Blooming: The Untold Goblet of Fire Story

September 1st,

Veronica's stomach had churned for the fourth time that morning. London seemed much more wet and humid than expected, at least much more than she would have ever expected.

"Dear Miss France,

I hope this letter finds you well. How are things going? I hope it's all more than excellent. Have you got everything prepared and packed? If you're feeling overwhelmed, don't hesitate to use the packing charm. Remember, just swing your wand; one flick up, one half-arc, and then straight up again, that should be enough to do the trick.

I suspect this British weather may seem a bit gloomy to someone used to more sunshine. But in time, you might find its rhythm somewhat comforting. As I write, I'm looking out over the castle grounds. This time of year, they're quite a sight, transformed from summer greens to autumn colors that always bring me a sense of calm. Soon, you'll see them yourself, and I hope they bring you the same peace they always bring me.

Enclosed with this letter are all the necessary papers for starting your year at Hogwarts. Be sure to have everything in order before you arrive.

It's with a heavy heart that I inform you I'm stepping down from my position here as professor. The past year has been full of challenges, but Hogwarts remains a place of wonder and warmth. And don't worry, we'll meet when you least expect it. Until then, I trust you'll receive a welcome worthy of our school and country.

May you come to see, as I have, that Hogwarts embodies many things at once. In discovering its secrets, I hope you'll find something about yourself as well.

With warmest regards,

Remus J. Lupin

P.S. If you see Harry, tell him he's often in my thoughts and always in good company."

That was all the letter said, a teacher she wouldn't even have anymore, and a description of weather she had just encountered. At the top of the letter, a paper was torn in half with a single address, Bleeding Heart Yard, London 7N–That was all she had at the moment, her suitcase, an address and a new pair of shoes that would soon be muddy.

Veronica stepped out of the taxi, wobbling a little as her heel caught on the edge of the curb. She popped open her mustard yellow umbrella just in time to stop a few fat raindrops from splattering onto her nose. Her eyes widened with wonder as raindrops cascaded down her mustard-yellow umbrella, a bright contrast to the gray, rainy London day—the kind of bright that made people look twice, like it had wandered out of a painting by mistake.

The taxi driver, an elderly man with a kind smile and laugh lines so deep they looked like folds in a map, tipped his hat to her.

"Thank you!" she called, her voice lilting with a mix of her native accent and newly perfect learned English, as if she had almost forgotten to thank him until the last moment—a small lapse that still carried the manners that had brought her this far, in that right moment.

When the black British-looking car finally disappeared into the hillside through the rain, Veronica realized she was completely on her own again. She turned and let her eyes run over a peculiar, all-black building, almost like an eccentric museum of oddities. "Museum of Curiosities" number 7—what are the odds? she thought. It really looked like a museum of curiosities, a fantastic uncommon black building right in the middle of gray London.

Standing there, gazing through the window of this strange place, she found herself dissociating, wondering if she was in the right place or had mispronounced something. Her eyes flicked to the giant, old clock inside, checking if there was still any chance of rushing to King's Cross. She knew the Hogwarts Express always passed through there, but at this point, the train would already be in the far north.

As Veronica flicked her yellow umbrella, she noticed something moving among the jars filled with strange masses. It moved again. She felt small eyes watching her from behind the jars, accompanied by a faint flutter of wings. Whatever it was, it now had her full attention.

She let out a long sigh and glanced once more at the mysterious sign above this peculiar museum, wondering why anyone would choose a place like that. Not that she minded, not at all—Veronica was more than accustomed to strange places and things that others might find odd or 'different.' She just reasoned that the International Confederation of Wizards would have chosen a less conspicuous location for a fifth-year student's first meeting.

She paused in the doorway, a mix of hesitation and curiosity tugging at her. Carefully, she tucked her yellow umbrella into a small enchanted bag—better not to draw attention from passing Muggles. The air inside was thick with the smell of old wood and dust, but beneath that was something else, faint and hard to place, almost like the echo of a spell long forgotten. Her eyes darted around as she stepped inside, her breath catching for a moment while she took in the strange, fascinating assortment of objects scattered throughout the room.

The museum was small, yet every inch of space seemed crammed with oddities. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, filled with glass jars containing odd substances: one jar held what looked like a swirling cloud of silver mist, while another housed a floating eyeball, turning lazily as though watching her. There were shrunken heads, ancient masks with hollow eyes, and tiny skeletons of creatures she couldn't name, their delicate bones gleaming in the dim light. Despite the eeriness, she could feel a sense of magic lingering in the air, and couldn't help but feel a pull toward the strange beauty of the strange place.

It was the kind of place a Muggle with a fascination for magic might wander into. A tourist trap, she thought with a small smile.

Veronica slipped onto a stool at the bar tucked away in the corner, feeling distinctly out of place. She definitely wasn't old enough to order anything, but at the moment, it was the only seat not surrounded by strange artifacts or peculiar-looking patrons. Long shadows stretched across the room in the dim light, and the low hum of conversation filled the air, broken only by the occasional clink of glasses.

"Nice jacket, kid" a voice drawled from her left. Veronica turned to see a beautiful woman lounging at the bar, her long hair framing a face that seemed more vampire than witch.

'Oh, thanks…' Veronica replied, with a certain uncertainty in her voice, but genuinely flattered.

The woman's comment flattered her enough to make her nervous but not enough to make her look away. She straightened her jacket with a shy smile, then glanced down at herself, remembering the outfit she'd thrown on that morning—just in case she wasn't late for the train and could make a good impression on her schoolmates. But now, she couldn't tell if the woman was complimenting her or sizing her up.

A fashionable tourist, maybe, she concluded, in the middle of goths, hipsters and some steampunk looking people.

"You're late," a male voice figure says next to her, dropping a large glass of who-knows-what. "But no matter. We have business to attend to." He finishes wiping his mouth. Veronica felt an odd sense of unease creep over her. He hadn't said his name yet, and something about him seemed... off. His appearance was certainly startling: he was tall and rugged, dressed in a long, weathered coat that seemed a size too big, with a weathered face, scars running deep across his features, and one eye that didn't look like it belonged to him at all—it was round, bright, and constantly swiveling in all directions, as if it had a mind of its own.

Veronica told herself not to stare at the eye.

"Who are you?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Alastor Moody," he replied brusquely, cutting her off as he ran a hand through his wild, greying hair. "And I don't have time for pleasantries. We need to get moving." His tone was impatient, almost urgent, as if every second wasted was a second too long.

"Get moving?" she echoed, her heart racing. "Moving where? You mean Hogwarts...?" she questioned, afraid she might be speaking to the wrong person for a moment and then be labelled crazy for mentioning a nowhere place called Hogwarts.

"I wouldn't be surprised if you were sorted into Ravenclaw, girl," he says in a grumpy tone, as if it were an obvious answer, getting up and limping on his leg, which seemed to make the sound of wood against the floor.

"Moody, don't talk to the kid like that," said the vampire-looking woman in the bar, who seemed to know the crooked-eyed man, her tone was nurturing, almost serene.

Moody merely mumbled something peevish before picking up his crutch and heading to the back of the establishment.

Veronica saw no alternative but to follow him, her heart racing as they navigated through the labyrinth of the museum. They passed bizarre images that seemed to twist and distort under the dim light, strange skeletons suspended in glass cases, and creepy dolls with wide, glassy eyes that seemed to watch their every move. The air was thick with an unsettling energy, and she couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss.

"Sir?" Veronica asked cautiously, almost regretting speaking given Moody's brusque manner. "Why, of all the possible places, did you choose this one?"

Alastor Moody nodded, though he still looked uncomfortable—his face perpetually set in a scowl. After a moment, he shifted from his defensive tone. "Because of this."

Before Veronica could process what was coming next, he reached into his coat and drew out his wand with a swift flick of his wrist, causing what appeared to be tiny skeletons of fairies to fly delicately around them.

Just as she was about to remember the rules about magic being used in public Muggle spaces, the skeletons flew over the heads of two Muggles passing through the next corridor nearby, where she could clearly overhear them. 

"I just love how this place is so magical," one Muggle said, with excitement in his voice.

"Yeah," the other replied, nodding enthusiastically. "The illusion effects and magic tricks they use here are really impressive, I must admit."

"Hipsters." Moody said almost in a growl. "They look for magic, and when they finally see it, they refuse to acknowledge it," Alastor Moody added, as if it were something usual.

Alastor Moody stopped abruptly and turned toward an old photo booth nestled in the corner, its weathered exterior barely noticeable amid the bizarre displays. With a swift motion, he reached through the curtain and gestured for her to come closer. Veronica found the scene peculiar but she reminded herself that she was a witch—strange occurrences were part of her world. Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside the booth, her eyes widening in surprise at what she found. In the centre sat a stuffed lioness adorned with a bright red hat. For a moment, she was speechless, grappling with the absurdity of her surroundings, but she quickly decided to accept the bizarre situation.

"Ready? This might be nauseating," Moody said, his voice grumpy and serious.

"What—" Before Veronica could finish her question, he had already cast the spell and apparated, leaving her no time to prepare for the sudden shift.