Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The fire crackled low in the hearth, painting the walls of the crumbling manor with a glow that seemed too alive. Shadows twitched along the stone, rippling with movement where there should have been stillness. A dozen hooded figures circled the fire, cloaks heavy with dampness, silence as thick as the smoke that curled toward the vaulted ceiling.

Then a voice broke the quiet, slow and dragging like rusted iron.

“He doesn’t know.”

The speaker was tall, bone-thin, and cloaked in gray robes so old the edges had begun to decay into ash. His voice carried no joy—only reverence, and a tremor of awe.

“How can he not?” muttered another. A woman, sharp-faced, wand twitching like it itched for use. “He would have felt it by now. The Dark Lord stitched his soul into the boy like a seam in flesh.”

“Stitched?” someone chuckled, a cruel, broken sound. “No. No, dear Selwyn. Not stitched. Anchored.”

A low murmur passed between them like wind through dead grass.

From the corner, the largest man among them shifted. His presence filled the room like a weight. “I heard he cast wandless magic last term. During his exams, when he faced his boggart.”

“Emotion-triggered, accidental, meaningless,” spat the woman.

“He’s 13.” the tall man whispered, eyes glinting. “And he saw the Dark Lord’s general in a mirror of fear. At 13. We used charms to make him forget. Yet his greatest terror is a man he doesn’t know the name of. Explain that, if you dare.”

A beat.

“He’s waking,” someone murmured.

“He is waking.”

A breath of reverence, of something darker than belief.

“The Hollow Son,” the woman said. The words tasted like prophecy in her mouth. “He will be the vessel… or the grave.”

A new voice spoke, calm but colder than the grave. It came from the high-backed chair none of them dared to look directly at.

“Let him remain unaware. Let Dumbledore coddle him. Let the Order watch. It changes nothing. The soul cannot run from its twin. And when I rise in full, he will come to me—willing or broken.”

The fire flared green for an instant.

Then silence returned.

And across the sea, a boy stirred in his sleep, clutching at his chest as something inside him whispered back.

Chapter Text

It was blistering hot outside, the kind of oppressive heat that made [Y/N] wonder how the hell it was -20° over here only 3 months ago. The fan in [Y/N]’s room clicked uselessly as it rotated, doing little more than shifting the sweat around his collarbones. He sat cross-legged on the floor, the carpet prickling against his skin, half-finished letters to Ron and Hermione crumpled beside him.

He didn’t know what he wanted to say to them.

Didn’t know what he could say, not really.

He hadn’t spoken to anyone from Hogwarts all summer. Not even Harry. Definitely not Pans—

Don’t think about her.

He was mid-folding a paper airplane out of one of the crumpled letters when the doorbell rang.

His Ma answered. “[Y/N], sweetie—some men here to see you. Said they’re from your school?”

[Y/N]’s heart sank.

He rose stiffly, brushing his palms on his jeans. When he reached the top of the stairs and looked down into the narrow, sun-drenched hallway, he froze.

Dumbledore stood in the doorway, tall and still, like the heat didn’t dare touch him. And beside him, worn and tired but quietly kind, was Professor Lupin. [Y/N]’s younger brother, Kenai, looked at Dumbledore, tilting his head.

“Are you a wizard like my brother?”

Dumbledore smiled, a fond, warm smile. “Why, yes, I am.”

“You look like a wise wizard. Can you set stuff on fire?”

Just then, they noticed [Y/N] in the hallway.

“Hello, [Y/N],” Lupin said with a small nod. “May we speak with you alone?”

⸻

Fifteen minutes later, the three of them were seated in the front sitting room. [Y/N]’s Ma had been gently but firmly asked to leave—Dumbledore had a way of doing that. Now it was just the ticking of the old clock and the low hum of magic that always seemed to follow Dumbledore like perfume.

Lupin sat across from [Y/N], fingers steepled beneath his chin.

“I’d planned to speak with you last year,” Lupin began. “Do you remember? After your Defence Against the Dark Arts exam?”

[Y/N] blinked. “Yeah. We never could, though. You got—uh, you resigned.”

“Things… escalated, yes,” Lupin said, offering a rueful smile. “But that meeting was important, and long overdue. Because of something I saw during your exam.”

[Y/N] sat back slowly, brow furrowed. “What?”

Dumbledore didn’t speak. He watched [Y/N] in that unnerving way he always did—like he already knew how [Y/N] would respond, and was merely watching the script play out.

Lupin continued. “I was studying each student’s boggart, and how they reacted to it. Most shook it off, some got scared and ran. You, on the other hand, went still. You were paralyzed, [Y/N]. Paralyzed with terror.”

[Y/N]’s mouth went dry.

He hadn’t spoken to anyone about that moment. Not even his friends. Especially not his friends.

Lupin’s voice grew gentler. “Do you remember who it appeared as?”

[Y/N] swallowed hard.

The man. The man from before Hogwarts. From when he was ten. The one with the wild eyes and the sick smile. The one who made him scream until his throat bled.

He nodded. “I don’t know his name. He was one of the men who hurt me when I was little. I barely remember it. I just know he—he hurt me.”

There was a heavy pause.

“Hurt you?” Dumbledore repeated.

Well. Out with it, [Y/N], he thought. Time to tell the story of what’s been killing you for the past 3 years.

“When I was ten… Some guys came to my house. Wizards. It was a week before my Ma got the letter to Ilvermony. They came in, knocked out my family, took me, and then… they did stuff to me. Hurt me. However they could. They cut me up, they hit me… used magic, just—caused pain however they could. I don’t remember how long I was gone for. Ma says it was nine months. Felt like way longer. I don’t remember them letting me go, I just remember waking up in the snow. Bleeding all over and limping through the woods until I found people. That man I saw as the Boggart. He was the main one. He… did the most stuff.”

Lupin had paled, his lips pursed as he took in the information. Dumbledore, however, simply frowned. As if he already knew this, and the only thing that came with hearing [Y/N]’s story was the pain of reliving it.

Dumbledore leaned forward, lacing his fingers together.

“His name,” he said quietly, “is Barty Crouch Jr.”

[Y/N[‘s stomach twisted. The name meant nothing—but the way Dumbledore said it, like it was acid on his tongue, made it feel like it should.

“He’s a Death Eater,” Lupin added. “One of You-Know-Who’s most devoted followers. Captured during the first war. Sentenced to Azkaban. I went to Hogwarts with him, actually. He was in my class. But that’s beside the point.”

[Y/N] looked between them, eyes narrowed. “But I met him when I was ten. He tortured me, I know he did, he did it for almost a year. How could he have done that if he were in Azkaban?”

Neither of them answered right away.

Lupin’s jaw worked silently.

Dumbledore finally spoke. “That is precisely what concerns us, [Y/N].”

The old man rose slowly and began to pace. The room felt smaller with him standing.

“We have reason to believe you that when you were… taken… you weren’t simply tortured for mere sport. A man who was the first to ever escape Azkaban wouldn’t go and torture muggle-born children in Canada for fun. He’d most definitely have more important things on his mind. Of course, much of it was for the sick pleasure of Crouch and his crew, but certain rituals may have been… tested. Ones that required someone not born of magic.”

[Y/N]’s blood turned cold.

“You’re saying he—used me?”

“I’m saying,” Dumbledore said carefully, “that you are more deeply connected to that era than we knew. And if Crouch Jr. appears in your mind as your greatest fear… it means a deeper mark than anyone anticipated may have been left on you.”

[Y/N] stood abruptly. “So what does this mean? That I’m cursed? That he did something to me?”

“We don’t know,” Lupin admitted. “Which is why we’ve come here. You may be connected to… darker magic. In a similar way that Mr. Potter is.”

[Y/N]’s ears rang. He knew the story. That Voldemort killed himself trying to kill Harry. That it linked Harry to Voldemort if he were to ever come back. But Harry wasn’t kidnapped. Didn’t get tortured and get rituals practiced on him.

“I don’t understand.”

“No,” Dumbledore said. “But you will. And [Y/N]… I need you to promise me something.”

[Y/N] looked up at him, wary.

“When you return to Hogwarts,” the headmaster said softly, “if anything unusual happens—if you feel something strange, see something no one else does, dream things—come to me. Immediately.”

[Y/N] said nothing. He didn’t nod. Didn’t agree.

He just stood there, his hands clenched so tight they trembled.

Behind his eyes, a face flickered. Pale and wild-eyed, tongue flicking across cracked lips, smiling like he knew something Y/N didn’t.

Something inside him.

And for the first time since leaving Hogwarts, Y/N felt cold again.

——————

Dumbledore and Lupin left just before dusk.

The air had cooled, but it didn’t help much. The house still carried the heat, pressing in on itself, turning walls into cages and windows into mirrors. [Y/N] stood at the front door long after they were gone, watching the air shimmer on the pavement, listening to the click of the gate swinging shut.

His Ma found him there eventually. “What was all that about, love?”

He didn’t answer. He just shook his head.

“Everything alright with school?”

He nodded. Didn’t look at her.

She frowned at him. “I raised you better than to be a liar, [Y/N] [L/N].” Her stern voice echoed through his bones.

You raised me better than to be bounded by dark magic too, but here we are.

That’s what he wanted to say. But of course, he didn’t.

Another nod. He didn’t trust his voice.

She didn’t buy it, not really. She never did. But she let it go the way she always did—hands clasped, nervous eyes, the same way she used to look at him when he had night terrors when he had first gotten home from when those men got him. Like she wanted to believe there was nothing wrong with her son.

He didn’t eat dinner. Not really. Just moved peas around his plate and stared past the TV, the image flickering across the screen without ever really settling in his mind.

Barty Crouch Jr.

He whispered the name to himself in bed that night, tasting it. Like chewing glass.

He didn’t remember names from that time. Faces, sometimes—usually in dreams. But even those were more like feelings. Heat. Pain. Screaming. The glint of a blade.

The smile.

He remembered that.

Eyes like lightning—frenzied, devout. Like hurting people wasn’t just something he enjoyed; it was something holy to him. Sacred.

He clutched the bedsheets tighter.

Chapter Text

His bedroom was a museum of failed distractions. Wrinkled Quidditch posters, a few old Muggle football magazines. A bookshelf half-filled with titles Hermione had recommended—only two were actually opened. The rest stared at him like quiet accusations. Like things he should be able to do. Read. Sleep. Be normal.

He stood in front of the mirror for a long time that morning.

The same way he always did when something didn’t make sense.

His fingers hovered over the hem of his shirt.

Don’t.

Just don’t.

But he did.

Slowly, he peeled it off, the fabric catching on his shoulder like it always did, sticking from heat and old wounds. And there they were—them.

The awful, rippled tissue stretched across his ribs and chest like vines crawling out of a wound the world couldn’t see. He hated looking. Hated the way the skin tugged unnaturally around the old burns, how it never moved right. How it reminded him of a night he barely remembered.

His Ma never spoke about it. Neither did he. She didn’t need to. The grotesque marks that marred his torso spoke enough for the both of them

All he remembered were flashes.

Screaming. Heat. A man laughing in the dark.

The next few days passed like fog.

He didn’t write Ron or Hermione. What could he say? “Hey, turns out I might be the product of dark magic. Hope your summer’s good.”

He tried to eat, but food tasted off. His mum noticed the shadows under his eyes, but he brushed her off with a joke.

Then came the letter from Hogwarts.

Inside the usual parchment with supply lists and schedules, a separate note—one with Professor McGonagall’s tidy scrawl.

Professor Dumbledore has arranged for a private session upon your return.
Please report to his office the evening after the Welcoming Feast.
Use the password: Sour Sherbet.
Do not discuss this note with other students.
— M. McGonagall

Y/N stared at it long after reading. His fingers left creases in the edges.

⸻

That night, he stood at his bedroom window, watching the sky. The stars were out, clear and bright—and for a moment, he tried to imagine what it’d be like to live without fear. To not feel like something was always slithering in the corners of his thoughts, something ancient and cold and waiting.

He didn’t believe in fate.

But he was starting to believe in being watched.

And far away, in the woods behind the house, something stirred. Not a person. Not an animal.

Just… movement. Like a flicker. Like the air itself blinked wrong.

And [Y/N], without knowing why, pressed a hand to his side. The scars didn’t burn. Not yet.

But something was coming.

——-

It was during lunch when Ron’s mum called.

[Y/N] was on the couch, arms crossed, TV on but volume low, when the kitchen phone rang. It was one of those rattly old corded ones that never seemed to sit quite right in the cradle, with a kinked cord that always got caught on the toaster. His Ma muttered something under her breath as she wiped her hands on a tea towel and shuffled over to pick it up.

“Hello?”

There was a pause. His mum blinked, her expression shifting slightly into polite confusion.

“Oh—yes! This is her. [Y/N]’s mother, yes.”

He turned his head slightly. That was… odd. Hardly anyone ever called their house. Nobody except relatives—and they only rang on Christmas. He sat up straighter.

“I’m sorry—who did you say you were again?” She cradled the receiver between her shoulder and ear, walking to the sink. “Molly? Oh! Ron’s mother! Yes, [Y/N]’s mentioned Ron before. A red-haired boy, right? Always hungry?

[Y/N] groaned inwardly, leaning his head back against the couch cushion. Why does she have to say things like that?

“Mmhmm… mmhmm, yes, he said your family’s quite large—oh, seven children? Lord, you must be made of patience.”

A beat passed. [Y/N] could tell she was listening intently now. Her eyebrows lifted a little.

“Quidditch?” she repeated, glancing into the living room with a frown. “Is that the… broom game? Right, yes—he’s told me about it.”

[Y/N] stared at her now. Broom game? Ma, please.

“Yes, I see. And it’s some sort of championship, then?” A smile played on her lips. “Finals. I see. Well, it sounds very exciting.”

Another pause. Then her face shifted again, and something in her voice softened.

“Oh… yes. That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Weasley. Very kind indeed.”

[Y/N]’s stomach twisted. He didn’t like where this was going.

“All the way until school starts again?” she said, tilting her head. “Oh no, no, you don’t need to take on that responsibility—I wouldn’t want to burden you—”

She paused, listening. [Y/N] couldn’t hear what Molly was saying, but his Ma suddenly laughed—an awkward, surprised sound. “Hermione and Harry as well? Goodness. That does sound like a full house.”

[Y/N] tensed at the mention of Harry and Hermione. He did miss them.

“Yes, well,” his mum said gently, her voice dimming, “I know [Y/N] would love that. He doesn’t… talk much about school, but I know he misses his friends. Especially this summer. He’s been a little… quiet.”

[Y/N] felt the sting of her words like a slap. Quiet was a kind way of saying not sleeping. Jumping at shadows. Flinching whenever someone brings up scars or magic or that night in the woods.

He dropped his gaze to his arms, staring at the long sleeves that covered them even in the heat. He hadn’t worn short sleeves once this summer. Not because of the scars, they stopped at around his shoulders. But because the fear that somehow, more would sprout along his arms if he weren’t careful.

“Well, of course. Thank you again, Molly. I really do appreciate it.”

She paused, nodded once, then added softly, “He deserves something good. I’ll speak to him, and I’ll call you right back.”

She hung up the phone slowly and turned around, hands folded.

[Y/N] didn’t say anything. She didn’t either—not right away.

Then, finally: “That was Ron’s mum. Molly.”

He nodded once, warily.

“She invited you to something called the Quidditch World Cup. I gather it’s a big deal.”

“It is,” he said flatly.

“She also invited you to stay with them for the rest of the summer. Harry and Hermione will be there too.”

He swallowed. He wanted to say no. He wanted to say yes. He didn’t know what he wanted.

His mum watched him carefully, like she was trying to read between the lines of his silence.

“She said she’d keep an eye on you. Said you were always welcome at their home.”

He blinked hard. “You said no, right?”

“I said I’d talk to you first,” she replied gently. “But… maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing. You haven’t left this house in days. I know something’s bothering you, Y/N. And I know you won’t talk to me about it. Maybe being with people who understand that world of yours would help.”

He looked away. She didn’t understand. Nobody did. Not even Harry. Not even Hermione. Not really.

“I don’t belong there either,” he said finally.

His mum walked over, brushing her fingers against his curls before she sat beside him. “You don’t have to belong. You just have to be, love. That’s enough.”

He didn’t answer.

She stood up, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “So?”

He frowned. Took a deep breath.

“Sure. I’ll go.”

Ma smiled. The warm one that made all of his troubles feel less important at the moment. “Good. I’ll call her back right now.”

—————————————————-

The Weasleys were supposed to come for him at 1:30, Molly had said, right after they’d get Harry. It was nearly 3, now, and there was no sign of the wizarding family.

[Y/N] was getting worried. He knew they were probably just being tardy—Ron never cared for deadlines or order or things of that sort.

But [Y/N] did. He hated when he couldn’t control something, hated when he had to leave things up to chance, or rely on others to get things done.

His Ma had tried calling the Weasleys around 2:15, but got no answer. Ma had just made supper, so [Y/N] decided he’d might as well eat before he left.

[Y/N] was sitting at his table, pushing around his mashed potatoes with his fork as he pretended to register Avia and Kenai arguing about whether they should have pasta or chicken for dinner tomorrow, when suddenly they heard a thundering—

“Oh, goodness!”

WHOOSH!

Mr. Weasley, a tall ginger man in threadbare robes had tumbled out of the hearth of his fireplace, followed later by a shrill “Arthur! Be careful!” and then a loud thump as someone else, this time much shorter, landed, laying out on the living room carpet.

Avia let out a shriek, jumping out of the chair she’d been sitting in, knocking it over in the process. Kenai looked at the two red-haired wizards with an expression of awe. His Ma stared at them with wide, trembling eyes.

“What in God’s name—“

“Oh dear,” said Mrs Weasley, smoothing down her hair and adjusting her hand bag as if she’d simply walked in the door, and not just entered through their fireplace. “Is this the right house? Are we… is this the [L/N] residence? We’re here for [Y/N].”

[Y/N] stood quickly. “Ma, it’s okay. They’re, um—this is Ron’s family. His parents.”

His Ma, still pale, trembled as she looked back and forth between them. “They… they came in through the fireplace.”

“Yeah.“

“It was on. Are they immune to fire?”

“They have powder that makes them not burn.”

“Is this what you’ve been learning at that school? Fire travel.”

Before [Y/N] could reply, Mr. Weasley stepped forward with a bright smile on his face, extending his hand towards [Y/N]’s mother.

“You must be Ms. [L/N]! Pleased to meet you. Arthur Weasley. This is my wife, Molly. We’ve come to pick your boy up for the Quidditch World Cup.”

The muggle woman blinked. “You’re… the ones who called me?”

Mrs. Weasley gave her a kind, frazzled smile. “That was me.”

His Ma gave him a sheepish look. “Are… are you sure about this, love?” she asked nervously.

“Ma,” he groaned. “you’re the one who wanted me to go in the first place.”

That seemed to get her. She didn’t ask anymore questions. Just ran her fingers along his arm, her touch featherlight as she muttered, “Just… be safe, okay?”

“I will.”

“And call me. If there’s… I don’t know, a spell for that.”

Molly coughed politely into her hand. “There is, actually. We can work something out.”

Avia finally spoke up. “So… you’re not here to kill us?”

Arthur laughed. “What? No, don’t be silly.”

Arthur had wandered over to the toaster and was inspecting it with fascination. “Incredible. Electricity, is it?”

Molly grabbed his collar. “Arthur, no.”

“Right, right.”

[Y/N] went upstairs to grab his trunk—stuffing it last second with a few shirts, his robes, his wand tucked into the inner pocket. He hesitated by the dresser mirror for a moment, touching his shirt through the fabric, where his… marks… lay quiet beneath.

When he came back down, Mrs. Weasley was already explaining the Floo Powder process with all the optimism of someone who had definitely done this with Muggles before and had it go terribly.

“You just step into the fireplace, toss this—yes, the powder—into the flames, and say The Burrow, clearly.”

Arthur clapped him on the back. “You’ll do just fine, lad.”

[Y/N] looked at his mum one last time. She tried to smile. “Green fire. Why not.”

Then he stepped in, heart hammering.

Tossed the powder.

Said the words.

And vanished in a cyclone of magic and soot.

Chapter Text

[Y/N] forgot to tell the Weasley’s he’d never used the Floo Network before. So he didn’t really have any idea of how it felt. He supposed he’d just assumed he’d blink and he would be in The Burrow’s fireplace. That definitely was not how things went. One second, he was standing in the green flames, the next he was spinning like one of his little brothers toys. A whirligig, it was called. His stomach was spinning too, somersaults and backflips and barrel rolls. And then, he screeched to a stop, before stumbling out of the Weasley’s fireplace, straight into their kitchen.

[Y/N] leaned slightly on the kitchen table, steadying himself, trying to quell the queasy feeling in his gut and stop himself from straight dropping his Niffler on his he ground. The Niffler twittered panickedly as it clung to [Y/N]’s arms. He hadn’t even noticed him when he heard a voice from his left.

“First time using the floo, I take it?”

He looked up, and saw 2 red headed people he’d never met. This family was truly bottomless. They must’ve been Ron’s oldest brothers. The older one, who introduced himself to be Bill, was tall, with long hair, longer than all of his siblings, save for Ginny, which he kept in a ponytail. He was the one who’d spoke to him just moments ago.

“You could tell?”

He only chuckled. The other one, Charlie, was shorter, like the twins. He’d heard from Ron that he worked with dragons in Hungary or Bulgaria or something like that.

The two of them hopped to their feet and shook his hand. [Y/N] jolted around, startled, as he heard a big WHOOSH, followed by another behind him. Mr and Mrs Weasley had just tumbled out of the kitchen fireplace only a few feet behind him.

“Oh, goodness. We should’ve told your family we’d be coming through their fireplace.” She said, frantically smoothing her hair down.

Arthur nodded. “Yes, well, pity we scared that little girl. The boy looked overjoyed, though, likely made his day.”

Arthur then looked up, as if remembering something, before cupping his hands around his mouth and calling out.

“RON! COME DOWN, YOUR FRIEND’S HERE!”

“Coming!”

He heard footsteps rumbling down the stairs, before he finally saw the red head of hair that he was actually familiar with.

Ron’s eyes lit up when he saw [Y/N], greeting him with an overzealous slap on the back that made him stumble a couple steps forward and make Riffle jump in his arms.

He couldn’t stop the grin from climbing itself onto his face.

“Too good to write to us, are you, you git?” He teased, but his voice lacked any real bite.

[Y/N] for the first time in far longer than he’d like to admit, laughed. A wholehearted, warm, laugh. “Some stuff happened. I tried, I swear! Just… got distracted.”

Ron eyed him suspiciously, but [Y/N]’s answer seemed to satisfy him.

“Ron, show [Y/N] where he’ll be sleeping,” said Molly. “you should’ve told us [Y/N]’s family were muggles, Ronald. We nearly scared that that family to death,” she scolded.

That was true. His Ma had been terrified, Avia more so. Kenai, though, had seemed thrilled.

Ron nodded, before dragging [Y/N] by his wrist through the burrow, making their way up the staircase until they got the upper floor. [Y/N] stopped moving when he heard a voice shout.

“QUIET!”

Ron scoffed. “Don’t listen to Percy, he’s being a prat. Claims he’s got super important work to do about cauldrons. Thinks he’s gonna save the world with that rubbish.”

There must’ve been 20 levels to this house. Well, not actually, it was closer to 5, but it felt like one thousand.

Ron’s room was at the top of the house, posters of a quidditch team plastered all over the wall. The ceiling was sloped, with a large aquarium tank sitting on the windowsill containing a giant toad. Or frog, [Y/N] couldn’t really tell a difference.

Then, in a tiny cage, was a tiny, exuberant owl, twittering a concerning (or annoying) amount. There was four beds, then a small mountain of blankets and pillows on the floor that created a makeshift bed. Something told [Y/N] that he’d be stuck with pallets on the floor.

Then, further to his left, was Harry, Hermione, and Ginny, whose faces were all lit up in smiles.

Hermione tumbled into him, throwing her arms around his neck in a tight hug.

“You absolute dolt! I thought something had happened to you! 2 months, not a single letter!” she scolded.

“Sorry, sorry. I’ve just had… lots of things over this summer that’ve kept mind full. I’m here now, aren’t I.”

Harry was next. He had a great grin on his face.

“I thought you’d forgot about us,” he teased.

“You three busybodies? Never.” [Y/N] grinned.

[Y/N] gave Ginny a smile and a curt nod. He’d never really known the girl, never spoke to her. But she was Ron’s sister, and she seemed nice enough.

Just then, the owl started twittering again. Ron ran a hand over his face.

“Don’t mind Pig. He’s a bloody nuisance,” he warned.

“Pig? You named the owl Pig?” [Y/N] was confused.

“I named him,” Ginny cut in. “his name is Pigwidgeon, but Ron’s being a jerk.”

That definitely was a ridiculous name, [Y/N] thought. But it was no matter to him.

Harry looked at Ron as he sat down on one of the beds. “Percy’s enjoying work, then?”

What Ron said next made [Y/N]’s blood go cold.

“Enjoying it?” said Ron darkly. “I don’t reckon he’d come home if Dad didn’t make him. He’s obsessed. Just don’t get him onto the subject of his boss. According to Mr. Crouch ... as I was saying to Mr. Crouch ... Mr. Crouch is of the opinion ... Mr. Crouch was telling me ... They’ll be announcing their engagement any day now.”

[Y/N] felt like the colour had been entirely drained from his face. It must’ve been, judging from the way his friends were looking at him.

“[Y/N], are you alright? You look pale,” Hermione asked, her face stretched with a look of concern.

“Crouch? Like Barty Crouch Junior?” he managed to squeak out.

Ron frowned. “No, not Junior—his dad. Percy works for Barty Crouch Senior in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Why?”

But [Y/N] barely heard the rest. The moment the name had passed his lips, it was like the world had narrowed. How ironic. Barty Crouch Jr, son of Ministry Official Barty Crouch Sr.

“Senior,” [Y/N] echoed. The word felt like sandpaper in his throat. He shook his head, trying to ground himself, but the storm inside him had already begun.

His fingers curled against his thighs.

It couldn’t be a coincidence.

“[Y/N], what is it?” Harry asked, sitting up straighter. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I…” [Y/N] swallowed. His mouth was bone dry. “Okay. I’m gonna tell you three something. And I know the three of you have an innate desire to tell people or interfere with things, but you all have to promise. You’ve got to promise that you won’t tell anyone, and you’ll just leave it alone.”

Hermione nodded, brown eyes wide with attention. “Yes, yes, we’ll tell no one.”

Harry and Ron both nodded with her.

“Okay… Okay… this summer, Lupin and Dumbledore both came to my house. It was because Lupin saw something he didn’t like during my exams. When we had defeat a boggart, my boggart turned into a man I don’t know. But I remember him.”

Ron squinted his eyes. “You don’t know him but you remember him?”

“Please, Ron, just wait. When I was younger—ten— a man named Barty Crouch Jr. took me. Him and others. He… they hurt me. Bad. For months. Nearly a year.”

The room froze.

No one breathed.

Ron’s eyes went wide. Hermione’s mouth parted slightly, her brows drawn in horror. Harry’s face darkened.

“He’s the reason I have these.” [Y/N] tugged the hem of his shirt his up just a tad, revealing a few faded, twisting scars. “He’s the reason I can’t—sleep sometimes. The reason I flinch when I hear people yelling.“

He was shaking now. Not with rage. With something worse—something colder.

Fear.

“I thought he was just some monster,” [Y/N] said softly, voice cracking. “But he was a Death Eater. Someone who works for You-Know-Who. He was someone. He meant it. He knew what he was doing. And now you’re telling me his father works in the Ministry?”

“Yes,” Hermione whispered. “But, [Y/N], Barty Crouch Jr.—he’s in Azkaban. He was caught after the first war. He shouldn’t have been able to—”

“He wasn’t in Azkaban,” [Y/N] snapped. “Or if he was, he got out. Because he was there. I remember. His voice. His face. The things he did.”

Silence settled over the room like a shroud.

Ron looked genuinely ill.

“Dumbledore told me that they tried to do something to me, but it failed. Some sort of ritual with my soul. It bounded me to some sort of dark magic. Lupin thinks it means I’m connected to You-Know-Who. Then, a few days later, I got this letter from McGonacgall. Saying I’ve a private meeting with Dumbledore booked after the feast.”

Nobody answered.

Ron swallowed. “Bloody hell…”

Harry spoke next. “What do you mean, bound to Voldemort? What does that mean? How are you bound to him?”

[Y/N] sighed, his face buried in his hands. “I don’t know. This is all Dumbledore and Lupin would tell me.”

Hermione looked down at her feet, her face contorted into one of concentration, she was muttering things to herself. “well… no, then he’d have to be… but if crouch is out of Azkaban… not good…”

Ginny, on the other hand, looked absolutely terrified.

Shit. He’d forgotten about her. He didn’t know the girl much, didn’t know if she’d tell.

He leaned forward. “Please don’t tell anybody, Ginny. You can’t, okay?”

Ginny nodded, her voice barely a whisper. “Yes, ok, I won’t tell.”

A sigh of relief came from deep in [Y/N]’s chest.

“I think they’ve stopped arguing,” said Hermione, to dispose of the tense moment. “Shall we go down and help your mum with dinner?”

“Yeah, all right,” said Ron. The five of them left Ron’s room and went back downstairs to find Mrs. Weasley alone in the kitchen, looking extremely bad-tempered.

“We’re eating out in the garden,” she said when they came in. “There’s just not room for twelve people in here. Could you take the plates outside, girls? Bill and Charlie are setting up the tables. Knives and forks, please, you three,” she said to Ron, [Y/N], and Harry, pointing her wand a little more vigorously than she had intended at a pile of potatoes in the sink, which shot out of their skins so fast that they ricocheted off the walls and ceiling.

Good. It was already swelteringly hot in the Burrow. Eating outside would help.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” she snapped, now directing her wand at a dustpan, which hopped off the sideboard and started skating across the floor, scooping up the potatoes.

“Those two!” she burst out savagely, now pulling pots and pans out of a cupboard, and Harry knew she meant Fred and George. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to them, I really don’t. No ambition, unless you count making as much trouble as they possibly can...”

Mrs. Weasley slammed a large copper saucepan down on the kitchen table and began to wave her wand around inside it. A creamy sauce poured from the wand tip as she stirred. [Y/N] watched in awe. He knew magic was powerful, oh, he knew, but he didn’t imagine one could use it for cooking, and summoning food. If that were the case, he had trouble seeing how hunger could ever be a problem in the Wizarding World.

“It’s not as though they haven’t got brains,” she continued irritably, taking the saucepan over to the stove and lighting it with a further poke of her wand, “but they’re wasting them, and unless they pull themselves together soon, they’ll be in real trouble. I’ve had more owls from Hogwarts about them than the rest put together. If they carry on the way they’re going, they’ll end up in front of the Improper Use of Magic Office.”

Mrs. Weasley jabbed her wand at the cutlery drawer, which shot open. Harry and Ron both jumped out of the way, while [Y/N] ducked as several knives soared out of it, flew across the kitchen, and began chopping the potatoes, which had just been tipped back into the sink by the dustpan. [Y/N] found it fascinating, the difference between a muggle household and a magic household.

“I don’t know where we went wrong with them,” said Mrs. Weasley, putting down her wand and starting to pull out still more saucepans. “It’s been the same for years, one thing after another, and they won’t listen to — OH NOT AGAIN!”

She had picked up her wand from the table, and it had emitted a loud squeak and turned into a giant rubber mouse.
“One of their fake wands again!” she shouted. “How many times have I told them not to leave them lying around?”
She grabbed her real wand and turned around to find that the sauce on the stove was smoking.

“C’mon,” Ron said hurriedly to them both, seizing a handful of cutlery from the open drawer, “let’s go and help Bill and Charlie.”
They left Mrs. Weasley and headed out the back door into the yard.

They had only gone a few paces when Hermione’s bandy- legged ginger cat, Crookshanks, came pelting out of the garden, bottle-brush tail held high in the air, chasing what looked like a muddy potato on legs. [Y/N] had zero idea what on God’s green earth it could be. Barely ten inches high, its horny little feet pattered very fast as it sprinted across the yard and dived headlong into one of the Wellington boots that lay scattered around the door.

Meanwhile, a very loud crashing noise was coming from the other side of the house. The source of the commotion was revealed as they entered the garden, and saw that Bill and Charlie both had their wands out, and were making two battered old tables fly high above the lawn, smashing into each other, each attempting to knock the other’s out of the air. Fred and George were cheering, Ginny was laughing, and Hermione was hovering near the hedge, apparently torn between amusement and anxiety.

Bill’s table caught Charlie’s with a huge bang and knocked one of its legs off. There was a clatter from overhead, and they all looked up to see Percy’s head poking out of a window on the second floor.

“Will you keep it down?!” he bellowed.

“Sorry, Perce,” said Bill, grinning. “How’re the cauldron bottoms coming on?”

“Very badly,” said Percy peevishly, and he slammed the window shut. Chuckling, Bill and Charlie directed the tables safely onto the grass, end to end, and then, with a flick of his wand, Bill reattached the table leg and conjured tablecloths from nowhere.

By seven o’clock, the two tables were groaning under dishes and dishes of Mrs. Weasley’s excellent cooking, and the nine Weasleys, [Y/N], Harry, and Hermione were settling themselves down to eat beneath a clear, deep-blue sky. For the first time in weeks, [Y/N] felt like eating. And he did. A ravenous amount. So much that when Mrs. Weasley asked him where he was putting all of that food, he could only give her a large, smile full of ham pie.

And as the calm rhythm of conversation slowly crept around the table, [Y/N] found himself relaxing. Maybe his Ma was right. Maybe his friends really were all he needed.

As he dug into his potatoes, Percy went on another Ministry rant about—you guessed it—Barty Crouch Sr.

“I’ve told Mr. Crouch that I’ll have it ready by Tuesday,” Percy was saying pompously. “That’s a bit sooner than he expected it, but I like to keep on top of things. I think he’ll be grateful I’ve done it in good time, I mean, it’s extremely busy in our department just now, what with all the arrangements for the World Cup. We’re just not getting the support we need from the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Ludo Bagman —”

“I like Ludo,” said Mr. Weasley mildly. “He was the one who got us such good tickets for the Cup. I did him a bit of a favor: His brother, Otto, got into a spot of trouble — a lawnmower with unnatural powers — I smoothed the whole thing over.”

[Y/N] decided this would be a good chance to see what he could find out.

“You’ve been enjoying working for Crouch, Percy?” he asked offhandedly.

“Oh, why, yes. He’s the epitome of the leaders we need to refine the Ministry, and he—“

“He have any family that works in the Ministry?” he asked suddenly.

Percy frowned. “No. Well, he had a son who he said he’d planned to take his position one day. But he’s in Azkaban, so that’s not happening. Oh, maybe I’ll take his spot one day if I’m a worthy apprentice.”

Bingo.

“You said a son? In Azkaban? What for?”

The table went quiet.

Mr. Weasley spoke, “He got mixed up with You-Know-Who’s most dangerous followers. Did something truly awful—he helped torture two Aurors into madness. That’s why he ended up in Azkaban. Alice and Frank Longbottom.”

“Longbottom?” That caught [Y/N]’s attention. He turned to Harry. “Like Neville Longbottom? Is that why he lives with his grandmother?”

He took the deafening silence that came next as a yes.

So it wasn’t personal. [Y/N] was not the only child who’s life was ruined by Barty Crouch Jr. That checked out.

The rest of dinner passed by in a blur. He remembered Percy drawling on and on about Mr Crouch some more—[Y/N] was really starting to harbour a distaste for Ron’s brother—some talk of the World Cup, and Ron whispering to Harry about Sirius, who, according to Harry, was doing just fine.

And for a minute, [Y/N] had began to believe he might be too.

Chapter Text

[Y/N] didn’t sleep that night. Not really. He couldn’t find a comfortable position on the ground. No matter how he laid, whether on his back or his front, he couldn’t get the dull ache of thick dread pooling in his stomach to quell.

Eventually, the snoring from the room full of boys he was in became background noise, the discomfort from the pallet he was sleeping on dulled. His breathing slowed, his body shutting down as—

“Up, dear. [Y/N], we’ve got to go.”

He was being shaken awake, Mrs. Weasley’s voice soft, but no less irritating given the circumstances, prodding him out of his slumber. He groaned, muttered curses under his breath, which Mrs Weasley must’ve heard judging from the way she gaped at him in silence, before muttering “language” as she moved to wake up Fred.

The group of still waking boys culminated to create an orchestra of groans and otherwise silent pitter patter as they dressed themselves.

After they were dressed, the five boys managed to drag themselves down the stairs and into the kitchen.

When he stepped into the kitchen, he first noticed Mr Weasley, in a chair at the table, going over a large pile of paper. Then his gaze dropped to Mr. Weasley’s outfit. He was spotting a golf sweater paired with a pair of big old jeans and a thick leather belt.

He stood up and showed them his clothes by opening his arms as if he were beckoning for a hug. [Y/N] had to stifle a laugh. It was absolutely ridiculous.

“So? We’re supposed to be incognito, so I’m trying to be ‘muggle’. How does it look, boys? Convincing?”

[Y/N] was already trying valiantly not to burst into laughter, but when he risked a glance at Harry, the look on his face took him apart completely.

“I—ah, hahaha, I think that the pants are… oh god, a bit, uh, big,” he said between laughs.

[Y/N] tucked his face into his hands for a while, trying to stop the snickering from slipping out, so he barely noticed the talk of apparition, or Ginny and Hermione walking into the kitchen. But he did snap out of his giggly stupor when he heard Ginny say they were walking.

“Walking? Like, on feet? Why? You’re telling me a group of 12 wizards is walking?” he asked, thoroughly confused.

Mr. Weasley smiled. “Well, [Y/N], it’s difficult to avoid being seen by muggles while travelling as a group of wizards, especially when—

“George!” said Mrs. Weasley sharply, and they all jumped.

“What?” said George, in an innocent tone that deceived nobody.

“What is that in your pocket?”

“Nothing!”

“Don’t you lie to me!”

Mrs. Weasley pointed her wand at George’s pocket and said, “Accio!”

Several small, brightly colored objects zoomed out of George’s pocket; he made a grab for them but missed, and they sped right into Mrs. Weasley’s outstretched hand.

“We told you to destroy them!” said Mrs. Weasley furiously, holding up what were unmistakably more Ton-Tongue Toffees.

“We told you to get rid of the lot! Empty your pockets, go on, both of you!”

It was an unpleasant scene; the twins had evidently been trying to smuggle as many toffees out of the house as possible, and it was only by using her Summoning Charm that Mrs. Weasley managed to find them all.

“Accio! Accio! Accio!” she shouted, and toffees zoomed from all sorts of unlikely places, including the lining of George’s jacket and the turn-ups of Fred’s jeans.

“We spent six months developing those!” Fred shouted at his mother as she threw the toffees away.

“Oh a fine way to spend six months!” she shrieked. “No wonder you didn’t get more O.W.L.s!”

All in all, the atmosphere was not very friendly as they took their departure. Mrs. Weasley was still glowering as she kissed Mr. Weasley on the cheek, though not nearly as much as the twins, who had each hoisted their rucksacks onto their backs and walked out without a word to her.

“Well, have a lovely time,” said Mrs. Weasley, “and behave yourselves,” she called after the twins’ retreating backs, but they did not look back or answer. “I’ll send Bill, Charlie, and Percy along around midday,” Mrs. Weasley said to Mr. Weasley, as he, [Y/N], Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny set off across the dark yard after Fred and George.

It was chilly and the moon was still out. Only a dull, greenish tinge along the horizon to their right showed that daybreak was drawing closer.

Harry had sped up to walk with Mr. Weasley, which left him with his other good friends. Ron was humming quietly to himself, before Hermione noticed [Y/N].

“So, [Y/N]… how was your summer?”

He frowned. He didn’t end up writing to any of his friends, received news about how his soul was linked to that of terribly dark magic, but he did end up getting all of his work done.

“Well, I did get all of the holiday work finished. I didn’t have the greatest time, but I was productive,” he reasoned.

Hermione paused for a moment. “You didn’t write to me or Ron or Harry at all.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry, ‘Mione, just lots of stuff on my mind.”

She paused again. “Did you write to anybody else?”

He tilted his head, confused. “No, why? Who would I have written to if not one of you three?”

She paused a third time, a longer pause as she looked at Ron, as if debating if she should continue.

She then shrugged, an over exaggerated shrug, like she were trying too hard to pretend she didn’t care.

“I don’t know. Maybe Neville or Pansy or something.”

He recoiled as if he’d been slapped.

“Excuse me?” he blurted, so abruptly and sharp that Fred and George turned around to look at him for a moment.

He quieted immediately before turning back to Hermione, his voice a hurried yet hushed whisper.

“She is not someone I’d ever write to, nor is she anything but a persistent bother!” he whispered, the redness in his face masking his brown skintone.

Hermione looked at him carefully. “I’ve already told you, [Y/N], you need not lie to me,” she urged softly.

“I’m not lying about anything!” he exclaimed, arms crossed tight over his chest.

Ron slapped him on the back, clearly pleased with [Y/N]’s response. “You, see? I told you he wouldn’t. Him and Pansy? That’s like you and Draco, Hermione. Completely ridiculous.”

[Y/N] did not agree with that at all. Pansy was nowhere near as vile as Draco. But he let it slide, considering he wanted Hermione to believe Ron’s conclusion rather than her own.

Hermione clearly held the same stance that Pansy wasn’t half the loathsome menace that Malfoy was.

“Well, I’m not very fond of Pansy, but I don’t think anybody is worse than Malfoy, truly,” said Hermione, a thoughtful expression etched across her face.

Ron scoffed. “I think she’s just a girl version of Malfoy.”

That did not resonate well with [Y/N].

[Y/N] forced a laugh. It sounded wrong in his throat, too brittle to be convincing. “She’s not that bad,” he muttered, instantly regretting it when both Ron and Hermione turned toward him with identical expressions of intrigue.

Hermione’s brow arched, the corner of her mouth twitching with what could only be described as triumph. “Oh? I thought she was a ‘persistent bother,’” she quoted back sweetly.

Ron, however, looked betrayed. “Wait—wait a second. Are you saying you think she’s nice?”

“No,” [Y/N] said quickly. Too quickly. “I didn’t say that. I’m just saying… people change. Maybe she’s not as awful as she used to be. She doesn’t call me Muddy anymore.”

Hermione gave a heavy, indignant sigh. “She never had any restriction of the sort for me.”

Ron groaned dramatically, throwing his head back. “This is madness. First my mum takes my brothers toffee, and now you’re defending Pansy Parkinson?”

“I’m not defending her!” [Y/N] insisted, but the blush was creeping back, hot and undeniable. “I actually find her to be very unpleasant. I’m just saying… she’s complicated.”

That, at least, was true.

Hermione gave him a long, quiet look. Not accusatory—just understanding in that infuriating way of hers.

“She was always different with you,” she said after a moment, her voice softer now. “Even last year. I noticed.”

[Y/N] didn’t reply at first. He was busy pretending to look at his shoes. “She’s still smug and rude and evil and bothersome.”

But Hermione, for some reason, refused to drop it. “She hexed me last year because I hit you on accident. Do you remember that?”

“I never asked her to do that.”

“But it doesn’t change that she did it. You might not like her at all, but she, at the very least cares about you.”

At the back of [Y/N]’s mind, was the memory of his last interaction with Pansy. He remembered her lips on his cheek, her hurried and hushed goodbye, a bittersweet response to him asking her to write.

[Y/N] kept silent. Hermione did not.

“Well, I know I’ve said this before, but I wouldn’t judge you. Honestly.”

Ron snorted. “I would.”

“Well, it’s a good thing that there’s nothing to be judged then, isn’t it?”

Hermione didn’t push anymore. Which was good, because looking at the hill in front of them, it seemed like they wouldn’t have the breath to continue any talk about Pansy for now.

The mountainous hill was more than daunting. [Y/N] stumbled into rabbit holes, and his footing kept slipping on thick tuffets of grass.

[Y/N] made it over the hill first. He’d been tired before, and this was far from one of the hardest things he’s done, so he simply kept pushing like he always had.

“Whew,” panted Mr. Weasley, taking off his glasses and wiping them on his sweater.

“Well, we’ve made good time — we’ve got ten minutes. ...”

Hermione came over the crest of the hill last, clutching a stitch in her side.

“Now we just need the Portkey,” said Mr. Weasley, replacing his glasses and squinting around at the ground. “It won’t be big... Come on...”

They spread out, searching. [Y/N]’s eyes scanned what felt like a near infinite amount of blades of grass. They had only been at it for a couple of minutes, until a shout cut through the air.

“Over here, Arthur! Over here, son, we’ve got it!”

Two tall figures were silhouetted against the starry sky on the other side of the hilltop.

“Amos!” said Mr. Weasley, smiling as he strode over to the man who had shouted. The rest of them followed.

Mr. Weasley was shaking hands with a ruddy-faced wizard with a scrubby brown beard, who was holding a moldy- looking old boot in his other hand.

“This is Amos Diggory, everyone,” said Mr. Weasley. “He works for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. And I think you know his son, Cedric?”

Cedric Diggory was an extremely handsome boy of around seventeen. He was Captain and Seeker of the Hufflepuff House Quidditch team at Hogwarts.

“Hi,” said Cedric, looking around at them all.

Everybody said hi back except Fred and George, who merely nodded. They had never quite forgiven Cedric for beating their team, Gryffindor, in the first Quidditch match of the previous year. [Y/N] thought it to be childish. The purpose of the game was fun, why play if it would cause ill feelings?

“Long walk, Arthur?” Cedric’s father asked.

“Not too bad,” said Mr. Weasley. “We live just on the other side of the village there. You?”

“Had to get up at two, didn’t we, Ced? I tell you, I’ll be glad when he’s got his Apparition test. Still... not complaining... Quidditch World Cup, wouldn’t miss it for a sackful of Galleons — and the tickets cost about that. Mind you, looks like I got off easy....” Amos Diggory peered good- naturedly around at the three Weasley boys, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny. “All these yours, Arthur?”

“Oh no, only the redheads,” said Mr. Weasley, pointing out his children. “This is Hermione, friend of Ron’s — and Harry, another friend —”

“Merlin’s beard,” said Amos Diggory, his eyes widening. “Harry? Harry Potter?”
“Er — yeah,” said Harry.

[Y/N] scoffed. The adult man was looking at Harry, who was a 15 year old boy, as if he were the second coming of some omnipotent deity. He didn’t pride himself on being good at reading people, but even [Y/N] could tell Harry was uncomfortable.

“Ced’s talked about you, of course,” said Amos Diggory. “Told us all about playing against you last year. ... I said to him, I said — Ced, that’ll be something to tell your grandchildren, that will. ... You beat Harry Potter!”

Harry clearly couldn’t think of any reply to this, so he remained silent. Fred and George were both scowling again. Cedric looked slightly embarrassed.

“Harry fell off his broom, Dad,” he muttered. “I told you ... it was an accident. ...”

“Yes, but you didn’t fall off, did you?” roared Amos genially, slapping his son on his back. “Always modest, our Ced, always the gentleman ... but the best man won, I’m sure Harry’d say the same, wouldn’t you, eh? One falls off his broom, one stays on, you don’t need to be a genius to tell which one’s the better flier!”

“Oh, well Cedric must’ve won the Quidditch cup, then, yes? The game winning score?” said [Y/N].

Amos faltered, his grin stuttering at the boy’s words. “Erm… who… exactly are you?”

Mr. Weasley quickly stepped in. “Now, now, you two. Amos, this is a friend of Ron’s, [Y/N], he’s from Canada.”

Amos eyed [Y/N] suspiciously. [Y/N] returned it with a glare.

“Must be nearly time,” said Mr. Weasley quickly, pulling out his watch again. “Do you know whether we’re waiting for any more, Amos?”

“No, the Lovegoods have been there for a week already and the Fawcetts couldn’t get tickets,” said Mr. Diggory. “There aren’t any more of us in this area, are there?”

“Not that I know of,” said Mr. Weasley. “Yes, it’s a minute off... We’d better get ready...”

He looked around at Harry and Hermione.
“You just need to touch the Portkey, that’s all, a finger will do —”

With difficulty, owing to their bulky backpacks, the nine of them crowded around the old boot held out by Amos Diggory.

They all stood there, in a tight circle, as a chill breeze swept over the hilltop. Nobody spoke. It suddenly occurred to Harry how odd this would look if a Muggle were to walk up here now… nine people, two of them grown men, clutching this manky old boot in the semidarkness, waiting…

“Three...” muttered Mr. Weasley, one eye still on his watch, “two... one...”

It happened immediately: [Y/N] felt as though someone had put their hand through his midsection and reached just behind his navel and pulled him irresistibly forward. His feet left the ground; he could feel Ron on the right side of him, his shoulders banging into his; they were all speeding forward in a howl of wind and swirling color; his forefinger was stuck to the boot as though it was pulling him magnetically onward and then —
His feet slammed into the ground; Ron staggered into him and he fell over; the Portkey hit the ground near his head with a heavy thud.

[Y/N] looked up. Mr. Weasley, Mr. Diggory, and Cedric were still standing, though looking very windswept; everybody else was on the ground.

“Seven past five from Stoatshead Hill,” said a voice.

Chapter Text

[Y/N] had come to the conclusion that Muggle methods of travelling beat Wizards ten to one. Slower, yes, but about 10 times less unpleasant. He felt a soft thud, and the weight of something falling on top of him. The ‘something’, which he realized to be Hermione, quickly scrambled off of him, her scarlet red face refusing to make eye contact with him.

“Sorry… sorry…” she muttered.

He got up slowly, willing the ache out of his joints and moving slowly, taking care not to disturb the nauseous sensation in his stomach. Something small and black had fallen out of his bag, which he quickly noticed to be Riffle, his pet Niffler. He’d honestly completely forgotten about the small beast, and he bolted forward to scoop him up in his hands, gently nuzzling the Niffler against the side of his face, which Riffle clearly was pleased with, cooing and clattering against him.

When he looked in front of him, [Y/N] saw two men that looked very bitter and angry. They also looked just as silly as Mr. Weasley did with their Muggle imitations.

“Morning, Basil,” Mr. Weasley greeted the man in the kilt and poncho, handing the boot to him. The man was holding a thick roll of parchment and threw the boot into what seemed to be a large box of other portkeys.

“Hello there, Arthur,” said Basil wearily.“Not on duty, eh? It’s all right for some... We’ve been here all night... You’d better get out of the way, we’ve got a big party coming in from the Black Forest at five-fifteen. Hang on, I’ll find your campsite. ... Weasley .. Weasley...” He consulted his parchment list. “About a quarter of a mile’s walk over there, first field you come to. Site manager’s called Mr. Roberts. Diggory… second field... ask for Mr. Payne.”

“Thanks, Basil,” said Mr. Weasley, and he beckoned everyone to follow him.

They set off across the deserted moor, unable to make out much through the mist. After about twenty minutes, a small stone cottage next to a gate swam into view. Just past it, [Y/N] could see the silhouettes of hundreds of tiny tents. They said goodbye to the Diggorys and approached the cottage door.

A man was standing in the doorway, looking out at the tents. This man was very clearly the only authentic Muggle he’d seen today. When he heard their footsteps, he turned his head to look at them.

“Morning!” said Mr. Weasley brightly.

“Morning,” said the Muggle.

“Would you be Mr. Roberts?”

“Aye, I would,” said Mr. Roberts. “And who’re you?”

“Weasley — two tents, booked a couple of days ago?”

“Aye,” said Mr. Roberts, consulting a list tacked to the door.

“You’ve got a space up by the wood there. Just the one night?”

“That’s it,” said Mr. Weasley.

“You’ll be paying now, then?” said Mr. Roberts.

“Ah — right — certainly —” said Mr. Weasley. He retreated a short distance from the cottage and beckoned Harry toward him. “Help me, Harry,” he muttered, pulling a roll of Muggle money from his pocket and starting to peel the notes apart. “This one’s a — a — a ten? Ah yes, I see the little number on it now. ... So this is a five?”

“A twenty,” Harry corrected him quietly.

[Y/N] was growing annoyed. His face was already hot from the walk up the hill to the portkey, then walking to this tent, he was getting very worked up. He snatched the notes from Mr. Weasley’s hand.

“How much does he need?” the boy snapped.

“Erm, 75.”

[Y/N] counted the money quickly, before slapping the money into Mr. Roberts’ hand.

“Oh, thank you, [Y/N].“

“Mhm.”

“You foreign?” said Mr. Roberts as Mr. Weasley held his hand out for the change. He wasn’t going to get any; [Y/N] had done his math correctly.

“Foreign?” repeated Mr. Weasley, puzzled.

“You’re not the first one who’s had trouble with money,” said Mr. Roberts, scrutinizing Mr. Weasley closely.

“I had two try and pay me with great gold coins the size of hubcaps ten minutes ago.”

“Did you really?” said Mr. Weasley nervously.

Mr. Roberts rummaged around in a tin for some change. “Never been this crowded,” he said suddenly, looking out over the misty field again. “Hundreds of pre-bookings. People usually just turn up...”

“Is that right?” said Mr. Weasley, his hand held out for his change, but Mr. Roberts didn’t give it to him.

“Aye,” he said thoughtfully. “People from all over. Loads of foreigners. And not just foreigners. Weirdos, you know? There’s a bloke walking ’round in a kilt and a poncho.”

“Shouldn’t he?” said Mr. Weasley anxiously.

“It’s like some sort of ... I dunno ... like some sort of rally,” said Mr. Roberts. “They all seem to know each other. Like a big party.”

At that moment, a wizard in plus-fours appeared out of thin air next to Mr. Roberts’s front door.

“Obliviate!” he said sharply, pointing his wand at Mr. Roberts.

The man’s eyelids drooped, and his eyes suddenly shifted out of focus. It reminded [Y/N] of when he had seen Ron get stunned by Peter Pettigrew, or when Harry got knocked out after falling off his broom last year. When he placidly gave Mr. Weasley his map and change, he realized that the spell had very clearly erased his short term memory. He’d make sure to remember that.

The newly arrived wizard accompanied them as they walked toward the gate to the campsite. He looked exhausted. His chin was prickled with stubble and his eyes had deep purple shadows under them. He came with them, and whispered something, before disapparating.

The group traipsed up the hill, weaving between large rows off tents, most of which looked muggle, while some of them looked outright ridiculous.

“Always the same,” said Mr. Weasley, smiling. “We can’t resist showing off when we get together. Ah, here we are, look, this is us.”

They had reached the very edge of the wood at the top of the field, and here was an empty space, with a small sign hammered into the ground that read WEEZLY.

[Y/N] stood over the sign, head tilted. He looked at Ron.

“They spelt your name wrong.”

“Really? I didn’t notice,” he spat sarcastically.

“You don’t care?”

“Why would I? It’s just a sign, it doesn’t matter.”

Silence.

“I hate when people spell my name wrong. Or say it wrong,” [Y/N] said, almost as if he were talking to himself.

“It doesn’t matter to me. I’ve been getting called Weaslbee by Malfoy for the last three years. It’s normal,” Ron reasoned, his eyes trained on the ground.

[Y/N] frowned. Ron had likely noticed how sad he sounded, as his voice quickly brightened up, his expression cheery now.

“It’s not like it’s something rude, anyway. Just someone made a mistake,” Ron added.

[Y/N] supposed that was right. His train of thought was cut off by Mr. Weasley stating that they’d have to put these tents up by hand.

Excuse me?

Absolutely not.

[Y/N] had been tortured for 9 months as a ten year old boy, solely because of the magic in his veins. And now, after enduring these horrors, he wasn’t even allowed to reap their benefits and had to put up tents with his bare hands in the sweltering heat.

“What? No, why aren’t we putting them up with magic?” he said, his brows knitted together with confusion and disdain.

Mr. Weasley only laughed. “Ah, well, too many Muggles around, you see. Mr. Robert needs upwards of 10 memory charms a day to keep him well. Anti-Muggle security, you see.”

That didn’t make sense at all. “Well, sir, why not just use a disillusioning charm—“

“Disillusionment charm,” Hermione corrected.

“—to make it so they don’t see?” he pondered. [Y/N] thought Mr. Weasley was just trying to act like a Muggle for his own personal joy. Which, to him and his family, who he thought obviously saw Muggles as below them, was very irritating. Because [Y\N] had Muggle family that he loved, and the idea of someone acting in such a way made his stomach twist in a way he couldn’t describe.

Mr. Weasley shuffled his feet, glancing down the slope toward the clustering Muggle and Wizard families. “That would be tidier, no question. But the Ministry’s guidelines for this event are very strict— any spell that produces visible distortion, even for a heartbeat, is off-limits near campers. They’re worried about telescopic lenses and— well, you know how Muggle cameras keep getting better.”

Hermione nodded. “Exactly. And the disillusionment charm would hide what we’re doing, but it wouldn’t explain the 10 people with pegs and poles all disappearing out of thin air, then reappearing with the tents up.”

[Y/N] opened his mouth to argue, but George clapped a broad hand on his shoulder. “Look on the bright side. Manual labour is like hardship. It builds character. Besides, Dad’s charmed the tent poles to be lighter than they look.”

Well, if that built character, [Y/N] had enough character for everyone at the World Cup tenfold.

But alas, they couldn’t be convinced, and [Y/N] began helping them put the tents up, disgruntled that he had to use magic for it.

It was easy enough; [Y/N] was fairly competent, and Ron was as well, but that made it no less frustrating or tedious. It was ridiculously hot, so much so that it was enough to put both Ron and [Y/N] in a mood. Ron huffed, frequently kicking tufts of grass with frustration, while [Y/N] let out growls of irritation in intervals whenever the sun beat down on him too hard.

But eventually, they were able to get it done. When he stood back, [Y/N] looked at the two tents they’d managed to put up. They were quite small, both of them. Surely not enough to fit everyone once Bill an Charlie arrived.

Undeterred, Mr. Weasley got onto his hands and knees and crawled in first.

“Might be a bit cramped,” he called to them, “but we should make do just fine. Come on, then.”

Harry went in. Than Ron and Hermione. It was [Y/N]’s turn to go in, and he was unsure how they’d been able to fit in there. But when he bent down and crawled in head first, the sight that faced him was astonishing.

The inside of the tent looked like he had just entered an old timey flat with three bedrooms, a bathroom and a kitchen.

“Well, it’s not for long,” said Mr. Weasley as he dapped a small cloth on the bald spot on his head as he looked at the bedroom with four bunk beds. “Borrowed this from Perkins at the office. Doesn’t camp much anymore, poor fellow, he’s got lumbago.

Mr. Weasley picked up an old ratty kettle and opened it, staring inside of it. He shook it a bit, before saying, “We’ll need water. There’s a tap marked on the map that the Muggle gave us,” he said, turning to the quartet of them, “why don’t you four go and get some water while we get wood for a fire.”

Once again, [Y/N]’s attention was piqued by Mr. Weasley’s ridiculousness. Ron spoke up first.

“A fire? But we’ve got an oven!” he declared.

But Mr. Weasley tutted, pointing a finger at his youngest son. “Anti-Muggle security, Ron!” he said, his face dropping with anticipation. “Real muggles cook with fires when they camp outside. I’ve seen it.”

[Y/N] frowned. “But we can just keep it inside the tent. Then the only way for someone to see it is if they walk in. And if a muggle walked into a 8 by 8 tent that transformed into a three bedroom flat the second he stepped inside, the oven is the least of our worries.”

Mr. Weasley’s eyes twinkled—half exasperation, half delight at the debate. “Yes, yes, but imagine the Daily Prophet headline if someone caught even a whiff of enchantment out here … ‘International Statute Breached at World Cup!’ — and our dear Perkins would never forgive me if his tent was seized as evidence.” He clapped the kettle shut with finality. “Water first, firewood second. Off you go.”

Ron groaned but hefted a dented tin pail from a hook by the doorway. Hermione grabbed the canvas-fold map, already orienting herself toward the little blue water-spout symbol. Harry followed, amused. [Y/N] lingered, arms folded.

Mr. Weasley lowered his voice. “Look, lad, I know the rules feel… silly, after everything. But sometimes we jump through hoops not for ourselves, but so the rest of the world never has to learn why we needed the hoops in the first place.” He held [Y/N]’s gaze until the tension in [Y/N]’s shoulders eased, just a fraction. “All right?”

A reluctant nod. Then [Y/N] ducked back through the canvas flap into the blinding sunlight.

Now that the sun had risen more, and the mist had began to lift, they could more clearly see the city of tiny tents that peppered the field.

Ron kicked another clump of grass. “Bet Viktor Krum doesn’t have to fetch his own water.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Viktor Krum is probably in a Ministry-charmed pavilion the size of Hogwarts. And anyway, the Bulgarian Minister’s making him sign autographs for half the Balkans—”

Her words cut off as a chorus of shrieks erupted ahead. A gaggle of small children tore across the path, chased by a cluster of rubber ducks that were, inexplicably, belching purple bubbles. One duck careened into Ron’s leg and rebounded with an indignant squeak.

Harry grinned. “Looks like your brothers didn’t lose all of their joke stuff, Ron.”

But [Y/N] wasn’t watching the ducks. Off to the side, half-hidden behind a faded Union Jack tent, two wizards in dark-green robes argued in low, heated tones. There was a flash of something silver at one man’s cuff—serpentine, unmistakable.

Slytherin insignia. And not the polite, house-pride kind sold in Quality Quidditch Supplies—older, sharper. Pure-blood registry vintage.

A chill slid under the midsummer sun. Nine months in captivity had taught [Y/N] to read small signs the way other people read headlines.

Here and there adult wizards and witches were emerging from their tents and starting to cook breakfast. Some, with furtive looks around them, conjured fires with their wands; others were striking matches with dubious looks on their faces, as though sure this couldn’t work. Three African wizards sat in serious conversation, all of them wearing long white robes and roasting what looked like a rabbit on a bright purple fire, while a group of middle-aged American witches sat gossiping happily beneath a spangled banner stretched between their tents that read: THE SALEM WITCHES’ INSTITUTE.

Harry caught snatches of conversation in strange languages from the inside of tents they passed, and though he couldn’t understand a word, the tone of every single voice was excited.

“Er — is it my eyes, or has everything gone green?” said Ron.

It wasn’t just Ron’s eyes. They had walked into a patch of tents that were all covered with a thick growth of shamrocks, so that it looked as though small, oddly shaped hillocks had sprouted out of the earth. Grinning faces could be seen under those that had their flaps open. Then, from behind them, they heard their names.

“Harry! Ron! Hermione! [Y/N]!”

It was Seamus Finnigan, their fellow Gryffindor fourth year. He was sitting in front of his own shamrock-covered tent, with a sandy-haired woman who had to be his mother, and his best friend, Dean Thomas, also of Gryffindor.

“Like the decorations?” said Seamus, grinning. “The Ministry’s not too happy.”

“Ah, why shouldn’t we show our colors?” said Mrs. Finnigan. “You should see what the Bulgarians have got dangling all over their tents. You’ll be supporting Ireland, of course?” she added, eyeing Harry, Ron, and Hermione beadily.

Seamus turned to [Y/N] then. “Your favourite team’s probably Canada, then, yeah? They won the last cup, you know.”

Mrs. Finnigan definitely did not like that. She gawked at him incredulously. “Absolutely not! Why would anybody cheer for a team unlike Ireland’s?”

He cleared his throat. “Well, I’m from Canada.”

“Well, you’re here now, and Canada isn’t playing in the World Cup Final, are they?” She said, her voice tinged with passive aggressive

When they had assured her that they were indeed supporting Ireland, they set off again, though, as Ron said, “Like we’d say anything else surrounded by that lot.”

A low chuckle came from [Y/N], “Did you see her face when I told her I’m from Canada? She was going to bite my head off!”

The four of them all laughed. Real, hearty, childish laughter. The type that [Y/N] had been deprived of for the past months. The type that made everything just a little bit lighter.

“I wonder what the Bulgarians have got dangling all over their tents?” said Hermione.

“Let’s go and have a look,” said Harry, pointing to a large patch of tents upheld, where the Bulgarian flag — white, green, and red — was fluttering in the breeze.
The tents here had not been bedecked with plant life, but each and every one of them had the same poster attached to it, a poster of a very surly face with heavy black eyebrows. The picture was, of course, moving, but all it did was blink and scowl.

“Krum,” said Ron quietly.

“What?” said Hermione.

“Krum!” said Ron. “Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker!”

“He looks really grumpy,” said Hermione, looking around at the many Krums blinking and scowling at them.

“Really grumpy?” Ron raised his eyes to the heavens. “Who cares what he looks like? He’s unbelievable. He’s really young too. Only just eighteen or something. He’s a genius, you wait until tonight, you’ll see.”

[Y/N] scowled at the quidditch star. He didn’t like the look of him, not one bit. He couldn’t place his finger on it, though.

There was already a small queue for the tap in the corner of the field. The four of them joined it, right behind a pair of men who were having a heated argument. One of them was a very old wizard who was wearing a long flowery nightgown. The other was clearly a Ministry wizard; he was holding out a pair of pinstriped trousers and almost crying with exasperation.

“Just put them on, Archie, there’s a good chap. You can’t walk around like that, the Muggle at the gate’s already getting suspicious —”

“I bought this in a Muggle shop,” said the old wizard stubbornly. “Muggles wear them.”

“Muggle women wear them, Archie, not the men, they wear these,” said the Ministry wizard, and he brandished the pinstriped trousers.

“I’m not putting them on,” said old Archie in indignation. “I like a healthy breeze ’round my privates, thanks.”

Hermione was nearly red in the face with giggles, so much so that she had to duck out of line for a moment, only returning when Archie had left.

Walking more slowly now, because of the weight of the water, they made their way back through the campsite. Here and there, they saw more familiar faces: other Hogwarts students with their families. Oliver Wood, the old captain of Harry’s House Quidditch team, who had just left Hogwarts, dragged Harry over to his parents’ tent to introduce him, and told him excitedly that he had just been signed to the Puddlemere United reserve team. Next they were hailed by Ernie Macmillan, a Hufflepuff fourth year, and a little farther on they saw Cho Chang, a very pretty girl who played Seeker on the Ravenclaw team. She waved and smiled at Harry, who slopped quite a lot of water down his front as he waved back.

[Y/N] wasn’t looking for her, but that didn’t change the fact that he found her all the same.

He was just trudging back from the taps with two heavy buckets of water balanced between his hands, Riffle poking his fuzzy little nose out from the neckline of his jumper and sneezing at the smoke from a nearby campfire. His arms ached, his trainers were damp, and he was debating whether or not it was worth the hassle to enchant the buckets and risk a Ministry slap on the wrist for underage magic.

Then he saw her.

She was farther up the path, stepping delicately around a patch of uneven grass, her green and silver scarf knotted neatly at her throat even in the warmth of late August. Her black boots were spotless. Her hair was twisted up in a dark, gleaming knot, and she walked with her usual sharp grace, flanked by Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis, both of whom were chattering animatedly.

Pansy wasn’t.

She was just… there. Chin high, eyes distant, lips pressed into that same unreadable line he remembered from the platform. The line she wore when she was pretending things didn’t hurt.

[Y/N] froze.

He stood, the buckets of water dipping precariously in his grip as he stared. She hadn’t seen him yet.

She looked exactly the same. No, not exactly. Her posture was stiffer. Her eyes didn’t flit around the way they used to, scanning everything with sharp curiosity. Now, they stayed straight ahead, like she was walking toward something she didn’t want to reach.

Like she didn’t want to be here at all.

Daphne laughed at something, bumping her shoulder lightly against Pansy’s. Pansy offered a tight smile in return, but didn’t say anything.

It wasn’t until Riffle let out a low squeak of protest against the cold bucket handle pressing into his side that her head turned slightly.

Her eyes landed on him.

And just like that, the world narrowed.

For a second, nothing moved. Not the trees, not the crowd, not even the flags flapping in the distant breeze above the Ministry tents. Just the two of them. Staring.

Her mouth parted—barely. Her fingers twitched at her sides, like she wasn’t sure whether to wave, to turn away, or to pretend she hadn’t seen him.

[Y/N] didn’t move.

He couldn’t. The weight in his arms was nothing compared to the one that dropped into his chest.

“[Y/N]?” Harry called, a few steps ahead of him.

Hermione took a step toward him, following his gaze. “What is he… oh.”

Ron and Harry were still confused.

Pansy looked at him like he was a memory she didn’t know how to carry. Like she hadn’t meant to see him again, not here, not now, not when she couldn’t explain that kiss on the platform or the ache in his eyes.

And then she turned, said something softly to Daphne, and kept walking.

[Y/N] stood in the path long after she’d gone, the water in the buckets sloshing gently with the motion of his heartbeat.

He didn’t call after her. Didn’t follow.

Didn’t even know what he’d say.

But he knew, without a doubt, that she’d seen him.

And that, for better or worse, still meant something.

Hermione stared at him, head titled. He hated when she looked at him like that. Like he was a challenging school problem she was trying to solve.

“‘Spect they go to some foreign school,” said Ron. “I know there are others. Never met anyone who went to one, though. Bill had a penfriend at a school in Brazil... this was years and years ago... and he wanted to go on an exchange trip but Mum and Dad couldn’t afford it. His penfriend got all offended when he said he wasn’t going and sent him a cursed hat. It made his ears shrivel up.”

They all laughed. [Y/N] imagined it, Percy absolutely mortified with shrivelled up ears. “That… that’s got to be some sort of crime, no?” he said inbetween laughs.

Here’s a revised version of the scene with [Y/N] naturally integrated, giving him agency, dialogue, and subtle emotional nuance reflecting his backstory tied to Barty Crouch Jr.:

“You’ve been ages,” said George when they finally got back to the Weasleys’ tents.

“Met a few people,” said Ron, setting the water down. “You not got that fire started yet?”

“Dad’s having fun with the matches,” said Fred.

Mr. Weasley was crouched beside the pile of kindling, a fresh match snapping between his fingers.

“Oops!” he chuckled as he lit it and promptly dropped it. “Muggles have a peculiar genius.”

[Y/N] knelt beside him, raising an eyebrow. “You want me to give it a go, sir?”

“Oh—yes, thank you, [Y/N],” Mr. Weasley said, clearly relieved.

[Y/N] struck a match cleanly and held it steady to the tinder. “It’s all in the wrist,” he said dryly, watching the fire catch.

“Show-off,” Ron muttered with a grin.

At last, the fire was lit. As they waited for it to heat, Ministry officials hurried past, nodding at Mr. Weasley.

“That was Cuthbert Mockridge, Head of the Goblin Liaison Office. … There’s Gilbert Wimple—had those horns for months now… Oh—Arnie Peasegood, Obliviator… and those two? Bode and Croaker. Unspeakables.”

“They’re what?” Harry asked.

“Department of Mysteries. No idea what they’re actually up to,” Mr. Weasley said.

[Y/N] glanced after them, jaw slightly clenched. “That figures,” he muttered, not really intending to be heard.

Hermione looked over, sensing the shift in his tone. “You all right?”

“Fine. Just… not a fan of how ‘no idea’ seems to be a pattern with the Ministry.”

The others didn’t press.

They had just started cooking eggs and sausages when Bill, Charlie, and Percy emerged from the trees.

“Just Apparated, Dad,” Percy said, puffing out his chest. “Ah, excellent, lunch!”

Mr. Weasley jumped to his feet as a loud voice rang out.

“Aha! The man of the moment! Ludo!”

Ludo Bagman bounded toward them, resplendent in yellow-and-black robes with a giant wasp on his chest, looking like a man who never quite left the Quidditch pitch behind.

“Arthur, old man! What a day!”

As Bagman rambled about weather and odds, [Y/N] hung back, crossing his arms, watching with a cautious eye. The man radiated good cheer—but in the same way a dodgy card shark might at a Muggle pub.

Mr. Weasley introduced everyone. When he got to [Y/N], Bagman gave him a curious look.

“Don’t believe I’ve seen you before?”

“[Y/N] [L/N],” he said flatly. “Just here for the game.”

Bagman grinned. “Always room for another fan! Fancy a flutter?”

“No thanks,” [Y/N] replied, folding his arms tighter. “I’ve got enough bad bets in my past.”

Fred and George, undeterred, pooled their coins.

“We’ll bet thirty-seven Galleons, fifteen Sickles, three Knuts that Ireland wins but Krum gets the Snitch. And a fake wand for good measure!”

Bagman roared with laughter when the wand squawked into a rubber chicken.

Percy looked scandalized. Mr. Weasley looked defeated. Bagman looked delighted.

Bagman flopped onto the grass. “Couldn’t do me a brew, I suppose? I’m keeping an eye out for Barty Crouch. My opposite number’s being difficult. Crouch’ll fix it—man speaks a hundred and fifty languages.”

At the name, [Y/N] froze mid-bite. His fork hovered in the air. Hermione noticed first.

Percy nearly vibrated with excitement. “He speaks over two hundred! Mermish and Gobbledegook and Troll—”

“Anyone can speak Troll,” Fred muttered. “Just point and grunt.”

[Y/N] set his fork down, his appetite gone.

“Something wrong?” Hermione asked under her breath.

“I just don’t like hearing that name tossed around like he’s some kind of hero,” [Y/N] said quietly.

Hermione reached out and touched his sleeve gently. “I know.”

Bagman, oblivious, accepted his tea.

“Any word on Bertha Jorkins?” Mr. Weasley asked.

“Not a dicky bird!” Bagman said cheerfully.

[Y/N] looked away toward the distant fire in the sky. Another Ministry cover-up in the making, he figured. Same patterns. Different name.

He didn’t trust Bagman.

And he sure as hell didn’t trust anyone named Crouch.

“Barty Crouch keeps saying that,” said Bagman, his round eyes widening innocently, “but we really can’t spare anyone at the moment. Oh — talk of the devil! Barty!”

A wizard had just Apparated at their fireside, and [Y/N] flinched almost imperceptibly at the name — not enough for most to notice, but Hermione, who’d been sitting beside him, definitely did. She glanced at him sideways, brows faintly drawn. [Y/N] said nothing, but his jaw tightened.

The man who appeared was the very picture of precision and control. Barty Crouch’s dark, polished shoes crunched lightly over the grass as he stepped forward, posture stiff and perfectly upright, like someone held together by pure will and bureaucracy. [Y/N] watched him like he would a sleeping wolf — still, but entirely alert.

“Pull up a bit of grass, Barty,” Bagman called out brightly, patting the ground beside him.

“No thank you, Ludo,” Mr. Crouch replied, voice clipped. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. The Bulgarians are insisting we add another twelve seats to the Top Box.”

“Oh is that what they’re after?” Bagman said, scratching his head. “I thought the chap was asking to borrow a pair of tweezers. Bit of a strong accent.”

“Mr. Crouch!” said Percy, breathless and visibly vibrating with admiration as he executed an awkward half-bow. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Oh,” said Mr. Crouch, glancing at Percy with a flicker of vague confusion, “Yes — thank you, Weatherby.”

Fred snorted audibly into his cup. George covered his mouth. [Y/N] let out a low, under-his-breath chuckle, but it sounded a bit strained.

As Percy stumbled away with the kettle, [Y/N] stood and stepped back from the fire a little, just enough to put a few bodies between himself and Crouch. He didn’t look away, though. He was watching the man’s face, eyes shadowed by memory.

Harry noticed and moved to stand next to him. “Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

“I’m fine,” [Y/N] replied, voice low. “Just… watching.”

“Oh, and I’ve been wanting a word with you too, Arthur,” said Mr. Crouch, now speaking with Mr. Weasley. “Ali Bashir’s on the warpath. He wants a word with you about your embargo on flying carpets.”

Mr. Weasley sighed. “I sent him an owl just last week. Carpets are defined as Muggle artifacts under the Registry of Proscribed Charmable Objects, but will he listen?”

“I doubt it,” said Crouch, accepting the tea Percy handed him. “He’s desperate to export here.”

As the discussion continued, [Y/N] crossed his arms, still listening but now with a faint crease between his brows. The man’s voice — crisp, authoritative — it wasn’t his voice, not exactly. But it was close enough to stir something dark in [Y/N]’s chest. He felt his throat tighten.

Harry hadn’t taken his eyes off him. “It’s Crouch, isn’t it?” he asked, knowing what the answer to his question would be.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just… he has the same voice. The same posture. You know?”

Meanwhile, Bagman was babbling again. “Glad! Don’t know when I’ve had more fun. Still, it’s not like we haven’t got anything to look forward to, eh, Barty? Plenty left to organize, eh?”

“We agreed not to make the announcement until all the details—”

“Oh, details!” Bagman said, waving it off. “They’ve signed, haven’t they? I bet you anything these kids’ll know soon enough anyway. I mean, it’s happening at Hogwarts—”

“Ludo,” Crouch snapped, “we need to meet the Bulgarians. Thank you for the tea, Weatherby.”

As the two men Disapparated with twin cracks, the tension drained slightly from [Y/N]’s shoulders.

“What’s happening at Hogwarts, Dad?” asked Fred immediately.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Mr. Weasley said, smiling.

“It’s classified information,” Percy chimed in. “Mr. Crouch was quite right not to disclose it.”

“Oh shut up, Weatherby,” muttered Fred.

[Y/N] finally sat back down, staring into the fire. Ginny settled beside him, nudging his knee.

“What was that about?”

“Not now,” [Y/N] said quietly. “But later… maybe. Just… he reminded me.”

Maceo nodded, not pushing. Beside them, the fire crackled louder as the sun dipped past the tree line, and the last light of day was drowned out by the electric anticipation rippling through the campsite like static before a storm.

And somewhere in [Y/N]’s mind, a different fire flickered — the one from years ago, when Crouch’s son stood behind it, smiling with someone else’s face.

But he blinked, exhaled, and pushed it back. Not today. Not here.

A sense of excitement rose like a palpable cloud over the campsite as the afternoon wore on. By dusk, the summer air itself shimmered with anticipation. As the last gold of daylight bled out, the Ministry seemed to surrender to the inevitable — magic surged freely now, unhidden and humming from every tent, every wand-tip, every footstep. The Muggle façade had collapsed under the sheer scale of wizarding joy.

Salesmen began Apparating every few feet, their trays bursting with enchantments and novelties. There were luminous rosettes — green for Ireland, red for Bulgaria — that squealed the names of the players. Pointed green hats bounced with dancing shamrocks. Bulgarian scarves roared like lions, startling passersby. Flags waved their own arms and blasted national anthems. Tiny enchanted Firebolts zoomed around ankles, while collectible Quidditch figures strutted over outstretched palms, showing off like miniature celebrities.

Harry stopped, grinning, as he turned a corner and was nearly knocked over by a flying shamrock hat.

“Been saving my pocket money all summer for this,” Ron said, his eyes gleaming as he bought a dancing hat, a massive rosette, and—oddly—a miniature Viktor Krum figure.

Krum paced Ron’s palm like a sulky beetle, glaring up at the Irish rosette pinned to Ron’s chest.

“That’s bold,” [Y/N] said, stepping beside them, hands tucked in his jacket pockets. “Flying both flags, basically.”

“Krum’s the best Seeker in the world,” Ron replied defensively. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want Ireland to win.”

“Smart politics,” [Y/N] said with a faint smirk. “Keep your options open.”

“Wow, look at these!” Harry darted toward a cart stacked high with what looked like brass binoculars wrapped in knobs and dials.

“Omnioculars!” the salesman shouted. “Replay functions, slow motion, breakdown analysis! Ten Galleons!”

Ron winced, tugging off his hat. “Wish I hadn’t bought this now.”

Harry didn’t hesitate. “Three pairs,” he told the wizard.

“No — don’t—” Ron started, already blushing. “I’m not—”

“You’re not getting anything for Christmas for the next ten years,” Harry said firmly, pressing Omnioculars into both Ron and Hermione’s hands.

Ron’s ears turned scarlet, but he grinned. “Fair enough.”

“Oooh, thanks, Harry!” Hermione said brightly. “I’ll grab us some programs!”

[Y/N] took the last pair Harry offered him without a word, studying the device in his palm. He turned one of the dials and watched the lens flicker to life.

“This is insane,” he murmured, watching a playback of a practice match stored in the memory.

“You’ve never seen a professional match before?” Harry asked.

[Y/N] shook his head. “Not live. Closest I ever got was watching replays in some smuggled magazines.” His tone was quiet, almost reverent. “My dad would’ve lost his mind at this.”

The group walked back to their tents, moneybags lighter and arms full. Bill, Charlie, and Ginny were already geared up in green rosettes, and Mr. Weasley had an Irish flag slung over his shoulders like a cape. Fred and George looked uncharacteristically bare — no trinkets, no hats.

“They gave Bagman all their money,” [Y/N] murmured to Harry.

“I know. I’m worried too,” Harry replied under his breath.

Then, a deep, booming gong echoed through the trees, and every lantern in the forest sprang alight — red and green fire flaring into brilliance, forming a path through the woods toward the stadium.

“It’s time!” Mr. Weasley cried, eyes gleaming like a kid’s. “Come on, let’s go!”

As the group surged forward, following the blazing path, [Y/N] hung back a half-step, lifting his Omnioculars one last time. For a moment, he didn’t look like a boy watching a Quidditch match.

He looked like someone standing on the edge of something rare — joy without fear.

Then he lowered the lens and followed the others into the trees.

Chapter Text

With Riffle tucked under his arm, and his belongings in tow, Y/N followed after the group. He was quite happy, regardless of the big question mark that was his past, despite of the dark magic that seemingly bound him.

But of course, his friends couldn’t let him stay this way for long.

“Y/N,” Hermione said, trying to sound casual as they walked under a glowing banner that read Welcome to the Quidditch World Cup! in fourteen languages, “was that Pansy Parkinson we saw earlier?”

Y/N sighed—loudly. “Do we have to do this again?”

Ron snorted, kicking a rock off the path. “Well, I mean, she did look at you like she wanted to hex you.”

“She always looks like that,” Y/N muttered.

“I just didn’t know you two were still…” Hermione hesitated delicately. “Talking.”

“We’re not,” Y/N said flatly. “We haven’t spoken since June. She made that pretty clear at the station.”

Y/N came to an abrupt stop.

The three of them did too, startled.

“She kissed me, y’know,” he said, over his shoulder.

The silence that followed was immediate and catastrophic.

Harry nearly tripped over a root. “What?”

“What?!” Ron gasped.

“Was it on the mouth?” Hermione asked too quickly, and then flushed.

Y/N let out a bark of disbelief and stopped walking, forcing them all to halt again. He turned to them, eyebrows raised.

“No! Not that kind of kiss. It wasn’t—look, it wasn’t a snog, it wasn’t some grand romantic moment, it wasn’t anything, all right? It was on the cheek.”

That did little to lower the collective eyebrows.

“Right before summer,” Y/N said flatly. “At the train station. She was panicking, or angry, or maybe both. I asked if she’d write. She said she couldn’t. Then she kissed me, wouldn’t even look me in the eye, and walked away.”

Harry looked vaguely stricken. “That… sounds complicated.”

“No,” Y/N said. “It’s really not.”

They walked in silence for a moment, the glow of their group shortening for a moment.

“Did you want her to?” Hermione asked quietly. “Write to you, I mean?”

Y/N looked down at the forest floor, at the flickering shadows from the lanterns. “Doesn’t matter now.

There was a short silence.

“Well,” Ron said, “still mental.”

“Thanks,” Y/N muttered.

“No, I mean her. Who does that and then acts like you don’t exist?”

“I think she’s trying very hard not to disappoint her family,” Ginny said quietly.

Y/N didn’t respond to that. It was honestly the first time he had ever heard Ginny speak, and she’d managed to say something that stumped him more than any of his three friends had in the year he’d known them. He simply huffed and continued walking, hoping that this conversation was over.

It was not.

“I still say she’s mental,” Ron muttered under his breath. “Probably kissed you just to mess with your head.”

Hermione shot him a look but didn’t say anything. She glanced after Y/N, then back at Harry.

Y/N just sighed. “Yeah. Probably did.”

And ahead of them, Y/N kept walking toward the stadium, trying not to think about the way her lips had trembled. Or how his cheek had burned for hours after she left.

Eventually, they did get to the stadium.

It was enormous, so much so that Y/N could only see a fraction of it. So much so that the gold that gleamed along its walls created a nearly blinding glare if Y/N stood in the right spot and looked at the right place.

“Prime seats!” said the Ministry witch at the entrance when she checked their tickets. “Top Box! Straight upstairs, Arthur, and as high as you can go.”

The stairs into the stadium were carpeted in rich purple. They clambered upward with the rest of the crowd, which slowly filtered away through doors into the stands to their left and right. Mr. Weasley’s party kept climbing, and at last they reached the top of the staircase and found themselves in a small box, set at the highest point of the stadium and situated exactly halfway between the golden goal posts.

The amount of witches and wizards he saw filing into the stadium had to have been over a hundred thousand. A golden light gradually spread over anything in sight, and Y/N had no idea regarding its origin. The field looked smooth as velvet from their lofty position. At either end of the field stood three goal hoops, fifty feet high; right opposite them, a little below his eye level, was a gigantic blackboard.

The Bluebottle: A Broom for All the Family — safe, reliable, and with Built-in Anti-Burglar Buzzer... Mrs. Skower’s All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover: No Pain, No Stain!... Gladrags Wizardwear — London, Paris, Hogsmeade...

Y/N was pulled from his thoughts by Harry.

“Dobby?” he heard Harry say.

At first he thought it was a child—small, thin limbs, big brown eyes nearly the size of her face—but the figure moved oddly, ears too long and drooping, nose bulbous like a tennis ball. She was wearing a tea towel like a tunic, secured at the shoulders with safety pins, and she looked incredibly nervous, wringing her hands and murmuring to herself.

So when his eyes landed on it, he couldn’t stop himself from saying—

“What is that?” he whispered to Hermione and Ron as Harry spoke with the creature.

“That’s a house-elf,” Hermione responded, as if it were something obvious.

“House Elf? What’s it doing here?”

“They work as servants.” Ginny blurted out, seeming nearly proud to say it.

“Work? Like jobs?” he asked.

“No. They’re servants. They live with the wizarding families. Like a butler, but they do everything and they do it for free. This one’s name is Winky, she works for the Crouch’s.”

Makes sense. Every second that goes by, Y/N finds himself hating Crouch more and more.

“What, so they just make her work with no pay? Can she quit?” he queried, very clearly baffled.

“Only if she’s given clothes by her master and set free. But they like it. Their purpose is to serve.” Ron explained.

“Wait…” Y/N said, voice rising as he began to make connections. “you’re telling me that thing works for free. In someone else’s house. Her outfit is a rag. And she calls people ‘master’? What, are you gonna tell me she works on a plantation?”

Ginny, who he’d honestly forgotten was here, cut in. “What’s a plantation?”

Ignoring her, Y/N turned to Hermione. “Hermione, you’ve read muggle history. You’ve got to see how this sounds, right? That is not a creature. That is a slave.”

The House-Elf gasped, raising one of its spindly fingers in the air. “I is not a slave! Winky is a loyal servant to Mr. Crouch! And Winky is here to save Mr Crouch’s seat!”

Y/N was baffled.

Everyone was silent. It seemed that none of them had ever thought that hard about it. Except for Hermione, that is, who had been nodding vigorously at everything he said. After a couple seconds passed and the conversation had shifted to its next topic, Hermione leaned towards him.

“You know,” she whispered, “I’ve been saying that for years.”

[Y/N] shook his head. “You should’ve said it louder.”

He sat back into his chair, arms crossed. He remained silent as people, very clearly high ranking ministry officials, began to fill the rest of the box. Mr. Weasley shook hands with nearly every single one of them, as did Percy, except he bowed instead of shaking hands. When the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge came in, he bowed so low that his glasses fell and broke. He sheepishly picked them up and repaired them before sitting down.

Y/N wasn’t good at many things, including magic, but one thing he didn’t think he could be beaten at was glaring. Except for Pansy, of course, who had a glare that packed enough heat to boil water. Y/N kept his glare trained on the Minister. He remembered their interaction from last year, after his exam. He remembered the way he was so condescending it made Y/N want to hex him.

“Harry Potter, you know,” he told the Bulgarian minister loudly, who was wearing splendid robes of black velvet trimmed with gold and didn’t seem to understand a word of English.

“Harry Potter... oh come on now, you know who he is... the boy who survived You-Know-Who... you do know who he is —”

The Bulgarian wizard suddenly spotted Harry’s scar and started gabbling loudly and excitedly, pointing at it.

“Knew we’d get there in the end,” said Fudge wearily to Harry. “I’m no great shakes at languages; I need Barty Crouch for this sort of thing. Ah, I see his house-elf’s saving him a seat... Good job too, these Bulgarian blighters have been trying to cadge all the best places... ah, and here’s Lucius!”

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Y/N turned sharply at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Edging along the second row to the few remaining empty seats just behind Mr. Weasley were none other than Lucius Malfoy; his pointed-faced son, Draco; and a tall, coldly elegant blonde woman that absolutely had to be Draco’s mother.

Lucius looked as though he were appraising the room for dust. His silver-topped cane clicked faintly against the stone floor as he walked, the serpent head glinting with disdainful polish. Narcissa Malfoy had the same haughty tilt to her chin as her husband, and an expression like she’d just walked through a muddy puddle.

Y/N said nothing, but his jaw tightened as he slid a fraction more upright in his seat.

“Ah, Fudge,” Lucius drawled, offering a hand as he reached the Minister of Magic. “How are you? I don’t believe you’ve met my wife, Narcissa… or our son, Draco?”

“How do you do, how do you do?” said Fudge, bouncing eagerly in place and bowing to Mrs. Malfoy. “And allow me to introduce you to Mr. Oblansk—Obalonsk—ah—he’s the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, can’t understand a word I’m saying anyway, ha! Never mind.”

He gestured vaguely to the rest of the box. “And you know Arthur Weasley, of course?”

There was a pause.

Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy faced each other with thin, brittle smiles that didn’t reach their eyes.

“Arthur,” Lucius said softly, his gaze sweeping over the Weasleys’ row, “what did you have to sell to land seats in the Top Box? Surely your little hovel wouldn’t fetch this much?”

Fudge, still oblivious, laughed. “Lucius has just made a very generous donation to St. Mungo’s, Arthur. He’s here as my personal guest.”

“How… charitable,” Mr. Weasley replied, his smile barely holding.

Lucius’s cold gray eyes drifted to Hermione, lingering just long enough to make her pinken. But she met his gaze with steady defiance.

Then his gaze caught Y/N and paused.

It was brief. A flicker. The way a tiger would look at a gazelle that had just narrowly escaped from its jaws. Then he moved on, drifting down the row to his seat without another word.

Draco, however, wasn’t done.

He leaned slightly toward the group, sneering. “I was wondering where that stench was coming from. Guess they really let anyone into the Top Box these days.”

“Funny coming from someone whose favourite lap dog has a thing for the Muggle-borns,” he said with a crooked grin. “Bet Pansy’d switch teams for Y/N if she could.

Draco froze.

He turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing into icy slits. “What did you say?”

Hermione stifled a laugh behind her hand. Harry tried very hard not to smirk.

Draco, already flushed from the climb to the box, now turned an unhealthy shade of pink. “You’re mental,” he spat. “Pansy wouldn’t touch that Mudblood scum if her life depended on it.

“Yeah?” Ron said, raising an eyebrow. “Sure about that?”

Lucius turned a cool eye on his son. “Draco,” he said sharply.

Draco clamped his mouth shut and stalked to his seat between his parents, seething.

Hermione shook her head. “Honestly, Ron.”

“What? He deserved it. Besides,” Ron added, glancing at Y/N, “I just told the truth.”

The joke lingered a little longer before the booming voice of Ludo Bagman echoed across the stadium and the match began.

A small, skinny wizard — completely bald, strode out onto the field, wearing shimmering golden robes to match the stadium. A silver whistle poked out beneath the bushy ’stache, and he carried a large wooden crate under one arm, his broomstick under the other.

Y/N watched curiously, still irritated as the man — Hassan Mostafa, he’d learned — mounted his broom and kicked the crate open. Four balls soared into the air: the scarlet Quaffle, the two jet-black Bludgers, and for a heartbeat, the minuscule, winged Golden Snitch before it vanished from sight.

A sharp whistle blast split the air — and just like that, Mostafa was gone, soaring into the sky after the balls. Y/N stuffed Riffle into his pocket, tucking the flap over him.

“Theeeeeeeey’re OFF!” screamed Ludo Bagman. “And it’s Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!”

Y/N fumbled with the dials on his Omnioculars, adjusting the speed and toggling the play-by-play button. The movement on the field was unreal — the Chasers were blurs of color, whipping the Quaffle between them so fast Bagman could barely call their names in time.

Hawkshead Attacking Formation, flashed the purple lettering across his lenses as Troy flew ahead, flanked closely by Mullet and Moran. Porskoff Ploy, it read next, just as Troy feinted upward, pulling Ivanova with him — and dropped the Quaffle to Moran below.

Volkov, one of the Bulgarian Beaters, smashed a Bludger directly into Moran’s path. She ducked, lost the Quaffle — and Levski, already in position beneath, snatched it midair.

“TROY SCORES!” Bagman roared, and the entire stadium trembled with wild applause.

“What?” Harry shouted, sounding bewildered. “But Levski’s got the Quaffle!”

“Harry, if you’re not going to watch at normal speed, you’re going to miss things!” Hermione shouted back, bouncing on the balls of her feet as Troy zoomed around the pitch in a victory lap.

Y/N lowered his Omnioculars briefly and glanced across the field. The leprechauns had launched themselves into the air again, forming a massive sparkling shamrock. On the opposite end, the veela watched with visible disdain.

Y/N quickly turned the dial back to normal speed, trying not to miss any more action.

Even without being a die-hard fan, he could tell the Irish Chasers were on another level. Their plays were fluid, like a single organism at work. The rosette pinned to Y/N’s chest kept enthusiastically squeaking their names: “Troy — Mullet — Moran!”

Within ten minutes, Ireland had scored twice more, and the crowd erupted again, the Irish supporters chanting, waving flags, and tossing green sparks into the sky.

Then the game turned rougher.

The Bulgarian Beaters, Volkov and Vulchanov, were relentless now — slamming Bludgers at the Irish players with brutal intensity. Twice the Chasers had to scatter mid-formation, and then Ivanova broke through, dodged Ryan, the Irish Keeper, and landed Bulgaria’s first goal.