Quidditch Competition

At the very top of the world, well within the Arctic Circle, there is a bleak and remote spot known variously as; Treriksröset, Treriksrøysa or, Kolmen valtakunnan rajapyykki. The meaning is the same no matter which of three languages is used. This is the three-border-point, the place where Norway, Sweden and Finland meet.

Lost in an expansive wilderness filled with towering arctic peaks, vast pine forests, and frozen plains, the three-border point is not merely an insignificant mark on a map; it is literally a concrete reminder of an otherwise unmarked border. No fences or other physical features delineate the line between three of Europe's most northerly nations, the circular man-made obelisk which sits on Lake Goldajärvi (or Lake Koltajauri, if you prefer) is the only indicator of those man-made boundaries, meaningless to every other living thing, which create the illusion of nations.

The bleak tundra around this incongruous concrete monolith seems infinite. These are the lands of the midnight sun, the place where the Northern Lights flash and flare across the wide winter sky. This vast wilderness is home to bear, elk, wolverines, and the magnificent golden eagle, none of which pay any attention to humanity's artificial boundaries. It is also home to creatures which are much more exotic, although very few folk are aware of that fact.

Deep in the sub-Arctic wilds, some one hundred and fifty kilometres from the three-border-point (though in which direction is uncertain) stands a range of jagged, snow-capped mountains called the Trollfjellene. These mysterious mountains are the subject of many stories and legends.

Many people stubbornly deny the existence of the Trollfjellene. No such mountain range is marked on any map, either Muggle or magical, so their scepticism is understandable. Among those who do believe, there are several points of agreement. All claim that these mountains are so treacherous that they cannot be scaled, and also that they encircle a wide, heavily forested, valley called Ørnengen. Many also claim that, in addition to being home to the numerous mountain trolls that give the Trollfjellene their name, the highest peaks are home to a large colony of Swedish Short-Snout dragons, and that this gives a clue to the true location of the mountains. If these things are true, then there is no doubt that the presence of both trolls and dragons would act as a disincentive to even the most foolhardy of mountaineers.

Some folk, a select and elite band (or so they are told), know the truth. All across northern Europe, those magical folk whose blood is "pure" know that the mountains and coniferous forests of the hidden valley, Ørnengen, are real and that they cover an area of almost two thousand square kilometres. They know this because they spent their youth in the place.

During the long arctic winter the land of Ørnengen is covered in a thick layer of snow. In the summer, the plains and forests are criss-crossed with streams of meltwater. From the moment the thaw begins, ice-cold waters tumble rapidly down the mountainsides and meander through the forest to meet their neighbours. During their journey, hundreds of unnamed streams meet to become a few wide rivers. Finally, this multitude of waters merges to create a dark and desolate lake.

This body of water—the Dark Lake—which remains frozen for more than a third of the year, is drained via a tortuously twisting river which winds its way down through a narrow sheer-walled white-water gorge. Eventually, via a series of large lakes and rivers, the cold mountain water flows out into the Gulf of Bothnia, in the Baltic Sea.

Approaching Ørnengen from the river is difficult. From any other direction the hostile and effectively impassable barrier created by the Trollfjellene makes access virtually impossible. Possibly for this reason, the many human residents of the area all live well away from the mountains. All dwell on the cold still waters of the Dark Lake, on a large island at its northern end.

A bleak black castle stands at the southern end of the island. Seemingly carved from a rocky outcrop, the castle is the only building on the island. It is, in fact, the only stone building within the whole of Ørnengen. The tall, narrow windows which pierce its slick, stygian, and almost seamless walls command excellent views over both island and lake. This dark, forbidding castle is home to the most northerly, and most secretive, magical school in the world. The island is called Durmstrang, and the castle is the renowned Durmstrang Institute for Magical Learning.

Castle Durmstrang is a simple stone rectangle, two storeys high. At each corner of the rectangle there is a circular stone tower two storeys higher. Perched on top of each of these squat towers there stands a slender tower half the diameter of the one below. Each of these upper towers is crowned with a dome of aged green copper, and one of them is taller than the others. In the uppermost floor of the tallest tower, a meeting is taking place.

The year 2023 was drawing rapidly to a close; the Winter Solstice was less than two weeks away. In the lands of the far north it was that time of year when the sun rose tentatively above the horizon, scuttled across the sky for a rapidly shortening number of minutes, and then crept away to concentrate its warmth on the planet's southern hemisphere. Within a few days, the sulking sun would not even bother to rise.

Outside the tower, an arctic storm howled like an angry banshee. Despite the noise, its assault on the castle was ineffectual. The wind succeeded in doing nothing more than piling the snow against the castle walls. Although it was barely after noon, Durmstrang was huddled in icy gloaming.

Within the castle the magical lights burned brightly, keeping the gloomy dusk at bay. In the northernmost tower, the Drachenturm, three robed figures stared out of a window. As quickly as it had arrived, their brief glimpse of the distant Trollfjellene Mountains had vanished, lost in the swirling snow and ponderously darkening sky. Now all they could see were the snow-clad trees on the banks of the Dark Lake.

The central figure was a tall, red-robed woman. She turned away from the window, and returned her attention to her guests. A slender and elegant blonde who appeared to be no more than thirty years old, she gave her companions a polite, but close-lipped smile and motioned them to be seated. Professor Sara Rapp, the school's porcelain-skinned deputy headmistress, cast a hunter's eye over her guests as they moved across the room to their chairs.

The wood-panelled room was a dark and gloomy space. The chairs were solidly constructed, heavy, high backed, and unpadded. The huge desk was topped with thick, night-black, leather which, despite its apparent age appeared unmarked. The night-black expanse of the desk was devoid of clutter. The only items on its surface were a roll of parchment, an inkstand, and a quill.

The only man in the room was of average height, and solidly built. This was a man who was familiar with both physical labour and good food. His fair hair was beginning to thin and, around the edges of his beard, his face showed the faint traces of old scars. As he sat, he placed his calloused hands—the hands of a man who toiled—on the edge of the desk.

The second woman was tiny, olive-skinned, and elaborately coiffured. Her thick black hair was piled and pinned up in an elaborate upward sweep. Whether it was held in place by copious amounts of hairspray, or simply by magic, was difficult to determine. Despite being wrapped in thick furs, she was shivering.

'Tea, Professors?' asked Professor Rapp.

'Yes, please, Sara,' said the blonde man.

'Perché non c'è il caffè in questo pizzo?' the tiny woman muttered. Her voice was quiet, but loud enough for the room's other occupants to hear her complaint. Whether or not the others understood the comment was immaterial, her tone was enough to identify it as a criticism. She lifted her head and stared into the face of the blonde woman. 'As I said earlier, I drink only the coffee, Professor Rapp,' she said sharply. 'And Professor Lācis should have here been fifteen minutes ago, I am thinking! I hope this is not an example of the efficiency of this school.'

'I can only assume that the Governors' meeting is yet to finish, Professor Falcione.' The elegant blonde smiled apologetically. 'Our Headmaster is a very busy man as, I'm certain, are yours.' She turned to the other man. 'Milk and sugar, Neville?' she asked.

'Yes, three sugars, please,' said the fair-haired man.

Sara Rapp obliged, adding the sugar with a flourish. As she reached forward to hand the delicate cup and saucer to Professor Longbottom, he spoke again.

'Even after all these years, there is still some resistance from your Board of Governors?' he asked. His question was perfectly timed, and the slight shake in Professor Rapp's hand was magnified by the cup and saucer. As he took the cup from her hand Neville Longbottom brushed his fingers against her hand, and gave her an innocent smile.

'A little,' Professor Rapp admitted; she could hardly deny it. 'The Board would, I'm sure, like to apply our Pureblood-only policy to our potential guests from Hogwarts and Beauxbatons. But I'm certain that the Headmaster will be able to placate them.'

'I sincerely hope so, as I believe that the current Hogwarts Quidditch team contains only two individuals whose blood, by your school's rules, might by some stretch be declared pure,' said Neville. He looked directly into Sara's eyes. 'The cold doesn't bother you,' he added mildly. It wasn't a question, and she realised that his touch had been for confirmation, not investigation.

'Of course not,' she told him. 'As you have realised, I am a vampire.'

As she retreated to her own chair, and poured herself a cup of tea, Sara Rapp observed the Beauxbatons representative. Professor Alessandra Falcione was busy reassessing Neville Longbottom. Falcione, Sara was certain, had dismissed Longbottom as a slightly overweight bumbler. Didn't she know, Sara wondered? Didn't she realise that this ordinary-looking man was no fool; this was the famous "Snakeslayer" Longbottom, hero of Hogwarts and a close friend of the Britain's Head Auror, Harry Potter.

From the wary way in which the Professor from Beauxbatons was staring it also appeared that, unlike her Hogwarts counterpart, Falcione hadn't realised that she was speaking to a vampire. For the Deputy Headmistress of Durmstrang, who prided herself in her ability to keep her condition secret, the biggest surprise was that that Longbottom had somehow found her out.

Sara Rapp ruefully reminded herself that she, unlike Falcione, he had been warned about the ineffectual-looking Herbology Professor that Hogwarts had sent to this meeting. Her Headmaster had told her exactly who Longbottom was, but even forewarned, the blond man's mild and innocuous manner had lulled her into a false sense of security.

He had once been an Auror, and it was certainly no accident that Hogwarts had sent Neville Longbottom to this meeting. Sara wondered what the Auror Office knew, and what they feared. Perhaps Head Auror Potter was hoping to use his friend to infiltrate Durmstrang. Perhaps it went higher, perhaps Potter's formidable boss, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Hermione Granger-Weasley was checking out the school. Durmstrang was now the only school in Europe which still enforced a Purebloods-only admissions policy, and the Magical community across Europe knew exactly what Mrs Garnger-Weasley thought about any form of discrimination.

Sara was still contemplating Longbottom's motives when the door burst open and Headmaster Oleg Lācis lumbered into the room. 'I must offer apologies for the delay in my arrival,' he growled.

Sara watched her guests carefully. Professor Falcione started, and her hand involuntarily moved towards her wand. Professor Longbottom calmly assessed the Headmaster. Sara saw Longbottom's eyes flicker from the Headmaster's elongated canines to his hairy face and equally hairy hands. The Headmaster sat at his desk and tapped his claw-like yellow fingernails on its leather surface. 'Well, let's get it over with,' Lācis snarled.

'Your governors have agreed then, Headmaster?' Neville asked.

'By only one vote, despite my best efforts,' the Headmaster said. 'We will not be joining you this year. The next contest is too soon for my Governors. However, starting in the twenty-four – twenty-five school year, Durmstrang will join the inter-school Quidditch cup. I hope that this works, Professors.'

'Hogwarts and Beauxbatons have been successfully running the exchange every year since the Battle at Hogwarts,' said Professor Falcione firmly.

'As you know, it was former Headmistress McGonagall's idea,' said Neville evenly. 'She asked your predecessor if Durmstrang would also enter the competition, but he declined.'

'Because it was merely a way for Hogwarts to heal wounds,' snapped Lācis. 'The idea of your school fielding one Quidditch team, made up of players from all four of your Houses was simply a way to reduce the petty factional infighting that your school's ridiculous House system encourages. Durmstrang has no houses. Here, we are iall/i Durmstrang!'

'And we are all Beauxbatons,' said Professor Falcione. 'But we should dwell not upon the differences between our schools, Headmaster, we should but rejoice in the similarities and the opportunities for all our pupils. The competition is so much more than a Quidditch match! It is a learning opportunity, Headmaster. A select group of students, one girl and one boy from each year plus a dozen Quidditch players, spend two weeks in the host school, during which time the inter-school game takes place. With the addition of Durmstrang, we will have three games, not one. We will need four weeks, of course, as…'

'I'm well aware of what I'm signing up for, Professor,' Lācis growled. 'I have, after all, spent almost four hours listening to my Governors tear all of the issues to pieces. Let's get this over with, and then you can leave me to run my school in the way I see fit.'

Standing, Oleg Lācis unrolled the scroll; after placing his left hand onto its centre, he took his wand in his right. Neville Longbottom and Alessandra Falcione also stood and took their wands in their right hands. Falcione glanced at Neville, and hesitated. Neville did not. He placed his hand on top of Professor Lācis hairy, claw like hand. Falcione then placed her hand on top of Nevilles.

'I speak for Hogwarts. Is Beauxbatons ready?' asked Neville.

'Sì,' said Falcione, nervously licking her lips.

'Is Durmstrang ready?'

'Jā,' growled the Headmaster.

All three touched the parchment with their wands. What looked like thin, glowing wires snaked from each wand, slithering across the parchment before sliding up and around the three hands until the tangled, luminous, threads of magic bound the three hands, and the Covenant, together.

'Durmstrang pieņem Aliansi,' said Lācis.

'Hogwarts agrees to the covenant,' said Neville.

'Beauxbatons accetta l'alleanza,' said Falcione.

The trio looked at each other, and spoke in unison. 'Three schools, one contest. The covenant of the Hogwarts-Beauxbatons Cup is dissolved and remade. Where there were two, there are now three. Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang will meet every year, four weeks before Easter, and compete in a friendly contest: The Tri-Quidditch Cup. As guests, we will behave with courtesy, as hosts, we will treat all visiting pupils as our own, and we will grant them every protection. This we vow.'

The tangled threads of magic flashed, flared, and then coalesced into a tiny ball of white light, which darted across the desk to the quill. As the three removed their hands from the parchment the writing slithered to the edge of the page and vanished. The quill leapt from the inkpot and skittered rapidly across the page, rewriting the covenant.

'It is done,' said Professor Lācis. 'You may leave.'

'What an unpleasant man, if he is a man!' said Professor Falcione as she carefully descended the spiral stairs. 'He's as hairy as a bear.'

'He's a man, Professor,' said Neville. 'Don't you know the story? As a child he was famous across Latvia and the Baltic. He was reckoned to be a genius, a prodigy. At age eleven his private tutor had so convinced him of his abilities that he decided to become the Wizarding world's youngest ever Animagus. He failed, and ever since he's been mostly man, but partly bear.'

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, they proceeded along the wide corridor. In the distance, at the top of the stairs, the castle's Seneschal awaited.

'A hard lesson on the foolishness of youth,' said Professor Falcione, shaking her head sorrowfully as they approached the sallow-faced woman who awaited them.

'Professors.' The Seneschal of Durmstrang nodded a greeting as they approached her. Klaudia Pásztor was a stout woman in her middle years. Her badge of office, the large ring of keys hanging at her belt, jangled as she stepped forward to meet them. 'Your Portkey awaits. Is it done? Will we see you in the spring of twenty-five?'

'You will indeed, Klaudia,' Professor Longbottom said warmly. 'Thank you for your hospitality. Please compliment your house elves on the quality of their Köttbullar.'

'I will,' she said, smiling. 'Do you often visit this part of the world, Neville?'

'Not for many years. When I was much younger I accompanied a friend on several of her expeditions throughout Scandinavia. She was observing at the fauna, and I the flora.' Neville smiled broadly at the memory.

'This will take you into the wilderness,' the Seneschal said indicating the twig on the table behind her. 'The second Portkey is a china cup. It will return you to the Danish Ministry in København.'

'We know,' said Professor Falcione flatly. 'That's the route we took to get here. Professor Longbottom and I met in Copenhagen and travelled here together.'

'And once we reach Copenhagen, Professor Falcione and I must part,' added Neville, politely expressing his regret. 'I travel to Den Haag, and she goes to Düsseldorf. Are you ready?' Neville asked. The Beauxbatons Professor nodded. 'On three,' he told her. 'One, two, three.' They grasped the stick, and vanished in a blaze of blue light.

The thickly wooded hillside on which they appeared was snow-covered. Despite the shelter afforded by the trees, the icy tentacles of the westerly wind ensnared them, crushing the air from their bodies. Neville spotted the china cup; it was hanging on one of the lower branches of a majestic Norway spruce. He grabbed his companion's arm and pointed to it.

'What a wretched place,' Falcione gasped, struggling to inhale the painfully cold air and pulling her cloak tightly around her.

Discarding the now useless stick, they fought their way through the snow towards the cup. Despite the noise of the wind Neville could Falcione's teeth chattering. 'At least it's full daylight here,' he yelled cheerfully. 'We're already a few hundred miles south of the Arctic Circle.'

Together, they picked up the teacup, and again vanished.

The foyer of the Gildehal, home of Denmark's Magitinget was quiet. Other than the young wizard who was waiting to provide the two Professors with the Portkeys which they would use to continue their separate journeys, there were only a couple of people in the place.

'Do you think it will work, Professor Longbottom?' Professor Falcione asked anxiously.

'Please, call me Neville,' the blond man said, reaching forward to brush some snow from the shoulder of her cloak.

'Thank you, Neville. Please call me Alessandra,' said Professor Falcione. She repeated her question anxiously. 'Do you think it will work? The Headmaster seemed to be particularly unwilling to allow us into his school. I worry that allowing our pupils to visit Durmstrang may prove unwise.'

'I'm not certain that's the case,' said Neville. 'Professor Lācis has agreed, and he is bound by the covenant.'

'A school for Purebloods run by a man-bear and a vampire,' Alessandra exclaimed, throwing her arms into the air in a gesture of hopelessness. 'What a place!'

Neville shrugged. 'Appearances can be deceptive,' he said.

She dismissed his suggestion with fluttering hands and raised eyebrows. 'Farewell, Neville, I will see you in the Spring, for the final Hogwarts-Beauxbatons Cup.'

Bon voyage, Alessandra,' said Neville as the tiny woman reached for her next Portkey.

'Arrivederci, Neville,' she said, smiling. She vanished.