At night, a veritable night of champions.
An open-air ball was held in the main stadium of Hyprosa. That afternoon, the Canadian Ministry of Magic dispatched numerous staff to conjure a pristine white floor across the central arena. A vast, gleaming dance floor was created in the center, and around it were rows of elegant, slender golden chairs. Behind them, slightly elevated in tiered fashion, stood rows of silver chairs.
Servers in crisp white dress robes glided between the rows carrying floating trays piled high with dazzling dishes and magical delicacies—charmed salmon mousse, firewhiskey-glazed pheasant, floating profiteroles, and honey-roasted mandrake roots.
A refined magical orchestra dressed in shimmering golden waistcoats took to a hovering bandstand and began playing a stream of melodious, enchanted tunes. Their music floated through the enchanted sky, harmonizing with the crisp evening air and signaling the festivities to come.
The music continued, and as the notes danced, a fluttering flurry of tiny Canadian pixies emerged, performing an intricate aerial ballet across the dance floor—leaving trails of sparkling dust with each twirl.
The Canadian Ministry had previously distributed enchanted seating charts to all the distinguished guests—maps that guided them directly to their places with a soft whisper and a glowing arrow. As it turned out, those seated in golden chairs were high dignitaries, while those in silver were players from the international teams. The general audience remained up in the grandstands, their seats charmed with heating and view-enhancing enchantments.
Only about two to three hundred witches and wizards had personal seats: ministers, international officials, and, of course, the two headmasters—Dumbledore of Hogwarts and Dwayne of Ilvermorny.
"Professor Dumbledore, I've long admired Hogwarts," said Headmaster Dwayne as he swirled a glass of elven champagne. "When shall our two schools engage in a cultural exchange?"
"Mr. Dwayne, are you speaking of… an exchange program?" Dumbledore raised a silver brow.
"My dear Dumbledore," Dwayne said warmly, "Call it what you like."
The conversation between the two was casual and pleasant, facilitated by none other than Gilderoy Lockhart, who glided toward them with a grin, two flutes of champagne floating behind him.
"Professor Dumbledore, oh, my dear mentor," Lockhart said with theatrical flair, "Surely you've heard—I asked young Moriarty Slytherin to recommend me to you as Hogwarts' next Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts."
Dumbledore offered a courteous nod. Moriarty had indeed mentioned it the previous year. As a result, Dumbledore had even discreetly dispatched an investigative team to the East to look into Lockhart and confirm his background.
Considering the time that had passed, he assumed the agents had returned.
"Professor Dumbledore," Lockhart continued with surprising sincerity, "Professors Randy and Diana were capable, but they weren't inspirational. The Founders' vision was to shape extraordinary wizards. Imagine me—an experienced, accomplished Defence professor—teaching spells I've cast myself hundreds of times! The students would thrive."
Headmaster Dwayne nodded vigorously, clearly impressed.
"Brother Lockhart," he said, clapping Lockhart on the back, "when will you grace Ilvermorny's halls as a guest professor?"
"Dwayne, you shame me," Lockhart replied, feigning humility but visibly glowing.
Teaching at Hogwarts wasn't just a goal—it was Lockhart's dream since boyhood. Even his visits to Ilvermorny were partly to gain favor for this very moment. Now, with Dwayne's support, he felt a sense of validation that warmed his heart.
Dumbledore, observing the interaction, gave Lockhart a long, thoughtful look. While Lockhart's popularity was never in question, his competence often was. However, even Dwayne—a notoriously strict headmaster—was advocating for him.
"All right," Dumbledore finally said, rising. "Let me think on it. There is, after all, still summer ahead of us."
He walked away, robes fluttering, as if the matter were insignificant. But Lockhart knew: Dumbledore hadn't declined.
He smiled and clinked glasses with Dwayne.
Among the distinguished seats, pure-blood families from across Europe and the Americas mingled.
Jericho, Marcus, and Maxie sat together. Leon, however, was notably absent—he had left earlier, brooding about expanding the Minchum family's reputation next year.
Lilith sat among the pure-blood ladies, proudly representing the Piliwick family.
Across the dance floor sat the regal Mrs. Malfoy, exuding aristocratic poise as numerous men attempted conversation. She dismissed them coldly, her thoughts consumed by Moriarty inviting Fleur to dance.
Opposite her, the Delacour family glowed with joy.
"Congratulations to my sister for becoming the prince's dance partner~" Gabrielle beamed as she offered Fleur a creamy slice of gâteau.
Fleur scooped her sister into a hug and joined her parents. The family embraced under the enchanted moonlight.
Soon after, Moriarty approached. Taking Fleur by the hand, he led her forward. A long purple-and-gold carpet unfurled from the main entrance to the dance floor, glimmering with magical embroidery.
At precisely seven o'clock, the ball officially began.
The soft melody turned triumphant. The champions entered, with Moriarty and Fleur leading. Fireworks exploded in synchronized patterns—thanks to the Flint family—casting thousands of radiant sparks into the night sky.
Hyprosa glittered like the magical capital of the world.
In the spotlight, Moriarty looked impeccable in a charcoal suit embroidered with silver thread, eyes calm yet radiant. Fleur wore a white gown with shimmering silver accents that seemed to radiate Veela allure. Usually the one to outshine, tonight her silver brilliance magnified the entire ballroom's beauty.
From the stands, Diana, Tonks, Penelope, and Gemma watched with a mix of pride and longing.
Dumbledore rose from his seat, waved the Elder Wand, and conjured a stream of silver starlight that spiraled around Moriarty and Fleur.
Lockhart started a round of applause, and Dumbledore added a floating bird-of-paradise and a golden bell above the couple's heads. The crowd roared with approval.
Even as festivities swelled, Dumbledore's gaze remained cautious.
He scanned the Eastern team.
Their expressions were cold and stony. Using his immense magical senses, he expanded his aura like a cloud over the entire stadium—measuring magical presence.
To his surprise, all seven players of the Eastern team were accounted for. But the Polish team's players? Vanished.
"Poland…?" Dumbledore murmured, deep in thought.
It made no sense. The Eastern team had reason for vengeance, but had taken no action. Meanwhile, the Polish team had disappeared—ominous and suspicious.
Just as Dumbledore attempted to unravel the puzzle, the sky pulsed with seven flashes of light, forming a towering triangular eye. A strange sigil, glowing blue and eerie.
The crowd erupted in cheers, mistaking it for part of the spectacle.
Only Dumbledore froze.
A wave of cold swept through his spine. His pupils narrowed as recognition dawned.
"The Deathly Hallows… Grindelwald…"
His voice was scarcely above a whisper.
Suddenly, seven beams of magic light crashed to the earth with explosive force.
Boom!
The dance floor and stands trembled. Fire erupted in every direction.
Screams tore through the night. The crowd descended into chaos. Some Disapparated. Others fled.
Spells rained from above—Cruciatus, Reducto, Imperius, even flashes of the dreaded green light of Avada Kedavra.
Moriarty stepped in front of Fleur, wand raised. "Whirlwind Cut!"
Massive wind blades erupted from his wand, shredding incoming curses midair.
"Their target may be me," he muttered. "Get your family and go. Marcus will escort you."
"No. I'm staying," Fleur replied firmly, clutching his hand.
Moriarty let go gently, then shot a green flare into the sky—his house's emergency signal: a massive silver serpent spiraled upward.
"Slytherin Silver Snake!"
Jericho, Marcus, Leon, and others sprinted toward him, struggling against the flood of fleeing guests.
Across the stadium, Diana led the other girls down from the stands. The professors of Hogwarts were fighting back fiercely but found themselves unable to strike the attackers—who were flying in midair.
"They're airborne," Professor McGonagall said grimly.
These weren't random spell-casters. This was an organized attack.
But who could challenge 100,000 witches and wizards?
Moriarty looked up. He thought of the Eastern team.
But there they were—riding their brooms, keeping low to avoid being hit.
"Tsukamura? Was this your doing?" the magician yelled, eyes furious.
The magician had been dancing with a woman when the attack started. She took the curse intended for him.
"Lord Magister, I swear! It's not us—there are only six of us. The President sent just six!"
"You fool!" the magician roared. "Do you think the Fallen Crow awakens without consuming enough darkness? Have you seen it rise yet?"
He gestured to the burning field. "Even if someone else was sent, they'd never strike while it sleeps—not with Moriarty and Dumbledore present! It's suicide!"
Tsukamura nodded meekly but inwardly smirked. "But… if they're distracted, couldn't we act in the chaos?"
The magician's eyes glinted.
"I've got an idea…"
Tsukamura leaned in, whispering rapidly, as images of Lilith flickered through his mind.