Hogwarts' Golden Glory

By the time the carriage stopped by the Black Lake, night had completely enveloped Hogwarts.

Hermione looked out the car window and saw the castle windows lighting up one after another, as if someone had lit a string of golden stars in the darkness.

The lake was as calm as a mirror, reflecting the outline of the castle. Occasionally, the tentacles of a giant squid would skim across the surface, shattering the reflections in the water.

After getting off the bus, Harry and the others reunited.

"Another year has passed," Harry said beside her, his voice carrying a complex emotion.

"Yes," Hermione replied, but her gaze unconsciously drifted to another carriage not far away.

Kane is getting out of the car.

He was wearing Hogwarts' standard black robes, but for some reason, the same robes looked exceptionally...imposing on him. Draco followed behind, carrying two suitcases and muttering something under his breath.

Igor flew in at that moment, circling once in the twilight, his red and blue feathers reflecting the castle lights like a moving star.

-----------------

The auditorium is still the same auditorium, but every time school starts, it feels as awe-inspiring as the first time I see it.

Thousands of candles floated in mid-air, illuminating four long college tables.

The dome was enchanted, displaying the night sky outside—a deep blue canopy studded with stars, occasionally punctuated by shooting stars. The silver cutlery gleamed in the candlelight.

The first-year students stood in front of the auditorium, their faces pale, their expressions a mixture of excitement and fear.

Professor McGonagall stood before them, holding a roll of parchment, her expression as solemn as if she were reading a death sentence.

"Clang—clang—"

The old, tattered hat began to sing.

This year's song was exceptionally long, telling the story of the founding of the four houses of Hogwarts, and ending with "Splitting them up, splitting them up, placing them into the houses that are most suitable for them."

The branching ceremony has begun.

Hermione watched as unfamiliar faces were called by name, then sat on the old stool and put on the Sorting Hat. The hat would hesitate for a moment, then loudly announce the result.

The upperclassmen at the long table cheered wildly, while the freshmen waited nervously for the verdict.

The branch ceremony continued.

One freshman after another was assigned to different colleges.

Hermione noticed that Slytherin had admitted several new students this year who didn't seem like the type to mess with—one little girl stuck her tongue out at the Gryffindor table when she was assigned to Slytherin.

"Mind your manners," Hermione muttered under her breath.

After the last freshman was assigned a spot, Dumbledore stood up.

The auditorium fell silent instantly.

The principal wore a deep purple robe, his silver-white beard reaching his waist, and his blue eyes behind crescent-shaped glasses gently swept across the room. He looked older than last year—or rather, more tired. But his voice remained loud and powerful.

"Welcome back," he said. "Before we begin dinner, I'd like to introduce a few of my new colleagues."

He turned to the teachers' section. Hermione followed his gaze and saw several new faces sitting there.

"First, Professor Alastor Moody will be teaching the Defense Against the Dark Arts course."

A man with a scarred face stood up. His prosthetic eyes darted around wildly, while his real eyes scanned the students below, as if assessing who warranted caution. Several first-year students shrank back in fear.

"Professor Moody is an outstanding Auror, and it is an honor for us that he is willing to teach at Hogwarts after his retirement."

Dumbledore continued, "Please keep your attention in class, because Professor Moody has a unique way of dealing with...daydreaming..."

Several older students exchanged nervous glances.

"Secondly, Professor Gersylda Marchban will temporarily serve as the Divination instructor during Professor Sybil Trelawney's leave of absence."

An elderly woman with gray hair and a serious expression stood up and nodded slightly. She wore a dark purple robe and a badge of Wizengamot pinned to her chest.

Hermione knows that the Marchans are senior members of the Magic Examinations Board, so having them teach Divination... is that a bit of a waste of their talents?

Maybe it's just a vacation.

"Finally," Dumbledore raised his voice slightly, "I think many of you have already heard—this year, Hogwarts will be hosting a traditional event that has been interrupted for over a century."

The whispers in the auditorium instantly erupted.

"The Triumvirate Tournament!"

The cheers nearly lifted the dome. At the Gryffindor table, Fred and George stood up and high-fived, almost knocking over their plates.

Cedric Diggory of Hufflepuff smiled and clapped, while the Ravenclaw girls whispered excitedly to each other.

Even the Slytherin table erupted in enthusiastic applause—though the two Malfoy boys seemed quite calm.

Dumbledore raised his hands, signaling for quiet.

"For those who are unfamiliar, let me give a brief introduction. The Triwizard Tournament is a friendly competition between three of the most prestigious magic schools in Europe—Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons. Each school selects one champion to compete in three magical missions. The winner will claim the Triwizard Cup and eternal glory."

He paused for a moment, his gaze turning serious.

"But I must emphasize—this competition, though thrilling, is by no means child's play. Some participants have lost their lives because of it. All contestants must abide by the rules, and all students must respect the seriousness of the competition. Students under the age of seventeen are strictly prohibited from registering. Once the Goblet of Fire selects a warrior, it has magical binding force, and no one can go back on their word."

Fred and George exchanged a look that said, "Guess if we're going to listen?"

"Now," Dumbledore's tone softened again, "before we enjoy dinner, let us welcome our guests from afar—"

The auditorium doors slowly opened.

A gust of cold wind rushed in from the doorway, and the candle flames all tilted to one side. Everyone turned to look.

The first to enter was Durmstrang's delegation.

They wore heavy fur cloaks, the collars and cuffs trimmed with dark fur, as if they had come directly from the Arctic Circle. Their steps were perfectly synchronized, their expressions stern, exuding a military discipline. Leading the way was their headmaster—Igor Karkarov, a sorcerer in his fifties, with a white beard braided into a plait, long silver hair cascading over his shoulders, and shrewd, wary eyes.

He was followed by about twelve students, mostly upperclassmen boys and girls. Their gazes swept across the Great Hall of Hogwarts; some were curious, some arrogant, and some expressionless.

All eyes were on Durmstrang's team, but soon most of them were on the same person.

He walked in the middle to the back of the group, not conspicuous, yet impossible to ignore.

Viktor Krum.

His hair was dark brown and cut very short, revealing his well-defined forehead and jawline.

His features are like they were carved with a knife—the angles are too sharp and not soft enough, but it is precisely this ruggedness that makes him look more mature than his actual age.

He wore the same heavy fur cloak as everyone else, but the cloak fit him perfectly, accentuating the lines of his shoulders. What was most striking were his eyes—deep gray, like the sky before a storm, calm yet turbulent.

"Who's that?" Ron asked his classmate in a low voice, but no one answered.

The name was unfamiliar to most people present—after all, the Quidditch World Cup had not yet been held this year, and the name Victor Krum had not yet been etched into the collective memory of the wizarding world.

But some people are born with something that makes people know from the first glance that this person is extraordinary. Krum is such a person.