Harry and Ron burst into the packed entrance hall, shaking raindrops from their robes as they went. The castle hummed with excitement, like the moments before a Quidditch match, only now the house colours had merged into a single black mass of robes. Everyone was pressing towards the main doors that led out onto the stone porch and the courtyard beyond.
‘Hurry up, or you’ll miss the best bit!’ came a cheerful voice overhead.
Harry looked up to see Fred and George weaving deftly through the crowd, towing a laughing Angelina Johnson behind them.
‘They say they’re arriving in style!’ George shouted, winking at Harry. ‘Fred and I have a bet that Durmstrang will come up out of the ground like overgrown moles.’
‘Don’t listen to them, Harry,’ Angelina snorted, adjusting her long plait. ‘These are international delegations. It’ll be something elegant.’
The twins and Angelina vanished into the throng, and Harry and Ron began elbowing their way after them. Once outside, Harry shivered: they had barely warmed up in the castle and now they were back in the cold. Pupils lined the wide porch and spread across the courtyard, peering into the darkening sky and whispering.
‘Over here!’ Ron tugged Harry’s sleeve, pointing to a cluster of familiar faces by one of the columns.
There stood Seamus and Dean, arguing animatedly about something; Neville shifting nervously from foot to foot; Parvati and Lavender. A little apart, closer to the balustrade, Harry spotted Hermione. Beside her, hands clasped behind his back and gazing over the heads of the crowd, stood Kieran. Hermione had pulled her robes up to her ears against the chill; Morgan appeared quite unaffected by the cold — or else he was simply very good at pretending.
‘We made it!’ Ron gasped, squeezing in between Neville and Seamus. ‘Nothing happened yet?’
‘No, still quiet,’ Hermione answered, glancing round at them. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold. ‘But Dumbledore’s already here.’
Harry stood on tiptoe. Sure enough, at the back near the castle doors rose the tall figure of the Headmaster. Dumbledore stood surrounded by the other teachers, calm and majestic, his beard faintly silver in the torchlight.
‘I still say they’ll arrive on brooms!’ Dean Thomas was insisting hotly. ‘Special fast ones!’
‘In this weather?’ Lavender doubted. ‘No Warming Charms could cope!’
Suddenly the murmur died away. Dumbledore raised a hand for silence.
‘Ah!’ he said loudly, and his voice carried clearly across the courtyard without any need for a Sonorus. ‘Unless I am much mistaken, the Beauxbatons delegation is approaching!’
‘Where?’ some first-year shouted.
‘There! Look — above the forest!’
Harry tilted his head back. In the darkness, above the treetops of the Forbidden Forest, something was moving. At first it was only a large black dot, but it grew rapidly, blotting out the moon.
‘It’s a dragon!’ a frightened first-year squeaked.
‘Don’t be daft… it’s a flying house!’ Dennis Creevey gasped.
Harry narrowed his eyes. The object really was enormous. As it drew nearer it began to take shape. It was a colossal carriage, the size of a good-sized manor house, pale sky-blue in colour. It hurtled towards them through the air at incredible speed, drawn by at least a dozen gigantic winged horses.
‘Abraxan horses!’ Ron breathed in awe, momentarily forgetting his dislike of anything French or Tournament-related. ‘They only drink single-malt whisky!’
The carriage was descending at terrifying speed. It seemed certain to crash into the tower tops, but at the last moment the horses levelled out.
‘Back!’ Hagrid bellowed. He was already standing in the path, waving glowing wands like an air-traffic controller.
The front rows recoiled. With a deafening crash that seemed to shake the castle walls, plate-sized hooves struck the ground. The carriage followed with a heavy thud. Its enormous wheels gouged deep furrows in the gravel, and the great vehicle rocked on its massive springs before finally coming to rest.
Silence fell over the courtyard, broken only by the huge horses’ heavy breathing and the soft flaps as they folded their wings along their powerful flanks. On the carriage door gleamed a golden crest — two crossed wands from which three stars burst forth.
Harry stared, wide-eyed.
‘Blimey,’ he whispered. ‘What an entrance.’
The carriage door swung open and a boy in pale blue robes jumped down. He hurriedly unfolded golden steps, and Harry saw an enormous black shoe — the size of a child’s sledge — emerge from within.
Its owner followed. Harry had to crane his neck even higher: the woman was colossal — perhaps even taller than Hagrid. But where the gamekeeper always looked like a mountain overgrown with wild forest, this lady resembled an elegantly carved cliff of black opal. She wore a black satin robe, and her neck and thick fingers glittered with massive gemstones that caught the torchlight.
‘Dear Dumbledore!’ her deep, resonant voice rolled out.
Dumbledore, tall himself, suddenly seemed quite ordinary beside her. He stepped forward with a courteous smile, but he did not even need to bend to kiss her hand — she extended it herself, rings flashing.
‘A pleasure to see you, Madame Maxime,’ the Headmaster said, inclining his head slightly.
‘Bonjour, Albus,’ the woman smiled, and the expression softened her beautiful, olive-skinned face remarkably. She leant down and kissed him twice on the cheeks, almost engulfing him in the folds of her robe. ‘I hope I have not inconvenienced you? Le voyage was a little tiring. My horses… they require special care.’
While they exchanged pleasantries, the rest of the Beauxbatons pupils spilled from the carriage — about a dozen young men and women, all apparently seventeen or eighteen. They wore robes of fine silk quite unsuited to a Scottish autumn, yet they sat perfectly, accentuating slender figures. Harry noticed how they shivered and wrapped scarves more tightly about themselves, surveying Hogwarts with polite but faintly sceptical interest.
‘Look! The lake!’ Lee Jordan suddenly shouted, cutting through the buzz. ‘Look at the lake!’
Every head — including Madame Maxime’s gigantic one — turned instantly towards the Black Lake.
Harry squinted. The dark, usually placid surface had suddenly erupted into violent motion. In the centre, where the water was deepest, a huge whirlpool formed. Water boiled and foamed as though in a giant cauldron, and a deep, vibrating rumble reached the shore, making the ground tremble beneath their feet.
‘What the—’ Ron began, but stopped short.
From the very heart of the whirlpool a long black mast rose slowly, tearing through the surface. At first it looked like a mere rock outcrop, but then spars and sails appeared, hanging like the wings of a bat.
‘It’s a ship!’ Hermione breathed.
With a loud splash and a cascade of falling water, an enormous vessel broke the surface. Its silhouette was strange and predatory, like the skeleton of some sea monster. The portholes glowed with a dim, ghostly light, like the eyes of deep-sea fish.
Water streamed noisily from its black, gleaming sides as the ship, without slowing, moved straight towards the shore. Harry instinctively stepped back — it seemed certain to smash into the shallows — but the vessel halted at the last moment. With an unpleasant grinding screech it nosed into the mud, and the anchor dropped with a heavy splash.
For a second the courtyard was stunned into silence by the dramatic arrival, then it erupted in fresh cries of wonder.
‘Well, they certainly know how to make an entrance,’ Ron remarked, regarding the ship with reluctant respect. ‘Though I wouldn’t fancy sailing on that tub. Looks like it’s sunk a couple of times and been dragged back up.’
With a loud, heavy thud a wooden gangplank fell to the muddy shore, and an opening appeared in the ship’s side, from which steam billowed. The first figures to step ashore looked unnaturally broad-shouldered. Only when they came closer, into the light spilling from the castle windows, did Harry see that it was their robes — made of thick, matted grey wool with heavy fur collars at the shoulders.
At their head strode a tall man with silver hair and a short goatee, a lavish fur hat on his head. He walked confidently, leaning on a carved staff, and on seeing the Hogwarts Headmaster he flung his arms wide as though greeting a long-lost brother.
‘Dumbledore!’ he boomed with a noticeable rolling accent, climbing the steps to the porch. ‘My dear friend, how good it is to see you!’
‘Professor Karkaroff,’ Dumbledore smiled warmly and shook the offered hand firmly before allowing himself to be embraced. ‘Welcome to Hogwarts. I trust the journey was not too tiring?’
Karkaroff waved a hand dismissively, flashing yellowish teeth in a smile, though his eyes remained cold and watchful, darting over the faces of those assembled.
Behind him the Durmstrang pupils shuffled. Unlike the French, they seemed quite oblivious to the piercing Scottish wind. They clustered tightly together, surveying the courtyard, the castle and the Hogwarts students with narrowed eyes. There was something wary and dangerous in their stance — Harry could not help thinking of a wolf pack that had strayed onto foreign territory and was now assessing where the prey lay and where the threats.
‘But come, come inside out of the cold!’ Dumbledore said, gesturing the guests towards the doors. ‘It will not do to keep you standing on the threshold.’
The crowd began to move. Hogwarts pupils mingled with the foreign visitors and flowed back into the entrance hall. The buzz of voices, briefly stilled by the ship’s appearance, flared up again with renewed vigour.
When they entered the Great Hall it was already ablaze with splendour. The four long tables groaned under golden plate; thousands of candles floated in the air; and the enchanted ceiling no longer mirrored the sullen sky outside but a deep velvet cosmos strewn with stars.
The Beauxbatons pupils visibly relaxed the moment they crossed the threshold. Girls unwound silk scarves from their heads, and Harry saw their faces smooth with blissful warmth from the roaring fires. The Durmstrang students, however, stayed close together, shedding their heavy furs reluctantly, as though parting with armour.
‘They’ve got a look about them,’ Ron whispered as they made their way to the Gryffindor table, careful not to tread on the long robe of a passing Beauxbatons girl. ‘What do you reckon — are they always that… grim?’
‘It’s the north, Ron,’ Harry replied, taking his seat and watching with interest as Karkaroff and Madame Maxime made their way to the staff table. ‘Smiling’s probably bad luck up there.’
He glanced round for Hermione, but she was already seated a little further down the table — and, to Ron’s evident displeasure, Morgan was beside her again, politely examining the floating candles with interest.
Harry’s attention was diverted by a sudden movement at the Slytherin table, where — for some inexplicable reason — the Durmstrang pupils had chosen to sit. One of them, a stooped boy with thick black eyebrows, rose from the bench. His companions immediately burst into approving shouts in a rough, barking language, clapping him on the back.
The boy headed towards the golden Goblet, which now stood in the centre of the hall on a stool, flickering with bluish light.
Beside Harry came a strangled, gurgling sound. He turned sharply to see Ron, who had just taken a large swallow of pumpkin juice, now coughing and spraying orange liquid across the white tablecloth. His eyes bulged and were fixed on the approaching boy.
‘Harry…’ Ron rasped, wiping his chin on his sleeve without even noticing. ‘Harry, are you seeing this? Tell me you’re seeing it too!’
‘I see it,’ Harry answered, feeling his own jaw drop.
It was Viktor Krum.
The very same Viktor Krum, Seeker for the Bulgarian national team, whose face had stared out from every poster at the World Cup only a couple of months earlier. There was no mistaking him: the same hooked nose, the same heavy brows that gave him a perpetual scowl.
Yet on solid ground he looked quite different from how he had in the air. Tall and thin, he walked with a strange, splay-footed gait, slightly hunched, as though uncomfortable without a broom between his legs. Gravity seemed to press harder on him than on ordinary people. Harry found himself thinking how surreal it was: only recently he had watched Krum through Omnioculars from dizzying stadium heights, regarding him almost as a god of flight, and now here the man was, simply walking across a school hall at Hogwarts, a mere twenty feet away.
Krum reached the Goblet, paused for a second gazing at the dancing flames, then dropped a scrap of parchment into them with casual indifference. Behind him the Durmstrang pupils erupted in noise again, clearly pleased with their champion. One by one the rest followed: sturdy boys and a few equally stern-faced girls, dropping their names into the fire with decision.
‘It can’t be…’ Ron kept whispering, as though in a dream. ‘Krum! Here! In our school! I’ve got to get his autograph, Harry. I have to. I’ve got a quill with me…’
But the hall’s attention shifted again. The Beauxbatons delegation was now moving towards the Goblet.
The contrast was striking. If the Durmstrang pupils resembled bears fresh from the forest, the French seemed carved from fine porcelain. They walked with smooth grace and perfect posture, silk robes flowing with every step. Both boys and girls had unusually refined, regular features, as though they had been chosen not for magical talent but for looks.
One girl, walking slightly ahead of the others, paused for a moment to toss back a wave of long, silvery-blonde hair. She was petite and slender, yet she radiated a strange, almost tangible glow.
The girl swept the hall with a bored glance from enormous blue eyes and for a second let her gaze rest on the Gryffindor table — precisely where Harry and Ron sat.
Harry heard a loud, drawn-out and utterly idiotic sigh from beside him. He glanced at Ron: his friend had frozen, mouth open, forgetting Krum, the juice and where he even was. He looked as though a troll had just clubbed him over the head — and he had rather enjoyed it.
‘She…’ Ron breathed, unable to finish the sentence.
Dumbledore had begun speaking again, explaining the rules and welcoming the guests, but Harry scarcely heard him, his eyes following the French beauty while the sense of unreality swept over him completely. The Tournament had not yet begun, but Hogwarts had already changed beyond recognition.