The noise in the crowd spiked instantly, rising into a boiling sea of sound. Excited shouts and frantic speculation merged into a single wave that crashed against the stone dome of the Entrance Hall.
"I really want to see what their champion looks like..."
At the Hufflepuff table, Cedric Diggory sat at the center of a ring of classmates, modest smile firmly in place and pride leaking through regardless. He had become the house's singular focal point.
Over at the Gryffindor table, Fred and George glanced at each other. The corners of their mouths curved at the exact same angle. Something that looked very much like ambition crackled behind their eyes.
Meanwhile, a cleaning campaign of unprecedented scale swept through the castle. The anxious energy of welcoming distinguished guests seeped into every classroom like quicksilver finding the cracks in stone. The professors' standards climbed accordingly, until they bordered on obsession.
In Professor Flitwick's Charms class, the air was strung so taut you could have plucked it.
"Mr. Longbottom!"
The sharp voice made Neville's wand jump in his hand. The Switching Spell he'd been practicing lurched completely out of control, and his own ears began to visibly stretch, deform, and sprout into two fuzzy cactus pads in real time.
"I sincerely hope," Professor Flitwick shrilled, practically hopping on the spot, "that when the Durmstrang students arrive, your ears are still attached to your head and not sitting in a pot that needs watering!"
Neville's face turned the color of a bruised plum.
The castle itself was undergoing a thorough transformation. Several portraits that had complained for centuries about dirty frames were scrubbed until they gleamed, and the painted figures inside tugged sheepishly at their collars, embarrassed by how pristine they suddenly looked. The suits of armor lining the corridors were polished to a mirror shine, reflecting clear human shapes in their surfaces. They stood chest-out and attentive, joints clicking crisply as they shifted, waiting for Dumbledore's inspection.
Argus Filch became the undisputed star of the cleaning effort. The Academic Affairs Office had temporarily conferred upon him the title of "Discipline Supervision Special Envoy," a development that had clearly made his decade. He prowled the corridors clutching a parchment dense with school rules, his eyes sharp enough to bore holes through students' robes. Any student with mud on their shoes or a single wrinkle in their hem was immediately stopped.
What followed was thunderous.
"Look at those shoes! Did you fish them out of a bog in the Forbidden Forest?"
"And your robe! It looks like a troll used it as a foot rag!"
After he'd used a rusty chain to hang several Slytherins who'd deliberately tracked mud across the floors upside down from the ceiling for half an hour in the cold draft, no one tested the old caretaker again.
At dinner, Professor McGonagall cleared her throat.
The Great Hall went silent in an instant.
She then announced news that, for many students, was more terrifying than the Triwizard Tournament itself.
"In order to present our very best face to our guests from afar." Her lips pressed into a hard, flat line. Every wrinkle on her face radiated authority. "I have applied to Professor Douglas and received his approval to borrow his teaching assistant, Mr. Valerius."
Students exchanged bewildered looks.
"Starting next Wednesday, during evening study sessions, in the Great Hall." She paused, drawing the moment out. "Mandatory etiquette crash courses. All third through seventh years. No exceptions."
Dead silence.
Then the wailing began.
"What? Etiquette class?"
"We're here to learn magic, not how to hold a dinner knife!"
"And it's mandatory? Merlin's beard, that's torture!"
In Professor McGonagall's office, Douglas lounged in an armchair and made one last attempt.
"Professor, are you really not open to my suggestion?" He fixed her with his most earnest expression. "Two big red lanterns at the castle entrance. Festive. Welcoming. Full of holiday spirit."
Professor McGonagall pressed two fingers to her temple and rubbed in slow, pained circles. Her furrowed brow could have crushed a Billywig.
"Douglas," she said, with the measured tone of someone reciting a rule for the hundredth time, "we are hosting a sacred and ancient magical competition. Not celebrating the grand opening of an Eastern shop in Diagon Alley."
"What about Chinese knots, then?" He wasn't done. "They symbolize unity and friendship. A wonderful omen, really."
"No."
Her answer landed like granite.
"We will use a completely traditional, British, medieval arrangement that properly reflects the heritage of Hogwarts."
"Fine." Douglas shrugged, face arranged into a portrait of disappointment. "Boring."
He turned to look at Valerius, who stood quietly to one side. The man's posture was perfectly upright, his breathing even, his stillness so complete he seemed to have merged with the room's shadows.
"It seems," Douglas said, "that your particular charm will have a wider audience than expected."
Valerius gave a small, precise bow. Flawlessly executed. A polite, distant smile touched his lips, and somehow the room felt a few degrees colder for it.
"My honor, Professor," he said softly. "It is time for the young wizards to rediscover the finer points of the Aristocratic Demeanor Charm."
Wednesday evening. The Great Hall.
The last afternoon class let out early. All third through seventh year students were herded in for their final etiquette sprint. The atmosphere sat as heavily as the air in Snape's Potions classroom.
Valerius stood at the head of the four long tables, spine straight as an unsheathed blade. Behind him, Professor McGonagall stood with arms folded and expression carved from stone, a medieval sentinel overseeing the entire hall.
"Elegance," Valerius said, "stems from control."
His voice was a cello's low register, resonant in the quiet hall. Pleasant to the ear. It made the hairs on the back of every neck stand up anyway.
He didn't reach for a wand.
He simply snapped his fingers.
One crisp, clean sound.
Every student who had been attempting to whisper felt their mouth seal shut, clamped by an invisible force. They opened their mouths in alarm and produced nothing but muffled, panicked sounds.
Silence rippled through the hall. Then dread.
Valerius paid it no attention. He began moving between the long tables, his leather shoes striking the stone floor in slow, measured beats that pressed against everyone's nerves. His gaze eventually settled on the Gryffindor table.
"Mr. Weasley."
Ron went rigid.
The force on his mouth dissolved.
"Please demonstrate for us," Valerius said, his tone carrying the particular quality of someone evaluating livestock, "how to enjoy roast chicken without producing a single superfluous sound. And then dispose of the bones in the most elegant manner possible."
Ron's face flushed a deep, mottled purple.
Under the weight of hundreds of watching eyes, he extended a trembling hand and picked up a chicken leg. He attempted to replicate what Valerius had demonstrated earlier, three fingers pinching the very end. The greasy skin slid under his grip. He fumbled like a troll attempting needlework.
He finally got a piece of meat into his mouth. Then forgot entirely how to chew. His jaw worked in slow, mechanical circles, and in the absolute silence of the Great Hall, the sounds he produced were as conspicuous as bubbles rising through a swamp.
Suppressed laughter bubbled up at various points around the room, strangled and dragged back down through gritted teeth.
Valerius swept the hall with a single, unhurried look from those deep, unreadable eyes.
The laughter stopped.
The air solidified.
"Very good," Valerius said, in a tone completely devoid of inflection.
"A textbook example of what not to do."
---
Daily question.
True or False: To maintain classroom order, a teacher may use the Silencing Charm to restrict student speaking time. ( )
───── ⊹ ⊹ ─────
📖 Main story COMPLETED + Bonus Stories ongoing on Patre\on
🔍 Search:p a t r e o n.com/GoldenLong
───── ⊹ ⊹ ─────