On the evening of October 30, the delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang finally arrived at Hogwarts. Their journeys had only taken a few days, but the students had been looking forward to this moment for two whole months.
It was Friday, and the final afternoon lesson ended half an hour early. The students gathered on the lawn in front of the castle, forming orderly lines to welcome their guests.
The Beauxbatons delegation descended from the sky in an enormous carriage nearly the size of a house. Twelve elephant-sized, silver-maned Abraxans spread their wings and pulled the carriage through the air, sweeping over the Forbidden Forest and the buildings of the new campus before finally landing in front of the waiting crowd.
The tremendous rush of air sent dozens of wizard hats flying. Students in the front rows instinctively stumbled back a couple of steps, terrified that the carriage might come crashing down on top of them. Just imagining the aftermath was enough to qualify it as one of the worst traffic accidents in wizarding history.
It was an epic meeting between the British and the French, practically the magical equivalent of the Hatfields and McCoys calling a truce. Fortunately, relations between their wizarding communities were considerably better than those of their Muggle counterparts. They didn't trade barbs to each other's faces, mock one another behind their backs, stab each other in the back whenever trouble arose, or sabotage each other whenever they were supposed to cooperate.
Truly, a heartwarming display of neighborly affection.
Unfortunately, a certain man named Skyl wasn't getting nearly as much of the legendary Anglo-French friendship as he had hoped for.
An enormous woman stepped down from the carriage. Her physique was comparable even to Hagrid, a half-giant. If an ordinary woman were a Ford Focus, Headmistress Maxime was an M1 Abrams.
Of course, she wasn't fat. Quite the opposite. If she were proportionally reduced to an ordinary height, she would have been a strikingly beautiful woman with graceful curves and excellent proportions.
She had the mass of a tank without looking remotely built like one.
"My dear Madame Maxime." Dumbledore stepped forward and kissed her hand. "Welcome to Hogwarts."
"Has Karkaroff arrived yet?" the headmistress asked. Her pronunciation was clear, her voice deep, with a distinctive French accent.
"He could arrive at any moment."
The Beauxbatons students began filing out of the carriage.
Standing beside Dumbledore, Skyl leaned slightly to one side and peered around the enormous Madame Maxime to examine the students from continental Europe.
He had long heard that Beauxbatons had a part-Veela student of extraordinary beauty, someone capable of leaving people utterly spellbound. Naturally, his gaze lingered on the several students who had deliberately wrapped scarves around their faces.
"And who might this be?" Madame Maxime asked, noticing Skyl.
He was standing beside Dumbledore. He looked far too young to be a professor, and besides, the actual professors were all standing behind the headmaster.
"Skyl. You may simply call me Skyl."
He inclined his head politely.
He had no intention of kissing Madame Maxime's hand, even though it was admittedly a beautiful hand covered in jewelry, slender and pale, yet so enormous that her palm was genuinely larger than Skyl's face.
Dumbledore said cheerfully, "He graduated last year and is also one of the students I am proudest of. Perhaps you have heard of him. Skyl's research was published in Transfiguration Today, and he was also awarded the Order of Merlin."
"Oh, I have heard of you. Skyl's Essence Transfiguration. A truly remarkable innovation. Some have even compared you to a Merlin for the end of the twentieth century. I must admit, Dumbledore, I'm jealous."
Fame could certainly bring trouble, but Skyl had no objection to enjoying the praise that came with it.
Compliments always improved his mood.
Northern Britain was undeniably cold by October, and everyone remained outside in the chilly wind waiting for the Durmstrang delegation.
Madame Maxime surveyed Hogwarts' new buildings with an intriguing expression.
"It has been quite some time since I last visited. Hogwarts seems rather different."
"Only a few minor improvements," Dumbledore replied with almost offensively false modesty. "The Beauxbatons campus is the truly unforgettable one."
"Oh, please."
Time passed.
The moon rose high into the sky, and the students were freezing their butts off.
In the middle of their conversation, a peculiar gurgling sound suddenly came from the Black Lake.
Everyone turned to look.
The previously calm surface of the lake began swelling upward. A long mast suddenly broke through the water, followed by a gloomy old-fashioned wooden ship rising from beneath the lake.
Skyl grinned.
"The Pirates of the Caribbean have arrived."
Dumbledore, an old man born in the Victorian era, merely smiled at the reference.
Durmstrang's headmaster was another white-haired old man, although he gave off a considerably more calculating and sinister impression.
Igor Karkaroff and Dumbledore warmly shook hands.
Skyl immediately found himself thinking of Gandalf meeting Saruman.
Yes, exactly the same insincere cordiality.
Exactly the same quiet competition beneath the surface.
Skyl noticed in particular that Dumbledore's knuckles were turning white from the force of his grip. That handshake had to contain at least eighty percent of the Hulk's strength.
It was honestly impressive that neither man broke character.
Of course, Karkaroff would never actually dare challenge Dumbledore head-on. Their standing in the wizarding world simply wasn't comparable.
"Karkaroff, you finally made it. Come, let's go inside the Great Hall and warm ourselves up."
Whether it was the two visiting delegations who had traveled from afar or the unfortunate Hogwarts students who had been standing outside since late afternoon, everyone was absolutely starving by now.
The Great Hall had prepared an elaborate feast for the occasion.
All along the tables, students chattered endlessly about the upcoming selection for the Triwizard Tournament.
In another day, in this very same hall, Harry Potter would demonstrate exactly what it meant for one person to constitute an army all by himself.
For now, however, everything remained peaceful.
Skyl finally got his wish and saw the part-Veela girl named Fleur Delacour.
As far as sheer beauty went, there was really nothing to criticize.
Veela were magical beings possessing extraordinarily powerful allure, and Fleur's silver-white hair was the sort of look that would be absolute kryptonite to the crowd at an American Comic-Con.
Yet when Skyl saw her, the person who came to mind was Millicent.
He found himself missing the countless expressions she wore.
Beautiful faces eventually began to resemble one another. The little expressions, gestures, and mannerisms belonging to a particular person were what made someone truly unique.
"She's definitely going to be the Beauxbatons Champion," a young wizard murmured.
"How do you know?"
"She's that beautiful. Of course she's going to be Champion."
"You think being pretty automatically makes someone exceptional?"
A young witch puffed out her cheeks in irritation and kicked him hard.
"Ow!"
The unfortunate victim had bright red hair, the surname Weasley, and the first name Ron.
Harry's gaze lingered on Fleur's face for a moment longer than usual before he casually lowered his head and continued eating.
"Well?" Ron whispered. "Think you can beat her?"
"Yeah."
At the staff table, Lily had also noticed Fleur.
Later, when she visited James in the White Tower, she mentioned the girl to her husband.
"She sounds like a nice girl. Do you think Harry might like someone like her?"
"You getting ideas?"
"No."
James shrugged rather guiltily, then sighed.
"It's a shame our son isn't seventeen yet. He probably won't be able to enter the Triwizard Tournament."
There'll be a way.
Neither of them actually said it aloud.
Back at the staff table, Grindelwald's gaze settled on the Durmstrang delegation as he gently swirled the wine in his glass.
Some distance away, a young man named Viktor Krum suddenly shivered for no apparent reason.
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