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Dumbledore received an urgent summons from the Ministry of Magic and had to leave for London on short notice. Before his departure, he entrusted Professor McGonagall with the task of overseeing the dueling tournament in his stead.
The midday meal in the Great Hall ended in an atmosphere that was a curious mixture of excitement and restless anticipation.
The aroma of honey-roast ham and the lingering sweetness of pumpkin juice had not yet completely faded when the students could no longer contain themselves. They hurried out in a noisy stream, spilling eagerly back into the dueling grounds as though drawn there by invisible threads. The air was filled with a festive sort of energy, crackling with impatience and joy, as if the very castle itself were humming in tune with their mood.
The stands were soon packed once more, the atmosphere even more boisterous than it had been that morning.
After a morning filled with thrilling duels and the chance to mingle with visiting students from other schools over lunch, the young witches and wizards now appeared far more at ease, their spirits lifted and their laughter carrying across the corridors. Many of them clutched the spoils they had carried out of the Great Hall, from cream-filled pastries and slices of rich chocolate pudding to the mugs of butterbeer they had managed to "negotiate" with the ever-accommodating Hogwarts house-elves.
It was just then that two figures, both dressed in wizard robes and both crowned with identical heads of blazing red hair, slipped into view. They wove through the crowded aisles of the spectator stands with the easy grace of fish darting through water.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Step right up, don't miss your chance!"
Fred Weasley bellowed at the top of his lungs, his voice cutting sharply through the roar of hundreds of conversations.
"The Weasley twins proudly present your premier snack sponsors for the match!"
George Weasley lifted a tray brimming with brightly colored bottles and oddly shaped sweets, raising it high so that everyone nearby could see.
"Perk up with our 'Dragon's Breath Peppermints'! Guaranteed to sharpen your eyes keener than Viktor Krum's… only three Sickles a pack!"
"Stay dry, stay cheerful, and never stay bored with our 'Rainbow Popcorn'! Rain or shine, enjoy the duel in style… five Sickles for a large bag!"
"And don't miss our one and only, exclusive 'Quick-Skip Candies — Special Duel-Tournament Edition!' They'll guarantee you a swift and seamless exit whenever you're stuck in a dreadfully dull… er, I mean, whenever you need to step away for a moment! Limited stock, only seven Sickles each, so grab them before they're gone!"
Their sales pitch sent ripples of laughter rolling through the stands, yet their business was booming all the same. One after another, students surrendered their coins, unable to resist the temptation, and soon the air was filled with the mingling fragrances of a dozen strange confections.
Only the so-called "Quick-Skip Candies" remained untouched. Not a single one was sold, for the students reasoned there was no need to skip out on watching a duel. After all, if it wasn't a class, they wanted to be there, and when it came to anything outside of lessons, there was hardly a thing that failed to catch their enthusiasm.
Just as the three contestants for the next round prepared to step into the arena, the spectators were crunching on sweets and craning their necks in eager anticipation when the sky suddenly darkened without the slightest warning.
From nowhere, several massive clouds, heavy and ominous, swept in as if pulled by unseen hands across the heavens. They rolled together in a matter of moments, piling up above the dueling arena until every trace of light was swallowed whole. Then, without the faintest pause, the first icy drops came hurtling down, striking the roofs of the stands with sharp, rattling thuds and splashing cold against the faces of the unlucky students in the front rows.
"Oh, no!" someone wailed in dismay.
"My new robes!" a cluster of girls cried out in alarm, clutching at their sleeves as the water stained the fabric.
"Bloody hell, the 'Rainbow Popcorn' wasn't actually meant to stop a storm like this!" George groaned, staring in horror as the gaudy wrappings of their stock began to sag and darken with moisture. His expression twisted as if his own profits were melting away before his eyes.
"Relax, little brother." Fred was already fumbling with his wand, hurriedly throwing waterproof charms over the trays. He still managed to flash his trademark wicked grin. "We never said it stops a full-blown downpour. Our pitch was 'rain or shine,' wasn't it? That's just what you call 'artistic exaggeration,' perfectly legal. Not fraud. Got it?"
"Merlin help you if Madam Pomfrey doesn't buy that excuse," George muttered, scowling as he joined in with the spellwork. "If anyone ends up in the hospital wing after eating soggy popcorn, you can argue your 'artistic exaggeration' with her."
Complaints rose on every side, voices overlapping in a discordant chorus.
The rain only grew heavier. What had begun as scattered drops quickly thickened into sheets of water. A torrential downpour swept across the arena, hammering the protective enchantments and the wooden canopies of the stands so hard that the noise became a constant, deafening roar.
The dueling platform in the middle of the grounds was soon streaked with rivulets, small pools gathering wherever the stone dipped. Fleur Delacour frowned faintly, brushing the droplets from her pale shoulder with a flick of her hand. Viktor Krum stood stone-faced, as though carved from granite, though a shadow of irritation flickered in his eyes. Cedric Diggory, by contrast, was caught worst of all. His hair plastered to his forehead, he dragged his palm roughly across his face, sending streams of water running down his chin to drip steadily from his jaw.
The stands were chaos. Students hunched their shoulders and pulled their robes tightly around them, trying to shield themselves from the chill, while others pushed and shoved to press farther into the covered rows. Packages of sweets grew soggy and fell apart, the colorful wrappers turning into limp, pulpy messes.
The Weasley twins cursed under their breath about the cursed weather ruining their business, all the while juggling trays and frantically layering waterproof charms over every last sweet as though guarding treasure.
It was still early spring. The thick ice that had blanketed the Black Lake only recently melted, leaving the air steeped with a lingering, bone-deep chill. When the wind surged across the open dueling grounds, it sliced cold as knives, and many of the young witches and wizards, drenched to the skin, hugged their arms tight around themselves, shivering uncontrollably.
"Quiet! Quiet!"
Professor McGonagall's stern voice rang out, magnified by the Sonorus charm, carrying above the crowd as she struggled to maintain order. Yet against the roar of the storm and the turmoil of hundreds of restless students, even her commanding tone felt small, almost powerless.
In the midst of this clamor, with complaints and grumbles echoing in every direction, Sargeras finally set down the teacup in his hand.
He did not rise to his feet. Instead, with a calm almost out of place in the chaos, he reached into the inner pocket of his robes and drew out his wand. Lifting it lazily, he pointed it into the air above the noisy stands with nothing more than a casual flick.
"Quiet!"
His voice was clear, level, and without strain, yet it carried through the entire arena at once, silencing the chaos as if a hand had pressed down upon it.
The spectators fell into stunned stillness. A few students were still mouthing words, their faces animated with conversation, but not a sound emerged. To those across from them, it looked as though their lips were opening and closing in silence, like goldfish gasping in a bowl.
Only the storm remained. The sound of rain slamming down in torrents filled the arena, wild and unrelenting, pounding upon the shields and rooftops with a relentless crash. Its monotony was heavy, oppressive, pressing down on every ear.
Sargeras lifted his head slightly, his gaze steady. His deep grey eyes pierced through the shroud of rain and locked onto the heaving mass of black clouds swirling above.
There was no thunderous incarnation, no theatrical flourish of the wand.
He merely tilted his wrist, letting the wand point at a slant toward the sky, and with that single, almost careless gesture, a shimmering spell-light burst forth. It shimmered and danced as it rose upward, vanishing into the clouds.
The next moment, a wave of vast magical power rippled outward from the storm. It spread like a pebble striking still water, sending colossal circles across the heavens.
And then the miracle began.
The heavy storm clouds, dark as slabs of lead, were swept aside as though brushed away by an invisible hand of unimaginable size. The torrential rain, which had seemed unending only a heartbeat before, froze midair. The streams of water shattered into fragments and dissolved into nothing.
The arena, slick and gleaming from the sudden downpour, emerged once more under a sky of brilliant sunlight. The damp, heavy air seemed wrung dry in an instant, replaced with freshness as if the storm had cleansed everything. A faint, sweet fragrance of wet grass after rain drifted through the breeze.
The change came so suddenly it felt almost unreal. In the span of only a few seconds, the world shifted from sheets of pounding rain to golden sunlight pouring across the arena as if the storm had never been.
Everyone stood frozen in place, their faces tilted upward toward a sky now washed clean into a flawless, crystalline blue, sunlight streaming down in radiant beams. Then, almost without realizing it, they lowered their gaze to their robes, completely dry as though no drop had ever touched them, and to the ground beneath their feet, where not a single puddle remained. It was as if the torrent they had endured moments before had been nothing more than a fleeting illusion, a storm conjured for them alone and then erased like the fading echo of a dream.
After a heartbeat of stunned silence, the arena erupted. Thunderous applause and wild cheers burst forth all at once, louder and more exuberant than at any time before!
"Merlin's socks!"
"How in the world did he pull that off?!"
"That was weather magic, wasn't it? It had to be… was that really weather magic?!"
"Professor Greengrass! That was amazing!"
The students screamed in excitement, voices cracking from sheer fervor. Every gaze that turned toward Sargeras was lit with unrestrained passion and awe, their young faces shining as though they were staring at a legend come alive.
Even the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, who had been watching coolly until now, leaned toward one another in hushed exchanges. Among the Beauxbatons students especially, there were suddenly many surprised looks; it dawned on them only now that this Professor Greengrass, besides his Transfiguration, clearly possessed command of far more than just one branch of magic.
"Quiet."
Sargeras spoke again, his calm voice carrying effortlessly across the entire arena. This time, however, he didn't need any charm to magnify it. He simply let his gaze sweep over the crowd, and that alone was enough to rein them in.
Meanwhile, inside, his thoughts were far less majestic. He was repeating to himself over and over: Let's just get the match started already. The sooner this ends, the sooner I can make it to the Bronze Feather gathering tonight…
Once the chattering witches and wizards had been subdued by his eyes alone, Sargeras slipped his wand back into his robes. His expression never shifted — it remained as tranquil and unreadable as ever, like a pond without ripples.
He didn't turn to acknowledge the waves of admiration still pouring from the stands. Instead, he inclined his head slightly toward Professor McGonagall, who stood nearby, her own expression tinged with astonishment.
"Please continue, Professor McGonagall."
McGonagall pressed her lips together, gave a brief nod, and with remarkable speed regained the stern authority she was known for. Yet when her eyes flicked across the young witches and wizards in the crowd, their faces wide-eyed and still sparkling with disbelief, she chose not to deliver a speech or lecture.
All she said, with dry briskness, was: "The weather is fine. Let the match begin."
No sooner had her words fallen than the stone stele lit up, displaying the names Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum. Under another swell of applause and cheering, the two champions stepped forward and began to make their way toward the dueling stage.
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[Chapter End's]
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