12 September 2009
7:00pm, after supper

The clouds rolled across the enchanted ceiling, an early autumn wind and the excitement of this evening's proceedings giving them vigorous urgency.  Beneath them, the Great Hall was teeming with the students and staff of Hogwarts School, as well as their guests from all corners of the Wizarding World.  The competitors from Salem, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang all were on the edges of their seats, as eager as anyone to see who the Goblet of Fire would choose for the first challenge.

Scores of students in their 6th and 7th years had put their name in the Goblet's blue flames, some wishing to be champions, others dreading that they might.

At the head table, there were yet even more new faces.  There were three representatives from the Department of Magical Games and Sports, all three looking excited and nervous about what they were about to partake in - yet another Tournament.  Tournaments that never seemed to escape some kind of scandal, but yet were highly cherished in the Wizarding World as a vital tradition to be repeated every generation or so.  Not to mention the dragons and the paperwork that came with them!

At Headmaster Herschel Reid's side was old Garrick Ollivander, acclaimed as the best wand-maker in the world, and the Master of Wands for the tournament.  He was very old, and his white hair wild around his face.  He rocked back and forth on his heels awaiting his task.


The inhabitants of the hall broke out into chatter and awed whispers - the Goblet of Fire was carried into the Great Hall and set atop a pedestal in front of the head table.  It's bright blue flames seemed brighter than ever.

The official from the Magical Games and Sports stepped up to stand next to it and called for attention.

"Eternal glory! That's what awaits the school which wins The Tetrawizard Tournament!"

A cheer went up in the Great Hall.

"The time has come! Shortly the Goblet of Fire shall reveal the champions for the first task of the TetraWizard Tournament!  Heed these rules three!  First, there can be no substitutions!  The champions named and the champions alone may complete this task with no outside assistance!  Second, cheat at your own peril as there are many wards and eyes in place to keep watch on all that occurs!  And third! No cockatrices or portkeys allowed!"


This thread is open.  Please be invited to join in the excitement, and the champions will be announced soon!

Niobe Thursby was in a rare moment: Daily Prophet press present to cover the Tournament.  So very infrequently did the happenings at Hogwarts require her attention, such a high-calibre reporter that she considered herself.  The 30-something be-dreadlocked witch stood along with wall with a few other outside observers, Ministry officials and school governors, her photographer at her side.  Her Verbatis Quill was useless in such a raucaus atmosphere; it would have expired in attempts to write down every word of every voice it heard. Instead a more traditional notation quill was in her possesion, one that focused (but edited) the most important voices around her.

She'd just recently submitted a story for review and publication about Hogwarts professor Ignan Storm (who is a native of Durmstrang) and Durmstran instructor Miranda Elliot (a daughter of Hogwarts).  There was just something very interesting about the first tournament after fifteen years and the danger of it attracted her, a reporter usually concerned with writing about crime and high politics.

The Goblet was as impressive as everyone always said, and Ollivander just as mysterious and aged as his reputation told.  She kept eyes on the new Headmaster, Herschel Reid, and eyed the crowd wondering which students would be selected and what their task would be.

"What spectacle...!" she laughed as cheers went up around her at the official's lofty words.  "What a burden for such young shoulders, no?"

Kirby Gracean made her way from the gryffindor common room to the great hall taking her usual seat at the centre of the table. She felt the waves of excitement soaring through her body as she awaited the drawing of the champions for the first task. She listened closely as The headmaster began the ceremony she couldn't help but feel slightly nervous. She had put her name inside the goblet many nights previous and really wanted to know if she had been chosen to represent her school.

Slowly she began to gaze around the great hall noticing a few faces of people she knew and a lot of new faces as well. She listened closely as the speeches began glancing at different faculty and elder members of the ministry as she listened. She had known about what happened to one of the hogwarts champions last time. He had died which made her feel slightly more excited she lived for adventure.

Leopold stood near the rest of the staff, his ivory cane resting on the ground but carrying none of his weight.  He was dressed in formal robes and, as was fitting for his station, was dressed in the black and yellow of Hufflepuff.  In this particular case he had reversed the colours, using the yellow to accent the black rather than vice versa.  He thought he looked quite dashing.  The students with more experience in Muggle culture would have thought he looked more like a night watchman decorated with high visibility striping.

He was hoping that the Hogwart's champion would be chosen from Hufflepuff but he was keenly aware of what had happened to the last Hufflepuff champion.  Cedric Diggory had, in fact, won the tournament, tying with Harry Potter and bringing victory to Hogwart's only to fall prey to a trap set by Voldemorte.  He tried to remember the young man who had become the most feared dark wizard in history but it had been such a long time ago.  Leopold would have thought such a dark soul would have stood out more.  Would he be able to recognize such a wizard among the students here and now?  It wasn't likely at all.

He applauded the speeches, not really paying attention.  What he really wanted to do was get a chance to talk to old Garrick Ollivander about Obderedria Pienas's odd little wand.

It was time! Herschel's level of excitement was new- even to him- as he waited anxiously next to Ollivander, eyes glued to the Goblet of Fire, waiting on the fire to start spitting out bits of parchment. Hogwarts had many talented witches and wizards who were of appropriate age to compete, and Herschel knew that they would be a fierce competitor in the tournament. Naturally he hoped that that the Hogwarts competitors would win, and hoped even further that Ravenclaw would be represented as a champion, but he would encourage and support any person from his own school throughout the tasks of the tournament.

Herschel watched as others gathered around- hopeful students, curious professors. The expressions varied among the different schools. Durmstrang students seemed far too serious, and in Herschel's opinion those from Beauxbatons seemed to have a haughty assurance that they would be chosen, Hogwarts students seemed anxious and excited- as did those of Salem. It was curious, Herschel thought, how close of a match many personalities were from Hogwarts and from Salem.

With dinner cleared away, the night Hogwarts had been waiting for had arrived.   If these first few weeks of school were any indication of the level of ceremony and excitement that was to be at Hogwarts all year, Figaro would be hard pressed to sleep a wink or do any kind of school work.  But the lad had been convinced that putting his name in the Goblet would be a hoot, and that the challenges (and attention that went along with it) would be dead exciting.

Figaro was leaned forward over the table to get the best view he could of what was going on up front, chattering and commenting and cheering with the rest of his classmates.  The suspense was awful.

"If they pull my name, I'm going to take off my shirt..." he laughed, referencing a victory gesture common among Quidditch players at big matches.

Teodosio stood at the outskirts of the crowd, fearing having to rub elbows with those lesser than he. The cacophonous sounds of various languages he did not understand well all clashing together was also frustrating. There was a man who seemed to be making some form of announcement- Teodosio understood maybe one quarter of the English phrases, and yet again inwardly chided himself for refusing to learn the one language he would desperately need to succeed in this tournament.

His uniform was immaculate (as always), and since this was somewhat of a special occasion, he had donned his formal robes. He'd had a new pair freshly tailored for the tournament, the gold trimming charmed to glisten even in the worse lighting.

How barbaric it seemed to Teodosio, gathered around the goblet like wild animals who had been herded. It surprised him there was not an accompanying stench with so many people in such a small area, and he began to grow impatient as the man started to say something about rules. Announce the names and be done with this nonsense! Teodosio did not care to mingle among the common population longer than was absolutely necessary. He had been finding refuge in the Hogwarts library and in the rooms provided for them since arriving at Hogwarts not even a month ago. At least their lodgings were satisfactory, though no where near as lavish as he was accustomed to.

Even in his impatience, though, Teodosio stood still, his posture something to be envied. Fidgeting was rude and indicated weakness. As soon as the names were announced he would congratulate those from his school (or, if things went well, congratulated himself) and then he would retire to the dormitory to go over his translated notes from classes.

Blossom was close to the back of the pack of Slytherins, watching the proceedings with something close to avarice.  He wanted the tournament victory.  They wanted it not just for Hogwart's but for Slytherin.  He was far too young to enter it himself but then, according to what he'd read after DADA, somebody had put Harry Potter's name in and, even though he was officially too young to compete, he had entered and won.  If he had permitted himself the luxury, Blossom would have imagined himself in a similar position, winning against all odds and winning the admiration of all those around him.

It would never happen.

Blossom doubted he would even compete in the tournament.  The Goblet of Fire would never choose his name, even if he was at some point able to offer himself as a contestant.  The best he could hope for would be a win for Hogwart's, by Slytherin.  If the Hogwart's champion wasn't a Slytherin, he likely wouldn't pay much attention to the entire event.

Migs leaned back on the bench, away from the table, counter balancing himself by hooking the pointed toes of his boots to the underside of the opposite bench.  Precarious as his position might be, he was able to peer down the line of benches at the growing collection of students at the various tables.  The dishes had been, mostly, cleared from the table but Migs had been careful to hold onto his glass of pumpkin juice just as they'd all vanished to, presumably, the depths below. 

"Bunch of pomp and circumstance, eh?" he asked his neighbors.  "Do you think that big cup's mulling over who it's going to pick?  Or is it just shuffling the bits of paper, getting ready to deal a blind hand."  Scanning the room, he spotted his great aunt lingering along the staff table.  She didn't come up to the Great Hall often; she had took most of her meals down in the hut, just in case there were any homesick students needing a more home-style cooked meal. 

He offered her a grin and a wave, turning away just in time to spot a pair of students weaving between the tables.  Migs pulled himself upright just before they reached him, sipped his juice and nudged his neighbor gently as the rules of the tournament were read.  "Bummer," he chided jokingly.  "Looks like lugging that cockatrice of yours all this way was a waste of time.  Told ya you should've put your wyvern in your other bag."

Between the champion selection after dinner and having promised Evelyn that he'd do something other than study later that evening, the amount of time open to studying had been greatly reduced.  As such, Sasha had spent the majority of the day, tucked away in the alcove of the Astronomy tower, hunched over the stack of assignments and reading that had accumulated over the week.

He'd slipped away only briefly at lunch to grab a quick bite to eat and fill his backpacking tin before returning to the tower.  The Ravenclaw had stayed through dinner, only returning to the Great Hall as the champion selection was set to get underway.  Studying had, officially, become an all-consuming activity but Sasha had welcomed, rather than regretted, the unrelenting excuse to keep his mind occupied.  Between classes, homework and test preps, his mind simply didn't have the time or energy to think or worry about anything else - like the validity of role models, the risk of werewolves or what it'd mean if, against all odds, he was selected as a champion. 

But, as he settled on the Ravenclaw bench, without the distraction of homework, he couldn't help but start to doubt whether putting his name in the goblet was really a good idea.  Sasha had put his name in the goblet for two reasons: because he somehow convinced himself that in doing so he was proving something and because he'd figured, statistically, his odds of being chosen were very slim.  Neither reason had anything to do with actually wanting to be a champion. 

Sasha flipped open his backpacking tin and withdrew the remaining roll he'd packed from lunch.  Perhaps his luck would turn this year and statistics would prevail.  He knew he wasn't champion material and he certainly didn't have time to become one.  If he was selected for a task, he'd almost certainly have to drop a class.

It was a shame they didn't offer some last minute opportunity to retrieve one's name before the selection.  Of course, not in front of entirety of the four schools.

Mace had rescued his silverware from dinner, the cutlery playing through his hands in little tricks as he waited for more announcements about the tournament. He would flip his fork into the air, letting it spin for a few cycles before catching it and bringing it back towards his other hand in a stabbing motion. He didn't prick his hand, rather caught the tines of the fork with the knuckles of his fingers before they were driven into the wood of the table. Then he let go of the fork, slamming his fist onto the spoon and letting that launch into the air as well. The fingers that held the fork flopped it into a normal position with a twitch. With the fork now upright in his hand he caught the spoon with the prongs of the fork.

"Whatever the cup does, it sure takes a while to think," Mace said, joining into conversation with Migs. "Or maybe it's like a lottery machine, just spitting out a bunch of numbers. And your number gets called, jackpot!"

Mace then got his knife to stand straight, blade pointed up, with several moments of easing the balance with his fingers.

"Blimey!" Mace said, adopting one of the local words of exclamation. "You mean they don't want monstrous pets around for the Tournament? And I had a Blast-Ended Skrewt that was getting cozy with the female Puffskeins."

It was a joke. Though imagine a razor toothed puffball jetting around by its rear end. Finally, Mace balanced the spoon and fork on the knife.

If it had been any other day at any other time, Taryn would have been right there with the rest of the upperclassmen in their eagerness to find out who would be participating in the first task. She wanted to be a champion, wanted to give the best damn show that Salem could give for their first Tournament, and she wanted to win. But tonight, her mind wasn't on the Goblet or the Tournament - it was on the brand-new baby horned serpent she'd spent all morning alternately cooing over and hiding in her dorm.

So when Migs suddenly nudged her with jokes of cockatrices and smuggled wyverns, she choked, even though she hadn't been eating or drinking anything at the time. Mace joining in with comments about 'monstrous' pets and blast-ended skrewts only made things worse. The resulting coughing fit rattled place-settings at the Salem table and collapsed Mace's careful balancing act of knives and spoons. Taryn reigned herself in, tried to force the coughs fit into a laugh and was only partially successful, rubbing the back of her neck.

"Ah-ha-ha, yeah. Good one, Migs. Er." She cleared her throat. "Whoops. Sorry Macey. Anyway." She stared pointedly at the Goblet. "Wonder when it's going to take to start spitting names out. Shouldn't be too long yeah?"

There was a lot of excitement in the air and the fourth year witch was just as consumed by it as everyone else. She settled down with her fellow Americans to watch. She glanced around at the general splendor of the Great Hall and the way it housed so many students, including the foreign groups, staff, and guests. Such a massive hall was predicted to fill up when this many people got together yet it seemed as though there was still a sufficient amount of space despite the size of the crowd.

Neoma's eyes gazed admirably at her older peers that she was to cheer on. They were all so much bigger and experienced than she was which could be intimidating to most. However, she saw this tournament as an opportunity to learn from their mistakes. For example, if one of them used the wrong spell against, say, a dragon and forfeit their life because of it, it was certainly worth making a mental note. She was marveling over their bravery like any younger student ought to and found herself wishing (a very meek wish that she hoped would never come true) that she could have been old enough to enter the tournament. Then again, she was grateful... All that tension and stress over death and solving the puzzle with such a huge burden of letting your entire school down if you don't proceed. Who would really want that for themselves?

Her father had explained it to her better during the summer vacation, of course. Some people desperately wanted glory, fame, and to be acknowledged. So much, in fact, that they were willing to do it no matter the cost--even if the cost was their own life. Neoma could relate to that being the middle child of nine children (especially when one was born after such a star like Cherry), but she had asked herself early on whether or not it was honestly worth it. To those around her, it seems that it was. To her, it wasn't as big of a deal. So, with eager eyes and a hopeful heart, the young witch waited for the Goblet of Fire to spit out the name of the Salem student who would go forth to die compete for honor, glory, and immortal acknowledgment.

"Blimey?"  Migs laughed brightly, nodding in approval of his friend's assessment.  "Lazy cup," he muttered, feigning disapproval of the cup's slothful ways.  The Cliodne senior shifted upright on the bench, and lifted himself up as far as he could go without toppling the table to peer into the ever shifting and expanding gathering of students.  "It's probably more like that lottery in that short story - did you ever have to read it?  Where the jackpot was getting stoned?  Biblical stoned, too - not the good kind."  Shirley Jackson's The Lottery was one of those stories every American kid read at some point.  If they went to a muggle school, at least. 

"Just keep your blast-ended skrewt out of my-" Migs had started to joke back loudly when his faux-tirade was interrupted by an earthquake scale meltdown on the other side of him.  Migs eyed Taryn curiously, and reached out to pat the girl (as firmly as he assumed necessary) on the back.  "You okay there?" he asked, offering out his half-drunk glass of pumpkin juice.  Strange - dinner had been cleared quite a while ago. 

Migs cast Mace a slightly confused-worried-amused glance as Taryn seemed to try to scramble to catch up with the joke and moved on straight through to the cup again.  He shrugged as the coughing fits seemed to contain themselves and lifted a fist, looking pointedly between both of his neighbors. 

"You all do realize that, unlike these other guys, if our champions win this tournament, it'll be the first for our school?  It'll be historic!  All these other schools have won before, I'm sure.  This is our maiden voyage.  Winning out first time at the chute would be epically awesome!  We've got to do this!  Salem!"  Migs called, accenting his battle cry with a fist bump on the table.

Blossom heard the cry of 'Salem!' from across the room.  He wasn't going to let it go unanswered.  "HOGWART'S!" he cried out, following it quickly with "SLYTHERIN!"  The chant began to quickly spread through the Slytherin table and then spreading to the tables of the other houses as they chimed in on 'Hogwart's' and tried to drown out the 'Slytherin' with the name of their own house. 

It developed into quite the din.