The wheels of the Hogwarts Express clattered quietly and evenly on the tracks. I sat in a compartment with the other students from our House, watching their lively discussion of the latest events. And, of course, nothing could be more important than the Quidditch World Cup final and the "riots" that followed.
"Riots"—that's the word the newspapers and other yellow press were using to cover the event. In short: no fatalities, only a few minor injuries, the Ministry quickly contained the situation, the instigators and "hooligans" are being actively tracked and caught, and the Minister has taken personal control of the case. I didn't see a shred of truth in those lines, as I vividly remembered what happened. The rest of the "Lie for the Greater Good" was easily read: they can't catch anyone, and no one knows exactly how it all happened.
"No serious injuries or fatalities" was another lie. I might have believed it if I hadn't felt the energy of death on that field—an energy only received through the forced infliction of that very death. There were victims, but they were silent. It would be nice to get copies of the foreign press to precisely compare the information provided.
I stood up, drawing the boys' attention.
"Where are you off to? Getting restless?" Justin asked me. Just a second ago, he was actively gesticulating and explaining to everyone how wrong the incident felt to him.
"Yeah, a little," I smiled back. "Going to walk through the carriages."
Leaving the compartment, I stepped into the corridor and looked around. This corridor ran through all the passenger carriages of the Express, and the transitions between them weren't in the center, but right here, along the wall. I could see children happily running from compartment to compartment, or older students walking with an air of importance.
I only meant to walk through the next carriage and keep going, but I stopped by a window, opened it slightly, and enjoyed the Scottish landscapes—yes, we must be in Scotland already. It's funny and interesting; I still haven't figured out if this is another world or not. Few people notice, but after leaving London through a tunnel, we suddenly find ourselves in lonely, empty wilderness, out in nature. Then another tunnel, and we seem to be driving among multiple rail tracks again, with houses visible in the distance. Another tunnel, and it's back to some kind of emptiness. You don't pay attention to it for a long, long time. Even Muggle-borns, like me, barely notice such things, though we know how vast, yet simultaneously crowded, the world around us is. And there's never any information. No, it's decided: after fourth year, I'm just going to walk the Hogwarts Express route and look for something magical.
But despite the beautiful green meadows and groves, my thoughts returned to the newspapers. The very first article, published the morning after the match, was rather... unpleasant for the Ministry. Rita Skeeter described the situation exactly as it was: a nightmare, negligence, governmental incompetence, and what to do now? But everyone was protesting her conclusions, saying: "Rita Skeeter has never written a good word about anyone; she always discredits the Ministry." Yet, honestly, how could they have allowed something like that to happen?
Familiar students ran past while I simply stared at the scenery. But I got bored with that, too, and returned to the compartment.
"They're saying," Ernie Macmillan, who'd grown a bit over the summer like the rest of the boys, spoke in a half-whisper, "that they were real Death Eaters."
"Nonsense," Susan shook her head. "My aunt said their costumes were cheap fakes. Just robes and masks. Real Death Eaters had high-class gear with many enchantments."
"Imitators?" I sat down in my place among the boys.
"Looks like it," Susan nodded, adjusting a red lock of hair. "I'll tell you a secret, but there wasn't a single respectable wizard among those arrested. None of those ever suspected of connections with You-Know-Who. Lots of young failures, thieves, and bandits who were already wanted."
"Maybe the 'respectable' ones had enough skill to escape?" Justin literally took the question out of my mouth.
"Maybe," Susan nodded, and everyone agreed. "But you can't prove it now."
Overall, the boys calmed down at this point, having thoroughly discussed the events, and were now simply comparing the summer homework they'd completed. Some might think we study harder than the Ravens, yet they're the ones supposed to be persistent in their studies. But to understand why we, and the other Badgers, dedicate a lot of time to studying, you have to dig a little deeper. Yes, many can't boast extraordinary thinking, genius, or anything like that; no, sometimes it's the opposite—just ordinary kids with quite predictable and simple ways of thinking. However, the phrase "a time for everything" fully describes the Hufflepuff way of life: the right approach to various activities allows you to succeed everywhere, but in return, it requires time, a schedule, and a responsible approach to both work and rest.
The Ravens are more prone to spontaneous bursts of genius, and if you see a Ravenclaw student suddenly surrounded by books, know that he has completely immersed himself in his "idea" and will only back down if he finishes, collapses from exhaustion, or something else happens.
After checking the homework, we bought some sweets and spent the time until we arrived in Hogsmeade with simple small talk about the weather. Like the others, I had put on my school uniform at home, and now, just throwing on my robe, I moved with the noisy crowd of students of all ages down the single, lantern-lit street of Hogsmeade station. There were a couple of shops, like "Dime-a-Dozen," and a greasy spoon—the Thestral-drawn carriages were already waiting for us, and Hagrid had gone to meet the first-years.
"Ugh," I sighed when we—Ernie, Zacharias, Justin, Susan, and Hannah—got into one carriage, which had just enough room for six. "I wonder if the Quidditch team rosters will change for the other Houses this year."
"Um..." Susan looked suspiciously embarrassed. "There won't be any Quidditch this year."
"What?!" everyone blurted out.
"Well..." From the sudden attention, Susan blushed slightly, though she'd been more confident on the train. "My aunt said there would be... 'Something, you'll find out yourself.' That's it. But there definitely won't be Quidditch."
"Damn it..." Justin and Ernie slumped.
"What are you two so glum about?" I looked at my friends with a smile. "It's not like I'll be the one flying."
"You don't get it. Quidditch is an important part of Hogwarts life. Intrigue, bets, theories, tactics. Six matches a year, and two weeks before and after each match, all sorts of interesting things happen!" Zacharias answered for the downcast boys. "So there you have it, we're bummed. If there's no Quidditch, we'll have to find something else to do. I hope this 'something' is a worthy substitute, or I'll join the choir out of boredom."
"Pffft," Hannah barely held back a laugh, patting her friend on the shoulder. "Who would let you in there with that voice of yours?"
"I can open my mouth perfectly well as if I'm singing, so don't you start," he smiled back.
Hogwarts greeted us with gloomy corridors with subdued lighting in the form of torches or fire bowls burning here and there. The voices and footsteps of the students merged into a monotonous hum under the arch of the dark ceilings, but then we entered the Great Hall, decorated as mystically and magically as it was last year when I first came for my third year. Countless lit candles floated in the air above the still-empty House tables, but not a drop of wax fell from them. The illusion of the night sky on the ceiling was clearer than ever before, making it impossible to tell if there was even a ceiling above us. The sky began to cloud over; the moon quickly vanished, and it seemed the atmosphere here would soon be less magical and more frightening—the weather was turning bad too quickly.
Like the other students, we began to take our seats, many eagerly watching the still-empty dishware—not everyone brings a snack for the journey. Of course, my friends knew there was no food on the train. Unlike me, I missed that detail on the last trip. Why didn't Hermione say anything? Though she didn't bring anything edible herself, either. Against the rules, maybe...
"Something funny?"
Turning to Ernie, I realized he was asking me.
"Not exactly. Just everyday thoughts."
"Ah, I see."
A quiet but palpable roll of thunder sounded. We looked up at the ceiling, the sky on which was now completely covered in clouds, turning it simply black. The staff table was almost full, with professors chatting, and only the Headmaster, sitting in his seat, thoughtfully gazed up at the ceiling. McGonagall's seat was empty, but as I knew, she was meeting the first-years. The DADA professor's seat was also empty, which was strange and even slightly worrying.
"Do you think," I nudged Ernie sitting next to me and nodded at the empty professor's seat, "they haven't found anyone?"
"Hmm? That could be. You know the DADA professor is new every year?"
"Of course, why else would I ask?"
"Hmm," Ernie nodded. "Well, yeah. They say the position is cursed. The pay at Hogwarts is good, above the country average, and the job is pretty prestigious. But you still have to look hard for DADA applicants."
The wait for the Sorting Ceremony didn't last long. The Great Hall doors swung open, and Professor McGonagall led a crowd of slightly wet but enthusiastic children behind her.
"We weren't that happy," Ernie grumbled.
"Why not?"
"No idea. Maybe the bad weather at the lake gave them a proper energy boost."
The Sorting went as usual. Not many students came to our House compared to the others. The Lions and Snakes got the most fresh meat.
"I have only one thing to say," the Headmaster's voice echoed through the Hall. "Eat."
The tables were instantly laden with all sorts of food, and, of course, like the others, I quickly piled my plate with the largest and most filling portion of assorted dishes.
"Well, at least it wasn't 'devour,' that's something," I grinned. "Enjoy your meal, colleagues."
"And you, Sir Granger," the ghost of the Fat Friar flew by and wished me a good meal as he headed towards the first-years.
"There's some truth in what you say," Justin nodded, carving a thick, very pink steak. "But I prefer to ignore Dumbledore's extravagance. It's easier on the brain."
One thing you couldn't take away from Hogwarts was its excellent celebratory banquets and feasts. There were many occasions for them during the year, but as I understood it, the most magnificent were the ones for the start of the school year, the end of the year, Christmas, Halloween, and Walpurgis Night. Though the last one isn't officially announced, the dinner on April 30th is much better than the others. I should ask someone about it.
I couldn't help but notice a slight commotion breaking the general joyful atmosphere—some kind of "mutiny on the ship" at the Gryffindor table, and the epicenter of the indignation was Hermione, who had her arms crossed and stubbornly refused to eat. Fine—I'll find out later what got her so upset.
The feast came to an end, the food disappeared, and Dumbledore rose from his seat.
"Well, now," he began, smiling, and the entire Hall fell silent, listening. "Now that we are all fed and watered, I must once more ask for your attention, for I have a few announcements to make. Mr. Filch, our caretaker, has asked me to inform you that the list of forbidden objects within the castle walls has been extended this year to include Screaming Yo-Yos, Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs. The full list comprises four hundred and thirty-seven items. You may consult it in Mr. Filch's office, should you wish to."
Everyone chuckled—from the Headmaster and the professors, except for McGonagall and Snape, to the students, even the first-years.
"As always," the Headmaster continued after a short pause. "I would like to remind you that the Forbidden Forest is out of bounds to all students, as is the village of Hogsmeade for those under the age of third year. It is also my unpleasant duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not be taking place this year."
"What?!" many students cried out in various tones.
That announcement caused a buzz of outrage, confusion, and more, but those of us who were already informed took it a little easier. Glancing at Cedric, the team captain, after all, I saw understanding in his eyes, meaning he had also been informed. For a moment, I remembered that almost our entire team roster were currently seventh-years, which meant they wouldn't play Quidditch at school anymore. Regrettable.
I would have sympathized with them, but I realized that next year, our team would be utterly decimated... I'm already not looking forward to flying—God forbid, as they say here, they stick me with the captaincy! That's so much trouble! A hobby would immediately stop being a hobby. I should probably disqualify myself this year. And organize our own Quidditch competition—I think many people would support that idea. While I was thinking, only a few seconds passed, and the Headmaster gestured for silence.
"This is due to an event that will begin in October and continue throughout the school year. It will require the professors' full time and energy, but I am confident it will give you true pleasure. It is with great pleasure that I announce that this year, Hogwarts will be hosting..."
It was at this moment that a deafening thunderclap sounded, and lightning flashed across the illusion of the night sky—the storm had finally reached us. The flash briefly illuminated the shapes and contours of thick clouds and rain. The illusion on the ceiling was so good that for a moment, it felt like we were about to be drenched.
The Great Hall doors swung open again. In the doorway stood a man leaning on a long staff and wrapped in a brown travel cloak. Of course, we all turned to him. I recognized him—I'd seen him in Hogsmeade last year. Either an Auror or something else.
The man threw back his hood—yes, it was definitely him. The same scarred face, a large prosthetic eye. He headed towards the staff table, limping slightly, his right and left footsteps sounding different.
"Alastor Moody..." Ernie, sitting next to me, whispered quietly.
"Who?"
"Later..."
The man walked up to the Headmaster, extended a scarred hand, and Dumbledore shook it, asking something quietly. Moody shook his head negatively and replied just as quietly. The Headmaster nodded and pointed invitingly to the DADA professor's seat. This intriguing character settled comfortably at the table, nodded to the others, pulled a plate of sausages towards him, picked one up with a fork, sniffed at it, examined it, and only then took a bite.
"Allow me to introduce our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher," Dumbledore announced cheerfully in the silence. "Professor Alastor Moody."
In the silent Hall, only Dumbledore and the giant Hagrid applauded the new professor. The others seemed not to have fully recovered from the sight—Moody's appearance could be used as shock therapy or an offensive weapon for stunning.
"Moody?" I asked Ernie, who was clearly impressed by the wizard's appearance. "I read he had a hand in catching many of the Dark Lord's followers."
"That's right," Ernie nodded, eyes fixed on the unusually-looking professor. "He personally caught many of You-Know-Who's servants, and dark wizards in general who were causing harm..."
"Causing harm? Just for the sake of it?"
"Who knows with them?" Ernie shrugged, and Hannah, sitting opposite, continued his thought.
"They say that an illiterate approach to the Dark Arts, a wrong mindset," Hannah tapped her temple. "Leads to sad consequences. It can rob you of sanity, reason, turn you mad."
"Yes, I heard that too," Susan nodded. "My aunt said the Dark Arts are extremely dangerous for a wizard. To even slightly touch them without losing your mind, you need the strongest character and will."
"And what do we mean by the Dark Arts?" I asked a reasonable question, as I hadn't found an answer to it yet. In the local literature, of course.
"Um..." My question puzzled everyone.
Dumbledore, meanwhile, having given everyone time to process the information and quickly discuss it, continued his speech.
"As I was saying," he smiled at the many students whose gazes were still fixed on Moody, "in the coming months, we will have the honor of hosting an extremely exciting event, one not seen in this century. It is with tremendous pleasure that I announce that this year, Hogwarts will host the Triwizard Tournament!"
"You're JOKING?!" a double exclamation sounded from the Gryffindor table, which was the trigger for laughter, jokes, and disbelief, such as, "No way! It can't be!"
"What is that?" I immediately asked, but I was ignored as everyone continued to watch the Headmaster, who surveyed the Hall, waiting for silence, or at least a hint of it. And he waited.
"I am not joking at all, Mr. Weasley," he said, and everyone understood who exactly had been so unrestrained, or rather, who the two "identical" people were. "Though, since you mention it, I heard a joke this summer... A troll, a witch, and a leprechaun walk into a bar..."
"Ahem, ahem," McGonagall gave the Headmaster a reproachful look, and a quiet wave of snickers rolled through the Hall again, quickly subsiding.
"Ehh... but perhaps now is not the time... no. What was I saying? Ah yes, the Triwizard Tournament! I also suspect some of you have no idea what this tournament is, and those who do, I hope, will forgive me for the explanation and can occupy themselves with something else for a moment."
Many in the Hall nodded, saying, "Yes, yes, please continue," and I was among them—I wanted an explanation.
"So, the Triwizard Tournament was first established roughly seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition among the three largest European schools of wizardry—Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. Each school was represented by a chosen Champion, and these three Champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools agreed to hold the Tournament every five years, and it was generally agreed to be the best way to forge friendly ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities. And so it went until the death toll at these competitions rose so high that the Tournament had to be discontinued."
"Victims?" I spoke up again, but only Ernie reacted.
"Yeah. It was bloody dangerous."
"Over the centuries," the Headmaster continued, "several attempts have been made to revive the Tournament, but none of them could be called successful. Nevertheless, our Departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have concluded that the time has come to try once more. All summer, we have worked hard to ensure conditions this time that no Champion will be subjected to mortal peril. The Heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will arrive with their contenders on the fourteenth of September, and the selection of the Champions will take place on the first of October. An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Triwizard Cup, the honor of their school, and a personal prize of a thousand Galleons."
"I want to participate," the boys around me said simultaneously, and the others immediately began discussing the possibility.
"So, you need a thousand Galleons?" I turned to Ernie.
Justin, like me, looked at everyone with slight bewilderment, though a hint of enthusiasm could be read in his gaze.
"It's a thousand Galleons and eternal glory!" Ernie exclaimed, and many heard him, even though they were busy discussing.
"And danger and death don't scare you? Do you value your life at a thousand Galleons?"
Justin nodded in agreement with my question, which was addressed, in essence, to everyone around our table. Well, for him, five thousand pounds wasn't exactly a huge amount of money to stick his head on the chopping block for.
"Oh, you don't understand," Ernie waved it off. "Dumbledore said there wouldn't be any mortal danger, and injuries are easily healed. They wouldn't expose us to incurable Dark curses and spells, risking turning us into something like Moody, would they?"
"Well, who knows, really," Hannah shrugged thoughtfully. "I'm definitely not participating, if only because I'm clearly not the best even in my year, let alone the whole school."
Meanwhile, Dumbledore continued his speech:
"I know that every one of you is burning to win the Triwizard Cup for Hogwarts, however, the Heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed on an age restriction for this year's contenders. Only students of the age of, and I stress this, seventeen years and older will be permitted to put forward their names for consideration."
Did this announcement outrage the students? Oh, yes! A roar from the combined murmuring of many voices filled the Hall, though some, like Hannah, looked distinctly pleased with the restriction and even glanced at some of their overly eager comrades, such as Zacharias.
"This has been judged a necessary measure," Dumbledore raised his voice, and every student could easily hear him through the quickly subsiding noise of indignation, "since the Tournament tasks remain difficult and dangerous, whatever precautions we take, and it is highly unlikely that students below the sixth and seventh years will be able to cope with them. I will personally ensure that no student below the required age manages to trick our independent judge into accepting their candidacy for Champion selection."
Many, truly many, looked disappointed by this, and I didn't quite understand why. I mean, do the younger years really think that even if they could put forward their names, they would be chosen over someone much more experienced, skilled, and knowledgeable from the upper years? Someone who is better at magic simply because they are older and have studied more? It's nonsense!
"Therefore," Dumbledore continued, and the students quickly quieted down, "I strongly urge you not to waste your time by putting yourselves forward if you are not yet seventeen. The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving here in two weeks and will stay with us for most of this year. I have no doubt that you will be exceptionally welcoming to our foreign guests throughout their stay here and that you will wholeheartedly support the Hogwarts Champion when he or she is chosen. And now—it is late, and I understand how important it is for all of you to be bright and rested for tomorrow's lessons. It is time for bed! Do not linger."
Dumbledore sat down and began talking to Moody. With a loud shuffle, we all began to rise from our tables and headed for the exit—a good night's sleep would indeed be helpful, even if I didn't feel tired. But what else is there to do at Hogwarts at night? Run from the patrolling teachers, risking unnecessary detentions? Tomorrow will be a difficult day—I'll need to try to ignore the impending events and the inevitable commotion from this news, assess the schedule, make a timetable with the guys for extracurricular activities, library visits, training... In short, there's plenty to think about.
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