Chapter 16: Chapter 16: Foreign Arrivals

October arrived with a sudden shift in the weather—brisk winds carrying the scent of frost, trees surrounding the castle grounds surrendering their leaves in cascades of red and gold. Classes had settled into their familiar routine, though an undercurrent of anticipation ran through the student body as the arrival date for the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang delegations approached.

Arthur viewed the mounting excitement with detached amusement. His fellow seventh-years could barely focus on their NEWT coursework, constantly speculating about the foreign students, the Tournament tasks, and who might become the Hogwarts champion. Even the professors seemed affected, inspecting classrooms with unusual scrutiny and drilling students on proper decorum when addressing international guests.

“Remember,” Professor McGonagall had emphasized during Transfiguration, “you will be representing not only Hogwarts but wizarding Britain as a whole. I expect exemplary behavior from all of you.”

Her stern gaze had swept the classroom before lingering briefly on Arthur, who met it with polite indifference. He had no intention of embarrassing the school—that would draw unwanted attention—but neither did he particularly care about impressing foreign wizards.

The day before the delegations were scheduled to arrive, Filch and a team of house-elves undertook a manic cleaning campaign. Portraits were scrubbed (much to their vocal displeasure), suits of armor polished to gleaming, and every stone surface scoured until the entire castle seemed to shine with an unnatural cleanliness. Even the dungeons, perpetually damp and musty, smelled vaguely of lemon polish.

“Bit excessive, isn’t it?” remarked a Slytherin fourth-year to no one in particular as Filch aggressively dusted a gargoyle outside the Great Hall. “It’s not like the Queen’s coming to visit.”

The caretaker had rounded on the student with such ferocity that the boy fled, Filch’s tirade about “international magical cooperation” and “standards” echoing down the corridor after him.

Arthur maintained his own routine of advanced study and physical training. He had grown stronger compared to the wizards he knew, but he was well aware of what else was out there—sorcerers, aliens, and gods. Compared to them, he was still weak. He knew he needed to get stronger.

On the morning of October 30th, Arthur woke before dawn as usual, completed his stretching exercises, and headed to the Room for an hour of intensive magical practice before breakfast. The corridors were deserted at this hour, which suited him perfectly. The peaceful solitude of early morning was something he had come to value during his years at Hogwarts.

When he finally emerged and made his way to the Great Hall, he found it transformed with overnight decorations. Enormous silk banners representing each Hogwarts house hung from the walls, along with the unfamiliar crests of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. The usual candles floating overhead were supplemented with enchanted lanterns that shifted color gradually, casting the hall in slowly changing hues.

“The delegations will be arriving at precisely six o’clock,” Professor Dumbledore announced at breakfast. “Lessons will end half an hour early today—”

A wave of excited murmuring interrupted him, quickly silenced by a raised hand.

“—and all students are to return their bags and books to their dormitories before assembling in front of the castle to greet our guests.”

Throughout the day, an almost palpable tension built within the castle. Even Arthur found himself mildly curious about the foreign schools and their different magical approaches. The canon rarely mentioned them, leaving much to the imagination.

At half past five, the Heads of Houses began organizing their students into neat rows in front of the castle. The evening air carried a sharp chill that had first-years shivering in their cloaks while the older students cast subtle warming charms on themselves.

“How exactly d’you suppose they’re getting here?” Arthur overheard a Hufflepuff asking. “Apparition’s impossible on Hogwarts grounds.”

“International Portkey, maybe?” suggested another.

“Too many people for that to be practical,” a Ravenclaw interjected authoritatively. “The Ministry restrictions on mass portkeys are quite strict since the Quidditch World Cup incident.”

Arthur positioned himself at the end of the Slytherin ranks, furthest from Snape’s watchful eye. The House Heads were patrolling their lines, straightening ties and confiscating inappropriate items from the Weasley twins (who protested unconvincingly that the Fanged Frisbee was “just a welcome gift”).

“Aha!” came Dumbledore’s voice from the back row. “Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches!”

A sixth-year Slytherin pointed toward the sky. “There!”

Something large was hurtling across the deepening blue sky toward the castle, growing increasingly distinct as it approached.

“It’s a dragon!” shrieked a first-year.

“Don’t be stupid,” replied an older student. “It’s a flying house!”

Neither was correct. As the object descended toward the Hogwarts grounds, it revealed itself to be an enormous powder-blue carriage, the size of a small house, pulled through the air by a dozen winged horses, each the size of an elephant.

The spectacular arrival drew gasps and exclamations from the assembled students. The carriage landed with considerable force, bouncing on its vast wheels before coming to a stop. The horses tossed their enormous heads, their fiery red eyes surveying the crowd with what appeared to be disdain.

A boy in pale blue robes jumped down from the carriage and unfolded a set of golden steps. Then, a shining black shoe emerged, followed by the tallest woman Arthur had ever seen—easily matching Hagrid’s impressive height. Dumbledore began to clap, and the students followed his lead, applauding as the giantess descended the golden stairs.

“My dear Madame Maxime,” Dumbledore greeted her, barely having to bend to kiss her extended hand. “Welcome to Hogwarts.”

“Dumbly-dorr,” she replied in a deep, accented voice. “I ’ope I find you well?”

“In excellent form, thank you,” Dumbledore assured her.

“My pupils,” Madame Maxime said, waving a bejeweled hand behind her.

About a dozen boys and girls, all appearing to be in their late teens, had emerged from the carriage. They stood shivering in silk robes, looking up at Hogwarts with apprehensive expressions. Their light clothing was clearly ill-suited to the Scottish autumn.

“’As Karkaroff arrived yet?” Madame Maxime inquired.

“He should be here any moment,” Dumbledore replied. “Would you prefer to wait here and greet him, or would you like to step inside and warm up a trifle?”

“Warm up, I think,” Madame Maxime decided. “But ze ’orses—”

“Our Care of Magical Creatures teacher will be delighted to take care of them,” Dumbledore assured her, gesturing toward Hagrid, who had arrived to manage the enormous palominos.

As the Beauxbatons students followed their headmistress into the castle, whispers broke out among the Hogwarts ranks. The foreign students moved with graceful precision, suggesting formal training in deportment that wasn’t part of the Hogwarts curriculum. Several of the boys appeared to have military-style bearing, while the girls carried themselves with almost aristocratic poise.

The whispers died away suddenly as a strange rumbling sound carried across the grounds. From the lake—previously smooth as black glass—rose a disturbance. A whirlpool formed in the center, from which emerged what appeared to be a ship’s mast, followed by the rest of the vessel—a skeletal craft with an eerie resemblance to a resurrected wreck. Dim, misty lights glowed from its portholes, casting ghostly illumination on the water’s surface.

The ship glided smoothly to the bank, and a plank was lowered onto the shore. Silhouettes disembarked, all appearing bulky and substantial—an effect created by the thick furs they wore as cloaks over their blood-red robes.

The man leading them had silver hair and a matching goatee, cut in a sharp style that accentuated his cruel mouth and cold eyes. “Dumbledore!” he called heartily. “How are you, my dear fellow?”

“Blooming, thank you, Professor Karkaroff,” Dumbledore replied.

Arthur noticed how differently the Durmstrang students carried themselves compared to the Beauxbatons delegation. While the French students seemed delicate and refined, these newcomers projected strength and endurance. They moved with military precision, their posture perfect, eyes constantly scanning their surroundings with tactical awareness.

One student in particular drew attention—a thick-eyebrowed young man whom excited whispers identified as Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian National Quidditch team’s star Seeker. His slouching gait contrasted with his classmates’ rigid posture, yet there was unmistakable power in his movement.

As they entered the Great Hall for the welcoming feast, the visiting students hesitated, surveying the room before deciding where to sit. Madame Maxime directed her pupils toward the Ravenclaw table, where they arranged themselves with careful precision, still shivering slightly and viewing the castle with expressions ranging from disdain to reluctant admiration.

The Durmstrang students, after a moment’s consideration from Karkaroff, headed toward the Slytherin table. Arthur’s usual isolation at the far end of the table remained undisturbed; the empty seats surrounding him formed a stark contrast to the crowded benches elsewhere. The Durmstrang students settled at the opposite end, clustering around Malfoy and his cronies, who appeared delighted by Krum’s proximity.

Curious glances occasionally directed toward Arthur did not go unnoticed. A particularly direct stare from a broad-shouldered Durmstrang boy prompted Malfoy to lean over and whisper something in his ear, gesturing subtly in Arthur’s direction. Whatever was said caused the boy’s eyebrows to rise momentarily before his expression shifted to a contemptuous sneer.

Arthur met his gaze with cool indifference before returning his attention to the High Table, where the staff had been augmented by several unfamiliar faces—Ministry officials, here to oversee the Tournament. Ludo Bagman’s boyish excitement contrasted sharply with Bartemius Crouch’s stern demeanor as they took seats alongside Dumbledore.

The feast itself was more elaborate than usual, featuring dishes apparently selected to showcase British wizarding cuisine while incorporating specialties from the visitors’ homelands. French bouillabaisse and Eastern European goulash appeared alongside traditional Hogwarts fare, creating an unusually diverse spread.

Throughout the meal, the visiting students continued their surreptitious examination of Arthur, their curiosity clearly piqued by whatever they’d been told. Occasionally, a Hogwarts student would lean toward one of the visitors, whispering explanations that inevitably resulted in reactions ranging from skeptical disbelief to wary fascination.

“…Muggle-born Slytherin…”

“…wandless transfiguration…”

“…never loses a fight…”

Fragments of conversation drifted to Arthur’s ears, painting the familiar portrait of half-truths and exaggerations that constituted his reputation.

When the golden plates had been cleared, Dumbledore rose to formally introduce the Tournament.

“An impartial selector will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money.”

The mention of the prize caused a ripple of excited murmurs.

“The selector,” Dumbledore continued, “is the Goblet of Fire.”

With theatrical timing, the Headmaster tapped a casket with his wand. The lid creaked open, and Dumbledore extracted a roughly hewn wooden cup, unremarkable except for the dancing blue-white flames that filled it to the brim.

“Anybody wishing to submit themselves as champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment and drop it into the goblet,” Dumbledore explained. “Tomorrow night, Halloween, the goblet will return the names of the three it has judged most worthy to represent their schools.”

When the feast finally concluded, Arthur rose with the rest of the students. As he navigated the crowded Hall, he noted how the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students watched him, their expressions now having solidified into distinct categories: fascination, fear, or disdain—sometimes all three intermingled on a single face.

One particularly large Durmstrang student made a point of bumping into him, muttering something in what sounded like Bulgarian before rejoining his classmates. The aggressive gesture was so blatantly deliberate that even nearby Hogwarts students tensed, anticipating Arthur’s reaction.

They were disappointed. Arthur merely stepped aside and continued walking, not bothering to acknowledge the provocation. Such petty challenges were beneath his notice.

Back in his private room in the Slytherin dungeons, Arthur planned for the coming day. With classes suspended to accommodate the Tournament preparations, he would have additional time for his morning training routine. The grounds would be relatively empty around dawn, providing an ideal opportunity for outdoor exercise before most students were awake.

What Arthur couldn’t anticipate was that this routine would present others with an opportunity they had been eagerly awaiting.

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