[Castling] Chapter 62

Everyone was up at the crack of dawn, chattering excitedly as they rushed to the hall, eager for some quality entertainment. The prefects had passed on Dumbledore’s message the night before: anyone determined to test the Age Line and try to cheat the Goblet’s protections had exactly two hours before breakfast to give it a go—before the foreign guests arrived. Anyone foolish enough to try it at any other time would be sentenced to detention with Filch until the end of the year and banned from trips to Hogsmeade. Since wandering the castle after curfew wasn’t an option, all the hopefuls and nosy spectators legged it straight to the Goblet first thing in the morning.

Dumbledore had put some real thought into the enchantments. Two Slytherin girls from the upper years aged so drastically they ended up looking like classic wicked witches straight out of a fairy tale—matted hair, warts on their long noses, and crooked teeth to boot. A simple Finite and all sorts of countercharms didn’t work, and they fled in horror to Madam Pomfrey.

One poor Ravenclaw fifth-year not only aged a few decades but also sprouted a hunchback. She hobbled off to the Hospital Wing, cursing under her breath, after conjuring herself a walking stick—one of her legs had clearly ended up shorter than the other. A Hufflepuff lad turned into something resembling a troll. His clothes, while mostly intact, had split at the seams in places, and his toes were sticking out of his shoes by at least two handspans. He hobbled along painfully slowly, as if he were wearing flippers—his feet had fused to his shoes, making it impossible to take them off.

Fred, George, and Lee, meanwhile, ended up with magnificent, flowing beards and gnarled, knobbly old-man hands. I won a Galleon betting against them. The student-run betting pool was thriving, though the stakes were small—no one seriously believed they could outsmart Dumbledore.

Even those who managed to cross the Age Line were sent flying backwards the moment they tried to drop their name in the Goblet. I reckoned the Hospital Wing would be packed this morning. One Slytherin actually thought to Confund the Goblet. The flames froze for a moment, giving him just enough time to believe he’d succeeded—before spitting his parchment back into his face and launching him out of the ring. When the smoke cleared, he had massive antlers sprouting from his head—he’d turned into a bloody great stag. His hooves kept slipping on the stone floor, making it impossible for him to stand, and his classmates had to struggle to drag him to Madam Pomfrey while we all doubled over laughing.

Dumbledore just smiled mysteriously into his beard as he strolled past us towards the Great Hall, while McGonagall reminded us all of the time and herded us off to breakfast. She stayed behind, waiting for the official candidates.

The enchanted ceiling was still grey and cloudy, though at least it wasn’t raining. Spirits were high, though, as everyone relived the morning’s spectacle and speculated on who the Goblet would deem worthy.

“I heard only the seventh-year Slytherins put their names in,” Seamus whispered as we waited. “But Warrington’s got the best odds.”

“Merlin help us,” Harry muttered, pulling a face as he remembered the Slytherin Chaser. “I’d take Diggory over him any day.”

“I’m backing Angelina,” Dean chimed in. “She’s brilliant… and fit.”

“Is she even old enough?” Neville asked uncertainly, listening in on our conversation.

“She turned seventeen last week,” Lavender interjected, always the authority on everyone’s personal lives. “But I’m still hoping for Diggory—he’s such a sweetheart… What about you, Hermione?”

Hermione never got the chance to answer, already irritated by all the fuss. The doors swung open, and in marched the Hogwarts champions-in-waiting, led by McGonagall. Alongside Angelina, most of our seventh-years were there, as well as plenty of older students from the other houses. The Hall erupted into cheers and encouraging shouts. The foreign students received just as much applause—no surprise there, since they’d clearly all entered their names. Otherwise, what was the point of coming all this way?

It was Saturday, and with the whole day ahead, anyone with permission headed off to Hogsmeade. The three of us, though, decided to pay Hagrid a visit. We hadn’t been to see him yet this year—hadn’t had the chance.

We stopped short when we spotted the Beauxbatons carriage and the massive winged horses penned up near Hagrid’s hut. The smell of alcohol was so strong it practically knocked us sideways.

“Typical French,” I snorted. “Won’t touch water—just barley whisky. Even their horses are on the piss.”

We all laughed and made our way to the hut.

Harry knocked, and from inside came Fang’s loud barking and the heavy tread of Hagrid’s boots.

“’Bout time,” Hagrid grumbled, unbolting the door with a loud clank. “Thought you’d forgotten where I live.”

“We’ve been really busy, Hagrid—” Hermione started, but then she stopped short, staring at him in utter disbelief.

So did Harry and I.

Hagrid had swapped his usual moleskin coat, grimy jumper, and worn-out, fleece-lined trousers for an ancient, brown corduroy jacket that looked like it belonged in a museum. The fabric had flattened in odd places, creasing in all the wrong spots as if it had been stuffed in a trunk for years under a pile of old rags. His trousers—proper suit trousers, mind—were so tight across the thighs that the creases just… stopped existing past his knees. Below that, they flared out in wavy folds, making his legs look bow-legged.

The pièce de résistance was an eye-wateringly bright orange tie in a red tartan pattern, paired with a dreamy, daft-looking smile. He looked utterly deranged. And possibly dangerous.

To top it off, his hair—judging by the smell—had been slicked back with tar, and a comb was still stuck in his beard. Clearly, he’d tried to tie his hair back but failed miserably, leaving it parted down the middle, sticking up in tufts like a clown’s wig.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I barely managed to suppress both.

“Er… Hagrid, where are the Blast-Ended Skrewts?” Hermione was the first to snap out of it.

“By the pumpkin patch,” Hagrid said brightly. “Let ’em out for a bit of exercise. They’re massive now—nearly three foot tall! Problem is, they’re a bit vicious. Keep trying to eat each other.”

“No kidding,” Hermione muttered, throwing us a warning look. Harry and I were seconds away from bursting into laughter.

“Yeah,” Hagrid sighed, missing our barely contained hysteria. “But it’s alright. I’ve split ’em up—five to a crate. Still got about twenty left.”

“What a stroke of luck!” Harry snorted, barely holding back his laughter, but Hagrid missed the irony as he stomped off to take the kettle off the fire.

“Hagrid, I see you’ve dressed up,” I said, sipping my tea and winking at Hermione, inviting her to join in. “Might say Madame Maxime made quite the impression on you. Such a beautiful woman—and young too… What, only about fifty? And already headmistress.”

“Is it that obvious?” Hagrid deflated, letting out a heavy sigh. “Not that it matters… she don’t even look my way. I’ve tried, really I have, but… well. Who am I, and who is she?”

“It’s because you look like a gamekeeper when you ought to look like a professor,” Hermione chimed in. “I was in France a couple of years ago—they take fashion very seriously over there. Your suit’s decent, but it’s ages out of style.”

“Well, that’s ’cos I bought it years ago, when I first got the job here. Dippet took me along to a hearing. It’s been stuffed in the wardrobe ever since—no real reason to wear it.”

“Hagrid, why don’t you just buy a new one?” Hermione asked bluntly. “Are you, um… short on money?”

“If you are, I’ll lend you some,” Harry jumped in, fully getting into the spirit of things. “Can’t be letting a stunner like that slip through your fingers.”

“I’ve got money,” Hagrid waved him off. “Three hundred Galleons or so, in my trunk. Rest’s with Dumbledore, in the school accounts. Never really needed to take my wages out all these years—what for? Just a trip to the pub now and then… Don’t need much when you’re on your own. Ain’t used to spending, either.”

“So, you’re a man of means, Hagrid! Brilliant,” Hermione perked up. “That means you can afford a proper suit. Madame Maxime will definitely notice you now.”

“Ooh, why don’t we just conjure you something for the time being?” Harry suggested. “Something modern. It won’t last forever, but it’ll do for now.”

“Better yet, let’s head to Hogsmeade and pick up a catalogue,” Hermione proposed. “That way, Hagrid can order a proper suit by owl post.”

“Or even better—why not go now?” I added. “And while we’re at it, a trip to the barber wouldn’t go amiss. Can’t have a new suit without a fresh trim. I could do with a haircut myself.”

“Oi, hang on now—what’re you lot plottin’?” Hagrid protested weakly as we all but shoved him towards the door. He grabbed his money pouch on the way out, though, which meant he wasn’t entirely against the idea. “I’ve never been to a barber in me life!”

“Well, now’s the time to start,” Hermione said sternly, dragging him down the path. “You need to match a woman of her standing. Especially since you’re older than her.”

The next few hours flew by in a blur of laughter. Somewhere along the way, Hagrid stopped resisting, completely swept up in Hermione’s overenthusiastic predictions of his grand romance. With all of us egging him on about how elegant and sophisticated his French lady was, he got so caught up in it that we could barely keep up with his long strides.

Reality, as it turned out, exceeded all expectations. When we barged into the barber’s in a big, excited huddle, I actually felt a bit sorry for the poor bloke running the place. But with magic involved, things went surprisingly quickly.

Hagrid himself was speechless, unable to say a word, so Hermione did all the talking—rattling on at top speed, explaining her vision for his new look to the bewildered barber. I, meanwhile, slipped in a quiet request to give the bloke a bit of polish while keeping his rugged charm—Hagrid wasn’t the sort to maintain anything too fussy. The best he’d manage was washing his hair now and then—probably in the Black Lake in summer, or in a barrel by his hut—and running a comb through it once in a blue moon.

When Hagrid finally emerged into the waiting area, looking absolutely chuffed, I barely recognised him. Actually, scratch that—I recognised him by his sheer size and clothes, but that was about it. The barber deserved an award, and his shop should officially be crowned the best in Hogsmeade.

They’d cut Hagrid’s hair short—one of those Muggle-style sporty haircuts—but shaped the top into a neat, squared-off flat top. With how thick his hair was, you could’ve balanced a brick on it, and it wouldn’t have budged.

His beard had been tamed too, now neatly shaped. The middle part was tied into three rings, while the sides had been plaited into two thick braids, fastened with leather cords. The whole look made him look sharper, more rugged in a warrior-like way. The deep, woodsy scent of his new cologne only added to the effect. He looked like something straight out of a Viking saga—just missing a shield and a war hammer.

We were stunned into silence.

Hagrid, however, had found his voice again. He couldn’t stop talking—not in full sentences, mind, just a string of excited exclamations as he nearly shook the barber’s hand clean off. He was thrilled with his new look. The barber, likely fearing for his limbs, hurriedly gave him a grooming kit—some enchanted comb, a bottle of cologne—and quickly saw us out with a mixture of grins and nods.

Things got even livelier at the clothing shop. The owner sorted Hagrid out with a wardrobe—two suits without those stiff, pinched trousers, a couple of robes, and some everyday bits and bobs. Meanwhile, I got distracted by a dress.

Now, I don’t pretend to understand fashion. To me, the same dress in different colours might as well be ten different dresses. My ex used to get proper pissed at me for not noticing new outfits. I mean, sure, I could appreciate a whole look—say, red nails, red lipstick, something black-and-red, the whole ‘devilish temptress’ vibe. I’d lose my head over it for an entire evening, but ask me to describe what she was actually wearing? No chance.

One winter, we visited some friends at a countryside lodge. She dressed in white fur and looked every bit the Snow Queen—slim legs in white boots, a blonde curl peeking out from beneath her white fur hat. I was absolutely entranced all day… and then we had a blazing row that night because I failed to notice she was wearing the white jumper I’d bought her. Apparently, that made me ‘insensitive.’ I slept on the study couch that night.

Point is, I know nothing about fashion, but when I saw this dress, I immediately pictured Luna in it—and myself standing beside her.

It was pale blue, flowing to the floor, with a darker ribbon just under the bust. A delicate, silvery lace overlay shimmered on top, as if woven from tiny, frozen snowflakes.

The moment I saw it, I knew Luna would wear it to the Yule Ball—even if I had to get on my knees and beg her.

The price was steep—twenty-five Galleons—but honestly, it was worth every Knut.

“Oh, I see you’ve taken a liking to my latest masterpiece, young man,” a voice with a slight accent murmured right by my ear, making me jolt out of my thoughts and spin around. The man introduced himself as Mr. Addington—the shop owner. “That marks you as a gentleman of fine taste. A splendid choice for your lady. I shall craft you a suit to match this ensemble.”

“Sir. I am not going out in a blue suit, public” I said firmly, startled by the very idea.

“But of course,” the tailor replied smoothly, unfazed. “The robe itself will be light grey, fine wool, trimmed with pale blue silk and lined with pearl-grey satin. Your suit will be slightly darker than your lady’s gown but will create a perfectly balanced pair. Come with me, I’ll show you.”

Still bemused, I followed him into another room, catching a glimpse of two shop assistants carefully folding Hagrid’s new wardrobe into bags. Nearby, Hermione was eyeing something on the rack—a flowing, deep-blue dress.

“Now,” the tailor continued, “close your eyes and picture your partner. Then open them and look into this mirror.”

He waved his wand, and a robe shimmered into place over my clothes. I quickly shut my eyes and imagined Luna.

When I looked into the mirror, I saw an illusion of the two of us standing side by side. And we looked bloody brilliant together. I’d never worn anything like this before and half-expected to look ridiculous, but it actually worked. The formal dress robes weren’t far off from the kind of thing my mum had forced me into before—a long, tailored coat, lace cuffs at the wrists, but thankfully none of those ridiculous ruffles at the top. Instead of a bowtie, there was a pale blue cravat tied in an intricate knot.

Mum had a point—my hands looked incredible against the fine lace, and my legs, long and sharp in the fitted trousers, weren’t half bad either. The whole look made me seem a couple of years older, more mature, and I liked it.

“Oh, you look splendid, Mr…?”

“Weasley,” I grinned at my reflection.

“...Mr. Weasley,” the tailor nodded approvingly. “As you can see, I’ve deepened the fabric’s colour slightly, giving it a pearlescent tint for a more refined look. Your lady’s gown will need to be a couple of shades darker to avoid washing her out. We’ll adjust the lace to a steel-grey—it highlights the sheen of the blouse’s silk and the satin lining beautifully. The entire ensemble for both of you will be eighty Galleons, but I’ll give you a ten-Galleon discount. I do hope you and your friends will continue to shop with us in the future.”

“But, sir,” I countered playfully, trying to haggle even though I knew full well I’d pay whatever he asked, “the price tag said twenty-five Galleons.”

“Ah, quite right,” he said smoothly. “But custom alterations require additional work. We ensure all our gowns are one of a kind—so no unfortunate surprises at the ball. Besides, the price includes a pair of ballroom shoes for your lady and a fine pair of dress shoes for yourself, crafted to match your robes. I collaborate with Master Baxter from the shoemaker’s. Of course, the garments can be enchanted to another colour later, though, if I may say so, most ladies prefer to keep them as is. However, a gentleman should always have a well-tailored formal robe for various occasions.”

“Alright,” I admitted with a grin, pulling out my money pouch. “You’ve convinced me.”

“Your order will be ready in just two weeks—no fitting required. Everything will adjust to your measurements,” he said cheerfully, neatly packing up some special socks for my dress robes and other accessories while I selected a pair of cufflinks and a matching tie pin. “You’re lucky—you got your order in before the December rush. By Christmas, the shop will be swamped with orders. And, of course, with the big winter event coming up…”

“Thanks,” I said, noticing out of the corner of my eye that Hermione had ended up buying the dress she’d been admiring. “I’ll come by to pick it up myself.”

We’d skipped lunch entirely and eagerly accepted Hagrid’s offer to grab a bite at his hut. Though, to be fair, I wasn’t that eager—I stuck to tea and a ham sandwich. My companions, however, braved the roast meat with potatoes. Harry nearly broke a tooth on something and stuck to the sides, while Hermione abandoned her meal altogether when she found a rather large and very questionable claw lurking on her plate. Neither of them asked what exactly they’d just eaten.

So, by the time dinner rolled around, we were absolutely starving. We hurried after the Beauxbatons girls, who were scurrying along behind their headmistress. Hagrid had gone ahead to escort her to the castle for dinner… and promptly forgot all about us. By the time we realised, he was long gone, strolling beside a thoroughly stunned Madame Maxime, ever so gently guiding her by the elbow. Even from a distance, we could see his ears glowing red from all the compliments.

After dropping off our purchases in our dorms, we arrived at the Great Hall among the last, just barely ahead of the Durmstrang lot. The Hall was already packed, and as expected, Hagrid had become the sensation of the evening.

But by then, the Goblet of Fire had already been moved to its new place—perched atop a pedestal near the staff table. Slowly, the focus in the Hall shifted away from Hagrid’s unexpected glow-up and back to the real reason we were all here: the tournament.

Those who had failed to bypass the Age Line were back to normal, resigned to their losses and now cheering for their chosen champions.

Dinner dragged on, stretching unbearably long as we restlessly fidgeted on the benches, barely paying attention to the food. We were all waiting for the moment.

Finally, the plates vanished, and Dumbledore dimmed the lights, leaving only the enchanted floating candles flickering inside the pumpkins.

A heavy hush fell over the Hall.

Then, the Goblet flared to life, bright red flames licking the air before spitting out the first scrap of parchment. Dumbledore caught it effortlessly.

“The champion for Durmstrang… Viktor Krum.”

The Hall erupted into applause as Krum, impassive as ever, got up and strode to the room Ludo Bagman pointed him towards.

“The champion for Beauxbatons… Fleur Delacour.”

The beaming girl all but floated across the room and disappeared through the door, accompanied by encouraging cheers.

“The champion for Hogwarts… Cedric Diggory.”

The Hall roared with applause as Cedric, grinning but looking slightly overwhelmed, made his way down the aisle to join the others.

Then, the Goblet flared one last time… and went out.

The magical fire died, leaving behind nothing but an old, weathered cup, its carvings faint and unreadable.

So that was it? No fourth champion?

I barely registered the thought before I was shouting along with the rest of the Hall, caught up in the sheer excitement of it all.