Nothing, Albus reflected, could compare to the beauty of the falling night. After the golden hour—the day's last, glorious minutes—the sky would grow pale. The night would descend slowly, blushing like a modest bride, the stars resembling freckles on her cheeks.
This evening was magical in every respect: clear, cool, tinged with rose and lavender, the moon an almost perfect coin over the dark sea of the Forbidden Forest. The fresh breeze carried the sound of voices in its wake. All of Hogwarts had convened at the castle gates, and the heads of the four Houses were marshalling students into formations. Albus had the humorous notion they were, himself included, Muggle servants lined up in front of a mansion to await their master's arrival. Minerva, who had drawn up the arrangement, paced up and down the lawn, her green eyes sharp. One day, he thought fondly, she would become an excellent headmistress.
The staff members who had not been tasked with supervising the youngsters had positioned themselves on either side of him. Some stood in silence; others conversed in hushed voices.
"I can't believe I forgot my camera," Charity Burbage lamented, wringing her hands.
"You can ask Mr Colin Creevey." Severus's cold remark had floated from their left, where Slytherins had been ushered into ranks.
The boy under discussion and his younger brother were attempting to settle this very matter over the heads of Gryffindor second years.
"Colin, come over here!" little Dennis Creevey insisted in a carrying whisper. "The best view's from here!"
"I can't, I'm a third year."
"Give me the camera! I promised mum pictures!"
Filius and Pomona chuckled good-naturedly from behind the orderly rows of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs while Minerva struggled to discipline the unruly members of her House. At her approach, Colin Creevey stuffed the bulky camera inside his robes; the defiant expression on his little face made it plain he would be snapping pictures no matter how many detentions he received. Catching each other's gaze, Albus and Rolanda Hooch shook with discreet giggles. She looked very pretty these days: her subtle makeup brought out the amber in her eyes and emphasised her sculpted cheekbones. He had a shrewd suspicion as to who this graceful coquetry was on display for. Charity could not contain a comment.
"Ooh, Rolanda, you are positively aglow! Did you curl your hair? This style looks new."
Her voice rang out more loudly than perhaps she had intended. Propped on his staff, Alastor Moody had the tact to pretend he had heard nothing, though his lips were twitching. The Flying instructor flushed scarlet.
"A very astute observation," she riposted in a perfect imitation of Professor McGonagall.
"Don't take it to heart," Charity objected innocently. "We all want to make a good impression on the guests. See, even the headmaster is wearing perfume."
Several heads swivelled towards Albus, who seized this chance to steer attention away from Madam Hooch.
"Do you like it?" he jested. "I was so torn between two scents, I nearly came late. But I'm fairly happy with the orange blossom."
Akin to an indulgent mother, Septima Vector shook her head; Aurora smiled, however, and he winked at her. If he was in a good mood, it was her merit.
As soon as Minerva claimed her spot behind Gryffindors, a sense of quiet anticipation settled over the assembly. Her cheeks shone red with exertion, drawing a smug glance from Severus. He had barely felt compelled to lift a finger, for the eldest Slytherins had taken it upon themselves to whip the rest into obedience. More to needle him than otherwise, Albus called out,
"Aha! Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches!"
Everyone stirred, disturbing the calm. "Where?"
True enough, dashing through the navy sky was a carriage pulled by a dozen magnificent palominos. It was aquamarine in colour, ornamented with the Beauxbatons coat of arms. To the students' amazement, it landed without slowing down even a notch, and the resulting crash was powerful enough to propel the smallest children backwards. Judging by the smooth harmony with which the winged creatures halted, one could divine they had been trained to perfection; more likely than not, their forceful landing had been deliberate, proof of strength.
Jean-Yves, the previous headmaster of Beauxbatons, had been a pleasant, gentlemanly scholar and Albus's friend. Olympe Maxime's interests were different: according to the press, she rather wished to consolidate her reputation as a competent and elegant lady in power. Indeed, when the house-sized carriage opened its door, a student sprang out to unfold golden steps with a motion that seemed rehearsed.
Madame Maxime was a beautiful witch, olive-skinned and dressed in evening attire composed of a chiffon gown and opal jewellery. No doubt was the image of a dazzling patrician lady dear to her heart; her liquid black eyes held but a trace of shyness. Behind her, the Beauxbatons students were filing out of the carriage, numb with cold and visibly appalled at what looked to them the very definition of an inhospitable Nordic castle. If they had brought warm clothes with them, they must have been forbidden from wearing those to dinner in order to comply with the etiquette. Albus felt sorry for the teenagers, but he could understand Olympe's position. She was their guest of honour and had every right to the respectful treatment she had been hoping for. He started to clap, and the others joined in.
This helped. Reassured and slightly more at ease, she walked towards the gate with her students in tow. Her smile was sincere as she offered Albus her hand to kiss.
"My dear Madame Maxime, welcome to Hogwarts."
"Dumbly-dorr." Her voice was deep and poised. "I 'ope I find you well?"
"In excellent form, I thank you," he smiled.
With a wave of her hand, she introduced her students before inquiring whether Karkaroff had already arrived.
"He should be here any moment. Would you like to wait here and greet him, or would you prefer to step inside and warm up a trifle?"
Their best efforts notwithstanding, the newcomers looked too hungry and exhausted to be forced to stand to attention.
"Warm up, I think," she replied honestly. "But ze 'orses —"
"Our Care of Magical Creatures teacher will be delighted to take care of them."
Poor Hagrid had been delayed. His pet project, the iridescent eggs, had given rise to a swarm of blind, eight-legged, impossibly vigorous monsters, which had chosen that particular afternoon to escape into the grounds. The groundskeeper had already spent two hours trying to locate the last three.
Madame Maxime met the suggestion with unimpressed scepticism. Her eyes came to rest on the staff members, and Albus experienced a first pang of annoyance. There was no need to hold his teachers in contempt.
"I assure you that Hagrid will be well up to the job," he promised.
"Very well."
With an imperious gesture towards her students, she followed Professors Hooch and Sinistra into the Entrance Hall.
An instant elapsed before the spell was broken. Many were eyeing the ivory horses and the powder blue carriage; an enthusiastic clicking noise could be heard in the line of third year Gryffindors. Suddenly, the surface of the lake began bubbling and frothing around a rapidly forming whirlpool. A mast materialised, and then, with a slow majesty, the Durmstrang ship emerged into the night.
Transfixed, Albus watched it glide towards the shore, glistening with water and parting the dark waves. It had been built to match an ancient relic—in fact, it was the relic of an ancient ship, resurrected for continued use. Skeletal and strangely alluring, it appeared to embody the wild beauty of its school.
No sooner was it anchored than its inhabitants started disembarking. The Durmstrang uniform had not changed in the last fifty years, and the sight of the crimson robes and the fur cloaks caused Albus to bite his lip to prevent his memories from engulfing him. His mind kept picturing a seventeen-year-old Gellert, handsome and luminous and dauntless, and he knew that if the Triwizard Tournament had occurred in the times of their youth, his beloved would have been elected the Durmstrang champion.
An unctuous voice disrupted his fantasy.
"Dumbledore! How are you, my dear fellow, how are you?"
The last time he had laid eyes upon Igor Karkaroff, the man had been in chains. Haggling and practically writhing at Barty Crouch's feet, he had been desperate to sell his fellows' names in exchange for freedom. A couple of months in Azkaban had robbed his hair of colour. What a jolting shock it had been, some years later, to open the newspapers and learn that the Durmstrang board of governors—currently dominated by a Slavic majority—had chosen this criminal to run their historic establishment.
Even now, something of the old insolence remained in Karkaroff's gait and gestures. He ignored the assembled students and teachers completely, marching forward to shake Albus's hand.
"Blooming, thank you, Professor Karkaroff," the Englishman returned with what, he felt, could be considered his own country's false politeness.
"Dear old Hogwarts," Karkaroff sighed, his tone mildly sardonic. "How good it is to be here, how good…" He turned around. "Viktor, come along, into the varmth. You don't mind, Dumbledore? Viktor has a slight head cold…"
"By all means, professor."
To the excited crowd, Viktor Krum was a legendary celebrity. To Albus, he was a growing boy—an introverted one, not to mention harassed-looking and uncomfortable at the preferential treatment his headmaster publicly imposed on him. Avoiding everyone's gaze, he led the rest of his party into the Entrance Hall.
The Beauxbatons students had already settled at the Ravenclaw table. Albus felt proud of Aurora and Rolanda's welcome: he could tell they had done everything in their power to accommodate the French arrivals. Olympe Maxime had warmed up considerably during her exchange with Professor Sinistra, and her students were chuckling at Madam Hooch's informal introductory speech.
It did not take long for the rest of the students and teachers to find their seats. Albus's throne-like chair had been placed between those of the two foreign headmasters. Not without some puzzlement, he considered the still-empty spots reserved for Barty Crouch and Ludo Bagman, the former of whom was notorious for his punctuality: even his colleagues' jokes had never affected his self-discipline. Then again, his schedule truly was full to bursting. The best option was to proceed so that dinner could be served.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and—most particularly—guests." Albus beamed at his unusually large and colourful audience. "I have great pleasure in welcoming you all to Hogwarts. I hope and trust that your stay here will be both comfortable and enjoyable." A rather derisive laugh from a French student subverted this wish. "The tournament will be officially opened at the end of the feast. I now invite you all to eat, drink, and make yourselves at home!"
A rich assortment of international dishes and beverages popped into existence on every table. Pleased to see the weary children digging in with appetite, Albus sat down and was immediately steered into a conversation.
"Are the plates real gold?" Karkaroff's intonation was casual, but he assessed the heavy dishes thoroughly.
"They are."
"Yes, yes… I can see you haff tried to impress, Dumbledore. But do not get your hopes up—Viktor vill vin."
Not daring to peer at Olympe Maxime, who was bound to have heard this pronouncement, Albus smiled.
"You sound confident in the Goblet's choice, Professor Karkaroff."
"Yes, I haff brought the best of the best," the man declared, self-satisfied.
"I don't doubt it."
At the Slytherin table, the Durmstrang students were shrugging off their fur cloaks; some, like their headmaster, had taken to examining the cutlery. As far as Albus remembered, Durmstrang served its meals on trays and plates made of pure silver. He did not like the implications of what he was seeing. Moreover, not one Durmstrang candidate possessed German or Italian or even Nordic features. With one possible exception—the only girl in the group—they were all Slavic.
"Did you have a smooth journey?" he asked of both his companions.
"It was comfortable, zank you," Madame Maxime admitted graciously.
"It vos a chore. Hogvarts could haff met us halfway." Karkaroff laughed before adding, "A joke."
With another smile, Albus cut a bite of his food.
"I don't know if you have heard, but I visited Durmstrang in 1946. It was to teach a seminar on wizarding law. Those four weeks have always stayed with me. Everything was magnificent and special: the panorama, the dining hall, the courtyards, the lakes…"
"In 1946?" Karkaroff raised his eyebrows. "Yes, yes, a long time ago. I haff made many improvements since. Only that veather cannot be helped—how sad." He laughed again. "Look at me: I am talking about veather like the English. Ve must change places—I will make Hogvarts great too."
This was going to be a very long year.
"Is the weather in Norway too cold for your taste then?" Albus clarified lightly. "I'm sorry for asking—I don't believe I've ever caught it—where are you from?"
"From Ukraine! You must know zat! Getting old, Dumbledore—memory like a sieve."
Sniggering, Karkaroff reached for a wine bottle.
"Ah." Without commenting further, Albus turned towards Olympe.
"I hope you will find everything to your liking. There is a division of Hogwarts house-elves, trained specifically to tend to your needs and those of your pupils. Their leader will come to your carriage tonight to introduce himself. Please feel free to call him at any hour."
She smiled. "Zank you, Dumbly-dorr."
Reluctantly, he glanced at his other neighbour. "The same goes for you; Durmstrang will be able to command a number of house-elves too."
"Yes... I zink we shall need more food. Viktor has to start his training as soon as possible." Karkaroff smirked contentedly. "I haff increased the training regimen for everyone and removed the vishy-vashy nonsense in the process. It is much better now."
All of Albus's instincts warned him not to ask, lest he lose his appetite. It was in vain; he adored Durmstrang of old.
"What do you mean, professor? Are you referring to your school's subjects or its rules?"
"Vot do you know about our proud history?" Karkaroff appeared to enjoy stretching out the intrigue.
"Well, I could tell you Durmstrang has always been famous for offering a well-rounded and highly nuanced education with an emphasis on critical thinking to prepare young wizards and witches for any branch of Light or Dark magic they may encounter after school. Duelling is a substantial part of the curriculum—which is flexible and tailored to each individual's orientation—but so are the rarer subjects, such as Necromancy, which aren't taught in any other European school of magic."
"It vos founded by Nerida Vulchanova!" the other wizard boomed, setting his goblet down so forcefully that some of his wine spilled on the table. "A proud Bulgarian, a proud Slav! A good woman. Did you know that, Dumbledore?"
The other teachers were starting to stare at them. Minerva's eyes narrowed.
"Of course," Albus said nonchalantly.
"Aha! You haff done your homework," Karkaroff commended. "Vell, I have honoured Durmstrang vonce again. Tvice as much training, like I said. Good strong lads! I'm sorry, Dumbledore—your champion does not stand a chance. But don't you vorry, you haff done vell for yourself too; I can see that. Almost no half-breeds—only a few here and there. Zat is not too bad yet. You follow my suit, make those lads train, and Hogvarts vill be great again too."
Most of the staff had already fallen quiet, and at those last words, even Alastor and Rolanda's animated chatter died down: the pair of them could not help but gape at the foreign wizard. By Albus's side, Olympe's fingers tensed around her cutlery. Despite herself, it seemed, she raised her black eyes to scrutinise the four tables. If she reached the same conclusion as Karkaroff, she strongly disapproved: a shadow of disappointment had passed over her handsome face. Naturally, tolerance between magical beings was a topic she held close to her heart—even the small selection of students she had brought from Beauxbatons included two part-Veela girls. It was unnerving to think how easily Karkaroff had succeeded in getting under her skin.
The arrival of Barty Crouch and Ludo Bagman saved Albus from having to address the man's advice.
"Welcome," he smiled, standing up to shake their hands. "We have saved you seats."
Although visibly overworked, Barty Crouch extended polite courtesies to the heads of the foreign schools. Ever cordial, Ludo Bagman observed the Great Hall with pleasure.
"Sorry we're late, Dumbledore—the workload has been insane. You know how it is: wouldn't be trouble if it didn't crop up at the last moment."
The officials settled down at their assigned spots, and the meal resumed. Gingerly, Albus spoke to Madame Maxime.
"Do you see much of Jean-Yves these days?"
The previous headmaster of Beauxbatons had told him of his acquaintance with Olympe.
"Non, not really," she admitted in a clipped manner, picking at her food. "We 'ave been very busy in ze last mons."
She was offended, believing Hogwarts to be prejudiced against other magical beings. Sighing soundlessly, Albus returned to his dinner. Only, Karkaroff had not finished with him.
"I vos serious before, Dumbledore: you must come and vatch my boys train. Viktor is the very best, of course, a joy to vatch. Much better than the poppycock you had to vitness vhen those old men with sagged balls were in charge."
"That's very tempting." In reality, Ragnar Halvørssen, the headmaster of Durmstrang in 1946, could have pulverised Karkaroff with a single spell. "To be frank, I've never had the occasion to assist at a Duelling class. Instead, I was authorised to be present at a Conjuring lesson, which greatly impressed me; it's the favourite subject of two of my closest people."
This provoked laughter.
"Conjuring? Trying to catch snowflakes indoors? I haff done avay vith this nonsense. Why bother? At Durmstrang, we are serious—serious and practical. If we vant to catch snowflakes, ve open a vindow. Sitting on the floor crying for snowflakes is something they do at Ugadugu, not at Durmstrang."
This time, he had gone too far.
"It's Uagadou, sir, not Ugadugu," a voice corrected him before Albus could draw a breath.
Karkaroff spun towards the speaker and, for once, was mercifully lost for words.
"Yes… off course... Uagada," he drawled. "Excuse me, you… uh, are velcome… to vatch how ve train too."
Aurora gave him a nod and a forced smile before looking away. In spite of her indignation, one could tell she regretted getting involved and wished to cut the conversation short. Karkaroff had no such intention.
"Vot do you teach?"
"Astronomy," she said neutrally.
"Ah, yes, a vomanly subject. But you are very beautiful."
He lifted his goblet to toast her, his face arranged in what he likely deemed to be his most charming smile. All he achieved was render her more uncomfortable.
On either side of the young witch, Minerva and Rolanda sat up a little straighter, as if ready to defend her. Even Olympe's expression betrayed instinctive distaste. Albus wondered why Barty Crouch had not yet intervened: he would usually rebuke wizards for much less than this. Now, all he did was eat in tired silence. The evening was starting to resemble a dîner macabre.
Albus sought out Severus, who was not quick enough to conceal his mirth. Suppressing a headshake of disbelief, the headmaster resorted to Legilimency to convey a mute question.
Would it be advisable to have Professor Sinistra escorted to her lessons? Is Karkaroff capable of...
Snape shook his head.
Not altogether reassured, Albus resolved to busy the two heads of schools until pudding was over. The best solution was to engage Ludo Bagman in a loud exchange on the upcoming tasks.
When the remains of the food vanished and the plates sparkled clean, he stood up. For the students' benefit, he introduced the Ministry officials first. Soon enough, Filch came forward, his hands laden with the item Crouch and Bagman had brought with them, and one he was impatient to see. The Goblet of Fire was an ancient and unique object, dating from well before the Triwizard Tournament had been conceived. It was large, roughly carved, perfectly preserved and full to the brim of cool blue flames no wizard had ever accurately identified. As he lifted the cup out of its chest and placed it on the lid, his hands throbbed with the force of its magic.
"I wish to impress upon any of you wishing to compete that this tournament is not to be entered into lightly," he told his awed audience, whose attention had never been more focused. "Once a champion has been selected by the Goblet of Fire, he or she is obliged to see the tournament through to the end. The placing of your name in the goblet constitutes a binding, magical contract. There can be no change of heart once you have become a champion. Please be very sure, therefore, that you are wholeheartedly prepared to play before you drop your name into the goblet." He paused, endeared at the children's earnestness; they hardly dared to breathe for fear of missing a word. "Now, I think it is time for bed. Good night to you all."
Accustomed to his speeches, the Hogwarts students pushed themselves up at once; the foreigners, whose languidness had not yet quite abated, soon followed their example.
"Vell, about time." Karkaroff got to his feet. "It's been a challenging journey. See you tomorrow."
He walked down to speak to Viktor Krum. Olympe was standing up too; she was even less disposed to small talk.
"Good night, Madame Maxime," Albus called.
"Bonne nuit." Without a backward glance, she ushered her students out of the Great Hall.
Not a second later, Moody took off. Albus reckoned the Auror meant to apprehend Karkaroff, but he had neither the time nor the inclination to stop him.
"And I thought Lockhart was bad," Minerva muttered, patting the headmaster on the shoulder in a display of support.
"Yes, may we have him back, please?" Flitwick chimed in.
Certain teachers touched his arm in goodbye; others filed out with a perplexed air. An instant later, Filch and the Ministry officials alone had stayed behind. It was time to place the goblet in the middle of the Entrance Hall.
Just as Albus applied himself to the Age Line with Crouch and Bagman watching, Hagrid came in, his hands covered in burns and mud.
"Found 'em." There was a strange, dazed quality to his voice, more appropriate for a sleepwalker. "'Em last skrewts."
Completing his chant, the headmaster straightened up behind the glowing circle of magic. "Well done, Rubeus. Please help yourself to some dinner; you must be starving."
Obediently, Hagrid shuffled away. Under different circumstances, Albus would have felt alarmed; now, he suspected a glimpse of Madame Maxime was what had produced this effect.
"Is this in order, Barty?"
"Yes… in order," the brisk wizard assured him.
"Isn't this exciting?" Ludo Bagman exclaimed. "Any idea who the Hogwarts champion will be, Dumbledore?"
"I haven't got the foggiest," Albus confessed cheerfully. "I'm curious to find out how many students will apply from each House."
"But you are secretly rooting for Gryffindor, your own House, aren't you?" Ludo pressed on with a wink. "You can tell me—I, of all wizards, would understand. It's just like with Quidditch: you can't help having favourites. And Barty here will pretend he hasn't heard, eh, Barty?"
The wizard in question did not respond. He stared at the shimmering Age Line.
"I would swear to you I'm impartial, but you wouldn't believe me anyway," Albus jested, though his eyes had sobered.
Barty Crouch looked paler and more strained than he had ever seen him. Could this truly be the result of an excessive amount of work? During the peak of his political activity, the man would become livelier whenever his workload increased. Albus's mouth went dry.
For two months now, he had been investigating his contacts. His mystery sender continued eluding him. As far as he had established, everyone from Amelia Bones to the employees of Flourish and Blotts were healthy and in control of their lives. Yet now that he contemplated Crouch, he realised he might have been blind.
"Barty," he said gravely, "did you send me a note on 1st September? A blank calendar page, to be precise."
"On 1st September? Hmm… Many meetings that day." After a few seconds of deliberation, Crouch shook himself, impatient once more.
"Young Weatherby sent you an empty page? I will have a word with him! We have too much work for such nonsense. Took my fastest owl too—no, no, that will not do. I am sorry for any inconvenience, Dumbledore. A blank page… as if we didn't have enough on our plates."
"Barty," Ludo protested, shocked, "it had to be an honest mistake! No need to give young Weatherby a hard time. Albus here is not angry—though of course, he would much prefer a Quidditch poster showing a bunch of good-looking lads, eh?"
Even as the wizard laughed at his own joke, it was without malice.
"That's enough, Ludo!" The interaction had thoroughly irritated Crouch. "The Age Line looks fine to me. Our work here is done—we shall take our leave."
Ludo shot Albus an apologetic look. "Well, good night, old boy. I can organise a poster or two—much better than some useless blank pages!"
With this, he hurried after Crouch, who had retreated without sparing a word of courtesy.
"Good night, Ludo," Albus muttered, too disconcerted to mind the younger man's cheek.
Percy Weasley had sent him the ink-spattered page? With Crouch's fastest owl, no less? This made no sense. The Weasleys had been among the first families he had checked on after receiving the suspicious note. Besides, Percy still lived with his parents, who were doing reasonably well. Nevertheless, Albus ought to ascertain they were safe, each one of them, and that the young man had reached out to him for a reason that remained to be explained.
A clinking sound interrupted his musing: Moody had returned.
"Karkaroff is in his cabin," he reported. "What a piece of work he is! I can tell you are no happier to have him here than I am. And now he fancies one of your teachers! Perhaps we should consider protecting her—what does Snape think? He should know his old friend better than anyone else. The two must share many fond memories."
His grim sense of humour helped Albus recover from surprise. He rubbed at his eyes, drained by the recent events.
"Severus doesn't believe Aurora is in danger, but I will take no chances: she has to stay safe, and to feel safe as well."
They headed for the staircase.
"If someone steals one of my teachers, it won't be Karkaroff," Albus went on, smiling. "In all seriousness, I like to see you happy. Both of you."
"You noticed." For the first time in years, a timid expression settled over Alastor Moody's face. "Of course you did, how could you not? You notice everything… You… aren't opposed to it? I haven't felt this way with anyone for a long while. Rolanda is… a very good witch."
"My approach is simple: if two people long to be together, they should be. I'd never stand in a happy couple's way."
The Auror chose his words carefully.
"Rolanda is very loyal to Hogwarts—and to you. But I am determined to fight for her affections. Please forgive me, dear friend: maybe I will steal this teacher of yours. But first of all, I'll protect her—and the others—from certain vermin that dares to come here."
"Thank you, Alastor. You and I both."
Albus was still smiling when he entered his office. It was not every year that a romance blossomed between two members of staff. The thought brought Aurora to the forefront of his mind, and an idea dawned.
"I would like to speak to the Bloody Baron, please," he requested of the portraits.
While he waited, he cuddled Fawkes, who had readied himself for an evening flight.
"Will you do me a favour, my dear? Would you please check on the Weasleys and see whether they are alone and safe at the Burrow? Is young Percy home? If anything is amiss, come and tell me straight away—it's very important."
With a melodious trill, Fawkes blinked and vanished.
A piercing chill, not dissimilar from a breath of icy air, alerted Albus to the ghost's presence. His blood-specked robes floated in wisps around him; his chained hands were clenched in fists; his penetrating, unblinking gaze was difficult to hold for long. He hovered before the headmaster, eerily still but for his moving robes.
"Good evening, Baron," Albus said. "I am going to entrust you with a task; it concerns the safety of the castle's inhabitants. Whenever Igor Karkaroff is inside of these walls, I would like you to follow him in your invisible form. If he should act inappropriately towards Professor Sinistra or anyone at all, feel free to give him the best scare in your arsenal. If this doesn't deter him, come straight to me. In my absence, you can seek out Professor McGonagall or Professor Moody."
The Bloody Baron did not utter a word; a frightful smile, however, lifted the corners of his mouth, letting the wizard know his order had been accepted. With a whooshing sound, the ghost sank through the floor and was gone.
AN: The foreign delegations have arrived, right in time for Halloween. We wish you a happy and spooky one too!