The darkest hour before dawn found Dumbledore standing on the docks at Newcastle's waterfront.
He made no sound. The few streetlamps along the road still glowed with their old, yellowish light, illuminating the warehouse signs. This was the temporary holding area for shipping containers.
The wide rolling door stood half-open. Inside the warehouse there were no electric lights, only dim, dusty gloom and the faint, fishy stench of the sea.
Every sea container carried some version of that smell after weeks or months at sea. Some held frozen meat, adding a sharp, bloody note to the salty odor.
Dumbledore stepped slowly into the warehouse and frowned. For an old wizard, the scent of blood was far too strong. It didn't smell like thawing beef. It smelled like fresh-killed meat, still almost warm.
A chill draft brushed his ankles. On the smooth concrete floor, sticky dark liquid had pooled. Following the trail, he moved between the containers until he reached the one holding frozen meat.
The metal door stood open. Fenrir Greyback's body knelt inside.
The werewolf's head hung forward, eyes closed as if he were merely sleeping. His matted gray hair and beard were tangled together. The vicious face that had once terrified so many now held no expression—pale, cold, the sores at the corners of his mouth turned black.
His clawed right hand was buried in his own chest, fingers still wrapped around his heart. Dried blood, dark and almost black, had spilled across the floor. The heavy metallic stench came from here.
The savage werewolf had died by his own famous claws, kneeling in a posture that looked almost like repentance.
Dumbledore's face grew grave as he scanned the area. Greyback's wand was nowhere in sight. Gnawed pieces of frozen meat lay scattered and half-thawed, the whole scene a mess.
Even when cornered by Aurors, Greyback had always managed to fight and flee. But there were no signs of any struggle inside the container.
Whoever had killed him was far more dangerous than any werewolf.
---
Saturday evening, Muggle Studies office.
Harry sat on the guest sofa, surrounded by reference books for his History of Magic essay. From the desk across the room came the steady rustle of turning pages—Hermione was helping the professor grade summer homework.
Three weeks into the new term, homework in every fourth-year subject had steadily increased. Weekend activities had restarted too. At least there was no Quidditch House Cup this year, so Harry didn't have to rush off to practice. He showed up for tutoring on time every Saturday night.
The tutoring sessions cost over a thousand Galleons and were supposed to be top-tier, yet here was Professor Levent leaving in the middle of class again, leaving just the two of them in the office: one doing weekend homework, the other grading papers as an assistant.
Homework difficulty varied. Astronomy and Divination were the easiest—one just recorded star charts, the other made up dramatic misfortunes. Neither required much brainpower. Transfiguration, Charms, and Defense Against the Dark Arts needed more thought and combined practical work with personal insight—subjects Harry was actually decent at.
History of Magic sat at the bottom of the pile. Interpreting textbook events and giving your own opinion wasn't the hard part. You also had to back everything up with solid, detailed evidence and get all the tiny facts—dates, locations, exact wording—right. It made your head hurt.
Harry's brain felt fuzzy. He dropped his quill into the inkpot and turned around. "Hermione… Hermione…"
"Forget it. I'm not letting you copy my History of Magic essay," Hermione said without looking up, voice cool and merciless.
"I know, I know—it's not copying, it's just… referencing…" Harry muttered, closing the reference book. "Never mind History. How's your Arithmancy going? Is the homework heavy? Hard?"
"It's only the start of term, so not too bad yet, but the calculations are tricky." Hermione flipped to the next paper, paused, then added, "Hogwarts really should think about bringing in computers."
Hearing that Arithmancy was difficult made Harry feel a little better. At least Divination was easy—he and Ron had already planned out a month's worth of fake misfortunes.
"And Moody's Defense essay is a bit much too. Lavender keeps bothering me to help her revise hers. She thinks the Imperius Curse is too scary." Hermione slowed down as she reached Lavender's paper.
Harry leaned back on the sofa, staring up at the upside-down crystal chandelier, and sighed. "Neville's the same as Lavender. The Cruciatus Curse gives him nightmares. He's been having them for days now."
Hermione went quiet. She remembered what had happened to Neville's parents. Professor Levent had mentioned it during their first-year night in the Forbidden Forest. The Longbottoms had been driven mad by the Cruciatus. Last year their recovery and release from St Mungo's had made front-page news.
Even though the worst pain was over, the thirteen lost years would never come back. The shadow would stay with Neville forever.
"Professor Moody really is intimidating," Hermione said seriously. "When he demonstrated the Unforgivable Curses in class, I jumped too. That was the first time I'd ever seen the Killing Curse up close. My mum and dad were killed by that spell."
Harry's green eyes stared blankly at the candlelight above. "Casting it makes it unforgivable—the deadliest magic in history. It really is dangerous. But like in those old Muggle movies, a curse is just a tool. Tools aren't good or evil by themselves."
"Dark magic isn't just a tool," Hermione warned, frowning. "It can corrupt the caster's will."
Harry thought for a moment. "That just means it's a tool that's hard to control. Plenty of brilliant wizards know dark magic—Dumbledore, Professor Levent, Professor Flitwick…"
"…"
Hermione frowned, temporarily at a loss for words.
"I agree with Harry…"
Before she could think of a rebuttal, the office door suddenly opened.
"Professor Levent!"
"Sorry, something came up and I had to step out during today's tutoring session."
Melvin's cloak carried the faint damp chill of the night air—he had just returned from outside, probably the Forbidden Forest or the Black Lake. "Dark magic really is a difficult tool to master, like a Muggle car. It's best to wait until you're of age, when both body and mind are mature, then learn under the supervision of an adult wizard. Only after you pass the proper tests should you be allowed to use it."
"But Professor Moody is already teaching us."
"Mad-Eye's real point isn't to make you learn the Unforgivable Curses. It's to make you recognize them, understand how they work, so you're not helpless and frozen if you ever face them."
Melvin hung his traveling cloak on the rack by the door and sat down behind his desk. "And not just the Unforgivable Curses from dark wizards—other dangers you might meet in the future too. Remember what Moody says: constant vigilance."
"…"
The professor's words carried hidden meaning.
Hermione asked carefully, "Professor, do you mean… the Triwizard Tournament?"
"Yes. The Quadwizard Tournament."
Melvin nodded, not bothering to hide it. "I just met with Mr. Crouch from the Department of International Magical Cooperation. He brought people to inspect possible sites in the Forbidden Forest. They've already cordoned off an area. As soon as the students and staff from the other three schools arrive, construction on the first task will begin immediately."
Barty Crouch had been through hell these past weeks. The short time had aged him years. He looked exhausted and haggard.
Yet he still showed up at the Department of International Magical Cooperation every day. On the surface, he was under Wormtail and Umbridge's control, feeding them information from the Ministry's upper levels, helping with the plan to kidnap Harry, and quietly looking for the prophecy orb in the Department of Mysteries.
But that was only the show for Voldemort. In reality, Crouch had never been placed under the Imperius. He was fully aware of the situation.
His prison-break crime had been exposed. His own son was being controlled. Voldemort was hiding in the old Riddle house…
Mr. Crouch planned to finish the urgent work at hand, then turn himself in once everything was over. In the meantime he was preparing the Triwizard Tournament while gradually handing over his responsibilities to other colleagues. Percy was making rapid progress under his special guidance.
Harry's green eyes lit up with excitement. "Professor, do we have a chance to become champions?"
Melvin smiled. "During the summer planning, Mr. Crouch and Dumbledore originally planned to limit each school to one champion, age seventeen and older. But I convinced them to drop the age restriction."
A dozen bright scenes flashed through Harry's mind: becoming Hogwarts' champion, winning the Quadwizard Tournament, Cho Chang standing in the crowd cheering, her face flushed, looking at him with admiration and awe.
"Heh heh…"
Under Hermione's puzzled gaze, Harry lowered his head and grinned.
---
October 30th, evening—Hallowe'en Eve.
Melvin walked through the Great Hall and entrance hall, down the marble steps, and out of the castle. He glanced at the thick crowd gathered along the shore of the Black Lake.
Night was falling fast. The grounds buzzed with students chattering excitedly. As Melvin passed, students greeted him and quickly stepped aside. Those in the front row stood on tiptoe, craning their necks to see into the distance.
The four Heads of House stood with their students, along with the elective professors and other staff, spread out along the lakeside. According to the Ministry and the Headmaster, Ilvermorny, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang would arrive at six o'clock that evening.
"You'll need to greet the other three headmasters when they arrive. Try to look dignified," McGonagall whispered in Aberforth's ear. "Don't be nervous. Just invite them to the Great Hall to sit down."
McGonagall really was an excellent Deputy Headmistress. She had rehearsed the entire reception process in advance—from background information on the three headmasters to their relationships with Dumbledore. She had even prepared a few of Aberforth's trademark cold jokes in case he didn't know what to say.
The cold jokes perfectly matched the Headmaster's usual eccentric style and were guaranteed to create an awkward silence—Melvin thought it was a clever way to hide any slips.
"It's getting dark. How much longer do we have to wait?"
"Maybe they're planning a dramatic entrance."
"My dad says wizards always do this. Whenever we get together, we can't resist showing off."
The chatter from the Gryffindor line grew louder. Harry stared out at the darkening grounds and the Black Lake. Everything felt quiet and ordinary, the temperature dropping. The initial excitement had faded, and now he was starting to feel cold.
"Look! Up there—Beauxbatons is here!" Aberforth stood at the front of the crowd, neck craned in a most undignified way.
"Where?"
"There!"
A group of students followed their Headmaster's gaze and looked up.
Hagrid had once told them about his summer trip to Romania. Professor Kettleburn had driven a carriage pulled by winged horses the size of elephants. Even though the carriage had sturdy wheels, it never touched the mud on the roads—its tracks were left in the clouds.
"So that's what it looks like…" Harry breathed, staring upward.
At first it was only a small black dot. Then it grew larger and closer. Twelve powerful Thestrals spread their wings and streaked across the deep-blue sky. Each horse was the size of an elephant, with golden bodies and silver manes, like meteors fallen to earth. Behind them floated a pale-blue carriage that looked like a small villa.
At the same moment, the surface of the Black Lake began to bubble and churn as if the entire lake were boiling. Waves slapped against the shore rocks. A straight mast broke the surface, followed by a seventeenth-century wooden ship rising from the depths. Its portholes glowed with soft light.
The hull was dark gray, sleek and streamlined, covered in barnacles and mud like a shipwreck hauled up from the sea. Yet it radiated powerful magic—enough to sail beneath the waves.
Beep-beep…
The third visitor announced itself with a cheerful horn. Over the rolling hills on the castle's side, a bright yellow school bus came bouncing into view. The license plate bore Latin characters—Ilvermorny.
The bus raced through the gathering dusk. From the outside it looked like any ordinary New York school bus—deep yellow, with neat rows of windows. In the blink of an eye it reached them and popped out its stop sign.
Only then did the students realize the windows weren't showing seats—they were looking into individual dormitory rooms.
The Thestrals' hooves hit the ground with heavy thuds. The horses snorted and shook their massive heads, flames dancing in their huge eyes.
A boy in pale-blue robes jumped down from the carriage and lowered a golden folding staircase. First came a shiny black high-heeled shoe, followed by legs that were long—impossibly long.
The entire crowd fell silent for nearly ten seconds, staring as the headmistress in elegant furs stepped onto Hogwarts ground.
"Oh, my dear Madame Maxime, welcome to Hogwarts!"
The school bus switched on its headlights, lighting up half the sky. A light, cheerful bell rang as the doors slid open. A middle-aged wizard poked his head out and looked around.
"Headmaster Fontaine, it's good to see you again!"
At the same time, the sailing ship rocked on the choppy water. An iron anchor sank into the shallow lakebed. A gangplank extended from the deck to the shore. A wizard with a curled goatee led the way onto land.
"Headmaster Karkaroff."
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