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“I pay three thousand.”

Harry peered up at the strange teenager who had kicked down the door of the shed on the island out in the sea, late at night, and wondered why anyone would think that someone as worthless as Harry Potter was worth three thousand pounds.

That was more than his uncle had paid for his car, and his uncle had said his car was very expensive.

“Five thousand, and you never met us,” Vernon said, “and you had the boy all along. Took him off our doorstep ten years ago.”

The teenager frowned, a look of consternation crossing his face. Then he shrugged.

“Deal.”

And with a flick of a stick from inside his jacket, he dumped a large pile of gold coins on the floor, seized Harry’s arm, and twisted on the spot.

Somewhere, at the back of his mind, he knew that he should be scared. But no one could be worse than the Dursleys. What did he have to be scared of?

It was like magic, but magic didn’t exist. Aunt Petunia had made that very clear to him many times. Maybe he could believe in magic though, if it could make beds this comfortable. He’d never slept so well.

The next morning, he was fed enough breakfast to feed half a Dudley, and then taken out to a field with three hoops at either end.

“You’re a wizard,” the teenager told him, “and this is a broom.”

Harry looked at the broom and then looked around the field in confusion, “What am I supposed to sweep?”

The teenager sighed.

“Hand out.”

Harry stuck his hand out in front of him immediately. Vernon had always made it clear that he should obey orders like that if he wanted his punishments to be kept to the bare minimum. Five strokes for backtalk, and it was probably backtalk to-

“Now say up.”

Harry swallowed hard.

Maybe the teenager was crazy.

Was it too late to hope that the Dursleys might find him?

At least they were the kind of crazy that Harry understood.

A stiff look from the teenager was all it took to remind him that he should follow instructions. 

“Up!”

The broom jumped into his hand. Like magic. Harry stared at it in shock.

“Now you fly on it,” the teenager said, reaching into the box next to him to find a tiny golden ball with tiny golden wings, “and you go and you fetch this.”

Then he let the ball go. Harry blinked, and the ball vanished into the morning mist.

He clambered onto the broom rapidly and pushed off, hoping that he could find it in the early morning sun. It was like trying to find a needle in a haystack, except the haystack was nothing but an empty field the size of the national park that Petunia had once tried to abandon him in and the needle could fly. 

It took him nearly fifteen minutes to find it, and two minutes to catch it.

He stumbled when he landed back in front of the teenager, meekly handing it over.

Seventeen minutes was probably too slow and that meant that-

“My name is Viktor Krum. I shall be the best Seeker in the world,” the other boy said, “and then you are going to beat me. I shall make sure of it.”

Then he threw the golden ball back up into the air.

Harry took off on the broom again.

The Dursleys had made sure that he knew not to need telling the same thing twice.

Three days later, an old man, a cat, and a giant knocked on the front door.

“We’re looking for Harry Potter.”

“You left him on a doorstop,” said Viktor’s father, his voice a low rumble, “and my son found him. He is one of us now.”

“He must be with his family,” Dumbledore said with a stern face, “because the blood wards-”

Viktor’s father pointed up at the sky where the two boys were flying together, one of them diving toward the ground, the other chasing. “He is with family now. Go away.”

“You cannot mean to send him to Durmstrang,” Minerva said. “His parents would have wanted him to go to Hogwarts, and you know what they say about Karkaroff. He will be dead before the end of the first night! He would only be safe at-”

“Karkaroff will accept both of my sons, or he will accept neither of my sons,” Viktor’s father said, “and he will swear an oath to do so as I demand. Viktor will not have his Quidditch training disrupted by your insecurities or your dark lord’s nonsense.”

Hagrid pulled a white owl out from under his coat, “I just wanted to bring him a present.”

Viktor’s father stilled for a second, before nodding slowly. “That, I will accept, Mr Hagrid. Your generosity will not go unforgotten.”

And then they were escorted to the edge of the wards, Minerva’s eyes tracking the two boys as they danced their way through the orchard fast enough and close enough to be a single blur of movement lost amongst the branches.

Hogwarts, she thought, had lost a fine seeker.

She just hoped that Britain would not have lost its hero.

Durmstrang was dark and cold.

Two weeks after they arrived, a bushy-haired girl arrived to murmurs, whispers and mutters. Durmstrang was for purebloods. Half-bloods were tolerated at best. Ones like her without their heritage? Without their knowledge? Without their power? They needed to know their place, and an upstart mudblood like Hermione Granger should know where she stood in the pecking order.

Then they would send her home, without her arms and without her legs, bloody and broken, as a reminder of who held true power in their world.

She wiped the floor with two of the apprentices here to work on their masteries in the dark arts, and threw half of the fourth years against a wall with a flex of her wand. Then she sat down opposite Harry and Viktor and glared at them.

“You were supposed to wait until fourth year.”

“I was bored. Quidditch is not fun when you have no one to play with.”

“I hope you thought it through.”

Viktor grunted, though his eyes were curiously fond of a girl that Harry knew he should never have seen before.

Hermione turned on him, and Harry found himself leaning back in his chair lest her glare set him on fire. “My name is Hermione. I’m going to be your best friend. Any questions?”

Harry swallowed hard, “No?”

She pursed her lips, “And you’re going to take some nutrition potions. I won’t have my little brother looking like he was starved in childhood.”

Harry got the feeling he wasn’t going to get much choice about liking the bushy-haired girl. Maybe it would be nice?

She pulled a book out of her bag that was almost as large as the three of them put together and began muttering about rituals, spirits, and other esoteric magics.

Harry hoped it wouldn’t be on the exams at the end of the year. He didn’t think Viktor would let him have enough spare time to read a book that big.

The year passed in a flurry of broom bristles, golden wings, and an oddly determined focus on learning defensive magic. Harry soon learnt it was better to do as Hermione asked than to question it, and it wasn't like any of the other students would risk the displeasure of the older students to befriend the three of them. Perhaps, Harry thought, if there were Quidditch then Krum might have earned them a little grace, but Durmstrang dismissed it as little more than a game.

Harry was almost offended by it. He had been forced into a few duels with lower years as part of his classes, and none of them tested him in the same way that Krum tested him on a broom. Maybe that was because of the training that Hermione and Viktor put him through, but the real battle, Harry decided in the privacy of his own head, was always going to be in the sky. Viktor was still better, still seemed to know what to do by instincts that Harry hadn't yet learned to trust, but day by day he was catching up.

It was during the summer break that things got weird. Unlike Durmstrang, Bulgaria did like Quidditch, and Viktor had been invited to a youth development camp the government was planning to run. Something about his father's career in the ministry meaning that he had heard about an opportunity to make something happen. A chance to give his son something to enjoy.

Viktor frowned, "I will take Harry."

"He is too young."

"He is better than them."

The head of the camp shook his head firmly, "We already have three other seekers. Erik Ivanov, Alexei Levski, and-"

"Harry will replace Levski," Krum said abruptly, "and Levski will play Chaser."

"He's never played Chaser before in his life, Mr Krum. Why would I do that?"

"Because I am the best Seeker in Bulgaria, and I will only come if Harry comes. Levski should practise for a role he may one day get to play in competition."

And then Viktor left the room, flicking his head in the way that meant Harry should follow him.

Which Harry did, with an apologetic smile. He had come to trust his older brother. They had fought, they had argued, they had led each other to dive into the ground in practice. But Viktor had never misled him, and if he wanted Harry to come and compete for another snitch, then Harry would try to get another golden ball to adorn the shelves of books which Hermione seemed determined to buy him and make him read for every subject from Arithmancy to Wardcraft.

Levski played Chaser, and Harry discovered that it wasn't normal to spend more time on a broom than with both feet on the ground. Even at a camp for people who loved Quidditch, it seemed that Viktor and Harry were the odd ones out. But no one could deny it paid off. Harry caught every snitch except for those that Viktor stole out from under his nose. And when the league team coaches came to watch them play, he could see their father being asked many pointed questions.

Harry was put forward for Bulgarian citizenship the next week. Twelve was too young to play, but it was best to sort these things out now. 

Durmstrang was still cold, still dark, but they got away to play some games of Quidditch this year. 

Viktor, for his part, found himself on a team whose name Harry couldn't even begin to pronounce. They wore red and Hermione approved of the uniform if her faint flush whenever she saw Viktor wearing it was anything to go by. They sat in the stands together and cheered Harry's brother on, and Hermione began to wear a necklace of every snitch she was gifted.

Harry was not gifted any, and he was fine with that. He could catch his own.

A first-year girl flew up to where he was hovering alone one week when Viktor had decided that he should skip the Quidditch match. It happened occasionally when there were veela, violence, or various other issues that his older brother thought it was best for Harry to avoid. The girl looked at him quietly for a minute, before holding up a snitch.

"Dad says you play."

"I do."

"He says you are good."

"Viktor is better."

"He is not here."

Harry settled back on his broom and shrugged, "Viktor would not want me to be better than him until he has become the best in the world."

Because it was true. Viktor would be the best, and then Harry would be better. He had heard the eye roll when they had this conversation in front of Hermione, who had moved onto scrolls in what Harry vaguely recognised as Sumerian this year. Eye roll or not, it was still true.

The first-year smiled at him, "I am Polina Vulchova."

Her dad had been a coach at the youth Quidditch camp. That explained a lot.

"I would like you to teach me," she said, "and in return, I will-"

Harry grabbed the snitch and tossed it into the wind.

"I will teach you," he agreed.

He had no patience for bargains when there was Quidditch to be played.

And then there were three of them haunting the sky at Durmstrang every morning. And then four. And then five. And by the time school finished for the year then there were enough of them that Harry and Viktor had both been dragged into playing Chaser for a pick-up game here and there. Harry wasn’t as good at that, but it was almost like having friends, and even Hermione admitted it was nice to feel like they were wanted.

It almost made up for Hermione deciding that the best thing to teach him when they had friends to help was Muggle self-defence. The bruises, Harry thought, were worse than the ones you got whilst playing Quidditch. At least the ones you got playing Quidditch were normally your fault, and not because Hermione had decided to demonstrate a throw that she had probably just finishing reading about in some book.

Sirius Black broke out of Azkaban over summer.

There was a hushed argument that evening between Hermione, who was once again visiting for a few days, and Viktor.

“They are refusing to let him go to the camp this year.”

“That’s because everyone thinks that he’s dangerous. It isn’t like-”

“He’s not going to kill him. This is ridiculous. It will disrupt the Quidditch season."

“Viktor! You can’t just-”

“I am fixing this.”

The next day Viktor clasped Harry’s shoulder and twisted on the spot. It was hot in Egypt, and sandy. Hermione, when she appeared next to them, flicked her wand a few times and made it bearable. That, Harry thought, was a good reason to have a best friend who was a genius wizard. He wasn’t really sure why they were giving up time that they could have spent practising Quidditch, but three days later, Viktor grunted in satisfaction and stuck his arm out to block a ginger boy from walking past him.

“Your rat,” Viktor said, “is not a rat.”

The ginger boy’s eyes widened. “Mum!”

Viktor sighed, “I will buy your rat off you?”

“Mum! Dad! Help?”

Viktor reached into his pocket and produced a bag of gold, “I give you two thousand.”

A cough came from behind them and Harry turned to see an entire family of ginger men staring at them, “Can we help you, boys?”

Hermione shoved past them, “Mr and Mrs Weasley, I don’t know if you remember me but-”

“You’re that muggleborn that went to Durmstrang!” said one of the two identical gingers, stopping her in her tracks. The other one took over the thought. “Good prank that. We liked it.”

Hermione flushed, “It wasn’t a prank.”

“They want my rat!”

“It was definitely a prank.”

“The rat is a family pet. It isn’t for sale.”

“I just thought that Harry was going to be at Hogwarts and then he wasn’t. I had to find out where he was and go there.”

“I give you four thousand.”

“Harry?”

“Four thousand. For a rat?!”

“Oh. You never met him this time.” Hermione’s hand latched onto Harry’s elbow and pulled him firmly next to her. “This is Harry Potter. Yes, he has the scar. Yes, he remembers. No, you shouldn’t talk about it.”

“I give you five thousand.”

“Our saviour!” declared the twins, “All hail the great almighty Harry Potter.”

“Please stop offering us more money. The rat isn’t for sale.”

“I’m not the saviour,” Harry said, “I’m-”

“I give you six thousand?”

“-a very naughty boy?” Hermione said, before clapping a hand over her mouth. “Shit. Is that film out yet?”

“Why do you want it so badly anyway?”

“Harry should meet our sister. She loves the books.”

“It is not rat. I will use it to prove the innocence of Sirius Black so that we can play Quidditch together again.”

“Is your sister with you?”

“What do you mean it isn’t a rat?”

The girl the twins pulled next to them let out a squeak when she realised that Harry Potter was right there in front of her and then fainted.

“I show you. Where is the rat?”

“Well, we tried,” said the twins, “but she had a hard year. She didn’t even cheer up when we locked Percy inside a pyramid yesterday.”

“Don’t point that wand at my son, you lunatic. Aurors! Aurors!”

“Did you get him out yet?”

“It is safe. Do not panic.”

“Nope. It’s been great. He snores. It’s the first full night of sleep we managed since the holiday started.”

“Aurors!”

The argument between the Weasley parents, the smallest ginger boy, and Viktor turned into a fight, during which Viktor managed to cast a spell on the rat held tightly in Ron’s hands, which promptly turned into a man.

The resulting screams from all the Weasleys, except the twins, attracted the attention of the local wizarding authorities, who promptly arrested everyone to work it out.

Thirty minutes later, they stood in the lobby of the Egyptian Ministry of Magic looking awkwardly at each other as British Aurors descended on them to interrogate the very not-dead, very bad-wizard, Peter Pettigrew. 

“Is it always like this,” Harry asked, “or was this just a special occasion?”

“This is pretty normal for us,” said one of the twins. “Last year, our little sister got possessed by the spirit of the Dark Lord. And the year before that our headteacher built an obstacle course with a cerberus, a troll, and a giant enchanted chess set.”

“Huh,” said Harry. “I mostly just play Quidditch.”

Viktor clasped Harry on the shoulder again, “It is time to go.”

Hermione whispered something into his ear.

Viktor whispered something back.

It devolved into a heated argument, in the way that their private conversations often did.

“So are you any good at Quidditch?”

“Viktor is better,” Harry said, having only caught sixty-two of the snitches this summer so far. He was currently twenty-three snitches behind. “I think I’m okay though. I’m better than most of the other people at school.”

“We play Beater. You should come round and play Quidditch with us sometime and-”

“You are coming to camp,” Viktor said, clearly having been defeated in whatever argument he and Hermione were having, “so we shall see you next week.”

“Camp?”

“Quidditch Youth Development Program in Bulgaria. Is very good. We pay for you.”

Hermione nudged him.

Viktor folded his arms, “And you will invite your teammates from school. Especially the one called Olivia.”

The twins’ eyes gleamed.

Hermione coughed.

“Did I say that wrong?” Viktor said to the girl that Harry was increasingly sure he adored, “I thought it was Olivia Wood.”

“That was perfect ,” one of the twins said.

“Definitely his name,” the other one agreed, “and we’ll make sure that it’s on all the paperwork.”

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose.

Viktor smiled uncertainly. Or, at least, the corners of his mouth twitched. You had to know him to know that it was a smile. Harry thought that the twins would probably get it by the end of the year.

“See you then,” Harry said.

And, a few weeks later, they did. A whole gaggle of British teenagers descending on the chaos that was the youth development camp. Viktor, clearly, had pulled some strings, but once Harry played against them then he could see why. 

They took the twins home with them to launch Bludgers at them as they danced around each other in pursuit of the Snitch.

Hermione, lounging on the grass beneath them with her books, said nothing.

They were four weeks into the school term at Durmstrang, which was still dark and cold, when Sirius Black turned up in duelling robes and a cloak of furious rage bent around him. He blew the front doors off the hinges.

“My godson is here. I would speak with him.”

Hermione nudged Harry.

“What?”

“That’s you,” she hissed back.

“What?!”

She gave him a look, “Viktor told you, didn’t he?”

Harry gave her a look back. “The only thing Viktor told me this summer was that an inverted Wronski Feint shouldn’t be paired with the Dirigible Defence because he thinks that-”

“I said that my godson is here.” Sirius Black stalked amongst the tables of the Great Hall, his eyes firmly on Headmaster Karkaroff. “I would speak with him. Where is he, Death Eater ?”

Karkaroff sighed, and sipped at his wine. 

Hermione raised her hand, “Lord Black. Over here.”

“What are you doing?”

“He’s your godfather.”

“Isn’t he a mass murderer?” said Harry. “I’m sure I saw something in the news about Sirius Black being a mass murderer who escaped from Azkaban or something.”

Hermione glared at Viktor.

Viktor looked a little embarrassed. “We were playing Quidditch.”

“That isn’t an excuse for you to-”

“Harry!” Sirius swept toward them, “Are you okay? Have they hurt you?”

His arm still twinged when it got stormy, but that was because he had injured it over the summer. Was that what-

“It wasn’t me!” Polina said. “He came like this to school this year. It was the Weasleys!”

Sirius froze. “The Weasleys?”

“He was doing training with them, Lord Black,” Polina said, her eyes flicking from side to side in panic, “and we have been careful not to exacerbate his injuries and-”

“He plays Quidditch?”

Viktor sighed, and stood up, “I am Viktor Krum. I am Seeker. Harry is Seeker also.”

“Is he any good?”

“Viktor is better,” said Harry, wondering if he’d ever get to say something different, “but I’m not bad.”

The Great Hall was silent for a second, as everyone stared at him. They had seen the two of them training. It wasn’t a secret that Harry was better on a broom than anyone else in the school except Viktor. Or that Harry had, somehow, been invited to the Youth Development Camps in Bulgaria. Or that Harry was being headhunted by scouts across six different European national leagues.

He had even agreed, provisionally, to play for one of the French teams this year.

Sirius’ eyes narrowed, “And how good is Viktor?”

“I am Seeker for Bulgarian National Team.”

Sirius stumbled, “Sorry?”

“I am Seeker for Bulgarian National Team.”

“You look like you’re about sixteen.”

“I am best Seeker in the world. Does not matter how old I am.”

“Oh.”

“Harry is only person who challenges me. He will be better than me one day. You will not take him away.”

Sirius looked between him and Harry for a second, “Ah.”

“I like it here,” Harry said, “and I like playing Quidditch with Viktor.”

Sirius frowned then looked back up at the high table, “I shall teach the Dark Arts this year.”

Karkaroff sipped at his wine, saying nothing.

“You will not!” said their Dark Arts Professor, “because the role is not vacant, and-”

Sirius flicked his wand, sending their professor into the wall feet first. There was a crack. The professor did not get back up.

Karkaroff sipped his wine again.

“So, what subjects are you good at?” Professor Black asked, sitting down at the table next to the Quidditch players casually, “because your father was amazing at Transfiguration.”

Harry reached for some bread.

It was clearly going to be one of those years. Again.

At least there was Quidditch and Hermione’s brand of training which, oddly enough, included the Patronus Charm. A charm which was only really useful in Britain, given that every other country set up their wards to keep dementors out. At least the charms for taming dragons made sense. Bulgaria had dragons. Lots of dragons.

Harry knew better than to question Hermione’s logic. Last year, the next year group up had petitioned to get Hermione banned from the library on the grounds that no one could be reading that many books at once.  She had responded in her usual way by challenging them all to a duel. Simultaneously.

She won.

Whilst not doing the homework she set you wasn’t as bad as getting between her and books, there was definitely good reasons to not be an obstacle in her path.

Harry wasn’t bad at school either. He wasn’t as good as Hermione, but he wasn’t bad at school. It was nice.

This year there were enough people that wanted to play Quidditch that they managed to get a pick-up league going on Saturdays. Sirius offered to referee, and Viktor and Harry quietly agreed to not play Seeker in the casual pick-up games. It was healthy to take a break, they agreed, and both of them played Seeker professionally on Sundays, when Viktor went back to Bulgaria and Harry went to France.

It was at an exhibition game the following Easter when Harry first met the Delacours. Apparently Viktor had met some of the Delacours’ extended family at a game in Bulgaria and told them to look up his little brother, and Fleur had refused to believe that a leetle boy three years younger than her could be playing first-string Seeker for one of the teams in her national league.

Gabrielle, for her part, had promptly bought all of his merchandise and had his name on her in less than six different places. She was cute. He signed the match snitch and gave it to her.

Fleur’s eyes narrowed and she made a comment. Thirty minutes later she and Harry were still arguing. Neither of them remembered what the original disagreement had been and it didn't matter. What mattered was that she was wrong and-

Hermione sighed, and dragged Harry away before they missed their portkey to England. Apparently they were spending the rest of the school holiday with her parents this year, much to the fascinated horror of Viktor’s father. At least they could floo to The Burrow to get in their daily flying, Harry thought, else both he and Viktor might have refused to come at all.

By the end of the school year, everyone knew that the Triwizard Tournament was returning that October. Everyone knew that Viktor was the most likely candidate, should he decide to put his name in the cup. Karkaroff didn’t even pretend otherwise, and told Viktor to pick which people he wanted to take with him to Hogwarts for the year. Viktor, naturally, picked all the Quidditch players.

Hogwarts, apparently, had official school teams.

Viktor was looking forward to watching Harry demolish them.

Summer was harder work than usual, however. It wasn’t enough for them to spend every moment flying. Hermione appeared at their doorstep with a library trunk and a revision guide for everything that Viktor might ever need to know to prepare for the most fatal wizarding sport ever envisaged. Harry thought this was overkill, given that they were both world-class contenders at the second most fatal wizarding sport, but Viktor insisted they take it seriously.

It was only once Sirius joined them toward the middle of the break that Harry discovered that there was a sport that was just as much fun as Quidditch. Duelling was something he had seen at Durmstrang, and knew he wasn’t awful at, but he hadn’t realised that people would pay him to send other wizards flying around the room.

Hermione was better than all of them, of course, but she refused to participate in bloodsports, which meant that Harry had absolutely no qualms about signing up to the Under-15 European Duelling Tournament whilst Viktor went off to the World Cup matches with the Bulgarian national team.

The Delacours were there, with Fleur competing in the next age bracket up, and Gabrielle spent most of her time trying to convince Sirius that he wanted to make her Harry Potter Duelling merchandise to go with her Harry Potter Quidditch merchandise. Harry pretended not to notice, and spent his time duelling Fleur instead. He wasn’t bad at duelling either, as it turned out, but he wasn’t as good as Fleur.

There would always be someone slightly older and slightly better than him, Harry thought with a sigh, but that just meant that he had to work harder.

To no one’s surprise, Fleur and Harry were crowned champions. 

“Tell Viktor I shall be at Hogwarts,” she hissed to him as they received their trophies, “and that he shall not take my rightful place as winner from me.”

“Beauxbatons is the other school?”

She sniffed at him, “I thought everyone knew.”

“We weren’t sure whether they were going to ask for a real school like Ilvermony to join us,” Harry said, knowing it would annoy her, “or whether we’d have to settle for some second-rate French school like Beauxbatons.”

Fleur clenched her fists so hard that smoke began to rise from her hands. Harry winked at Fleur’s little sister. She was cute in the same way that Fleur was beautiful. Gabrielle grinned back at him from the front row of the audience at the prize ceremony. 

“Beauxbatons is not a second-rate school.”

“Of course not,” Harry said with a shit-eating smirk, “I forgot about Hogwarts. That would make Beauxbatons a third -rate school.”

This time Fleur flung a fireball at him.

That, it seemed, was enough for her parents to invite him to practise duelling with her, exchanging spells in the basement of her family chateau until they collapsed on the floor from exhaustion, and staying for dinner sometimes when their practice ran on, which it often did. She was both older and more talented, and he was used to working hard to keep up with people who were both older and more talented. That made them a good match. He enjoyed the challenge. And he enjoyed getting away from whatever was going on between Hermione and Viktor, because there were some things that little brothers did not want to see their siblings - even adoptive ones - doing.

The time they had spent together didn’t stop the Delacours from turning up to the first game of the French Quidditch season in the last weekend of the school break. Harry made sure to give Gabrielle the snitch again, just to watch Fleur’s face twitch. It was, he decided, far too much fun not to tease the older girl.

And, besides, it wasn’t like he wasn’t going to spend the rest of the year with Fleur. It would keep Gabrielle happy to have the snitch.

Hogwarts didn’t know what to make of any of them.

Perhaps in another world, Durmstrang might have felt most at home in Slytherin, where blood mattered more than skill. But in this world, Viktor cared only for Quidditch, and they knew too many of the Gryffindors that played Quidditch to not sit amongst the people they had come to know at the summer camps they all enjoyed.

Viktor, after all, was still sore from his loss at the World Cup. Whether or not he got the snitch, Bulgaria had placed second. In his eyes, that was as good as last. You either won or you did not, and Viktor was not accustomed to not winning.

“Oliver graduated last year,” Fred said, as he passed potatoes across the table to Viktor, “but we can probably get some teams together.”

“We were told that you had official teams,” Harry said. “What happened to those?”

“Well they cancelled Quidditch, didn’t they?” George said, “because of the Triwizard Tournament and all.”

Harry and Viktor shared a look. Hermione glared at them. Viktor glared back at her. Harry looked for Sirius.

This wouldn’t do at all.

Maybe they could have a duelling tournament as well? Just because they were here to support Viktor didn’t mean that they couldn’t have a fun year as well.

Harry’s name came out of the Goblet of Fire.

“Sabotage,” Viktor said in the antechamber when Harry turned up to find his brother, Fleur, and Cedric standing around the fire. “They’re trying to stop you from practising Quidditch.”

The door slammed open behind them, and Professor Dumbledore strode in, his face stern, “Harry. Did you put your name in the Goblet of-”

“I demand that we receive special permission to continue his training during class time,” Viktor said, cutting in on the Headmaster’s demands, “to ensure that his prospects as a professional Quidditch player are not damaged.”

Fleur choked.

Cedric stared.

Dumbledore froze. “Mr Krum, is that really the most important thing right now?”

“Is Quidditch,” Viktor replied. “Why would it not be most important thing?”

“I just got illegally entered into a life-threatening death tournament that the rest of you signed up for,” Harry reminded him.

“Does not matter,” Viktor said. “I shall win. You shall come second.”

Fleur’s nostrils flared, “He will come third. I will not lose to someone who claims that Ilvermony is better than Beauxbatons.”

Cedric paled, “I’m not sure that we should be competing with someone who is only-”

“It’s decided then,” said the idiot in charge of the tournament. Ludo Bagman, Harry thought his name was. A retired Beater who used to play for a team that no one cared about in the British Quidditch League. “Mr Potter, here, will compete.”

And, apparently, that was that.

Hermione had opinions about it, of course, but Hermione always had opinions. Harry was pretty sure that her opinions were why Viktor liked her. It would disrupt whatever they had going on between them if Hermione didn't have opinions, and that meant that Hermione would probably never stop having opinions. Once she got them out of her system, she sighed and began running him through everything she had been teaching Viktor. Harry had been paying attention to some of it before, but not all of it, and apparently it was all important.

The dragon stared him down.

" Well, this is scarier than I thought."

The dragon double-took. Harry double-took too. That had felt weird to say. A faint memory of a python escaping from a zoo came to mind. Did that mean that dragons were reptiles then? Harry had read about Parseltongue. The language of forked tongues. The implications were-

" You dare speak to ME?"

-apparently not going to be enough to get out of a fight.

His wand flashed in the sunlight as he battled his way across the arena. Hermione had suggested a broom, but Harry wanted to put on a show. Harry wanted to make sure he could beat Krum's score.

He would not come second in this.

His hand reached the golden egg, and he shoved it into a pocket stitched into the inside of his cloak. A shield batted aside the flames that chased him out of the area. The potion for healing lung damage caused by smoke inhalation tasted like caramel. Karkaroff glowered at him as a ten erupted from his wand to the cheers of the crowd.

First place.

Cedric looked at him with calculating eyes.

Fleur glared at him, her arms folded.

Hermione glared at him too, and then hissed something to Viktor.

Viktor dragged him into a brutal Quidditch practice.

"You are supposed to survive."

"I thought you wanted me to be better than you."

"At Quidditch, yes."

"It isn't my fault that-"

Viktor dove, steeply, toward the ground, clearly annoyed. Harry pulled out of the dive a fraction of a second after him, the grass brushing his toes as he survived the Wronski Feint, before twisting around the Bludgers sent his way by an equally concerned pair of Weasley twins. Harry had spent most of the last four years with a broom between his legs and it showed. They hadn't been able to practise as much as usual this year, and they had been instructed to play less professional games, but Harry had matched Viktor snitch for snitch so far. He was catching up.

Maybe that was why Viktor was annoyed that Harry was pulling ahead in the Triwizard Tournament. At this rate, Viktor would have nothing left but second-place. Neither of them were the kind of people that would accept something like that.

The Yule Ball was announced.

Fleur held court at the Ravenclaw table, her eyes glimmering with amusement as boy after boy bent at her feet, begging her to pay attention. Every time, she would flick her eyes toward Harry, and then refuse them with the minimum possible level of cruelty. Never enough to seem rude or hurtful, but always enough to ensure that they wouldn’t return again.

Viktor, of course, asked Hermione, whose nostrils flared as she considered it. Then she said yes, conjured a glass jar, and vanished out of the Great Hall. Harry knew better than to ask what she was up to. His best friend (and likely future sister-in-law) had a penchant for doing what was right, but doing so in the worst possible way. It was generally better not to know too many details in case Aurors wanted to ask you about them. Even at Hogwarts, it seemed like she was up to trouble. Harry had heard rumours that she was trying to convince the House Elves to rise up in rebellion against their wizarding overlords. But only rumours. Because, again, it was better not to ask for any details, just in case.

Cedric apparently already had a girlfriend. Cho Chang, Harry thought her name might be.A Seeker, who occasionally joined Cedric when he joined Viktor and Harry in their morning sessions.  She didn’t seem very good, but then no one seemed very good when your normal training partner was Viktor Krum. Harry often struggled to work out how good other Seekers were at Quidditch. They all seemed slow. They all seemed weak. They were all beatable in a way that Viktor only rarely became.

That left Harry as the only Triwizard Tournament Champion with whom anyone thought they might have a chance at inviting to the Yule Ball. Girls twittered and giggled as he looked around the room at them.

It was annoying.

He walked over to the Ravenclaw table and walked past Fleur without giving her a second look, knowing that would irritate her. Harry was pretty sure that Fleur only wanted him to ask her so that she could say no to him, and Harry wouldn’t give her the pleasure. And they would probably argue if she said yes and they then had to go to the ball together. That was what they did best. Argue, fight, argue some more, duel again, argue some more, throw some fire at each other.

Harry wasn’t sure Hogwarts would survive the two of them trying to dance together.

So, instead, he walked up to a blonde girl wearing the most exciting fake glasses he had ever seen. They protruded from her head like antennae as she peered around the breakfast foods.

“Want to go with me to the ball?”

“You are Harry Potter.”

“I am.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Nope. You seem fun though.”

Her eyes looked up at him for a second, before she laughed gaily, “You are funny, Harry Potter.”

“It’s a date then?”

Smoke rose from Fleur’s fists, barely a quarter-length of the table away from where Harry was talking to the oddest girl he’d ever met.

“No.”

Harry smiled, “No?”

“I would like my first date to be for reasons that I agree with. Thank you for your invitation though, Harry Potter. It was nice to be asked.”

And then the strange girl turned around, and continued constructing a tower of pancakes. Pancakes which, as far as Harry could tell, were not served anywhere else in the dining hall.

The girl was not exactly wrong, Harry mused, but he had hoped that being honest might convince her. Now he had to find someone else at Hogwarts who he thought would be interesting enough to spend a night talking to. Someone who didn’t just care about him being a European duelling champion, or a professional Quidditch player, or a Triwizard Tournament champion, or the Boy-Who-Lived, or… well. He seemed to be collecting titles these days.

It was a shame that Gabrielle was too young to invite. If Harry had to go with a fangirl, he would at least like it to be one that bought his merchandise and respected his-

“I am wearing blue.”

He looked down at Fleur, whose hand was gripping his robe, her nails longer than they should be. Almost talons. A worrying sign, Harry thought, and one that he couldn’t explain.

“Excuse me?” said Harry.

“And you will come with me to the village that the children here discuss, and we will ensure that you have appropriate robes for this event.”

“Are you asking me to the Ball?”

“No.”

Harry looked around, trying to find someone to help him understand what was going on. The rest of Fleur’s friends were no help. Viktor was watching him with an amused look. Hermione was banging her head against the table. “Then-”

“You are going to ask me to the Ball.”

“I…am?”

“And then you shall dance with me.”

“Huh.”

“And then you shall accompany me back to the Beauxbaton carriage.”

Harry looked blankly at the beautiful blonde girl in front of him. “Why would I do that?”

The resulting spiel of French was hard to follow, and mostly seemed to consist of insults to his intelligence and threats to his well-being. Harry fled before it could escalate from angry French ranting to angry French fireballs, and made a mental note to clear his weekend to go shopping with Fleur. He had dress robes, but if she viewed this as important enough to demand he give up Quidditch for a morning, then he was smart enough to value it as that important too.

He had, at the very least, picked up that much from the girls at Durmstrang.

“Why did you not ask her first?” Viktor asked, bemused. “I thought that you were dating.”

“What?”

“You went around to her house many times. And came back very late, very often. Father was sure that-”

“Fleur and I were duelling, that’s all.”

Viktor poured himself some coffee. It was something he did when he didn’t want to say what was on his mind. Which was frustrating, because Harry wasn’t a mindreader.

“Do you know where I can get some dancing lessons?”

Viktor choked on his coffee trying not to laugh at him.

Thankfully, Hogwarts appeared to be providing free dancing lessons for all. Durmstrang had not been invited until Harry asked about it, and then they were all invited. Most of the students at Durmstrang had received at least some lessons as part of their upbringing, of course, but Harry and Viktor normally skipped out on them to focus on Quidditch instead. It was a shame that he and Fleur could not skip the ball and just fly together instead, Harry thought, because that seemed like something he would enjoy more. Unfortunately the girls amongst his Quidditch friends had been very clear that Fleur would probably not approve, and Gabrielle’s excited letter about Harry and Fleur going to the ball together had included very clear instructions about the amount of dancing he was expected to do.

It was a good job he and Viktor kept themselves healthy. Otherwise there was not a chance that he would have the stamina to keep going.

His feet ached by the end.

She told him that they were going on another visit to Hogsmeade the following weekend. 

Sirius appeared at the Great Hall the evening before, his formal robes wrapped around him, and his face stern, and whisked him away into one of the private antechambers.

“You are dating Fleur Delacour.”

“I am?”

“And when you are accompanying her on a public trip, such as to Hogsmeade, then there are expectations that-” Sirius petered out, staring down at his evidently confused godson. “You do know that you’re dating her, yes?”

“We went to the Yule Ball together, but-”

“I thought you had been dating her since last July.”

“What?!”

Sirius pinched his nose, “Okay. I think we need to start with something a little more straightforward. Sometimes, when a boy and girl like each other very much…”

Harry was glad to have the excuse of a professional match that Sunday. By hurling himself through the air with reckless abandon, corkscrewing through the Chasers and around the Beaters, driving the opposing Seeker into the stands and against the ground, he could forget the feel of Fleur’s lips on his own, and the feelings of utter confusion it brought him. It had not been what he expected when she dragged him into a quiet corner at the Three Broomsticks. He could see the Delacour family cheering him on in the stands sans Fleur, who was still at school. When he finally caught the snitch, nearly six hours after the match began, he didn’t give it to Gabrielle.

Back at Hogwarts, Fleur examined the snitch carefully, then smiled at him as she tucked it gently into her robes.

Viktor said nothing, but Hermione showed him the necklace around her neck again which, by now, consisted of hundreds of tiny golden snitches. Clearly this is what he was supposed to have been doing.

Well. Now he knew.

The Black Lake was cold. Fiercely cold. Gillyweed was not an option he had considered for longer than five minutes - there was too much chance of permanent damage to his lungs from inhaling water for an hour, and lungs were important when you wanted a career as a professional athlete - but Hermione had made sure he could cast the Bubble Head Charm. And, from there, it was just about carving his way through the water as fast as he could. 

The dilemma began when he arrived at the bottom of the lake to find their hostages tied to pillars at the centre of the underwater village.

Gabrielle. Hermione. Cho. The youngest Weasley brother.

Was this part of the challenge? He had thought that there would be one hostage each, but seeing both Gabrielle and Hermione had him wondering if there might not be an alternate meaning to the riddle.

Gabrielle was likely intended for Fleur, but lacking a wand due to her age, she was the one least likely to be able to fight her way out of the village when the hostages awoke. Fleur would never forgive him if he left her little sister here. She could mean most to him, not just because he adored her - though he did - but because Fleur would likely cut his balls off and feed them to him if he left her little sister at the bottom of the lake.

Hermione could have been intended for Viktor. She would have no issues fighting her way out of the village. Everyone knew that. But she was also Harry’s sister. She obviously meant a great deal to him. Perhaps he was supposed to show them what he cared for most by picking which of these hostages to bring back.

And presumably, then, Chang and the Weasley represented allies. The ability to build relationships beyond those of his family. He had spent enough time with the older Weasleys to know how much they would value him bringing her back, and Cedric was so deeply in love with Cho that you could not miss it, even if you spent most of your time just playing Quidditch.

Satisfied that he had identified what answer bringing back each of these hostages would symbolise, he settled back in the water to think about it.

There was only really one choice.

He made his decision and moved his wand through the water to bend the world to his will.

Ten minutes later, Ludo stared at him in the medical tent. “Mr Potter, are you aware that you were only supposed to bring back your hostage?”

Sirius was clearly holding back laughter.

“We will need to discuss this,” said Mr Crouch, his gaunt figure towering over everyone else in the tent, “as the other champions were denied any opportunity whatsoever to rescue a hostage.”

The judges left the tent, clearly preparing for a very long discussion.

Hermione patted him on his shoulder, “I think you did the right thing.”

“Me too,” Viktor agreed. “Hermione should not have been left in the lake.”

“If you had left Gabrielle there then I would have burnt your balls off,” Fleur said, with a nod, “and then fed them to you.”

Cedric said nothing, his Bubble Head Charm having broken whilst he was at the bottom of the lake when he was attacked by some of the dark creatures that lived there. He had made it to the surface and would recover in time, but he and Cho were holding each other tightly in a corner of the medical tent.

Gabrielle snored from where she was laying on Harry’s chest, sleeping off the potions that she’d been given to warm herself up after nearly an hour in a Scottish lake in the middle of winter.

Harry thought he should stick to Quidditch. It seemed far more straightforward than all of this nonsense about there being a right hostage. Who could have seen that coming? He didn’t really understand why the judges were upset. No one complained about how many snitches you caught in Quidditch. In fact, he thought that his Quidditch coach would very much appreciate him catching four snitches in a single match. That was the kind of forward thinking that would win you every match you played.

Then they banned them from using the Quidditch pitch.

“You can’t do this!”

“It’s for the tournament.”

“Where are we supposed to practise?”

“It’s only for a few months, I think that-”

“A few months?!”

“No one is allowed to fly over the maze whilst it-”

“You’re building a maze on the Quidditch pitch?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“But it’s a Quidditch pitch!”

“No one is using it this year, so what does it matter anyway?”

The horrified looks that Bagman got at that statement were enough to get him to awkwardly and immediately end the conversation.

“I will send an owl to Olivia,” Krum said, clearly perturbed, “and arrange for us to practise with his club. I believe that he joined one of the teams here in Britain.”

“Olivia?” Cedric asked, a furrow in his brow. “Who’s that?”

“He was one of your schoolmates last year. In the red house.”

“Do you mean Oliver Wood?”

Viktor shrugged, “He plays Quidditch. He is good Keeper. Does it matter if I get his name wrong?”

The maze itself was nothing remarkable, but winning the tournament was something that Harry took great delight in doing. With his lead from the first two tasks and Hermione’s unerringly precise predictions of the kind of challenges he might face, it was a simple matter to work his way through the challenges that the maze posed and catch his breath standing alone at the trophy.

The graveyard, however, was not expected.

Under-15 Duelling European champion and professional Quidditch Seeker or not, his reflexes were too slow to block a stunning spell from a man with long blonde hair when his head was spinning from an unexpected and poorly made Portkey.

Lord Voldemort rose, and Harry escaped, and standing around his bed in the hospital wing, Viktor and Hermione exchanged a meaningful look.

“The borders are closed until the end of the month to investigate these events,” said Sirius grimly. “I will be hosting the Durmstrang contingent in my house in London until the British government allow us to leave.”

“Unacceptable,” Krum said. “There is Quidditch-”

“-nonetheless,” Sirius said, his face calm in the way that he only managed when he was truly angry, “I have received owls from no less than six major members of the Wizengamot. This is what it shall be.”

Grimmauld Place was barely worth exploring. The Durmstrang students gathered in the library, and caught up on their schoolwork. At least the library here was holistic, Harry thought idly, remembering how limited the collection had been at Hogwarts. The Blacks had little concern about what was moral, what was legal, or what was dangerous. The Blacks only cared for what gave them power, and that was far closer to the ethos of Durmstrang than the ethos of Hogwarts.

Viktor and Hermione took to exploring corners of the house together, in a way that made Harry wish that they had found a reason to convince the Beauxbaton delegates to stay with them as well, but it seemed that the borders were only closed to the Durmstrang students.

Perhaps it was because Britain and France were closer allies, or because Hogwarts and Beauxbatons shared a closer ideology. Perhaps it was because Durmstrang was known for producing dark wizards. Few forgot that Grindelwald had been taught at Durmstrang, even if they had eventually expelled him. But as members of the Durmstrang contingent began to receive individual permission to leave the country free of suspicion, Harry began to wonder if it was because he had been the one kidnapped, who brought back news of dark wizards and dark rituals and men in masks with mutilated souls. Maybe it was not Durmstrang at fault, but Harry Potter instead.

Viktor grumbled something about Quidditch and took to vanishing with Hermione outside of the house. Wherever it was they went, they came back dirty. Hermione’s shoes caked in mud. Viktor’s robes stained with blood. Sirius sometimes went with them. The house elf went from hating them to treating them with respect. Harry didn't ask questions. He had homework to do and letters to write.

Harry missed Quidditch. He had been forced to take a leave of absence from his team in France whilst the British government refused to let him leave the country. Even the letters he exchanged with Fleur and Gabrielle weren’t enough to keep him happy.

Sirius told him not to leave the house. Dumbledore concurred. Karkaroff too. Here in the house, he was safe. They might know that he was here, but they could not break down the wards or demand that he surrender to them.

Why this risk was one that they were concerned about, Harry did not know.

An owl arrived, expelling him from Hogwarts for casting a Patronus charm. Harry shrugged, and gave it to Hermione, not really knowing why he had been expelled from a school he didn’t go to anyway. She smiled in the way that suggested that someone else was about to have a very unpleasant day, and vanished with Viktor and Sirius back to the British Ministry of Magic. They were back in Bulgaria two hours later, just in time for Harry to pick up the last few games of the Quidditch season and make sure that Fleur wouldn’t forget who he was whilst she was working on starting a career at Gringotts.

Durmstrang, when they got there, was still cold. Durmstrang, when they got there, was still dark. Some things never changed.

Polina was a little more giggly around him, perhaps, and Viktor was no longer there to challenge his attempts at the snitch. Sirius was only teaching the older years, but that just meant that he spent more time teaching Harry and less time complaining about students Harry didn’t know.

Somewhere over the summer, Karkaroff had lost an arm. The announcement that anyone bearing a Dark Mark would be barred from the premises helped Harry to make sense of it. Karkaroff’s past as a servant of the Dark Lord Voldemort had always been known to those at Durmstrang. Now, it seemed, he was trying to carve himself a new future free of the Dark Lord he had once served.

But, despite a few changes here and there, it was still Durmstrang.

They got the Daily Prophet to keep track of news in Britain and they got owls from the students that they had befriended during the Triwizard Tournament to keep up with events at Hogwarts, and things did not sound pleasant in either case.

Harry, having successfully left the country, was at the centre of a raging debate about immigration rights, citizenship rights, and - flatteringly - eligibility to play on the England National Quidditch Team whilst playing in the French National League. The next world cup was not that far away, and Harry would be the second-youngest Seeker ever to play in a World Cup if they thought he could catch more snitches than the one that Blythe Parkin had managed during her time in the last World Cup.

It was odd, he thought, how much being a professional Quidditch player seemed to feature in these discussions. The biggest argument against stripping him of his citizenship for fomenting dissent by claiming the Dark Lord Voldemort had been resurrected from the grave was that this might ruin Britain’s chances for success on the international scene. Hermione agreed. Sirius didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, Harry could be Viktor’s brother and stay in Bulgaria and/or France for the rest of his life, marry the beautiful part-Veela that had stolen his heart, and maybe get around to having some children when he got bored of riding brooms and wanted to ride something more… responsive. Sirius just wanted him to be happy. Harry could agree with that.

Either way, Harry wasn’t sure how all of this had led to Dolores Umbridge being appointed at Hogwarts. The moment the Weasley twins had mentioned her presence, Hermione had gained a more targeted interest in politics. She had always kept up with British politics and the movements and motions passing through the Wizengamot, but now she was doing so with purpose. Every bill that Umbridge had ever touched - whether that be in her role as Undersecretary, or her earlier roles in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, or as a special advisor to various Wizengamot members - was carefully taken to pieces, annotated with Muggle highlighters, and discussed with Sirius over tea at the weekend.

Harry was too busy playing Quidditch to keep track of what Hermione and Sirius were discussing, but it seemed very serious. Quidditch or not, Harry did at least pick up the fact that Umbridge was behind some of the nastier anti-werewolf legislation that had made Sirius’ friend’s life more difficult. 

Harry was very glad he didn’t have to deal with it.

Then, one weekend just before Christmas, Harry was diving toward the ground as he tried to sell a Wronski Feint to Jean Richelieu in the hope it might let him incapacitate the other Seeker and have a chance to find the snitch quickly and secure out a rare win against the Quiberion Quafflepunchers, when the wards of the stadium broke with a crack that echoed around the grounds.

Spells flew past him as men in dark robes and silver masks thrust their wands toward him. In the stands, he could see the Delacours furiously defending themselves. Eyes narrowing, Harry reached for his wand and dived toward where Fleur was holding off three men in masks. He just had to reach her and-

-everything went dark.

“Harry Potter. We meet once again.”

His surroundings burst back into colour as his head split open in pain. A feeling he hadn’t had since Voldemort rose back to life in front of him.

“A duelling champion. The winner of the Triwizard Tournament. A professional Quidditch player. You are quite the remarkable young man.” The snake-faced Dark Lord tilted his wand and levitated Harry into the middle of the room. “It is a shame that I have no interest in recruiting you.” 

“Why are you doing this?”

“Shortly before you were born, a prophet was given a glimpse of the future,” Voldemort explained, “and predicted that you were the only one who would ever equal my power.”

Harry gasped in pain, before forcing more words out, “Let me go. I just want to play Quidditch-”

“ Avada Kedavara .”

The Quidditch pitch was misty.

Harry tilted his broom and flew through the air.

There was something wrong.

He had the niggling sense that something was not quite right.

Was it the rain?

Was it raining?

Harry blinked.

He was looking for the snitch, wasn’t he?

Wasn’t that what he was doing?

He looked around with uncertainty. Was this even a Quidditch pitch? The crowd was oddly quiet, and the snitch was charmed not to rise to the height of the clouds and he wasn’t so sure that these were clouds as-

-a glimmer of gold.

He didn’t even have to think before his broom shot toward it. He had spent years training as a  Seeker, until his body responded to a snitch as fast as his brain could recognise it as what it was.

It was a glimmer of gold that was harder to catch than anything he had ever chased before. 

Unlike the snitches used in competition, it didn’t seem to be bound to anywhere in particular, and no matter how much they soared up or plummeted down, no matter how far and wide he chased it, they never came across anything.

It was just… him and a snitch.

And the rain.

So much rain.

The rumble of thunder.

Was there something else he should be doing?

The clouds thickened, the storm picked up.

His hand found the snitch.

Fleur would be happy that there was going to be another snitch to add to her necklace-

-and he came back to the world, his body hanging spread-eagled behind the Dark Lord Voldemort as he proselytised to a crowd in what Harry vaguely recognised as Diagon Alley. Surrounding the crowd, stood men in dark robes and silver masks, their wands drawn, their wrists bared to show the dark mark. 

“-saviour is dead! None of you shall ever equal me! Your last hope has been defeated! Bow down, or be struck down!”

Harry was being ignored. That, Harry thought, was going to be a big mistake. Harry took a breath, and then flexed his magic, feeling where Voldemort’s magic was holding him. Then he broke it, landed on the ground, and launched himself toward the Dark Lord.

He had no wand.

But he spent every day training. He had gone to Durmstrang.  He knew how to fight, with and without magic. He was a duelling champion . Viktor and Hermione had made sure that he knew how to defend himself. 

And, as his mind cleared and his hands settled around the Dark Lord's neck, he remembered that he had told Voldemort that he didn’t want any part of this, and the Dark Lord had not listened.

There was no choice here.

There was no chance of Quidditch whilst Voldemort was threatening him.

And Harry liked Quidditch.

Voldemort had no time to react.

There was a snap .

The Dark Lord Voldemort collapsed, lifeless, on the ground.

Harry caught the slender wand of the Dark Lord Voldemort as it fell out of the madman’s hand, and felt it brush up against his magic and find him... compatible.

Things were coming back to him now.

The Quidditch match.

Fleur under threat. Gabrielle being shoved behind her father’s back as Death Eaters fought their way through the crowd toward the family that held his heart’s heart.

Death Eaters like the ones in front of him.

Harry was not the best at fire magic. Fleur was better. A result of her innate talents. Her birthright. Her natural inclination for fire and flame. An inclination which he had spent months of his life fighting against in the basement of the Delacour mansion.

The Delacour’s who the Death Eaters might have hurt. Might have killed.

Fleur might be gone .

Harry's heart clenched.

Diagon Alley burned .

“Harry?”

“Is she alive?”

“Harry,  I need you to put the wand down.”

“Not until I know where-”

“Aurors!”

Hermione sighed, and flicked her wand.

Everything went dark.

Harry awoke in a bed at a wizarding hospital he didn’t recognise but which, given the English on the signs around him, was probably St Mungo’s in London. His body ached. All of it. Some of it was even in a cast, which was rare for a Magical hospital. Clearly he was on too many important potions to take the ones for minor injuries like broken bones. Which was almost concerning, all things told.

Next to him, Fleur sat in a chair, her head leaning against his knees as she slept, one of his hands held tightly between both of hers.

By the door, a tall black man he didn’t recognise, and a woman with the tips of her hair a startlingly neon pink, both in the deep red robes that marked members of the British department of magical law enforcement. Aurors, then, Harry presumed. 

“-glad I’m not dealing with his fan mail. Have you seen how busy Birtwhistle has been this week?”

“He was already famous even before he killed Voldemort,” the black man said in a voice that rumbled around the entire hospital room. “I’m surprised that he doesn’t have an entire team of publicists to deal with it.”

“Apparently him and his brother have some kind of deal with Rita Skeeter,” the woman said, “which I just can’t understand. She’s as bad as a cockroach. Maybe she normally deals with it.”

“I’m glad we could help out then. Her articles in the Quibbler have been one of the major reasons that-”

“-I know, but did you see what she wrote about my mum when she got brought back into the family? She’s a bitch.”

“I’m surprised Lord Black didn’t-”

Harry coughed, his throat dry, then forced the words out anyway, “Who the fuck are you two?”

Their eyes flicked toward him.

“Mr Potter. You’re awake. Do you know where you are?”

“No idea,” Harry said, squeezing Fleur’s hand gently to reassure himself that she was real, “but I asked who you were, not where we are.”

The woman smiled faintly, “I’m Tonks. This is Shacklebolt. We’re two of the Aurors assigned to your close protection team for the duration of your stay in Britain, or until-”

“What happened?”

“You were kidnapped during your match against the Quiberion Quafflepunchers. Three days later, the Dark Lord Voldemort declared you dead and your body was dragged into Diagon Alley as a demonstration of his power,” Tonks said. “You then arose from the dead, killed Voldemort, burnt Diagon Alley to the ground, and killed nearly forty of his followers. Which, by the way, I think my boss will probably want to talk to you about.”

Harry’s eyes fell on his girlfriend. “I thought Fleur was-”

“I’m going to call for your Healer now, okay?” Tonks said, “and then I think that your other friends and family have been waiting for you to wake up.”

His bodyguards didn’t leave the room as the Healer quizzed him, examined him carefully, and delivered a brusque summary of his injuries. Which, apparently, involved a dangerous level of exposure to dark magic, a curse scar stretching across his chest, and smoke inhalation. There was also a risk that he might never be able to have children, as was the case with many curse breakers who were exposed to this level of dark magic throughout their career.

Fleur woke up at some point and interrupted the examination to devour his mouth. Clearly she didn’t care about whether or not he could have children.

Neither did Harry, really. 

It sounded like he was going to be able to make a full recovery and play Quidditch and, frankly, he was looking forward to it.

Maybe he could drop out of Durmstrang. Would Hermione kill him if he did? He had a promising career ahead of him, and it wasn’t like any of the Quidditch leagues would mind if-

“Here are your notes for the classes you missed,” said Hermione primly, “and I need you to explain how you came back from the dead.”

On second thoughts, maybe it was best that he didn’t drop out of school. Just in case Hermione took offence. That seemed safer.

Viktor smirked at him.

Yes, Viktor had been forced to graduate Durmstrang, and he had nearly won the World Quidditch Cup.

Hermione would clearly not tolerate someone dropping out of school for anything. Even something as important as Quidditch.

“I’m waiting,” she said, folding her arms and giving him a look that promised danger. “I want a full explanation.”

Harry stared at her. Did she think that he knew? All he knew was that-

“Perhaps I could make some suggestions, Ms Granger.”

His bushy-haired future sister-in-law wheeled around and glared at the kindly figure of Headmaster Dumbledore who, for some bizarre reason, had decided to invade his hospital room as well.

“I bloody well hope so,” Hermione said, “because I’ve spent the last twenty-seven years trying to work out how to kill Voldemort without losing my brother on the way, and-”

“A story which, I am sure, is a fascinating and lengthy tale,” Dumbledore said, “and most likely one which we should not be discussing in a public hospital room in front of two of the most promising Aurors this country has.”

Hermione scowled, “They’re both yours, aren’t they?”

Shacklebolt chuckled, “She’s got you there, Albus.”

Dumbledore paused, “Ah, yes. Well. You see-”

“-so what are your suggestions?” Hermione said, her hands landing on her hips as she stared at the older man. “Or am I going to spend another decade of my life chasing down reference texts which have inexplicably been removed from every library under the purview of the International Confederation of Wizards? An organisation which, I would like to point out, is under your leadership and therefore-”

“-I am aware of what has been removed from our libraries, Ms Granger. A great deal of those books have been removed for good reason. As I’m sure you know.”

“Knowledge,” Hermione said, with a terrible finality, “is for sharing.”

“Prior to my appointment in the 1950s, a Dark Lord of Voldemort’s stature rose to prominence around every fifteen years,” Dumbledore said, clearly entertained by the discussion, “and since the new policy on accessing forbidden materials was adopted in 1957, we have had only two, neither of which were educated within the International Confederation of Wizards. By any reasonable measures, the 1957 agreement has ensured that-”

“-your agreement nearly led to a Dark Lord being able to conceal not only the method of his survival but also-”

At this point, the argument was well beyond Harry’s limited understanding of - and interest in - the discussion in question. He turned to Fleur with a smile, “Is Gabrielle okay?”

“The whole family is fine,” she reassured him, “and we are looking forward to you joining us for the rest of the school term, and the entirety of the Christmas break.”

“Do I still have that exhibition match near Berlin on Boxing Day or-”

“You will not be playing Quidditch,” Fleur said, her eyes narrowing at him, “until I say you can play Quidditch. Is that clear?”

Hermione and Dumbledore’s discussion had escalated to her jabbing the elderly man in the chest with her finger as she ranted at him.

There were sparks coming from her fingers.

Harry weighed up the chance of survival if both of the most important women in his life were angry at the same time.

“Yes, my love,” he said, “I understand.”

She squinted at him, before patting him gently on the cheek, “Good.”

“-hope you’re happy!” Hermione declared emphatically. “But I do insist that you tell me exactly what you know.”

“My dear woman, I will answer all of your questions if you will answer but one of mine.”

Hermione squinted, “Depends on what you’re going to ask.”

“All magic has a price,” Dumbledore said, “and I must know what you paid for the magic that brought you back.”

Hermione stilled, her eyes flicking to Viktor and Harry and the Aurors. Then she sighed, her shoulders slumping.

“I’ll meet you at Hogwarts tomorrow morning. My notes are at Viktor’s.”

“As for Mr Potter,” Dumbledore said with a genial smile and a twinkle in his eye, “I can only presume that he was saved from certain death through a combination of his mother’s use of a rather obscure ritual based on lasting familial love and the esoteric nature of his rather personal connection with Tom Riddle, which was likely only enhanced through Tom’s unwise decision to use his blood as part of a magical ritual to return to life last July.”

“Oh!” said Hermione, her eyes lighting up, “but that would mean that-”

And away she went again, her hands gesticulating through the air as she explored her ideas aloud. Harry wasn’t sure he liked the look that Viktor was giving her. That look was generally followed by a need to flee to the Delacours lest he be granted visions that would never leave his mind. Nor was he sure he liked the look that Dumbledore was giving her. He had no idea what Dumbledore wanted with Hermione, but he was sure it would be something that Hermione would struggle to say no to. It would probably involve extensive amounts of extra work. She liked that kind of thing.

Just before Hermione reached the peak of her typical level of excitement - the point at which everyone knew that she was no longer stoppable - Harry coughed, cutting her off, “Voldemort is like… dead… now though? Right?”

Dumbledore smiled broadly, “I would very much hope so, Mr Potter, yes. You have seen to that, at least. My contacts at the ministry have reassured me that a prophecy which was the subject of your inevitable conflict is no longer emitting chronons and, therefore-”

“Prophecies emit chronons when they are unresolved?” said Hermione, her eyes flying wide open, “but that would suggest that Divination is actually-”

And away she went again. Harry smiled fondly. He was lucky to have a sister like Hermione in his life.

Christmas with the Delacours was as wonderful as ever. Loathe as he was to admit it, Fleur was right to not let him play in the exhibition match. Whatever he had been through at the hands of Voldemort - as hazy and vague as it seemed in his mind - and whatever had happened whilst his soul and body were separated had left him a little unbalanced. Enough that Viktor caught every snitch they sent up each morning, and that Polina almost managed to eke out a snitch from under his fingers when she dropped by the Delacours at the start of Durmstrang’s winter holiday to say hello. Which given that she wasn't a professional and mostly played Chaser in their pick-up games was, frankly, concerning.

Polina didn’t stay for dinner, and she didn’t send letters the rest of the break, and Harry hoped it wasn’t anything to do with the way that Fleur had seized Harry by the front of his robes and kissed him passionately as Polina was leaving. It had not been kind of Fleur to do that kind of thing in front of one of his friends. Harry knew how uncomfortable it made him when Viktor and Hermione acted like that around him, and he didn’t want to be like that to his friends. Hopefully Polina would not be too upset and would forgive him.

But, by the time he arrived back at Durmstrang at the start of January, his mind was focused, and his body was healing, and he was ready for whatever came next.

Which, he thought, as he pushed off into the early morning mist, was going to be Quidditch.

He could equal Viktor now, and that was a good start. Enough to make sure that Britain would come knocking at his door when the next World Cup came around.

And given that there was a few years more before the next World Cup? Harry had time to learn. Time to practice. Time to pick up some tricks that he could save for when he and Viktor were staring each other down in the final.

Viktor wanted a competition.

Harry knew that it wasn’t even going to be close.

That, he thought, was a future worth living for.