◇◇
The world didn't greet him gently.
It yanked him out of the Portkey like it had personal beef with him—a violent jerk behind the navel, a flash of blue light, and then—
SLAM.
He hit solid ground on his knees.
The air gusted past his face in hot, uneven waves, carrying smells that should not coexist:
Fresh-cut grass.
Spilled Firewhisky.
Overpriced snack-carts.
A broomstick engine overheating in the distance.
And adrenaline. So much adrenaline it felt like someone had set emotion itself on fire.
Arthur pushed himself up.
And froze.
He had never seen anything like this.
The hills stretched endlessly, bursting with tents so bright they probably violated multiple magical laws. Banners floated overhead, carrying the faces of Quidditch players whose eyes actually followed you. Someone had enchanted a cloud to chant:
"KAAAAAAANOOOOOOONS!"
(A terrible investment, honestly.)
Crowds swarmed everywhere — laughing, shouting, chanting in languages Arthur was 40% sure were made up on the spot. Music charms clashed with each other in a magical turf war. Sparks lifted from wand tips in random bursts, like the air itself was celebrating.
Arthur blinked. Then blinked again.
"…This is so much noise."
A familiar weight dropped onto his shoulder — Elira, talons gripping his jacket with annoyed precision.
She didn't speak in words. She never did.
But the feeling slammed into his mind like a judgmental paragraph:
You dropped the landing. Again. Weak. Do better.
Arthur groaned. "Portkeys are violent, Elira. You're supposed to struggle."
A sharp peck to the ear.
"Okay, okay—maybe that one was my fault."
She preened in satisfaction.
Before he could recalibrate his hearing, a voice cut through the chaos:
"There he is! Our dramatic king!"
Arthur turned just in time to see Harry Potter jogging up the path, waving like a man who had no concept of embarrassment. His Quidditch World Cup scarf—green and gold—was wrapped chaotically around his neck like it was trying to strangle him.
Arthur raised a brow. "Blimey. I lose sight of you for one minute and you turn into a walking banner."
Harry grinned. "It's patriotic. Be supportive."
"You're supporting the Irish. We're British."
Harry shrugged. "They have cool music."
Fair enough.
Behind him, Elena Potter approached, somehow looking like she had control of her life even in the middle of chaos. Her hair was tied in a sleek braid, her expression one-third judgment, two-thirds fond exasperation.
She eyed Arthur up and down, arms crossed.
"You didn't look this pale this morning. Did the Portkey mug you?"
"It assaulted me, yes."
"Figures."
Arthur groaned. "Portkeys hate me. Cassian said it's because my magic is 'unstable.'"
Harry snorted. "He was being polite. You glitch."
Arthur pointed at him. "Take that back before I freeze your socks."
Elena sighed. "Boys, please. We just got here. Don't commit murder on the landing zone."
A booming voice rose behind them:
"Kids! Stop fighting and help me carry snacks!"
James Potter was marching toward them wearing a roaring lion hat.
Every time the mouth moved, a mini magical roar vibrated through the air.
Arthur covered his ears. "For the love of Merlin, WHY?"
James puffed out his chest. "Merchandising."
Elira dug her talons into Arthur's shoulder again.
"Kill it. Burn it. Remove the threat."
Arthur kept a straight face. "She says it's… lovely."
James beamed. "I knew she had taste!"
Arthur quietly apologized to the universe for lying.
Lily Potter appeared behind James, wand hand guiding three crates of snacks, a kettle, a foldable table, and one of the twins—Theo—who was dangling upside down and munching on a biscuit as if floating was perfectly normal, while the other was carrying Lyra.
Lily waved. "Arthur! Don't let James talk you into buying that ridiculous hat."
James gasped. "Lily! This hat is tradition."
Lily gave him a look that suggested she had survived far worse things than his fashion choices. "The last time you wore that, you were chased by sheep."
"That was ONE time."
"Arthur," Lily said sweetly, "if he tries to sell you merchandise, run."
Arthur nodded. "Understood."
Theo flopped onto Arthur's leg the moment he reached him.
"ARTHUR! The campsite sells fireworks shaped like flying snitches!"
Leo, the other twin, appeared seconds later, breathless. "AND THERE'S A GUY JUGGLING FIREBALLS. LIKE LITERALLY. HE CAUGHT ONE IN HIS MOUTH."
Arthur blinked. "…does anyone know if he survived?"
"No clue," Leo chirped.
Arthur sighed. "Of course not."
Harry slung an arm around his neck again. "C'mon. Dad wants to show off the tent. He glamor-charmed it."
Arthur groaned. "Meaning…?"
James answered proudly:
"Meaning it is a masterpiece of magical architecture and masculine creativity."
Elira's emotional message came instantly. "I highly doubt that."
Arthur muttered, "She's terrified."
James gasped. "Of awe, obviously."
Lily rolled her eyes. "Just wait until you see it. He added a chandelier."
Arthur stopped walking.
"…In a tent?"
"A chandelier," Lily repeated.
Harry shrugged. "To be fair, it looks kind of cool."
Theo whispered, "It flickers when Dad lies."
"It flickers constantly," Leo added.
Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. "How are you all alive."
They began walking toward the campsite, the air loud, alive, packed with people from every corner of the magical world. Flags waved, music spilled from tents, and Arthur felt something warm stir in his chest—
A thing that had been dormant since Ilvermorny.
Not peace, exactly.
But something like it.
Something that hummed quietly under his ribs:
You're allowed to exist here.
You're allowed to breathe.
He wasn't sure if it was him, Auren, or something deeper whispering that.
But he didn't fight it.
Not tonight.
◇◇◇
The pathway to their assigned pitch stretched between rows of tents that were clearly competing for Most Dramatically Over-Enchanted Structure. One was bewitched to look like a miniature volcano. Another hummed music every time someone walked by. A third had a terrified house-elf inside the fabric yelling "PLEASE STOP SHAKING ME" whenever the wind blew.
Arthur stared.
"This is a health hazard."
Elena snorted. "It's the Quidditch World Cup. That's part of the charm."
"Recklessness is not charm."
Harry elbowed him. "You've been living with my dad too long."
Arthur opened his mouth to argue and then they reached the Potters' tent.
Arthur stopped walking.
"…Oh, gods."
Because it wasn't a tent.
It was a two-story canvas mansion with actual curtains in the windows and a floating wooden sign reading:
THE POTTER ESTATE (TEMPORARY LOCATION)—"est. this morning" scribbled beneath in messy handwriting.
"Um... Mr Potter. What. Is. This."
James beamed. "Our home away from home!"
The tent sparkled in a way that should not be legal. Its entrance flaps were trimmed with what looked dangerously like sequins. A chandelier's glow flickered from inside—yes, they could literally see it from the outside.
Arthur quietly mentally prepared himself for disappointment.
Elira perched on his shoulder radiating judgment so strong he almost staggered.
—This is inadequate. Degenerate. No. Absolutely not.—
(Arthur's translation, softened for human ears.)
He coughed to hide a laugh.
James pushed open the flap with flourish.
"Behold—luxury!"
Inside…
Okay. Arthur had to admit...
It was insane. But also kind of impressive.
The tent was bigger on the inside—massively so. The ceiling arched high above their heads, lanterns floating in a slow golden dance. Cooling charms sent breezes drifting lazily through the space. A full sitting room sprawled across a patterned rug that absolutely cost too much. The chandelier overhead flickered with suspicious enthusiasm whenever James spoke. This must be the lie detector they spoke of.
Arthur stepped inside cautiously.
He was used to magic. He was used to chaos. But this was… domestic chaos trying to cosplay as royalty.
He dropped onto a magically cooling chair, letting out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. The cushions molded instantly to his shape.
James shoved a butterbeer into his hand like an eager salesman.
"No Hogwarts until September," he declared proudly. "Meaning TODAY is about relaxing, laughing, and not fighting ANY ancient horrors."
Arthur took a slow sip of butterbeer.
"Maybe for other people," he said dryly. "One day you'll stop jinxing me."
James looked genuinely offended. "I would never."
Chandelier flicker.
Lily raised an eyebrow. "Already. You really need to start saying the truth."
Arthur nodded sagely. "So the light's basically useless."
"HEY."
Before James could defend himself again, Lily plopped down beside Arthur and immediately started brushing invisible lint off his shirt like he was her sixth child.
"You look good," she said in that soft-mother tone she used only when she thought he wasn't paying attention. "Healthier."
Arthur bit into the pastry she handed him.
"Don't lie. My eyes are doing the weird gold thing again."
Elena plopped down on the arm of a chair across from him. "They look ethereal."
Harry leaned in. "Yeah, you look like you ascended or something."
Arthur snorted. "Funny."
He took another sip. "I got better sleep this summer."
The silent parentheses settled between them. (Only two nightmare episodes a week. Progress.)
Suddenly a shriek overhead
WHOOSH!
Leo and Theo tore through the air riding miniature broomsticks enchanted far, FAR beyond toy recommendations.
"NO GOING ABOVE FIVE FEET!" James yelled.
"WE CAN'T HEAR YOU!" the twins shouted back in perfect stereo.
"YOU'RE SIXTEEN FEET UP—GET DOWN!"
"We're practicing aerial strategy!"
"You're practicing death!"
Lily flicked her wand.
The twins' brooms slowed midair, spiraled down like sad defeated pigeons, and dropped the boys onto the rug. Gently.
Leo groaned. "Mum…"
Theo pointed at Arthur. "Arthur said five feet is a suggestion!"
Arthur pointed at Theo. "I literally said nothing."
"Yeah, but your vibe said it."
Arthur frowned. "My vibe is not permissive."
Harry leaned toward Elena. "His vibe is 'concerned single parent.'"
"That tracks," she said.
Arthur glared at both of them. "I will ice your socks."
"See?" Elena grinned. "Father behavior."
He groaned and shoved his hands into his hair. "This household has corrupted me."
His fingers sank deeper than he expected.
A LOT deeper.
His hair, now past his shoulders in uneven dark-gold waves, spilled forward like it was auditioning for a shampoo commercial. A few strands slid over his face, gold faintly at the roots as if trying to betray his power level like a snitchy LED bulb.
Lily's gasp was immediate.
"Oh—Arthur!" She leaned in, eyes sparkling. "Look at your HAIR now! When did it get this long?"
Arthur froze mid-facepalm.
"…I don't know. It kept… growing? Idleness, I guess."
Elena whipped her head around so fast her ponytail nearly slashed Harry.
"Oh my MERLIN, Arthur, you look like you're about to star in some tragic celestial romance. Your hair is literally prettier than mine."
Arthur scowled. "It's not pretty. It's just long."
"Nope," Elena said, pointing dramatically. "It's giving mysterious forest elf prince."
Harry snorted. "Honestly? You two could swap spots and no one would notice."
Arthur punched him in the leg.
"That's rude."
"It's true though," Harry wheezed.
Lily pushed a strand behind Arthur's ear with the gentleness of a mum who'd already decided she was styling it tomorrow.
"It really suits you," she said warmly. "Very elegant. Ethereal."
Elena gasped.
"THAT'S EXACTLY IT! Ethereal chic. Meanwhile MY hair is trying to frizz itself into retirement."
Arthur tipped his head back against the chair and groaned.
"I'm a guy. Why is my hair being discussed like it's on a runway?"
Harry shoved his own hair out of his eyes—his neck-length messy curls refusing to obey gravity.
"At least you don't wake up every morning looking like a cursed hedgehog."
Elena side-eyed him. "You voluntarily grew it out."
"I wanted to try a new look!"
Arthur smirked. "Yeah? And how's that working out?"
Harry threw a pillow at him.
Arthur caught it one-handed. Smug.
Elira hopped onto the back of his chair, brushing his hair with her wing.
She radiated a warm, soft hum into his mind:
—Rest easy, Arthur—
Arthur swallowed.
The tents outside boomed with cheers, laughs, and fireworks. But inside this canvas mansion, the chaos felt different. Softer. Like noise that kept the dark things away.
"This," he murmured quietly to no one in particular, "tracks."
◇◇◇◇
Market Row was a warzone disguised as a shopping street.
Stalls were packed tight, overflowing with enchanted merch, food that tried to run away, flags that shouted in your ear, and vendors who operated one moral inch above pirates.
Arthur barely made it three steps before someone tried to hex-sell him a shirt that kept chanting
"BULGARIAAAA! WE WILL CRUSH YOUUUU!"
He politely declined and kept walking.
Harry, meanwhile, was already in trouble.
A cheerful Irish merchant waved a glowing shamrock in his face.
"Laddy! Lucky charm! Guarantees Ireland wins!"
Harry blinked. "Do you have one that guarantees Bulgaria loses instead?"
"Aye, that's double price."
Before Arthur could warn him, Harry forked over five Sickles.
Arthur stared. "…Harry, Harry, Harry. Did you just get scammed in under ten seconds?"
Harry held the sad shamrock. "I— I think yes."
Elena snorted. "You're hopeless."
But then she drifted suspiciously close to a pink-sparkly stall labeled:
💘 AMORTENTIA & MORE — FOR LEGAL ROMANCE ONLY!™ 💘
"I'm just looking!," Elena said to herself.
"NO. YOU ARE NOT," Lily said, materializing behind her like an Avenging Angel™.
Elena jumped so hard she knocked over a display of heart-shaped bottles.
"MUM— I WASN'T— I WOULD NEVER— IT'S FOR— SCIENCE!"
Lily raised one eyebrow.
"Elena Rose Potter. I did not raise you to drug teenagers."
Arthur wheezed.
Harry took one step away from the blast radius.
Elira sniffed disdainfully at the fallen bottles.
Meanwhile—
A Bulgarian fan — massive dude, mustache thick enough to pick locks — shoved a wooden dueling stick at Arthur.
"You fight for honor of Bulgaria?"
Arthur blinked. "I'm… literally not Bulgarian."
The man roared with joy.
"GOOD! LESS PRESSURE! HOLD STICK!"
Before Arthur could protest, the guy whacked his stick against Arthur's — sparking a tiny explosion.
Arthur stumbled back.
Reflex kicked in.
A quick flick of his wrist. A redirect charm. A tiny gust of controlled wind.
The man flipped backward into a popcorn cart.
Popcorn EXPLODED into the air like edible fireworks.
The entire market row burst into cheers.
Arthur stood there, horrified.
"I didn't mean to—"
James threw an ireland scarf around him. "THAT'S MY BOY!"
Harry laughed so hard he choked on his useless shamrock.
Then, mid-chaos—
A hush rippled through the crowd.
Movement parted the fans like a wave.
And a Bulgarian player stepped into view.
Tall. Sharp-faced. Brooding.
Walking like gravity personally owed him money.
Arthur froze.
Krum walked right past them — eyes flicking briefly to Arthur.
Just a flick. But enough.
Arthur's heartbeat did a BACKFLIP.
Harry whispered, "You okay?"
"…Aura."
"What—?"
"HE HAS… AURA."
"Do you— do you want water?"
Arthur grabbed Harry's sleeve. "I think my soul just tried to migrate."
"…Right."
James, watching him walk away, said. "Bit dramatic, isn't he? That Viktor Krum"
"That's called stage presence, James," Lily pointed out.
"Arthur? Blink twice if you're still with us."
Arthur blinked once.
"Uh oh," Harry muttered.
Elira returned, churro in beak, unbothered.
Market Row exploded back into noise, but Arthur was still standing there like someone unplugged him and forgot to restart.
He inhaled sharply.
"Okay," he whispered.
"I… think I'm fine."
He was not fine.
◇◇◇◇◇
By the time the sky bruised into indigo, the Potter camp was a whole sitcom.
James trying to gamble with a Bulgarian wizard.
Lily dragging him back by the ear like a feral cat.
Harry and Elena stress-eating roasted corn.
Elira silently stealing anything not nailed down.
Arthur laughed until his ribs hurt — but eventually the noise got too much, even in the good way.
Even Elira didn't follow when he slipped out.
The night air cooled around him instantly, like even the world knew he needed the temperature drop.
Grass sighed beneath his boots.
Lanterns flickered.
The world felt less like chaos, more like a heartbeat.
Arthur tilted his head to the sky and exhaled.
"Sometimes," he whispered, "I forget I'm alive."
Auren hummed lazily in his mind,
"Okay, emo king. Relax."
Ardyn's voice followed — colder, with that ancient patience that made Arthur feel like a toddler with a sparkler.
"Something is coming. Soon. But hopefully not tonight."
Arthur snorted.
"Something's always coming."
He took one step toward the line of trees and hit a wall.
A very warm, very muscular, very living wall.
Arthur blinked and looked up.
Viktor Krum stared back down at him like somebody had slapped a prophecy onto his forehead.
Sharp eyes. Sharper cheekbones. Posture like he'd never slouched in his life.
Up close, he was… intense.
Not in the celebrity way. In the predator-who-heard-a-branch-snap way.
Arthur swallowed.
"…Hi."
Krum didn't blink.
"You walk like someone thinking too loud."
Arthur's brain short-circuited.
"Um. Thanks?"
"It is not a compliment."
"Oh."
Silence.
Not awkward — thick. Atmospheric. Two-introverts-who-didn't-plan-socializing energy.
Finally, Krum jerked his chin toward the stadium.
"You go to watch celebration?"
Arthur shrugged. "Yeah. Needed air."
"Good. I also need air."
Arthur wasn't sure that was true, but Krum had already turned, walking uphill toward a ridge overlooking the stadium.
And Arthur followed. Because why not. Life was weird.
*****
The vantage point was stunning — close enough to feel the magic pulse, far enough to be out of the roar.
Arthur sat. Krum sat.
They exchanged names.
Though Krum already knew his.
"Reeves," he said simply. "The one from America."
Arthur blinked.
"You… know me?"
"You fought something in your school. People talk."
Arthur groaned internally.
"Great."
Krum studied him. Not nosy.
"You look like someone carrying too much."
Arthur's throat tightened.
"Tell me something I don't know, Krum."
Krum didn't push.
They watched the Irish mascots explode into emerald sparks, leprechauns dancing across the sky.
For a moment, Arthur forgot everything.
Then—
The firework dragons burst upward.
Too bright. Too fast. Too real.
Something inside him bucked — a reflex built in bone and blood.
A scrape of instinct.
His fingers twitched.
Frost laced across the metal railing — delicate, crawling outward like a living spiderweb.
Krum's eyes snapped to it instantly.
"You are freezing iron with your hand, Reeves."
Arthur yanked his hand back so fast he almost tore something.
"I'm— I'm working on it."
Krum didn't laugh. He just said, low and certain:
"You should not be alone."
Arthur blinked. Hard.
That was…
That was not a sentence he was prepared for.
"Most people say the opposite," Arthur muttered.
"They are stupid," Krum replied calmly.
Arthur let out a breath that shook a little.
Krum leaned forward, eyes on the pitch.
"Tonight, you are safe."
"Tell that to my brain."
"I can. But your brain looks stubborn."
Arthur snorted.
"Understatement."
A beat.
Arthur looked sideways at him.
"Aren't you supposed to be down there?"
Krum stood, dusting snow-flakes (Arthur's, unfortunately) off his boots.
"I like to arrive in style."
Arthur blinked.
"What do you—"
Krum stepped off the ledge.
Just stepped.
"What the—!? This guy's more crazier than me."
Before the thought could hit, something swooped beneath the drop.
Krum's broom — pre-summoned, perfectly timed — caught him mid-air like a loyal dog.
The stadium roared the instant they saw him.
Krum tilted upward once, glanced back at Arthur, eyes glinting with something almost— soft?
Respect. Interest. Intrigue.
Maybe obsession brewing quietly in the background.
And then Krum was gone — a streak of scarlet diving toward the pitch to join the rest of the Bulgarian formation, broom trailing fire-charms, cheers rolling after him like a living river.
Arthur stood rooted, wind whipping his hair into gold-black ribbons, pulse still skittering under his skin. The frost on the railing crackled softly beside him — a reminder that something inside him had woken earlier, sharp and unsteady.
"You're staring," Auren hummed in his mind.
Arthur didn't blink. "No I'm not."
"Liarrrrrr," Auren sing-songed.
Arthur swallowed. "He saw too much."
"Exactly," Ardyn murmured.
Arthur took a slow breath — the one that made his ribs stretch, the one that reminded him, painfully, softly, that he was still tethered to a world that could feel like this.
He exhaled into the dark, his voice barely above a whisper, carried by wind and torchlight and the distant thunder of the crowd below.
"…Yeah."
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"Okay."
He touched the frost on the railing, felt it melt under his thumb.
"Maybe I'm alive after all."