The Great Hall rested beneath the steady glow of floating candles, their light reflecting softly off polished stone and long stretches of empty floor where students would soon crowd once more.
The school remained in recess, and without its usual noise and motion, the space felt held in check, not empty but waiting. An important gathering was underway. At the far end of the hall, the familiar long staff table was gone, replaced by an oval arrangement that drew everyone inward.
Nearly the entire Hogwarts staff occupied the seats, while cutlery clicked softly against porcelain as plates were nudged aside and goblets lifted, then set down again.
"...I still don't understand the need to cancel the Quidditch House Cup, Headmaster," Rolanda Hooch leaned back in her chair, studying Dumbledore from across the table. "We managed perfectly well last year did we not? Even with the interschool tournament running alongside it."
Dumbledore lifted his cup, took a thoughtful sip, and set it down again. His eyes twinkled mildly as he looked her way.
"It is only for this one year, Rolanda," he replied, tone gentle but final.
McGonagall, seated beside him, adjusted her spectacles and leaned forward a fraction, "and the Triwizard Tournament is an entirely different event," she added. "The scope, the risks, and the preparations involved simply do not compare..."
The school's Quidditch instructor exhaled through her nose, gave a short nod, and reached for her goblet. "Very well, then," she said, setting the matter aside.
The shuffle of plates and cutlery continued, and all eyes gradually returned to the Headmaster. Tonight's meeting had a single purpose: with Hogwarts chosen to host the Triwizard Tournament, Dumbledore wished to brief everyone on their additional roles and responsibilities before the school year officially began.
He folded his hands atop the table and let his gaze move slowly from face to face.
"Back to the matter at hand," he said calmly. "Rolanda, you will be working alongside Pomona, Aurora, Hagrid, and Argus as one team. You will be assisting Minerva, who will oversee the tournament in its entirety, from preparations through to the final task."
His attention moved on without pause.
"Severus, you and Pomfrey will be responsible for the champions' well-being before, during, and after each event. Ensure they are physically and mentally fit for the challenges..."
Snape's dark eyes flicked toward Pomfrey for a moment before settling back on the Headmaster, and Pomfrey responded with a crisp, affirming nod.
No one interrupted.
"That leaves Filius," he said, turning slightly, "and Maverick. I entrust the two of you with the overall security of the tournament, both externally and within the grounds..."
"Will the Ministry Aurors be working with us as well?" the short, lively professor asked, leaning forward slightly.
"Yes," Dumbledore replied. "My old friend Alastor will be stationed at the castle throughout the year. Speaking of which, he will also take up the Defence Against the Dark Arts post this year. Since he will be here most of the time, I thought it sensible to combine the roles."
"And he agreed?" Maverick asked, brow raised. "Just like that?"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he leaned back slightly. "We had a productive discussion beforehand," he said, smiling.
McGonagall glanced sideways at her mentor. "If I'm not mistaken, this is the first time a wizard of Greatmagi rank has taken the post?"
"Indeed," Dumbledore nodded.
Her eyes lit up, and she added thoughtfully, "Perhaps, then, the so-called curse will find itself outmatched this year."
"I wonder how Alestor will feel hearing the two of you discuss him so casually, as if he's an experimental subject..."
A soft chuckle rippled around the table, even Snape's mouth twitching briefly at Maverick's remark.
Dumbledore and his deputy shared a small smile. "I did warn him, of course," the Headmaster said. "But Alastor did not seem particularly afraid."
"When have you ever seen that man afraid of anything to do with Dark Magic?"
"Indeed, Poppy. Even during his student days, he was fearless," Dumbledore said, rubbing his chin, eyes twinkling. He hummed thoughtfully. "He reminds me of another friend of mine, Garling—that reckless fellow." He cast a quick glance at Maverick.
"I'll be sure to tell Teacher you called him an idiot, Headmaster," Maverick replied, lips twitching.
Another chorus of chuckles rippled around the table. Dumbledore waved a hand, smiling. "Ah, when have I ever called him foolish, my dear professor?"
Maverick gave a faint shrug, then returned to the matter at hand. "When will the delegations arrive, and will their staff be involved in oversight as well?"
Dumbledore set his cup aside and smiled. With a casual wave of his hand, several neat stacks of parchment rose from the shimmer of his storage ring, drifting gracefully across the table toward each staff member.
"Please," he said as the papers settled, "this is the proposed timeline, along with the challenges for the champions, agreed upon by the other headmasters. And to answer your last question—no. As the host school, Hogwarts will bear full responsibility for the tournament in its entirety."
Maverick lowered his gaze to the parchment, scanning the details, while around him pages were turned and murmurs rose and fell. Dumbledore's eyes lingered on him a moment longer.
"And lastly," he added, "regarding the matter of broadcasting. Professor, have you spoken to your fiancée?"
The meeting continued well past the point where the food had grown cold, the meeting stretching late into the evening as details were refined and contingencies discussed.
Eventually, chairs scraped softly against stone as some of the staff departed the castle altogether, after all, a full week of summer still remained. A few, however, stayed behind, and Maverick was among them.
The next day, Isabella and her team arrived at Hogwarts for a more focused meeting with Dumbledore and the school's board of governors. Fees, logistics, profit divisions, and magical transmission methods were discussed at length. After all, this tournament, aside from its tradition and significance, promised to generate a substantial sum of galleons.
On the brighter side, Maverick found himself quietly pleased by one simple truth. This year, Isabella would be spending a great deal of time at Hogwarts with him.
Time passed as it always did, swiftly and without ceremony.
Soon enough, the day arrived.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, bathing the hills in amber light, the Hogwarts Express finally rolled to a halt at Hogsmeade Station, steam billowing into the evening air as it carried with it the voices, laughter, and restless energy of a new school year beginning.
---
The freshmen, like every year, were escorted by the school's gatekeeper, ah, former gatekeeper, now the Professor of Care of Magical Creatures. Hagrid still seemed to love what he had been doing all these years.
The older students, meanwhile, climbed onto the Thestral carriages, and soon the massive silhouette of Hogwarts Castle loomed ahead. Inside the Great Hall, the teachers were already seated on the elevated platform before the long tables, waiting for the hall to fill.
Snape, in his signature black robes, wore a face so gloomy it seemed ready to drip water, his brow furrowed tightly, presumably in a foul mood for no reason at all.
The older students mused, probably the Defense Against the Dark Arts post the old bat had coveted for years had been taken once again, and he still hadn't gotten his wish.
And speaking of which, the chair for that position appeared empty this year. Could the school have finally run out of luck and failed to hire anyone?
"No, wait, is that Mad-Eye?"
"Merlin's beard… will it really be Mad-Eye Moody filling in for Professor Lupin who resigned last year?"
The hall buzzed with murmurs, for he was no stranger to any of them, not even the Muggle-borns. The man was famous, albeit mostly for negative reasons, despite being one of the most powerful weapons against Dark wizards in all of Britain.
The man in question indeed wasn't sitting in any chair. Instead, he stood on the stage, his cane pressed to the floor, both hands clasped over it, sweeping the students as they entered, scanning the hall as if hunting a criminal. Not even the second- and third-year students hiding in the back rows escaped his gaze.
His face was marred with crisscrossing scars, one running from forehead to chin, looking particularly vicious. A few timid second-years shrank behind their companions, while others exchanged glances, angling for seats farther from the podium.
After all, no one wanted to meet that eerie magical eye for long. Moody noticed the small movements clearly but ignored them entirely.
Some time later, the freshmen entered the hall in a line behind Hagrid, while Professor McGonagall stepped forward, placing a three-legged stool in the open space before them.
She then pulled out the iconic Wizard's Hat from who knows where and placed it on the stool.
For the older students, nothing was new. The hat was tattered, its brim worn, its surface coated in dust, patched with pieces of fabric of different colors. It looked discarded, out of place in the magnificent Great Hall.
The freshmen, however, stared at the strange object, confusion written across their faces. Customarily, every year the seniors spread impromptu sorting theories during the train ride, some outrageous even, claiming the sorting ceremony might involve dueling creatures of untold power.
And now, seeing only an ordinary old hat, the new students sighed in relief, though their eyes flicked with resentment at the snickering older students.
With everyone ready, and as the Great Hall fell silent, a small crack appeared near the brim of the hat, like a tiny mouth, and then a melodious song began:
Oh, welcome back, young witches and wizards,
Gryffindor, where daring hearts will rise,
Yet heed, for reckless flame can scorch the wise.
Hufflepuff, steadfast, true, and just,
Beware that patience falters into dust.
Ravenclaw, with minds sharp and keen,
Yet brilliance alone can blind what's unseen.
Slytherin, whose ambition knows no bound,
Yet hunger unchecked may bring you down.
This year is heavy with tasks of fate…
As the song ended, warm applause filled the hall. Even Moody, uncharacteristically, clapped softly, perhaps remembering his own student days.
The Sorting Hat's song was never truly melodious—its tune sometimes off-key, sometimes drawn out—but no one cared. Everyone respected it. In a magical world generally lacking musical talent, this antique could compose a new song each year, perfectly aligned with Hogwarts' history and current situation.
The applause subsided, and Professor McGonagall unfolded a thick roll of parchment, yellowed at the edges and covered in tightly written names.
She cleared her throat. "When I call your name, step forward, place the Sorting Hat on your head, and sit on the stool. Once the hat announces your House, proceed to the corresponding table."
"Ackerley, Stewart!"
A tall, thin boy stepped forward, legs trembling, hands tightly clenched, ears pink. He carefully lifted the Sorting Hat and placed it on his head, then sat, eyes shut, waiting.
"Ravenclaw!" the Sorting Hat's voice rang.
Cheers erupted from the Ravenclaw table as the boy opened his eyes, startled, and hurried to his seat.
The Sorting continued in order: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin. Cheers erupted from the tables until the last student was sorted into Hufflepuff, after which Professor McGonagall carefully rolled up the parchment and put it away.
At that moment, flashes of golden light swept across the tables, instantly laying out a sumptuous feast that had the students reaching eagerly for their knives and forks.
Dumbledore's pre-dinner speech was brief, and once dessert was finished and the plates cleared, he rose again, bringing the Great Hall to instant silence.
"So!" he said, smiling. "Now that we are fed and watered, I must ask your attention again for a few notices."
He recited familiar rules: students were forbidden from leaving dormitories after curfew, forbidden to enter the Forbidden Forest, forbidden to use dangerous magic in the corridors—there was a lot of forbidden.
He then introduced the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, pointing to Moody, who was now seated with the rest of the staff. "This is Alastor Moody, an experienced senior Auror. Starting today, he will be your Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor."
Usually, new staff members would be greeted witha loud applause, but this year, for obvious reasons, only the staff clapped, and the students—even the freshmen—remained completely silent.
The staff's mouths twitched, all of them feeling awkward as the sound echoed dismally through the hall, and they quickly stopped clapping so Dumbledore could move on.
Fortunately, Moody wasn't the type to care about such things. Ignoring the awkward atmosphere entirely, he stood, gave the students a slight nod, and then sat back down.
Dumbledore cleared his throat before continuing.
"…On another matter, I must regretfully inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup, as well as the inter-school Quidditch tournament, will not take place this year."
At the mention, the Great Hall rippled with astonished murmurs, spreading through the room like a stone thrown into a calm lake. Students whispered to each other, disbelief written across their faces, especially the players who had been preparing for the Quidditch matches, their disappointment clear.
The reaction was expected, and Dumbledore even allowed the murmuring to linger for a moment before continuing.
"The reason the Quidditch matches are canceled is that a major event will begin in October and continue throughout the school year, demanding much of the teachers' time and energy. However, I believe the enjoyment this event will bring you will be no less than that of the Quidditch match."
He paused, letting the suspense hang in the air, his eyes sparkling with excitement, and then his voice rang out, carrying across the Great Hall, warm, strong, and full of energy: "It is my great pleasure to announce that this year, Hogwarts will host... the TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT!"
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Author's Note:
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