A black silhouette appeared high in the distant sky.
Charles's eyesight wasn't as sharp as an eagle's, so he couldn't see clearly at that distance. But the way that figure descended—it could only be from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic.
His guess was quickly proven right.
Twelve massive, powder-blue horses galloped through the clouds, their silver manes streaming like ribbons of light. Each was as large as an elephant, and more than one young wizard gasped, mistaking them for a flight of dragons charging straight toward them!
The carriage they pulled was even more colossal—calling it a "carriage" barely did it justice. "House on wheels" might have been more accurate.
"So those are the Abraxans?"
It was Charles's first time seeing such magnificent beasts. Compared to the Thestrals in the Forbidden Forest, the Abraxans were much larger and far more beautiful.
Still, if he had to pick, he'd admit he preferred the Thestrals—their fierce, eerie grace had a strange charm all its own.
The carriage began to descend, sweeping lower and lower until—BOOM!—the ground shook beneath the thunder of their hooves. Each hoof was as big as a dinner plate. The enormous wheels struck earth with a jolt as the gold-bridled horses tossed their heads, red eyes glinting like molten fire.
A golden crest gleamed on the carriage door: two wands crossed, with three stars pinned at their tips.
Then, the door swung open.
A boy in a light-blue robe jumped down and bent low, fumbling with something inside before unfolding a golden staircase.
He stepped back respectfully. A shining black heel emerged from the doorway—so large it could've served as a child's sled—followed by a towering woman: Madam Olympe Maxime.
She was far lovelier than her depiction in the films—no wonder she had poor Hagrid utterly smitten.
Her olive-toned face was striking, her eyes large, dark, and glistening, her nose sharp, and her glossy hair pulled into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. She was wrapped head to toe in black satin, her neck and fingers glittering with opals.
Dumbledore began to applaud.
"My dear Madam Maxime," he said warmly, "welcome to Hogwarts."
Her face relaxed into a graceful smile as she extended a radiant hand and stepped forward.
The sight was almost comical—Dumbledore was tall himself, yet to kiss her hand he hardly needed to bend at all. It looked like a half-grown boy greeting a stately woman, though that "boy" had a silver beard long enough to tuck into his belt.
"Dumbledore," Madam Maxime said in her deep, musical voice, "I hope you are well."
"Very well, thank you," he replied. "I appreciate the effort you made to come."
"To be honest," she said, "when I received your letter, I wasn't planning to attend. But Léonie recommended I come and take a look."
She shifted her massive frame aside, revealing another woman—Léonie, the same witch Charles had met briefly during last year's Christmas holiday.
The moment she stepped down, Léonie eagerly waved to Charles.
Following her gaze, Madam Maxime soon spotted him.
"So, you must be Mr. Charles Gold, the organizer of this event?" she asked softly.
Charles's fame was modest, limited mostly to Britain. Aside from last summer's duel where he'd defeated several pure-blood wizards and briefly made the headlines, he was hardly a household name.
Well, except perhaps for his face appearing on a Chocolate Frog card—something only children would care about.
To Madam Maxime, he was just an unfamiliar upstart. And as for these so-called "Pokémon"? She regarded them as a curious joke at best.
Frankly, if not for Dumbledore's invitation, she would never have bothered to attend.
And she suspected most of the other schools had come only out of respect for him as well.
"I am Charles Gold, the discoverer of Pokémon," Charles said calmly, shaking her hand. His eyes barely reached her chest.
"It's an honor to have you here for the Pokémon Exhibition."
Madam Maxime merely nodded, clearly uninterested. To her, Pokémon sounded little different from ordinary magical creatures.
"Dumbledore," she said briskly, "where shall I stable my horses?"
"Don't worry," Dumbledore smiled. "Our Care of Magical Creatures professor will see to them."
Madam Maxime, however, looked doubtful. And who could blame her? Those horses were enormous.
"My Abraxans require strong handlers," she warned. "They have fiery tempers—"
"No problem, ma'am."
Charles casually pulled a few Poké Balls from his belt and tossed them skyward.
That caught her attention.
She watched as the red-and-white spheres burst open mid-air, flashing with crimson light—then, several towering, muscle-bound humanoids with four arms each appeared before her.
She gasped.
"Are those—?"
Words failed her. These beings looked almost human—certainly more so than some of the stranger semi-human species she'd encountered.
"These are Machamp," Charles explained with a grin. "As their name suggests, they're incredibly strong. One arm alone can move a small mountain. Handling your horses will be no trouble at all."
He turned to Dumbledore. "Professor Kettleburn isn't exactly in shape to manage creatures this size. Perhaps Hagrid should tend to them instead?"
As he spoke, the Machamp had already grasped the reins. Léonie reached out to touch one's massive bicep, her eyes sparkling with fascination as the Pokémon stood calmly under her hand.
"Excellent idea," Dumbledore agreed. "Madam Maxime, our Keeper of Keys and Grounds will care for them."
"Very well." Madam Maxime's gaze lingered on the Machamp, her tone distracted. "Do tell this Hagrid fellow that my horses drink only pure malt whisky."
After Beauxbatons came the delegation from the distant Castelobruxo.
They had traveled aboard a South American magical creature and endured a long journey—meaning they had likely departed first.
Leading them was not the current headmaster but the retired former one, Benedita Dorado, an elderly witch nearly as old as Griselda Marchbanks, who had already been a Wizarding Examinations Authority examiner when Dumbledore was a student.
"It's been so long, Dumbledore," Benedita said warmly, her wrinkled face crinkling into a smile.
"Benedita! How are you?"
"Still alive, thankfully. The last time we met, you weren't even Headmaster yet!" she laughed.
Castelobruxo had once exchanged visits with Hogwarts decades before Voldemort's rise—back when Armando Dippet still held the post.
Incidentally, Dippet had lived to 355. In that light, the Philosopher's Stone didn't seem quite so miraculous.
Dumbledore welcomed her into the castle as she gazed around nostalgically.
"I remember Armando telling me Hogwarts had a mischievous poltergeist named Peeves," she chuckled. "I suggested sending him a few Caporas to keep him busy. Shame he never took my advice."
Caporas were magical beasts known for their mischief—if they were Pokémon, their Ability would surely be Prankster.
"By the way," Benedita asked, "those 'Pokémon' you mentioned in your letter—what are they?"
"They're wondrous creatures," Dumbledore said with a twinkle. "Even now, I find them extraordinary. Castelobruxo's expertise in Magizoology is unparalleled, so I'm sure they'll fascinate you."
Benedita nodded approvingly.
Unlike Madam Maxime, the Castelobruxo delegation showed genuine curiosity toward Pokémon. They might not yet understand what set them apart from magical beasts, but they were eager to learn.
Next arrived Mahōtokoro, the smallest of the eleven officially registered wizarding schools under the International Confederation of Wizards. Its students began training as young as seven.
The visiting wizards all wore golden robes, their leader carrying a wand of sakura wood.
Amusingly, Charles spotted several American Aurors from the Ministry of Magic disguised among them, pretending to be from Mahōtokoro. It seemed Cornelius Fudge had failed to stop them.
And how had Charles noticed? Simple—half a dozen blond, blue-eyed faces among a sea of East Asian students were rather hard to miss.
He didn't expose them, though. He preferred to see what tricks they were up to.
The final school to arrive was Durmstrang Institute.
Located in Scandinavia, it was actually one of the closest to Hogwarts—yet they were the last to appear, arriving only when the moon had risen high.
A strange rumbling echoed out of the darkness—a deep, throbbing roar, mixed with the slurping of water, like a giant vacuum cleaner moving along the lakebed.
Charles saw the surface of the Black Lake churning violently. Great splashes rose as waves crashed against the shore—then, right in the lake's center, a huge whirlpool formed, as though a plug had been pulled from the bottom.
A long, dark mast-like shape slowly rose from the vortex.
Up it came—grand and eerie—a massive ship surfaced under the moonlight, glimmering wetly. It looked like a skeleton, the hull bleached and hollow as though freshly dredged from the deep. Its dim, fog-lit portholes glowed like ghostly eyes.
It could've sailed straight out of Pirates of the Caribbean—a perfect ghost ship.
As Charles thought this, the vessel broke free of the water with a splash and began gliding toward shore. Moments later, with a heavy thud, an anchor dropped into the shallows, followed by a plank that smacked down onto the bank.
Igor Karkaroff stepped out—tall and thin, but hardly the image of virtue. He looked every inch the sly schemer he was… and indeed, once a Death Eater.
"Dumbledore!" he cried as he approached. "My dear old friend! How have you been?"
His voice dripped with fake warmth, as though they'd been lifelong companions.
"Splendid, thank you, Professor Karkaroff," Dumbledore replied politely.
Up close, Charles saw him clearly—snow-white hair, a neatly curled goatee that made him look like a shifty merchant. He clasped Dumbledore's hands in both of his own.
Unlike in the winter Triwizard Tournament, the summer warmth meant he wasn't swaddled in fur.
"My dear old Hogwarts," Karkaroff said, gazing up at the castle, his yellowed teeth gleaming in a smile devoid of sincerity. "It's wonderful to be back—simply wonderful…"
His tone was sweet, but his eyes remained cold and sharp.
"I'd nearly forgotten how warm Britain can be," he added. "Quite hot, isn't it?"
"Summer always is," said Dumbledore mildly. "But it's cool inside. Please, come in."
He ushered the final "guest" into the castle.
Karkaroff kept up his oily chatter all the way, never once mentioning Pokémon.
Charles didn't mind. He knew exactly what kind of man Karkaroff was—and the fact that Durmstrang had sent anyone at all was surprise enough.
Unlike the Triwizard Tournament, this time the visitors were mostly professors, not students.
Thus, at the welcoming feast, only a few extra seats were added to the staff table, leaving the students' arrangement unchanged.
Even so, the Great Hall buzzed with excitement.
Many young witches and wizards couldn't stop whispering.
"I bet their schools don't have Pokémon, right?" Ron said gleefully.
Harry, meanwhile, stared curiously at the unfamiliar guests—but when his eyes met Snape's, his scar suddenly burned again.
(End of Chapter)