Dylan paused slightly, feeling a cold, oppressive sensation sweep through the air the moment Durmstrang's headmaster stepped onto the dock.
He was all too familiar with this feeling—like damp snake scales brushing against his skin.
It was the distinct aura of the Dark Mark. Dylan raised an eyebrow.
He looked up, his gaze locking with the headmaster's.
The man had slick, glossy black curls plastered to his scalp, as shiny as his oily voice.
—Even greasier than Snape, Dylan thought.
A neatly trimmed goatee, equally glossy, quivered slightly as he spoke.
"Dear Dumbledore, it's been a while. How have you been faring?"
His tone was deliberately soft, but it dripped with insincerity.
"Couldn't be better, Mr. Karkaroff," Dumbledore replied, his face still wearing its usual warm smile as he gently stroked his silver-white beard. "Hogwarts' hearths are always burning bright, perfect for welcoming friends from afar."
The two stood at the edge of the dock, exchanging pleasantries. Their words were polite, but their eyes met briefly, carrying an undercurrent of mutual probing.
While the headmasters chatted, Hogwarts students had already turned their attention to the Durmstrang group. A stifled gasp rippled through the crowd.
"It's Viktor Krum!" someone exclaimed, pointing at a tall, lanky figure in the group, their voice full of disbelief. "I thought he'd graduated ages ago, but he's still in school?"
Ron followed the pointed finger, spotting the figure in a thick, fur-lined Durmstrang cloak, his messy hair falling over his forehead. It was indeed the world-famous Quidditch Seeker.
Ron's eyes widened, his mouth slightly agape. "Blimey, he's even taller than he looks on posters. I thought he was at least twenty when I saw him at the Quidditch World Cup."
"This is gonna be brilliant!" George clapped his hands three times in excitement, his voice rising enough to draw a few sideways glances.
Everyone had arrived.
Hogwarts students poured into the Great Hall, their footsteps and hushed chatter filling the once-quiet space with lively energy. The house banners on the walls gleamed under the candlelight, complementing the newly hung silk decorations, giving the hall an air of grandeur.
Dumbledore didn't head to the long tables with the students. Instead, he gestured for Durmstrang's Headmaster Karkaroff to follow him. The two wove through the crowd, Karkaroff's goatee swaying with each step as his eyes darted over the students. They disappeared into a velvet-curtained room at the far end of the hall, the curtains swaying slightly as they closed.
The seating in the Great Hall had already been arranged, and students from each school took their places as directed.
Beauxbatons students headed to the Slytherin table, exchanging polite nods with a slightly tense atmosphere.
Durmstrang students were the last to sit. They unfastened their fur cloaks, letting them slide off their shoulders to reveal blood-red uniforms underneath. The hems were embroidered with dark silver anchors, which oddly complemented the Gryffindor uniforms nearby.
Ron nudged Harry, pointing out the intricate details on Krum's uniform.
The three schools' uniforms spread across the tables, each vibrant and distinct. Some Hogwarts students glanced down at their own plain robes.
"Ours are a bit dull, aren't they? Not even a single decorative pattern," someone muttered.
Their friend shrugged, running a finger along their collar. "They're sturdy, though. Potion stains don't show up as much."
Soon, the velvet curtains of the meeting room parted, and Dumbledore emerged with the two headmasters.
Madame Maxime walked on the outside, her deep blue velvet gown trailing slightly with each step. As she approached the staff table, the Beauxbatons students stood in unison, their movements so synchronized that the chairs barely scraped the floor.
Students from other schools froze in surprise. Hufflepuffs gaped, Ravenclaws adjusted their glasses, and even Slytherins raised their eyebrows.
Madame Maxime gave a small smile and a wave, and her students sat back down, the benches creaking softly.
Dumbledore stepped behind the owl-shaped lectern. He adjusted his half-moon glasses, his gaze sweeping the room until the hall fell silent. Then, with a warm smile, he spoke. "Good evening, ladies, gentlemen, and our esteemed guests."
"The Triwizard Tournament is a grand event, one we haven't seen in years." His voice, gentle yet commanding, carried to every corner of the hall. "It's with great enthusiasm that I welcome all of you to Hogwarts."
"I sincerely hope that in the days to come, you'll forge friendships, gain new insights, and enjoy every moment here."
He paused, his eyes settling on the empty plates along the tables, his tone lightening. "But for now, the most important thing is to enjoy some good food—please, make yourselves at home."
As soon as he finished, a faint mist rose from the tables, and plates filled with roast chicken, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie, and more. The aroma filled the air, and students' eyes lit up.
The house-elves had prepared everything perfectly. Even the honey cakes Dylan had seen in the common room earlier were test batches. Dishes reflecting each school's regional flavors appeared, their scents mingling and drifting out the open windows, drawing a few calls from the Forbidden Forest's night birds.
Dylan, always eager to try new foods, soon had a small pile of dishes on his plate. Across from him, Hermione speared a piece of meat smothered in thick sauce, blew on it, and took a bite. Her eyes sparkled. "This is delicious—you guys have to try it."
Dylan took a bite of the tender, melt-in-your-mouth meat and nodded. "Not bad at all."
Not every dish was a hit, though. A plate of baked snails arrived, their buttery, garlicky aroma drawing curious glances. But when someone lifted a glistening snail with their fork, their excitement faded fast.
The slimy texture reminded them of the Blast-Ended Skrewts from Care of Magical Creatures. Just then, Hagrid pushed a cart in from a side door, his left arm wrapped in thick bandages that smelled faintly of potion. He'd been injured taming rogue Skrewts the week before.
Students glanced from Hagrid's bandages to the wriggling snails on their forks, picturing him wrestling Skrewts. Appetites vanished. Some quietly pushed their plates aside.
"These baked snails are actually really good. Why aren't you eating?" a clear, bright voice cut through the silence. "And the fish stew next to it, with fresh mussels—it's so flavorful."
George and the others turned, gasping.
"It's her… the one with the sapphire eyes…"
The girl had removed her hood, revealing soft golden curls and eyes that sparkled like gems. The boys around her suddenly became self-conscious. One, mid-bite of a chicken leg, slowed down, dabbing his mouth with a napkin and sitting up straighter. Another stared at a snail, then bravely ate it, chewing slowly to avoid looking clumsy. A third set down his cutlery, propped his chin on his hand, and gazed in her direction.
Dylan followed the voice and saw a silver-haired girl standing next to Luna. Her hair was as long as Luna's but straighter, while Luna's pale blonde waves shimmered in the light.
As she sat, Fred blinked hard, as if snapping out of a trance. He rubbed a red mark on his arm where someone had pinched him, muttering, "She's gorgeous… those eyes, like sapphires. Stunning."
"Wait…" He frowned, glancing sidelong at her, avoiding direct eye contact. "Something's off. Could she have Veela blood? That pull—it's like mental magic!"
"She's so pretty…" George, still staring, grinned goofily, his smile stretching ear to ear. "You're right, like a Veela from the stories."
"He's hopeless," Fred muttered, rolling his eyes.
Just then, the Great Hall's heavy oak doors creaked open, and two figures strode in.
The first wizard stood tall, dressed in a pristine dark suit, his shirt collar stiff and tie perfectly knotted. Even his watch chain gleamed. The second was more casual, wearing a flame-patterned shirt and a light brown jacket, a cheerful grin on his face and a spring in his step.
They headed straight for the staff table. As they passed the Gryffindor table, Ludo Bagman waved at Ron, who he'd met at the Quidditch World Cup.
"It's Ludo Bagman and old Barty Crouch!" Fred whispered, squinting at them. "With those two here, the tournament organizers are all accounted for."
George, reluctantly tearing his eyes from the Beauxbatons table, nodded as he followed Fred's gaze.
Soon, the desserts on the plates vanished, as if hit by a Disappearing Charm. Students sat up straight, exchanging excited yet nervous glances, their breathing shallow.
Dumbledore, ever prepared, caught the last crumb of a macaron as it fell from his beard, popping it into his mouth before anyone noticed, a trace of pink frosting lingering on his lips.
Snape, seated nearby, caught the moment. His brows twitched, and his lips curled into a cold, disdainful sneer, his gaze icy as it swept over Dumbledore.
Karkaroff, next to Snape, noticed the exchange. He leaned in, whispering something and subtly pointing at Dumbledore.
Dumbledore ignored them, standing slowly and smoothing his robes. As he stepped toward the lectern, the hall fell completely silent, the faint buzz of chatter replaced by the sound of quickened breaths.
Anticipation and nerves, like the earlier aroma of food, filled the air.
Some students clenched their fists, others leaned forward, eyes locked on the lectern.
"I know you've all been waiting for this moment," Dumbledore said, his warm smile unwavering, his voice amplified by magic to reach every corner. "Truth be told, I'm just as excited as you are."
He paused, gesturing toward the staff table. "But before we dive in, allow me to introduce two key guests without whom this tournament would've been far harder to organize."
He motioned to the two wizards. "This is Mr. Barty Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, who's worked tirelessly to coordinate this event."
Crouch stood, his posture rigid, giving a curt nod before sitting back down, his movements as precise as his attire.
"And this is Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports," Dumbledore continued, his tone lighter. "He's the one who finalized the tournament's rules, ensuring both fairness and excitement."
Bagman leapt to his feet, his grin dazzling. He waved enthusiastically, nearly swinging his arm in a full circle, and even winked playfully at the Gryffindor table, earning a few chuckles.
Dumbledore began to clap, and a tepid round of applause followed. Students' hands barely touched, their focus clearly elsewhere, eagerly awaiting what came next.
"Mr. Bagman and Mr. Crouch will join me, Madame Maxime, and Headmaster Karkaroff as the judging panel," Dumbledore said, his tone growing serious as he gestured to the staff table. "We'll evaluate the champions' performances throughout the tournament."
The word "champions" silenced the hall, the crackle of candles the only sound. Students snapped to attention—Ron leaned forward, nearly bumping his chin on the table; a Ravenclaw pushed up his glasses, eyes wide; Hufflepuffs straightened up; even the usually composed Slytherins sat taller.
Dumbledore didn't linger. He drew his wand, tapping it lightly on the floor. A soft golden light spread from the tip, and a smooth stone pedestal rose from the center of the hall, its edges glowing faintly with magic.
With a warm smile, he waved toward the doors. "Mr. Filch, please bring up the casket."
All eyes turned as Filch shuffled in, clutching an ancient wooden chest. His arms strained, his usual scowl softened slightly, though he didn't snap at the curious students. The chest was intricately carved with vine patterns, studded with rubies, sapphires, and pearls, its metal clasp etched with faded runes—a clearly extraordinary object.
Students at the back craned their necks, some standing on tiptoes or even climbing onto chairs, only to be gently pulled down by prefects.
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