Upon hearing Dumbledore's words, the Great Hall fell silent for a moment before erupting into a buzz of excited whispers.
The students' ears seemed to filter out the dangers Dumbledore had mentioned, their minds wholly consumed with the prospect of competing in the Triwizard Tournament, becoming Hogwarts' champion, and earning the coveted privilege of priority in choosing a partner at school.
Children in their school years always dreamed of becoming heroes who saved the world, yet they often overlooked the risks that came with such glory.
"I know you all yearn to win the Triwizard Cup for Hogwarts," Dumbledore said loudly, his voice carrying over the hall, "but the participating schools and the Ministry of Magic have agreed to impose an age restriction on this year's competitors. Only students who are seventeen years of age or older—that is, seventeen or above—will be permitted to submit their names for consideration."
Dumbledore raised his voice slightly, as some students let out angry protests at his words.
The Weasley twins, who had long anticipated this outcome, were unfazed. They had already devised a plan.
"We believe this measure is necessary," Dumbledore continued, "because the tasks in the tournament remain arduous and dangerous, no matter how many precautions we take. Students below sixth or seventh year simply would not be able to cope. I will personally ensure that no underage student deceives our impartial judge to become Hogwarts' champion."
His gaze swept over Fred and George, a meaningful glint flashing in his blue eyes. "Therefore, if you are under seventeen, I urge you not to waste your time attempting to apply."
Though the two Gryffindor Weasley twins appeared unusually calm, Dumbledore didn't need to think twice to know what kind of mischief those two rascals were plotting.
"However," Dumbledore added with another significant pause, "we will make an exception for certain students who, though below the age requirement, are exceptionally outstanding and may participate in the Triwizard Tournament."
As his words fell, the entire hall went deathly quiet.
Aside from the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, every pair of eyes turned to Harry, who was calmly sipping his pumpkin juice.
Below the age requirement but exceptionally outstanding—wasn't that describing Harry?
Last year's Quidditch match—the one interrupted by Dementors—was still vivid in everyone's memory.
That torrent of blue flames… not even the professors could have matched such a feat, let alone sixth- or seventh-year students.
Well, then…
If they were competing against anyone else, they might have felt a glimmer of hope. But against Harry?
Forget it.
The Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students whispered among themselves, asking who the boy was that everyone was staring at.
But the Hogwarts students remained tight-lipped, determined not to reveal Harry's true strength to these cunning outsiders.
Talk was talk, and rivalry was rivalry, but the Triwizard Tournament was about the honor of their school.
The four houses might bicker over the House Cup on any given day, but when it came to the Triwizard Cup, they were united—it absolutely could not fall into the hands of another school.
Even the Slytherins felt the same.
They had long been molded by Veratia Grindelwald into a different breed.
At that moment, the doors to the Great Hall burst open with a resounding boom.
A clap of thunder echoed from the enchanted clouds above the hall, the roiling storm seeming ready to unleash its fury.
Suddenly, a streak of blue spell-light shot from the doorway, striking the turbulent clouds and calming their brewing tempest.
"It seems I've arrived a bit late, Albus," came a voice.
A man limped toward the staff table, his face illuminated vividly by flashes of lightning.
The students had never seen a face like his—it was as if carved from a piece of rotting wood by someone with only a vague notion of what a human face should look like and little skill with a carving knife.
Every inch of his skin seemed scarred, his mouth a crooked slash, and where his nose should have been was nothing but a flat expanse.
But what was most terrifying about this man was his eyes.
One was small, dark, and gleaming; the other was large, round like a coin, and a striking bright blue. That blue eye moved ceaselessly, darting up, down, left, and right, entirely independent of the normal eye—until it rolled back into his head, leaving only a large, white orb visible.
"Not late at all," Dumbledore said with a smile. "Come, Alastor, I believe your seat at the staff table is waiting."
Harry glanced toward the staff table, catching the expression on the face of Durmstrang's headmaster, Karkaroff, as he looked at Professor Moody.
It was a mix of fear, disgust, and, above all, wariness.
Could there be bad blood between them?
Harry's gossip-loving soul blazed with curiosity.
He didn't know Moody or Karkaroff personally—he just wanted the juicy details.
The hall fell into an eerie silence. No one dared make a sound, for the new Professor Moody's presence was overwhelmingly stern.
It was as if an old cat had fixed its gaze on a group of tiny mice.
"Allow me to introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher," Dumbledore said cheerfully, breaking the silence. "Professor Alastor Moody."
Normally, the students and staff would clap to welcome a new teacher, but now, aside from Dumbledore, Hagrid, and Harry, not a single person applauded.
The three clapped a few times, but the sound echoed awkwardly in the silent hall, and they quickly stopped.
The others seemed too stunned by Moody's bizarre appearance to do anything but stare.
Moody, however, appeared indifferent to the chilly reception.
Ignoring the large jug of pumpkin juice in front of him, he reached into his traveling cloak, pulled out a curved hip flask, and took a long swig.
As he raised his arm to drink, his cloak lifted a few inches, revealing a glimpse of a carved wooden leg ending in a claw-like foot.
"He doesn't seem too steady on his feet," Hermione muttered, never one to hold back her opinions on professors.
"He's a retired Auror," Ron said, looking at Moody with a hint of awe. "My dad's always talking about him. He's a bit hot-tempered, sure, but he's a brilliant Auror… Did you know? A ton of Death Eaters hated his guts but could never take him down. Look at those scars—left by dark wizards. And the dark wizards who scarred him…"
"Are they dead?" Hermione asked.
"Some are dead, some are in Azkaban, and some are rotting in St. Mungo's for life," Ron said with a shrug.
Harry glanced at Karkaroff and Moody again.
There was definitely a story there…
Curiosity bubbled within him. What kind of history did they share?
As Moody limped to the staff table, he passed Karkaroff, his gaze locking onto the headmaster with profound intensity.
His magical eye, usually darting about, went still, fixing on Karkaroff alongside its owner.
After a long moment, Moody let out a cold grunt and took his seat at the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor's place.
Clearly, he wasn't fond of Karkaroff either.
"It looks like Professor Moody doesn't like Headmaster Karkaroff, and Karkaroff doesn't like him either," Hermione whispered, then gasped in realization. "Oh! Could it be that Karkaroff was a dark wizard? That would explain why Moody, a former Auror, can't stand him."
"Not necessarily," Ron mused. "You know Durmstrang doesn't forbid students from learning dark magic. Maybe that's why Moody's got a problem with Karkaroff."
"That's not a bad guess," Hermione said thoughtfully. "But… I still want to know why."
"Curiosity's not always a good thing, Hermione," Ron whispered. "I don't want you getting shipped off to Durmstrang as a diplomatic gift."
"As if!" Hermione huffed. "I just want to uncover the truth."
"If you're wrong, no harm done," Ron said dramatically, "but if you actually dig up something, things could get messy."
"You're not wrong," Hermione admitted with a nod. "Poking around and finding something could be… impolite."
In the end, Dumbledore spoke a few more words before moving to the final part of the welcoming feast.
The singing of the school song.
It had to be said—Hogwarts' unique, chaotic rendition of the school song left the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students utterly gobsmacked.
The sight of everyone singing to their own tune was something they couldn't have imagined even in their wildest dreams.
When the singing ended, Dumbledore wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.
"Music," he said, "is truly enchanting." Then he addressed the hall again. "Now, it's getting late, and it's important that you all head to class tomorrow morning bright-eyed and sharp-minded… Off to bed! Quickly now!"
"One more thing," Dumbledore added. "Students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, please follow the prefects of your chosen houses to their dormitories, where temporary quarters will be arranged for you."
The students followed their respective house prefects, heading toward their common rooms.
--
Support me & read more advance & fast update chapter on my pa-treon:
pat reon .c-om/windkaze