The days following Harry's selection as the fourth Triwizard champion were a descent into a new kind of social purgatory. The initial shock at the announcement had curdled into a school-wide sentiment that ranged from resentful suspicion to open hostility. The Hufflepuffs, fiercely loyal to their own champion, Cedric Diggory, were the most openly antagonistic, muttering "cheat" as Harry passed them in the corridors and adorning themselves with enchanted badges that flashed the words "Support CEDRIC DIGGORY—the REAL Hogwarts Champion!"
The students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang viewed him with cold contempt, seeing him as an arrogant upstart who had sullied their prestigious tournament. Even within Gryffindor, the support was fractured. The fissure between Harry and Ron had split the year group, with some, like Seamus Finnigan, openly doubting Harry's story.
But this ostracization had a significant and glaring loophole. It only worked when Harry was alone.
The moment he was flanked by his friends, the atmosphere changed entirely. The jeers died in people's throats. The hostile glares were quickly averted. No one, it seemed, was brave enough— or foolish enough—to antagonize Harry Potter when he was standing in the protective shadow of Ariana Dumbledore.
Her reputation, already legendary, had reached a new, almost mythical status. She was the girl who had stared down Dementors, cured an incurable curse, exposed a traitor, and humiliated Draco Malfoy in a duel that had lasted less than three seconds. She moved through the castle with a serene, untouchable grace, and her quiet presence was a more effective deterrent than any shield charm. When she, Hermione, and Daphne walked with Harry, they formed a phalanx of intellect, beauty, and power that no one dared to cross. Daphne, in particular, seemed to relish fixing any sneering Slytherins with a look so cold and disdainful it could have frozen lava.
This protective bubble, however, was about to be tested by someone who was not easily intimidated.
A few days after the champion selection, the four of them were sitting in the library, their heads bent over a large table. They weren't studying for classes. They were already engaged in what Ariana had termed "Task One Threat Analysis."
"The first task always involves facing a beast of some kind," Hermione was saying, pointing to a passage in Hogwarts: A History. "It's about testing the champion's courage and their ability to think under pressure."
"The clue is traditionally hidden," Daphne added, consulting a book on the history of magical tournaments. "They have to retrieve something from the beast. An egg, a cup, something of that nature."
"So we need to prepare Harry for any number of potential creatures," Ariana summarized, already making a list, even though she knew about dragons, it was in a way, helping him become stronger. "Manticores, Chimaeras, perhaps even a Nundu, though that seems excessively dangerous…"
It was at that moment that a figure glided up to their table, casting a literal shadow over their work. It was Fleur Delacour. The Beauxbatons champion was breathtakingly beautiful, her silveryblonde hair shimmering even in the dusty library light, her part-Veela heritage radiating an almost overwhelming aura of enchantment. But her expression was one of cold, haughty disdain.
She ignored Hermione and Daphne completely, her gaze fixing on Ariana as the perceived leader, before flicking dismissively to Harry.
"I am surprised to see someone like you," Fleur said, her voice a melodic, heavily accented drawl that did nothing to soften the contempt in her words. "Wasting your time with this… this little boy. This tricheur. This cheat."
Hermione gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Daphne's eyes narrowed to icy slits. Harry flushed a deep, painful red.
Ariana, however, did not even look up from the book she was reading. She finished her sentence, then placed a silken bookmark to mark her page before slowly raising her head. She met Fleur's haughty glare with a look of cool, clinical curiosity, as if she were examining a particularly interesting but slightly flawed specimen.
"Your agitation is illogical, Mademoiselle Delacour," Ariana said, her voice quiet but carrying an unnerving clarity.
Fleur's perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose. "Pardon? It is illogical to object to a cheat entering a tournament of honour?"
"It is illogical for you to be so agitated by it," Ariana clarified, her gaze steady. "Let us analyze the variables. Harry is fourteen. He is, by the rules of the tournament, underage, outmatched, and possessing a magical education that is three years less developed than your own. Viktor Krum is an international Quidditch star, a prodigy of physical and magical coordination. Cedric Diggory is a popular, highly competent, and fully-trained seventeen-year-old wizard. They are your peers. They are your competition."
She paused, letting her words hang in the silent air of the library.
"Harry," she continued, her voice still perfectly calm, "is a fourth-year. By all objective measures, he should be the least of your concerns. Your focus should be on your actual rivals. The fact that you are so threatened by a younger, less experienced competitor suggests a profound lack of confidence in your own abilities."
A faint gasp went through the students at the nearby tables who had been shamelessly eavesdropping.
Fleur's beautiful face, for the first time, lost its haughty composure. A flush of angry colour rose in her cheeks. She was accustomed to fawning adoration or jealous sniping, not this cold, surgical deconstruction of her own insecurities.
"I am not threatened!" she hissed.
"The data suggests otherwise," Ariana countered smoothly. "Your emotional response is disproportionate to the stated threat. A truly confident champion would see Harry's inclusion not as an insult, but as an irrelevance, a minor curiosity in a game played by adults. Your fixation on him is, therefore, illogical." She gave a small, dismissive shrug. "But perhaps the Beauxbatons curriculum does not include rudimentary threat assessment."
The final, quiet barb was devastating. It was not just a personal insult; it was an insult to her school, her education, and her entire magical tradition.
Fleur stared at her, speechless, her mind clearly struggling to formulate a retort to an argument that had so completely and calmly dismantled her. She looked from Ariana's placid, unassailable face to Hermione's fiercely loyal glare and Daphne's cold, aristocratic smirk. She was outnumbered and outmaneuvered.
With a furious, frustrated huff, Fleur spun on her heel and glided away, her elegant exit slightly marred by the rigid anger in her posture.
A beat of silence, and then Ron, who had been watching from a nearby table with Seamus, let out a low whistle. "Wicked," he breathed.
Harry looked at Ariana, a sense of immense gratitude washing over him. She hadn't yelled or cast a spell. She had simply defended him with logic, turning his perceived weakness—his age—into a weapon that had made his opponent look foolish and insecure.
Ariana, her point made, simply reopened her book. "Now," she said, as if nothing had happened. "Let's consider the possibility of a dragon. The historical precedent is strong…" The work continued. The shield around Harry had held once again.