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In the very center of the Great Hall, a long, polished table gleamed beneath the candlelight, its surface shining as though it had just been set there for this momentous night.
On the left side, the students of Beauxbatons descended gracefully into their seats, their movements as fluid and poised as a flock of swans settling upon a still lake.
On the right, the students of Durmstrang took their places with the precision of soldiers on parade. Their posture was rigid, their formation so uniform that one could almost hear the silent beat of a drum guiding their every step.
At last, when the final guest had found a seat, Headmaster Dumbledore raised his hand and tapped lightly against a crystal goblet. The clear, ringing note cut sharply through the buzz of chatter, and the hall fell instantly silent.
"Good evening, everyone."
He rose from his chair, his half-moon spectacles catching the glow of the candles, and the keen blue eyes behind them shone with warmth and intelligence. "First of all, allow me, on behalf of all the staff and students of Hogwarts, to extend our most heartfelt welcome to our friends who have come from so far away."
He paused briefly, letting his gaze drift kindly over the two visiting headmasters and the eager young faces of their handpicked students seated below.
"As the three most ancient schools of magic in Europe, we share a responsibility," he went on, his tone deepening with gravity, "a responsibility to nurture the exchange of knowledge, tradition, and magical culture. Yet, ever since the Triwizard Tournament was suspended more than two centuries ago, our interschool exchanges have grown fewer and fewer…"
Here, the old headmaster's voice suddenly lifted, infused with new vigor. "But tonight, a dueling platform consecrated by magical contract shall serve as the bond through which we renew our friendships. Therefore, I propose that after tomorrow's exhibition matches, we include yet another contest, one more daring and more demanding, a united duel between all three schools!"
At these words, Madame Maxime's eyes flickered with surprise before quickly shifting toward keen interest. Karkaroff, however, narrowed his eyes and stroked his chin thoughtfully, his long fingers moving in an unconscious rhythm, a gesture that betrayed the calculations at work in his mind.
As for Sargeras, he merely observed from the side with cold detachment, already seeing through to the heart of the matter. So this was their true intention.
After all, who would marshal their best students, mobilize staff, and make such a show of grandeur merely to participate in a few trivial exhibition duels?
The newspapers had already been overflowing with reports of Hogwarts' plans, enough to unsettle both rival schools. If they failed to act now, the upcoming season of student recruitment would prove all too difficult.
Though none of the schools would ever openly trespass upon another's territory to recruit students, that was simply an unspoken understanding. Yet if parents themselves chose to send their children to Hogwarts, then neither Beauxbatons nor Durmstrang had any grounds to interfere.
After all, there were only three true pillars of magical education across Europe. Now, with Hogwarts presenting itself with such overwhelming grandeur, if the other two schools remained unmoved, what would that make them if not complete fools?
When hardship comes, it must be shared by all. When fortune arrives, it too must be shared.
This was a principle they all understood well enough.
And what if they were simply here to ride the wave of Hogwarts' influence? What shame was there in that? Let the others call them shameless; thick skin was a small price to pay.
At worst, they could claim they had come to discuss the revival of the Triwizard Tournament, and who could argue with such a noble pretext?
Thus, no one at the table raised any objection. The silence itself was a form of consent. Dumbledore's bright eyes, gleaming behind his spectacles, drifted toward Sargeras. Then, with a mischievous sparkle, he winked and declared, "Since no one has any objections, then—"
He clapped his hands together in delight. "Let us begin this grand gathering with a sumptuous feast!"
At his words, the long table groaned under the sudden appearance of a dazzling banquet, platters upon platters of food materializing in an instant, their aromas filling the hall.
Yet just as the celebration was about to reach its height, a comical figure came tumbling down from the ceiling beams, hanging upside down like a grotesque lantern. His baggy trousers ballooned around him as he swayed in the air.
"Newcomers, are you? Ever heard the name of the great Peeves?"
The poltergeist rubbed his hands together with gleeful excitement, his grin stretched wide with the thrill of impending mischief. Then, under the puzzled gazes of the visiting students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, he pulled from his pocket several smooth, darkly glistening dungbombs.
Professor McGonagall's face turned rigid, her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. The younger Hogwarts students gasped, the sound sharp as the intake of a hundred breaths.
If Peeves really unleashed dungbombs at the guests during the welcoming banquet, Hogwarts would not merely be embarrassed; it would be branded the laughingstock of the entire European wizarding world.
Peeves cackled, raising the dungbombs high above his head, the wicked gleam in his eyes daring anyone to stop him. At the same moment, Dumbledore's expression hardened, his usual calm replaced by rare severity, and his hand moved toward his wand.
But before either side could act, Sargeras lifted his head. He glanced at Peeves once, his voice calm and unruffled, carrying neither anger nor urgency.
"Leave this place, Peeves."
Those simple words cracked like an invisible whip, lashing down with unseen force.
Peeves let out a shrill, terrified scream. His body shuddered violently, and in the next instant, he blurred into a streak of gray mist, vanishing with frantic speed as though fleeing for his life.
All that remained in the air was a string of indistinct curses that faded quickly into silence.
"What was that thing? A ghost?" one of the Beauxbatons girls whispered, covering her mouth in fright as she stared toward the spot where Peeves had vanished.
"That was Peeves," Nightingale explained softly, her tone calm and measured. "A mischief-spirit unique to Hogwarts."
"What was it trying to do just now? What horrible thing did it want to throw at us?" another girl asked, her face pale, her voice trembling with lingering fear.
"It was dungbombs!," a Durmstrang boy seated across from her snorted, a note of schadenfreude in his tone. "The name says it all—"
"Enough! I understand already!" the Beauxbatons girl interrupted, her face twisting with disgust as she cut him off. "It actually dared to cause trouble right under Headmaster Dumbledore's nose?"
"Chaos spirits care nothing for rules or authority," Nightingale continued gently, her voice patient, though carrying the weight of certainty. "They are not truly living beings, and so they cannot be killed. Without the fear of death to restrain them, they naturally act however they please."
As she spoke, her eyes wandered toward the professors' table. There she noticed Kestrel, seated beside Sargeras, making exaggerated faces at her in an attempt to lighten the mood. Despite herself, she let slip a small, amused smile.
"But it was still driven away in the end, wasn't it? Who was that young professor?" another Beauxbatons girl pressed on, her gaze now fixed on Sargeras, seated calmly at the table as though nothing had happened.
"He is an alumnus who graduated from our Durmstrang," a Durmstrang student answered, his tone carrying genuine respect. "During his entire time at the school, from the day he entered until the day he graduated, he held the title of Grozny."
"Grozny? What does that mean?"
"It means Head Duelist," another Durmstrang student chimed in eagerly, his eyes shining with admiration. "The strongest among all the students."
"But he doesn't look like it…" the Beauxbatons girl murmured, studying Sargeras' figure. His build was slender, his demeanor quiet, nothing like the fierce and imposing image she had expected. "He seems… different from the rest of you."
"The strength of a wizard has never rested in outward appearance or in muscle," Nightingale said at just the right moment, her voice soft yet carrying a quiet authority that left no room for doubt. "True power is measured by the wisdom of the mind."
"Miss Veiliss speaks with admirable conviction…"
The words came from Professor Baffelus, who was sitting diagonally across from Nightingale. His tone, however, carried a deliberate note of disdain. "But forgive me for being blunt, Sargeras is nothing more than a student who's never seen the wider world. How could he possibly be called a 'powerful wizard'?"
"Oh…?" Nightingale arched an eyebrow ever so slightly, her eyes sliding toward Barfelos with a hint of curiosity. "Professor Baffelus seems to know him rather well?"
"I taught him Advanced Dark Arts Practicum."
Baffelus puffed out his chest with pride. His lips curled into a dismissive sneer. "I'll grant you he has a touch of cleverness, but magic requires battlefield experience! A bookworm who only knows how to bury his nose in theory…"
He trailed off with a derisive click of his tongue, his face twisted into the kind of contempt reserved for things one hardly found worth mentioning.
The two Durmstrang students sitting beside him shifted uneasily. Their lips moved as though they wanted to protest, but before a single word escaped, a taller student sitting further down the table fixed them with a sharp, warning glare. They froze, swallowing back their retort.
"I see…" Nightingale's lips curved into a faint smile, a smile so subtle it was impossible to read.
Baffelus, however, caught the trace of amusement in her expression and completely misunderstood. Believing she approved of his words, he immediately brightened and plastered on a smile of his own, one he clearly thought was charming. His tone warmed, even tinged with eagerness.
"Veiliss… may I call you that?"
"No, you may not, Mister Baffelus." Nightingale's reply came smooth and calm, her head never once lifting as she denied him without hesitation.
Baffelus' smile froze on his face at once. The expression solidified like stone, as though someone had cast a Full Body-Bind Curse on him.
The refusal was so stark, so cold in its directness, that it caught him entirely off guard. He sat there stunned, his thoughts momentarily wiped blank.
Meanwhile, several nearby students who had witnessed the entire exchange bent their heads quickly, each of them scrambling to recall the two saddest moments of their young lives in desperate self-defense. Only by focusing on grief could they stop the laughter that threatened to burst out of them.
Even so, their shoulders still trembled faintly, betraying the effort it took to hold their mirth inside.
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[Chapter End's]
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