The roar of the crowd was a distant hum, a dull throb against the frantic rhythm of your heart.

Here you were, standing outside the champions' tent, the scent of singed parchment and nervous sweat clinging to the air. Dragons. That's what this was about. Dragons.

You, a fifteen-year-old, a fourth-year, were about to face one. All thanks to the blasted Goblet of Fire. That stupid artifact spat your name out. The Triwizard Tournament, for seventeen-year-olds. Dumbledore drew that line, yet there you were.

Can you believe it? You didn't even put your name in. But the whispers, the glares, the animosity… suffocating. They think you cheated, manipulated the rules, a usurper, a thief.

If only they knew the nights you spent curled up, tears streaming, fear a knot in your stomach. Dumbledore's words, a cruel sentence: "We cannot cancel your name. You must compete."

---

You stumbled out, the dragon's image burned in your retinas. Draco warned you, a frantic shield against the world. He was the only one who understood your terror.

"Baby…" you heard his voice, laced with a worry that made your heart ache. Your shoulders slumped, your face pale, you shuffled towards him.

"What did you get?" he asked, his voice tight.

"Hungarian Hornstail," you mumbled, the words barely a whisper.

His arms wrapped around you, a solid, comforting embrace. You clung to him, the fear a raw, pulsing thing. Draco had been your lifeline these past few weeks. He'd pulled strings, begged his father for information, taught you spells, barked at the students who dared to sneer. He’d even argued with the professors, his voice sharp with desperation. He was terrified of losing you.

And you understood why. Someone had rigged that goblet. Someone had deliberately put your name in there, knowing the danger, knowing the impossible odds. They hadn't wanted you to win. They wanted… something else.

Something far more sinister. And you, a fifteen-year-old, were about to pay the price.