◇◇
Morning came without asking permission.
Arthur woke before the sun had fully decided to rise, the air still cool enough to bite if you stood still too long. The World Cup campsite lay in a strange half-life—neither asleep nor awake—caught between what it had been and what the Ministry needed it to become.
The ground was wrong.
Grass blackened in uneven patches. Ash settled into the soil like stubborn fingerprints. Here and there, tents lay half-collapsed, their enchantments sputtering weakly as Ministry officials moved through them with brisk, professional detachment.
Repair crews worked in silence.
Wands flicked. Canvas straightened. Burn marks vanished under neat spells that erased too cleanly, too efficiently. Evidence folded in on itself and disappeared, as if last night were a bad dream the world had collectively agreed not to remember.
Arthur watched from a distance.
He hadn't told anyone he was awake.
His body felt… fine. No lingering frost in his veins. No ache behind his eyes. That alone made him restless. When things went wrong, there was usually a cost. This time, the bill hadn't arrived yet.
He walked.
Not aimlessly—just without a destination.
A kettle lay overturned near one of the paths, its handle bent at an odd angle. A torn scarf fluttered weakly from a low branch, the colours scorched dull. Someone's boot sat abandoned near a trampled hedge, its laces burned through.
Too many small things.
That was what unsettled him most.
Then he saw the officials.
A cluster of Ministry robes stood gathered at the edge of a clearing, voices low, movements deliberate. One of them lifted a section of charred canvas. Another murmured something Arthur couldn't hear.
And then he saw the body.
Small. Too small.
Arthur stopped.
The world didn't blur or spin. It simply… narrowed.
The child lay still, wrapped halfway in a transfigured covering that hadn't quite finished forming. A Muggle—Arthur could tell without knowing how. There was no magical residue clinging to the air around them. Just wrongness. Absence.
A life that had been in the wrong place when grown-ups decided fear was entertainment.
Arthur's breath slowed.
At his feet, something pale lay half-buried in ash.
A shoe.
Child-sized. Scorched along the sole, one strap torn clean through. It looked like it had been kicked off in a hurry—or ripped away by force.
He stared at it longer than he meant to.
Don't, something sensible inside him warned.
He knelt anyway.
His fingers hesitated inches above it.
This was stupid. He knew it was. He wasn't trying to help. There was nothing to fix. And yet—
His fingers brushed the leather.
The world cracked.
Not cleanly. Not politely.
Fragments slammed into him all at once.
A rush of noise—too loud, too close.
Grass beneath bare feet.
Someone shouting in a language he didn't understand.
The smell of smoke, sharp and terrifying.
A hand—big, unfamiliar—yanking him backward.
Upside down. Spinning. Laughter that wasn't kind.
A flash of green light that wasn't magic but felt like it anyway.
Fear. Not panic—fear stripped raw and animal and confused.
Then—
Nothing.
Arthur jerked back as if burned, fingers snapping away from the shoe. The connection shattered instantly, leaving behind only the echo of sensation and a sudden, violent quiet.
He sucked in a sharp breath.
"What the—"
His heart was pounding now, too fast, too loud.
That wasn't memory the way people talked about memory. That wasn't imagination. It hadn't felt like recalling.
It had felt like stepping into something unfinished.
Arthur stared at his hand, flexing his fingers as if expecting frost, fire—anything. There was nothing there. No glow. No magic hum. Just him.
This wasn't something he'd ever done before.
Slowly, he stood.
The Ministry officials were still talking. None of them had noticed him. None of them looked at the shoe.
He looked at the child one last time.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, unsure who he was apologizing to.
Then he turned away.
As he did, a shift in the air made him pause.
Across the ruined campsite, near a line of half-repaired tents, Viktor Krum stood alone.
Not moving. Not speaking.
Just watching the same stretch of ground Arthur had been moments earlier.
Their eyes met.
No greeting. No acknowledgment.
Just awareness.
The kind that settled deep in the chest and refused to be ignored.
Arthur didn't know why, but the unease that had coiled inside him since waking tightened another notch.
Last night wasn't done with him.
And neither, he suspected, was Viktor Krum.
After a moment, Arthur turned back toward the Potters' tent.
He already knew he wouldn't be leaving as easily as he'd planned.
◇◇◇
The Potter tent felt smaller.
Not physically—James's glamours still stretched the canvas into something that resembled a respectable townhouse—but emotionally. Like the walls knew they wouldn't be holding laughter much longer.
Arthur stood just outside, the grass damp beneath his boots, watching the final motions of packing unfold.
No one spoke loudly.
James moved with sharp efficiency, wand snapping as crates sealed themselves shut. The lion hat was gone. So was the bravado. He looked like a man who had reached the end of his tolerance for risk and intended to drag his family past it whether they liked it or not.
"We're not staying another night," James said, not looking up. "Ministry says it's under control. That's usually code for leave before something worse happens."
Harry lingered near the tent flap, arms folded. He looked tired in a way Arthur recognized—eyes too alert, posture too ready. Trust was still there, but it had learned caution.
Elena stood off to the side, fidgeting with the strap of her bag. She kept glancing at Arthur like she wanted to ask something and didn't know how.
Lily was the last to pack.
Or rather, she pretended to pack.
Her attention wasn't on the crates or the kettle she was slowly levitating back into place. It was on Arthur.
She watched him the way she always did—like she was listening to something beneath the surface.
Arthur felt it and didn't shy away.
When James finally straightened, brushing ash from his sleeve, he exhaled sharply.
"Right. Portkey in ten."
Arthur nodded once.
Then, calmly, without preamble, he said,
"I'll catch up later."
The words landed softly.
James turned. "What?"
Harry's head snapped up. "Arthur—"
Elena blinked. "Later… later how later?"
Arthur didn't rush to explain. He didn't justify or soften it. He simply stood there, hands loose at his sides, steady as the ground under his feet.
"I'm not ready to leave yet," he said. "But I will."
James frowned. "After what happened last night, that's not exactly—"
"I know," Arthur said gently. Not defensive. Not stubborn. Just certain. "I'm not staying because I don't understand the danger."
That made James pause.
"I'm staying because I do."
Silence stretched.
Harry studied him for a long second, then looked away, jaw tight. He didn't argue—but the worry stayed, heavy and unresolved.
Elena swallowed. "Is this because of… last night?" she asked quietly.
Arthur met her eyes. "Partly."
She nodded, still confused, but something like trust flickered there too. A sense of debt unspoken.
James opened his mouth again—
—and Lily raised her hand.
Not sharply. Just enough.
James stopped instantly.
Lily stepped closer to Arthur, searching his face.
"You're sure," she said.
It wasn't a question.
Arthur nodded. "Yes."
She held his gaze for another heartbeat, as if checking for cracks, for recklessness, for fear pretending to be courage.
She found none.
"All right," Lily said softly.
No argument.
James stared at her. "Lily—"
"He's choosing," she said simply. "That's different."
Arthur felt something in his chest ease. Just a little.
She reached out and smoothed the front of his jacket, a familiar, grounding gesture.
"Don't disappear," she added.
"I won't."
She smiled faintly. "I know."
James exhaled hard, running a hand through his hair. "You better show up," he muttered. "I'm not explaining this to Remus."
Arthur almost smiled.
Harry stepped forward, hesitated, then clapped a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Don't be stupid."
Arthur tilted his head. "I make no promises."
Harry snorted. "Figures."
Elena hugged him—quick, fierce, unexpected. "You owe me a normal explanation later."
Arthur nodded. "Deal."
The Portkey activated moments later—blue light curling around the Potters as the campsite shimmered one final time.
Then they were gone.
The grass settled.
The morning air breathed.
Arthur stood alone near the tent, smoke drifting lazily upward, the echoes of chaos finally thinning into quiet.
He didn't feel abandoned.
He felt… anchored.
He turned, gaze drifting back toward the ruined campsite.
Toward unfinished things.
And somewhere within him, something stirred—not fear, not urgency—
but resolve.
◇◇◇◇
Arthur walked.
Not toward anything in particular—just away.
The ruins thinned as he moved farther from the main camp. The noise faded first: laughter reduced to murmur, murmur to wind. What remained were impressions—burn marks in the grass, half-repaired stands sagging like tired shoulders, banners lying limp where magic hadn't bothered to revive them yet.
Inside his head, the argument was ongoing.
Snow is efficient, Auren said. Clean. Quiet. Things stop moving.
Sunlight lets you see what you've broken, Ardyn replied. Cold just hides it.
Arthur sighed. "You're debating weather. Now."
You started it, Auren said. You're the one walking like a funeral.
I am pointing out that statistically, most things decay faster in damp cold, Ardyn added.
"That is not helping," Arthur muttered.
It is accurate, Ardyn said.
Nobody asked for accurate, Auren snapped. We're trying to lighten the mood.
Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. "Congratulations. You failed. Why exactly are you arguing about weather."
Because you won't talk about the real thing, Auren shot back.
Arthur didn't answer. He let his boots crunch softly over gravel and ash, let the air cool his skin. The lake came into view—still, dark, pretending nothing had happened.
He slowed.
Then a voice behind him said, thick with accent and gravity:
"You still here?"
Arthur stopped.
Not startled. Just… aware.
He turned.
Viktor Krum stood a few paces back, hands in his pockets, shoulders loose in that way that suggested he could move very fast if needed. He wasn't in uniform now—just dark clothes, simple, practical. The kind someone wore when they didn't need to be seen.
Arthur studied him for a moment before speaking.
"I could ask the same," Arthur replied.
Krum inclined his head. "Yes. But I am used to it."
They stood there for a beat. Wind stirred the reeds by the water. Somewhere far off, a charm cracked as it finished repairing something broken.
Arthur gestured vaguely ahead. "You walking or stalking?"
Krum's mouth twitched. "Walking. You stopped."
Arthur huffed once, then resumed moving. Krum fell into step beside him without comment.
They walked in silence.
It wasn't awkward. It was… deliberate.
Eventually, Arthur sat on the edge of a fallen stand, wood scorched black in places, the lake stretching out below them. Krum followed suit, settling a little apart, forearms resting on his knees.
Minutes passed.
Arthur spoke first.
"Everyone's acting like it's over," he said quietly. "Like noise stops meaning once daylight hits."
Krum nodded. "Crowds forget fast."
He looked out over the water, eyes distant.
"Monsters do not."
The words sat between them.
Arthur didn't reply.
Inside, something clicked—not agreement, not fear. Recognition. The kind that doesn't need language.
People would pack up. Families would tell themselves stories about how rare it was, how unlikely, how unlucky.
Arthur knew better.
"So," Arthur said eventually, voice low, almost casual. "What happens when the world looks at you differently?"
Krum glanced at him sideways. "You mean when they notice."
"Yes."
Krum considered that. "They stop seeing a person. They see a shape. A threat. Or a symbol."
"And you?"
"I became useful," Krum said simply. "Which is another word for watched."
Arthur's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Auren stirred, quieter now. —Told you.
Ardyn added nothing. He was listening too.
Arthur leaned back, staring at the sky. "People think power changes you."
Krum shook his head once. "No. It makes lies difficult."
That earned a sharp breath from Arthur—half laugh, half something else.
They sat again in silence.
Arthur's gaze drifted to his hands. He flexed his fingers, remembering frost crawling where it shouldn't have. Remembering the way the night had noticed him.
Staying wasn't safer.
He saw that now.
Staying was necessary.
Whatever had watched the sky last night—whatever had fled at the Mark—it already knew.
Leaving wouldn't make that untrue.
Arthur straightened slightly.
Krum noticed.
"You will not leave today," Krum said.
"i will," Arthur said softly. "Just not yet."
Krum nodded once, as if something had settled into place.
"Good," he said. "Then we talk."
Arthur glanced at him. "About what?"
Krum's eyes held something unreadable. Not menace. Not warmth.
Interest.
"About what comes next."
The wind moved over the lake, rippling the surface.
Arthur watched it and felt the last illusion of safety slip quietly away. I'm so sick of lakes.
And for the first time since the fire, he didn't run from that feeling.