High in the Slytherin dormitory tower, Erwin stood alone by his window, gazing contemplatively at the night sky stretching endlessly above.
A wisp of concentrated black smoke had begun gathering ominously in the distant clouds on the horizon.
A knowing smile touched Erwin's lips as he observed the telltale sign.
"My dear former teacher," he whispered to the darkness. "I wonder which operative you'll ultimately select to infiltrate Hogwarts during this Tournament? Igor Karkaroff seems the logical choice, doesn't it? As a former Death Eater yourself, you don't possess many other viable options with the necessary access and cover, do you?"
He raised a single finger toward the star-filled expanse above.
As if responding directly to his unspoken will, a brilliant shooting star suddenly streaked across the celestial dome—a piece moved deliberately on an invisible cosmic chessboard.
Far below in the shadowed forest, Voldemort paused and looked upward, his supernatural senses detecting the astronomical shift.
He watched the shooting star fade gradually from view and smiled with dark appreciation.
"My disciple," he murmured with something approaching paternal pride, "I never doubted your formidable intelligence for even a moment. This time, however, I shall provide you with a genuine surprise move. If I don't challenge you appropriately, I might truly lose to your superior preparation. But remember this, Erwin—the rules of our game are absolute and binding. Once the pieces are set in motion on the board, you cannot call for a pause or revision. The contest proceeds to its conclusion."
Voldemort's form erupted with violent dark energy, transforming him into a roiling cloud of black mist that launched skyward.
Behind him, the assembled Death Eaters followed in a flock of shadowy, winged terrors against the stars.
Under the cold moonlight, expanding plumes of black smoke began their ominous advance toward Germany and whatever confrontation awaited there.
Life at Hogwarts continued in its familiar patterns for the next several days.
However, the atmosphere was noticeably different this year—the school seemed considerably more prone to excited gossip and speculation than usual.
Every single day, students gathered in corridor clusters and common rooms, whispering enthusiastically about the upcoming international Tournament.
Erwin was absolutely certain he personally hadn't leaked any specific information to the student body.
The details must have slipped out from some well-connected young wizard with more enthusiasm than discretion.
He strongly suspected Draco Malfoy as the primary source—who else possessed both such extensive family connections and such an incorrigible tendency toward dramatic gossip?
During this same week, the British wizarding world was consumed by shocking news: Azkaban prison had been violently attacked.
All the human Auror guards had been systematically killed during the assault.
As for the Dementor guards, they had vanished entirely—whether destroyed, driven off, or recruited remained unclear.
Yet despite the dramatic nature of these events, there was remarkably little public panic or alarm.
The Cavendish family hadn't issued any official commentary on the incident, and with them serving as the effective guardians and protectors of British magical society, the general populace felt reasonably secure regardless.
The same fundamental calm prevailed within Hogwarts itself.
During the Quidditch World Cup chaos, Voldemort had publicly announced his return to power, achieving the grand dramatic entrance he clearly desired.
Yet remarkably few people took the threat seriously or altered their behavior.
As the common saying went: with the Cavendish family's overwhelming power standing guard, the British wizarding world simply wouldn't descend into chaos or civil war again.
Erwin sat at his private desk, methodically sipping coffee that Charlotte had expertly brewed while reading through the Daily Prophet's coverage.
His brow furrowed with genuine puzzlement.
He had carefully absorbed all the available news and specifically instructed his intelligence operatives to monitor developments in Germany with extreme attention, yet the entire region remained eerily, inexplicably calm.
Voldemort and his Death Eater forces had seemingly vanished without a trace after departing Britain.
Nothing whatsoever was happening there that his network could detect.
Even more surprisingly, contacts confirmed that the Shepherd family's operations remained completely unharmed and functioning normally, which genuinely puzzled Erwin's strategic expectations.
Where exactly has my former teacher gone with his forces? What is he actually planning?
Suddenly, excited exclamations echoed from outside his window.
Through the glass, Erwin observed an ornate flying carriage drawn by massive winged horses—its passenger compartment vastly enlarged through Extension Charms—speeding dramatically across the Black Lake's surface.
Hagrid stood on the shore waving two oversized guidance flags rather comically, attempting to direct the carriage toward the designated landing zone, but the vehicle completely ignored his signals, passing directly overhead before touching down on a carefully prepared grass landing area.
Erwin's expression tightened with mild disapproval.
Beauxbatons is certainly making rather an arrogant first impression with that entrance.
Before he could dwell on the observation, an enormous ship suddenly rose dramatically from the lake's depths on the opposite shore, riding the churning waves majestically toward Hogwarts' grounds.
Durmstrang had arrived in characteristically impressive fashion.
The assembled Hogwarts students gasped collectively—they had never witnessed a vessel quite like it emerging from underwater.
Erwin smiled faintly with recognition.
In the original source material, this dramatic entrance scene had seemed genuinely impressive to his younger self.
But as he'd matured and gained broader perspective, he'd realized a somewhat unflattering truth about the implicit hierarchy:
If Hogwarts functioned as a relatively well-rounded comprehensive academy, Durmstrang operated essentially as a specialized athletics and combat training institute, while Beauxbatons was fundamentally a refined finishing school emphasizing etiquette and cultural arts.
But wait—where is the delegation from the East?
Just as the thought formed, the perpetually gloomy sky suddenly cleared with dramatic speed.
Brilliant sunlight streamed down powerfully from between the parting clouds, immediately drawing everyone's amazed gaze upward.
In the radiant golden light, multiple figures slowly became visible, standing impossibly on flying swords, all dressed in elegant flowing robes of traditional Eastern design.
Behind each aerial practitioner, massive magical formations materialized and rotated, shimmering with complex runic light.
Beneath their feet, an enormous collective formation array slowly rotated in perfect synchronization, casting cascading beams of light onto the grounds below in a spectacular display.
Erwin's eyes lit up with genuine appreciation and approval.
He mentally awarded the Eastern delegation's entrance a perfect score for dramatic impact.
Compared to the relatively mundane arrivals of the other two schools, this demonstration was absolutely overwhelming in its visual and magical presence.
Even Erwin himself—who was relatively well-traveled and had experienced considerable wonders—couldn't help but feel genuine awe at the spectacle.
The image of celestial cultivators descending from the heavens to the mortal realm was rendered utterly tangible and real.
The Beauxbatons students, having just disembarked from their carriage looking rather smug, and the Durmstrang students, fresh off their ship and still dripping lake water, all stopped dead and stared upward with undisguised shock at the aerial display.
Several actually swallowed nervously at the implied power differential.
The gathered Hogwarts students erupted with amazed exclamations:
"Are those the students from the East?!"
"I'd heard their magical traditions were different, but this is incredible!"
"Haven't you been following the news? Mr. Cavendish traveled there personally and came back with reports of their remarkable capabilities. Those practitioners are extraordinarily skilled!"
"Exactly! They simply maintain a lower profile culturally. In terms of actual magical strength, they rank among the absolute elite anywhere in the supernatural world. The flying swords that Cavendish Technologies co-developed with them are incredibly sophisticated—and expensive. I've been saving for months but still can't afford one yet."
One student squinted skeptically at the descending visitors. "Wait... you call that maintaining a low profile?"
The Eastern students descended with perfect grace and coordination, looking supremely elegant and composed throughout.
Standing at the front of the formation beside the senior Kunlun instructor was Sunny Finch.
The moment her feet touched the ground, her eyes darted around excitedly and immediately spotted Erwin's distinctive figure visible at his tower window.
She waved vigorously and enthusiastically in his direction, completely abandoning the dignified composure the others were maintaining.
Erwin smiled warmly and waved back in acknowledgment.
A cluster of Hogwarts students followed her enthusiastic gaze upward.
"It's Mr. Cavendish! That Eastern girl knows him personally!"
Several watching students—particularly Hermione Granger and Pansy Parkinson—immediately directed hostile, assessing gazes toward Sunny Finch, clearly evaluating this potential new rival.
The senior Kunlun instructor's lips twitched with obvious embarrassment at his student's undisciplined behavior.
He coughed twice pointedly and spoke in Mandarin: "Sunny Finch, if you continue embarrassing yourself and our delegation, I will personally throw you into that lake!"
Sunny stuck out her tongue playfully but obediently composed herself into a more dignified posture.
Erwin chuckled quietly from his distant observation point.
She's still the exact same Sunny Finch I remember—absolutely irrepressible.
Filch, Hogwarts' caretaker, trotted over efficiently to the assembled delegations from all three visiting schools, prepared to escort them to their assigned accommodations.
Erwin, observing that the initial excitement was subsiding, was preparing to take a brief afternoon nap when an owl suddenly darted through his open window with remarkable speed.
Puzzled by the urgent delivery, Erwin caught the bird gently and retrieved the letter secured to its leg.
He opened the envelope carefully, and his expression immediately became peculiar and uncertain.
He examined the signature at the bottom multiple times to confirm: Severus Snape.
It was definitely correct—his godfather's distinctive handwriting.
But why would Snape be sending urgent correspondence through owl post rather than simply speaking to him directly at dinner?
Erwin unfolded the parchment and began reading the contents, his frown deepening with each line.