Disclaimer: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 13- Beauxbatons and Durmstrang

The next day comes with irritation at Harry on our part. The boy wonder had decided to send another letter back to Sirius Black.

"That was a lie, Harry," says Hermione sharply over breakfast, when he tells us what he has done. "You didn't imagine your scar hurting and you know it."

"So what?" says Harry. "He's not going back to Azkaban because of me."

"Drop it," says Ron sharply to Hermione as she opens her mouth to argue some more, and for once, Hermione heeds him, and falls silent. That doesn't stop the fact that I'm just plain tired of all this arguing.

Despite all the talks that I had yesterday with Ariana and Luka, I was not able to sleep well. I had woken up in cold sweats twice that night. That's making me a tad more irritable this morning.

I wish that we still had Quidditch; at least the practices would allow me to get the frustration out, and leave me too tired at nights to even bother with dreaming. On the other hand, our lessons are becoming more difficult and demanding than ever before, particularly Moody's Defense Against the Dark Arts.

To our surprise, Professor Moody has announced that he will be putting the Imperius Curse on each of us in turn, to demonstrate its power and to see whether we could resist its effects.

"But — but you said it's illegal, Professor," says Hermione uncertainly as Moody clears away the desks with a sweep of his wand, leaving a large clear space in the middle of the room. "You said — to use it against another human was —"

"Dumbledore wants you taught what it feels like," says Moody, his magical eye swiveling onto Hermione and fixing her with an eerie, unblinking stare. "If you'd rather learn the hard way — when someone's putting it on you so they can control you completely — fine by me. You're excused. Off you go."

He points one gnarled finger towards the door. Hermione goes very pink and mutters something about not meaning that she wanted to leave. Harry, Ron, and I grin at each other. We know Hermione would rather eat bubotuber pus than miss such an important lesson.

Moody begins to beckon students forward in turn and put the Imperius Curse upon them. I watch as, one by one, my classmates do the most extraordinary things under its influence. Dean Thomas hops three times around the room, singing the national anthem. Lavender Brown imitates a squirrel. Neville performs a series of quite astonishing gymnastics he would certainly not have been capable of in his normal state. Not one of them seem to be able to fight off the curse, and each of them recover only when Moody removes it.

"Potter," Moody growls, "you next."

Harry moves forward into the middle of the classroom, into the space that Moody has cleared of desks. Moody raises his wand, points it at Harry, and says, "Imperio!"

Harry's face goes slack and kind of dopey. He just stands there for a second before springing into strangled action of a half jump half stop that sends him crashing into one of the desks.

"Now, that's more like it!" growls Moody. Harry's face regains its normal pensive features, and I know that the spell has been released. "Look at that, you lot . . . Potter fought! He fought it, and he damn near beat it! We'll try that again, Potter, and the rest of you, pay attention — watch his eyes, that's where you see it — very good, Potter, very good indeed! They'll have trouble controlling you!"

"Now let's see…" He says his magical eye spinning over all of us crazily. It lands on me though, and I feel dread open up in my stomach. "All right Pendragon, let's see what kind of stuff you're made of. Hopefully its stronger stuff than your brother." He says. I glare at Moody and step into the center of the classroom.

Moody raises his wand and casts, "Imperio!"

An odd feeling tickles at the corners of my mind. It is soothing and relaxing begging to be let in. I scrunch up my nose at the feeling. The look on Moody's face is astounded. Let me in. Well that was certainly disconcerting. My mind flashes back to second year when Ginny was controlled by Riddle when she poured too much of herself into that blasted diary and it ended up taking her over.

No. A sharp pain goes through my head, and I end up shaking it to get the lingering tendrils away from my mind. The class around us looks expectant, but both of Moody's good eye and magical one are trained on me wholly. "Again." He barks. I don't even hear he casting of the spell before the soothing sensation is back again but stronger.

Relax… you know that you want to. Let me in. With a violent shudder I shake my head again and glare at Moody. "If you have to ask for permission Professor, I don't think that the spell is working." I tell him shakily. With a determined set of his mouth he flicks his wand again, and this time I'm sent to my knees by the force of the pain inside my head.

Get to your feet and start dancing. You have no will here. I hear the worried whispers around me. Harry has an arm on Hermione holding her back.

My mind is my own! With violent force and much pain, the connection is severed between us. I drop to my hands and breathe shakily attempting to get air back into my lungs. "That class— is true resistance. There's what you want to look like." Moody growls softly.

"Granger get her up." Hermione comes hurrying over to me, helping me over to a chair so that I can sit.

For the rest of class I sit there and watch as he goes through the rest of the class but his magical eye never leaves me. When the class is released though, he barks that I have to stay behind for a minute. Slowly I make my way to the crazy professor. He leans back against his desk and eyes me up and down.

"That Pendragon was one of the single best resistances that I have ever seen of an Imperius curse. That is a very special talent to have indeed; my suggestion never even came close to having access to your mind. That ability will make you a target of some very specific people Pendragon the Dark Lord included." Moody says.

I swallow nervously not liking where this conversation is going. "Do not tell anyone else of this ability lest you get thrust into situations that you might not like down the road." He tells me. I nod my head slowly still trying to absorb all the he's said.

I leave the classroom and catch up with my friends in the hall. "The way he talks, you'd think we were all going to be attacked any second." Harry mutters.

"Yeah, I know," says Ron, who is skipping on every alternate step. He had much more difficulty with the curse than Harry and me, though Moody assures him the effects will wear off by lunchtime. "Talk about paranoid . . ." Ron glances nervously over his shoulder to check that Moody is definitely out of earshot and goes on. "No wonder they were glad to get shot of him at the Ministry. Did you hear him telling Seamus what he did to that witch who shouted 'Boo' behind him on April Fools' Day? And when are we supposed to read up on resisting the Imperius Curse with everything else we've got to do?"

All the fourth years have noticed a definite increase in the amount of work we are required to do this term. Professor McGonagall explained why, when the class gave a particularly loud groan at the amount of Transfiguration homework she had assigned.

"You are now entering a most important phase of your magical education!" she tells us, her eyes glinting dangerously behind her square spectacles. "Your Ordinary Wizarding Levels are drawing closer —"

"We don't take O.W.L.s till fifth year!" says Dean Thomas indignantly.

"Maybe not, Thomas, but believe me, you need all the preparation you can get! Miss Granger remains the only person in this class who has managed to turn a hedgehog into a satisfactory pincushion. I might remind you that your pincushion, Thomas, still curls up in fright if anyone approaches it with a pin!"

Hermione, who has turned rather pink again, seems to be trying not to look too pleased with herself.

Harry, Ron, and I are deeply amused when Professor Trelawney tells us that we have received top marks for our homework in our next Divination class. She reads out large portions of our predictions, commending us for our unflinching acceptance of the horrors in store for us — but we are less amused when she asks us to do the same thing for the month after next; we are running out of ideas for catastrophes.

Meanwhile Professor Binns, the ghost who teaches History of Magic, has us writing weekly essays on the goblin rebellions of the eighteenth century. Professor Snape is forcing us to research antidotes. We take this one seriously, as he has hinted that he might be poisoning one of us before Christmas to see if our antidote works. Professor Flitwick has asked us to read three extra books in preparation for our lesson on Summoning Charms. Not that I'm worried at all about that class since its my favorite one.

Even Hagrid is adding to our workload. The Blast-Ended Skrewts are growing at a remarkable pace given that nobody has yet discovered what they eat (which is disconcerting). Hagrid is delighted, and as part of our "project," suggests that we come down to his hut on alternate evenings to observe the skrewts and make notes on their extraordinary behavior.

"I will not," says Draco Malfoy flatly when Hagrid proposes this with the air of Father Christmas pulling an extra-large toy out of his sack. "I see enough of these foul things during lessons, thanks."

Hagrid's smile fades off his face. One day this weasel or excuse me ferret will get what's coming to him.

"Yeh'll do wha' yer told," he growls, "or I'll be takin' a leaf outta Professor Moody's book. . . . I hear yeh made a good ferret, Malfoy."

The Gryffindors roar with laughter. Malfoy flushes with anger, but apparently the memory of Moody's punishment is still sufficiently painful to stop him from retorting. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I return to the castle at the end of the lesson in high spirits; seeing Hagrid put down Malfoy is particularly satisfying, especially because Malfoy had done his very best to get Hagrid sacked the previous year.

When we arrive in the entrance hall, we find ourselves unable to proceed owing to the large crowd of students congregated there, all milling around a large sign that has been erected at the foot of the marble staircase. Ron, the tallest of our group, stands on tiptoe to see over the heads in front of us and read the sign aloud to the other three:

TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT

THE DELEGATIONS FROM BEAUXBATONS AND DURMSTRANG WILL BE ARRIVING AT 6 O'CLOCK ON FRIDAY THE 30TH OF OCTOBER. LESSONS WILL END HALF AN HOUR EARLY —

"Brilliant!" says Harry. "It's Potions last thing on Friday! Snape won't have time to poison us all!"

STUDENTS WILL RETURN THEIR BAGS AND BOOKS TO THEIR DORMITORIES AND ASSEMBLE IN FRONT OF THE CASTLE TO GREET OUR GUESTS BEFORE THE WELCOMING FEAST."

"Only a week away!" says Ernie Macmillan of Hufflepuff, emerging from the crowd, his eyes gleaming. "I wonder if Cedric knows? Think I'll go and tell him. . . ."

"Cedric?" says Ron blankly as Ernie hurries off.

"Diggory," I say. "He must be entering the tournament."

"That idiot, Hogwarts champion?" says Ron as we push our way through the chattering crowd towards the staircase.

"He's not an idiot. You just don't like him because he beat Gryffindor at Quidditch," says Hermione. "I've heard he's a really good student — and he's a prefect."

She speaks as though this settled the matter. "You only like him because he's handsome," says Ron scathingly. Oh Merlin please not another fight between the two of them! I swear I will lock them in that broom closet this time! It's maddening how hormones are beginning to effect all of my friends. Don't think that I don't see the way that Harry looks at Cho Chang when he thinks that we're not looking.

Those three will be the death of me! "Excuse me, I don't like people just because they're handsome!" says Hermione indignantly.

Ron gives a loud false cough, which sounds oddly like "Lockhart!" Well he's got her there.

The appearance of the sign in the entrance hall has a marked effect upon the inhabitants of the castle. During the following week, there seems to be only one topic of conversation, no matter where I go: the Triwizard Tournament. Rumors are flying from student to student like highly contagious germs: who is going to try for Hogwarts champion, what the tournament will involve, how the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang differ from ourselves.

I notice too that the castle seems to be undergoing an extra-thorough cleaning. Several grimy portraits have been scrubbed, much to the displeasure of their subjects, who sit huddled in their frames muttering darkly and wincing as they feel their raw pink faces. The suits of armor are suddenly gleaming and moving without squeaking, and Argus Filch, the caretaker, is behaving so ferociously to any students who forget to wipe their shoes that he terrifies a pair of first-year girls into hysterics.

Not that that's anything new for him of course. Other members of the staff seem oddly tense too.

"Longbottom, kindly do not reveal that you can't even perform a simple Switching Spell in front of anyone from Durmstrang!" Professor McGonagall barks at the end of one particularly difficult lesson, during which Neville has accidentally transplanted his own ears onto a cactus. So pretty much everyone is losing their minds.

When we go down to breakfast on the morning of the thirtieth of October, we find that the Great Hall has been decorated overnight. Enormous silk banners hang from the walls, each of them representing a Hogwarts House: red with a gold lion for Gryffindor, blue with a bronze eagle for Ravenclaw, yellow with a black badger for Hufflepuff, and green with a silver serpent for Slytherin. Behind the teachers' table, the largest banner of all bears the Hogwarts coat of arms: lion, eagle, badger, and snake united around a large letter H.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I sit down beside Fred and George at the Gryffindor table. Once again, and most unusually, they are sitting apart from everyone else and conversing in low voices. Ron leads the way over to them.

"It's a bummer, all right," George is saying gloomily to Fred. "But if he won't talk to us in person, we'll have to send him the letter after all. Or we'll stuff it into his hand. He can't avoid us forever."

"Who's avoiding you?" says Ron, sitting down next to them.

"Wish you would," says Fred, looking irritated at the interruption.

"What's a bummer?" Ron asks George.

"Having a nosy git like you for a brother," says George. Yes this sounds more like what I am used to back at the Burrow.

"You two got any ideas on the Triwizard Tournament yet?" Harry asks. "Thought any more about trying to enter?"

"I asked McGonagall how the champions are chosen but she wasn't telling," says George bitterly. "She just told me to shut up and get on with Transfiguring my raccoon."

"Wonder what the tasks are going to be?" says Ron thoughtfully. "You know, I bet we could do them, Harry. We've done dangerous stuff before. . . ."

"Count me out." I say abruptly putting my hands up. No way in hell they're getting me to do anything moderately dangerous this year. I'd like a relatively calm year for once.

"Not in front of a panel of judges, you haven't," says Fred. "McGonagall says the champions get awarded points according to how well they've done the tasks."

"Who are the judges?" Harry asks.

"Well, the Heads of the participating schools are always on the panel," says Hermione, and everyone looks around at her, rather surprised, "because all three of them were injured during the Tournament of 1792, when a cockatrice the champions were supposed to be catching went on the rampage."

That's my Mione all right. She always knows the answer to everything. She notices us all looking at her and says, with her usual air of impatience that nobody else has read all the books she has, "It's all in Hogwarts: A History. Though, of course, that book's not entirely reliable. A Revised History of Hogwarts would be a more accurate title. Or A Highly Biased and Selective History of Hogwarts, Which Glosses Over the Nastier Aspects of the School."

"What are you on about?" says Ron, though I think I know what is coming.

"House-elves!" says Hermione, her eyes flashing. "Not once, in over a thousand pages, does Hogwarts: A History mention that we are all colluding in the oppression of a hundred slaves!"

Oh Merlin here we go again for the thousandth time. I shake my head and apply myself to my scrambled eggs. Harry, Ron's, and my lack of enthusiasm has done nothing whatsoever to curb Hermione's determination to pursue justice for house-elves. True, we have paid two Sickles for a S.P.E.W. badge, but we have only done it to keep her quiet. Our Sickles have been wasted, however; if anything, they seemed to have made Hermione more vociferous. She has been badgering Harry, Ron, and me ever since, first to wear the badges, then to persuade others to do the same, and she has also taken to rattling around the Gryffindor common room every evening, cornering people and shaking the collecting tin under their noses.

"You do realize that your sheets are changed, your fires lit, your classrooms cleaned, and your food cooked by a group of magical creatures who are unpaid and enslaved?" she keeps saying fiercely. Yes I do happen to know that, but there's nothing that I can do about it. I have enough things to worry about as it is.

Some people, like Neville, have paid up just to stop Hermione from glowering at them. A few seem mildly interested in what she has to say, but are reluctant to take a more active role in campaigning. Many regard the whole thing as a joke.

Ron now rolls his eyes at the ceiling, which is flooding us all in autumn sunlight, and Fred becomes extremely interested in his bacon (both twins have refused to buy a S.P.E.W. badge). George, however, leans in towards Hermione.

"Listen, have you ever been down in the kitchens, Hermione?"

"No, of course not," says Hermione curtly, "I hardly think students are supposed to —"

"Well, we have," says George, indicating Fred, "loads of times, to nick food. And we've met them, and they're happy. They think they've got the best job in the world —"

I'm glad that they didn't mention me on those adventures yet. "That's because they're uneducated and brainwashed!" Hermione begins hotly, but her next few words are drowned out by a sudden whooshing noise from overhead, which announces the arrival of the post owls. Harry looks up at once, and sees Hedwig soaring towards him. Hermione stops talking abruptly; she, Ron, and I watch Hedwig anxiously as she flutters down onto Harry's shoulder, folds her wings, and holds out her leg wearily.

Harry pulls off Sirius's reply and offers Hedwig his bacon rinds, which she eats gratefully. Then, checking that Fred and George are safely immersed in further discussions about the Triwizard Tournament, Harry reads out Sirius's letter in a whisper to Ron, Hermione, and me.

Nice try, Harry.

I'm back in the country and well hidden. I want you to keep me posted on everything that's going on at Hogwarts. Don't use Hedwig, keep changing owls, and don't worry about me, just watch out for yourself. Don't forget what I said about your scar.

"Why d'you have to keep changing owls?" Ron asks in a low voice.

"Hedwig'll attract too much attention," I explain. "She stands out. A snowy owl that keeps returning to wherever he's hiding . . . I mean, they're not native birds, are they?"

Hermione looks mildly shocked that I know that. "What I know some things." I say defensively.

There is a pleasant feeling of anticipation in the air this day. Nobody is very attentive in lessons, being much more interested in the arrival that evening of the people from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang; even Potions is more bearable than usual, as it is half an hour shorter. When the bell rings early, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I hurry up to Gryffindor Tower, deposit our bags and books as we have been instructed, pull on our cloaks, and rush back downstairs into the entrance hall.

The Heads of Houses are ordering their students into lines.

"Weasley, straighten your hat," Professor McGonagall snaps at Ron. "Miss Patil, take that ridiculous thing out of your hair."

Parvati scowls and removes a large ornamental butterfly from the end of her plait. "Follow me, please," says Professor McGonagall. "First years in front . . . no pushing. . . ."

We file down the steps and line up in front of the castle. It is a cold, clear evening; dusk is falling and a pale, transparent-looking moon is already shining over the Forbidden Forest. Standing between Harry and Hermione in the fourth row from the front, I see Dennis Creevey positively shivering with anticipation among the other first years.

"Nearly six," says Ron, checking his watch and then staring down the drive that leads to the front gates. "How d'you reckon they're coming? The train?"

"I doubt it," says Hermione.

"How, then? Broomsticks?" Harry suggests, looking up at the starry sky.

"I don't think so . . . not from that far away. . . ." I say absently.

"A Portkey?" Ron suggests. "Or they could Apparate — maybe you're allowed to do it under seventeen wherever they come from?"

"You can't Apparate inside the Hogwarts grounds, how often do I have to tell you?" says Hermione impatiently.

We scan the darkening grounds excitedly, but nothing is moving; everything is still, silent, and quiet as usual. I am starting to feel cold. I wish they'd hurry up. . . . Maybe the foreign students are preparing a dramatic entrance. . . . I remember what Mr. Weasley had said back at the campsite before the Quidditch World Cup: "always the same — we can't resist showing off when we get together. . . ."

And then Dumbledore calls out from the back row where he stands with the other teachers —

"Aha! Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches!"

"Where?" say many students eagerly, all looking in different directions. Well here we go on to the next adventure at Hogwarts.

"There!" yells a sixth year, pointing over the forest. Something large, much larger than a broomstick — or, indeed, a hundred broomsticks — is hurtling across the deep blue sky towards the castle, growing larger all the time.

"It's a dragon!" shrieks one of the first years, losing her head completely.

"Don't be stupid . . . it's a flying house!" says Dennis Creevey.

Dennis's guess is closer. . . . As the gigantic black shape skims over the treetops of the Forbidden Forest and the lights shining from the castle windows hit it, we see a gigantic, powder-blue, horse-drawn carriage, the size of a large house, soaring towards us, pulled through the air by a dozen winged horses, all palominos, and each the size of an elephant.

The front three rows of students draw backwards as the carriage hurtles ever lower, coming in to land at a tremendous speed — then, with an almighty crash that makes Neville jump backwards onto a Slytherin fifth year's foot, the horses' hooves, larger than dinner plates, hit the ground. A second later, the carriage lands too, bouncing upon its vast wheels, while the golden horses toss their enormous heads and roll large, fiery red eyes.

I just have time to see that the door of the carriage bears a coat of arms (two crossed, golden wands, each emitting three stars) before it opens.

A boy in pale blue robes jumps down from the carriage, bends forward, fumbles for a moment with something on the carriage floor, and unfolds a set of golden steps. He springs back respectfully. Then I see a shining, high-heeled black shoe emerging from the inside of the carriage — a shoe the size of a child's sled — followed, almost immediately, by the largest woman I have ever seen in my life. The size of the carriage, and of the horses, is immediately explained. A few people gasp (I might be one of them).

I have only ever seen one person as large as this woman in my life, and that is Hagrid; I doubt whether there is an inch difference in their heights. Yet somehow — maybe simply because I am used to Hagrid — this woman (now at the foot of the steps, and looking around at the waiting, wide-eyed crowd) seems even more unnaturally large. As she steps into the light flooding from the entrance hall, she is revealed to have a handsome, olive-skinned face; large, black, liquid-looking eyes; and a rather beaky nose. Her hair is drawn back in a shining knob at the base of her neck. She is dressed from head to foot in black satin, and many magnificent opals gleam at her throat and on her thick fingers.

This must be their headmistress. Dumbledore starts to clap; the students, following his lead, break into applause too, many of them standing on tiptoe, the better to look at this woman.

Her face relaxes into a gracious smile and she walks forward towards Dumbledore, extending a glittering hand. Dumbledore, though tall himself, has barely to bend to kiss it.

"My dear Madame Maxime," he says. "Welcome to Hogwarts."

"Dumbly-dorr," says Madame Maxime in a deep voice. "I 'ope I find you well?" Oh this is perfect material to use on Ariana. I scan the crowd to catch her eye, and when she sees me, her eyes widen and she shakes her head furiously at me. I mouth Dumbly-dorr and she scowls.

"In excellent form, I thank you," says Dumbledore.

"My pupils," says Madame Maxime, waving one of her enormous hands carelessly behind her.

My attention had been focused completely upon Madame Maxime, and I now notice that about a dozen boys and girls, all, by the look of them, in their late teens, have emerged from the carriage and are now standing behind Madame Maxime. They are shivering, which is unsurprising, given that their robes seem to be made of fine silk, and none of them are wearing cloaks. A few have wrapped scarves and shawls around their heads. From what I can see of them (they are standing in Madame Maxime's enormous shadow), they are staring up at Hogwarts with apprehensive looks on their faces.

"'As Karkaroff arrived yet?" Madame Maxime asks.

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

"Warm up, I think," says Madame Maxime. "But ze 'orses —"

"Our Care of Magical Creatures teacher will be delighted to take care of them," says Dumbledore, "the moment he has returned from dealing with a slight situation that has arisen with some of his other — er — charges."

"Skrewts," Ron mutters to me, grinning.

"My steeds require — er — forceful 'andling," says Madame Maxime, looking as though she doubts whether any Care of Magical Creatures teacher at Hogwarts could be up to the job. "Zey are very strong. . . ."

"So is Hagrid." I whisper.

"I assure you that Hagrid will be well up to the job," says Dumbledore, smiling.

"Very well," says Madame Maxime, bowing slightly. "Will you please inform zis 'Agrid zat ze 'orses drink only single-malt whiskey?" Wow picky horses.

"It will be attended to," says Dumbledore, also bowing.

"Come," says Madame Maxime imperiously to her students, and the Hogwarts crowd parts to allow her and her students to pass up the stone steps. I don't think that I would have done well at Beauxbatons.

"How big d'you reckon Durmstrang's horses are going to be?" Seamus Finnigan says, leaning around Lavender and Parvati to address Harry, Ron, and me.

"Well, if they're any bigger than this lot, even Hagrid won't be able to handle them," says Harry. "That's if he hasn't been attacked by his skrewts. Wonder what's up with them?"

"Maybe they've escaped," says Ron hopefully.

"Oh don't say that," says Hermione with a shudder. "Imagine that lot loose on the grounds. . . ."

We stand, shivering slightly now, waiting for the Durmstrang party to arrive. Well I make faces across the way to Luka and Ariana to pass the time. Most people are gazing hopefully up at the sky. For a few minutes, the silence is broken only by Madame Maxime's huge horses snorting and stamping. But then —

"Can you hear something?" says Ron suddenly. I listen; a loud and oddly eerie noise is drifting towards us from out of the darkness: a muffled rumbling and sucking sound, as though an immense vacuum cleaner is moving along a riverbed. . . .

"The lake!" yells Lee Jordan, pointing down at it. "Look at the lake!" Oh you have got to be kidding me!

From our position at the top of the lawns overlooking the grounds, we have a clear view of the smooth black surface of the water — except that the surface is suddenly not smooth at all. Some disturbance is taking place deep in the center; great bubbles are forming on the surface, waves are now washing over the muddy banks — and then, out in the very middle of the lake, a whirlpool appears, as if a giant plug has just been pulled out of the lake's floor. . . .

What seems to be a long, black pole begins to rise slowly out of the heart of the whirlpool . . . and then I see the rigging. . . .

"It's a mast!" I say to Ron, Hermione, and Harry.

Slowly, magnificently, the ship rises out of the water, gleaming in the moonlight. It has a strangely skeletal look about it, as though it is a resurrected wreck, and the dim, misty lights shimmering at its portholes look like ghostly eyes. Finally, with a great sloshing noise, the ship emerges entirely, bobbing on the turbulent water, and begins to glide towards the bank. A few moments later, we hear the splash of an anchor being thrown down in the shallows, and the thud of a plank being lowered onto the bank.

Well I guess some schools really like making grand entrances. People are disembarking; we can see their silhouettes passing the lights in the ship's portholes. All of them, I notice, seem to be built along the lines of Crabbe and Goyle . . . but then, as they draw nearer, walking up the lawns into the light streaming from the entrance hall, I see that their bulk is really due to the fact that they are wearing cloaks of some kind of shaggy, matted fur. But the man who is leading them up to the castle is wearing furs of a different sort: sleek and silver, like his hair.

"Dumbledore!" he calls heartily as he walks up the slope. "How are you, my dear fellow, how are you?"

"Blooming, thank you, Professor Karkaroff," Dumbledore replies. Oh you have to love Headmaster Dumbledore.

Karkaroff has a fruity, unctuous voice; when he steps into the light pouring from the front doors of the castle we see that he is tall and thin like Dumbledore, but his white hair is short, and his goatee (finishing in a small curl) does not entirely hide his rather weak chin. When he reaches Dumbledore, he shakes hands with both of his own.

"Dear old Hogwarts," he says, looking up at the castle and smiling; his teeth are rather yellow, and I notice that his smile does not extend to his eyes, which remain cold and shrewd. "How good it is to be here, how good. . . . Viktor, come along, into the warmth . . . you don't mind, Dumbledore? Viktor has a slight head cold. . . ."

Karkaroff beckons forward one of his students. As the boy passes, I catch a glimpse of a prominent curved nose and thick black eyebrows. I don't need the punch on the arm Ron gives me, or the hiss in my ear, to recognize that profile.

"Harry, Jamie, — it's Krum!" And let Ron's epic bromace with Krum begin yet again.