The morning lessons carried on with only half the usual attention from the students. Eira’s Potions class, held in the chill dungeons, was particularly distracted. Professor Snape stalked the rows of simring cauldrons, his voice low and cutting as always.
"Add the belladonna root slowly, Mr. Finnigan—unless, of course, you would like to regrow your eyebrows yet again."
The class snickered as Seamus flushed crimson.
Yet even Snape’s sharp presence could not fully quell the buzzing energy. The dungeon was alive with whispers, hushed but eager, slipping between raised books and cupped hands.
"They’ll co by ship," a Slytherin boy muttered, eyes gleaming. "A ghost ship that sails straight through the ground. My brother swore he read it sowhere."
"Don’t be thick," a Gryffindor girl scoffed. "It’ll be flying carpets, dozens of them, with the students sitting in rows like a proper army."
"No, no," hissed another, leaning across his cauldron. "It’ll be a dragon-drawn carriage. My uncle said they’ve got whole stables of the beasts in France—deadly ones, too."
Soone further back claid the Durmstrang lot would tunnel straight out of the earth like giant moles, and this suggestion set off a ripple of snickers.
Snape’s head snapped up at once.
"Ten points from Gryffindor," he said silkily, his eyes narrowing to slits, "for the sheer idiocy of believing foreign students will be clawing their way up through my dungeon floor." He gave a slow, theatrical glance at the flagstones beneath his feet, then lifted one eyebrow in mock consideration. "Of course, should you be correct, perhaps one of you would like to fetch a shovel and wait here tonight?"
The class broke into muffled laughter, quickly smothered behind sleeves. Even so, the speculation continued, now in frantic whispers. A pair of Slytherins bent over their books, convinced the Beauxbâtons students would ride in on swans the size of Thestrals. Another Gryffindor declared that Durmstrang would arrive underwater, bursting straight out of the Black Lake in a storm of bubbles and spellfire.
Snape’s lip curled. "By all ans, waste your imaginations. But when the mont arrives and you find no swans, no dragons, and—regrettably—no tunnelling moles, do try to contain your disappointnt."
Eira kept her movents precise, slicing ingredients with steady hands, stirring her potion with practiced ease. Yet even she found her mind wandering. Fleur would be among those arriving tonight. The thought sent a flicker of warmth through her chest, a private anticipation she carefully concealed behind her calm expression.
When the lesson ended, Snape dismissed them with his usual disdainful flick of the hand.
"Do not think," he said, his eyes narrowing at the restless group, "that tonight’s festivities excuse you from academic rigor. Your essays on antidotes are still due Monday."
Groans followed the students out into the corridor, but they were quickly drowned beneath the rising excitent.
***********
By midday, the castle had transford into a hive of preparation. Suits of armor were polished until they glead, tapestries dusted and straightened, and the marble floors scrubbed to a mirror shine. The staff barked orders at students recruited into cleaning duty, though their progress was continually thwarted by one particular obstacle: Peeves.
Eira, walking through the entrance hall, caught sight of Peeves swooping gleefully above the staircase, balancing a sloshing bucket in his hands. With a delighted screech, he tipped it over, sending a torrent of soapy water cascading down—straight onto Argus Filch.
The caretaker let out a noise that was half-yelp, half-roar as suds drenched his threadbare coat, sticking his hair to his skull in greasy clumps.
"Peeeeevsey does it best!" Peeves shrieked, doing a midair sorsault and pelting him with sponges like snowballs. "Shiny floors for the guests, shiny Filch for the pests!"
Filch spat out a mouthful of bubbles, crimson with rage. "I’ll string you up by your ears, you foul—"
Peeves blew a wet raspberry, then zood off, trailing chalk dust like smoke.
Eira smothered a laugh behind her hand, but beside her Tracey Davis gave a sudden, loud snort that rang across the hall like a trumpet.
Filch’s head snapped toward them, his dripping fringe plastered to his forehead, eyes narrowed to murderous slits.
Tracey’s face went scarlet. "Oh no," she gasped, clutching Eira’s arm. "Run—run! If he catches us, we’re done for!"
Without waiting, she bolted, dragging Eira after her. The two tore across the entrance hall, trainers squeaking against the polished stone, giggles spilling out uncontrollably.
Behind them, Filch gave chase, bellowing threats about chains and dungeons, slipping spectacularly every few steps on the sudsy floor. The sight of him windmilling his arms, nearly toppling into a suit of armor, only made Tracey shriek louder with laughter.
"Faster!" she cried, breathless, tugging Eira along. "If he grabs you, he’ll hang you by your thumbs in his office, I swear—oh rlin, look at him!"
Eira risked a glance over her shoulder. Filch had skidded sideways into a mop bucket and was now hobbling furiously after them with one foot stuck inside.
By the ti the girls ducked around the corner, their laughter echoed through the corridor, wild and unstoppable, their cheeks flushed pink with mischief and escape.
By afternoon, the kitchens were in uproar. House-elves dashed to and fro with trays piled high, preparing what promised to be the most extravagant feast Hogwarts had seen in years. The tantalizing sll of roasting ats and baking pies drifted all the way to the common rooms, making stomachs growl hours before supper.
McGonagall patrolled the corridors like a hawk, scolding stragglers and double-checking every detail. Students darted about, straightening robes and polishing shoes. The excitent had reached such a pitch that even the usual rivalries between houses seed muted, replaced by a collective nervousness.
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