Note:

So this was a chapter of a start to a sort of reimagining of this fic. Fourth year, five tasks, Iris/Fleur, but also different enough that I couldn't call it a rewrite. I don't really plan on continuing this, so I'm just uploading it here instead of its own separate thing since it's similar enough to the original story. Actually, I'd love to continue it, but I know myself enough to know it won't ever happen.

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A Serpentine Life

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Chapter One

All Hallows' Eve

V2

It was odd how one could fight for their life against the likes of dark wizards, acromantulas, dementors, and a basilisk, all with a relatively clear head, and yet still somehow feel as though their head were buzzing from looking at a piece of parchment. Yet this was how Iris Potter felt as she walked into the antechamber off the Great Hall, silence behind her.

She had never been normal, however, so it made some sort of weird sense. It was the anxiety of waiting for the danger that made her head swim and her hands feel numb, she supposed. And it was somewhat ironic that this year, the first year she had actually wanted to be nice and peaceful, seemed to plan on being the most chaotic of them all.

The other two champions stood alone in the room, the heat of the fireplace washing over them. They turned to look at her, both visibly confused about her presence. Even those in Beauxbatons and Durmstrang knew her name and face, and how old she was.

"Yes?" said Fleur Delacour, tossing her hair back. "What is it? 'Ave they picked the third champion yet?"

Iris nodded, then cleared her throat. "I sort of am the third champion."
Viktor Krum only narrowed his eyes at her while Fleur laughed. It wasn't a cruel laugh, but a pleasant and musical one, as though this was all a rather clever joke. Iris felt a little miffed at first, but then she felt her own lips twitch in amusement.

It was a bit funny, wasn't it? A bit frightening that she would now be in a tournament that could kill her, yes, but she couldn't help but laugh at the thought that this time, unlike the previous years, it was wholly her own fault that she was diving straight into danger.

She wasn't especially scared, but it was still five tasks worth of danger. Spread out through the entire year — five times — in a tournament that was notorious for deaths. Her laughter slowly ebbed away.

"But no, really, I'm the third champion."

Before the other two could reply, the door burst open. In streamed Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, Moody, Barty Crouch, Ludo Bagman, Madame Maxime, and Karkaroff.

"There is no honor in this, Dumbledore!" said Karkaroff as soon as the door closed. "Viktor will receive no glory if he wins now!"

"And what exactly does zat mean?" said Madame Maxime. "Is zat an insult to Beauxbatons?"

"Of course not," said Karkaroff, seeming offended at her offense. "It is simply that this tournament might as well be only for two now! And we might as well have held it on the continent instead of travelling so far!"

"I note how unconcerned you are about Potter's safety, Karkaroff," said Moody as he leaned on his staff. "Glory and honor all you care about, is it?"

Karkaroff swelled up, but before he could say anything —

"Moody is right," said Madame Maxime, straightening herself until her head brushed the candle-filled chandelier. "We 'ave forgotten ourselves in our 'aste. But nonezeless, zis is highly unethical. We only brought zis tournament back because zere would be an age limit, no? Ze tasks are still to be as dangerous as zey were before to ze champions. More safety precautions, maybe... But I do not feel comfortable letting a child compete, even if she is ze Iris Potter."

"I can handle myself," said Iris quietly, and she sat down in a chair heavily, as though someone had forced her into it. "But isn't there a way I can withdraw from this thing and have the Goblet select another?"

"Withdraw?" said Snape at the same time Crouch shook his head. "You placed your name into the Goblet, Potter."

"Yeah, because I wanted to see what would happen," she said.

"So you admit it?" said Snape, sneering.

"Fred and George tried it and they only grew a beard! I figured, you know — I was expecting the Goblet to toss me out and do something funny to me. How was I supposed to know it was going to accept my name?"

"And when it did accept your name," said Dumbledore, "why did you not come to us?"

"I didn't think — I mean, I just figured —"

"More importantly, I zink," said Madame Maxime, "is why ze Goblet of Fire chose her in the first place! Whether you put your name in for a chance to compete on purpose or by accident is of no importance. Why did ze Goblet choose you over zose more competent? It seems clear to me zat you 'ave tampered with it, Miss Potter!"

"Oh?" said Iris. "I did, did I? And just how did I tamper with an ancient and powerful artifact far beyond my comprehension?"

"Watch your tongue, Potter!" said Snape.

Iris stuck her tongue out and went cross-eyed trying to look at it. Some of them scoffed in their own way, but Fleur's eyes betrayed her amusement.

"Iris," warned Dumbledore, "that is quite enough." He turned to Madame Maxime. "And my dear Madame Maxime, Iris could not have possibly fooled what is indeed an ancient and powerful magical artifact, as talented as she is."

"Ah, but Dumbledore!" said Madame Maxime. "She bypassed your Age Line, no?"

"What are you implying?" said McGonagall, coldly butting into the conversation. "That Professor Dumbledore's Age Line was ill-cast?"

"But of course not! Rather zat the Girl Who Lived is capable of casting powerful magic 'erself, or is she not? She defeated your Dark Lord, no?"

"Our Dark Lord," said Dumbledore dryly. "I do not think I need to remind you that Lord Voldemort's reach extended far beyond the borders of Great Britain."

"And that I was only a year old at the time," said Iris, matching his tone. "As much as I like letting people believe I'm extraordinarily powerful, I'm not on the headmaster's level." The edges of her lips tilted upward. "Yet."

"One does not need to be on another's 'level' to bypass their enchantments!" said Madam Maxime. "Magic and skill is not so finely categorized."

"See," said Iris, throwing up a hand, "I didn't know that — how could I have got around the Age Line?"

"I heard she took care of your Sirius Black problem, or was I misinformed?" said Karkaroff. "Was he not You-Know-Who's right-hand man?"

Iris grit her teeth and tried to disconnect from all the feelings the comment brought.

Moody scoffed. "Don't pretend you don't know, Karkaroff."

"Has she or has she not done extraordinary magic before?" said Karkaroff impatiently, ignoring him.

"As much as it pains me to admit," said Snape, looking as though it truly hurt him, "Potter has shown herself to be powerful for her age." Then, as if this was too complimentary, he added, "When she puts her mind to it, at least, which is not often. Though this does seem precisely the thing she would put her time and energy toward."

"Ha!" said Karkaroff, but it sounded fake and maybe even slightly fearful. "So you admit she could have bypassed Dumbledore's Age Line! Perhaps be the next Albus Dumbledore herself?"

"Come on," said Iris weakly, "I could never grow a beard that magnificent."

The joke didn't land as she hoped it would. Dumbledore remained grim-faced, as if truly unsure — to her surprise, it hurt a little — and the others ignored her. Except for Karkaroff, who couldn't quite hide his sneer as he looked at her.

"Fine!" said Madame Maxime. "It is of no matter. I speak only to protect a child from danger, but my efforts are wasted, I see. If 'Ogwarts wishes to embarrass itself, zen —"

"Then it will do so in its own time," said Iris, fighting the sudden urge to grab a ladder and punch this giraffe in the face. "Until then, Durmstrang and Beauxbatons will have to fill in that role."

Karkaroff barked a laugh. "You think you will embarrass us, girl?"

"Well," said Iris, "if the Goblet wasn't tampered with, then that only leaves one conclusion..."

"The Goblet of Fire believed Iris to be a worthy competitor," finished Dumbledore.

There was a moment of stunned silence — and then a cacophony of noise — outrage, laughs of disbelief, laughs of amusement, and it continued for some time.

"Mr. Bagman!" said Madame Maxime. "Is this true?"

"Well, her name's come out of the goblet," said Bagman. "I mean to say, even if she isn't worthy... I don't think there can be any ducking out at this stage... It's down in the rules, you're obliged. Iris will just have to do the best she can, I think."

"Bagman is right," said Crouch. "It is a magical contract."

Iris's mouth had become dry in that moment of silence where it sunk in for everyone. And then all the arguments broke out again. It seemed as though half the room were taking turns yelling at certain people in the room.

Viktor alternated his gaze from person to person, keeping up with every heated conversation. Fleur watched Iris with an odd expression, one that seemed to Iris rather like haughty pity.

As annoyed as she was with it, Iris found herself fighting the blush creeping to her skin. To deal with it, she got up from her seat and moved throughout the room, stopping eventually by McGonagall.

"Why don't they just use the Goblet against dangerous criminals?" she said.

McGonagall frowned. "The Goblet of Fire wasn't made with the intention of that, Potter. Also, ten points from Gryffindor for putting your name in."

"Hey, come on," said Iris. "And what does it matter what it was made for?"

"Haven't you been listening for the last three years?" said McGonagall. "Magic is not to be fooled, except by other magic more powerful. The Goblet was enchanted to be used for tournaments — real tournaments. You cannot fool it in that way. Unless, again, by more powerful magic, which we did not think was possible with the power of the Goblet." She gave Iris a reproachful look. "Until now."

"Oh."

"It would have taken a very skilled and powerful witch or wizard to force the Goblet to select your name, Potter, unless it truly does think you're the most worthy of those entered. And it would take an even moreskilled witch or wizard to force the Goblet to do something it was not made for. I'm not sure if even the headmaster could manage it. Nonetheless, a clever idea. Five points to Gryffindor."

Iris stared at her for a moment, trying not to smile, then moved on to Dumbledore, who stood to the side looking as though he would rather not be here.

"Professor Dumbledore?"

Dumbledore blinked, then looked down at her. "Yes, Iris?"

She hesitated. "Remember how I used the Time-Turner last year? Like, a lot?"

"I do," said Dumbledore, a bit coolly. Iris grimaced. Out of everything she had done, all the rules she had broken, her liberal use of Hermione's Time-Turner had been the one and only thing that had ever truly upset him. And now perhaps this too.

"Well, I noticed that I don't much look fourteen..." she said slowly. "Is it possible that —"

"No," said Dumbledore. "You are not seventeen. Your rather abusive use of Miss Granger's Time-Turner last year has certainly aged you a year or so, but not quite so drastically. At any rate, the Goblet of Fire does not care for age. We do. That is why I placed the Age Line. It would not matter your age. Clearly," he added wryly.

"Only a year?" said Iris, thinking. "I thought I was, like, at least sixteen now."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "Only? Dear girl, you had access to the Time-Turner for roughly ten months. In that time, you seemed to have lived two full years. Even I have had trouble wrapping my brilliant mind around the logistics. It is so extraordinary that I briefly considered submitting a report to the Department of Mysteries, once more putting forward the theory that excessive use of a Time-Turner may age the user more so than it should, for surely you had not truly spent a whole extra year."

"I bet they have an entire section dedicated to me, the Department of Mysteries."

"They do not."

"Oh," said Iris, and she turned her attention back to the others. It all sounded like a bunch of nonsensical arguing to her; nothing of substance, only insults and wild guesses. Accusations were thrown out, at Dumbledore, at McGonagall, at her (something about wanting even more fame).

Which, truthfully, wasn't too far off the mark. Though Iris didn't appreciate where her fame originated from, she wasn't opposed to the idea of fame itself. She wanted to be known, respected, and appreciated for her accomplishments (but also didn't care for the intrusive stares and behind-the-back whispers). She was fairly okay with the idea of glory if it came from something she herself accomplished, not some unknown magic her mother might've cast.

"Silence!" said Dumbledore suddenly, and his voice was magnified so loud that Iris was sure those outside must've heard it. "Now," he continued when all had quieted, "are we certain — absolutely certain that we cannot — in any way, shape, or form — take Iris out of this tournament? Barty? Ludo?"

Barty Crouch shook his head grimly. "No, afraid not, Dumbledore."

"But then," said Fleur, "if we cannot take a champion out, could we not perhaps put another in?"

Most frowned, but Ludo's eyes sparkled with excitement. "Another Hogwarts champion?"

Fleur's eyes shot upward in exasperation, but her headmistress caught on.

"Not just a Hogwarts champion!" said Madame Maxime. "But another for all three schools..."

"Then no one will claim Viktor's victory was easy!" said Karkaroff triumphantly.

"You all are forgetting one thing," said Snape before Madame Maxime could say anything to Karkaroff. "It is the Tri-Wizard Tournament."

"What does zat matter?"

"It matters," Snape drawled, "because the Cup was designed to create a Tri-Wizard Tournament, not a Hexa-Wizard Tournament. It may just be a name, or it may not. It may have been enchanted originally for only three."

"Then nine," Iris said to herself, but they all heard it and she coughed to clear her voice. "Nine is more magically significant than six, divisible by three and three, and if you need even more, just add two more prizes for second and third place for a total of three winners." She looked at McGonagall. "See, I pay some attention."

Snape did not respond, but that might as well have been a compliment coming from him. The others all had varying expressions. Ludo looked ready to explode in joy.

"Nine champions!" he said, bouncing on his heels. "Oh, Barty, think of it!"

"It might work if six doesn't," Crouch admitted. "Three from every school... The tasks will need to be modified, of course. As they are now, nine champions will take forever to get through."

"Nonsense!" said Bagman. "I was worried they'd be too short with only three champions... Yes, yes, nine will do splendidly — and if need be, we can just have each task done on three different days."

Both Fleur and Viktor looked fine with the idea. Iris had to resist the urge to kill everyone in the room including herself. Why in the world had she suggested such a thing? Before she was facing the possibility of embarrassing herself against two other champions — but now it was seven; and two of them would be from Hogwarts!

"Well," said Dumbledore, smiling and clapping his hands together, "let us go see if that will indeed work, shall we?"

"If it is possible," said Crouch, the first to move, "then all we might have to do is activate it once more. And it will, hopefully, pick those who have already submitted their names."

The three champions stayed behind, quiet as the rest left. Iris sat back in her chair, chin on her palm.

What a mess this was. And how quickly it became a bigger one too. Though, with two other Hogwarts champions, at least Hogwarts actually stood a chance now. If it had been just her, the school would've made her year miserable, and rightly so.

"Will you still try?" said Fleur suddenly, having stepped closer to her.

"What would be the point?" said Iris.

"But you are the Girl Who Lived, no?" said Fleur. "I 'ave heard tales of —"

"They're probably all nonsense."

Fleur said nothing for a moment. "Even the basilisk?"

Iris turned to Fleur and looked at her as though she was stupid. "You don't actually believe a twelve-year-old killed a basilisk, do you?"

Fleur failed to cover up her snort. And though she didn't blame Fleur for it, a spark of rebellion came to life inside her and she wondered if she should try.

Iris stood up suddenly. She needed some fresh air, and she wasn't going to wait until six more champions were called to get it. Neither of the other two champions said anything as she walked to the door and pulled out her Invisibility Cloak. Nor did she even care. Enough people already knew of her Cloak at this point. She had been too careless with it before and now it was sort of an open secret.

The door opened just as she reached it and she had to quickly sidestep to let Cedric Diggory in. He didn't see her. She slipped out the door before it closed, and made her way through the Great Hall carefully, making sure not to bump into anyone. Dumbledore's head turned to look at where she stood as he reached up to snatch a parchment from the air. Iris found no warning or reprimand in his eyes, so she continued on.

Maybe he hadn't really seen her. Whenever she came across Dumbledore while under her Cloak, he always looked more toward her vicinity rather than directly at her.

"Cassius Warrington!" he said, and the Slytherin table burst into cheers. "Now, we will move on to the next two Beauxbatons champions, and then after that the next two Durmstrang Champions."

Iris didn't care to hear about it. She walked out the Great Hall, through the front doors of Hogwarts, and into the crisp air of October. Whipping her Cloak off her, she inhaled deeply and tried to calm herself. They would make sure no one died this time around... and they'd keep an even closer eye on her, the fourteen-year-old. Fifteen, she supposed, given her time travel the year before.

That really begged the question on just how she had managed to put her name in. She wasn't seventeen, and she hadn't tried to tamper with the Goblet at all. Her mind raced with ideas, with how she could have been entered and also how she was going to compete. She considered trying to actually win. Could she? Perhaps... Perhaps if she played dirty and messed with the other champions, hindering or incapacitating them...

But there would probably be rules against that sort of thing. Certainly in the tasks themselves, but maybe not outside them... And if the Goblet had fairly selected her, without being tampered, then didn't that mean she did stand a chance? Just how good of a judge was a cup anyway?

Speaking of, she really needed a drink.

Half an hour later found her on top of a hill overlooking Hogsmeade. It was odd, seeing the town like this, the streets only scarcely lit by a few lantern posts as the rest of the town was swallowed up by the darkness of the night. Whenever they had arrived at Hogsmeade station, they never got the chance to see the village from a height.

Iris crossed her arms in an attempt to warm herself from the bitter wind as she stood there wondering if this was such a good idea. She did have class in the morning.

She trudged down the hill anyway, pulling her cloak tighter around herself. In a few minutes she would be nice and warm, the heat of firewhisky burning in her veins. After the mess of this evening she felt she deserved a drink.

And I should probably learn how to cast a proper warming charm too...

Off the main street, past a darkened Zonko's Joke Shop, she turned up a side street which became worse for wear as it stretched upward to a small inn. The orange glow of an enchanted lantern painted the building in a warm, comfortable sort of way in the night, and Iris let a little smug smile slip as she climbed the hill. Aberforth was enjoyable in his own coarse manner, and so she strolled up to the cozy corner of the Hog's Head Inn and opened the door.

"Potter!" said Aberforth as soon as she stepped in. "The ruddy hell are you doing here at this time?"

The bar had only one other person in it, surprisingly, and that person was passed out on one of the tables, unsurprisingly. He'd likely wake up sneezing, if the dust on the tables had anything to do with it. Aberforth had been cleaning glasses with a rag that looked dirtier than the glasses themselves. In the corner, a dusty piano and saxophone in midair played, magically.

"Those weren't there last time," she said, and then just to annoy him, skipped over to the bar.

"Did You-Know-Who drop you on your head when he tried to kill you or did the Killing Curse just scramble your brains?" he said shortly. "What did I say the last time you were here?"

"That insult would've worked much better if you weren't too much of a coward to say Voldemort," said Iris, putting her elbows down on the counter. Though he didn't flinch at Voldemort's name, he scowled at her.

"Habit," he muttered. "Now what do you want? Thought you'd never come back."

"I wasn't planning to."

"Why? Because last time you were so plastered that you couldn't think straight the next morning?"

"No. Yes. Maybe." Iris stared at him flatly. "You swindled me."

Aberforth let out a laugh, sudden and almost hearty. "I did not."

"I had fourteen galleons when I came here," said Iris, pointing at him. "The next morning, I had none!" He shrugged and looked honestly bewildered, the bastard. She waved her hand, rolling her eyes, and slid into one of the seats. "Can I have a drink?"

Aberforth didn't make any move to give her one. Instead he hummed to the low music and went back to cleaning glasses.

"Oh, come on," said Iris, flopping down on the counter. "I just got entered into the Tri-Wizard Tournament — though I think it's called the — er — what's the term for nine?"

Aberforth looked up. "Why would you do something stupid like that?"

"I didn't mean to. Well, I did, but not like that."

He snorted. "Story of your life?"

Iris let out a breathy laugh. "Yeah, I suppose."

"Well," said Aberforth, pulling out a bottle of firewhisky from under the bar and uncorking it. "No point in not allowing you to drink if you're never gonna make it to the age where you can," he said, before he slid a small glass filled to the brim with firewhisky, which dripped onto the counter when the glass stopped abruptly in her hand.

"It's unflattering how little faith people have in me nowadays," said Iris, shaking her head and raising the glass to her lips. "And I'm only two years away, you know — bit of time travel magic I messed with last year," she added in explanation.

The firewhisky scorched her throat when she drank, and she almost choked. The numb disbelief along with the barely-buried fear that Iris had been pushing to the back of her mind began to slowly dissipate. She almost instantly felt better. She took another small mouthful. A moment later, a small — very small — part of her urged her to start a bar fight, right here and right now. She had a suspicion that if she kept drinking, that irresponsible and incredibly stupid part of her would fully come out to play.

Aberforth took a cigar from a pocket and snapped his fingers near its end, lighting it with a display of wandless magic. "Now what was that about nine?"

"Oh." Iris watched the smoke cascade downward quickly and heavily, as though it were water, and dance across the wood of the counter to the beat of the music. "I guess that's the amount of champions. Long story, but they decided to do nine instead of three." She shrugged. "Mess I made."

"I bet it is. Tell me," said Aberforth, smoke billowing out of his mouth as he poured himself a shot, "does my brother know you come down here? Does he even know now?"

"Who's your brother?" she asked as she snatched the glass from his hands and put it past her lips.

"Eh? Albus, you halfwit," he said, unperturbed as he poured himself another one.

Iris choked on her drink and spit half of it out. Some of it splattered against Aberforth's long gray beard and some on the counter where the hovering smoke leapt out of the way. She looked at him, gobsmacked, as he looked down to his beard with an impassive face, then back at her.

"You're Dumbledore's brother?" she said, and as the words came from her mouth she noticed that his brilliant blue eyes were exactly like Dumbledore's.

"You didn't know?" said Aberforth, sounding slightly surprised himself. "I thought you and Albus were close?"

Iris nodded reluctantly, but then stopped. Now that she thought of it, she knew nothing of her headmaster.

"Sort of?" she said. "I'm closer to him than all of the other students, sure. But we never really talked, you know?"

"Oh, I know," said Aberforth, taking his cigar out of his mouth and downing the firewhisky. "Trust me, Potter, I know very well. Albus doesn't talk about himself much, does he?"

"Mm, no, he doesn't," said Iris, running her finger around the rim of the glass. "Man, I don't know anything about him." She glanced at him. "I'll talk about my family if you talk about yours."

"Your family's dead."

"Not all of them."

"What, those muggles? Or have you got some long-lost great aunt or something?" Aberforth scoffed and a puff of smoke shot out of his nose. "You're really not that interesting, Potter."

"You found the stories I told you last year interesting."

"Yeah," said Aberforth, scratching his chin, "I did." Then he put his cigar back in his mouth and turned around to put some bottles away in storage.

"That's okay," she said idly. "Summer before last I talked with Bathilda Bagshot, to learn more about my parents, but she told me some other interesting stories too —"

"I'd be very careful what you say next," said Aberforth dangerously, suddenly still.

"I wonder if one of my best friends will turn out to be a genocidal —" Iris ducked to avoid the bottle he threw at her. "Of course, a lot of people think my godfather, Sirius Black, turned out to be a mass murderer when, really, he was innocent."

"What are you talking about?" said Aberforth gruffly. "Didn't you kill Black?"

"In my defense," said Iris, "he literally told me he killed my parents."

Aberforth stared at her for a moment, then he picked up the chair next to her, brought it over the counter, and used it to sit on the other side of her.

"You killed another innocent person?" he said grimly.

Iris looked down into her glass. "I confronted him. I accused him of killing my parents. He said he didn't deny it." She took her wand out and Summoned another bottle, pulling the cork off and taking a drink straight from it. Then she slapped some galleons onto the wood, grimacing as the alcohol went down. "Moments later — wow, that stuff's strong — moments later, Professor Lupin came in, but he was too late. Then we found out Peter Pettigrew was still alive, and that he had been the real traitor."

"What then?" said Aberforth with something almost like gentleness intertwined with his curiosity.

Iris stared into space. "I dragged him to the dementors and let them have his soul. I think that might've been the breaking point for Hermione — you met her last year, with the bushy hair. She didn't want much to do with me after that point. Can't say I blame her." She drank again. She wouldn't have normally talked about this, but the liquor seemed to be pushing her into it, as well as making her skull feel heavy and impenetrable.

Aberforth watched for a moment, then shook his head. "What a mess."

"Course, Ron isn't really talking to me either — not since I killed Ginny in the Chamber." Iris put the bottle down and placed her chin on it, hands wrapped around the neck of it. "Don't blame him. Only the twins speak to me now, but I can tell they haven't forgotten."

"I thought they knew," said Aberforth. "That you did it to stop You-Know-Who — Voldemort — from coming back. Didn't you tell me that last year?"

"Sure, but would you care about the reasons, whatever they were, if it was your little sister —" Iris stopped herself, wincing. "Sorry."

Aberforth sighed. "Don't worry about it." He took the bottle from her and she let him. "So, friendless and a champion of that tournament." He chuckled. "Never seen such a trainwreck of a life like yours. Try not to be mauled by a werewolf on your way back."

"Are you kicking me out?"

"No, not yet. For once I actually feel pity for you. You've been dealt a shit hand, Iris Potter."

Iris looked at her hand, frowning, then laughed at herself. "Oh, right. Yeah, shit hand. What can ya do?"

Aberforth put the bottle somewhere under the counter. "Make the most of it, like I didn't."

Iris closed her eyes and shook her head wearily. "What a pity party this is."

"Then let's stop. Who're the other champions?"

"Well..." Iris raised a finger. "There's Viktor Krum — yeah, that one," she said when Aberforth nodded, impressed. "Then there's Cedric Diggory from Hufflepuff and Cassius Warrington from Slytherin —"

"I know those two."

Raising the fourth finger, Iris continued. "And then there's Fleur Delacour, from Beauxbatons. God, she's hot."

Aberforth raised his eyebrows. "Is she?"

Iris nodded in a sage-like way. "Think she's part-veela."

He peered at her over his spectacles in a way that reminded her of his brother. "Yeah? Are you jealous?"

She gave him a look of bemused ridicule. "What? No, of course not. I mean, yeah, definitely, she's, like, ethereal, and French."

"What's so special about that?"

"Are you kidding?" said Iris, astonished he even had to ask. "They're — what are you even getting at? Why are we talking about this?"

"Was just a question," said Aberforth, shrugging. "Why so defensive?"

"I'm not!"

"Hiding something?"

Iris threw her hands up in questioning exasperation. "Merlin, what is this? I mention the French once and you think it's some nefarious plot — the World Wars ended decades ago, old man."

"The British Muggles allied themselves with the French," said Aberforth, clearly amused.

"Whatever."

He chuckled. "You're not too bad, Potter — better than most I get here."

"Maybe if you bothered to clean up a bit..." said Iris. "Seriously, is a wave of your wand too much work for you?"

"Ever think that I don't want this place to be popular?"

"Your personality will do that on its own — there's no excuse to not take care of this dust, at least."

This time Iris didn't manage to dodge the thrown bottle.