◇◇
"Your school," Krum said casually. "Hogwarts. Many rules."
Arthur huffed. "That's one way to put it."
"They say rules protect students," Krum went on. "But they also protect reputations."
Arthur glanced at him sideways. "You sound like you've read the fine print."
"I've lived it," Krum replied. "Durmstrang also has many rules. But ours do not pretend to be kind."
Arthur considered that as they walked. "At least that's honest."
Krum nodded once. "Honesty is safer than comfort."
"You didn't only go to Hogwarts," Krum said suddenly. "You were in America."
Arthur stopped.
Slowly turned. "You've been doing homework."
Krum shrugged. "Word travels. Especially when someone survives where others do not."
Arthur exhaled through his nose. "Ilvermorny was so last year. Different continent. Different rules."
"Better?" Krum asked.
Arthur tilted his head, considering. "Stricter. Smaller. Less… pageantry. They didn't pretend danger was a game."
Krum's eyes flickered with interest. "Then why leave?"
Arthur's jaw tightened. "Because nowhere stays safe forever."
Krum didn't press.
"You fly," Krum said after a while.
Arthur's shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. "I have." (If you consider levitation to be flying.)
"You should fly more," Krum continued. "You have the build for Chaser. Good balance. Fast reflexes. You anticipate rather than react."
Arthur let out a short, incredulous laugh. "That's not happening."
"Why not?"
"I don't like being watched," Arthur said. "And I definitely don't like people shouting opinions while I'm doing something dangerous."
Krum smiled faintly. "Ah. You would hate professional Quidditch."
"I already do."
That earned a quiet huff of amusement from Krum.
They reached the lake's edge and stopped. Arthur slid his hands into his pockets, eyes fixed on the water like it might offer answers if stared at long enough.
"Schools like ours," Arthur said slowly, "they dress danger up as tradition. Call it character-building. Legacy. Like age makes it harmless."
Krum followed his gaze. "If something is old enough, they stop questioning it."
"And when it goes wrong," Arthur added, voice low, "they say it's tragic. Unfortunate. Rare."
Krum's expression hardened—not dramatically, but enough to matter.
"Yes," he said. "Rare."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Krum spoke again, tone deliberately neutral.
"The Triwizard Tournament returns this year."
Arthur went still.
"What's that supposed to be?" he asked.
Krum turned to face him fully now. "A competition between schools. Three champions. Selected to represent their institutions."
Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Represent how?"
"By surviving tasks designed to test magic, courage, intelligence."
"And judgment," Arthur added flatly. "Which usually fails first."
Krum did not disagree.
"It will be held at Hogwarts," he said.
The words landed like a curse.
Arthur felt it immediately—the same tightening he'd felt when he touched the shoe. The same cold recognition that this wasn't coincidence, or bad luck, or timing.
Another event. Another gathering.
Another this time it will be fine wrapped in optimism and tradition.
"Let me guess," Arthur said quietly. "Everyone swears they've made it safer."
Krum's mouth twitched. "Of course."
Arthur looked away, jaw set.
Information changes everything.
Last night hadn't been an isolated failure. It was a warning.
And Hogwarts—his school, his ground, his unfinished business—was about to invite danger in and call it celebration.
Arthur exhaled slowly.
"Yeah," he said. "That sounds about right."
Krum studied him for a long moment. "You understand, then."
Arthur nodded once.
Too much. Far too much.
◇◇◇
Hogwarts.
The word carried more than stone walls and moving staircases now. It dragged the Ministry along with it—committees, observers, officials who believed that standing close enough to danger meant they could measure it. Control it. Decide, afterward, what counted as acceptable loss.
His fingers curled slowly at his side.
Krum had gone still beside him. Not staring—never that—but watching in the way people did when they sensed a shift beneath the surface. The way hunters noticed when the ground stopped being safe.
"You all would not survive this by hiding," Krum said quietly.
Arthur kept his eyes on the path ahead. The trampled grass. The scorched earth that spells were still trying to convince itself was normal again.
"We never do," he replied.
Something changed in Krum's expression then.
Not fascination. Not awe.
Respect—sharpening into interest.
The look of someone recognizing a blade for what it was, not for the sheath it wore.
Before either of them could speak again, a voice cut through the quiet from farther down the path.
Gruff. Commanding. Threaded with exhaustion that no amount of authority could quite mask.
Krum turned his head.
A tall, broad-shouldered man stood near the stands, cloak frayed at the hem, posture rigid despite the weight of the night still clinging to him. His eyes were sharp, assessing everything at once. He lifted a hand—not impatient, not angry.
Expectant.
"That's my Headmaster," Krum said. "I should go."
Arthur nodded once.
"Nice talking with you," Arthur said. "Viktor."
Krum paused.
Then he smiled—small, unguarded. Real in a way most smiles weren't.
"Same here, Arthur," he said. "You are a rare find."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "I'll try not to be flattered."
Krum's gaze flicked briefly toward the treeline, then returned to him. "Almost like the Bulgarian Spiketail."
Arthur frowned. "What is that?"
"A dragon," Krum said easily. "Cousin to the Hungarian Horntail. Rare. Double-headed. More dangerous."
Arthur's attention sharpened immediately.
"Last seen around Raven's Peak Forest," Krum added, tone casual, as if he were commenting on weather. "Close to the north. I think it has access to the Floo network."
Arthur stared at him now. "That's… a lot of information."
Krum's mouth curved faintly. "You look like someone who enjoys trouble," he said. "I am simply guiding you along the way."
Arthur scoffed softly. "Sure you are."
Krum stepped back, turning toward his Headmaster. After a few paces, he glanced over his shoulder one last time.
"Be careful, Reeves."
Arthur watched him go, the space he left behind feeling oddly charged.
His mind was already moving faster than it should.
Dragons. Forests. Information given too easily.
And the quiet, inconvenient truth that settled alongside it—
He loved animals. Really loved them.
Yeah.
Trouble had just learned his name.
◇◇◇◇
Grimmauld Place glowed.
Not brightly—never brightly—but with a low, steady warmth that felt intentional, like someone had decided the darkness no longer paid rent. The walls no longer pressed inward. The ceiling didn't loom. Even the ancestral portraits seemed… tired of hating.
Arthur paused just inside the threshold.
The house felt awake. Not hostile. Not welcoming either.
Aware.
Sirius Black sat at the long dining table, one boot hooked over the arm of a chair, sleeves rolled, hair tied back loosely like he'd given up arguing with it hours ago. He was mid-lecture, mug in hand, expression ferocious.
"I am not asking for perfection, Kreacher," Sirius said, gesturing with a mug. "I am asking that the dust stop actively trying to form a personality."
Kreacher stood rigid, hands clasped, eyes narrowed—but listening. Actually listening.
"Yes, Master Sirius," the elf muttered. "Kreacher understands… somewhat."
"Also... Kreacher, I am begging you," Sirius said, gesturing wildly, "to stop rearranging the silverware alphabetically by the names of people you despise."
Kreacher stood stiff as a gravestone, hands folded, nose twitching.
"Kreacher finds it efficient," the elf snapped. "And emotionally satisfying."
"You alphabetized me under 'Traitors,'" Sirius said.
"Yes."
"And Regulus is under 'Tragic Martyr,'" Sirius continued.
"Yes."
"And Walburga is under—what was it—'Unfinished Business'?"
Kreacher's eyes gleamed. "Kreacher has hope."
Arthur snorted before he could stop himself.
Both of them froze.
Slowly—slowly—Kreacher turned.
The temperature in the room dropped approximately three degrees.
"Oh," the elf hissed. "It's you."
Arthur straightened instinctively. "Lovely to see you too, fungus."
"Kreacher smells fire," Kreacher snarled. "And old blood. And things that should not walk freely in ancestral halls."
Arthur tilted his head. "You smell like vinegar and unresolved trauma. Guess we're even."
Sirius pinched the bridge of his nose. "Merlin help me."
"Kreacher remembers what you are," the elf went on, voice trembling with venom. "The crack in fate. The cursed boy. The wrongness that makes the walls itch."
Arthur's jaw tightened. "Funny. I was thinking the same thing about you."
That did it.
Kreacher bristled. "You dare—!"
"I dare exist," Arthur snapped. "Which seems to be the root of your problem."
Sirius slammed his mug down. "Enough. Both of you."
Kreacher recoiled—just a fraction—but obeyed, lips pressed thin.
Arthur exhaled sharply, then looked away, jaw set.
"Still hates me," he muttered.
"Kreacher hates many things," Sirius said dryly. "You're just… memorable."
Kreacher bowed stiffly. "Kreacher will be silent."
Then, pointedly:
"But Kreacher will watch."
With a crack like a snapped bone, the elf vanished.
Sirius snorted. "You bring out the best in people."
"It's a gift."
Arthur stared at the empty space. "One day, I'm going to win that argument."
Sirius smirked. "Good luck. He's been holding grudges since before grudges were invented."
He poured Arthur a mug without asking and slid it across the table.
Arthur accepted it, fingers warming around the ceramic.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Sirius leaned back, studying him—not like an adult. Like a fellow soldier.
"You didn't go back with them," Sirius said casually.
Arthur shrugged. "Didn't feel right."
"No," Sirius agreed softly. "It wouldn't."
Arthur's shoulders eased a fraction. "Everyone's really good at pretending last night was… contained."
"Ministry specialty," Sirius said. "If it fits in a report, it didn't happen."
Arthur stared into his tea. "Someone died."
Sirius's expression darkened. "More than you think."
"A kid."
"Yes."
"They covered it fast," Arthur said. "Too fast."
Sirius nodded. "They always do. Dead children ruin optics."
Arthur's fingers curled around the mug.
"I keep thinking," Arthur said slowly, "that if I leave when things get ugly, I'm proving them right."
Sirius tilted his head. "Right about what?"
"That I'm only brave when it's safe," Arthur said. "That I disappear when it matters."
Sirius snorted. "You? Disappear? You have the subtlety of a meteor."
Arthur smiled faintly, then sobered. "Still."
Sirius leaned forward, forearms on the table. "Listen to me. There's a difference between running and choosing where you stand."
Arthur met his eyes.
"And you're choosing," Sirius finished. "That's new."
Arthur hesitated. "I met someone."
Sirius raised a brow. "Please tell me it's not another emotionally unavailable prodigy."
"Worse," Arthur said. "Professional Quidditch player. Bulgarian."
Sirius grinned. "Oh no."
"He talks like everything is a warning," Arthur continued. "Like danger doesn't end just because the crowd goes home."
Sirius's smile faded. "That's because it doesn't."
Arthur inhaled, steadying himself.
"I'm going hunting," he said finally.
Silence.
Sirius didn't interrupt.
"I know what," Arthur added. "I know where. I know it's stupid."
Sirius leaned back again, eyes sharp. "And you're not asking permission."
"No."
"Good."
Arthur blinked.
Sirius stood, walked past him, and rested a hand on his shoulder—firm, grounding.
"I won't stop you," Sirius said. "I won't lecture. And I definitely won't tell Dumbledore."
"I don't care if you tell the old man."
"I'll cover for you," Sirius continued. "As long as you promise me one thing."
Arthur looked up. "What?"
"You come back," Sirius said simply. "Not because you owe anyone. But because the world doesn't get to take you yet."
Arthur swallowed. Then nodded once.
"Deal."
Sirius smirked. "Good. Now go before Kreacher comes back with a cursed spoon."
As if summoned—
Crack.
Kreacher reappeared instantly, clutching a tarnished ladle.
"Kreacher knew," he hissed. "You plan to leave. To bring ruin. Again."
Arthur sighed. "I'm going for a walk."
"A walk that bleeds," Kreacher spat.
Arthur stepped closer, eyes cold. "I always come back."
Kreacher sneered. "That is what frightens Kreacher most."
Arthur held his gaze. "Get used to it."
For a long moment, the elf said nothing.
Then, quietly—dangerously—
"Kreacher will clean the blood when you return."
Arthur didn't look away. "Make sure it's not mine."
Kreacher vanished without another word.
Arthur turned toward the door.
As he stepped into the light, instincts aligning, magic humming low and watchful
Arthur knew it with absolute clarity:
Hogwarts was waiting. And the world was watching.