Harry's feet dangle from the edge of the Astronomy Tower, watching as workers in the startlingly yellow robes of the Department of Magical Games and Sports rush back and forth, casting spells. The Quidditch pitch's grass has been covered over with a brown, dirt floor, and the six hoops lie on their sides in a pile beside the pitch. They're currently expanding the stands around the pitch to create an arena of sorts, and Harry doesn't envy the Triwizard competitors that are going to be in the middle.

"It looks like a wooden version of the Colosseum," Hermione murmurs, and Harry nods his head in agreement. The sun is shining, and it's surprisingly warm for a Scottish September: they'd elected to creep up to the Astronomy Tower to watch the proceedings, so that they'd be out of the way of any of the other students. Harry can see a few Ravenclaws have had a similar idea, because six of them are perched like birds on the roof of their tower, and he can see various students on balconies or hanging out of windows in the parts of the castle below them.

"Yeah," Harry agrees, swinging his legs a little. "You think they'll have to face lions?"

"If they're lucky," Hermione says grimly. She leans on the wall beside him, peering over - he hadn't managed to coax her into actually sitting on its edge, but she'll come around eventually. They've been out here for twenty minutes or so - they've finished with their classes for the day, and Dumbledore had said at breakfast that the contingents from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang would be arriving today. Everyone in the school that isn't hanging from a parapet is out on the grass of the grounds, pretending not to be excited. "Doesn't it seem barbaric to you?"

"A little," Harry admits, leaning back slightly. "But at least they're seventeen, now, the champions. I've read those stories about twelve and thirteen year olds getting killed while representing their school." Hermione twists her mouth, looking concerned nonetheless. Harry's heard different kids talking about ways to get their names into the Goblet of Fire despite the age limit, but Harry expects there'll be an ageline or a member of staff guarding it or something. "Would you sign up? If you were seventeen?"

"I don't think so," Hermione says, watching as Ludo Bagman yells indistinctly at a member of his staff. "Two thousand Galleons is a lot of money, but I don't know if it's worth my life. Even though they're going to try and ensure no one dies, there's a big element of risk, don't you think?"

"There's an element of risk in everything," Harry says noncommittally. He's been thinking about it every night, the Triwizard Tournament - would he participate, if he could? And despite the risk, the danger, he thinks that he would. It must be exciting, to be in that arena, facing some monster or performing a child, and he entertains idle fantasies of being the winner of the Triwizard Tournament, holding up the cup and being the talk of Britain for it.

He never did anything to be the Boy Who Lived, and it would feel so good for a title to be something he'd earned, but...

"I'm kind of glad I don't have the option," Harry mutters. "Either way, I feel like I'd make the wrong decision - decide not to bother, and miss an opportunity, or put my name in and get killed in the first task." Hermione snorts.

"Yeah, I get what you mean." They're silent for a little while, listening only to the whistling breeze that comes through the Astronomy Tower's huge pieces of equipment. Harry feels Hermione look at him for a few moments, and then she asks, "What are you going to do with Blaise?" He'd told her about the kiss the morning after it had happened, in desperately quiet words at the breakfast table, and she'd not mentioned it to him since. It's been several days, though, and she's given him enough a time - at least, in her mind, Harry expects.

"I'm not sure," Harry answers. It's true. He and Blaise had been acting as normal as possible at the dinner table and in the common room, but they'd not had any time alone together since. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do - had he kissed Cho, or Katie Bell, or Daphne Greengrass, or another pretty girl, it wouldn't be a problem, but Blaise is a bloke, and he knows how wizards respond to two blokes kissing. "I sort of want to tell him to never touch me again. I also kind of want him to drag me into a broom cupboard for an hour or so."

"Harry!" Hermione scolds, and Harry gives her a grin. "Don't you think we're a bit young for that?"

"I wasn't suggesting he bugger me, Hermione," Harry argues, and he's about to go on when there's an odd, low horn from the lake. Harry and Hermione turn their heads just in time to see a dark mast begin to slowly rise from beneath the lake's surface.

---

Harry and Hermione make their way over the grass - the twenty four Beauxbatons students are all in little groups, chattering away together in mostly French. Harry hears a little of what he thinks is German, and another language he isn't really familiar with at all, but for the most part it's French. Down by the lake, a few of the Slytherins have gathered to try and get a good look at the Durmstrang lot, but none of the students have stepped off the ship.

"Hi," Harry says, and the gigantic woman who'd been yelling orders at Hagrid a second ago turns around and peers down at him. "Harry Potter, Madame Maxime. It's great to meet you."

"Oh!" Maxime says, beaming, and she shakes Harry's hand with hers - Harry didn't know it was possible, but she's even bigger than Hagrid is, he's certain. He'd only written her a while back with a small note about the difference between Hogwarts and the other schools, and she'd actually replied to him - Karkaroff hadn't deigned to. "A pleasure to meet you, 'Arry. And who is your friend?"

"This is my friend," Harry says, letting Hermione put out her hand. "She's the best witch in my year, but don't worry - we're too young to give your students any extra competition." Madam Maxime lets out a laugh that is probably supposed to be a titter, but sounds more like a noise an amused elephant might make.

"Enchantée, Madame Maxime," Hermione says, "Je m'appelle Hermione - j'aime beaucoup votre, er-- carriage?" Maxime laughs again, patting Hermione's hand, and she smiles at the Beauxbatons students, who each share a little laughter, but it doesn't seem all that mean-spirited.

"C'est une calèche, Ms Granger," Maxime corrects, and while it's definitely a bit snobbish, her tone isn't nasty.

"Sorry," she says. "I only learned French at primary school. I've sort of neglected it since coming to Hogwarts."

"Ah!" Maxime claps her hands together. "By all means, Ms Granger, you must chat with our students. Fleur, Coralie, come here-" Coralie is a tanned, pretty girl with a silver ring through the side of her nose, but she doesn't compare to Fleur. Fleur is a tall girl with porcelain-white skin and shimmering blue eyes; her hair is a delicate silver-blonde that curls around her shoulders, and her face is impossibly beautiful. Harry feels himself struck dumb as the two girls introduce themselves to Hermione, and when Fleur turns to Harry, he shoves his hand out in an almost mechanical fashion.

"God," Harry says. "If you're as good a witch as you are beautiful, we don't stand a chance." Fleur laughs, and Harry feels like he's heard something not fit for human ears - it's like a peal of bells, and he feels the warmth of her hand in his.

"No," she agrees. "You do not."

---

"She's a part-Veela," Draco explains when Harry sits, dazed, at the Slytherin table later on that evening. Durmstrang students settle with the upper years further up the table, and Harry spared a glance to Viktor Krum, but hadn't otherwise gotten a good look at them yet. He and Hermione had talked with the Beauxbatons students for a while: it seemed like their students were from all over Europe, but all of them had a much better grasp of English than Harry and Hermione had of any of theirs. After a few minutes, Harry had been better able to focus on the conversation rather than just on Fleur, but he still feels a little out of it.

"Is that what it is?" Harry asks, rubbing the back of his flushed-red neck. "Bloody Hell. What does seeing a full Veela feel like?" Theo snorts, clapping Harry on the back, and Harry turns his head slightly, meeting Blaise's eyes. Blaise seems a little surprised by Harry's glance his way, but Harry just smiles at him, and appreciates it when Blaise smiles back.

The students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons are introduced, and Harry glances up to the table: Madam Maxime and Headmaster Karkaroff are sat up with Dumbledore at the table, and Harry listens with as Dumbledore proclaims that the Goblet of Fire will be revealed on October 1st.

The contingents usually come later in the year, apparently, but some Hogwarts staff had offered tutelage to the foreign students as well as that offered by their respective heads, and thus they'd come earlier. It's exciting, Harry thinks - even though all the students are a few years above them, the Beauxbatons ones seem really interesting. Those from Durmstrang? Harry isn't so certain.

All of them seem sour-faced, and he's heard that they study the Dark Arts at Durmstrang: he'll see how they come off in the next few weeks.

Harry puts his hands in his robe pockets as he traipses down to the Slytherin common room after dinner: he thinks he might have an early night tonight. He might just put one of his records and read for a little, he corrects himself. Putting himself to bed at not-even-nine o'clock is a bit too far, even for him.

"Oi!" he hears Blaise behind him, but as soon as he turns Blaise is pulling him into the darkness of a broom cupboard, and Harry shivers as a candle to the side of the room reluctantly draws itself into light. Ignoring the sweeps and cleaning supplies to the side of the room, Harry focuses on the other Slytherin boy, feeling his heart begin to race. "Hey."

"Hey," Harry says, quietly, against Blaise's mouth. "What cologne are you wearing?" Blaise laughs, his breath warm against Harry's lips.

"What sort of question is that?" he asks, his hands slipping forwards, and Harry leans into it when Blaise's hands brush his hips through the fabric of his robes. "It's called Del Rio. You like it?"

"Yeah," Harry admits, letting himself inhale as he closes his eyes, his lips brushing Blaise's. "Yeah. We're in a broom cupboard, huh?"

"That's right."

"Tight, enclosed space. Just us and some bleach."

"You've got it."

"I suppose I can guess what we're going to do, then."

"Can you, indeed?"

"Scrub a few floors?" Blaise laughs, the sound low and dark, and he turns away from Harry, blowing out the candle with a quiet hiss.

"Sure, Harry," Blaise murmurs against his mouth, and Harry feels himself quiver a little when he feels the other boy drops to his knees. "Scrubbing floors is precisely what we're doing."

---

"Drink some water," Blaise suggests, and Harry coughs a little as he takes the glass Blaise Conjures, drinking from it. They sit against the door of the broom cupboard in the dark, both of them a little ruffled but otherwise quite comfortable, and Harry lets himself lean on Blaise's shoulder. The other boy is warm, and the feel of his body beside Harry's is a surprising comfort. "Too big?"

"Oh, shut up," Harry says as Blaise laughs, and he shoves the other boy in the side. He swills the water in his mouth before he swallows again, rinsing his tongue of any lingering taste, and then he asks, "Are you gay?"

"Gay?" Blaise repeats. "Oh. You explained last year." Blaise is quiet for a few moments, apparently considering the question. Harry wishes the light was on so he could see whether the other boy is taking the question seriously or not, but then he answers, "Yes, I suppose so. Girls hold no draw for me."

"But I do?"

"Well, barely," Blaise says. "But one has to take what's available." Harry sniggers, passing Blaise the glass, and he listens to Blaise drink a little. "None of the other boys are in Slytherin. Just you and me." Harry breathes in, slowly, listening to Blaise's voice fill the small space. "The Gryffindors, too - Thomas is like you, I think, but Finnegan is like me."

"Why's it such a problem?" Harry asks in a whisper. He feels stupid for asking the question, but despite the distaste of the Dursleys he's heard gay people on the radio or on television. Hell, he's got an Elton John record in his collection, and he's fairly certain that Prince isn't straight.

"It just is, Harry," Blaise answers simply. "It just is." Harry hears him set the glass down, and when Blaise stands he does too, stepping out of the cupboard. They run quickly down the corridor and sneak into the common room, and for the rest of the night Blaise plays cards with the other boys.

Harry returns to the dormitory, fingering the spines of his Occlumency books before pulling them out and setting them down on the bed. He flicks through the records in his trunk, and then pulls out one, putting it under his turntable's needle. Cold as Christmas begins to play, and he sits on the bed, peering at his Occlumency book before closing his eyes and doing his best to clear his mind.

It's hard, but he's making his progress. He thinks he is, at least.

Like with everything else, he just needs time.