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Chapter 66
"Dumbledore, I really don't see why we need to talk about the Triwizard Tournament any further — much less in person. Look at this."
The man at the table glanced irritably at the warm sunlight spilling through the tavern window. "England's weather is insufferable. I miss Durmstrang — the cold, the wind, the snow. That is what tempers a wizard's will." He lifted his glass and downed the bubbling drink in one swallow.
The bar around them buzzed with laughter and clinking glasses. No one paid the slightest attention to the stranger's complaints.
"Even the drinks here are weak," he sneered, slamming the glass down. The wooden table rattled dangerously, as though it might splinter under the impact.
"My old friend," Dumbledore said mildly, raising his own glass, "I agree with only part of that sentiment. Environment can indeed sharpen one's character, but it is hardly the only factor. And"—he inclined his head—"we do have a lady with us. Perhaps you might temper your phrasing?"
"My mistake." The man turned promptly toward the woman beside him. "Madam Maxime, you understand I was merely making a comparison. No offense meant."
"It's quite all right."
Olympe Maxime smiled graciously, unfazed.
She was extraordinary by any standard—tall enough to require two seats, with olive-toned skin, deep dark eyes, and hair swept neatly back. Draped in a flowing black satin gown studded with opals, she radiated both elegance and power. Her English was impeccable, though the soft trace of a French accent lingered.
The coarse-featured man opposite her was Igor Karkaroff: tall, thin, short pale hair, and a curled goatee that failed to disguise his pointed chin. First impressions often fooled strangers into thinking him an English gentleman.
The three of them conversed comfortably despite the tavern's noise. No one nearby spared them a glance — unusual, given Dumbledore's fame. Clearly, a charm had been cast to keep the outside world oblivious.
Dumbledore continued, "I have no intention of interfering with the Ministry's Department of Magical Games and Sports. And, if memory serves, you, Mr. Karkaroff, are the one most eager for the Triwizard Tournament."
"Then why drag us all the way here?" Karkaroff grumbled, voice thick with irritation. "If this isn't about that, I've wasted precious leisure time coming to this shabby place."
"I don't mind," said Madam Maxime, folding her hands elegantly. "Consider it a brief holiday. But, Albus—why summon us?"
"Hm."
Dumbledore thought for a moment, then reached into his patched robe and placed a ruined black diary on the table.
Karkaroff's eyes widened. "Dumbledore… what are you playing at?"
Maxime's expression tightened. "You didn't make this, did you?"
"No, Olympe," Dumbledore said steadily.
The thing radiated a vile presence. A soul artifact — even damaged — retained a taint of manipulation and corruption. Before destruction, it could beguile the unwary. Ginny, Ron, Dumbledore himself, and even Lockhart had all fallen prey to such enchantments. But now, stripped of disguise, only a revolting stain of dark magic remained.
"So this is a trophy," Karkaroff said dryly, "plundered after defeating a Dark wizard? If you've brought it here merely to warn me—save the effort. My past may be unpleasant, but I've learned the comforts of life outside the shadows."
He planted both hands on the table and stood abruptly, eyes narrowing. "So why are we here?"
"Patience, Igor."
Dumbledore waved a calming hand. "My office is far more suitable for matters better kept quiet. A tavern is… ill-fitting."
"A pleasure," Maxime replied at once, rising gracefully. Her half-giant blood gave her a brisk decisiveness. "I have not visited Hogwarts in years. It will be delightful to return."
Karkaroff cleared his throat. His public voice — the smooth, almost oily tone he used to distance himself from his darker past — vanished. In private conversation, his voice was rougher, sharper.
Once they stepped out of this charmed bubble, he would have to slip back into that polished performance.
But for now, the real Karkaroff coughed once more, straightened his cloak, and prepared to follow the other two into a conversation that promised to be far darker than anything involving a mere tournament.
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