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Madame Maxime smiled warmly.
"You don't need to, Ethan. Fleur and Gabrielle wanted to thank you in person."
She waved toward the carriage behind her. At her signal, a group of Beauxbatons students—about fifteen in total—descended the steps.
Most of them appeared in their late teens, their finely woven silk robes fluttering slightly as they shivered in the cold British air.
Without their usual capes, they looked woefully underdressed for Hogwarts' autumn chill.
Before Ethan could react, a small figure with silvery hair bolted from the group and hurled herself into his arms.
"Mr. Ethan!" Gabrielle shrieked, clinging to his waist.
"I knew I'd see you again!"
"Gabrielle!" Madame Maxime's voice rang out, horrified.
"What did I tell you about proper etiquette?"
"It's alright," Ethan chuckled, patting Gabrielle's head.
"No harm done."
Fleur finally caught up, her expression torn between fondness and exasperation.
"Gabrielle, let go of him this instant!"
With practiced ease, she pried her little sister away.
Turning to Ethan, Fleur took a deep breath.
"I— we—just wanted to say thank you. For what you did at the Quidditch camp."
The last time Ethan had seen her, Fleur had been covered in dirt and sweat, but now, fully composed, she radiated an effortless beauty.
Her part-Veela heritage shimmered through, casting an almost hypnotic glow.
Ron, predictably, gawked.
Hermione, rolling her eyes, stomped on his foot. Hard.
"Ow!" Ron yelped, shaking out his leg.
"Stop drooling!" Hermione snapped.
"She's just a half-Veela!"
"I'm not—!"
Ron started to protest, but he wasn't fooling anyone.
Especially since half the other boys around him were doing the same thing.
Fleur, oblivious or used to it, pulled a neatly folded letter from her pocket and handed it to Ethan.
"This is from my parents. They wanted to thank you properly."
Ethan accepted the letter, catching the faintest trace of perfume on the parchment.
"They also invite you to France," Fleur continued.
"Our family will cover all your expenses—you'd be our honored guest."
Ethan smiled. "Please tell them I appreciate the invitation. If I ever have time, I'd love to visit."
While Ethan was speaking with Fleur, Madame Maxime had turned to Dumbledore.
"Has Karkaroff arrived yet?" she asked, glancing around.
"He should be here any moment," Dumbledore replied.
"Would you prefer to wait and greet him or head inside and warm up?"
Madame Maxime looked over her students, who were shivering in their fine silk robes.
"We're best we go inside. These children are not dressed for this weather."
She hesitated, turning toward the massive, well-groomed horses still hitched to the carriage.
"But... the horses—"
"Our Creatures professor will be happy to look after them," Dumbledore assured her with a twinkle in his eye.
"Ah, here he is now. Hagrid!"
A towering figure approached, his wild beard bristling with excitement.
"I'm Hagrid! Don't worry, I'll take good care of these beauties!"
With an almost comical nervousness, Hagrid reached for Madame Maxime's hand and kissed it, his large face turning an unmistakable shade of red.
"Merci, Monsieur Hagrid," Madame Maxime replied, her voice softer than usual.
"The horses require someone strong to handle them," she continued.
"They are very powerful, and they only drink single-malt whisky."
Hagrid nearly tripped over himself in enthusiasm.
"Whisky? No problem! I got loads o' that!"
His broad grin left no doubt—Hagrid would have agreed to anything Madame Maxime asked.
"That is very kind of you, Monsieur Hagrid."
She gave him a small bow.
Hagrid sputtered something incoherent in response, clearly flustered.
With that settled, the Beauxbatons students followed Filch into Hogwarts, their robes billowing behind them as they rushed toward warmth.
As the Hogwarts students watched the Beauxbatons delegation disappear into the castle, their eyes turned expectantly toward the sky.
Indeed, Durmstrang would arrive in the same grand fashion—perhaps in a fleet of enchanted brooms or riding some fearsome magical beast.
But nothing came.
Minutes passed. The chill in the air deepened, and students wrapped their cloaks tighter around themselves, shuffling in place to keep warm.
Then, a deep, unnatural sound rumbled through the darkness—a low, guttural gurgling, like a giant beast drawing breath beneath the surface of the lake.
A gasp rang out.
"In the lake!" someone shouted, pointing frantically.
"Look!"
The still, dark water suddenly churned violently.
Waves crashed against the shore, and a massive whirlpool formed in the center. It was like some unseen force had yanked a drain plug from the lakebed.
From the swirling vortex, something began to rise.
First, a tall, black mast pierced the surface, glistening wet under the moonlight.
Then came the rigging, followed by tattered, dark sails that unfurled like the wings of some ghostly creature.
A ship emerged, its skeletal frame hauntingly eerie, as though dredged from a long-forgotten shipwreck.
Its portholes flickered with a dim, misty light—like ghostly eyes peering into the night.
With a final, shuddering heave, the ship broke free from the water, sending cascading waves toward the shore before it settled, bobbing ominously on the lake's surface.
A heavy thud echoed across the grounds as a massive iron anchor plunged into the shallow water.
Then—creak, creak, creak—a long wooden gangplank extended from the ship, bridging the gap to shore.
Figures began to emerge from the deck, their heavy fur cloaks swaying with each step.
Their garments were crude, the fur matted and tangled, yet their broad shoulders and solid builds exuded an undeniable strength.
At the front of the group, one figure stood apart.
Unlike the others, his fur cloak was different—sleek, silvery-white, glistening like his neatly trimmed hair.
He was tall and thin, reminiscent of Dumbledore, but his posture was more rigid, and his expression was sharp and calculating.
The curls of his goatee barely covered his thin, angular chin.
Ethan recognized him instantly.
Igor Karkaroff.
Former Death Eater.
Now, Headmaster of Durmstrang.