The day the delegations were due to arrive was bound to come sooner or later.
On this fine day, all students were notified in advance that classes would end early, and we were all expected to gather in the school's Entrance Hall, dressed in full uniform, including hats. When? Everyone was to assemble at quarter to six in the evening. Well, we gathered, much to Snape's displeasure. The fact was that our Potions class was "cut short," and of course, the professor was unhappy. He is generally unhappy when it comes to students and Potions. One would think he should be glad the class was shortened, and no one would annoy him with their inability to handle a cauldron, but no—he was irritated by the abbreviated lesson.
Strictly adhering to the dress code, albeit without much enthusiasm, as it was dull, students of all ages gradually gathered in the Hall. My friends and I were among the first and served as a beacon for the Hufflepuff students—everyone else who could boast a yellow lining on their robes and a uniform tie in House colors naturally gravitated around us.
"This is the first time in my life I'm wearing this hat," I couldn't help but complain about the headwear, which was wildly prevalent in folklore only among women.
"Really?" the others were surprised, including Hannah, who was closest to me. "That's unexpected."
"Come on, look..." I took the hat off my head, turning it in my hands. "Pointed, wide-brimmed... I look like a witch from the cover of a caricature magazine."
"Well, not a witch, let's say," she smiled, adjusting her hat so it tilted slightly to the side like a beret. "But a respectable wizard..."
"None of whom wear hats. I'm not McGonagall; I can't look truly dignified in this."
"Are you saying," Hannah narrowed her eyes slightly, but her smile betrayed her good mood. "That I look undignified?"
"You look nice, but McGonagall and Madam Pince are probably the only ones in this castle who can wear this and look... significant?"
Hannah fixed me with a stern look for a second, but seeing neither repentance nor a desire to take back my words, she sighed.
"Yes. You have a point there."
Soon, everyone, or nearly everyone, including the teachers, was gathered in the Hall, which easily accommodated the crowd of wizards in dark robes.
"Follow me!" McGonagall's stern voice sounded like a command, which it essentially was.
There are two teachers at Hogwarts whom everyone obeyed without exception: Snape and McGonagall. They both possessed undeniable authority, were known for their strictness, and the absolute finality of their decisions. You could negotiate with others, appeal to pity, or present counterarguments. Not with these two. The Transfiguration professor is also the Deputy Headmistress, so we followed her, leaving the Hall and stepping first into the inner courtyard, and then beyond it, lining up there, in front of the castle grounds entrance. On one side, the Black Lake was visible; on the other, the gentle slope down to Hagrid's hut—one of the two paths to it.
The teachers, and McGonagall herself, again made adjustments to our ranks, shuffling us according to principles known only to them, to make the whole thing look better from a distance, while also considering the students' height—so everyone could see everything. Somehow, the Headmaster, who had remained unnoticed in the commotion, finally revealed himself to the public, stepping slightly in front of the line of teachers and gazing thoughtfully into the Scottish landscape.
The evening was overcast, like many others. It was getting cooler. Although it was only six in the afternoon, it was slowly, slowly beginning to get dark, almost imperceptibly, but if you looked closely, you could catch that slight loss of contrast in the world around us.
"How much longer?" Ernie grumbled. "I haven't eaten."
"No one has eaten, you oaf," Hannah, standing nearby, countered.
"Hey, what's wrong with you?"
"Nothing."
"Well..."
"Look, over there!" someone exclaimed joyfully, pointing a finger at the sky.
Following the arm, I saw a dot in the sky, rapidly approaching us, weaving slightly from side to side. The students built all sorts of speculations—from a dragon to a flying house.
The reality turned out to be somewhat simpler, yet unexpected—a large flying carriage, pulled by a dozen snow-white Pegasi. They dashed across the sky, descending towards us, banking at such angles that it seemed the coachman was completely drunk. Only magic could have helped this flying vehicle land without shattering into pieces.
"Ooh!.."
"Wow!.."
This was the gist of the many phrases, gasps, and awes as the carriage and Pegasi landed on the nearly gentle incline leading up to the castle from Hagrid's hut. Not only was the bluish-lilac carriage with gold trim monstrous, as were the Pegasi, which were twice the size of a normal horse, but the landing was also far from soft. The carriage bounced slightly a couple of times and shook noticeably, and I barely resisted the urge to wince—my past as a car enthusiast spoke in me, and witnessing such jarring for a means of transport was almost physically painful.
And there was indeed someone on the coach box. A boy our age in warm, but not traditionally baggy English robes, but something more like a cloak, beneath which a sky-blue uniform was visible, and on his hands were rather thick white gloves. This boy nimbly jumped to the ground, leaned slightly towards the carriage door, and finding some kind of "secret" mechanism or something else under the chassis, engaged that "something." A golden staircase lowered from the still-closed carriage door, the door opened, and the first person to emerge was the Headmistress of Beauxbatons—at least that's what I gathered from the information I had.
Madame Olympe Maxime, as the current Headmistress of Beauxbatons is named, was distinctive... Distinctive, in short, and primarily in height. It catches the eye when a lady is as tall as Hagrid—quite a watchtower. But while Hagrid concealed a slightly caricature-like face beneath his beard, hinted at by the structure of the visible part, Madame Maxime boasted very proper features, almost too much so. And even her "aquiline" nose didn't spoil it. Satin-black, high-necked robes, hair in a low bun at the back of her head, everything strict and elegant. However, a careful look might catch the slightly enlarged thickness of her fingers and feet, and thus her limbs in general, suggesting similar origins for Madame Maxime and Hagrid. And again, according to the information I have, Hagrid is a half-giant. He doesn't hide it, though. Hmm... It seems slightly enlarged limbs might be a characteristic trait of such hybrids. And no, this cannot be a consequence of excessive height or anything else—giants, like trolls, have similar proportions, only more pronounced, and my splinters have met people of this height where the body proportions were normal.
While I was contemplating what I had seen, albeit quickly, Madame Maxime had already approached Dumbledore and begun exchanging pleasantries. Many students, I noticed, didn't even notice the dozen Beauxbatons students in sky-blue robes, some even wearing scarves. Tsk, the cold ones. Or rather, the cold girls—the only two boys stoically endured the mild chill of the Scottish evening.
"Our horses need a mighty stable boy..."
Although the headmasters spoke quietly, the students were by no means loud, allowing us to hear and make out the words.
"...they are vairy strong," Madame Maxime's accent was slightly jarring, but her language was academically correct.
"Oh, rest assured," Dumbledore, who, although tall, was much shorter than Madame Maxime, chuckled into his beard, "Hagrid, of all people, is up to the task."
"Vairy good!" Madame Maxime bowed slightly. "But please tell Monsieur 'Agrid that my horses drink only single-malt whizky."
"By all means," Dumbledore bowed in return.
"Follow me," Madame Maxime gestured to her students and headed towards the castle.
As soon as they moved a decent distance away, our students immediately began whispering, discussing Madame Maxime and the French students, or speculating about the Durmstrang students and their transport. But these speculations didn't last long—the surface of the black lake slightly churned, much to everyone's excitement.
"Look!" some students, mostly younger ones, shouted in various ways, pointing a hand at the lake.
There, about a hundred meters from the shore, first a mast appeared from the water with a crow's nest and a single lookout, and then, as if straight out of the pirate movie I loved in my past life, a large sailing ship surfaced from under the water—I'm not versed in their classification. "Part of the crew, part of the ship"—I recalled the phrase from the movie. The ship truly resembled some kind of Flying Dutchman, with features like a floating skeleton, with the ghostly fire of its portholes, and overall, the vessel looked grim, mysterious, and frightening. The ship steadily moved towards the shore.
"I wouldn't be surprised," I muttered, drawing the attention of the boys standing nearby. "If sailors' tales about the Flying Dutchman turn out to be entirely true."
"Doesn't it bother you that it surfaced in the lake?" Justin reasonably asked, not taking his eyes off the ship.
"Not at all. Magic, my friend. Magic. Perhaps it can surface like this in any body of water of sufficient size?"
"Hmm... That's true..."
While we, and everyone else, discussed the vessel in various ways, it had already almost run aground near the shore, dropped anchor, and lowered a gangplank, across which about a dozen and a half wizards in warm fur robes moved towards us. One stood out among them with his grey hair and short beard, and his clothes were silver, not the brown of the others.
"The French were cold," Hannah noted. "These ones will be hot."
"It's clothing, friend," Ernie grinned. "It can be taken off."
"No way!"
"What is wrong with you?"
"Nothing."
A smile spontaneously appeared on my face. This was all genuinely amusing.
"Dumbledore!" The old man in silver robes threw his arms open in greeting, walking towards our Headmaster. "How are you, dear friend?"
"Perfectly well, thank you, Professor Karkaroff."
Seeing a man like Igor Karkaroff evoked various impressions and opinions in me. For starters, he lacked the talent to lie with his "eyes"—his gaze was sharp, catching every little detail, attentive, and not particularly happy, while his face wore a good mask of cordiality. I remembered some information I had acquired in the Hogwarts library; Igor Karkaroff's name figured among other criminals, fanatics, and followers of the Dark Lord, and his guilt had been proven. But then he was released. He must have sold out his associates. And no, I'm not some genius who figured it all out; the concept of a deal with the authorities is not new to me, and only a truly saintly or naive person would think: "If he was released, he must be innocent." But the topic is interesting.
And again, while I was contemplating the transience of being, Karkaroff approached Dumbledore. They shook hands, a firm clasp, and Karkaroff surveyed everything around, including the castle. The Durmstrang Headmaster smiled cordially, but his gaze remained cold.
"Good old Hogwarts. It's good to be here again. I remember, even though it's warmer here than at home, you can catch a cold in an instant, right, Viktor?"
Karkaroff glanced at one of the students, beckoning him over with a gesture, and we all recognized Viktor Krum in that student. It seemed he would be promoted in every possible way here, too. Or perhaps others would promote themselves using him.
Dumbledore invited Karkaroff and his students to go inside the castle, since they were so afraid of catching a cold, and all of us followed them.
"Wow..." many, including our guys, discussed Krum in surprise. "He's still a schoolboy."
"Yes, Ernie," Hannah smiled. "You, of all people, should have known that. You're supposed to be a Quidditch fan, and a Krum fan in particular."
"Well, yeah... I just somehow forgot that a significant part of his fame is that he's still a schoolboy," McMillan admitted.
Soon we reached the Great Hall and began heading to our places. The French had already settled at the Ravenclaw table, looking around the Hall decorated with the crests of the Houses and Hogwarts, while the Durmstrang students, whose strict uniforms with red tunics were visible under their fur robes-coats, were still just looking around.
"Maybe we should invite them over?" Ernie asked modestly and hopefully, but received an almost synchronous negative head shake from many.
"Do you really want to?" Hannah voiced the collective question.
"Well... not particularly, to be honest."
"There you go. Especially since they are glancing towards the Slytherin table. Just look at that..."
Following Hannah's words, Ernie, like me, looked over at the Snakes' table—they were provident and had clearly arranged in advance to sit in a way that visually left more free space at their table, specifically next to the older students, who were potentially interesting conversation partners for the guests. And Draco was among them, of course.
"They planned everything in advance," I nodded, confirming Hannah's suspicions. "This is the House of cunning people and hereditary 'dealmakers.' If they can't manage to establish connections, they should at least strive to create the right atmosphere for it."
"Sensible," Justin, who was almost indifferent to all this, nodded. "Did you notice they added four chairs on either side of the Headmaster's 'throne'?"
Everyone shifted their gaze to the teachers' table.
"Indeed," I nodded. "Do you think someone other than the Headmasters has arrived? But then they would have come out. That means someone from our Ministry. Perhaps someone connected with the Tournament organization."
The quiet conversations and whispers in the Great Hall always turned into a monotonous hum, but I was used to it, so it didn't distract me—I was observing the guests. The French were obviously unhappy here. Take, for example, the fact that some of the girls still refused to take off their scarves, trying to warm themselves with them. They also showed no interest in the ceiling, and the illusion we have is famous, difficult to ignore. The Durmstrang students, on the other hand, showed much greater interest in their surroundings, without expressing any negativity—pure interest, in its clearest form. What I found amusing was that they had taken off their clearly enchanted fur robes-coats and cleverly concealed them somewhere—Spatial Extension, or as they call it here, Undetectable Extension. But the funny thing wasn't that—they were wearing red tunics, or something similar, even the three girls. The latter's tunics, by the way, were tailored and fitted precisely to their figures, lending them both strictness and femininity. In short, they were sitting in red at the Slytherin table—this was clearly getting on the nerves of some of the Snakes, and they could barely conceal their mild dissatisfaction with the circumstance.
The appearance of Karkaroff and Madame Maxime was marked by the Beauxbatons students immediately standing up, clearly greeting their Headmistress in this way, and they remained standing until Madame Maxime sat in the chair to Dumbledore's right. Karkaroff sat to his left. Dumbledore rose from his seat and approached the lectern. Silence immediately fell.
"Good evening, ladies, gentlemen, ghosts, and poltergeists, and most importantly, our dear guests. It is with great pleasure that I welcome you within the walls of our school, Hogwarts! I dare to hope that you will have a good time with us, and I have no doubt that you have already appreciated the convenience of our castle."
A few chuckles came from the French side, specifically from a couple of girls, one of whom was still sitting wrapped in a scarf.
"Tsk... hussies..." one of our girls looked at the French girls with slight distaste.
I was interested in this reaction and quickly sought to determine the cause. It turned out to be ridiculously simple—the vast majority of the boys were staring at the French girls, and this was irritating our girls. But the fact that they themselves kept glancing at the Durmstrang boys, well, that shouldn't count, of course. Incidentally, our boys were barely looking at the Durmstrang girls. Were they intimidated by the strict uniform tunics and straight posture? In my opinion, they were quite attractive girls, without the ostentatious, exaggerated "lightness" demonstrated by the French.
"The official opening of the Tournament, as everyone knows," Dumbledore continued in the meantime, "will take place exactly two weeks from now, during which our guests will settle into the castle, get their thoughts and intentions in order, so that they can make well-considered decisions. And now, I dare to announce the start of the feast in honor of our dear guests' arrival. Help yourselves, dear friends, eat your fill. Eat, drink, and make yourselves at home!"
As always, the moment the Headmaster sat down, food began to appear. Of course, we were no longer surprised by festive banquets or the abundance of dishes at such events, but right now, there seemed to be more variety, and the menu had clearly been diversified with foreign delicacies as well. Both fine dining and more common dishes, at least in my opinion.
The seafood dishes were clearly French, and I suspected the desserts would predominantly be from there too. But in honor of the Durmstrang students, the cuisine was mainly Slavic, although I had expected a more... Western European cuisine, perhaps?
Needless to say, the students instantly split into two camps—innovators and conservatives. The former, without a shadow of a doubt and even with enthusiasm, reached for the new, never-before-seen dishes, eager to try something besides English cuisine, even if its festive version was wonderfully delicious, hearty, and varied. The latter, on the contrary, with slight distrust on their faces, gave priority to already familiar food. I can't blame either, but I decided to be a little cunning and take what I liked from everywhere: the heaviest, most calorie-dense meat dishes of England; the "gifts of the sea" category of delicacies from France, for example, mussels with various sauces, and without the foot, by the way; poultry and various potato-and-mushroom concoctions from Slavic cuisine, although there was a lot more extravagant stuff, but sturgeon, for example, annoys me.
"Are you going to be alright?" Hannah's face showed both teasing mockery and genuine concern.
"Don't worry. I'm a growing organism. Everything is beneficial to me, and you won't scare me even with herring, milk, and a pickle."
"Well, herring and milk, I understand the consequences of that," Zacharias recalled something with unconcealed suffering, no doubt a personally tested combination. "But what does the pickle have to do with it?"
"It enhances the effect."
"Ooh... Horrible," he nodded knowingly, helping himself only to English dishes.
Noticing my interest in his choice, Zacharias explained:
"It's precisely because of such experiments that I prefer only proven food. Ideally, I'd even let someone else try it and wait."
Although we were busy eating and talking, our attention was occasionally drawn to our newly arrived "colleagues" from other schools. And naturally, the moment one of the French girls, who had been sitting wrapped in a scarf earlier, finally took it off, and immediately stood up and approached the Gryffindors, did not escape us. With the outermost edge of my sensitivity, I noticed the slightest effect, similar to what the Veela had during the Championship.
"Hmm," Hannah shook her head sadly, looking at what had happened to the Gryffindor boys, especially Ron Weasley.
"In fairness," I decided to clarify this point, "I would like to note that the flushed, drooling Mr. Weasley is far from the only one who has fallen victim to her charm."
"Are you one of them too?" Hannah turned to me with disapproval.
"Temper your female jealousy, Miss," I parodied Snape, slightly defusing the feigned, or maybe not feigned, tension. "This girl has attracted the attention of almost everyone."
"That's suspicious."
"Hmm... Really? I'll tell you, as a young man..."
My phrase elicited laughter from everyone nearby who was paying at least a little attention to what was happening at our table.
"...a proportionally and harmoniously developed girl with long, slightly wavy platinum-silver hair, and in this Beauxbatons uniform, simply cannot fail to attract the attention of our boys, who see nothing but our grey robes day after day."
"Hmm. But you're not staring at her so openly, and anyway... Maybe you're too young, 'man'?"
"I have an excellent memory—one glance is enough for me to remember everything and evaluate it."
"You know, Hector," Justin looked at me with a slight smirk. "In the context of this conversation, your memory does you no credit."
"Oh, what a misfortune," I pretended to be horrified. "Now people will think who knows what about me."
"Still," Hannah summarized. "Looks aren't everything."
"Absolutely," I nodded. "But, as they say, you're greeted by your clothes. Notice this. No one is looking at the French boys at all. Why? It's the clothes. Those sky-blue colors, the excessive elegance of the cut, all that tinsel... It's just off-putting, in my opinion. But such elegance perfectly attracts attention when it comes to girls. Notice, no vulgarity. Plus the excessive mannerisms of those boys."
"I hadn't thought about it in that light," Hannah nodded, and the others decided to take a closer look at the French, which brought no pleasure to anyone, neither the boys nor the girls.
"There," I nodded. "It's the exact opposite with the Durmstrang guys. The strict, almost military uniform, attracts the girls' attention. The openness of these boys, as well as their obvious manners—that's their advantage. But notice, our boys aren't staring at their girls."
"True," Ernie nodded now.
"Take a closer look."
Everyone who heard the conversation decided to follow my advice and looked closely at these girls in red tunics, tailored and perfectly fitted to their figures, for a couple of seconds.
"Did you see? Did you appreciate? Now look at our boys and girls. Well, and so as not to violate the purity of the experiment, don't look at the guys from our House—we've long since 'worn out' each other's eyes."
"And what are we supposed to see?" Ernie asked after a minute.
"That there are plenty of more than attractive girls and worthy boys both here and there. It's just that the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students are completely new to us right now. I'm willing to bet they themselves are looking at our students with interest, finding some attractive and others not. It might even turn out that the platinum-haired girl who approached the Gryffindors finds Ron Weasley attractive. They were even talking about something..."
"No way..." both the boys and girls synchronously dismissed the idea. "That's nonsense."
"Nothing can be ruled out," I shrugged, taking a mug of juice in my hand. "There are many factors that are almost impossible to detect, and which are completely ideal. For example, smell. We can't control how we smell. However, smell, even if we don't consciously perceive it, can play a very, very significant role in who we like, and the person we like may even be less beautiful than their competitor. Why, do you think, is perfume so popular, and its correct or incorrect selection can turn your image upside down, but each person will perceive that image differently?"
"That's compli-ca-ted..." Justin stretched out the word, and he started on some meat dish, but clearly overestimated his capacity, sighed, and put his cutlery aside. "That's it. I think I'm stuffed..."
As if listening precisely to us, Dumbledore stood up, and the remaining food disappeared. It turned out that many had been satisfied for a while, and the Headmaster was simply waiting for everyone to finish eating. Two more people had arrived at the teachers' table—Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman—and both were quite animatedly discussing something with the other teachers, albeit in different manners.
With a few words, Dumbledore brought the feast to a close, sending everyone to bed. Well, we headed off, naturally debating where the guests would sleep. It turned out to be quite simple, if the rumors that immediately came from other parts of the Hall were to be believed—they would return to their carriage and their ship.
A jam formed at the exit of the Hall, but Professor Moody quickly resolved the issue. It turned out Karkaroff was talking to Potter right in the doorway, blocking the way for others. And what could he want from the boy? Heaven knows.
In the House Common Room, conversations about the guests resumed with renewed vigour, but our year decided to go to bed—even I felt slightly tired.
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