The fight was over in under three minutes.
Viktor efficiently bound the six poachers with Incarcerous ropes and rifled through their pockets, pulling out a thick stack of international black-market orders—Poison-Horn horns going for three hundred Galleons a pound.
"Greedy idiots," he muttered, shaking his head at the parchment.
Truth be told, even if he hadn't shown up, these clowns would've probably ended up half-dead or worse anyway.
Compared to their African cousins, the Siberian poison-horns were far more vicious and tightly knit as a herd.
He pulled a sack of calming herbs from his pocket and tossed generous handfuls to the spooked creatures, coaxing them to migrate deeper into safer territory.
Watching the herd lumber away into the distance, Viktor reached behind his waist and drew out a worn leather pouch. With a casual flick of his wrist, it unfolded and expanded into a full-sized wooden door, tall enough for a man to walk through.
He pushed open the heavy oak panel.
On the other side lay an entirely different world: lush, verdant forest stretching endlessly, and right in the middle, a cozy little cabin nestled among the trees. The stark contrast with the frozen Siberian plain behind him was almost comical.
The moment the door swung wide, it was as if something had been waiting.
From every corner of the dense woodland, furry heads, scaly heads, feathered heads—every shape and strangeness imaginable—poked out. Eyes of every colour fixed on Viktor with bright, curious stares.
He sighed and called out, half-exasperated, half-fond.
"Alright, back to your dens. No extra snacks today, no new friends either. Be good and I'll tell you all a story tonight."
With a flick of his wand he guided the three captured magical sleighs through the doorway.
The moment the creatures realised it wasn't food or a new playmate being delivered, those dozens of shining eyes blinked once—like stars winking out—and vanished back into the undergrowth as quickly as they'd appeared.
Viktor didn't even bother getting annoyed at the bunch of heartless little opportunists. He just turned to Tom instead.
The cat was standing ramrod straight, flashing a huge toothy grin that matched the golden-Galleon gleam in both his eyes—and in Mac's eyes on his shoulder.
At Tom's feet lay the six poachers, stripped completely bare, along with the entire haul of loot they'd been carrying.
A modest pile of Galleons and Sickles, various poacher gadgets, six wands, and a few vials of potions.
Viktor gave the pile a lazy once-over and started dividing it up.
"Same split as always. This stack here is Mac's. Potions, gadgets, and coins go to Tom. The rest of the coins and the wands are mine. Everyone good with that?"
Both the big and small money-grubbers nodded so fast their heads blurred.
They set to work stashing their shares at lightning speed.
Viktor stopped watching Mac struggle to cram a pile of coins almost as tall as himself into the pouch on his belly, and ignored Tom gleefully inspecting the weird gadgets and potions before stuffing them into the fur around his backside.
Instead he sat on the threshold of the oak door, pulled a letter from his trouser pocket.
It had been delivered by one of his grandfather's handsome Thunderbird friends—a letter bearing faint Niffler paw-prints on the envelope.
He opened it. Newt Scamander's neat, precise handwriting greeted him.
"Viktor, how are the little ones you mentioned last time? They… and Albus would like to invite you back… It concerns the safety of Hogwarts… We need eyes that understand magical creatures and have also seen true darkness…"
As he finished reading, the system interface flickered into view:
[Special Invitation Received: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry]
[Position: Professor of Magical Creature Protection]
[Acceptance Reward: One Grand Roulette Draw]
Viktor scratched the back of his head, looking genuinely troubled.
As someone who'd been yeeted into this world mid-grind by a performance-obsessed truck-kun, of course he knew Harry Potter existed.
Unfortunately, he'd never actually read the books or seen the movies.
Before crossing over, the closest he'd come was getting dragged along by friends to watch Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them one night.
On the way home they'd rambled nonstop about "Hermione and her useless two blokes," "Dumbledore's spicy younger years," and "that brain-damaged noseless freak who got himself split into seven pieces."
He'd actually planned to catch up on the whole series—starting with finishing Fantastic Beasts—because yeah, the creatures and Newt's suitcase were seriously cool.
But before he could even get home from the team-building outing, truck-kun had other plans.
Next thing he knew, he was Newt Scamander's grandson.
And now here was a letter from Grandpa himself.
Probably meant that noseless idiot Voldemort was back on the scene.
Tom padded over, the bearskin hat brushing lightly against Viktor's arm.
The cat poked the letter with one claw, then mimed packing a suitcase, pretended to ride a horse, pointed dramatically west, and pulled the most exaggerated "let's go!!" face imaginable. His ears twitched with pure excitement under the hat brim.
"Yeah," Viktor said softly. "We're heading back to Britain."
At the confirmation, Tom dramatically wiped away nonexistent tears with one paw, gave the tundra a slow, mournful goodbye wave, letting the hat tilt rakishly to one side.
Then—because of course—a whole series of white cartoon thought-clouds popped above his head.
Inside the clouds: Tom in a crisp tailored suit, pulling a spellbook and wand out of his backside fur, striking a classic "professor lecturing" pose.
Final panel: Tom surrounded by a crowd of adoring students, wearing a smug-yet-shy, cheeks-flushed expression.
Viktor buried his face in his hand.
Anyone watching would've sworn Tom was the one who'd just been offered the Hogwarts job.
…
Half an hour later the Russian border patrol rolled up—five burly wizards riding magically-enhanced war bears.
Spotting Viktor and Tom from a distance, Captain Ivanov leapt off his mount and charged over with a booming laugh, wrapping Viktor in a bear hug that nearly cracked ribs.
"Viktor! Thank you again, brother—you've cleared out more trash for us! These are black-market scum; we've been hunting them for three months!"
Viktor gave a quick rundown, then handed over the six poachers (now thoroughly frozen stiff) and the incriminating orders.
He also mentioned he'd be leaving the area.
Ivanov scanned the parchment and his face darkened.
The chaos in the Far East wasn't limited to the Muggle world.
Ideology didn't respect borders, and magic didn't change human nature—in fact it often made fanaticism burn even hotter.
The newly formed Russian Ministry of Magic was still scrambling to get its own house in order.
That was exactly why poachers had grown so bold lately.
Back in the old days, anyone caught poaching in this region usually didn't survive the arrest.
Those Slavic madmen would just down a bottle of vodka, climb onto a war bear or an uprooted tree, and beat the bastards to death.