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"Albus, forgive me for disturbing you at such a late hour. I truly hope I am not being too presumptuous."
Madame Maxime's voice was warm and melodious, but even as she spoke, her gaze drifted irresistibly toward the distance, where the massive dueling platform hovered in the night air like some monumental edifice of magic. Her eyes gleamed with fascination as she went on, "Igor and I heard rumors that Hogwarts has built a dueling arena of staggering scale, so vast that the entire European wizarding world is buzzing about it. Curiosity has been gnawing at us, and at last we could no longer hold back the desire to see with our own eyes this so-called Contract Arena that has so often found its way into the headlines."
"You honor us with your visit!" Dumbledore replied with his characteristic smile, a genial sparkle in his eyes. "In fact, only a few days ago I was toying with the thought of sending each of you a letter, inviting you here myself…"
Karkaroff cut across him with a harsh, throaty snort, his tone laced with suspicion. "Honor us with our visit? Hmph. Tell me, Dumbledore, did Hogwarts create such a colossal structure merely for sport, or is there some deeper message you wish to send across Europe? Is it your intention to reshape the rules of wizarding duels? Durmstrang has little patience for trivial amusements, but when it comes to matters of dueling, we have always maintained the vigilance such things demand."
"Igor…" the old headmaster answered with gentle calm, "Durmstrang's tradition of dueling is long-standing indeed. But Hogwarts has only just taken its first tentative step upon this path of exploration. And as it happens, the chief architect of this arena is someone you already know; an alumnus of your own school."
As those words fell, all eyes turned instinctively toward the figure approaching them: Sargeras Greengrass.
Even Karkaroff's shadowed gaze, until now fixed on the hovering arena, shifted at last to settle upon the man. His stare was sharp and oppressive, tinged with unconcealed scrutiny and, beneath the surface, a faint trace of unease he could not quite mask.
"Is that so?" Karkaroff said evenly, though his voice carried the faintest edge. "I remember Mr. Greengrass well. He graduated from Durmstrang with perfect marks in every subject, a rare distinction indeed, and at the time he spurned without hesitation both my invitation and my efforts to retain him, choosing instead to sail across the ocean and accept a professorship at Ilvermorny…"
A low chuckle, quiet yet cutting, escaped Sargeras as he stepped forward. His face bore a mild smile, his tone composed, though every word landed with deliberate precision. "Headmaster Karkaroff, perhaps your memory is selective. At the beginning, you had no intention of admitting me into your school at all."
He let that hang for a breath before continuing, "And during my years at Durmstrang, your favor was never for students like me. You reserved your attention for those with powerful family ties and formidable influence. As for nobody like me…"
Sargeras shook his head gently, the smile never leaving his lips. "Such a nobody was always beneath your notice."
The effect of his words rippled at once through the surrounding professors. Some exchanged disdainful looks, others stifled quiet laughter, while a few chose the safer path of pretending they had heard nothing at all.
Karkaroff's already sullen face grew darker still, though his features were so steeped in gloom it was difficult to tell just how deeply the words had struck. "Professor Greengrass, you've misunderstood me…" he replied stiffly, his tone rigid and brittle, as if each word had been forced out against his will. "I always treat all my students with the same fairness. Without exception."
"Ah… is that so." Sargeras did not even bother to raise his eyelids. His voice was cool, unhurried, almost bored. "Then I truly must have misunderstood you. I had assumed the headmaster of Durmstrang was nothing more than a self-serving coward, a man driven entirely by personal gain and petty ambition."
Karkaroff's face turned a shade of iron-blue, his lips twitching as if he were about to retort, but before the words could leave his mouth, Madame Maxime intervened. "The night air is far too cold, Igor," she said, her tone firm but diplomatic. "The students and professors are still waiting out in the carriages. Let us see them settled first, and we can speak at leisure afterwards."
"Ah, Olympe is quite right," Dumbledore immediately agreed, his voice soft yet carrying effortlessly through the night. "Yes, let us bring them inside at once. The Great Hall is already prepared for a welcoming feast, and the entire school of Hogwarts is waiting eagerly to receive you."
In truth, the Hogwarts students had only just been given word of it.
At this very moment, the four houses were hurriedly gathering in the Great Hall, each table filling with chattering students who craned their necks in curiosity. The air was thick with speculation, their voices buzzing as whispers darted back and forth between them.
"What's going on? Didn't we just have dinner?"
"Who cares, I'm already feeling hungry again…"
The younger wizards exchanged baffled murmurs, their voices low and uncertain, while the prefects, though just as much in the dark, kept up the show of authority, weaving between the tables to preserve some semblance of order.
It was only moments after the students had settled when Dumbledore strode in at the head of the procession, leading the two visiting headmasters beneath the glow of a hundred floating candles. The light gilded the hall with warmth, casting long shadows that danced across the enchanted ceiling.
"Merlin's smelly socks! She's even taller than Hagrid!" Ron blurted under his breath, pointing at Madame Maxime with wide-eyed astonishment. "Don't tell me she's also…?"
"A lot of people have wondered the same thing," Hermione whispered quickly, her tone both hushed and prim. "But I heard Madame Maxime has never publicly admitted it. She always insists she's only got… rather large bones."
"Large bones, huh? That's not just large, that's enormous…"
Harry, however, wasn't listening. His eyes stayed fixed on the tall, gaunt man with the hooked nose and sharp features, watching him closely. Without turning his head, he muttered, "And who's that tall, skinny man next to her? I could swear he was looking at me just now, more than once…"
"Igor Karkaroff," Ron leaned closer so that only Harry and Hermione could hear, his voice dropping to a near whisper, barely audible over the low hum of the hall and the clatter of cutlery. "Headmaster of Durmstrang. Word is, he used to be a Death Eater. After You-Know-Who fell, he dodged Azkaban by betraying his own lot, handed his comrades over one after another. And somehow, even after all that, he still managed to end up as a headmaster."
"Durmstrang…" Harry frowned slightly, his thoughts drifting. "That's where Professor Greengrass graduated from, isn't it?"
"Exactly." Ron curled his lip in distaste. "Durmstrang only admits pure-blood students. Back when Voldemort had just fallen, plenty of places were still crawling with prejudice against Muggle-borns. In fact, Hogwarts wasn't much better either. Just look at the way Malfoy and his crowd carry on, acting like mixing Muggle blood somehow taints their 'noble lineage.'"
He gave a short, mocking snort. "But honestly, I don't believe there's any such thing as a truly pure bloodline left in Britain. If they only ever married within so-called pure-blood families, their line would've died out generations ago."
"Wait a second… who are those two walking behind the headmasters?" Hermione suddenly narrowed her eyes, her gaze locking onto the pair of figures trailing just a step behind Dumbledore, Maxime, and Karkaroff.
Ron followed her line of sight. "The man, I've never seen before. But that woman… hold on, she couldn't be—"
"Who is she?" Hermione pressed quickly.
Although the woman wore a delicate silver veil that half-concealed her face, her graceful poise, the tilt of her head and the sweep of her movements, stirred a flicker of recognition in Hermione's mind.
"It's that veela!" Harry exclaimed softly, sudden recognition flashing in his eyes. "Professor Greengrass's friend! Don't you remember? Back in the Forbidden Forest, she's the one who saved us!"
"Oh my… yes! It really is her!" Hermione's eyes lit up at once. "I knew it. Even with the veil, I could recognize her. So she's teaching at Beauxbatons now? I saw her step down from that magnificent carriage just a moment ago. She looked… regal."
"I wonder what subject she teaches there…" Harry murmured, his mind turning over the thought, the memory of her glowing presence in the forest still lingering like a half-formed dream.
"Shhh!"
Hermione suddenly raised a finger to her lips, her eyes sparkling with sudden excitement. "Look, their students are coming in!"
At that, the great doors opened wide, and the students of Beauxbatons filed into the hall like a fresh breeze wafting in from the mountains. The procession moved with perfect grace, and to no one's surprise, the majority of them were girls. Their postures were tall and poised, every step a picture of discipline.
They advanced with elegance, their movements flowing as though rehearsed for days in advance. Each turn of the head, each slight bow of acknowledgment was carried out with refined precision. The soft silver-blue of their uniforms shimmered in the candlelight, casting a soft, dreamlike glow around them, like moonlight scattered across still water.
The students of Durmstrang followed after, and the difference between the two schools could not have been starker.
Every single one of them was male!
They marched in with a soldier's precision, their boots falling in unison against the stone floor. The square formation they held was tight and unbroken, the cadence of their steps echoing through the vast hall like the rhythm of a drum. Their hair was cropped close, neat and severe, and their sharp eyes radiated a steely resolve. The deep crimson of their uniforms made them look less like students and more like a hardened battalion, a military unit drilled to perfection.
There was no question that both schools had sent their best, carefully chosen elites whose strength and discipline set them apart. And yet, to Sargeras, they were nothing special.
Others might not know the truth, but how could he not know?
Among that Durmstrang square, he recognized several familiar faces, junior students from his own school days. He remembered them well, back when they were still green and clumsy, barely able to hold a wand steady. They hadn't even been worthy of sparring with him. Back then, they didn't even qualify to take a beating from him.
Sargeras drifted into memory.
To get into Durmstrang in the first place, he had clawed at every opportunity, exhausting every trick he could find. In the end, he had been forced to invoke the name of his Merlin Medal, brandishing it like a key to pry open those gates that shut so firmly against the "nameless" and "unrecognized."
And as for Igor Karkaroff?
Sargeras' eyes lingered on that shadowy, sly figure for a moment longer.
This so-called headmaster, at his core, was nothing but a craven opportunist. He hadn't taken that seat to educate or to guide the young. No, his real concern had always been profit… schemes and gains wrapped in the disguise of authority.
That "generous offer to keep him on after graduation," which Karkaroff had mentioned with such false sincerity earlier?
Sargeras almost laughed aloud at the memory. If not for the three groundbreaking papers he had published in "Spell Innovation," if not for the storm unleashed by his sole-authored "Advanced Magical Topology," which had turned half the wizarding world on its head… would Karkaroff, with his calculating nature, ever have spared a glance for a graduate with no connections and no backing? Would he really have extended an olive branch out of pure kindness?
Hardly!
Remaining at Durmstrang as a professor would not have been a poor choice in itself. The resources were abundant, and the position carried influence. But by that time, he had already devoured every last volume the Durmstrang library had to offer. If he wanted to keep pursuing the essence of magic, to fill himself with knowledge and push further, he had no choice but to look elsewhere.
And so, with his path clear before him, he had crossed the sea, turning toward America, to Ilvermorny.
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[Chapter End's]
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