted her gaze from the book she had been reading.

"I—" Draco faltered for a moment, the words catching in his throat. "I wanted to apologise for the other day. I shouldn't have said those things."

The girl regarded him with cool indifference. "C'est bien," she said tersely, her eyes dropping back to her book. "But you don't need help from some stupid girl." She snapped the book shut with a sharp thud, the sound echoing in the dim hall.

"I'm Draco," he offered, trying to salvage the conversation.

"C'est merveilleux. He knows his own name," she retorted, brushing past him without a second glance.

"I didn't catch your name," Draco called after her, his frustration mounting.

"That's because I didn't give it," she shot back over her shoulder, disappearing into the Beauxbatons common area. Her parting words—"Not that you need any help from a bloody foreigner"—hung in the air, leaving Draco standing alone, bewildered by the encounter and the chaos of the night.