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bouwrites · 2 years ago

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Argo: Year 4

First, Previous, Next.

Ao3.

Story under read-more.

“Okay!” Penny Haywood jumps when Argo drops a thick stack of books and parchment onto the desk in front of her. “So, I’ve done some research.”

Penny stares, wide-eyed at the pile. “I can see that. What did you find?”

Argo sweeps his notes into piles and summons a chalkboard as he stands tall in front of his mentor. “Well, when you told me that this symposium is to improve the wolfsbane potion, the first obvious question to ask is how we want to improve it. I’ve organized possibilities here into a few categories. From my research, there are several limiting factors that restrict how many werewolves have access to the potion. So, the first category addresses those. This is all about finding ways to make the potion more widely accessible.”

Penny watches carefully as the column writes itself onto the chalkboard. “Including ideas like…?”

“Replacing especially rare ingredients with ones sourced more easily to reduce cost and increase supply, reduce the amount of potion needed to be taken per full moon, or, and this is one of my favorites, increase the shelf life of the potion so it can be stocked ready-made and sold in bulk. That way, all we need is a steady source of ingredients – most of which can be farmed – and a few potioneers skilled enough to bottle it, then it can be sent off to hospitals around the world.”

Penny nods thoughtfully. “Interesting. And… I can’t convince you to be my apprentice forever?”

Argo smiles. “After this, I’m going to be spending a month in the arctic, so… no.”

“Right, right, but… after that?”

“Penny.”

Penny grins. “Alright, fine. What’re the other categories?”

“I’m so glad you asked,” Argo says with a grin of his own. “Next would be ways to make the potion itself more effective. As you know, the wolfbane potion only allows the werewolf to retain their mind. An amazing feat, to be sure, but it doesn’t dampen the pain of the transformation, allow any sort of control over it, or prevent the illness that comes along with it. Actually, most of the illness is the potion. Finding a way to make it not suck to drink – both taste and the horrible things it does to the body – is my number one pick in this category, though easing the pain of the transformation itself is intriguing.”

“Mhm, mhm. Lots of options here.”

“The last category I admit is a bit of a shot in the dark. This one has to do with altering the potion to effectively ‘cure’ a werewolf. A true cure, of course, but otherwise just making the effects much longer lasting, and not just preventing a transformation, but offering a choice. Essentially, the idea is to adapt the werewolf transformation into a kind of animagus one. And I do have ideas, which I’ve listed out for you, but even I can see that they all have fatal flaws. Still, I think it’s worth thinking about, even if it’s not something we can feasibly do in a week.”

“And,” Penny says, looking at the notes in front of her, “what order, exactly, is all this in?”

“Ease balanced with impact,” Argo says. “My own judgement, of course, but it’s basically in the order that I think will be most useful considering the time it’ll take to find the solutions and how the solution will affect the world’s werewolf populations.”

“And you’ve listed… several ideas of how to approach each problem.”

“Sorry I couldn’t go deeper on each of them. I just wanted to get an idea of how feasibly we can accomplish any given goal, so I did some skimming of the theory. I would’ve liked to bring you something more concrete, but I just didn’t have time to look into all of them.”

Penny sighs. “I honestly can’t tell if you’re joking. Argo, this is incredible! I can’t wait to bring this to everyone else.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” Penny rolls her eyes. Ruffling his hair, she says, “This is way more than I expected from you Argo. You did good.”

Argo beams. “Thanks, Penny.”

The symposium is a deceptively lowkey event. All the potioneers and their apprentices gather into a room only just large enough to hold them all comfortably. They take places in cushioned chairs at shiny desks positioned in a large circle to face each other, as the apprentices take places just a little behind their respective mentors. It’s not very fancy, and there are only about ten people total, but the air is charged with passion and the scent of ink and parchment.

Penny asks Argo to lay out his organized ideas for everyone, and a few potioneers and apprentices pipe up with some ideas of their own, and then they decide that since the wolfsbane potion is so new, diversification of the potion will be more beneficial than trying to make multiple improvements play nice with each other, so different teams are assigned different tasks. They’ll work on their improvement tonight and tomorrow evening return to the symposium with preliminary ideas of how to enact that change, where everyone will consider the approach and problem and offer their insights.

A potioneer from Korea offers to take the dosage problem, so when Penny asks Argo for his opinion, he ends up choosing to tackle the storage issue instead. Which is good, since it’s what Argo is most interested in anyway.

They disperse not long after that, though Penny and Argo spend most of the rest of the day deep in study tackling their chosen problem, bouncing ideas off of each other, and occasionally just making small talk.

“You know,” Penny says as they pore through advanced potions texts, “when the twins talk about their ‘little argonaut’ I always pictured you… smaller.”

Argo snorts. “I sprouted this last year. Honestly, I’m not sure it’s not partly because of the animagus ritual. I am a bear after all. But I understand neither James nor Lily were particularly short, so it’s probably genetics, too.”

“I get that,” Penny says, “But you’re like… you have to be bigger than Reynard. Not that that’s saying much, I suppose. The twins might still have you beat, but it’s got to be a close thing.”

“I was getting there last I saw them, and I know I’ve grown more this summer, so… probably?”

Penny, who is looking at Argo rather than the book in her hands, suddenly gasps. “Wait! Is that what I think it is?” She suddenly launches to her feet to lean in close to Argo’s face. “It is!” she squeals delightedly. She reaches out to scratch at Argo’s chin with her fingers. “You’re starting to get a beard! How old are you again?”

Argo playfully swats her hand away. “Fourteen in a couple weeks,” he says. “Which… huh. It is a bit early, if I remember right, but not strange. And again: bear. It shouldn’t be a surprise.”

Penny snickers, then cups a hand at her mouth like she’s telling him some horrible secret. “Reynard has been trying to grow a beard for years. Can’t do it. He’s even asked me for hair-growth potions. I hope you have the most wondrous, most enviable beard in all of the British Isles, if only because it’ll be hilarious when he sees it. Are you going to try to grow it out?”

Argo takes a moment to consider that. He’s never given any thought to it before, but… “Sure? I mean, it’s still barely-there at the moment, but if it fills in, I don’t see why not. At least to try it out. If I don’t like it, I can shave it.”

There’s quiet for a moment, and the subject of the conversation suddenly catches up with Argo. He doesn’t know exactly what to feel, honestly, about this proof that he’s getting older. “…Huh.”

“What’s up, Argo?”

Argo purses his lips for a moment, then says. “I don’t… feel older, but… I am, aren’t I?” Penny’s lips curl into an amused smile, so he quickly corrects himself. “I don’t mean, like… physically. Though that’s sort of where it’s coming from, I guess. I mean… I’m not the same person I was when I was eleven and just starting at Hogwarts, you know? I don’t feel different – I didn’t feel the change – but… all of a sudden I’m here helping advance the wolfsbane potion and talking about growing a beard. I don’t know, it’s just… I think about different things now than I did before. I don’t know what I feel about that.”

“It’s not a bad thing, getting more mature,” Penny says easily. “Everyone goes through it at some point. Trust me, once you’re out of school and into your career, that old chapter of your life seems almost alien. I look back on the girl I was when I was your age and I hardly even recognize her.”

“Yeah,” Argo says softly. “I’m not against it or anything, I just… it’s weird to think about.” He wrinkles his nose. “But so long as I don’t turn into one of those older students who can’t keep their tongues in their own mouths, it should be fine.”

Penny snorts loudly. “Oh? No special someone for you?”

“Merlin, no.”

“No one at all? Come on, Argo, I haven’t had good schoolyard gossip since I graduated. Give me something here! There’s got to be someone.”

“There really isn’t.” Argo shrugs. “I haven’t really considered it, to be honest. It’s just not important.”

“You don’t say?” Penny asks. “Is it just not a priority or are you actually not interested at all?”

“…Mostly the first? I mean, I’m not against it, but I’m not looking for a relationship, you know?”

“I get it! And you’re still not even fourteen – you have plenty of time to figure out what you want out of all that nonsense.”

Yeah, of course he does. That’s why he’s going to devote exactly zero time and energy into that when it can be spent towards much more interesting things.

The second day of the symposium is awesome in the way that takes one’s breath away. There’s something to be said for a group of people who do not know each other, who have nothing to do with each other, coming together for a common goal. They offer insights, help each other, while respecting that everyone present is something of an expert in their field.

Honestly, Argo feels massively underqualified to stand in the room, but his mind works overtime following the ideas and rebuttals and he learns so much from just sitting quietly, never mind when he’s a more active participant, that he can’t imagine anywhere else he’d rather be.

And at the end of the day, they have a list of possibilities somewhat firmly set to begin more in-depth, and soon practical, experimentation with.

In preparation for this symposium, Penny teaches Argo how to brew the wolfsbane potion, which is a difficult one at the best of times and also is another which is kept mostly secret from the wizarding public – mostly for safety’s sake, since home-brewing the thing without a skilled enough potioneer is more dangerous than just locking the werewolf up and waiting out the full moon.

To be honest, Argo is nervous about the practical tests. He’s not completely confident in his ability to brew the standard potion yet, even if he does manage good batches by the end of his practice. So experimenting with the recipe is a daunting ask.

But it’s not one he’ll back down from. He just has to ensure all the theory is airtight, then do it. Still, he’s a little frantic in his preparations, and Penny tells him to chill out and take a break, which he uses to meditate a little.

He sits quietly, breathing, when, like an old friend coming home to his chest, a second heartbeat echoes over his own. It happens randomly now, and nearly always around when he transforms into his animagus form, though it will dissipate if he lingers that way. But it’s still one of the warmest, most unexpectedly comforting experiences he knows.

As the symposium progresses, Argo gets more comfortable, and more confident. He feels like a professional here, in much the same way he does in the field with his grandpa or tending the creatures on the reserve or at Hogwarts with Professor Kettleburn. Even though he’s an apprentice, or a grandson, or a student, he’s treated like a peer because he’s earned his place as an equal. Because he does have that knowledge and ability that anyone else does.

It's so validating, and such an honor.

The end of the week comes with less fanfare than one might think. It’s the end of the symposium, but it’s nowhere near the end of the project. Penny and Argo’s project, for instance, necessarily will take months to test, as they need to track how long the potion remains viable with their alterations.

Argo will be in the arctic for the next month, but Penny will be keeping track of each of their batches to record the results. But that’s not to say that nothing concrete is accomplished during the week of the symposium. One brilliant mentor-apprentice pair from Egypt, Kahara and Anita, are ready to test leading up to next week’s full moon their batch which should take much less of a toll on the werewolf’s body, leaving them not cripplingly sick for the week leading up to their transformation.

The Korean potioneer, whose name Argo learns is Min-Ji Bak, that has made impressive strides towards reducing the necessary dosage is already in talks with them to safely combine their respective improvements, too, so a werewolf should only need to take one or two doses of potion that only make them a little sick, instead of a week’s worth of what basically amounts to a non-lethal poisoning of themselves.

That alone is a massive improvement, and that’s not even touching on everyone else’s projects or their plans to start working together as soon as their experiments produce conclusive results to make one master version of the potion that’s just the best it’s going to be until more potioneers come along.

On the last day, they celebrate. They all go out to a pub and share drinks, chatting raucously about this and that. Even Argo is given beer, despite his age, when Penny promises no one will tell his parents on him.

(“That boy could brew his own alcohol and they’d never know,” says the native German potioneer, Gerrit Vogel, with a grin. “He’s a natural.”

“Please,” Penny groans with a wicked smile that belies her true feelings on the matter, “don’t give him ideas.”)

He only has the one, and it’s much smaller than the big steins the others have, but it doesn’t exactly inspire him to seek out more. Beer tastes awful. Still, it’s very much insisted on that drinking is a necessary part of closing this symposium, so he accepts the experience as it is.

He lifts his glass with everyone else’s, toasting to their progress, and their friendships, and to all the progress they’ll make in the months to come.

(“Seriously, though,” says Gerrit, only somewhat drunk, as he leans closer to Argo. “If you ever want to get out of Britain to study your potions, I could use an apprentice.”

“You will not poach my apprentice, Gerrit!” Penny scoffs indignantly.

“She is a very pretty lady,” Gerrit admits with a frown and a stoic nod. “But Berlin women are not lacking. Surely I can tempt you.”

“He’s thirteen, Gerrit!”

“…My son, he is a handsome man. Still sixteen. Maybe…?”

“Oh, for the love of-!”)

They talk well into the night, but time comes eventually to say their goodbyes.

(“We have to compare notes,” Anita, Kahara’s apprentice, says eagerly, practically bouncing. “Promise me you’ll write! I bet we’ll impress both our mentors if we figure out how to combine our versions before they even have to look at it!”

“We are your mentors so that you have someone to look at it, Anita,” Kahara hums patiently. “And we are both already impressed. Are we not, Miss Haywood?”

“If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have invited Argo to be my apprentice in the first place,” Penny says with a sly smile. “He earned his place here already, which is more than impressive even if he wasn’t still in school. I bet Anita’s the same, isn’t she?”

“She is more talented than I can express.”

Anita grabs Argo’s arm, turning them both away from their mentors like a child embarrassed by her parent gushing over her. She clears her throat awkwardly, but still mutters, “I have a few other things I’d like to run by you, too. And don’t be afraid to reach out to me! I’m good at alchemy, too, and every student at Uagadou is pretty decent with astronomy and transfiguration.”

“Really?” Argo asks. “I’d heard they have a more intensive transfiguration program. It’s one of my best subjects, actually, and I’m definitely interested in Alchemy. It’s only available for sixth and seventh years at Hogwarts, but Nicky taught me the basics.”

“Nicky?”

“Oh, uh. Nicholas Flamel. My grandpa is friends with him.”

Anita’s jaw drops. She stares at him in stunned silence for at least a full minute. “Nicholas Flamel! You know Nicholas Flamel!” Then she shouts what might be a string of curses in another language.

Argo honestly forgets how important Nicky is to the alchemy community until he’s halfway through mentioning him.)

And from there, Argo essentially only goes home long enough to repack for a very different kind of trip before he’s off to the arctic tundra.

Though his field expedition lasts through the second half of July and the first half of August, Argo, Rolf, and grandpa Newt do visit home briefly for Argo’s birthday. They don’t make a big party of it, mostly because they are low key itching to get right back out in the field, but Argo is pleasantly surprised when he sees the gifts from his friends.

Penny gets him some higher-quality potions equipment, too, and even Reynard sends him a black feather which, untransfigured, turns out to be a short letter and an obscure spellbook.

He also gets his book list for next school year, and raises his brow at the note to bring dress robes. He doesn’t need dress robes in previous years, and can’t recall older students needing them, either.

Percy’s letter, along with his present, hints at something happening at school this year, though he also implies he’s not allowed to talk about it yet. And in fact, with that thought in mind, Reynard’s letter carries much the same implication, though his restraint seems more out of humor than respecting any rules about not being allowed to share.

Argo sighs. Maybe he should make studying this spellbook Reynard gives him a priority before school starts again.

But then, halfway into the morning, an unfamiliar owl shows up at their window. Argo lets the bird in, happy to let it rest and take the package from it, not thinking twice about not recognizing the bird bringing a package on his birthday, as he has quite a few friends now and he doesn’t know what owls they’d use.

His smile falls and his heart hardens when he opens the note and sees the name of the sender.

Argo breathes. It’s bound to happen eventually. With a furtive glance at his family, he reads the letter.

“Argo,

Happy birthday!

I’ve gone back and forth in my head about a thousand times on whether I should send this or not. Remus told me how you tore him a new one, and Harry’s mentioned once or twice that you’re not getting along. I can’t imagine you have any more fondness for me than them, so you probably aren’t happy to be hearing from me, but I still have to try at least once. You’re still my best friend’s son, and though that might not mean anything at the moment, I’d very much like it to.

To be honest, I don’t know what to say. Thank you for catching me. And catching the rat. Thank you for stopping me from killing him. If things had gone the way I planned, I’d still be on the run. I would never have been able to get help. I’d never have been allowed custody of Harry, and that’s far more important than revenge.

I’m baffled, but also so proud. You’re such a strong wizard. More impressive than I was at your age for sure. I’d dare say you’re even more talented than James. Maybe even Lily. I’m concerned, because you very well could have killed me with those spells you were using that day.

And I have to ask, even if you won’t answer. What did you mean when you said you didn’t care that I was innocent? Does that mean you hate me as well? Remus said that you mocked him for assuming you were upset at being abandoned, so I won’t assume the same, but I can’t imagine where that hatred comes from if not there. Will you tell me?

I want to know, because I want to get to know you. I understand that your relationship with Remus and Harry right now is poor, so rest assured I won’t make any attempt to force you together. I just want a chance to get to know my best friend’s kid. If you’ll let me.

Write to me anytime, about anything. Let me know if you’re willing to let me meet you without getting my arse kicked. If not, then I suppose this is the last you’ll hear from me. I want to respect your choices, so if I don’t hear anything back, I’ll take that as a sign that you don’t want anything to do with me, either, and I’ll leave you alone.

But please, consider it.

Sirius Black”

“Who’s this one from?” Argo’s dad asks as Argo approaches the dinner table with the letter and package.

Argo silently hands the letter over. His dad sighs, then hands it off to granny Tina, and puts his hand on Argo’s shoulder. “Have you made a decision?” he asks.

“Of course, I have,” Argo says. He slips his finger under the packaging to open the gift. Inside rests another small note and a watch. It’s pure silver, with a face that must be enchanted to mimic the night sky as miniature stars twinkle within, as if Argo is looking through a window into the night. The hands themselves are simple silver bars, but the numbers are represented by constellations around the edge.

The note reads, “I’m sure you know of the tradition to give a watch to a wizard who comes of age. I know you’re still fourteen, but as I’m not sure if I’ll ever have the chance to give you another present, I wanted you to have this. Remus and I agreed when we’d been named yours and Harry’s godfathers that we’d swap roles for the watches when the time came. This one is a Black family heirloom, but it was always meant to be yours. Wear it, put it away, or blast it to pieces. I promise I won’t hold it against you. It’s yours to do with as you please.”

It really is a beautiful watch. Definitely something a family like the Blacks will have. Honestly, even if Argo wants to wear it, he’ll probably damage it with all the labor he does on a regular basis. It’s meant to be a showpiece, an accessory, not something a working man wears.

Regardless, Argo’s decision is made long ago. He closes the box, shutting the watch within, and places it aside. He won’t let it linger in his thoughts. He’d much rather spend his time with his family. And so, he does.

When the Quidditch World Cup kicks off, when Viktor Krum catches the snitch, Ireland wins the game, and later, when Death Eaters attack the campgrounds, Argo Scamander is busy camping many, many miles away. Not in a crowded campsite outside a sporting event in Britain, but in a sparse, freezing forest in Canada. As such, it’s not until more than a week later, when Argo returns home to repack again, this time for school, that he even learns about the attack at all.

He also gets a letter from the twins which reads only,

“For whenever you hear about the World Cup, everyone is okay. That includes Ced. Had a bit of a scare but no one got hurt. Also, DID YOU KNOW ABOUT PERCY’S JOB? DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT? HE WAS KIND OF COOL? THE WORLD IS FALLING APART!”

Argo snickers to himself. He’s a little astounded that Percy manages to keep it under wraps that long, but clearly no one knows why he gets the job, still, which only makes it funnier.

He’s glad everyone is okay, though. All the Weasleys would be there, including Bill and Charlie, and Argo remembers it being mentioned that Harry and Hermione attend as well. Several non-Weasley members of the Circle of Khanna go as well, Andre in particular being both a professional quidditch player himself and a rampant quidditch fanatic, but Argo gets a note from Charlie saying that they’re all okay as well.

Granny Tina and Grandpa Theseus are very busy, despite both being retired, which stirs some unease in Argo. It’s the night before he leaves when he goes to visit the wampus, Scottie, because he just… has a bad feeling about this year.

This summer has been amazing. The best summer yet, really. But things are stirring. Death Eaters at the World Cup? He has a feeling in his chest that he can’t quite articulate, and when that happens, he usually goes to Grandma Queenie since he doesn’t actually need to articulate anything with her, but she’s not around as much as the rest of the family on account of tending to her own branch of the family.

But Scottie is good at knowing how he’s feeling, too. Legilimency is really amazing sometimes. Argo goes through the procedure, almost ritualistic, to enter Scottie’s enclosure safely and without startling him. Once he has Scottie’s attention and approval, he transforms into his bear form and plops down.

You’re alright, cub, Scottie seems to say with that not-quite speech that animals have. Scottie’s head butts against Argo’s, then twists to rub insistently against his neck before Scottie sidles up alongside him and curls around him protectively. A rough, comb-like tongue passes over Argo as Scottie starts grooming him. Dangerous things are everywhere, Scottie seems to say with his gentle ministrations. Even in this sanctuary, there are an uncountable number of ways to get hurt. And yet Argo doesn’t. Why is that?

Well, it’s because he knows what he’s doing, here, Argo hums back.

Wrong, Scottie tells him with a nudge against his muzzle. It’s because he is dedicated to what he does here. So dedicated he is to the creatures that he becomes one himself. It is the ability and willingness to go as far and as drastically as he must which keeps him safe, and will do so with whatever nefarious plots may be brewing.

So, you’re calling me a mama bear, Argo huffs good-naturedly.

Scottie purrs. Of course, he says. What else is Argo if not that?

And Argo sighs. He thinks of Jason, who he has spent most of his life caring for. He thinks of the rest of the creatures, who are all the most important beings to Argo’s heart, equal with his family. (They are his family.) He thinks of his friends at school, of the twins, of the Circle of Khanna, of Susan, Anthony, and Padma.

He thinks of working with Fluffy while keeping the twins safe. He thinks of the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets, how he has no obligation or responsibility to tackle the problem himself, but still gets fed up and steps in. He thinks of Sirius Black, how by all rights he should stay as far away as possible, but how he interferes anyway.

He goes down into that chamber, makes that plan to catch Black, because both posed a threat not just to him, but to his friends.

And it’s more than that. Nurture is Argo’s life. When he’s not studying to advance himself, he’s tending to the creatures. He likes doing it.

So, if there is another threat to the school, if these Death Eaters who so brazenly attack the Quidditch World Cup try something where Argo is around, if their record for harrowing adventures goes uninterrupted… the moment someone Argo cares about gets involved, he knows he’s going to step in. He can’t trust the staff to do it, anymore, so it has to be him.

If those bad men threaten you, Scottie seems to say along his affections, strike first and strike hard. Have no mercy for those who would threaten your life, or the life of your cubs.

Oh, Argo has no intention of being lenient on anyone who would threaten the people he cares about. If things really are getting dangerous, then he just needs to be more dangerous than anything else.

There is the resolve you are meant to wield, Scottie purrs against him.

Argo suddenly understands why the Wampus house at Ilvermorny is said to favor warriors.

Aboard the Hogwarts Express, the day is looking to be a usual one. Argo parts with his parents at the station, settles into a compartment – this year with his Hufflepuff friends, which is only a little annoying when droves of people keep stopping by to chat or just say hello to Cedric, who is more popular than Argo gives him credit for.

Now, that alone wouldn’t be annoying, but the look that happens across just about every face when they catch sight of him in the compartment definitely is. A curling of the lip, a darkening of the brow… They come to say hi to their friend and run into someone they can’t stand the thought of. Argo is even fairly certain that more than a few intend to stick around for a while but leave after just their greetings because they don’t want to be in the same compartment as him.

When one girl gives him a particularly nasty look, stark against the googly-eyes she sends Cedric, and nearly slams the door after otherwise ignoring his presence entirely, Argo mutters, “I guess they remember, then.”

Cedric winces. “Sorry, Argo. I’ll try to talk sense into them.”

Argo just sighs and shakes his head, absently catching Jason before he can snatch Susan’s friend Hannah Abbot’s sparkly bracelet. “Don’t worry about it,” Argo says. “It’s hardly your fault.”

They thankfully move on, until eventually Hannah leaves so it’s just the four of them, and the door to their compartment opens yet again. Argo turns expecting another of Cedric’s friends or admirers, but ends up meeting eyes with the very last person he expects to run into here.

Draco Malfoy, framed as always by his lackeys Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, looks down his nose imperiously into the compartment. He scans over the Hufflepuffs without sparing them a passing consideration, until he focuses finally on Argo.

He lingers just a moment too long before he steps into the compartments. “Scamander,” he says. Then he nods to the Hufflepuffs. “…Haywood, Diggory, Bones. Do you mind if I join you for a moment?”

Argo shares an uncertain look with Susan, who is more familiar with Draco’s general behavior than the older students who don’t have him in class. “Sure,” Susan says. “It might be a bit crowded with your… friends, though.”

As if just realizing that, Malfoy looks back to Crabbe and Goyle and waves them away dismissively, then sits primly in the vacated space across from Argo, next to Beatrice. Getting right to business, Malfoy reaches into his robes and pulls out a magazine which he holds out to Argo. “Is this true?” he asks with no fanfare.

Argo takes the magazine to examine it. To his surprise, it’s a potions subscription, and details the symposium Argo participates in over the summer. It even notes Penny’s successful version of the wolfsbane potion, which turns out to be good enough that she’s currently swarmed with requests from wizarding hospitals to make supplies they can keep on-hand near full moons. Last Argo hears from her, she’s well into development of combining her work with Min-Ji’s, and soon they should have a potion that not only keeps in hospitals, but also only needs to be taken the day of the full moon rather than the week before.

Speaking of; Argo has some notes to go through on that…

Still, though he knows in principle that his work there is published and that he’s credited as Penny’s apprentice, it’s another thing entirely to actually see his name in a potions magazine.

“Oh, yeah,” Argo says, handing the thing back. “It was pretty cool. I made some incredibly talented friends there.”

“You actually have a published potion alteration!” Malfoy exclaims with an almost boyish excitement Argo doesn’t expect from him. “You’re well on the way to becoming a potions master already, and you’re still in school! How did you manage to get an apprenticeship? I’ve been looking nearly since I started Hogwarts, but even my father can’t set me up with anyone properly talented.”

Argo bites his lip for a moment, but thankfully is relieved from answering when Beatrice pipes in, saying, “Be honest, Malfoy, would you have considered my sister ‘properly talented’ before this?”

Malfoy raises his brow, looking over to her then nodding his head slowly. “Professor Snape has mentioned Penny Haywood before. Ordinarily, you’d be right – you’re not the right stock. But if Professor Snape acknowledges her talent, then so can I.”

“Oh,” Beatrice says sarcastically. “Thanks.”

(She’s sarcastic, but honestly, that’s a lot more nuance in his opinion than Argo expects from Malfoy.)

“Very clever of you, I must admit,” Malfoy says. “I should have thought to make friends with the sister to bag an apprenticeship.”

“Excuse me?” Beatrice scoffs.

Argo clears his throat. “Actually, it was a coincidence,” he admits, hoping to defuse the tension. “I’d gotten in contact with Reynard Gage through Professor McGonagall when I was preparing for my animagus ritual in second year. Reynard is good friends with Penny, so that’s how I met Beatrice in the first place.”

“Though I did tell my sister you like potions,” Beatrice says, smiling again. “So it is sort of my fault she got the idea to teach you.”

“Gage, you say?” Malfoy asks, a considering look on his face. “They were a good family, once. Closely tied with the Lestranges, I believe. I’d heard there was an animagus in the family, but I’m more familiar with Jacob than Reynard.”

“Yeah, well,” Argo shrugs, “Jacob’s the heir. You would be more familiar with heads and heirs than the rest. He’s a brilliant wizard, though. Taught me a lot, even though it’s all though letters. He’s a curse-breaker, you know. Can’t very well visit very easily from Brazil.”

Malfoy hums. “Sounds like someone worth knowing. I’ll be sure to keep an eye out. You said you made friends at this potions conference? I don’t suppose any of them were looking for an apprentice?”

Argo snorts. “Well, Gerrit tried to poach me from Penny, but, no offense Malfoy, we aren’t really friends. Also, I don’t know that you’re even any good at potions.”

Malfoy makes a face, indignant. “Are you saying I’m not good enou-”

“Nothing of the sort,” Argo says. “I’m saying we don’t share potions and I almost never talk to you. I’ve never seen you make a potion. I’m not even sure I’ve seen a completed potion of yours. I’m not saying you can’t, but I can hardly go recommending you for apprenticeship considering that, can I?”

Malfoy sniffs. “I suppose not. Forgive me for asking, then.” He smooths out his pristine robes and clears his throat. “Regardless, it’s been becoming increasingly clear that you, Scamander, are someone worth knowing. I had intended to ask Greengrass for introductions, but as you strike me as an… informal type, I thought it’d be worth coming here alone.” He sticks out his hand. “I’d like to be friends. If Potter hasn’t biased you against me, I suppose.”

“You do a pretty good job of that without Potter’s help, Malfoy,” Argo says, though he still takes the outstretched hand for a firm, proper handshake. “I’m not going to lie, there’s a lot of things about you that rub me the wrong way. As you’ve correctly guessed, I’m an informal type, so all this pomp and grandeur is a bit annoying honestly. Not to mention you can be a bit up your own ass sometimes. And I don’t even know where to start on whatever Slytherin nonsense you have going on with the Gryffindors, Potter not even included.”

Surprisingly, Malfoy winces almost shamefully.

“But I’m not in the habit of making enemies I don’t need. Especially ones as powerful as the Malfoys. I can’t promise anything about friendship, but I don’t hate you or anything, so if you want to hang out or study together, just ask, alright? We’ll see what happens from there.”

“Deal,” Malfoy says importantly. “You’ll see in time that you’ve made the right choice.”

“In time,” Argo echoes. “We’ll see.”

Deal made, Malfoy relaxes just a fraction, leaning back in his seat. “So, are any of you planning to enter? Scamander, Bones, I imagine you two would make fierce competitors.”

“Enter?” Argo asks. “Enter what? There’s some kind of competition this year?”

“You mean you don’t know?” Malfoy balks. “Aren’t you related to Theseus Scamander and Porpetina Goldstein?”

“Both retired,” Argo says. “And they have nothing to do with this. Do they?”

Malfoy frowns. “Well… I suppose not. I just assumed given they had such high positions in the Ministry…”

“Oh,” Susan says. “You’re talking about that, aren’t you? Technically, I don’t know. My aunt never told me. I just overheard some meetings over the summer. They’re supposed to keep it quiet from their kids.”

“Ah, the tournament?” Cedric says. “My dad told me. He basically ordered me to enter, so I suppose I will be.”

“A tournament?” Beatrice asks. “What kind?”

“The Triwizard Tournament,” Malfoy says proudly, like he’s delighted to be the one to be breaking the news to them. “The Ministry has decided to bring it back, and Hogwarts is hosting it. I’ll be entering, of course.”

Argo knows about the Triwizard Tournament. It sounds bloody awful.

“I haven’t decided, yet,” Susan says. “I might try. It’ll be good to get in some real experience instead of just training all the time. And even though it’s dangerous, it’s still a more controlled environment than just going out, right?”

Beatrice shakes her head. “Nah, not for me. I’ve got my N.E.W.T.s this year, and I think I’ll be busy enough studying for those.”

“But if you win the Triwizard Tournament,” Malfoy says, “you hardly need to worry about grades. You could get whatever job you want!” He sighs, clearly deciding he’s wasting his time. “What about you, Scamander? You’ve got probably the most practical experience out of anyone in the school, even most of the older students. I bet you’d do well in the tournament.”

Argo wrinkles his nose. “Pass.”

“Seriously? Just like that?”

Cedric snickers. “You’re obviously not very familiar with Argo,” he says. “The moment you said competition, he was already out.”

“What?” Malfoy asks like it’s a personal offense. “What’s wrong with competition?”

“Nothing,” Argo says truthfully. “If you care about it. I don’t.”

Susan pats his back. “This one doesn’t have a competitive bone in his body. Have you ever seen him duel?”

Malfoy thinks hard. “Of course, I have. In the Defense Association.”

“And what does he do?”

“He spends the entire time… teaching. Actually, he always does that. It’s weird that he never actually gets into it.”

Argo rolls his eyes. “I think you’re the weird ones for getting in fits all the time over who’s better than who or what team is stronger than another. And don’t act like I don’t take duels seriously!”

Susan snorts. “Trust me, I know. I’ve been on the receiving end of them, remember.” She turns to Malfoy. “Argo only has two modes with dueling. Educate or eradicate. When the subject doesn’t have to do with defending himself, he only has the first.”

“Eradicate?” Malfoy echoes. “What in the world do you mean?”

All the Hufflepuffs wince, which makes Argo do so as well. Is he really that hard on them?

“He never brings that part out during DA meetings,” Cedric says, “because he’s focused on teaching everyone else, but when he’s really training, he’s, uh…”

“When you duel him,” Beatrice says, “you start wondering if maybe he really is trying to kill you.”

Argo suddenly feels the need to defend himself. “If I get attacked,” he says, “they very well may be trying to kill me. You have to respond to a threat with intent to take them out. Otherwise, they’ll overwhelm you. Besides, what good does training do if it falls apart under pressure? And now that you mention it, maybe we should start bringing some of that pressure into the DA. It is about practical defense, after all. We should make sure everyone can actually defend themselves when the fire is lit under them.”

Malfoy suddenly looks nervous. Susan nearly bounces out of her seat with excitement. “Oh, absolutely yes! We should set up a street-style dueling gauntlet! We can even invite the prospective champions from the other schools!”

“Street-style?” Malfoy asks, unsure if he wants the answer.

“You know,” Susan says. “Without all the stuffy rules of formal dueling. Nothing with lethal intent, nothing too extreme, since we’re still in school and all, but otherwise, no rules. It’s not like a dark wizard is going to follow dueling standards if they attack us, after all.”

“That sounds… dangerous.”

“Argo is learning healing spells,” Susan says unconcerned. “And I’ve been working on what he’s shared with us, too. It’ll be fine.”

Argo stifles a laugh as Malfoy’s horrified face betrays his slow realization of the distinction between the puffs and the huffs in Hufflepuff.

The weather when they arrive at Hogsmeade is awful. Thunder and freezing rain completely drowning out all else. Part of Argo is a little irritated, considering he had to wait so long before a real lightning storm last year but this year, one happens the literal first day at Hogwarts, but otherwise he doesn’t particularly mind. He’s used to bearing inclement weather while looking for – or sometimes being caused by – his beasts. He usually doesn’t have a warm, dry carriage to travel in when this kind of weather rolls around, so it’s practically a treat.

He still takes the time to greet the thestral pulling the carriage before he enters it, though, as always. This year, he gets Thessa, who nudges him affectionately with her beak and accepts his petting.

Entering the school, Peeves drops water balloons on them, which is kind of funny. Professor McGonagall threatens him, but as he drops the last one, Susan whips out her wand and shouts, “Ascendio!” which causes the undulating balloon to slow quickly to a stop, then reverse direction straight up to explode on Peeves’ face.

The water then rains back down on them, of course, but Peeves ends up with a soggy hat that he’s very upset about – or pretending to be very upset about (it’s hard to tell with Peeves), which Susan says is “Totally worth it.”

Then they enter the hall proper and take their seat. Mildly curious about the new Defense teacher, and wondering whether he’ll need to cover standard curriculum again this year in the DA, Argo looks over to the staff table as they wait for the sorting.

And immediately jumps to his feet, startling Padma, and dashes right up to the teachers.

“Auntie Lally!” Argo exclaims, very nearly jumping over the table to give her a hug. “What are you doing here?”

Lally regards him with a coy smirk. “Now, I don’t believe you need me to answer that question. Your granny and I have taught you far better than that.”

Argo laughs. “Yeah, but why are you taking the Defense post? And how?”

“Professor Hicks?” Anthony’s voice comes from behind Argo, a short distance away from them. “You’re going to be our Defense teacher this year?”

“Anthony!” Lally cries delightedly. “Oh, look how you’ve grown! Last I saw you, you were just three and hanging off your mother’s robes.”

Anthony flushes bright red, sputtering. Padma’s lips slowly stretch into a wide, wide grin. “You know each other? Do you have embarrassing baby stories of him?” Padma asks. “I will pay for them.”

Lally laughs bright and loud, drawing attention from the other students. “Dear, I’m good friends with their grandparents. It’s practically my job to embarrass them. And I have so many stories.”

“This is going to be the worst year,” Anthony groans.

“This is going to be the best year,” Padma squeals.

“Auntie, seriously,” Argo says, tugging on her sleeve. “How’d you get hired here? And why didn’t you tell me?”

“It was a surprise, Argo,” Lally says, ruffling his hair. “And actually, Dumbledore planned to ask Alastor Moody to take the post this year, but he got attacked in his home just the other day. I’m a very last minute replacement, so I didn’t even know until it was practically time to leave.”

“Mad-Eye Moody got attacked in his home?” Argo asks. “Someone thought that was a good idea?”

Lally hollers a bright laugh. “Apparently! And don’t worry, Alastor is just fine. Took a nasty curse, though, so he’s recovering at St. Mungo’s and can’t take his place here as your Defense teacher. Hence, my appointment. It hasn’t been decided yet if I’ll stay the whole year, or if he’ll take over for second term, but I’ve been told I should plan to stay at least through to the holidays.

“But you kids go on back to your table now. We’ll have plenty of time to talk later, and you don’t want to be standing when Professor McGonagall comes in with the first-years, do you?”

Argo, Anthony, and Padma do as they’re told and return to the Ravenclaw table, talking excitedly about their new teacher.

“She’s legendary at Ilvermorny,” Anthony says. “She was the Charms teacher there for forever, so she has a lot of teaching experience.”

“Oh, she’s the best teacher.” Argo adds. “Trust me, she’s my summer Defense tutor. All the stuff I teach the DA? Most of it comes straight from her.”

“No way!” Padma says. “This is so exciting! I was so worried we’d have another Lockhart after Lupin said he wasn’t coming back.”

“Oh, yeah,” Argo says. “Me, too. The DA should be easy this year with her as our Defense teacher. I won’t have to do hardly anything, which means we should have more time for more fun stuff. Susan had an idea about a dueling gauntlet… If you think of anything, let us know.”

“So how do you know her, exactly? I kind of get Argo, but Anthony?”

“She’s best friends with Argo’s grandmother,” Anthony says. “Honestly, I wouldn’t have recognized her, but when Argo called her Lally I remembered the name. My parents mentioned her a few times. Argo’s grandmother is still close with my branch of the family, so they talk pretty often. Plus, pretty much everyone from Ilvermorny is familiar with her, and I was originally meant to go there before we moved.”

The first-years are shuffled in then, effectively cutting off conversation for a while as the sorting happens. After the sorting and the feast, Dumbledore stands at the front to give his announcements. Most of it is the standard stuff – banned items, forbidden forest, the works – but then he announces that the quidditch cup this year will be cancelled, which has the school in an uproar for some reason, and then he announces why it’s cancelled, and the school is in an uproar for an entirely different reason. Which is also completely beyond Argo.

Dumbledore explains the Triwizard Tournament. The three schools, the other two being Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, which Argo is very excited about, though he wishes Ilvermorny could come too. The reason it’s cancelled in the first place, a high death toll (which, again, why does anyone want this tournament?).

Then Dumbledore explains the restrictions on who can enter. Only students who are of age are allowed, which makes sense to Argo considering the historical danger of the tournament, but nonetheless the announcement brings quite an unhappy ruckus to the Great Hall.

But more importantly, the short-listed delegates from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons will be coming in October! Argo is looking forward to meeting some students of the other schools. He knows people at Ilvermorny, of course, and has contact with a few people at Castellobruxo, and his new friend Anita from the potions symposium over the summer is from Uagadou, but he doesn’t have much chance to meet people from Durmstrang or Beauxbatons. He has a few contacts in France, but not many, and anyone who might’ve gone to Durmstrang that he knows are well over school age.

Ah, well. Best get to bed. He has a lot of time before October to imagine all the visiting students that will be here, and a lot of time to brush up on his studies.

Oh, and he really needs to get through those notes for Penny. He should do that tomorrow before he gets a bunch of homework.

The first day of classes is ordinary enough. They start on bubotubers in Herbology, which makes Argo break into a wide grin. He’s not particularly fond of them, really, not any more than most plants, but he remembers first year and the trolls and can’t help a sneaky smugness about already being familiar with them.

He uses gloves this time, which is also nice.

Arithmancy is getting interesting, as is Runes, as they move beyond the bare basics into practical application. Arithmancy is working more with actual spell formulas now, though they aren’t touching on practical alterations yet, and Runes is going to start sprinkling in one-character runes and short strings to actually enchant things. And, what Argo is really excited for, they’re going to start talking about enchantment materials, especially what the runes are carved into, and how it affects runic magic.

Transfiguration is actually disappointingly easy now, but Professor McGonagall keeps giving him advanced work to sink his teeth into, and Potions is in a similar place where the actual coursework is somewhat trivial, but Snape is not so lenient about working on his own ahead of the others.

Argo does have a long conversation with him about the wolfsbane potion, though, and his improvements to it. He thinks there is a glimmer of respect in Snape’s eye at the end of it.

Dinner is a bit of an event, though. He originally heads to the Gryffindor table to talk to the twins, who he knows are very eager to enter the Triwizard Tournament despite being just too young. He has no plans to encourage that, or help them overcome whatever protections Dumbledore puts up, but he does want to talk to them about what the tasks might be and the visiting students. Plus, they have Defense today, so he wants to talk about Auntie Lally’s teaching.

But when he approaches the Gryffindor table, harsh glares meet him. The students shift to close any gaps, preventing him from joining them. Fred and George groan and appear thoroughly embarrassed by their house mates’ behavior, but that doesn’t offer any opportunity for Argo so sit regardless.

“What are you doing here, Scamander?” One Gryffindor spits.

“We don’t want to sit with a dark wizard. Go sit with the Slytherins where you belong.”

Okay. He literally belongs to Ravenclaw, but okay.

“Don’t be gits,” George growls. “He’s always welcome here.”

“But Harry!”

“It’s fine, George,” Argo sighs. “I’ll sit somewhere else. Talk to you later?”

Fred and George scowl and glare at their classmates, but reluctantly nod. Argo turns away.

The horrible truth is that the Ravenclaw table isn’t much better. He has a place between Anthony and Padma, and Luna, who people generally avoid more than they shun, but he’s still met with disdain and accusations of being evil for not being Harry’s new best friend. Hufflepuff is essentially the same as Ravenclaw.

That said, Argo has never actually tried to sit at the Slytherin table before and has no idea how they’ll react to him now, and whether it’s different than it would be before or not. In some ways, that’s a blessing. He stops by Hufflepuff briefly to lean over Susan’s shoulder and ask her if she’s going to handle the Defense Association’s sign-up sheets again this year.

The glares he gets from the Hufflepuffs around her is clear enough to tell him to leave, but he’s not going to let that stop him from getting the club up and going again.

With those plans arranged, he sets off to actually eat his dinner, taking the Gryffindor’s advice and heading to the Slytherin table.

“Hey, Daphne,” he says, greeting Daphne Greengrass and ignoring he wary (but not hostile) gazes of the other students. “Can I sit here?”

Daphne inclines her head to acquiesce, so Argo slips into the seat next to her and starts grabbing dinner, saying, “I was hoping to talk about the DA and the new Defense professor.”

Just like that, when he announces his intentions, the Slytherins around him relax a little. A real and justified reason to be sitting with the snakes is apparently necessary.

Given how the rest of the school tends to treat them like they’re now treating Argo, he can’t say he doesn’t understand at all. Most attempts to approach them are likely malicious.

With the more relaxed atmosphere, Malfoy nearby starts talking again about whatever is in his newspaper. “Look at this! They don’t even get his name right! And there’s even a picture. Is Weasley’s mother really that porky?”

“Are you seriously antagonizing Weasley when he can’t even hear you, Malfoy?” Argo asks suddenly.

Malfoy curls his lip. “What’s it to you?”

Argo shrugs. “I may not be friends with your Weasley but I’m quite fond of the twins. Their parents happen to be the same, so forgive me for not enjoying you mocking them. Besides, it’s rather pathetic, isn’t it? Gossiping about someone’s parents.”

An affronted look crosses Malfoy’s face. “What do you mean my Weasley?”

“Well, the one you’re obsessed with,” Argo says casually with a shrug. “You talk about him almost as much as you talk about Potter. Sometimes I can’t figure out whose pigtails you’re pulling. Or is it both?”

Malfoy turns slightly pink but he can’t counter when the Slytherins around him are laughing at him. Argo grins cheekily, then Malfoy scowls. “You’re just taking the mickey out of me, aren’t you?”

“Guilty,” Argo admits. “Though it’s true that I don’t appreciate you making fun of my friends’ parents. You’re the one that wanted to be friends, Malfoy. For future reference, I call out my friends when they’re being stupid gits for no reason.” Another wave of giggles, and a few appraising looks meet him. “Oh,” Argo adds. “I heard there’s a ball associated with this Triwizard Tournament thing. Advice from a friend: you’re going to have to be nicer if you want either of them to say yes.”

“Ha ha,” Malfoy says deadpan. He looks rather as if he wants to fight, but restrains himself gallantly. “That’s more than enough of that. I get it; I won’t insult Weasley when you’re around.”

“Oh, I don’t care about Ronald,” Argo clarifies. “And I wouldn’t want to stop you raving about your cr-”

“I will curse you, Scamander.”

Argo snorts and takes a sip of his juice. “Good luck with that. But fine, I’ll quit teasing, too. So long as you lay off my friends.”

“I’ll agree to that, so long as the twins don’t prank me.”

“When they prank you, you’re more than allowed to be irritated with them,” Argo concedes, not even pretending that he’ll make any effort to prevent the twins from going after Malfoy. “That doesn’t count.”

“Fine. Fair enough.”

They share a nod, and Argo turns to Daphne. “Anyway, you haven’t had Defense yet, either, have you?”

“No, we have it tomorrow, too,” she says, glancing at her schedule. “But Professor Hicks is your summer Defense tutor, isn’t she?”

“That’s right. She’s-”

“Ah… excuse me.” Everyone turns to the unexpected visitor behind Argo. Cedric Diggory himself, somehow alone, being gawked at by a great number of students throughout the hall, asks, “Do you mind if I join you?”

Several of the Slytherins narrow their eyes, trying to guess at his motives, but Daphne nods him into the seat next to Argo, which he quickly takes gratefully.

(Even from here, Argo can hear the rest of the hall whispering about Cedric sitting with the Slytherins. It’s so stupid it borders on maddening.)

“I’m so sorry about them,” Cedric says directly to Argo. “I’ve told them not to-”

“It’s fine, Cedric,” Argo sighs. He reaches up to squeeze Cedric’s shoulder. “They don’t matter to me, anyway.”

Cedric unconvinced, frowns at the table. “Yeah, well… I figured I’d sit with you, at least.”

“Aw,” Daphne says. “That’s sweet. Coming to protect Argo from the scary, slimy Slytherins?”

Cedric openly guffaws. “As if Argo can’t defend himself! No, I just… want to show where I stand.”

Argo leans against Cedric’s shoulder. “I appreciate that, but you really don’t need to. You’ve got plenty of friends you should-”

“Hey.” Cedric grabs Argo’s hand and carefully traces a symbol onto the back of it under the table. The letter K, and a circle around it. “We look out for each other, yeah?”

…Yeah. Their Circle looks out for each other. Remembering that Cedric is a member, too… it’s not so surprising.

“Anyway,” Daphne says, “back to what we were talking about. If Professor Hicks is as good as I’m assuming, the DA should be light this year.”

“Oh, better,” Cedric says eagerly. “I had her today. Honestly, it almost felt like a DA meeting, but she really knows her stuff.”

Argo smiles. “Yeah, she does. I’m not surprised it’s like the meetings, though. When it all started, I was mostly just imitating her, anyway. She’s a much better teacher than I am, though.”

“I wouldn’t say much,” Cedric says. “You’re a much better teacher than you give yourself credit for. But she clearly has more experience. And she’s really been there, you know? I have to admit I was a little doubtful at first of a little old lady teaching us Defense, but I feel like she’s really fought before.”

“She has,” Argo says. “She fought in the war with Grindelwald. Alongside my grandparents.”

“Huh. I’m looking forward to tomorrow,” Daphne says. “But what are we going to do in the DA, then?”

“Well, with another competent teacher, the actual teaching we’ll have to do will keep dropping. That means we’ll have more open time for other things. Susan had an idea of a dueling gauntlet. Remember, the club is originally meant to practice practical defense. We need to put pressure on everyone so they can react in a real situation. But that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I wanted to let you know the situation and give you a chance to come up with some more ideas of your own.”

“Are you taking suggestions?” Malfoy asks. “I’ve been thinking since the train. Durmstrang is supposed to be excellent with the Dark Arts. What if we invited the students from the other schools to have an exchange lesson of sorts. We’ll learn from them, and we can think of something to teach them, as well.”

“If we can get them to agree, that sounds like a great idea,” Argo says. “I’ll add it to the list. If you or anyone else thinks of something else, make sure it gets to the Circle, will you?”

Malfoy nods. Argo eats the rest of his meal quickly, eager to get out of the Great Hall and to his study room to set up things for the projects he’s planning this year. There’s still polite chatter, though, as dinner proceeds, but eventually he stands and makes to leave.

It’s only when he exits the doors of the Great Hall that he realizes Cedric is following him.

At Argo’s glance, Cedric flushes. “Ah, I was um… hoping you’d have time to talk? In private?”

Huh. Weird. “Sure,” Argo says. “I was just going to set up my study room, so you’re welcome to join me. No one should bother us there.”

They walk, and Cedric gets a little more fidgety as they get closer, and then when they’re inside and Argo leans against his desk to look curiously at Cedric, Cedric coughs awkwardly and ducks his head. “So, uh…” he starts. “Harry is… shaping up, isn’t he?”

Harry is… what? Argo tilts his head. “I have absolutely no idea what you mean.”

“Well, you know, he’s… uh… getting… older?”

“…That does tend to happen.”

Cedric groans and drops his head into his hands. “I’m so bad at this,” he moans. “I just mean Harry is… kind of… cute?”

Argo stares like Cedric has grown a second head. “Okay? And what does that have to do with me?”

“Well, he’s- you know, you’re his- he’s your brother. So, I was just wondering if you- you know if you care about- whether I-”

“Cedric.”

“…Yeah?”

“Are you asking me for permission to date Potter?”

Cedric hangs his head but can’t hide the beet-red color on his ears. “I know it’s ridiculous,” he says. “I just- I know you’re not getting along at the moment, and I don’t want to… you know…”

Oh. Put that way, it does sort of make sense. Argo carefully grabs Cedric by the shoulders and locks their eyes. “Cedric, Ced, listen to me. Whatever goes on between you and Potter is your business. It has nothing to do with me, and in case you missed it, Potter’s whole problem with me in the first place is that I’d prefer to keep it that way. Besides that, the last thing I want to be is the person who tells others what they can and can’t do.”

“It’s not about permission, really,” Cedric protests. “I just don’t want to make you feel like I’m not on your side. Because I am! Honestly, I get it. It’s a shame for Harry, but it’s unfair and unrealistic to expect you to start acting like you’ve known each other your whole lives. And people are so rude to you now because of it that I- Well, I just can’t stand the thought of letting you think you’ve lost someone who’s in your corner.”

“And I won’t,” Argo says. “Have I ever been that ultimatum kind of guy? It’s not a me versus him, you know. You can be friends with both of us. The twins are, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Cedric says, slouching a little as tension leaves him. He grabs Argo suddenly, pulling him into a tight hug. “Thanks, Argo.”

The first day of Defense Against the Dark Arts is the first time in Argo’s entire school career thus far that he’s excited to go to this class. He takes a seat several minutes early in the very front, his notes on his summer work and the required fourth year syllabus strewn on the desk in front of him as he reviews.

Anthony, as usual, ends up taking the spot next to him, with Padma and Parvati sharing a desk behind them, and Harry’s group apparently decides to sit further back on the opposite side of the room, almost as far from him as they can get.

Most people, of course, don’t know Professor Hicks, so there is a lot of chatter about just how good their class will be this year, with the scale basically going from Lockhart to Lupin.

At precisely the right time to begin class, Professor Hicks emerges from her office and descends the stairs to stand just at the front of the class, which quiets quickly under her gaze.

“Before we begin,” Professor Hicks says, her New York accent odd next to the usual students of the school, “would you all please raise your hand if you attended the Quidditch World Cup?”

Nearly every hand in the class goes up. Argo’s obviously doesn’t, and a few others, but the vast majority apparently makes it.

Professor Hicks hums consideringly. “And how many of you were there when the campground was attacked, and the Dark Mark appeared in the sky?”

Not a single hand goes down.

“Congratulations,” Professor Hicks says, striding purposefully down the center isle among the students, “on surviving. Now, according to the Ministry of Magic, I’m supposed to teach you countercurses and leave it at that, but I won’t insult you all just because of your age. Every one of you with your hands in the air, you’ve seen combat. You’ve been in a situation where your life was threatened by dark wizards. So, you tell me; would those wizards have hesitated to hurt you, had you come face to face with them that day?”

“No, Professor,” Harry says tersely.

“No…” Professor Hicks echoes. “No. I do believe you’re right, Mister Potter. Your age will not stop a dark wizard from killing you, will it? So I say, why should it stop me from teaching you to survive?

“My name is Professor Eulalie Hicks. I was the Charms professor at Ilvermorny for many years before my retirement and I fought alongside your headmaster Albus Dumbledore in the war against Grindelwald. I admit I had little part in the more recent war with Voldemort-” Most of the class winces sharply, which makes Harry perking up in curiosity all the more obvious. “though I did assist where I could. Dumbledore asked me at the last minute to fill in for ex-auror Alastor Moody, who he originally planned to hire, who can’t take the post at the moment due to an injury he took when he was attacked in his home.

“Now, I want you all to consider this for a moment. An event as large as the Quidditch World Cup attacked openly. The Dark Mark conjured again. An auror attacked in his own home just before the school year. This is only the start of a string of events taking place all over the country. And most of you have seen it with your own eyes. We can only hope you won’t again, but now more than ever, Defense Against the Dark Arts is imperative for your education.

“So, let’s get right to it, shall we? Books away, please. I’ve received a letter from Professor Lupin about this class. It seems you’ve had a pretty thorough grounding in Dark creatures. But today, we’re going to see how you fare against a wizard. Hold tight to your desks, please.” She waves her wand and suddenly, all the desks, with the students in them, are shoved to the side, expanding the aisle between the rows. “Argo, would you please stand on this side of the platform?”

Argo stands to obey, and only then notices the long blue rug down the center of the classroom. Argo recognizes it immediately as a dueling platform and draws his wand as he takes his place at the end deeper into the room.

“Now, I need a volunteer,” Professor Hicks says to the class. “Who wants to duel?”

Nearly half the class raises their hands, including Ron and Hermione (though judging by their faces, they have much different reasons for volunteering) but not Harry. Argo isn’t sure how to feel about so many people so eager to fight him.

“Argo is in Ravenclaw, so why not a Gryffindor?” Professor Hicks says. “Who do you all think is the best with defensive magic in your house?”

Several hands lower as the Gryffindors confer. “I reckon that’s either Harry or Hermione,” Seamus Finnigan says, gesturing to the two in question. “They’ve the best grades, anyway, and Harry is in the Defense Association Circle – he teaches us half of what we know.”

“Ah yes,” Professor Hicks says. “The Hogwarts Student Defense Association. Well then, Mister Potter, would you be willing to go first?”

Harry looks at Argo with an unreadable expression, then finally says, “I’ll do it,” and stands to take his place opposite Argo.

When he’s positioned, a wave of Professor Hicks’ wand sends the rug they’re standing on raising up about two feet off the floor. Both Argo and Harry stumble a little when it moves unexpectedly, but they catch their balance quickly and focus on each other.

“Now this isn’t any old duel,” Professor Hicks says, quieting the class, which has erupted into murmurs at the brothers facing each other in a duel. “A dark wizard will not follow the accepted rules of standardized dueling. They will not pick from an approved list of spells. They will not tell you what horrors they are going to throw at you. And they will not do it respectfully to your face. And so, Argo, Mister Potter, the rules here are simple. The person across from you is a dark wizard intent on your life. Eliminate the threat and survive. Go.”

“Everte Statum!” Argo shouts without missing a beat.

“You see, class?” Professor Hicks shouts over the gasps of the students as Harry narrowly dodges out of the way of the spell. “No hesitation! A dark wizard attacking you will not grant you the mercy of waiting until you are ready! You must be ready to strike first! Excellent, Argo. And good reflexes, Mister Potter. Not everyone could have dodged that so easily.”

“Fumos!” Harry yells, conjuring a stream of thick smoke from his wand.

“The Smokescreen spell,” Professor Hicks comments. “Excellent for making your getaway – or pretending to. It’s also great for hiding what spells you’re going to throw next.”

But Harry doesn’t have a chance to throw another spell, because with a twirl of his wand, Argo transfigures the smoke from the Fumos spell into daggers which level at Harry. With a cold glare, Argo flicks his wand, incanting, “Oppugno.”

The floating horde of razor-sharp daggers suddenly fly at Harry with great speed. His eyes go wide and his wand hand and jaw drop in surprise.

Only when the blades are millimeters from Harry’s face does Argo immobilize them, realizing with crashing worry that Harry isn’t going to avoid or deflect them.

That’s weird. Harry is much more skilled than this, and Argo has never seen him freeze before. That he knows Harry is more than capable of handling it is the only reason he dares go as far as transfiguring something as dangerous as those blades, but… maybe being so upset with Argo and whatever he’s feeling about them being related is messing with him.

Argo will have to be more careful if he fights Harry again in this class or in the DA.

“If Argo were a real dark wizard, you would be dead, Mister Potter!” Professor Hicks shouts. “Surprise is an element of all combat! How did Argo and Mister Potter respond to their opponent’s surprises differently? Miss Granger?”

Hermione sputters. “Well… Argo used the smoke Harry conjured as a base for transfiguration. I suppose… Argo adapted to the situation, whereas Harry froze?”

“Precisely,” Professor Hicks says. “You will never overcome surprise entirely. You will never face an opponent who does not know a single thing you don’t. And so, to survive, you must react. Who’s going to face our winner, hm? Miss Granger?”

Hermione balks this time, thinking twice now about dueling Argo, but Ron nearly bounces on his toes, raising his hand. “I’ll do it, Professor!”

“Very well! Mister Weasley, please take Mister Potter’s place on the platform.”

The rug lowers so Harry, not looking at Argo, can step off, and Ron quickly takes his place, already glowering at Argo. As they raise back into the air, Ron growls, “Using spells like that; are you actually trying to kill him?”

“I stopped them, didn’t I?” Argo says, thinking it would be quite obvious if he truly wants Harry dead.

“Bet you think you’re better than everyone just because you know a few fancy spells. I’ll show you.”

Argo just sighs. Good luck with that.

Professor Hicks shout, without warning, “Go!”

Argo starts with an ice jinx, freezing the platform under Ron’s feet. Just as Ron starts to slip and whatever spell is on the tip of his wand goes flying harmlessly to the ceiling, Argo uses a trip jinx. “Carpe Retractum!” he shouts to follow it up as soon as Ron is on the floor. He pulls Ron directly to center stage, then says, “Levicorpus! Incarcerous! Rictusempra!”

To say he makes a mockery of Ron is in polite terms. He leaves Ron trussed up like a chicken, dangling in the air by his ankles, hog-tied and crying from laughter as he takes a breath and returns his wand to the ready position at his side. All without Ron ever getting a single shot at him.

(If Argo were any less mature, he’d pull down Ron’s trousers, too. He definitely considers it.)

“Most battles,” Professor Hicks says, “are over in moments. When one thinks of battle, they typically imagine long, drawn out wars, but the truth is that most duels last only a few seconds at most. One charm, one curse – or a short string of them – is all it takes to remove an enemy from the field. Most especially when you are outnumbered, you will want to remember this. What you just witnessed is a prime example of the strategy of simply overwhelming an opponent. Particularly quick or powerful spellcasters use this often. Argo, please let Mister Weasley down.”

Argo drops him, still tied up, unceremoniously into a groaning heap on the platform.

When they lower back to the floor, the rest of the students are definitely looking at Argo much more warily than before.

“Now, let’s switch things up a bit,” Professor Hicks says. “Anthony, Miss Patil – both of you, why not? – step onto the platform, if you please.”

Anthony hesitantly obeys, flanked by the Patil twins, all looking uncertainly to Professor Hicks.

“All of them, Professor?” Hermione asks. “Isn’t that… a bit unfair?”

As soon as Professor Hicks is finished expanding the platform so that it cones out to a much wider side for the three to take positions on, she turns to the class and addresses Hermione’s question. “Unfair? Do you think dark wizards will only come at you one at a time? Do you think they care one bit about what’s fair?” Silence. “No… I thought not. No one attacks an opponent they do not believe they can defeat. If you are defending, you will always be at a disadvantage. Sometimes, that means your opponent is stronger, faster, and knows more than you, but many times, that means they gang up on you. When I fought against Grindelwald’s forces, three against one would have been a blessing. Most of the time, you had no idea just how many opponents you faced.”

The platform raises into the air. Anthony and the Patil twins breathe deeply and raise their wands.

“Go!”

Argo knows he won’t be able to strike first a third time, so he ducks behind a hasty standing shield and thrusts his wand to the ground, casting a caterwauling charm.

A high-pitched shriek fills the classroom. Anthony only winces, but the girls both cover their ears. “Colloshoo!” Argo shouts, aiming at Padma. With her shoes stuck to the ground, he turns and throws a bat-bogey hex at Parvati before she can recover from the caterwauling charm.

Dealing with the girls leaves him open, though, and he has to dance aside and deflect a jinx from Anthony. His quick duelist’s shield does most of the work there. “Stupefy!” he shouts back, but Anthony deflects the red spell with a shield of his own.

Thinking fast, Argo summons some of the papers from Professor Hicks’ desk. Padma tries to summon them from him before they reach him, but Argo lets her and transfigures them into badgers as they fly full speed towards her. She screams, ducking but unable to move as her shoes are still glued to the floor, as the badgers land on her.

“Padma!” Anthony shouts, turning to her.

Argo uses his distraction to summon his clothes, jerking him directly into the path of Parvati’s disarming charm, then summoning Anthony’s wand from the air after it goes flying.

Anthony and Parvati both gawk at him, but he only grins and adds the final touch. He bends down, casts a softening charm on the platform under his own feet, and shouts, “Descendo!”

The dueling platform itself slams into the ground with a loud bang, shaking the classroom and sending all three of his opponents sprawling onto the stone floor. “Incarcerous. Silencio.”

Just like that, the three of them are tied together, unable to speak.

“He can’t do that!” a Gryffindor shouts. “Those papers were outside the arena, and you can’t use the platform as a weapon!”

“A dark wizard,” Professor Hicks says, “will not restrict themselves to formal rules! I told Argo that he must take down his opponent and survive. There was no restriction on the tools he could use.”

“That’s not fair!” Ron shouts. “If I’d known I could do that, I would have-”

“I told everyone they can use anything at their disposal,” Professor Hicks says measuredly. “You just didn’t think to look outside the box. That is one of the most important lessons I hope to teach you in this class. Everything is a weapon, and everything is a shield, if you’re creative enough to use it. It is not the number of spells you know which determines an outcome in a fight. As I already told you, no dark wizard you face will ever attack you knowing less than you do. What matters is how you use what you already know.”

A wave of her wand frees the three, and Argo offers Anthony an apologetic smile as he hands his wand back. Anthony rolls his eyes and waves his concern off without a word, silently saying that that’s basically what he expects from the start, so Argo shouldn’t feel bad about it.

“Now what did you all notice about how Argo handled multiple opponents?” Professor Hicks asks. Most students are still too stunned or intimidated to volunteer, but Hermione naturally raises her hand. “Miss Granger?”

“Unlike with Harry or Ron, he started defensively. He didn’t fire the first spell, but used a shield and a debilitating spell that would affect all of them to stun them long enough to manage some of them before they could overwhelm him.”

“Excellent observation, and I would like to add one thing. Why do you think Argo started defensively this time? Only because he faced multiple opponents?”

There’s a quiet murmur of agreement.

“Argo?” Professor Hicks prompts.

Argo clears his throat. “I started defensively because I knew my opponents were watching the previous duels. That it was all of them against me played a part – I know I’m faster than them individually, so I might still have gone for that if it was one on one, but mostly I just knew they’d be prepared for me to start fast and hard and would be ready to counter it.”

Professor Hicks nods approvingly. “Your opponents are learning, too. As you read them, they read you. If an opponent has the opportunity to watch you duel before they fight you, they have an advantage. Keep in mind what your opponent knows about you specifically, as well. Anything else, class?”

Padma actually raises her hand, though she’s still wincing from scratches from the badgers. (Argo hurries over and starts healing her, muttering his apologies.) “He put us between each other,” she says. “I remember him mentioning it in the DA before, but I couldn’t do anything to stop it. When I got stuck to the floor, Anthony and Parvati moving forward blocked me from being able to do much without hitting them. Then he actually pulled Anthony into Parvati’s spell, which both blocked it and disarmed Anthony at the same time.”

“That’s right,” Professor Hicks says. “When fighting multiple opponents, you always want to minimize the number of directions a threat can come at you from. If you get your opponents into a nice orderly line, then only one has a shot at you at a time. Sometimes, you can even make them hit themselves.

“Would anyone else like to challenge Argo?” Professor Hicks asks. “Anyone?”

Having just witnessed Argo handily defeat three of their peers at once, no one is eager to volunteer anymore.

Professor Hicks chuckles at the class’ hesitance. “Alright, then, return to your seats. Argo – excellent work. You dueled three times, so fifteen points for Ravenclaw. And five to everyone else who dueled. You’ve probably noticed I put Argo on the spot today – that’s because I’m actually his summer Defense tutor, so I know exactly what level he’s at already. If any of you are surprised by his skill, rest assured you’re more than capable of the same thing. That’s what you’re in this class to learn, and that’s what I expect from each and every one of you. If you pay attention and work hard, you can go back into the world with confidence that another Quidditch World Cup incident won’t cut you down. That’s your goal for this year.”

They spend the rest of the lesson in discussion of tactics and spell application. Professor Hicks ensures there’s constant participation, which captures everyone’s attention until the bell rings. When they’re dismissed and leave the classroom, though, chatter turns swiftly to the duels.

Students send all sorts of looks Argo’s way, but he doesn’t see any of them. He zeroes in only on Harry, who is making a quick, quiet escape trying to slip away in the noise.

“Potter!” Argo calls. He thinks Harry only stops because Hermione and Ron do. He stalks right up to Harry and asks, “What the hell was that? You’ve never frozen like that in a duel.”

“What do you expect when you try to kill him?” Ron roars.

“I only sent that at him,” Argo bites, “because I know he can handle it. Potter, you’re an excellent duelist – that’s why I invited you to the DA Circle in the first place. So, what the hell happened?”

There’s a crowd now, but Argo pays it no mind. He can only see Harry.

Harry glowers. “I should be asking you that. How was that appropriate for a classroom? Why am I the only one you-”

“Because you’re stronger than them!” Argo throws his hands in the air, exasperated. “You heard Professor Hicks. Eliminate the threat and survive. That was the only rule. I met you with the force I thought was necessary to eliminate the threat and survive! I didn’t have to take it as far with the others.”

“Oi!” Ron protests

“What happened, Potter? I could have killed you!”

“…It looked like you wanted to,” Harry growls.

Argo blinks, unsure what he’s talking about. “What?”

“You conjured a bunch of knives and threw them at him!” Ron shouts. “What did you think?”

“I thought he’d block them, and I’d have a chance to try something else!”

Hermione winces. “Argo… the look on your face… it did kind of seem as if…”

Argo just stands there in disbelief, staring down the three Gryffindors and the surrounding students. “…That’s what you really think of me, then?” Argo asks quietly. He knows the rumor mill is ridiculous, but… even Harry? Argo thought Harry at least was just frustrated with him, not that he thinks Argo is legitimately evil. “You honestly think I would try to kill you?”

Hermione immediately tries to backtrack. “No, of course not! That’s not what I-” But despite her words, the boys’ expressions are much darker.

“If you don’t train with intent,” Argo growls, “then the next dark wizard that attacks you will kill you. A training partner who doesn’t take it seriously won’t prepare you for the real world. I met you with force to push you. Because I never actually hated you, Potter – you’re the one who got frustrated and refused to even be friendly. The last thing I want is to see you get hurt.”

Harry’s expression falls into a grimace. “Argo, I-”

“But fine,” Argo snaps. “I assumed you were just frustrated so I didn’t hold it against you, but I see how you really feel now. I’ll just leave you alone, then. And fuck you, too.”

Not caring to listen to any of their words, Argo turns on his heel and sweeps away. He does not stop or look back.

Argo drowns himself in his schoolwork. It’s somewhat easy, because there is a definite increase in the amount of work they are required to do this term. That said, Argo is so far ahead in so many of his classes that he doesn’t feel the increased workload nearly as much as most students.

McGonagall has them turning hedgehogs into pincushions which Argo can do practically in his sleep, so he’s actually working on more advanced conjuration, but that’s not necessary for his grade so there’s no real pressure there.

Auntie Lally is surprisingly light on homework, but Professor Binns has them writing weekly essays on the goblin rebellions of the eighteenth century, which weirdly enough Argo knows a whole lot about because several of them are closely tied to trials detailed in Extraordinary Trials of History, which Argo combs through in fine detail during his extracurricular transfiguration lessons in second year.

Professor Snape forces them to research antidotes, and hints that he might poison someone before Christmas to see if the antidote works. This, too, Argo is thoroughly unconcerned about, partly because he does not believe Snape has the balls to actually poison a student – even he won’t be able to get out of that one when the rest of the staff find out, but mostly because antidotes to poisons and venoms is one of two areas of potions Argo is exceptionally familiar with. Antidotes and creature care potions, both areas which are very important for magizoologists regularly working with venomous creatures and poisonous flora.

And in the same vein of “let’s study Scamander’s specialty” Professor Flitwick asks them to read three extra books in preparation for their lesson on Summoning Charms. The Summoning Charm, of course, being the literal first spell Grandpa Newt teaches Argo to keep control of Jason and the other smaller, rambunctious creatures. In fact, the Defense Association covers Summoning Charms, because they can be so versatile if used correctly, so most students are fairly confident about this and don’t actually bother with the extra reading.

Argo does invest a lot of time into Care of Magical Creatures, although that’s entirely by choice and mostly nothing to do with the actual class. Hagrid somehow breeds hybrids from manticores and fire crabs, which isn’t the best idea in general and is also staggeringly illegal as a breach of the Ban on Experimental Breeding which was enacted in 1965. Argo is very familiar with this law not only because he’s a magizoologist, but because his grandpa Newt literally wrote it.

Now, Argo was willing to let the whole “hatching a dragon in his wooden hut” thing go in first year, but the Ban on Experimental Breeding is in place for the creatures’ own good. Hagrid tries to be coy about where his “Blast-Ended Skrewts” come from, but Argo knows creatures far too well to be fooled. He immediately sends a letter to his grandpa, and guiltlessly sends an anonymous tip to Cedric’s dad in the Ministry’s Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and now the skrewts are in the primary care of Professor Kettleburn, and by extension Argo, until the Ministry decides what in the world to do with them.

All that to say that Argo spends a great deal of his time wrangling stinging, blood-sucking, foul-tempered, headless scorpions that also shoot fire from their backsides.

On one hand, he takes copious notes and provides literally all the knowledge the school and Ministry both have on the creatures, and it’s always fun to research an unfamiliar beast. On the other, most of that knowledge is gained through trial and error, and Argo receives quite a few stings and burns for his efforts as he figures out how to handle them in the safest way possible.

Still, better him and Kettleburn than anyone else. They are trained magizoologists. If normal students were handling these things, a few stings and burns would be the least of their worries. Argo recommends to the Ministry that the skrewts should be classified with four Xs. Their aggressive temperament, venom, and fire make them a bit much for just three. Depending on how big they end up getting, he might have to bump it up to five.

(And maybe, while he’s in contact with the relevant officials, he slips in a few other recommendations to change classifications he considers completely ridiculous, but that’s neither here nor there.)

Needless to say, Hagrid gets in quite a bit of trouble with the Ministry. Dumbledore has a headache protecting him while simultaneously planning the Triwizard Tournament, a task Argo does not pity at all, and in fact finds quite funny when it doesn’t piss him off how blatantly Dumbledore is working people to keep Hagrid out of trouble.

Hagrid is a very nice fellow. No one will ever hear Argo accuse Hagrid of being bad or malicious. And above all else, he does love his creatures. Argo appreciates that – he does. But he has to consider the creatures first. Stuffing Fluffy into a dark, cramped corridor (which is Dumbledore’s fault, but still), keeping a baby dragon in a hut, and now illegally breeding dangerous creatures? Hagrid may love them and want the best for them, but he is not the best caretaker for the creatures.

As far as Argo is concerned, Hagrid has to face consequences. He hasn’t learned to be more careful yet, so maybe actually getting punished for one of his stupid stunts will knock some sense into him. There’s only so far good intentions can carry a man.

Although, Argo can say this: handling the blast-ended skrewts is an excellent way to work out aggression.

He trudges back to the castle, the setting sun stinging on fresh pink burns over his exposed arms, with a great sigh. He’s far too tired to get worked up, and honestly isn’t capable of much beyond looking forward to a shower, some burn ointment, and a nap.

So, naturally, that’s when the twins appear. They flank him, coming from nowhere like they’ve just apparated. From his side, Fred whistles appreciatively. “Damn, Argo. Do you actually work out or is this just from Care of Magical Creatures?”

Argo doesn’t care enough to summon the strength to fight off Fred groping his bicep.

With a hearty squeeze of his other bicep, George adds, “Honestly, you could be a beater if you had any sense of competition. And is this a beard?” He leans in close to examine Argo’s chin. “What happened to our little argonaut? You’re hardly little anymore, are you?”

Argo sighs. “Do you need something?” he asks. “Or, are you just here to feel my muscles?”

“I mean-” George starts.

“They’re very distracting,” Fred says. “And what happened here?” He takes Argo’s hand gently and brushes his fingers against one of the burns on that arm.

“Blast-ended skrewts,” Argo says.

“What about this?” George asks, touching Argo’s broad shoulder, where a jagged old scar lingers white against his tanned skin.

“Kelpie.”

George furrows his brow, looking again at the scar. “…Really?”

“What’s this one?” Fred asks, holding up Argo’s hand, their fingers now entwined, to examine a bite scar on the side of his forearm.

“Swooping Evil.”

“That sounds bad.”

“Not really. I mean- yeah, they eat brains- but my grandpa’s is friendly. That was my own fault.”

“They eat what?”

“Guys,” Argo says. “I love you guys, I do, but I am so tired right now. Did you need something? Because I need to get some burn ointment from Madame Pomfrey, take a shower, and crash.”

“Oh, nah,” Fred says. “We just saw you and thought we’d say hi.”

“Sorry,” George mutters. “It’s just the first time I’ve seen your arms, I think. You’re usually wearing your robes. I’ve never seen these before.” Even as he talks, he traces another scar along Argo’s arm. “Do you have a lot of scars from working with the creatures?”

Argo pauses a moment to think, then says, “Tell you what – I’ve heard the prefect’s bathroom is absurd. And I could use luxury right now. Get me in there and you can gawk all you like.”

George’s cheeks go startlingly pink, but Fred tilts his head consideringly. “The prefect’s bathroom, huh? We might be able to swing that.” He clicks his tongue. “Last minute, though…”

Argo shrugs. “Just an idea. It’s no skin off my nose if I head straight to bed.”

Seeing he’s not going to get anything out of Argo, Fred rolls his eyes good-naturedly and concedes. “I’ll talk to Ced to keep everyone else away and get that burn ointment for you. Meet you there?”

“I can get him in, yeah,” George says. Fred takes off, hurrying to his tasks. “Come on, little argonaut. It’s time for the most absurdly lavish bath you’ve ever taken.”

Oh, good. Argo grins. “You don’t know what kind of baths I’ve taken,” he snipes back. “But I certainly hope so.”

George snorts. “Knowing you? How often have you bathed in rivers or lakes? I imagine soap is lavish for you.”

Argo feels his cheeks warm a bit, put off because George is actually kind of right. “Soap could hurt the creatures living there…” Argo grumbles. “But that’s only when I’m camping!”

George snickers. “Sure it is, stinky.”

“I’m not stinky!” Argo protests. He pauses then, remembering how sweaty and covered in grime he is from working with the creatures most of today, and adds, “Usually.”

“Argo. This right here? This is your usual. You’re always working with the creatures.”

“That is empirically untrue. There are plenty of times I’m just studying or practicing in the library or my study room. And I always clean up before I go to dinner or class where I’ll be with other students.”

“Mhm. Stinky.”

“Shut up.” Argo pouts as George summons his map to check if anyone is in the prefects’ bathroom already. “…Am I really stinky?”

George startles. “What? No, I was just teasing,” he says hurriedly. “I mean- you do usually smell of the forest or your creatures, but I don’t actually- I mean to say it’s not bad.”

Argo self-consciously rubs his neck. “…Yeah?”

“Promise,” George says. “…Usually.”

Argo snorts, smiling again. “Yeah, usually. I know there’s sometimes that I come back just horrible.”

A grin. “As long as you know.”

They come upon the right door, and with one more check of the map, approach it. “They almost never change the password,” George says. “It’s actually the same thing it was when Charlie was prefect and let us in during second year. Pine fresh.”

When he says the last words to the door, it creaks open.

“You could have come here yourself, you know,” George adds. “The map shows you the password.”

“I know,” Argo says. “But it’s always better to have a lookout, isn’t it? With you here, I can just relax and not constantly check the map in case someone comes along.”

They slip inside and bolt the door behind them – Fred has the password to unlock it anyway – then Argo looks around.

Despite the opportunity since getting his copy of the Marauder’s Map last year, he never actually visits, so it’s his first time in the room. It’s softly lit by a splendid candle-filled chandelier, and everything is made of white marble, including what looks like an empty, rectangular swimming pool sunken into the middle of the floor. About a hundred taps stand around the pool’s edges, each with a differently colored jewel set into the handle. And there’s also a diving board of all things.

Long white linen curtains hang at the windows, which let in the golden light of the setting sun, and a large pile of fluffy white towels rest in a corner. The only thing of note, really, aside from the bath itself, is a painting of a blonde mermaid on the wall.

“I’ll get the taps,” George says. “We can play with them later if you want, but this is your spa day, isn’t it?”

“Thanks,” Argo says, already stripping out of his charred, damp shirt. “Later for sure, but now’s the time for lazy relaxation.”

He stretches languidly, reaching up and arching his back. That’s when the door opens and Fred slips inside. He makes a strange noise in his throat before coming past Argo towards George, muttering, “I should’ve taken Creatures…”

He tosses a small jar of something to George, who fumbles just a little before catching it, then calls to Argo, “Hop in! Looks good and ready.”

Argo slowly relaxes from his stretch and opens his eyes. “Really? That was fast. What kind of magic do they use to fill a bath quicker?”

“Who knows?” Fred says. “It’s convenient, though. No one would ever get through a bath if they had to fill this thing normally, would they?”

“Ha! Fair enough.” Argo quickly shrugs off his shoes and socks and out of his trousers, then slides right in, sinking gratefully into the steamy bath, leaning against the wall. “Merlin, I should have broken in here years ago.”

Fred, slipping in beside him, says, “We did. Second year. And that’s only because Bill and Charlie were smart enough not to mention it in our first, so we didn’t know there was anything to look for.”

Argo snickers. “That sounds like you.”

George, down to his pants now like the rest of them, slips in on Argo’s other side, carefully taking Argo’s arm from the wall to frown at the burns. As he sets the burn ointment down on the edge, Argo realizes what his intentions are. “Hey, I can do that myself. You don’t need to-”

“It’s alright,” George says softly, a gentle smile on his lips. He dips Argo’s arm in the water and very, very carefully starts cleaning the injured skin with a towel. “It’s spa day, remember? Just relax and let me take care of it.”

Argo’s cheeks warm, but… far be it from him to protest. He just does as he’s told and sits back with a sigh, letting the tension wash away in the warm, sudsy water.

More in an effort to prevent Argo from falling asleep in the bath than any real need to talk, Fred asks, “Have you seen the sign in the entrance hall yet?”

“A sign?” Argo hums. “Did they put it up today?”

“Yeah, the students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons are getting here on the thirtieth. Lessons get out half an hour early that day because we’re all required to assemble out front to greet them at six.”

“Huh. Do you know anyone who might be coming?”

“Nah,” Fred shakes his head. “We know someone from Beauxbatons, and someone from Castelobruxo, but both of them have graduated already. I can’t think of anyone who’s the right age. You?”

“Pretty much the same. I know people from all over, but no one from those schools who’re the right age, if they’re only bringing prospective champions.”

“You’ll make friends in no time, I’m sure.”

Argo rolls his eyes, smiling despite the doubt in his chest. “With how Hogwarts talks about me now? They’ll hear the rumors and run away. But that’s fine. I’ve got the creatures. And you guys.”

George dunks Argo’s arm again, then, after wiping the suds off, pops open the jar of burn ointment. His eyes dance when they meet, fond and content to be here. Argo bites his lip and looks away, knowing he’s just going to go redder if he watches. There’s a strange flutter in his gut that’s… probably best ignored.

“I don’t know about that,” Fred says, distracting Argo from George’s ministrations. “But I do really wish…” He sighs. “If you don’t want to talk about it, just say so and we’ll move on, but… people are saying all sorts of things about you. Some people in our house are actually getting mad at us just for being your friends. Are you sure it doesn’t bother you, what people are saying?”

Argo is silent for a while as he considers how to answer. “It bothered me that Potter believes it,” he admits. “Not because he’s my brother or anything – because we’ve been working together for a long time now on the DA and I… thought he knew me better than that.”

George silently squeezes his hand, and Fred scoots closer, too, bumping their shoulders.

Argo shakes his head. “But that’s done. I can’t care less anymore what he thinks. He’s made himself clear. I’d… well, I’d thought he only avoided me out of frustration, but…” He shrugs helplessly. “It’s obvious we can’t ever be friends, so that’s that. I’m not going to waste time and energy on him.”

George finishes rubbing in the ointment and grabs his wand. “Ferula,” he mutters, conjuring a bandage to cover the ointment so it doesn’t wash off. “Impervius.” Waterproofed now, Argo can wash the rest of himself without worrying about it. Good thinking. Argo doesn’t need bandages just to let it heal, but while he’s in the bath it’s convenient. “Switch with me, Fred.”

Fred, who is obviously holding in something to say, swims around to Argo’s other side, and George moves as well, so he can access Argo’s other arm. Then he starts repeating the whole gentle process.

“Harry’s a bit of a mess, you know,” Fred says lowly. “He told us about what happened. Ron’s furious, but Harry knows he messed up. He… really does want to be your friend.”

“He wants to be my brother,” Argo says. “That’s different.”

“No,” Fred insists. “He was definitely angry with you before, but I think mostly he just doesn’t want to lose you. Whether you act like brothers or not, he thinks of you as one, you know. It hurts him way more to be fighting with you like this than to just be friends.”

Maybe. Argo groans softly. “What do you want me to do about it, Fred? Frankly, I’m quite angry with him right now myself, and I’m not the one who cares about whether he likes me or not. So, what am I supposed to do about it?”

“…I don’t know,” Fred admits. “Maybe nothing. I’m not asking you to go apologize or anything. Just… do you think you can find it in yourself to give him a chance? You know I’m on your side one way or another, right? But Harry’s my friend, too, so I’ve got to ask.”

A gentle sigh. “Honestly?” Argo says. “I don’t know.” He says it before, but he doesn’t actually hate Harry. He always intends to just continue to be acquaintances, maybe eventually friends. It’s Harry and everyone else trying to force them into a different mold which puts Argo off, but he still considers his and Harry’s relationship to be between them and them only. Harry is the one who can’t handle that. If Harry has a change of heart…

But Harry makes his estimation of Argo’s character clear. Frankly, he doesn’t understand why Harry would want to be brothers with someone he thinks is an evil dark wizard or whatever. And Argo has better things to do than invest in a relationship with someone who thinks of him like that.

“Probably not anytime soon,” Argo says quietly.

There’s a quiet exhalation from Fred, not quite a sigh, but close. Then, he says, “Okay.” Seemingly searching for anything else to talk about, Fred then says, “Anyway, you said we can gawk, right?” He reaches out to touch a long, pale line on Argo’s chest. “What’s this from, then?”

“I tried to cuddle a graphorn,” Argo says, chuckling lightly as George finishes up with his other arm. “Funny thing about that – they’ve got horns. It was an accident, really. She didn’t mean to hurt me; she just didn’t know her own strength. I should have been more careful.”

They spend the next long while going over more scars, and Fred and George even show off a few of their own (and at one point flex playfully, showing off the muscles they’ve developed batting around bludgers on the quidditch pitch), and, of course, actually cleaning up.

By the time they climb out and towel off, they’re all pruney from being in the water far too long and it’s moonlight streaming through the windows rather than sun, but they’re laughing and playing and don’t even notice. They’re utterly relaxed.

Argo doesn’t spend much time in the castle these days, preferring the company of the creatures to the students. Because of this, he hardly notices how the castle undergoes an extra-thorough cleaning nor how the students hardly talk of anything but the upcoming tournament.

But even he can’t miss the enormous silk banners for each house decorating the Great Hall on the morning of the thirtieth. It’s a nice reminder that it’s finally time for the other schools to arrive.

Still, Argo’s day doesn’t differ much from usual. He attends classes, though no one is very attentive, until his last class of the day is cut short. He drops his things off at his dorm like he’s instructed to, then meets everyone in the entrance hall.

They’re all lined up by their houses, and arranged by year. First years are out front, which leaves fourth years placed right in the middle. Once arranged, they follow the heads of houses down the steps into a cold, clear evening. And then they wait. Chatter picks up, wondering how the other schools are going to arrive, and then Dumbledore calls out from the back row with the other teachers. “Aha! Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegations from Beauxbatons approaches!”

And there, over the forest, something large approaches. A gigantic, powder-blue, horse-drawn carriage the size of a large house, pulled by a dozen winged horses, all palomino abraxans the size of elephants.

(They’re beautiful, and if they’re sticking around, Argo is going to be getting in on caring for the things for sure.)

The landing doesn’t look smooth, all things considered. It comes hurtling in and crashes down with an almighty noise, but the abraxans are obviously just fine and the carriage itself seems unaffected by the impact, so Argo assumes there’s magic on the inside to make the experience less jarring for the passengers.

Argo knows about Madame Maxime, so he’s one of few students who don’t react at all when a woman just about the same size as Hagrid steps out of the carriage. For Argo’s part, he’s much more interested in the abraxans than the headmistress.

As Madame Maxime greets Dumbledore, about a dozen boys and girls in Beauxbatons silks emerge from the carriage to stand behind their headmistress, all shivering. Argo winces a little, pitying them. Argo doesn’t get cold easily, but he’s also dressed for this weather. They really should put on heavier robes when they know they’re coming to Scotland.

But Argo quickly disregards their apprehensive looks at the castle and focuses again on the abraxans. These are some of the biggest he’s ever seen! He’ll have to be very careful working with them. Creatures of that size, they just have so much muscle that they can crush you without thinking.

“My steeds require – er – forceful ‘andling,” says Madame Maxime, looking as though she doubts whether anyone at Hogwarts can be up to the job. “Zey are very strong…”

Yeah, they are. Just watching the muscle move underneath those golden pelts is awesome.

“I assure you,” Dumbledore says, smiling, “that Hagrid will be well up to the job.”

Wait – Hagrid? Argo begrudgingly admits that Hagrid’s size and strength will be useful if they do need to handle the abraxans more forcefully, as Madame Maxime puts it, but he notes that Madame Maxime obviously has no idea that Hagrid is currently under censure by the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and highly doubts she’ll appreciate Hagrid getting near any of her gorgeous horses if she finds out.

Argo isn’t going to tell her – Hagrid needs to face consequences, but starting international grudges is not how to do that – but it’s still a dangerous game Dumbledore is playing putting Hagrid forward for this. Kettleburn and Argo are more than capable of handling some horses, even abraxans.

“Very well,” Madame Maxime says, bowing slightly. “Will you please inform zis ‘Agrid zat ze ‘orses drink only single-malt whiskey?”

(Argo surreptitiously notes that down.)

“It will be attended to,” says Dumbledore, also bowing.

Madame Maxime then leads her students into the castle to warm up, leaving the Hogwarts students outside, shivering slightly now, waiting for Durmstrang.

When the abraxans start stamping, Argo actually separates himself from the crowd, technically without permission though he does meet Professor Kettleburn’s eye, and together with Kettleburn makes himself known to the horses as respectfully as he can.

He gets curious glances, from both students and horses. Professors Flitwick and McGonagall both sigh at him stepping out of line, but as he’s assisting Kettleburn no one says anything about it. When he’s sure the horses are going to accept it, he steps closer to them reaching out carefully.

The abraxan closest to him snorts, examining him for a moment longer before graciously moving its long head under Argo’s hand, allowing him to stroke it.

“Look at you,” Argo murmurs. “You’re the most beautiful horses I’ve ever seen.”

There’s an important knicker, which seems almost like a “of course, we are” which makes Argo chuckle.

Keeping a hand on the abraxan so it always knows where he is, Argo moves down its side to the harnessing attaching it to the carriage.

“We’ll put them out in paddock five,” Professor Kettleburn says. “One at a time, now. Even with Hagrid, we wouldn’t be able to handle all of them at once if they act out.”

One of the abraxans snorts loudly, as if offended at the very idea of acting out.

Argo works with Kettleburn to unlatch the frontmost abraxan from the carriage, then lead it off to the paddock where it will be staying for now. Because his attention is entirely on the horse, Argo doesn’t even notice the Durmstrang ship appear in the lake until he gets back to grab a second horse.

He busies himself fussing over the second abraxan, listening idly to the excited rambling about how Viktor Krum is here. He doesn’t recognize the name, but he does catch a glimpse of the Durmstrang delegation, all in bulky, shaggy furs. A few of them even look his way, obviously noticing from his robes that he’s a student, and not of Beauxbatons, handling the abraxans instead of standing in line with the rest of the Hogwarts students. One handsome student with a disarming smile, even from afar, waves at him.

Argo smiles and waves back but doesn’t spare it much thought. He just turns back to the horses and sets off towards the paddock, holding the next abraxan’s reins.

Argo is quickly taken by working with the abraxans, and only leaves after all the horses are put away and he’s already rubbed one down, and then only because Professor Kettleburn remembers and kicks him out both so he can eat and also so he won’t miss the whole ceremony to start the selection of the champions. Argo enters the Great Hall for dinner somewhat late, and well after they’ve already started eating. He notices the Durmstrang students at the Slytherin table, and the Beauxbatons students at his own house table, and quickly takes his seat between Anthony and Padma, which they’ve kindly saved for him.

There’s a pair of girls from Beauxbatons, both blonde and fair, but one much more striking with some kind of natural magic about her, just across from them, who give him derisive looks ask why he comes in late. “I was putting your abraxans in the paddock,” Argo says with a shrug.

Both girls recoil and examine him with a much different eye.

“Are you cold, by the way?” Argo asks, noticing that they’re still shivering even in the crowded hall. “You could borrow my cloak. It… might smell like horse now, though…”

“Zat is not necessary,” the first girl, the one with the magical aura, says. “But I appreciate ze offer. Did you really put up ze ‘orses? ‘Ow did you manage zat?”

Argo tilts his head, baffled by her surprise. “What do you mean? They’re all sweethearts, it’s not like they caused trouble.”

Now the girls are looking at him like he’s growing a second head. “Ze abraxans? Sweethearts? Now I know you are lying.”

Anthony snickers. “Nope,” he says. “This here is Argo Scamander. He’s one of the best in the world with creatures of any sort. For him, I’m sure even the most ornery abraxan is a total sweetheart.”

If only that were true, Argo thinks, reflecting on the blast-ended skrewts.

“Yeah,” Argo says, “sorry about just kind of taking over with them. I mean, you all left them out there, but I’m sure you didn’t mean for a student to handle them. I just- they’re the most magnificent horses I’ve ever seen! I heard Beauxbatons breeds horses; were they bred in your school?”

At that, the girls straighten up, obviously proud of their school. “Yes,” the other girl, who sounds Spanish rather than French, says. “Those horses are the pride of Beauxbatons. They are actually Madame Maxime’s personal carriage horses, bred specifically for the role.”

“It is reassuring,” the first girl adds, “to ‘ear zat zere are people ‘ere who appreciate zem. He said your name is Scamander? Are you related to zat Scamander?”

Argo grins. “Grandpa Newt? Yeah. I basically grew up on a magical creature reserve. Aside from Professor Kettleburn, our Care of Magical Creatures professor, there’s no one more qualified in this school to care for your prized horses. That’s the only reason the teachers allowed it when I took control there.”

Suddenly, there’s a cough behind him. Argo turns to see one of the Durmstrang students, tall with all the bulk of his furs, short-cropped brown hair and square jaw, standing there, smiling just a little nervously at him. “Did I hear that right?” he asks with a distinct German accent. “You’re Argo Scamander?”

“Yeah,” Argo admits. “That’s me. And you are…?”

The boy’s smile widens into something more charming, and loses none of its endearing quality, and he bows. “Niklas Vogel. I believe you worked with my father during the summer.”

Argo’s eyes go wide. “You’re Gerrit’s son?”

Niklas chuckles and nods. “May I sit with you all?”

“Of course!” Padma says immediately, scooting down so Niklas can sit between her and Argo. “But are you sure you don’t want to sit with the rest of the Durmstrang students?”

Niklas just grins. “I can talk to them anytime. It’s not everyday I can share a meal with Hogwarts or Beauxbatons students.” He adds a nod to the Beauxbatons girls, and introduces himself again, specifically to them.

“Fleur Delacour,” says the first girl, nodding to him.

“And I’m Margot Castillon,” says the second girl, smiling. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Fleur leans in. “You worked with ‘is father?” Her eyes turn to Niklas. “Is your father a magizoologist?”

“Oh, no,” Niklas says, a secret smile on his lips. “He’s a potioneer. Apparently, Scamander isn’t only a prodigy with creatures.”

“Not just potions, either,” Padma says. “He’s above most N.E.W.T. students in Transfiguration, too.”

“And he founded Hogwarts’ Defense club. He teaches even the older students Defense Against the Dark Arts,” Anthony adds.

Margot’s eyes widen. “Really? How old are you?” she asks Argo. “I assumed you were sixteen or seventeen, but there wouldn’t be older students if that were the case, would there?”

Argo snorts. “Fourteen, actually.”

“Only fourteen?” Fleur gasps. “I suppose zat explains why you talk to me so… normally.”

Argo tilts his head. “I’m not sure what you mean. Does it have to do with that magic around you? Does it affect the way most people talk to you?”

Fleur rolls her eyes. “Most boys, yes. But you are a Scamander, no? I don’t think I need to tell you. You already have a guess, don’t you?”

Argo considers for a moment. He doesn’t immediately recognize the magic, only picks up on its presence, but… “It’s a birthright talent?” he asks.

“Birthright, yes,” Fleur confirms. “But I’m not sure I’d call it a talent.”

Huh, so then that leaves a few possibilities. She implies mind-alteration, and given her appearance… “Veela?” Argo guesses.

Fleur nods, smiling proudly. It’s obvious she isn’t embarrassed to be a veela. “Quarter,” she says. “My grandmother is a veela.”

“Ah,” Argo says. “Yeah, my age probably has something to do with it, then. I haven’t really gotten to the point that I care about the kinds of things your magic would induce. Then again, what I have felt is exclusively towards other boys, so…” he shrugs. “Either way, it doesn’t seem to affect me much, if at all. Anthony, Niklas, how about you? Padma?”

Padma chokes a little on her pumpkin juice. “Uh, no. No offense, but, boys for me, thanks.”

Anthony just makes a weird noise in his throat and says, “Yikes.”

Niklas, though, laughs and says, “How could I possibly be taken by such an allure when you’re right in front of me?”

Even though Niklas is talking to Argo, Anthony chokes on his pumpkin juice. Not that Argo fares much better. That, uh… That’s… um. Sure.

Moving on. And trying to ignore the heat flushing his face.

Fleur giggles. “Zis is unexpected. I assumed everyone would be drooling over me.”

“Me, too,” says Margot, rolling her eyes.

“But instead, no one is,” Fleur finishes, conveniently ignoring Roger Davies just past a girl on her left, who is forking food into his shirt instead of his mouth because he can’t look away from her.

“Well, you know,” Niklas says with a coy grin at Fleur. “People like us, we pop up in packs. One friend comes out and all of a sudden, the whole group was all along. Even the new friends we just met.”

Margot barks out a laugh, agreeing immediately. “Don’t even start with that,” she wheezes. “You don’t even know – it’s ten times worse with the non-magique. I swear it’s a kind of magic itself.”

“Whatever the reason,” Fleur says through her giggles, “I am glad. I can, er, turn it off, but it happens sometimes if I don’t pay attention, so it’s nice to have people to talk to that I don’t have to worry about that with.”

The group chats through dinner, conversation nearly uninterrupted, until their plates are vanished and Dumbledore stands importantly before them all to start his announcements about the tournament.

He starts with introducing Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Argo personally is peripherally aware of Crouch, travelling internationally as much as he does, but has literally no idea who in the world Bagman is, though Bagman gets a much warmer welcome overall.

Dumbledore announces that, along with the three heads of the schools, those two will be on the judging panel, then has Filch bring in a great wooden chest encrusted with jewels.

Three tasks, Dumbledore says, spread throughout the year, which all the champions will have to face. The selector of the champions will be the Goblet of Fire, an unremarkable, roughly hewn wooden cup filled with dancing blue-white flames, which Dumbledore pulls out of the chest and perches on top of the lid. Submitting one’s name as champion prospective is as simple as writing their name and school on a piece of paper and throwing it into the cup’s fire.

An Age Line will be stopping those too young from entering their names, and placing their name in constitutes a binding, magical contract, which is always fun.

Yeah, Argo is thoroughly unimpressed. The Goblet of Fire is an interesting artifact that he’d like to get a closer look at, but everything to do with the Triwizard Tournament itself is just a huge bore to him.

“I suppose everyone in the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang delegations are entering?” Anthony asks thoughtlessly, with no one surprised at Margot and Niklas’ confirmations. “Any ideas who’s getting chosen?”

“Obviously we all hope for ourselves,” Niklas says, “but of Durmstrang, Viktor is the clear favorite. Or, at least, the headmaster’s favorite. As I’m not sure how this Goblet of Fire chooses a champion, it’s hard to say whether he’s actually more likely to be chosen or not.”

“Of Beauxbatons,” Margot says, “we don’t have a famous quidditch star with us, so there’s a bit more competition. All of us were brought along because we were deemed likely and capable, but I personally think either Fleur or Léo are the most likely picks.”

“Oh, please, Margot,” Fleur says. “Zere is no favorite. Ze Goblet could choose randomly and Beauxbatons would not be better or worse for it.”

Margot makes a show of agreeing, then obviously raises a hand to cup her mouth and stage-whispers, “But Fleur and Léo are the best with practical magic. They’re easily the strongest in dangerous situations.”

Fleur sighs daintily, and does not bother protesting again, despite obviously still disagreeing.

“Ah,” Niklas sighs, his eyes on the Durmstang delegation standing up from the Slytherin table, where Headmaster Karkaroff has just bustled up to them. “Back to the ship, then. I’ll see you guys later?”

“Yeah,” Argo says. “Definitely.”

Niklas grins and stands, putting one hand on Argo’s shoulder as he does so to push off of, but just before he leaves, he squeezes gently and smiles, then takes off to join the rest of the Durmstrang students.

Fleur and Margot have to go as well, when Madame Maxime passes by, and then finally Argo heads out with the rest of the Hogwarts students.

As he lays in bed, Argo has time to think: maybe the rumor mill will catch up to him, but so far, it looks like Fred and George are right. He is already making friends.

It feels good, too.

The next morning, a weekend so there’s no classes, Argo gets up at exactly his usual time, thirty minutes to an hour or so before sunrise, and bounces along through the castle to the Great Hall for breakfast, which is typically either barely started or not even begun, though the house elves are long used to Argo breakfasting early to get outside for the morning feedings of the creatures, and always have something prepared for him regardless. (He has a long-standing permission slip from Kettleburn, not that anyone actually questions him anymore, or that anyone is even awake to catch him.)

That day is unusual, though, in that even in the blue hour of morning there are several students up and about all examining the Goblet of Fire. Argo himself is interested in that much, and so doesn’t think much of it, and grabs some fruit and pulls out a small notebook and sits cross-legged just outside of the golden age-line, a thin golden circle about ten feet from the cup in the center.

Unable to glean much of the Goblet itself at this distance, Argo instead examines the Age-Line.

He’s passingly familiar with age lines. They’re used often in places children roam to keep them out of where they shouldn’t be. The simplest age lines can stop children from digging through cabinets, and more complex ones are actually used on some creature reserves, where visitors are encouraged to observe the creatures for themselves like in no-maj zoos. Of course, most barriers there are either much more solid physical barriers and/or much more powerful warding, but anywhere children roam, it’s always useful to have a way to make them stop roaming.

Argo pokes at the line with his wand, prodding it and pushing magic against it and taking notes on all his observations. He feels out the thing, relatively unfamiliar with Dumbledore’s magic as he is, and tries to pinpoint all the different little aspects of it.

It’s an interesting ward for sure, with a whole lot of layers to it. It’s abundantly clear to Argo only a few minutes into his investigation that this is much more complex than a standard age line. Fred and George, who Argo knows have been throwing around the idea of an aging potion, are going to be sorely disappointed.

The page of his notebook is nearly filled when the door to the Great Hall opens and the entire Durmstang delegation walks in. Karkaroff stands at the front, with a beak-nosed, thick-browed boy at his side – the immediate whispers of the bystanders in the hall indicate that that is Viktor Krum – and the rest of the delegation follows closely, militaristically, at their heels.

Karkaroff glares unkindly down at Argo, who is absolutely not in the way where he is off to the side of the circle around the Goblet, but, recognizing what’s happening, Argo rolls his eyes and scoops up his things to back away anyway.

The Durmstrang delegation makes a show of entering their names one at a time, though Karkaroff seems uninterested in anyone but Krum, in Argo’s opinion, and then the moment just sort of ends. The Durmstrang students lose their rigid formation, Karkaroff drags Krum from the hall, and the leftover Durmstrang students hang about as if unsure where to go from here.

Argo returns to his place to start poking at the age line again.

“Are you hoping to find a way past it?” A voice over Argo’s shoulder, Niklas, asks.

Argo makes a face. “No way. I just want to know how it works. I’ve played with age lines in my studies on warding before, but nothing nearly this complex. I suppose it’s to be expected when Dumbledore makes it himself, but I just want to study the line – I don’t care about the tournament.”

Niklas chuckles, and Argo feels his hand once more upon Argo’s shoulder as he lowers himself down to sit next to him. “That’s cute,” Niklas says. “Just looking at you like this, for some reason, I’m not surprised.”

“You know him?” Another Durmstrang student, this one with an angular face and a dark braid, comes up to them, looking quizzically at Niklas. “You sat with him at dinner yesterday, too. Who’s your friend?”

“Ah,” Niklas says. “This is Argo Scamander. He worked with my father over the summer on the recent improvements to the wolfsbane potion.”

The other student’s eyes go wide, obviously impressed that a student participates in something like that.

“Argo,” Niklas continues, “this is Marian Lazar. We’re sort-of friends.”

“Nice to meet you,” Marian says. “Are you actually allowed to be doing this?”

Argo pauses, looks to the line, then back to Marian, then to the line again and back. “Are you going to tell on me?”

Marian snorts. “No.”

“Then, I don’t think so? No one actually said I can’t, but, you know, better to ask for forgiveness than permission.”

Marian drops to Argo’s other side, glancing down at his open notebook. “Do you know much about warding?”

“Some,” Argo admits. “It’s not my specialty, but I’m interested in getting better. I’m actually more specifically interested in runic warding than standard, but this is still fascinating.”

“I’m pretty good with wards,” Marian says. “Don’t know anything about runes, though. Maybe I could help?”

“Can you?” Argo grins widely at her. “Any insights are useful.”

The three of them sit there, unfazed by the other students that watch or frown disapprovingly as they play with the age line. Marian and Niklas actually being old enough to cross it brings some new discoveries as well, which is exciting.

They’re still there when, some time and a few entered names later, a voice startles them all, appearing directly behind them with no warning. “Good morning, Mister Scamander. Dear friends.” They all crane their necks to look up at Headmaster Dumbledore, who watches them with twinkling eyes and an amused smile. “I’m so glad to see that you are already making friends. However, I would ask that you please refrain from tampering with the age line.”

Argo grumbles. “I’m only interested in the warding, Professor. I’m not trying to tear it down or get past it or anything.”

Dumbledore smiles. “I believe you, of course, but alas, I believe seeing you here studying it is giving other students ideas. But! I would not want to get in the way of a young student’s curiosity, so in return for leaving this age line be, I will give you this.” Dumbledore conjures a scroll of parchment and graciously holds it out to Argo.

Argo, unsure, hesitantly takes the thing. When he unrolls it to peek at the contents, he’s boggled by what he sees. A spell formula, so dense and complex that it fills nearly the whole parchment with just black.

Satisfied, Dumbledore chuckles. “That is my own work – the formula for the age line you see before you. I suspect it will take you more than one day to unravel all its mysteries and doubtlessly find a way past it, so I feel confident that this line’s security will not be breached before the choosing.”

Argo grins, glancing up to Dumbledore from the formula. “Is that a challenge, Headmaster?”

“Not at all, dear boy. Besides, I know you have no interest in entering your name. If you were legitimately trying to bypass the age line, I would wait to give that to you until tomorrow.”

Argo, excited at the prospect of picking apart this formula, nonetheless pauses, eyeing Dumbledore warily. “And why give it to me at all?”

Dumbledore, for his part, appears legitimately surprised by this question. “Because you wish to learn, of course,” he answers simply. “And because you will not abuse that knowledge to cheat your name in.” He turns, then, just before walking away, adds with a wink, “It would not be the first thing you earned by wishing to find, but not to use, would it?”

Then he’s gone.

And Argo thinks: fuck.

No matter the kind gesture or the font of knowledge the scroll in his hand is, Argo feels nothing but deeply unsettled to his core. Dumbledore knows about Argo getting the philosopher’s stone out of the Mirror of Erised back in first year? Since when? Why mention it now? There’s nothing else that parting comment could possibly be referencing, but Argo can’t begin to fathom the implications of Dumbledore bringing that up.

A cold shiver runs down Argo’s spine, and all at once he just wants to shove all his notes away and get out into the forest. Get moving.

“Are you alright?” Niklas touches his arm, gently bringing Argo back into the moment. “What was the headmaster talking about?”

Argo roughly shakes his head, and his voice comes out somewhat croaky when he says, “Nothing. It’s… I don’t know. It’s probably not important, I just… I don’t know. I- I need to go feed the creatures. I’ll see you later.” Argo stands to leave.

“I’ll help,” Niklas says, unwilling to leave Argo’s side when he’s clearly out of sorts. “I’m curious about the kinds of creatures you keep here at Hogwarts anyway.”

Does he have to? That’s- “Fine,” Argo sighs. “If you really want to.”

“I do,” Niklas insists. “Marian, are you coming?”

“No thanks,” Marian says, eyes darting quickly between the two boys. “I think I’ll watch for the Beauxbatons students to submit their names. Have fun without me, though.”

Argo leads the way at a brisk pace out of the castle and through the grounds towards the forest, but once they’re far enough away that they’re entirely alone, Niklas grabs Argo’s arm to stop him, spinning him gently around to be face to face.

“Argo,” Niklas breathes. His brow is pinched with worry and he busies his hands by rubbing small circles into Argo’s shoulders. He inhales a million questions he wants to ask, about what happened, about why Argo is so agitated, about Argo, but as he holds them in his lungs, Niklas knows he cannot utter any of them. They’ve just met, after all. Instead, he tries to tell a different story with his eyes. He tries to tell Argo that he will listen without speaking, that he’s watching and cares, that, if Argo wants to share any of those answers, he will gladly accept them.

And after just a touch too long frozen in Argo’s flickering gaze, Niklas says, “Tell me about the creatures.”

All at once, Argo deflates, the tension leaving him, and, after just a moment of hesitation, he begins to talk. About crups, kneazles, nifflers, and puffskeins. About hippogriffs, chimera, thestrals, and abraxans. Fairies, pixies, doxies, flobberworms, salamanders, bowtruckles, and streelers. He talks about the things he loves, and none of what bothers him, but Niklas is fine with that.

Seeing Argo perk up again, the glint that comes to his eye as he talks about behavior, classification, and identification, all his eagerness and drive. It’s all he wants from the start.

(It’s enough to sweep a man off his feet. When he’s introduced to Jason, Niklas can’t help but think the niffler is only the second cutest thing around.)

They spend a great deal of the day outside with the creatures, as Argo likes to do, though they also spend a few hours specifically with the abraxans. Niklas claims to have never touched a horse in his life and stands some distance back from the elephant-sized abraxans, but they’re both surprised when Madame Maxime herself, with five of her students, all in more practical robes than last night, shows up and, without any pause whatsoever, conjures a brush and affectionately tends to one of the horses.

“And who is zis?” she asks after a moment, gazing not unkindly down at Argo and Niklas, who are rolling enormous barrels of single-malt whiskey into the paddock.

Argo straightens, then steps back in surprise when Madame Maxime comes right up to them and effortlessly hefts the barrel over her shoulder, already leading the way to the troughs.

“Argo Scamander, Madame,” Argo says with a slight bow.

Niklas hurriedly mimics Argo’s movements. “Niklas Vogel.”

Madame Maxime hums, filling the trough for the horses, then turns to examine both boys with a critical, dark eye. She focuses on Argo. “You are ze one who put up ze ‘orses?”

“I helped, yes. Professor Kettleburn, our Care of Magical Creatures professor, did the rest of the work.”

Madame Maxime nods. “And you have taken ze initiative to feed and water zem, ‘ave you?”

Argo hesitates. “I… make it a habit,” he admits. “I’m sorry if I overstepped. I love all the creatures, so I help tend to them whenever I can. I guess I didn’t consider that our guests might not want a student leading the care of such fine horses.”

At his nerves, Madame Maxime chortles. “Not at all, Monsieur Scamander. Ze moment I arrived here today; I could see ze ‘orses are in good ‘ands. You have done well with zem.”

Oh, thank goodness. “Thank you, Madame,” Argo says. “I do have some experience with abraxans, though I’m admittedly more used to aethonians.”

“Beauxbatons keeps a ‘erd of aethonians,” Madame Maxime smiles. “Zey are beautiful ‘orses, though ze abraxan’s size makes them better carriage ‘orses.”

Yeah, they would be, at least if the carriage is large enough to accommodate her.

“But aethonians are faster, and generally have… a slightly more manageable temperament.”

“Oh?” Madame Maxime laughs. “I thought zese ‘orses were… sweethearts?”

Argo feels his cheeks flush, realizing that Margot or Fleur tell Madame Maxime about him. “They are, of course!” he says quickly. “They’re incredibly well behaved. I didn’t have any trouble with them. But that’s odd for abraxans, that’s all I mean.”

“Not for ze abraxans at Beauxbatons,” Madame Maxime declares proudly.

Argo chuckles. “That’s very impressive.”

“Merci. Beauxbatons is very proud of them.” Madame Maxime then turns her eye on Niklas. “And you, Monsieur Vogel. I did not expect to see a Durmstrang student with our ‘orses.”

“I’m just a friend of Argo’s, Madame.” Niklas says. “Keeping well away from the horses. No offense, it’s just I’ve no experience with them and am likely to get kicked. Or crushed. Or… well, I don’t want to mess anything up, so I’m just doing what Argo tells me to. At a respectful distance.”

“Already making friends, I see,” Madame Maxime says. “Zat is admirable. I ‘ope you will both continue to foster zat friendship with ze students of Beauxbatons as well.”

“Of course. We spoke with Margot and Fleur at dinner last night. I’d like to think we’re already on the way to becoming friends. If you don’t mind me asking, Madame, what other kinds of horses do you keep at Beauxbatons?”

At the question, Madame Maxime somehow straightens up even more, and proudly begins espousing all the merits of all the horses at her school, of which there are many.

Argo eagerly participates in the conversation, asking questions and offering his own knowledge on magical and non-magical horses. It’s just about the last thing he expects today, to be talking horses with the headmistress of Beauxbatons, but it’s a pleasant surprise. He’s confident, when they finally part ways, that Madame Maxime is fond of him.

Of course, anyone who takes such initiative and provides such fine care to her horses is deserving of her fondness. Madame Maxime wonders if she might convince Argo Scamander to visit Beauxbatons sometime. From this conversation alone, she knows he will be able to elevate their horses even further than before.

Scamander… that’s a familiar name. Madame Maxime doesn’t know Newt Scamander personally, but Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them is required reading in Beauxbatons as well, and beyond that, he’s well known in any creature keeping circle.

Perhaps she should reach out.

At the Halloween feast, Niklas sits with the rest of the Durmstrang students at the Slytherin table. It’s a little strange, after hanging out with him for the entire day, to suddenly sit apart, but Argo quickly distracts himself with Anthony and Padma, and later Fleur and Margot, when they arrive.

Argo eats as usual, and makes conversation, but both the eating and the talking is stilted for just about everyone else, who are constantly fidgeting, glancing towards the staff table and the Goblet of Fire, waiting for the selection to begin.

But eventually, their plates clear and Dumbledore starts his speech. Then the flames in the Goblet turn red and spark and shoot out a charred piece of parchment, which Dumbldore catches.

Viktor Krum for Durmstrang, then. There’s a lot of cheering, but not much surprise. Even the Durmstrang delegation seem to already accept this as a given.

Fleur Delacour for Beauxbatons, though, drives some of the Beauxbatons students straight to tears. They all hope to be chosen themselves, of course, but Argo notices Margot’s other pick, Léo, who sits further down the table, cheering raucously for Fleur.

For Hogwarts, it’s Cedric Diggory. Argo cheers for him just because they’re friends, but can’t shake a little bit of apprehension at both him and Fleur, who he’s friendly with, entering something so dangerous.

Then again, his own profession is quite dangerous, so who is he to judge? They deem themselves capable, and the Goblet chooses them, so Argo decides to just have faith in them, as well.

Dumbledore begins to conclude, but gets distracted when the Goblet of Fire turns red a fourth time and spits out yet another parchment. The entire hall sits in hushed silence, disbelieving, when Dumbledore reads the name. “Harry Potter.”

Every eye in the Great Hall turns to Harry, frozen in his seat like a deer in headlights. Argo, rather than turning to Harry, locks eyes with Auntie Lally at the staff table, meeting her frown with his own. Immediately, she sweeps around the table to approach the Goblet of Fire, silently pointing her wand at it, casting a myriad of spells to figure out what in the world is happening.

Dumbledore confers with Professor McGonagall for a moment, then with Professor Hicks, who shakes her head sternly at him, then calls for Harry again, looking just as astonished as anyone else.

Harry is ushered into the back room, followed by all of the visiting staff and a few of their own teachers, while the rest of the Hogwarts staff starts sending everyone to bed.

Argo finds himself dissatisfied with this. One way or another, he’s going to find out what happened. But as he stands with the rest of his house to follow the prefects out, he’s stopped by Professor Flitwick.

“Mister Scamander,” Flitwick squeaks, obviously unhappy with the task he’s given, “would you come with me, please?”

Argo shares an unsure look with Anthony, Padma, and Margot, and steps out of line to follow Flitwick to the staff table. Professor Flitwick sets up a charm so that the rest of the hall can’t listen in on them (though they’re still in full view, and Argo can see whispers already), then asks, “Mister Scamander, you wouldn’t happen to have any idea how Mister Potter’s name came out of the Goblet, would you?”

Argo narrows his eyes, but inside he’s thrown entirely off-kilter. Professor Flitwick is really asking him…? “Are you accusing me of something, Professor?” Argo hisses quietly.

Professor Flitwick sighs, unable to meet his eyes. “We have many witness reports of you tampering with the Age Line, and Dumbledore says you have access to the spell formula used for it. You are the most likely person to be capable of helping Mister Potter bypass the line.”

“Dumbledore gave that formula to me himself!” Argo growls. “And I haven’t even had time to look at it, because I’ve been outside with the creatures all day. I haven’t even seen Potter today.”

Flitwick frowns. He wants to believe Argo, but what little evidence there is points to him. “Can anyone corroborate that?” Flitwick asks.

Argo’s normally warm gaze turns to winter at that. “Niklas Vogel, a Durmstang student, was with me all day from the early morning when the Durmstrang delegation entered their names. We also spent several hours at the abraxan paddock with Madame Maxime herself. Ask her.”

“A Durmstrang student?” Flitwick asks.

“Sorry, I thought the point of this tournament is to make friends. Is there a problem with spending the day with a Durmstrang student?”

Professor Flitwick sighs. “Please, calm down, Mister Scamander.”

“Why would I help Potter enter, anyway?” Argo asks, not calming in the slightest. “What purpose would that serve?” Flitwick does not answer. “Because the way I see it,” Argo growls, “given the history of this tournament, someone entering Potter would want him dead. They certainly don’t get anything out of it if he wins, do they? But that’s a stupid plan anyway, because the organizers have made the tournament safer, haven’t they? So, is that what you think? That I want Potter dead?”

“Of course not! I am not accusing you of-”

“And you know what? I did study the age line, yes. Because I’m interested in warding. And Dumbledore gave me the formula because he said he trusted me with it. What am I supposed to think when you all immediately turn around and accuse me of trying to set up another student’s death? Because from where I stand, Professor¸ it looks a lot like our headmaster is trying to frame me.”

“Argo, please. Neither the headmaster nor I believe you have anything to do with it!” Flitwick protests. “We are simply trying to examine all possibilities. Do you still have the formula? Have you let anyone else see it?”

Argo reaches into his robes and pulls out the slightly-crumpled scroll. “It’s right here,” Argo says. “And no. As I said, I’ve been outside all say. It’s just been me and Niklas for the most part. Even I never looked at it. It’s been tucked away in my robes all day.”

“And this Niklas…”

“Has been with me. He doesn’t even know Potter, and hasn’t had any more opportunity to talk to him than I have.”

“And you’re sure-”

“Instead of accusing students, Professor,” Argo snaps, “why don’t you focus on the real issue? Who cares how Potter’s name got in the Goblet? I want to know how someone managed to make the thing choose a fourth name. That’s where you’re going to find your answers. I could have entered any names I wanted to and it shouldn’t have made any difference, should it?”

“Professor Hicks is already investigating that matter,” Flitwick says evenly. “I’m only asking you to confirm that the spell formula hasn’t gotten into the wrong hands.”

“It hasn’t, as you can see,” Argo says. “May I go now?”

“One moment.” Flitwick looks past Argo, then, at the students leaving the Great Hall. There are a lot of lingering stares back at him, and a lot of dirty looks thrown his way, but no one has any reason to stick around as the last of the crowds filter through the door. “Argo,” Flitwick says carefully, “I hope you understand; asking you about this is just something I had to do.”

“You didn’t have to do it in front of everyone,” Argo hisses. “And you didn’t have to accuse me. You could have just asked if I still had the formula, and whether I’d let anyone see it. You did that because you think I had something to do with it.”

“I do not,” Flitwick insists. “And in fact, I would like your assistance in the next step to tracking down the true culprit.”

Argo’s anger simmers, still hot, still there just under the surface, but low. He trusted Flitwick. Quite a lot. This is his own head of house, who helps him all the time with advanced Charms and Defense, after all. But now Flitwick is lying to him. It’s so obvious that he thinks Argo must have a part in this. Asking him for help is just the nice way of telling him to clear his own name by doing the staff’s job for them.

His eyes dart to the Goblet, already suspecting what is going to be asked of him. Still, he asks, “How?”

“Many students and staff have approached the Goblet over the past day,” Flitwick explains. “You are the only one in the school with the familiarity with the tracking spell to have any hope of discovering something.”

Argo scowls. “Professor, every adult magical signature in the school could be on that thing.”

“That is why I cannot simply look at it myself. I know the tracking spell, of course, but I rarely ever have cause to use it, so I’m unskilled in interpreting what it reveals. You, however…”

“You’re not asking me to track footprints through the forest, Professor, you’re asking me to track minute traces of specific magical signatures in an oversaturated, highly populated area, and determine suspicious activity based on that.”

Professor Flitwick boldly raises his brow. “Are you saying you can’t do it?”

Argo growls. He doesn’t care anymore how impossible it is. He’ll do it out of spite. “I didn’t say that. I’m saying you’re insane and shouldn’t get your hopes up.” He draws his wand and points it at the Goblet of Fire. “Appare Vestigium.”

He blows the golden dust from his wand tip to the cup, squinting a little when it lights up like a Christmas tree. “Oh boy,” Argo mutters, glaring through the dazzling light of magic on, in, and around the Goblet. “This is going to take a while.”

Argo stays there in the Great Hall glaring at the Goblet of Fire for several hours. Not long into his endeavor, the champions and staff come out of the side room, dispersing, all casting him curious looks.

Argo pays them no mind, as he’s focused entirely on the golden dust enveloping the Goblet. Jason is also out at this point, playing in the afterimage of a tall student entering their name, which gets looks from the guests, but the Hogwarts students and staff, long used to him, hardly even glance his way.

“What is this boy doing?” Karkaroff asks, stomping towards him. “Why are you tampering with the Goblet of Fire?”

Argo levels a harsh glare at him. All the anger from before is still there. All the frustration of how everyone treats him now. All the righteous indignation at being accused of having anything to do with this tournament going to hell in a handbasket before it even starts. He hisses, “If you want to attempt to track the magical signature of every student who put their name in this thing, then please, take over. Otherwise, kindly shut up – I’m far out of patience for more bullshit accusations.”

Karkaroff reels back. “Who do you think you are? You are just a student. You cannot speak to me that way!”

“Do something about it,” Argo snarls, already turning back to the Goblet.

Dumbledore quickly puts himself between Argo and Karkaroff, holding up his hands appeasing and saying, “Argo, my boy-”

Argo flicks his wand from the Goblet to Dumbledore, and with a wave, a sheet of fiery white symbols appears like a curtain between them. “I’ve been practicing interpreting and projecting runes,” Argo says mockingly. “Look.” Everyone does. The curtain of dazzling runes stretches nearly the length of the hall, and up into the enchanted ceiling. “This is a fraction of the runic enchantment on this ridiculous cup. Now, I have to figure out how to bypass all of this, identify and track minute traces of everyone’s magical signature, and make enough sense of it all to provide some sort of lead on who the hell bewitched this stupid cup!

“And why do I have to do this?” Argo growls, stepping through the runes to get in Dumbledore’s face – he still has to look up at the headmaster, but it’s a lot closer than even he expects. “Because you lied to me. Now I’m a suspect because you just couldn’t help yourself, so I have to do this to clear my name, because you set me up.”

“Argo,” Dumbledore says. It’s one of the very first times Argo witnesses Dumbledore frown. “You must know that I had no idea something like this could happen.”

“Why wouldn’t something like this happen?” Argo shouts. “Do I need to remind you of the troll three years ago? How about the fucking basilisk two years ago? The escaped convict last year? Ring a fucking bell? This school is a death trap, and you’ve either proved too incompetent to do anything about it, or just caused more trouble!”

Argo stomps back to the cup, fuming, and spits. “I’m two for three on solving your messes, Headmaster. Get. Out. Let me solve this one for you, too.”

There’s silence. Argo growls at the glowing around the cup.

He does not for a moment consider the shocked faces of the staff, nor of the four champions.

Minerva McGonagall feels faint hearing Argo speak in such a way. Argo is always the kind, polite boy. Eager, yes, and exceptionally driven, but polite to the point sometimes of being a little distant. He’s certainly not the kind of boy who would raise his voice at anyone, much less a teacher.

And yet… he’s not entirely unjustified. McGonagall knows that he’s been pushed further and further with every passing year. Second year was the breaking point, when he just decided not to rely on the teachers at all. And then last year, well… between having to duel Sirius Black himself and the later reveal of his identity, and subsequent shunning from the school, and indeed Wizarding Britain at large, it is no surprise he’s on the end of his rope after being questioned about tampering with the Goblet of Fire.

Though unknown to her at the time, McGonagall’s deepest, most overwhelming feelings in the moment perfectly mirror Flitwick’s. A deep, deep shame. A student in their school, under their care feels so unsafe in these halls that he’s calling the school a death trap.

And they can’t even deny it. How much more can they fail their students?

Cedric stares in shock, more surprised that Argo actually lets any of this out than that he’s beyond frustrated and angry. Argo is very good, in Cedric’s experience, at appearing unbothered. He’s good at distraction and delegating his time to more productive things than this incandescent fury. Last time someone actually notices Argo feeling off, it’s Anthony, who is by far the most familiar with him, last year, and even during their cuddle pile mood booster Argo never reveals any hint of what is bothering him.

Frankly, Cedric is much less surprised that Argo is snapping than he is that Argo is capable of snapping. He figures that if Argo were going to break like this, it would have been a long time ago.

(Lally Hicks, who for some time now wonders where Argo will fall with regards to Dumbledore, isn’t quite sure if she’s satisfied or not. She is undoubtedly proud, however, underneath her concern, to see him stand his ground like this. He’s growing into a strong wizard.)

Where Karkaroff seethes, Krum stoically observes. He’s curious about this boy who so brazenly dismisses the headmasters of both Durmstrang and Hogwarts, and more than intrigued by his capability to solve the problem he lays out for them.

And where Fleur finds amusement in her new friend, and a little concern as well, Madame Maxime sees opportunity. Dumbledore is a fool to let this student slip through his grasp, but if she plays her cards right, she can be right there to catch him when he slips completely loose. Argo Scamander will be a boon for Beauxbatons, and if that isn’t reason enough, poaching a student from Hogwarts, especially one as gifted as Argo, is a definite one-up on Dumbledore.

And while everyone else has their own thoughts in this moment, Dumbledore himself laments. If he had only known sooner, if anyone had told him that Harry has a brother… If Dumbledore had just known to look for him, things would never have descended this far.

And Dumbledore fears he’s already on the cusp of being too late. Argo is refusing to attempt any meaningful connection with his only living family, he’s growing more and more antisocial and standoffish by the day, and now he even raises his wand at Dumbledore himself!

Dumbledore knows where this path leads. He’s seen it. Argo displays a talent that most can only dream of, but it seems as if the only responsibility he is willing to bear is for his creatures. Dumbledore should have stepped in long ago. If he does not guide Argo back to the right path, there is every chance he could fall into the same pits as Tom Riddle. Anger breeds resentment, and resentment pulls even the strongest of them to their doom. If Argo cannot pull himself from that dark path… Dumbledore shudders to consider the possibilities.

Harry is destined to stop Lord Voldemort, true, but that situation itself puts Argo in just the right position to become the next worst thing. Argo is far too bright a student, far too kind a soul. Dumbledore cannot allow that to happen. For both Argo and Harry’s sakes, and for the sake of the greater good.

The most difficult part is that Argo has zero trust in Dumbledore. He doesn’t know exactly where he lets it all go wrong like this – he envisions spending a great deal of time in his pensieve soon – but to be confronted with such disdain and mistrust from one of his own students is unfamiliar territory for Dumbledore. Even Tom trusted him, in some ways.

(Then again, the Scamanders haven’t been overly fond of him for some time. Dumbledore does not blame them in the slightest, but he should have foreseen Argo coming into Hogwarts with less inclination to place his trust in him than most students.)

Dumbledore is already attempting to begin the process of earning Argo’s trust. He thought at the time that giving him the spell formula was such a clever idea. Argo is very much information motivated; he has that drive to learn and improve which reminds Dumbledore of Lily. Giving Argo exclusive information, simply because he wants Argo to foster that curiosity when it’s ostensibly dangerous to do so was meant to show Argo that Dumbledore is willing to trust him. Because Dumbledore knows by now that someone like Argo, someone as rational-minded, cautious, and emotionally reserved as he, in the position he’s in now, will not offer trust simply because Dumbledore asks for it.

And then it backfires spectacularly, and now Argo is convinced Dumbledore sets him up on purpose.

Dumbledore remembers the boy who immediately turns to a prefect for help when something dangerous happens. Dumbledore recalls being surprised that that same boy breaks into the forbidden third-floor corridor, but the shock gives way to understanding quickly when he realizes that putting Fluffy there as a guard dog is likely the primary draw which makes Argo investigate at all. Then the Weasley twins’ presence explains how he gets carried away through all the trials beyond Fluffy.

Dumbledore remembers the boy who tries at first to talk to the teachers. How he confirms with Professor Kettleburn – whose class he doesn’t even take at the time – that the school is aware the creature in the Chamber of Secrets is a basilisk, and how to handle the snakes. He remembers how, by the time Christmas came and the attacks hadn’t stopped, Argo decides that beasts are his specialty anyway, so he’ll just solve the problem himself. Dumbledore remembers the look on Argo’s face when he exits the Chamber and sees Dumbledore there. He remembers the disappointment, the scorn.

Dumbledore remembers the boy who informs the staff of everything, yet simultaneously makes plans himself because he can no longer trust that anything will be solved without his interference. He remembers the boy who duels Sirius Black fearlessly, ruthlessly, and manages to hold that adult former auror off long enough for the help he arranges for (who is unaffiliated with Hogwarts) to arrive.

Now, Argo doesn’t even bother informing the teachers. He’s lost so much faith in them all that he deems it unworthy of his time to even tell them what he plans. Dumbledore knows he should have paid more attention, tried a little harder, with Argo, but as it is his years at Hogwarts have been one failure after another. At this point, Dumbledore may as well be booting him out the door into Voldemort’s waiting arms.

(And Dumbledore has no doubt that Voldemort is waiting and will use Argo against Harry if given half a chance. That’s part of why Dumbledore is so concerned about the current state of things.)

Dumbledore has to figure out how to reach out. So long as this chasm between them remains, Dumbledore can do very little to save Argo from less savory influences. Dumbledore desperately wants the brothers to become close – their relationship, the love between family, would be perhaps the greatest weapon either of them have against Voldemort – but he can’t even consider trying to bring the two together until Argo trusts him enough to listen.

Dumbledore knows the price of failure. He makes his mistakes. Whatever it takes to salve these boys’ wounded souls, to protect them from the forces stirring that seek to harm them, he must do it.

He only hopes he can remedy his own errors before it is too late.

He decides to start by backing off. It does no good to put pressure on him when he’s already agitated to the point of boiling over. So, Dumbledore quickly ushers everyone else out of the room, allowing Professors Flitwick and Hicks only to remain to watch over Argo’s work.

When he is finally left alone, Argo sighs. He does not calm, but he controls himself.

“It’s unusual for you to raise your voice, Argo,” Auntie Lally says passively, no judgement in her words.

“…Sorry,” Argo says. He pokes at another clump of golden dust, watching the sparkling image of yet another student entering their name. “I’m starting to get really sick of being the bad guy.”

“That’s alright,” Lally says. “Anyone would be frustrated to be accused of something they didn’t do. I see how hard you’ve been working to make the most of everything. You’re doing good.”

Argo feels her hand gently on his shoulder, and all at once spins around to hug her tightly. He doesn’t cry – he won’t cry – but he really, really needs this. He can’t show his face anymore without students judging him. It’s only going to be worse after being called out when Harry’s name was chosen by the cup. And now he knows the teachers don’t even trust him.

He doesn’t know how he’s going to make it through the rest of this year.

To say that Argo examining the Goblet of Fire itself for tampering is like looking for a needle in a haystack is an understatement.

But by the powers that be, he does it. He’s exhausted, has no idea how long he’s been awake, maintaining the tracking spell, and sifting through everything, and he feels just on the verge of passing out, but he spots it. The altered link.

As far as he can tell, no one who shouldn’t be near the Goblet of Fire is. That leaves his list of suspects as of-age wizards, which he assumes to be the case from the start because he doubts that, even after all this study of the Goblet, even he can trick it like that.

He can’t find any trace of students entering names that aren’t their own – what the Goblet accepts and the trace signatures around the Goblet seem to match at every entry – so it’s not an older student entering more than one name.

As best he can tell, in fact, the Goblet of Fire is legitimately untouched from the moment it’s put in the hall to start the selection process to the moment it spits out Harry’s name. That means that their culprit gets to it before that.

And that narrows down the options quite a bit. It can really only be Hogwarts staff and Ministry officials, even eliminating Karkaroff or Madame Maxime, as they don’t arrive until after the tampering must take place.

Unfortunately, with no physical traces, there’s little to track. The residual magic does not last that long, and Argo can’t identify when the tampering takes place, only that it’s more than a day ago. But he can identify a broken clause in the runic enchantment, since he knows to look specifically at the area restricting the number of champions who can be chosen.

It’s not pretty, he can say that much. It’s essentially the equivalent of scratching out the number three in the middle of a sentence and writing four just next to it. Argo is honestly a little surprised it works.

But that’s all the Goblet of Fire can tell him.

Argo doesn’t even bother climbing back up to Ravenclaw Tower, nor does he share what suspicions he has with anybody. The only one there at the time he finishes is Dumbledore, thankfully staying silent at a respectful distance, simply watching over him and allowing him to work, and Argo is not about to trust Dumbledore will use any information he gives him well.

Argo finishes, sure he’s not capable of unearthing anything else, and silently strides right past Dumbledore, fighting to keep his head high despite his exhaustion, and staggers outside onto the grounds. It’s a cold night, but the sky is already beginning to lighten, so it will warm soon enough, and Argo is still wearing his outdoor cloak from working with the creatures all day before the champion selection, so he just stumbles down to the lake, collapses under one of the rare trees with a family of bowtruckles he’s familiar with and passes out.

He awakes slowly, unaware of how much time passes, to the gentle lilting of a soft voice and the quiet, familiar coos of bowtruckles.

Before he opens his eyes, the world slowly comes into clarity. It’s a man’s voice, a familiar one, accompanying the gentle fingers passing through Argo’s hair as if petting him. Jason’s familiar weight on his chest moves just enough that Argo knows he’s awake, but he’s apparently rapt on the boy’s singing.

Singing… in German? Argo only begins to catch the words somewhere partway through the tune.

“…Aus dieser Welt und nehmen Durch einen sanften Tod.”

Argo stirs, groaning a little and opening his eyes to the bright sun. The boy singing, Niklas, blushes suddenly and stumbles over his words at being caught, but after a moment of indecision, looks down at Argo with an embarrassed smile and just keeps going.

“So legt euch denn, ihr Brüder, In Gottes Namen nieder. Kalt ist der Abendhauch.”

Argo doesn’t know German very well, only a little familiarity from being in Berlin for a week, so he has no idea what Niklas is saying, but the tune reminds him of a nursery song, gentle and repetitive. He hums, closing his eyes again to just lean into it.

“Vershon’ uns Gott mit Strafen, Und laß uns ruhig schlafen, Und unsern kranken Nachbar auch.”

Niklas stops then, clears his throat, and says, “Sorry. I just saw you here and…” he trails off, unsure what to say.

“What song is that?” Argo asks.

Niklas chuckles bashfully. “My mother always just called it Abendlied. It means, ‘evening song.’ It’s just a little lullaby from home.” More awkward chuckling. “I used to ask my mother to sing it to me. I’d always ask for the ‘sick neighbor’ song.”

Argo hums again and finally opens his eyes once more. Niklas is grinning nervously down at him, framed by bowtruckles in the branches of the tree above, which he seems to be oblivious to. Argo lifts a hand to stoke Jason, perched on his chest, and wiggles just a little further into Niklas’ lap. He only realizes then that there’s a heavy blanket over him as well.

That’s… really nice of him.

“It’s cute,” Argo says. “The bowtruckles like it.”

Niklas’ eyes widen. “Bowtruckles…” he looks up, only just fast enough to catch a glimpse of the creatures before they scurry to hide. He laughs more comfortably now, amazed. “I had no idea they were there… I’ve never seen a bowtruckle before.”

“And now you can say you’ve lured them out with your beautiful voice,” Argo teases. “I thought Fleur was the veela.”

Niklas pinks even further. “I was only passing time; I didn’t mean for you to hear it…” he mutters. “I didn’t think you’d wake up.”

Argo giggles and shifts, somewhat reluctantly sitting up, then standing, and pulling Niklas to his feet as well. He carefully places Jason on the grass, then grabs Niklas’ hand to guide him to the trunk of the tree. “Hello, little ones,” Argo murmurs gently, eyes fixed on the tree. “You can come out, now. He won’t hurt you.”

As Argo whispers assurances, the twig-like bowtruckles slowly begin to peek their heads back out of the tree. They’re familiar with Argo, and happily climb all over him normally, but despite liking Niklas’ singing voice, they’re still wary around a stranger.

“He’s a friend,” Argo whispers, letting one of the bolder bowtruckles climb onto his hand. “Say hi.”

The bowtruckle chirps a little, and crawls further out onto Argo’s fingers, towards Niklas. Niklas stands enraptured, frozen, until Argo grabs his hand and holds it up for the bowtruckle to climb onto.

“Now just keep it flat,” Argo tells Niklas. “He won’t fall off if you don’t, but he might stick you trying to hold on – that’s it.”

Niklas lets out a disbelieving little breath, and gently, slowly, cautiously, pets the bowtruckle’s leaves with his free hand. “This is amazing,” he whispers, afraid that speaking too loudly will startle the creature in his hand. His eyes shift up to Argo. “You’re amazing.”

Argo smiles ruefully, shaking his head even as three more bowtruckles climb onto him from the tree and Jason rolls energetically in the grass with two more. “They know me,” Argo says. “They trust me. That’s all. This is one of my favorite spots.”

The lake is pristine, the grass and trees are like something out of a poem, but Niklas stares at Argo when he says, “I can see why.”

Argo’s breath catches for a moment, and without thinking he asks, “Why are you here?”

Niklas blinks. “Me? I saw you when I was leaving the ship. I was worried about someone just lying outside in the cold, so I grabbed a blanket and came to investigate. Why weren’t you in your dormitory?”

Argo’s eyes fall to the grass. “I… Last night was… rough. I didn’t want to be around people.” He sighs, and with a shrug add, “Honestly, I was so exhausted I probably couldn’t have climbed up Ravenclaw Tower, anyway. …I’m still exhausted.”

“I heard Headmaster Karkaroff ranting about a rude student last night,” Niklas hums. “What could you possibly have gotten up to between the feast and bedtime?”

One would think it’s ridiculous, wouldn’t they? Argo groans. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Niklas’ smile wavers a moment, then he says, “Okay.” He carefully hands the bowtruckle back, and Argo returns it to its tree. “So, what do you want to do? It’s Sunday, so we have the day free. Whatever you like.”

Argo considers the question. “Well, I need to make the rounds with the creatures, and I should definitely eat and take a bath.” And he has a letter to write, but he’s not inclined to fill anyone at all in on that formulating plan just yet. “But then… I don’t know. I feel like we did my thing all day yesterday. What do you like to do?”

Niklas straightens up, a nervous glint in his eye, and offers, “Actually, uh… most of the reason I was chosen to come is that I’m a good duelist. Do you like dueling at all?”

“I’m decent at it,” Argo admits. “I don’t really think of it as fun, but I take my training seriously. I’m happy to go a few rounds if you want.”

“Really?” Niklas perks up even more, looking downright eager now. “Do you know where we could do it?”

“There’s space for duels in the Defense Association club room. Or we could go to the Dragon Club.”

“The Defense Association is your club, isn’t it?”

Argo makes a face. “I… sort of started it? But it’s not mine. There’s four of us in the circle.” He sighs. Based on how the rest of the school, and Harry, has been acting towards him… he might be stepping down soon. Defense isn’t his passion anyway, so he’d rather just get out of the way if his presence prevents others from learning.

“Let’s go there!” Niklas says excitedly. “If you wanted to start with the creatures, I can run up and get us both some breakfast. Then I’ll help you finish with them, and we can both clean up before we head to your club room. Sound good?”

Argo nods. “That’d be great. Thanks.”

Niklas beams at him before he takes off towards the castle.

Since it seems like Niklas will be interested, Argo tells him about the DA’s plan for an open free dueling gauntlet sometime this year. He’s immediately enthusiastic and promises to participate, and to spread the word to the rest of the Durmstrang students as soon as they know when they’re going to have it.

They talk about that, and other plans to invite the visiting students to club activities, as they make their way back to the castle after they’ve checked on the creatures and all the way up to the club room.

Argo definitely gets some looks in the hall, which he can tell Niklas notices by how the older boy’s smile wavers every time it happens. At this point, Argo doesn’t even know what the looks are for. For not being Harry’s brother? For tampering with the age line and the Goblet of Fire and apparently trying to get Harry killed? For trying to “kill” Harry in their duel earlier in the year in Defense class? For being with a Durmstrang student, when Durmstrang specializes in the Dark Arts? God only knows.

Luckily, no one stops them. Inside the club room, though, is an interesting mix of characters. There are a few random students milling about, practicing some spells on training dummies or poring through books. Harry and Ron are present, the former resolutely staring at the training dummy in front of him after only a glance, the latter glaring daggers at Argo. Daphne Greengrass and Draco Malfoy are also around, reading in a corner a bit further away. And Anthony sits next to the dueling platform, twirling his wand idly in one hand as he scratches at some notes in his lap with a quill in the other.

Surprisingly, it’s Malfoy who stops what he’s doing to talk to Argo.

“Scamander,” Malfoy says. “Already making friends in Durmstrang? Is he going to be helping us?”

“Just a friendly duel for now,” Argo explains. “But he’s definitely going to be at the gauntlet, and we’re still working on lesson plans. Niklas, this is Draco Malfoy. Malfoy, this is Niklas Vogel. His father is actually one of the potioneers I met at the summit during the summer.”

Malfoy raises a brow, examining Niklas critically. “I see. Welcome, then. You’ll be dueling Scamander?”

“I hope so,” Niklas answers, grinning at Argo. “I hear he’s quite talented.”

“Some among the students here consider him somewhat frightening,” Malfoy says, a hint of a lilting teasing at the edge of his voice. “I’ve been told he fought his entire Defense class to a standstill.”

Argo sputters. “That’s not even close to true. I fought five of them, and there was no standstill.”

“Three at once,” Anthony says, coming up to them smirking. “But he’s right. It was no contest.”

If anything, this only makes Niklas more eager. “Then I absolutely must duel you!” He giggles. “Can we just go, or…?”

“Yeah,” Anthony says. “If no one’s using the dueling platform, just go right on up.”

“We’ll be watching,” says Malfoy, who strides importantly off to nudge Daphne and drag her to watch as well.

Argo and Niklas climb up onto the raised platform together, and stand facing each other in the middle. “Rules?” Argo asks.

Niklas hums in thought. “You prefer free dueling here, don’t you?”

“It’s more accurate to real defense situations rather than sport,” Argo shrugs.

“Then let’s do that,” Niklas says with a wicked grin.

Argo nods. “To your side of the field, then.”

The two turn, walk to their respective sides of the platform, and glance to Anthony, who takes the liberty of being their referee, and whose robes Jason climbs into while Argo is dueling. “Begin!” Anthony shouts with no warning.

Argo is used to being the fastest on the trigger, so it takes him by surprise when, before he can even think of a spell to cast, he’s already ducking under a pale, flashing spell.

Niklas leaves no room for him to recover, though, and Argo is on the back foot immediately, under an onslaught of spell fire. It’s a bad place to be in. He kneels behind a standing shield, already fracturing and shrinking, gritting his teeth as he tries to figure out how to turn the tide.

Not a single person in the room isn’t gathering around the platform now. Most stop to watch duels, but seeing Argo so overwhelmed, even against older students, is unfamiliar.

Argo doesn’t have time to ponder his surprise. Even some aurors will have trouble matching his casting speed.

Argo drops his shield. He dives over the next spell, rolls under another, and as he comes to his feet he transfigures his own robe into a swarm of insects and sends them at Niklas.

Niklas’ eyes go wide, giving Argo just the opening he needs to launch a counter-offensive. No longer pinned, and giving as good as he gets, the duel progresses much more evenly. Niklas summons a whorl of fire to burn away the insects, but Argo already finds his footing and Niklas can’t manage to keep up any renewed offensive now that Argo is expecting this style from him.

Argo’s arm is numb from some kind of curse that hits him in the shoulder. Niklas’ hair is growing uncontrollably, getting in his eyes and tangling up his arms. Argo can only just press him hard enough that he can’t spare the time to remove that effect, but neither can Argo tend to himself.

“You are impressive,” Niklas laughs over the most recent volley of spells.

“So are you,” Argo says. “I see why you were chosen as a prospective champion. I can barely keep up!”

Niklas grins and winks. “I’m just hoping you transfigure more of your clothes.”

“Why not yours?”

“What?”

Argo smirks as he surprises Niklas with a spell, transfiguring Niklas’ outer robe into a snake that constricts him, sending him toppling to the ground. He follows it up by lifting Niklas into the air and slamming him back onto the platform.

Niklas groans, clutching his ribs as he stands, his robes-turned snake banished out of the arena. “Good one. I’m going to feel that later.” His eyes harden again, even as his smile widens. “But this isn’t over, yet.”

He uses a curse that makes the ground beneath Argo’s feet heat up painfully, then when he’s distracted follows up with a silencing charm, which hits, and a blasting curse.

Argo moves, recognizing the curse for what it is. But as he steps to the side, turning his shoulders so it will just miss him, it feels as if his foot lands on a block of ice. It slips, then zips right back to where it was, wrenching him suddenly right into the path of the blasting curse.

Argo raises his arms by instinct, his duelist shield flaring up through habit alone, but it shatters under the impact and he’s sent flying back, hitting the ground hard, at the very edge of the platform, barely staying on.

“Stop!” Anthony shouts, fury plain in his voice. His whips around, aiming his wand at the door, and yells, “Colloportus!”

Argo hisses, wincing as he starts to assess the damage. He knocks his head, definitely, but he’s thinking fine and isn’t woozy at all. His arm, though… the pain is bad. He grits his teeth, carefully peeling back the burnt, tattered remains of his sleeve to better expose the nasty wound underneath.

“Argo!” Niklas shouts, at Argo’s side in a moment. “I’m so sorry, I thought – you were already out of the way! What happened?”

Argo grits his teeth and aims his wand at his own arm. “Vulnera Sanenteur. Ngh.” Thankfully, the spell works. The deepest parts cease bleeding, though none of the pain is eased. “Vulnera Sanenteur.” All the residue, the blood and small bit of ash from the explosion, vanish.

“Someone interfered with the duel with intent to harm!” Anthony growls. When the few gathered students begin to shift uneasily, he barks, “You all stay right where you are!” He lifts his wand again. “Appare Vestigium!”

“Vulnera Sanenteur,” Argo whispers a third time, and finally the flesh begins to knit itself back together. Argo winces at the writhing feeling, like maggots in his skin, exacerbating the pain, but bears it quietly.

Niklas can hardly look away from the mangled arm he gives Argo, but realizing what Anthony says, his eyes snap up with a fury. Someone interferes? Niklas knows Argo avoids that spell. Even if he didn’t completely, that shield of his should deflect the worst of it. The only way for Niklas’ blasting curse to break through completely is if it’s a direct hit, and he doesn’t aim for a direct hit in the first place.

Argo moves. Niklas knows he does. But then he just kind of slides right back into the path of the spell. Someone does that on purpose? Someone in this group?

Niklas watches attentively as delicate gold dust pours from Anthony’s wand, enveloping them all. There are bright streaks of gold where the dust seems to congregate, going back and forth across the dueling platform. He isn’t familiar with the spell Anthony is using, but it looks like it’s showing traces of magic, sticking to every student, their wands, and the paths of their spells through the air.

It’s not hard at all to see the lone trail not following the path of the platform. From where a gold-dust image of Argo stands exactly where he was, a thin string of dust extends from his foot directly to the students gathered around. Specifically, a tall, red-haired boy standing next to a boy Niklas now recognizes as Harry Potter.

Argo is not looking at the trail at all, and is instead shakily tugging at a pocket tied around his waist.

Niklas, momentarily distracted by Argo’s fumbling, rushes to help him remove the pocket and start digging through it. Niklas reaches in. His breath hitches when he realizes it’s been massively expanded.

“Dittany,” Argo hisses through his teeth.

Without hesitation, Niklas just points his wand at the pocket and summons it. Digging through will take too long.

“Expelliarmus.” Before Ron can react, Anthony disarms him, catching his wand and tucking it away in his robes. Ron starts to protest, but still when Anthony growls, “Don’t move,” and does not lower his own wand.

Harry follows the trail with his eyes, aghast at the evidence in front of him of what Ron has just done, confused and unsure about what to do.

“Daphne,” Anthony says coldly, clearly, “please go find a teacher and Madam Pomfrey.” He flicks his wand at the door, allowing Daphne through, but then keeps his wand trained on Ron.

Niklas tries to hand the vial of essence of dittany to Argo, but Argo pushes it back into his hands. “Too shaky,” Argo explains, and indeed his hands are trembling fiercely. “Just pour it over the wound. Cover the whole thing.”

Daphne races through the halls, but her mind moves faster. Whatever the outcome of this, she knows it is a polarizing moment. If she wants Argo’s help, if she wants him on her side like she plans from the beginning, this could fast-track everything. It feels horrible to be looking at a silver lining in a friend getting hurt, but if she maneuvers herself correctly, her own plans…

She crashes into the hospital wing, shouting for Madame Pomfrey. Professor Snape happens to be there, too, and the three of them rush back, Daphne explaining through ragged breaths on the way.

While Anthony has Ron pinned, Malfoy climbs up to Argo and Niklas. “I can’t believe Weasley would do such a thing,” Malfoy sniffs. “Pulling you in front of a blasting curse? And he calls Slytherins evil?”

Argo, still grinding through the pain despite managing to heal the worst of it, gasps. “Can someone please… clean this?”

Malfoy is just a little quicker than Niklas to cast a cleaning charm to vanish what residual blood remains off his clothes. “Are you alright?” he asks.

“I will be,” Argo says. “The pain is… starting to go away.” He flexes his hand, then casts a few more spells specifically for burns. “Managed to heal it. Weasley, you said?”

Malfoy hums affirmation. “Can’t imagine why he would do it, but Goldstein used your tracking spell. It was clear as day he’s responsible.”

Malfoy and Niklas help him stagger to his feet, where Argo meets eyes with Ron.

There’s nothing there on either side but wintry fury.

Just when it seems Ron is about to explode and say something, the doors burst open and Daphne comes back with Madam Pomfrey and Professor Snape.

Pomfrey heads straight for Argo. Snape rounds immediately on Ron.

“Blasting curse, you said?” Madam Pomfrey asks, closely examining Argo’s pink, but intact arm.

“Yes, Madam,” Niklas grunts, hanging his head. “We were dueling.”

Madam Pomfrey scowls at Niklas. “That is a very dangerous curse to be aiming at another student.”

“It’s not his fault!” Malfoy protests. “Scamander would have avoided it just fine if Weasley hadn’t interfered. The way he cast it would have been allowed in official dueling procedure. I’m sure he would never have tried to hit Argo with it like this.”

Niklas vehemently shakes his head. “Of course, not! I like Argo! A lot! I never wanted to hurt him!”

Madam Pomfrey clicks her tongue disapprovingly, but elects to turn to Argo’s injury instead. She waves her wand over it a few times, then steps back. “I’m afraid there’s little I can do that you haven’t already. Who healed you before I arrived?”

“I did,” Argo says. “Niklas helped.”

“I only did what he told me to,” Niklas insists.

“Excellent work, Mister Scamander,” Madam Pomfrey says. “You could make a fine healer.”

“I have a friend who’s a healer,” Argo admits, thinking of his spellbook from the Circle of Khanna, and all he learns from Chiara’s section, and through letters with her. “I’ve been learning so I can help the creatures if they get hurt.”

“Well, your friend is an excellent teacher,” says Madam Pomfrey. “Ten points to Ravenclaw for masterful first-aid.”

“Attacking a student,” Snape growls darkly, “and causing injury is grounds for one hundred house points from Gryffindor.”

“What?” Ron shouts. “You can’t-”

“And detention,” Snape hisses. “Rest assured I will encourage Professor McGonagall to expel you for this.”

“You can’t prove anything! It’s the Durmstrang bloke that did it!”

“Don’t. Lie. To me,” Snape warns. “There are multiple witnesses in this room who can tell us the truth of what happened. Mister Goldstein.”

“He’s Scamander’s cousin! He’s biased!”

Ignoring Ron’s protests, Anthony describes exactly what he witnesses, and his use of the tracking spell to reveal recently-cast spells.

“Mr. Weasley’s wand, please, Mr. Goldstein.” Anthony gladly hands it over. Everyone watches as Snape holds his own wand over Ron’s and says, “Prior Incantato.” A wisp of light leaves the end of Ron’s wand, twisting into an animated symbol which can only reference the seize and pull charm.

Ron visibly flounders. “I-I was practicing! That’s from well before the duel started.”

“You were practicing the stunning spell, Weasley!” Malfoy shouts.

“Shut up, Malfoy! I wasn’t! Tell them, Harry! It wasn’t me!”

But Harry just stares at Ron with wide eyes, not offering anything at all.

“Mister Potter,” Snape prods. “Well? What do you say happened here?”

Harry ducks his head, curling up as small as he can standing, stares at the floor. Quietly, as if hoping not to be heard, he says, “You were practicing the stunning spell.”

Snape’s brow arches high.

“Wha-Harry!” Ron gasps.

“How could you do that?” Harry asks explosively, desperately.

Ron blinks, blindsided by his best friend not having his back here. “I’m trying to protect you, mate! He’s got it out for you!”

“So, you try to kill him?” Harry roars. “How is that better?”

Ron gapes for a moment like a fish out of water. “I wasn’t trying to- you completely misunderstand! I only wanted-”

“It is illegal,” Snape drawls, “in dueling, to aim a blasting curse directly at an opponent. The spell is only allowed in glancing blows or to destroy summoned objects or creatures. This is because a direct, unshielded hit from a blasting curse is often fatal. Mister Scamander is very lucky that he’s so quick with shield charms. As are you. The punishment for murder would be far worse than what you currently face.”

All color drains from Ron’s face. “I didn’t mean to- I swear I wasn’t trying to-”

“Silence.” Snape hisses. “You will come with me to see Professor McGonagall. Now.”

“Are there any other injuries?” Madam Pomfrey asks.

“I slammed Niklas pretty good,” Argo says, trying to deflect her to Niklas instead.

He has none of it. “It’s not just the burn,” Niklas says. “Argo got thrown back and hit the ground hard. I think he hit his head.”

Madam Pomfrey gives them both looks that tell them they better start worrying about themselves a little more, or she’ll give them reason to, then starts examining the both of them for blunt-force trauma.

Daphne and Draco watch Ron get escorted from the room, and simultaneously make the decision to stick around as long as they can to help Argo recover and keep anyone he doesn’t want around away. Harry looks like he wants to say something, and both Slytherins are fairly certain Argo won’t want to hear it right now.

Daphne heads Harry off, whispering to him to just give Argo some time. Harry casts a desperate glance Argo’s way but reluctantly nods and trods off.

Anthony, the Slytherins agree, Argo definitely wants present. They’re family, and Anthony still has Jason, who is probably the single most important person (does a niffler count as a person?) to Argo, so Malfoy makes room for him and all but drags Anthony to position front and center next to Argo. (Not too front and center, though. It’s Malfoy still actually helping him walk.)

When Fred and George hear about what happens, they’re ready to kill Ron.

Instead of doing that, though, they write to all their older brothers, and to Reynard. They know the school is writing to their parents, but they want to be sure that Bill, Charlie, and Percy know what happens as well, and to Reynard they include not just what Ron does, but how everyone at Hogwarts treats Argo in general. They want to do something to help, but they don’t know what will work.

The worst part about the incident, if there is anything worse than Argo getting hurt because of their own brother’s malicious stupidity, is that public opinion of Argo in the castle only seems to get worse. Everyone knows now about Professor Flitwick calling him up before everyone leaves for bed the night before, and it’s reported that Argo never returns to Ravenclaw Tower at all that night. Everyone knows that he has a way past the age line, and that he’s responsible for putting Harry’s name in the Goblet of Fire and bewitching it into making Harry a champion. Everyone knows now that he’s trying to get Harry killed in the tournament.

It's absurd. Fred and George both want to scream whenever they hear students whispering about it. People are saying Ron’s in the right and that Argo should be expelled. They’re saying Argo deserves what he gets for his imagined crimes against Harry.

And people supporting him left and right, even if Harry and Hermione thankfully don’t, delude Ron into thinking he’s justified in what he does. He doesn’t learn a thing from it, even after the spectacular howler their mother sends him, except that doing it gets him fame and attention.

It’s so frustrating because they see their brother’s guilt. They see that he never means to actually put Argo in danger, just prank him a little to show him his place or whatever. But with everyone cheering him on for his accident, all that guilt and those lessons learned melt away. The attention and praise is all that Ron craves, and he takes to it jealously.

When Argo gets out of the hospital wing, Ron is leading the charge in evolving the distant hostility of the school into outright bullying. Argo spends less and less time around the castle, avoiding everyone by hiding out in his study room or, more likely, out in the forest with the creatures. When he does sit in the Great Hall with the other students, which is already rare, he’s flanked by Durmstrang students, Slytherins, or Anthony and Padma, the former two of which only make the school more convinced than ever that he’s somehow evil and out to get Harry.

Thankfully, the teachers don’t put up with it. They’re actually unusually strict to the slightest hints of bullying towards Argo, even Snape. Of course, that just means everything happens outside of class, but at least Argo doesn’t have to worry all the time.

But Fred and George feel useless just watching it all happen. They make it a point to track down Argo and force him to relax in the absurdly lavish prefect’s bathroom at least once a week, which Cedric gladly helps them with, but they can’t do anything to actually make it better.

Snape recognizes what’s happening and decides to follow through on an idea he has some time ago but dismisses. Partly it’s Dumbledore’s fault, but partly, Snape truly is just worried.

He doesn’t know his Slytherins’ agendas. Greengrass may indeed simply be Argo’s friend, and Malfoy may indeed simply be trying to use Argo as a connection, but both display a sudden increase in interest in Argo after that moment in the DA room. Most of the other Slytherins tolerate him, but those two obviously care for some reason.

But what Snape does know is that the current trajectory for them all is very dangerous. Dumbledore desperately wants to reach out to Argo, to earn his trust and guide him towards being the family Harry wants him to be. Dumbledore insists that their familial bond will be their greatest strength.

Snape is not so sure about that. Sometimes, family means very little. After all, he remembers vividly Lily and Petunia’s relationship. Trying to force Argo into caring about Harry will only breed the resentment that Dumbledore is afraid will drive him to Voldemort.

But one thing Snape does agree on is that Argo must be protected. Perhaps Malfoy is trying to be Argo’s friend to make a valuable connection, yes, or perhaps he’s doing it because his father tells him to. The Greengrasses aren’t affiliated with the Dark Lord like the Malfoys are, but all the same Daphne very well could be trying to get Argo on her or her family’s side to bolster their position.

Anyone with Argo on their side has a key weapon against Harry, and everyone knows Harry will be a very influential wizard whether he likes it or not. The Greengrasses could use Argo to play both sides of the war and maintain their neutrality, if they play their cards right.

So, Snape asks Argo to stay after potions class. The relief on Argo’s face is evident – everyone else will be gone by the time he’s let out, so he won’t have to brave the halls with the other students. It makes Snape grit his teeth.

Still, Argo holds his head high, refusing to cow. Snape respects that more than he’s willing to admit. “What do you need, Professor?” Argo asks evenly.

“I have been reviewing your… summer work,” Snape says, “and I have come to the conclusion that, as you are clearly far ahead of your peers in this class, I should give you the… opportunity for some extracurricular studies.”

Argo narrows his eyes warily. Good. He should not be trusting given what he’s going through. “What kind of extracurricular studies?”

“I’m planning of a similar model as what you do in Transfigurations. While the rest of the class works on fourth-year potions, you will be allowed, should you continue to show the proper skill, to attempt more complicated and specialized ones. In addition, outside of class, we will meet to begin potion alteration and creation. You will also be expected to assist me in regular potion preparation for the school. Mainly, this means standard potions for the hospital wing. As you already have a published potion alteration under a licensed potioneer, I will treat you as the apprentice that you are. Do not expect any slack.”

“I’d be disappointed if you gave me any,” Argo says boldly. “Thank you, sir. I’d be honored to tackle these extracurricular studies. Will I be expected to do all brewing here, or will I be allowed to make standard potions in my own space?”

“Once approved by both myself and Madam Pomfrey, you will be allowed to brew outside of this classroom. Anything we have not approved will not be accepted if I do not oversee the brewing process.”

“Understood. When do I start?”

“I will have a list of advanced potions for you to begin studying by next week, as well the standard list of potions you must gain approval for to begin supplying the hospital wing. We will meet next Saturday after dinner to begin your experimental potions work.”

Argo thinks for only a moment, then nods. “Okay. Thank you, sir.”

Snape nods back. “You may go.”

And without a word, Argo does. He really is the most tolerable child in this school.

The Saturday before the first task, Argo gets a letter at breakfast from someone he doesn’t expect.

“Hey Argo,

My brothers have told me a bit about what’s happening. I’m so sorry about Ron and how everyone is treating you. But I’ve got a surprise for you. I think it’ll cheer you right up.

Meet me at the edge of the Forbidden Forest at midnight. Trust me, you’ll love this.

Charlie Weasley”

Charlie’s here? Or will be very soon. Argo hasn’t seen Charlie since that one very brief encounter when they smuggled Hagrid’s Norwegian Ridgeback out of the school in first year. But Charlie was in the same year as Reynard at Hogwarts and is a proud member of the Circle of Khanna, but even cooler, he’s a dragon keeper.

Argo’s only seen Charlie once, but the impression he has from that and the letters they exchange over the years is basically that Charlie is the coolest person on the planet. Oh, he can’t wait for midnight.

That day happens to be a Hogsmeade weekend, but Argo elects not to go. He spends most of the day with Professor Kettleburn and the blast-ended skrewts, which means even the friends he has don’t want to be anywhere near, not that they’re allowed to be.

Then, after dinner, in which he sits with the Slytherins again and listens to the Durmstrang students talk about their first trip to Hogsmeade, he heads down to the dungeons for his experimental potions work, where Professor Snape is giving him a potion and a recipe and telling him to improve the potion in any way, through changes in the given recipe or directions.

It’s sort of like a mind exercise, the kind of open-ended logic puzzles Argo likes and is fairly good at. He hasn’t been stumped yet, but this is only his third session. It’s getting harder, though, as Professor Snape includes Argo’s own alterations into recipes for new potions that they can apply to, so he has to think of new things instead of just repeating processes.

Once Snape pretends to be dissatisfied with his work, Argo heads up to change and uses his copy of the Marauder’s Map to sneak back out onto the grounds. He has to wait around for a while before midnight, but that’s fine.

When the time comes, a flash of red hair on a broad, sturdy body emerges from the forest, looking around. Argo jumps up immediately, grinning, and runs over to Charlie, who opens his arms without really thinking, hugging Argo in welcome.

“Hey,” Charlie chuckles, releasing Argo then ruffling his hair. “You’ve gotten big. The twins told me you’re not so little anymore but wow! Look at you!”

Argo knows he blushes but ignores it. He pokes at Charlie’s fireproof robes. “You’re still the coolest man alive, I see.”

Charlie blinks. “Is that how you see me?”

“Charlie, you work with dragons. When I saw you in first year, all I thought was ‘that guy is so cool’ and you know what? I still think that. Look at you!”

Charlie laughs. “Yeah, yeah.” He hooks Argo’s neck in his arm to playfully muss his hair. “I’m glad someone appreciates my immeasurable charm. But come quick, I’ve got to show you something.”

“Is it dragons?” Argo asks.

Charlie puts a hand to his heart in mock surprise. “How did you know?”

“Lucky guess? The name ‘Charlie Weasley’ on the letter? Who knows?”

Charlie snorts, rolling his eyes. “Do you have any experience with dragons? I know they’re not supposed to be kept outside specialized reserves, but I figure if anyone could get permissions it’d be your grandfather.”

“Some,” Argo says. “We don’t keep any on a permanent basis, but we rescue and rehome, so I’ve seen them pass through. I’ve only been allowed to work directly with the more docile individuals, though. Grandpa thought they were too dangerous.”

“Yeah?” Charlie says, “Well, these definitely are. Nesting mothers, you know.”

Argo winces. “Yikes. I assume they’re here for the tournament?”

Charlie sucks his breath in through his teeth. “Yep.”

“I thought this tournament was supposed to be safer. And they just open right up with nesting mother dragons?”

“I don’t really understand it, either,” Charlie admits. “And I feel terrible for the poor things. They’re already so stressed, whatever they make the champions do is only going to make it all worse.”

“They’re just mothers trying to protect their eggs,” Argo says glumly.

“But it’s out of our control,” Charlie says. “We’ve prepared fake eggs. We haven’t been told exactly what the task is going to be, but honestly, we were asked to bring nesting mothers and their eggs, and we don’t trust the Ministry not to put real dragon eggs at risk, so we’ll be swapping them out in secret before the task.”

“Thank goodness for that.”

“Come on, they’re just up here.”

Charlie leads him around a clump of trees and then Argo sees them. Four fully grown, enormous, vicious-looking dragons rearing onto their hind legs inside an enclosure fenced with thick planks, roaring and snorting – torrents of fire shoot into the dark sky from their open, fanged mouths, fifty feet above the ground on their outstretched necks.

Argo instantly recognizes them all. The silvery-blue Swedish Short-Snout, with its unusually short snout, the smooth scales of the slender Common Welsh Green, the gold fringe and horns and bright crimson scales of the Chinese Fireball, and the distinctive spiked tail of the gigantic, black Hungarian Horntail.

There are maybe thirty wizards, seven or eight to a dragon, all wrangling with chains to attempt to control them. Argo looks up into the eyes of the Horntail, slit-pupiled like a cat, and is only broken out of his awe by Charlie giving him a nudge, a wink, and a grin. “Well, jump in, then,” he says, already running forward to help with one of the chains.

Argo can’t contain his own grin when he dives in to do the same.

The keepers welcome him with open arms. “Scamander!” they shout as soon as they learn his name, and from there it’s a quick field study on how to handle dragons. He’s a newbie for sure, but he’s treated like he’s just a newbie to the reserve, not a student interfering where he has no business.

Sometimes, he loves his grandfather’s reputation.

(Before Argo leaves for the night, Charlie catches him again to whisper, “Hey… I know you aren’t getting along right now, but… do you think you could look out for Harry? I mean…” He gestures back to the enormous dragons behind him, and Argo instantly understands. The threat of death by dragon trumps any sort of personal issues – on that, Argo heartily agrees.

“You didn’t need to ask,” Argo says.)

Argo goes to the library. When he arrives, Harry isn’t there, but Viktor Krum is, slouching over a huge stack of books, along with a gaggle of girls just nearby gawking and giggling at him.

Argo hangs back a moment, watching, wondering why they just… stare at him like that, then shakes his head and walks right up to Krum. “Can I sit here?” he asks.

Krum regards him for a moment, then nods sharply. “You are… Niklas’ friend?”

Argo nods. “Argo Scamander. Nice to meet you. I think I’ve talked to everyone else from Durmstrang but you always seem, uh…” he glances over to the girls who’re now glaring daggers at him, “well, sort of like you don’t really want company.”

Krum sighs heavily. Argo can’t tell if it’s exasperation or frustration, nor whether it’s for Argo or for his fan club. Suddenly, Krum lifts his head. “Wait. You said your name is Scamander? Niklas says you are very good with creatures.”

Ah. So, he has heard, after all. When Argo sees Hagrid bring Madame Maxime to see the dragons, he figures Fleur will know, but apparently Karkaroff, or Krum himself, gets a lead on them as well. “My grandfather literally wrote the book on them,” Argo says. “I basically grew up on a reserve. Why?”

Krum glances warily at the fan club, noting their dark looks directed Argo’s way, and to his books, today about dragons, Argo notices. “What can you tell me about dragons?”

Argo looks at the books too, raising his brow pointedly to tell Krum that he knows exactly what he’s doing, and says, “Dragons.” He grins. “Everyone wants to be a dragonologist at some point. I had a dragon phase, too, though I imagine it was probably more intensive than most kids’ given who and what I had access to. What do you want to know?”

Krum leans in even closer, his seemingly permanent glower even darker closer up. “How could a lone wizard get past one?”

Argo tilts his head, pretending like he needs to think. “Well, that depends on what kind of dragon. Sneaking past a Hebridean Black is a very different thing than, say, a Peruvian Vipertooth.”

“Horntail,” Krum says. “Welsh Green, Chinese Fireball, and Swedish Short-Snout.”

“That’s… specific.”

Krum narrows his eyes, obviously aware of the game Argo is playing. That doesn’t mean Argo is going to stop.

“Hypothetically,” Argo says, “the Horntail would be the most difficult. It’s the largest of those breeds, and the most aggressive. It can also shoot its flames the furthest, to about forty feet or so, though if you’re trying to get past it, it’ll help to remember that Horntails breathe a very narrow stream. If you’re facing a Chinese Fireball, though, they’re named after the distinct shape of their flames. They cover a very wide area, though it doesn’t go nearly as far. The Short-Snout and Welsh Green are somewhere in-between on that spectrum, with the Short-Snout being wider and the Welsh Green going further.”

Krum frantically scratches notes onto the parchment in front of him.

“But, there’s a reason their flames evolved that way. Look at their necks and snouts.”

Krum flips open a book, where sketches of each dragon appear. His eyes widen. “Longer necks, longer snouts, longer and narrower flames?”

“In general, yes,” Argo says. “The Short-Snout and Fireball are both snub-nosed, and the Welsh Green and Horntail aren’t. Can you guess why?”

Krum scrunches up his own beaked nose and shakes his head.

“It’s because of where they live,” Argo explains. “The Welsh Green and Hungarian Horntail are from much warmer climates. The snub-nose helps retain heat, and another side-effect of the cold environment they come from, the Short-Snout and Chinese Fireball have much hotter flames than the other two. The Short-Snout especially. That has easily the hottest flames of the bunch.”

Krum furrows his brow. “Is it possible to shield cooler flames?”

“With a flame-freezing charm and a really strong shield, yes. Definitely for the Welsh Green. The Horntail might be harder, because they tend to sustain their flames longer – they like to cook their prey.”

“But for the Fireball and Short-Snout?”

“I wouldn’t even try. Even if you block the flames, just being that close to the heat will burn you alive. You might be able to manage something with the Fireball, but the Short-Snout has to be avoided.”

“The flame-freezing charm would not work?”

Argo shakes his head. “Its effect is directly proportional to the power you put into it. A normal woodfire or even a flames spell is easy enough, but dragon fire? Dragon fire is created through ancient magic, just like the spell resistance in a dragon’s scales. Even a Welsh Green would easily overwhelm it. Your best bet would be to combine it with a shield charm, reducing the fire’s effect and blocking the rest.”

Krum nods solemnly, jotting that down in his notes. “Ancient magic protects their scales,” Krum says when he’s finished writing, “but what of other parts? Eyes, inside of mouth… stomach?”

“Well, the Horntail and Fireball actually have scutes on their stomach, and the other breeds have scales all around, so that’s out. The inside of the mouth is where the fire comes from, so I wouldn’t get your hopes up. The eyes, though, that’s a known weakness of dragons. Dragonologists are all taught the conjunctivitis curse for just that reason, though be careful that that will agitate the dragon.”

Krum writes that down. “Eyes…” he mutters. “And what about sneaking?”

“A disillusionment charm will work on most species, though you’ll usually have to pair it with a scent-masking charm as well. The snub-nosed species likely wouldn’t be able to smell you so long as you’re not right on top of them, but the other two definitely would.”

Krum quickly scribbles his notes, then stops and looks up at Argo. He hesitates a moment longer before asking. “Why are you helping me? You have two Hogwarts champions. Why not them?”

“Because you were lied to,” Argo says. “The people in charge of this thing told you that the tasks are safer than before they cancelled it. Well, I can’t think of many things less safe than nesting mother dragons.”

Krum’s eyes widen and all color drains from his face. “Nesting mother?” He repeats. “Not just dragons, but nesting mothers?”

“You didn’t know?” Argo curses under his breath. Of course, he didn’t. Not unless Karkaroff eavesdropped on Hagrid’s conversation, but he would have needed to stay far enough back not to be seen.

Krum grabs Argo’s arm roughly over the table, looking at him with desperate eyes. “The others, do they know?”

“Fleur probably does,” Argo says. “I was going to talk to everyone. At least offer what I know. It’s up to them if they want it or not.”

“Tell them,” Krum hisses quietly. “Dragons are more than I expected, after they said it was safer. But nesting mothers? No one is prepared for this. It’s like they’re trying to kill us.”

…Like they’re trying to kill them, huh? Argo’s thoughts go back to the Goblet of Fire and Harry’s selection as a champion. Unfortunately, Argo suspects that’s exactly what’s happening. “Or trying to kill one of you,” Argo says.

Krum recoils, then dives in close again to whisper, “Potter?” Argo nods. “But…” Krum’s thick brows knit together as his eyes search the desk unseeing. “But the Ministry is in charge of arranging the tasks. That would mean someone from your government is trying to-”

“Shh!” Argo puts a finger to Krum’s lips, silencing him, ignoring the increasingly sharp daggers the girls of his fan club are glaring at him. “I’m working on it.”

Krum glances warily to the girls, realizing that the walls have ears here. He leans in even closer, so their faces are almost touching, and whispers, “How can I help?”

Finding Fleur and Cedric turns out to be easy, as both approach him at nearly the exact same time. During dinner that very day, Fleur drops several hints that she wants to talk to him in private, and then just as they’re about to leave the Great Hall, Cedric comes up to him asking for a chat.

Argo rolls his eyes and drags them both to his study room. They eye each other warily for a moment, then seem to conclude together that if the other is coming to Argo, they probably have the same idea and thus already know, and start asking Argo questions about dragons.

He patiently answers everything as best he can, telling them all he tells Krum, and carefully steers them also to the same realization that Krum has. He does still have to tell them outright that the Ministry lies to them about the safety of the tournament, but then everything clicks into place for both of them as well.

Cedric goes deathly pale. “Harry!” he gasps.

Bingo.

“Does ‘Arry know?” Fleur asks.

“He’s the one that told me about the dragons,” Cedric says. “But… I doubt he’s put together what all this means.”

“That’s probably for the best,” Argo says.

“What?” Cedric asks. “He deserves to know someone’s out to kill him!”

“Think, Cedric,” Argo says evenly. “Right now, he already knows someone is trying to kill him with this tournament. That was obvious the moment his name came out and the Goblet was clearly rigged. But he thinks they’re taking advantage of the fact that he’s young and has less experience than you all, not that the tasks themselves are designed to kill him.”

“’E thinks ze tasks are made to be beaten,” Fleur says slowly. “Zat zey can be beaten.”

“If we tell him,” Cedric concludes, “we take away his hope.” Cedric crumples into himself. “Damn it. What have we gotten into?”

“Madame Maxime will not be ‘appy about zis…” Fleur says. “But… we are going to ‘ave to work together. To survive ourselves and…”

“And to protect Harry,” Cedric says resolutely. He looks Fleur dead in the eyes. “Does that mean you’re in?”

“Of course. Zis changes everything. Zis is no competition anymore.”

Cedric breathes deeply and nods. He looks to Argo. “We’ll have to let Krum know. Hopefully he’ll-”

“He’s already in,” Argo says. “I talked to him earlier.”

They both sigh with relief, glad that their third champion is on their side as well. “Well,” Cedric says. “I guess the first thing we need to do is… figure out how to beat a dragon. And make sure Harry has a plan, too.”

Argo confers with Fleur and Cedric for hours, talking through every approach they can think of – mostly the two champions throwing ideas at him to see what might work – and then Argo leaves Harry to Cedric’s capable hands.

Harry tells Cedric about the dragons, after all. It makes the most sense for Cedric to try to help Harry find a plan. Plus, as they’re both from Hogwarts, they don’t have as much competitiveness inbred there, and Cedric is already sort of Harry’s friend, so it makes sense for him to be worried.

(And also, Argo is avoiding him.)

Meanwhile, Fleur finds Krum in secret to discuss their options, and Argo secrets himself away once more to write letters. The more he learns about the tournament, the less he likes. He and the champions won’t be able to do this alone, but luckily, Argo is already planning for that.

Argo has no intention of watching the first task. Naturally, observing nesting mother dragons would be wonderful, but observing them savage his friends?

Sounds stressful. He has better things to do.

The hardest part is slipping away. They go from class directly to the stadium where the first task will be held, so he’s already in a crowd when he’s supposed to be heading over there. He lingers a little longer than the others, packing his notes and books leisurely instead of in the mad rush everyone else is in to get going. By the time he leaves the classroom, his whole class is gone, but there are still a great number of students in the hall.

He follows them, allowing himself to be swept away with their stream, edging to the sides where it’s slower and gradually, bit by bit, falling to the very back. When they finally get to the bottom of the grand staircase and to the entrance hall, Argo is far back enough that an innocent distraction – in this case talking to Sir Cadogan near the bottom of the grand staircase itself – is enough for everyone else to clear out and leave him alone.

Perfect.

Argo says goodbye to Sir Cadogan and leaves to the entrance hall. He doesn’t want any evidence of what he’s planning, so he can’t have the paintings seeing him explore the castle when he’s supposed to be outside watching the task.

He hides in the painting-less entrance hall and takes a long, deep breath. “Okay,” he mutters. “Hope this works.”

He lifts his wand and taps the top of his head. The charm slides down his hair, face, and spine like slime, as if someone has cracked an egg atop his head.

He’s never tried a disillusionment charm practically before, it’s an advanced spell, but when he looks down his hands and body are transparent. He’s not entirely invisible, there’s a sort of distortion where he is, where anything seen through him wavers just slightly, but it’s enough that anyone not looking for him is likely to miss him.

Argo closes his eyes, simultaneously trying to recall the map he’s memorized and rid himself of the odd disorienting feeling of not being able to perceive his own body.

Time to go. He doesn’t have forever, especially if he wants to establish his alibi.

He casts a silencing charm as well, just to be sure, and steals back into the grand staircase, climbing up to where the Marauder’s Map tells him Ludo Bagman spends his nights.

As of now, there are two notable Ministry officials involved in the tournament organizing present at Hogwarts. Bartemius Crouch refuses Dumbledore’s hospitality and leaves at night, but Ludo Bagman has been staying off and on since the beginning of the tournament. Since today is a task, Argo is sure he’s planning on spending at least tonight here before he goes back to his own home, which means today, Bagman’s things should be in his room.

Even from here, Argo can hear Bagman announcing at the task. He’s talking through the objective right now, setting everything up – the champions are to steal an egg from the mother dragons? If Argo wasn’t convinced before that the Ministry is trying to kill them all… Even highly trained dragonologists don’t approach nesting mother dragons of any species alone. Getting anywhere near the eggs? The dragon has to be unconscious before they even consider it.

And they’re sending lone, untrained students in there. Damn it.

Argo stamps down his anger, knowing it will do him no good. The champions all have plans. He personally makes sure of that. They consult him and every plan they have can work. Argo just has to trust them all to pull it off.

He has his own task to accomplish. He can’t waste time worrying about theirs.

Argo comes upon the room he’s looking for and, after ensuring there are no portraits or ghosts around to catch him, summons the Marauder’s Map to double-check. He breathes. This is it. “Alohomora.”

In a second, he’s inside.

When the door shuts behind him, he checks for anything that might catch him, then lets the disillusionment charm drop. The room is fairly plain, a guest room without the kind of personal touches that the dormitories and common rooms have acquired from people staying there. There’s a large four-poster bed and a big desk, but little else to catch Argo’s interest.

He starts at the desk, opening drawers and thumbing through what he finds. There are a lot of official papers, communications with reporters, advertisements, that kind of thing. There’s a list of the media allowed, which Argo takes a careful look at.

The Daily Prophet: Rita Skeeter. She’s here? Argo knows she writes about the wand-weighing ceremony for the champions, fabricating all sorts of things about Harry that puts him in a foul mood for a while, but knowing that she’ll be attending all the tasks personally…

No, he can settle personal scores after doing what he needs to. But she will pay for writing about his life last year like that, for naming him and outing him as Harry’s biological brother. Now that he knows he has an opportunity, he can start planning.

What a gift. He doesn’t expect to be able to get to her so soon.

Argo puts everything back exactly where he finds it and listens for Bagman’s commentating. Cedric is first, and manages to get past the Swedish Short-Snout. Bagman’s commentary isn’t actually very good at describing what’s happening, but Argo gets the impression that Cedric does get burned.

Grabbing the egg is the most dangerous part of that plan. The egg isn’t disillusioned with him, after all, so the dragon would still see the movement. Argo hopes the distraction will be enough, but… Well, if Cedric doesn’t survive, he’s sure he’ll be hearing about it, so he must be fine.

As fine as one can be after a close encounter with the Swedish Short-Snout’s staggering flames.

Argo has to take a second to lean on the desk, half-afraid his knees will give out from under him. He’s fine, Argo repeats to himself silently. He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine. Alive is all he needs to be. Madam Pomfrey and the team of healers the Ministry hires for the tournament will make sure anything else is fixed.

He’s fine.

As Bagman announces Fleur’s entrance, Argo shuffles over to the bed. Nothing there. He checks under it. Just a large briefcase, probably everything Bagman packs for an overnight stay. Argo slides it out from under the bed and carefully examines it for security.

A caterwauling charm, it looks like, and something else written into the case itself. Argo taps it with his wand to project the runic enchantments on the thing, frowning at the large square of flaming runes which appears in front of him.

Bagman is the head of a Ministry department, so Argo expects him to have some level of security on his things, but this is still more than he expects from the head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. That department isn’t one that should routinely have to worry about personal security.

The caterwauling charm is bypassed easily enough, but the runic enchantments will take Argo some time. He might be able to brute-force his way in, especially given he’s alone so a bit of noise won’t give him away, but the likelihood of Bagman discovering someone tampers with his things when he returns is too high.

“Oh I’m not sure that was wise!” Argo can hear Bagman shout gleefully as Fleur faces the most dangerous moment of her life. “Oh… nearly! Carful now … good lord, I thought she had it then!”

He’s a terrible commentator. Argo can’t tell at all what’s going on. If he doesn’t already know her plan, he’d be completely lost.

Then again, Argo is also very distracted trying to crack this security, so maybe it’s clearer than he’s giving it credit for.

Just a little more…

It takes several minutes, but Argo tentatively reaches to the latches keeping the briefcase shut and flicks them open. When nothing at all happens, Argo slouches with relief. He lifts the lid to examine the contents.

There’s a couple old yellow quidditch jerseys for a team called the Wimbourne Wasps. It seems like Bagman plays himself – who’d have guessed? Some trousers, pants, toiletries… nothing interesting. Argo sits back on his heels, contemplating.

There’s an uproar – Fleur gets the egg. Good. – and Krum is out next, against the Chinese Fireball.

If Argo were trying to hide something… ah. Carefully maintaining the stacks so he can replace them in the briefcase exactly as is, Argo removes the clothes from the case. He runs his fingers along the lining, touching the runes carved into the leather facing, and clicks his tongue. He draws his wand once more. “Revelio.”

At once, a narrow leather tongue appears on the edge of the case. Argo grasps it, pulling it up, and with it the false bottom, to uncover a small notebook.

Well, well. What have we here? Argo opens the book, furrows his brow at what he finds.

It’s a list of names, with varying amounts of money next to them. Bets and odds. Is this Bagman’s bets? Argo thumbs through it.

“Weasley,” Argo breathes. Arthur Weasley, one galleon on Ireland. But much more concerning, Fred and George Weasley, thirty-seven galleons, fifteen sickles, three knuts on Ireland, but Bulgaria gets the snitch. There’s no indication that any of these are paid.

This is about the Quidditch World Cup. And some of these other names… these are goblin names. Bagman made bets with the goblins? Is he mad?

Argo quickly flips through to the more recent entries. What he sees makes his eyes go wide. “He’s betting everything on Potter,” Argo whispers.

Applause shocks Argo out of it. Krum gets the egg. Only Harry left. Argo needs to move – now. “Geminio.” He whispers, tapping the book. He pockets his copy, then stashes the original back in its place and hurriedly resets everything exactly as he finds it.

He uses his disillusionment charm, then sneaks out of the room, locking the door behind him. From there, it’s a mad sprint down the staircase and out into the grounds. He only just makes it outside when he hears the uproar of applause, much louder now. He doesn’t know how long everyone will be sticking around the stadium now that all the champions have completed their task, so he wastes no time in sprinting to the forest where the most difficult and unpleasant creatures, which can explain his disheveled and out of breath state should he be found, reside.

The blast-ended skrewts, which are getting quite big now. Argo has never been more thankful that they’re such pains in the neck. They’re the perfect alibi.

Still, he can’t get his mind off the notebook in his pocket. Bets are not exactly Argo’s strong suit. As his friends are fond of saying, he doesn’t have a competitive bone in his body. He doesn’t know what he’s looking at with this thing. He can’t afford to misinterpret anything here. He needs to consult someone who knows how bets and the bookkeeping of them works.

And he thinks he knows just the people. People who, if he is reading this at all correctly, will be very happy to get their hands on this notebook.

As soon as Argo returns to the common room, he hides away in his dormitory and checks the Marauder’s Map.

(“Where have you been?” asks Michael Corner when he steps inside.

“I was taking the blast-ended skrewts out for a walk,” Argo says. Michael doesn’t know any better.)

He doesn’t mean to, it’s just that, because he never attends the task, he doesn’t see everyone alive and whole after facing nesting mother dragons and there’s a paranoid, feral part of Argo’s brain that keeps telling him they’re not alive until he can hug them.

So, he gets out the map and spends a few minutes just staring at their names. Watching them move. Because they can’t move if they’re nothing but charred bones.

Cedric is in the hospital wing, and given he’s the only one Argo must assume he gets injured worse than the others. He’s also surrounded by Hufflepuffs, who crowd both the infirmary itself and the hall outside.

Fleur is in the Beauxbatons carriage with Madame Maxime and what looks to be the rest of the Beauxbatons students. Argo assumes this is some kind of debrief, or otherwise a very understandable naptime.

Harry is with Ron again – Harry avoids him for a while after Ron accidentally on purpose tries to kill Argo, but it looks like they’re thick as thieves again (all the more reason to avoid Harry like the plague). Hermione is there, too. They’re all in the owlery, presumably letting the people who care about Harry know he’s not dead before the media comes out with it.

And Viktor is… moving very fast. It’s easy to catch his name, but hard to read it to confirm it’s him, because it’s darting around wildly at the quidditch pitch. Destressing, maybe?

Argo tries very hard to focus on anything else, but he keeps getting drawn back to them, a gnawing inside him digging, clawing, trying to tear its way out. Eventually, he can’t bear it. He tucks the map into a pocket of his robes, grabs Jason, and sets out.

Viktor is the easiest to reach. Argo trudges down to the quidditch pitch, steering well clear of any clusters of students, and quietly grabs a broom from the school’s store.

He steps onto the pitch, unsurprised to find Viktor soaring at top speed just low enough not to be seen over the stands. With a heavy breath, Argo just stands there, watching, fixing into his brain that yes, Viktor is alive, he’s fine, and he’s flying.

He’s just about ready to convince himself to turn around and leave Viktor to it when he finds himself sitting on his own broom, rising shakily into the air, just to be a little closer.

Viktor skids to a halt, seeing Argo wobbling up to the same level he’s on. For a brief moment, there’s a strange disconnect in Viktor’s head. He just witnesses Harry Potter outfly a dragon. He knows – of course, he knows – that Argo is Harry’s brother. (He also knows better than to bring that up. It doesn’t go unnoticed that Argo seeks out every champion except Harry, that Argo avoids Harry whenever he’s around.)

Harry is a natural on a broom. In many ways, just like Viktor himself. A little bit of training, some polish, and Harry will be a match for or better than Viktor. (He sincerely hopes that happens, someday.)

So, seeing Argo so obviously uncomfortable and unskilled with a broom is… weird.

Then Viktor remembers how badly he needs to thank this boy and rockets over, reaching a hand to Argo’s arm to steady him.

Viktor is very nearly unseated from his broom when Argo uses the opportunity to yank him into a tight, desperate hug.

“I’m so glad you’re alright,” Argo breathes shakily into his ear. “All of you.”

This takes Viktor completely off guard. He’s not the kind of person that people… hug. He’s not used to affection that means anything, and certainly not the physical sort. All he knows, really, is his fans and he doesn’t count them for genuine care.

His chest feels weird, and he isn’t sure he likes it, but that Argo is willing, is brave enough and genuine enough to show how he feels to Viktor warms something in his stomach. That much, he knows he’s happy about, and honored to receive.

“Because of you,” Viktor says, tentatively using one arm to hug back. There’s a lurch, which Viktor corrects for with the hand still on his broom, and he nervously adds, “Though, I worry you won’t be if you don’t land soon.”

Argo chuckles, still pressing his face insistently into Viktor’s chest. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m terrible with brooms. It’s not even flying – I’ve flown on horseback quite a bit. But brooms… brooms just don’t work well with me.”

That’s ridiculous. Viktor fights the sudden urge to laugh in Argo’s face. Everything this boy is so talented in – he’s a master magizoologist, a skilled duelist and incredible with transfiguration according to Niklas, a published potioneer – and he can’t handle a broomstick?

Sure, very few get to Viktor’s level on a broom, but everyone gets competent. Even those scared of heights or who hate flying for other reasons. It’s just part of being a wizard.

Argo sighs and lets go of him. Viktor isn’t sure whether to be relieved or miss the tight press of their bodies. He sure doesn’t let go completely, though, mostly just because he’s still afraid Argo will fall if he does.

That’s probably a little patronizing.

“Sorry,” Argo says again. “Probably shouldn’t have hugged you like that. I know we don’t really know each other, I just… I was worried, and I’m a hugger.”

“It’s okay,” Viktor says hesitantly. “Just… do it on the ground next time?”

Argo snorts. “I’m not so bad that I’m going to fall off,” he says, no real offense in his voice. And he’s right. He’s wobbly but has control.

(Viktor still has a strange sense of worry tickling at him. He blames it on how smitten Niklas is with Argo. If Viktor lets Argo get hurt at all, he’ll definitely be answering for it.)

“Anyway,” Argo says. “You’re the first one I’ve gotten to. The others are all surrounded by people.” He rolls his eyes. Viktor understands completely, though Argo doesn’t strike him as the kind of person to avoid crowds. Maybe it has to do with what happens earlier, when Niklas comes back to the ship in a fury, ranting about how Hogwarts treats Argo? He’s apparently not popular, which doesn’t make any sense at all given he’s the kind of person who goes out of his way to help Viktor and Fleur despite being a Hogwarts student. “Did they tell you anything about the second task, or is it another surprise?”

“The golden egg we took from the dragon,” Viktor says, “it holds a clue.”

Argo tilts his head. “What sort?”

“Screaming.”

Argo furrows his brow. “…That’s odd. Can I hear it?”

So, they lower themselves to the ground and right there in the quidditch locker room, Viktor hands over his golden egg.

Argo examines the detailing on the outside for a moment, frowning intently, then traces some of the lines with his fingers, then pries the thing open.

The same horrible, earsplitting wailing as last time crashes over them. Viktor winces and covers his ears. Argo winces as well but tilts his head curiously.

He shuts the egg after just a few seconds. Neither of them says a word.

Argo hands the egg back carefully. Viktor takes it and nestles it into his bag, where it was before.

Viktor says, “I do not even know where to start.”

Argo worries his lip. “I… It’s sort of familiar? Like, I’ve heard that before.” He frowns for a second. “…I might have an idea, but I’m going to need to do some research and get back to you.”

Viktor nods. Argo gets him through the first task. He trusts Argo on this now. As much as he wants answers as soon as possible, if Argo doesn’t want to give it, he won’t press. He knows Argo is probably only keeping quiet because he’s still unsure, and there’s quite a lot of time before the second task, anyway, so he has some time to wait.

Argo proceeds from the quidditch pitch to the hospital wing, where the crowd of Hufflepuffs is finally dying down – probably kicked out by Madam Pomfrey – and gives Cedric a great big hug. They cuddle there for a minute or two, Argo inspecting the mostly-healed burns carefully, and talk about nothing.

Then Argo goes to dinner, where he gives Fleur the biggest hug he can, and he gets a lot of looks for it, but Fleur hugs him back so he doesn’t care. Fleur doesn’t explicitly thank him for helping until they’re leaving dinner and have a moment alone, but her return hug tells him all he needs to know anyway.

Argo does not give Harry a hug, because he does not approach Harry at all, but he does make a point of finding him just to… just to look for a moment. Make sure he’s okay. See it with his own eyes, not just a moving dot on a map.

(Scottie is right; Argo is turning into such a mama bear. He hardly knows half these champions, and most of them are older than him, and he’s worrying over them like this. Ridiculous.)

Having seen each one of them, Argo’s heart settles some. There’s still a lot to do, and more danger imminent, but they’re okay for now.

Argo will have to work to make sure they stay that way.

“Before I decide to take house points,” Professor Flitwick says, standing next to a miserable Argo, “would you kindly explain why you were out of bed after hours?”

Argo turns a suffering glare at his head of house. “I was in bed.”

“The stables are not your bed, Mr. Scamander.”

“Slept there, didn’t I?”

“And do you not think that may have something to do with your current state?”

Argo, hot and sticky, vaguely nauseous even lying in his hospital bed, groans. “No?” he says. “I sleep in the stable all the time. You just never caught me because I never got sick.”

Professor Flitwick takes a deep, steadying breath. “Why do you insist on sleeping outside?”

Argo shrugs. He picks at some threads on his sheets. “Edgecombe jinxed my bed a while ago. Can’t be bothered to fix it every night.”

Flitwick emits a tiny gasp. “Jinxed your bed? And you’re sure it was Miss Edgecombe?”

Who cares? Argo keeps his mouth shut, not even offering Flitwick a glare.

“Mr. Scamander, if this was happening, why didn’t you come to me?”

Why should he?

“Mr. Scamander, please. As your head of house, I-”

“Don’t.” Argo hisses. “Don’t patronize me. You’ve made it perfectly clear what you think of me. You should be glad I’m staying away from your other students.”

Flitwick squeaks. “I have never believed you capable of-”

“I don’t believe you.”

“…We have worked together for three years, Mr. Scamander. Does that count for nothing? Do you truly believe I don’t know what kind of student you are?”

Argo glares. “That’s why I’m angry. Please just pick a punishment already and leave me alone.”

Professor Flitwick stares at his student in shock. Such a dedicated student, so eager to learn and grow, Flitwick has to admit that Argo has always been one of his favorites. Argo used to come to him with problems. Anything from concerns about the curriculum to a legilimency attack on his person.

Will Flitwick even hear about it now, if Argo feels threatened again? Evidently not, as he’s clearly under fire from his peers and Flitwick is only just learning about it. He knows of the verbal bullying, of course, but that it escalates so far that he cannot even sleep in his own bed? Argo doesn’t even come to him to test spells anymore. Thankfully, he goes to Professor Hicks for that rather than doing it alone, but…

Argo’s trust in the teachers, in Flitwick himself, is shattered. And Flitwick’s heart shatters with it.

“I do not believe punishment is necessary,” Flitwick says quietly. “I’m sure your illness is bad enough. I will personally ward the Ravenclaw dorms from such jinxes, and tonight you will return to sleeping in the dormitory.”

Argo hums noncommittally. He obviously doesn’t intend on making any effort to return full-time to the dorms. Alas, if he’s caught again, Flitwick will have no choice but to punish him. He can’t just ignore the rules, no matter the situation.

As Flitwick leaves the hospital wing, he’s relieved to see Argo’s friends arriving. While few will call Fred and George good influences, Flitwick nonetheless thinks they’re good for Argo. If they’ve been such good friends this long and Argo still hasn’t turned into an incurable prankster, Flitwick is sure Hogwarts will remain safe.

And… at least someone is still on Argo’s side. Someone whose help Argo will still accept.

Fred and George rush to the hospital wing as soon as they hear Argo is ill. (Another Gryffindor sees him looking miserable, heading in that direction. Fred and George overhear him laughing about it. They’re already plotting how they’ll have the last laugh with that bloke.)

Argo, bleary-eyed and curled up smaller than he’s been in a long time, sees them when they arrive. “Oh, good,” he says. “I was meaning to find you two.”

The twins quickly settle into their places on either side of Argo’s bed. “What can we do, little argonaut?” Fred asks.

“You alright?” asks George.

“I will be,” Argo says, nodding weakly to George. “I’m only sick. Just got to wait it out. Shouldn’t be more than a day or two. More importantly,” he reaches a hand into his robe, pulling out Jason easily, “could you take him, please? While I’m stuck here?”

George doesn’t hesitate. “Of course,” he says, carefully taking Jason from Argo’s hands. He tucks the niffler into the crook of his arm, petting him gently.

Argo relaxes a little. “Thanks.” He looks sternly at Jason, snuggled in George’s arms, and reaches out to pet his head. “You be good now, okay? It’s only for a day or two. I don’t want to hear about you causing George any trouble, got it?”

Jason chitters and squirms, rolling over in George’s arms a few times before he settles down again.

“You don’t have anything to worry about,” George says. “I’ll take good care of him.”

“…I know.” Argo shakes his head slowly. “But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you two.” He checks, just to be sure, that no one else is present in the hospital wing, and lowers his voice to say, “Do you two know much about betting?”

Fred and George share a look. “Why?” George asks.

“Fancy a bet on the tournament?” Fred asks.

Argo reaches into his pocket to pull out Bagman’s book. “Not me, but someone does.”

The twins raise their brows. Fred takes the book to crack it open and look inside. “This… Argo, is this Mr. Bagman’s? How did you get this?”

“Snuck into his room during the first task,” Argo says simply. “What can you tell me from it?”

As Fred starts thumbing through the book, George examines Argo with an admiring eye. “When did you become so sneaky?”

Argo meets George’s gaze head on. He responds, “When I had reason to.”

“Well, that’s ominous,” George mutters. “I don’t suppose any more details are coming?”

Argo just smirks and pointedly looks over to Fred, enthralled in the book, whose face is slowly morphing into worry.

“So that’s why…” Fred mutters. Argo hums to get his attention. Fred sputters. “Ah, well… you saw we made a bet on the Quidditch World Cup. I don’t know how closely you followed that, but we actually won. Thing is, though, Bagman gave us our winnings in leprechaun gold.”

“We didn’t want to assume anything,” George says with a frown, “so we thought maybe it was an accident. We’ve been trying to get close to him while he’s here for the tournament. But… I guess it’s not an accident after all?”

Fred shakes his head. “Bagman is in debt to the goblins. He made a whole bunch of bets and lost them all. I’d have to sit down with this and do the maths, but… I think he used money he stole from all of us who made bets to pay back the goblins. Only, I don’t think it’s enough.”

“He what?”

“So, I was right after all,” Argo murmurs. “I wasn’t sure I was reading it correctly. Never seen books like that before.”

Fred sighs. “No, you got it right. And- Merlin, what? He’s betting on Harry?”

“If Potter wins,” Argo says, “Bagman’s debt to the goblins will be paid in full. Am I correct?”

Fred frantically searches the pages for a moment, then drops his hands, letting the book hang. “I think so,” he says, lowering his voice even further. “What does that mean? Do you think Bagman had something to do with entering Harry in the first place?”

Argo hums noncommittally. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

There are few things goblins take more seriously than money, and that’s saying something. If Bagman is in debt to the goblins, his very life may depend on Harry winning this tournament. That’s motive if Argo’s ever heard it. Bagman has clear reason to want to fabricate an underdog – set the odds such that he can weasel his way out of his debt if he’s victorious. The goblins wouldn’t take a bet against a likely winner, after all.

Putting in a younger student makes that underdog, the one choice who is almost certain to lose, but putting Harry Potter, with all the legends around him, well… that makes it possible for Bagman to win. All he’d need to do from there is tilt the scales a little more in his favor… maybe by rigging the tasks? Building in cheat codes like McGonagall’s chess set guarding the philosopher’s stone in first year? If he’s telling Harry the key… even making it harder for those who don’t have that key…

But if that’s motive confirmed, Argo still needs means and opportunity. Bagman is a suspect in the first place because he’s one of very few with the opportunity to enter Harry’s name, but the means?

Argo isn’t going to underestimate Bagman just because he seems like a harmless buffoon. After all, Lockhart very nearly wiped the whole school’s memories, and he’s outwardly even more incompetent.

That said, Argo isn’t satisfied with just saying Bagman’s the culprit. Not while there are still other avenues to explore. If there’s one thing his grandparents have taught him about investigation, it’s to leave no stone unturned. Even the clearest picture can be changed by the smallest detail.

No. For the time being, Argo needs to keep his cards close to his chest. Only when he’s sure that he can resolve everything in one blow, will he strike.

Argo plucks the book from Fred’s hands and snaps it shut. “Wha-?” Fred starts.

“For now,” Argo says, “this never happened. Breathe a word of it to no one, even each other.”

Fred and George are quiet, nervously looking between each other. “Argo…” says George.

“Do you trust me?” Argo asks.

At once, both twins reply, “Always.”

“Fine,” George says. “But Argo…” Big eyes meet his. Something charged passes between them. “Be careful. And remember you’re not alone. We’re here to help however we can.”

Argo sighs. He can’t quite hold George’s gaze. “Yeah. I know.”

(When Argo’s sickness passes and he’s returning to class, Professor Flitwick stays late in the Ravenclaw Common Room.

“He’s not coming,” says Anthony Goldstein, another student so bright that Flitwick is considering him for the Prefect position next year, quite from nowhere. There’s a cold, resigned look in Anthony’s eyes as he stares down Flitwick.

Flitwick swallows thickly, looking carefully between the door to the common room and Anthony hanging just before the stairs to the dormitories. After a moment, Flitwick says, “He has been informed of the consequences of staying out after curfew.”

Anthony just stands there, frowning at him for a moment, which feels much like the tables have been turned. Anthony would make a wonderful teacher, able to make his students feel guilty with just a look. But then Anthony shakes his head and turns away. Just before he disappears, he says, “It’s not home, you know.” He slowly wets his lips. “At the start, we were all told that Hogwarts will be our home. Our houses are our families. You lied to him.” Another pregnant pause. “Why would he come? He’s gone where he’s comfortable. Don’t ruin that for him, too.” And then Anthony is gone, retired to his room.

Thirty minutes later, Flitwick finds Argo curled up under a winter cloak in the hay, in one of the empty stalls of the stables. He is… so remarkably young.

When Flitwick exits the stables, he does so alone.

Inside, a young boy lies comfortable under a thick woolen blanket laced with warming charms. He can only guess who so carefully drapes it over him in his sleep.)

Argo is looping together this runic clause when there’s a soft thud just opposite him at his table in the library.

He glances up, raising his brow at Hermione, who sits stiffly, several books in her hands, as if she doesn’t know what to do with them, or herself, or anything.

As she doesn’t make any effort to put her books down and start studying, Argo eventually asks, “Can I help you?”

Hermione tries several times to force words out of her mouth, but they all end up as either choked stammering or at such a speed as to be indecipherable.

Argo just looks at her.

“I’m sorry,” she says eventually. “For what Ron did.” She flinches. “Is doing. And for not apologizing sooner. Harry’s been agonizing over you avoiding him. And I said no wonder you do when he still hangs out with Ron nearly every second. Not that I think he shouldn’t, but – oh, just…” Finally, she just whimpers pitifully. “I don’t know how to do this.”

Argo bites his lip. “Why don’t you just tell me what you want?”

“I-”

“Skip the apologies and the excuses and explanations,” Argo says. “Just tell me why you’re here.”

Hermione ducks her head. “I was thinking… about last year when Ron and Harry were furious with me. You were there for me when you had no reason to be. Even if it wasn’t much to you, you listened and made me feel like I still had a friend.” She sniffs suddenly, eyes watering. “I feel just awful about how everyone’s been treating you – especially Ron. But especially… I feel terrible that I haven’t been a friend for you, after you were for me. It must have seemed like I’ve just been on Harry and Ron’s side of all this – and they are my best friends, but- but I…”

Ah. Argo sighs. “If that’s all, then clear your face. You’ve nothing to feel bad about. We were never friends to begin with; I’m just not the kind of person who leaves someone that upset on their own. You’ve no obligation to me for anything.”

Argo returns to his runes. Hermione’s eyes go wide. “That-!” She grimaces. “Maybe not. Maybe we never were friends. But I’d like to be! If… if you think that’s still possible…?”

His eyes lift and narrow. “Wouldn’t that cause trouble for you?” Argo asks. “Your Weasley doesn’t strike me as the… understanding sort.”

Hermione visibly hesitates but puffs up her chest and sets her jaw. “If Ronald can’t handle my making more friends, then… then who cares what he thinks? He has nothing to do with this.”

“Not just making new friends,” Argo prods. “Though I wouldn’t be surprised if that is the case. But befriending the fiendish dark wizard out to kill Potter? Are you sure you want that?”

She sniffs and turns up her nose. “As if you actually mean him any harm,” she says. “Ever since first year, even when you do everything in your power to avoid him, you have always gone out of your way to keep him safe. It’s ridiculous what these people are believing.”

“Your Weasley pulled me in front of a blasting curse for exactly that reason.”

“He…” Hermione seems to run out of steam, collapsing into herself.

“Potter thought I was behind it, too. I don’t know if he still does, but he did.”

“He doesn’t!” Hermione protests immediately. “At least… I don’t think he does. Recently he’s been saying he thinks it was Karkaroff. Karkaroff used to be a Death Eater, you know. Sirius told us.”

Argo rolls his eyes. It definitely isn’t. The Goblet of Fire is loaned by the ICW via the local Ministry. Karkaroff would never have the opportunity to so much as look at the thing until it’s opened up here in the school for the selection process. Death Eater or no, Karkaroff physically can’t be the culprit.

Not that he’s going to tell her that. Let Potter’s little investigation stir up false leads. Maybe they’ll make the true culprit complacent. They’ll focus on the obvious investigation, step away from that relieved that they’re so off, then slip right into Argo’s grasp.

But if Karkaroff really is a Death Eater… Hm. There may be ways to use that. Argo will have to think about that possibility some more. That… that is a dangerous path, though. One Argo is not sure he’s willing to walk.

Decisions, decisions. Before he can make any drastic decisions, he needs all of the information. Acting brashly can ruin everything. Maybe he should send another letter, ask about this… Dig up everything he can.

“Look, Granger,” Argo says flatly. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told Malfoy. I don’t hate you. Friendship is something you have to work at, so I can’t promise anything, but if you’re willing to put up with the consequences, then if you want to hang out or study together, just ask.”

She perks up immediately. “Really?”

Argo shrugs. “I’ve never had anything against you. And your relationship with Weasley and Potter has nothing to do with me. Keep it that way and I can’t care less who you’re friends with. Besides that, I’m not exactly full up on friends at the moment.”

“Oh, thank you!” She bounces in her seat eagerly. “I’m so glad you feel that way. And please, let me worry about Harry and Ron.” Oh, Argo has no intention of giving either of them a passing thought.

Just then, Viktor Krum comes into the library, settling down at a table not far away from them. Hermione groans. Viktor’s fan club comes trailing in, already making more noise than Argo and Hermione’s entire hushed conversation.

“Why can’t he read on his stupid ship?” Hermione complains. “Hey, Argo, do you mind if we go someplace…” she looks at the fan club, “quieter?”

Argo looks over, sees Viktor unsubtly peering over his book at them, and inwardly groans. Hermione asks a good question. Why can’t Viktor read on the ship? His fan club can’t follow him there, and Argo knows he considers that a blessing.

Of course, Karkaroff is there, and he’s practically a one-man fan club, but that’s a different issue entirely.

“Why don’t we go talk to him instead?”

“What?”

Argo smirks. “Well, I’m going to talk to him. I’ll be back in a minute, or you’re free to join us. Your choice.”

With that, Argo stands and moves over to Viktor’s table, very pointedly raising a brow and indicating over his shoulder to where Hermione sits stunned.

Viktor’s cheeks pinken.

Merlin’s beard. Argo doesn’t know if he should be laughing. It’s not really appropriate, but something about this is distinctly humorous to him. He can’t help the slow, toothy grin that overtakes him. “No,” he whispers. “Really? Her?”

Viktor looks up, then jerks a bit in alarm. Argo glances over to see Hermione decides to take him up on the offer and is following him over.

Before she gets close enough, Argo reaches over to pull Viktor close and whisper, “Remember the ball’s coming up. Ask her.”

Now his face is definitely red. Argo just giggles at him, sits Hermione down in the next seat, introduces them, then as soon as they’re off talking about a book, he makes an excuse and leaves them behind a muffling charm.

Viktor’s no coward. He faced a freaking dragon. They’ll be dates to the ball by the day’s end, Argo is sure of it.

(When Hermione, still a bit stunned by the question, agrees, Viktor mentally adds one more thing Argo does for him for absolutely no reward. Just because he seems to like him, in all his surly darkness, for some reason.

He also makes a note to tell Niklas to ask Argo to the ball already. Once the teachers start prompting the students and everything gets into a frenzy, it may very well be too late.)

Argo is feeding the salamanders when she makes her entrance.

It’s… a little embarrassing. Argo is shirtless, as the salamanders are quite hot to be around with the fire and all. He’s also coated in a protective oil his grandfather creates so that the salamanders can’t burn him by accident, since they do tend to… climb. Him, specifically.

If he weren’t oiled and didn’t master a specialized cooling charm, he’d be quite burnt in quite a few ways. As it is, they combine to a similar effect of a flame-freezing charm (which isn’t safe to use on salamanders), and all he feels is a not entirely unpleasant tingling and the strong, sticky footsteps of the salamanders themselves.

That said, he can’t imagine what the scene must look like to someone walking in with no context.

Ridding him of his embarrassment entirely, however, is pure satisfaction at just how taken aback his visitor is.

Rita Skeeter, looking every bit as fabricated, and every bit as slimy, as most of her articles from her rigid curls, jeweled glasses, and heavy jaw, to her thick pink cloak lined with purple fur, stands in open-mouthed bewilderment.

Argo pulls a salamander off of his shoulder and stands to face her. “Hello,” he says mildly. “Do you have business with the salamanders? It’s the middle of their feeding time.”

To her credit, Skeeter pulls herself together quickly. She marches boldly forward, lurching to a stop when one of the bolder salamanders scurries up to her looking for food, charring the stone underfoot in her haste.

Argo chuckles. “As I said, feeding time. They think anyone who comes will have food. I’d stay back if you don’t want them climbing on you.”

Skeeter collects her composure one last time and flashes a million-dollar smile. “I suppose I’ll just have to do that, then. Thanks for the warning. Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet reporter.” Her gold teeth glint in the salamander’s firelight.

Argo tilts his head. “Reporter?” he echoes. “I don’t believe your press pass applies beyond official Ministry-organized events, Miss… whatever you said.”

Skeeter acts as though she doesn’t hear him. “So, these are salamanders, you said?” She asks, beaming still more widely.

“Obviously.”

“You like Care of Magical Creatures, then?”

“Miss Reporter… you’re obviously here for a reason,” Argo says softly. “If it’s not for the salamanders, it’s for me. There’s no other reason to come out here.” He chuckles, just for effect. “Unless you’re just running away from Dumbledore because you’re trespassing on school grounds? This would probably be the right way to go, in that case.” He smiles. “Just head straight that way,” he says, pointing directly into the forest, away from the castle, “and once you’re outside of school grounds, disapparate before the acromantulas get you.” Or don’t.

“Lovely,” Skeeter says, maintaining her smile but obviously picking up what Argo is putting down. (Not literally, unfortunately. If only she’d pick up a salamander. Argo would conveniently misplace his wand just long enough for her to burn.) “I’d heard you were a sharp student,” she says with a conspiratorial grin, like they’re friends. “It’s so good to finally meet you, Argo – can I call you Argo?”

“No.”

“Great. I don’t suppose you’d like to give an interview, would you?”

“Not if my life depended on it.”

“Now, now,” Skeeter says sweetly, “what could I possibly have done to deserve such hostility? Would it have to do with how strained your relationship with your brother is?” Already she has a long, acid-green quill writing on a roll of parchment. “Just ignore the quill.”

“I don’t think I will,” Argo says. “And as a matter of fact, I’m generally wary of strange adults who approach me alone in the woods.” With a cutting grin, he adds. “It’s not personal.” He flicks his wand. The quill and notepad both erupt into flame. “And before you think of whining,” he says darkly before she can protest, “or taking it out on me in an article, do remember that you’re here illegally.”

Skeeter barely contains the fury in her eyes. So, he makes an enemy, does he? That’s fine. He’s already got half of what he wants. The rest… well, it won’t take long now that she’s done something as stupid as approach him.

“Oh, and… Miss?”

“Yes?” Skeeter says, still feigning sweetness.

“I saw your article on me.” Something real begins to envelop her grin. “I won’t bore you with things I’m sure you hear all the time. You know, ‘you had no right’ or ‘you need to consider ethics’ that sort of thing. Instead, I’ll tell you this: no one is untouchable. That’s true. But you should still be cautious, because it’s often those you don’t expect to hit back that do the most damage.”

Skeeter’s smile widens, obviously thinking his threat is little more than air. “I’m afraid I’m not sure what you mean, Mister Scamander. But thank you for your time. I won’t keep you while your… salamanders so clearly need you.” There are at least five of them scaling him like a mountain at this point. “Have a very good evening!”

Achieving nothing of substance, but no doubt concocting something to spew, anyway, Skeeter makes her exit.

Once she’s out of sight, Argo sighs, shaking his head slowly. With one hand, he summons the Marauder’s Map and flicks it open, idly tracking a particular name. With the other he holds his wand. Crouching in the dirt, one eye on the map, he mutters, “Revelio.”

He tucks his wand away and with that now free hand, picks up a long, acid-green quill and a roll of parchment.

It really is amazing what a geminio charm can do. Argo will have to practice more. A duplication charm, a concealment charm, and a fire-summoning charm in such rapid succession, to make it all seem like a single spell, really tests his abilities.

Argo counts himself lucky to pull it off as well as he does. He can’t take chances like that in the future. Best practice now while he can.

“Watch it, Scamander,” a Gryffindor boy growls, after crossing the hallway just to “bump into” Argo as violently as possible.

Argo, being a relatively big guy for his age, only stumbles, but he’s hit with more than enough force to knock someone over. He sighs quietly and keeps moving.

“Oi!” Someone grabs Argo’s robes, spinning him around. “You should apologize when you run into people,” the Gryffindor growls.

As if. Argo stands quietly facing this boy who is trying his very best to start a fight.

“What? Am I not good enough for the little Death Eater to talk to?” The Gryffindor shouts, drawing his wand. “Didn’t your parents teach you to be polite? Or did they see what kind of person you are and let the kneazles raise you?”

Still Argo says nothing. He just keeps his head down, eyes on the wand and ready, but unthreatening.

“Say something, damn it!”

“Densaugeo!”

A jinx whizzes right past Argo’s ear, nailing the Gryffindor directly in the face. He jerks back in shock, and then his incisors begin growing rapidly, elongating past his lip, chin, and soon chest.

In the next instant, Argo is looking left and right, bewildered, at Daphne on one side of him and Malfoy, who has his wand out, on the other.

“Kneazles are actually remarkable judges of character,” Daphne says coolly. “And of situations. Which clearly gives them a one-up on your parenting.”

The boy tries to throw an insult back but is much too preoccupied with the foot-long and growing teeth sprouting from his mouth.

There’s only a moment of dark glaring before he clearly decides it’s better to just leave and get his teeth fixed.

As soon as the Gryffindor runs off, Malfoy rounds on Argo. “Why did you just stand there? Why didn’t you fight back?”

“Because I’m not a Gryffindor,” Argo says, rolling his eyes. He starts walking, Daphne and Malfoy on his heels, towards the dungeons.

Malfoy scrunches up his face, unsure if he should be offended. Daphne chuckles.

“There are better ways to get revenge than to toss jinxes around, Malfoy. And there aren’t enough hours in a day to let every student who tries to pick a fight with me do so. Besides, what would it solve?”

“You have to teach them a lesson,” Malfoy growls. “If you just stand there and take it, it’s only going to get worse.”

“It’s going to get worse no matter what I do,” Argo says. “If I do start fighting them, what then? Then they just have more reason to hate me. I have better things to do with my time than worry about them.”

Malfoy scowls, but relaxes. “I suppose you have a point. So long as you have a plan?”

Oh, he has so many plans.

The Slytherins see Argo safely to the Potions classroom, and once Professor Snape is informed of the altercation, leave quietly, sharing calculating looks.

Inside, Snape sets Argo to work immediately on his experimental potions, but continues to mull over everything in his head.

Children really are the worst. To censure one of their peers for the crime of not adoring Harry Potter… Snape can only imagine how Lily would feel if she were alive to see this.

But he knows, at least a little. Lily’s own relationship with Petunia was far worse than Snape observes between the boys personally. Argo seems to prefer to just avoid it entirely, but he’s never hostile like Petunia was.

Lily always wanted to be close with Petunia, like they were before she discovered her magic. Petunia wouldn’t have it. She couldn’t overcome that resentment.

Shortsighted, arrogant Potter still can’t see that Argo doesn’t have that same resentment. He only wants whatever relationship that happens between them to arise naturally, not be forced into brotherhood with someone he barely knows.

Snape thinks Lily would want her boys to be close, like she didn’t have the chance to be with Petunia, but he also thinks she would understand Argo’s perspective and try to talk Potter down. She certainly wouldn’t put up with what’s happening now.

(Snape takes particular pleasure in tormenting Ronald Weasley. Potter jumps in enough that he barely even gets any slack as a result of Snape’s shifted focus.)

Snape hopes she’d be proud of him. He can’t do much, and he knows she’ll hate him for how he treats Potter, but at least in this classroom Argo can just focus on his potions. That’s… something. Meagre as it may be.

Cedric gets a glimpse of the title of an article in Argo’s newspaper as he sits down in Argo’s study room. “Woah, what’d you do to piss her off?”

Argo glances up to Cedric, then back to the article, Thomas Potter: Devoted Brother or Dark Wizard? And replies, “No idea. It’s nothing everyone doesn’t already think, though.” He briskly folds up the paper and puts it away out of sight. “Good to see you, Cedric. It’s been a while. How’d you escape your adoring fans?”

Cedric groans. “It wasn’t easy, I’ll tell you.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, have the professors started mentioning the Yule Ball to your year, yet?”

“Yeah,” Argo says. “They’ve mentioned it. Champions are required to open the thing, aren’t they? You going to ask Potter?”

“I don’t know,” Cedric says glumly, sitting back in the plush sofa Argo has recently added to the room. (For cuddle purposes – being despised leads to Argo being just a little touch-starved, and so his friends, mostly Fred and George, sometimes Niklas, Susan, and Cedric when he isn’t busy, put up with it.) Argo quickly plops down, and lays against him. “Should I? I mean- I’m pretty sure he likes Cho. Have you seen him looking at her?”

“I generally try not to be close enough to notice,” Argo says, “but Cho has mentioned that she thinks he likes her in the common room.”

That does not cheer up Cedric in the slightest.

“What about you?” Cedric asks. “Do you have a date, yet?”

“No offense, Cedric, but if you’re about to ask me-”

“No! Merlin’s beard, no!” Cedric grimaces. “I mean in normal circumstances, maybe we could go as friends, but given I have a crush on your brother… I cannot think of anyone more awkward to ask.”

Argo snorts. “Good. At least we’re on the same page. And to answer your question, no. Actually, I plan to go home for Yule, so I won’t even be here.”

“Argo…” Cedric’s arms tighten around him. “Hogwarts doesn’t usually have balls like this. There probably won’t be another one while you’re still a student here. Don’t let them take this from you.”

“That’s exactly why,” Argo says gently. “I’m going to have fun, and that means going home. I’ll have a dance with Jason if it means that much to you.”

“Don’t you want to go to the ball?” Cedric asks.

“Of course, I do,” Argo murmurs, smiling wistfully. “You know I’d love a ball. But we both know my going would only cause trouble. I wouldn’t be able to enjoy myself, and I’d ruin it for who knows how many people.”

“That’s… that’s not fair. You should be able to stay. You’ve done more for Harry – for all of us – in this tournament than anyone else has. How come you’re the one that can’t enjoy the ball?”

Argo doesn’t know what to say. It’s not fair. Not at all. It never was from the beginning. That doesn’t change anything. “Life isn’t fair, Cedric,” Argo murmurs. “They’ve decided my guilt. They don’t care that they’re wrong… They don’t know any better.”

“I’ll miss you there,” he says quietly into Argo’s neck. “How do you not hate them? How they treat you…”

Who says he doesn’t? “I have more important things to think about,” Argo says simply. “Speaking of which, I think you should just ask Potter. Now, before everyone really gets going.”

Cedric frowns a little but allows the change of topic. “You think?” he asks. “But… what about Cho?”

“Cedric… do you trust me?”

Cedric blinks, taken aback. “Yeah, of course.”

“Even if he says no, even if he wants to go with Cho… you’ll feel better that you asked.” Argo meets Cedric’s grey eyes. “Promise.”

Cedric’s eyes flicker downwards in thought. “…Yeah, I reckon you’re right. Guess I should… go for it, then, huh?”

“Definitely. Ask that little Gryffindor that kisses Potter’s boots to take pictures.”

“Argo! I’m not going to do that!”

Argo laughs, thinking idly about how, if he were cruel enough to set up Fleur with Ron, the whole trio would be going with the champions. But he wouldn’t do that to her, and Fleur is too clever to let him even if he were to try.

“Hey, Argo…” George says in the prefect’s bathroom during their regular destress session of the week. “Would you come to the ball with me?”

Argo jerks in surprise, agitating his newest burns from the blast-ended skrewts. “O-oh,” he stammers, not at all expecting this. “I, uh… I wasn’t actually planning on…”

George’s face doesn’t so much fall as solidify. A soft smile. Disappointment in his eyes for sure, but past acceptance already. “You’re going home?”

Face red, Argo rubs his neck. “Yeah. Figured it’d be better for everyone that way. Besides, I hate missing Christmas with my family. I’d rather that than a ball any day. Although… I’m sure it would have been loads of fun with you as my date.”

George hooks an arm around Argo’s shoulders, pulling him tight and nuzzling a little into his damp hair. “That’s alright. I assumed you wouldn’t stay. Thought it was worth asking, at least.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m flattered. I’d have been glad to go with you.”

“Oh?” George asks, a more real grin returning to his face. “Not your Durmstrang friend?”

“What, Niklas?” Argo pauses for a moment to consider that. Niklas doesn’t ask him yet, but… Argo shrugs. “You asked first. I’d hope you’re not so jealous a date that I couldn’t save him a dance.”

George chuckles. “I asked first, huh? You know… that actually surprises me. I thought he’d have asked you ages ago.”

“Nah, I’m pretty sure I’ve talked about going home. He already knows I don’t plan to stay for the ball. Who knows when he would have asked if I did though. If he would have.”

“He would have,” George says confidently. “I’ve had a few chats with him, now. He definitely would have.”

Huh. There’s a tingling warmth in Argo’s chest at the thought.

“Oh, and Argo?”

“Yeah?”

George winks. “I’m not jealous at all. In fact, if you don’t mind, I might just ask him to the ball.”

Oh. Ha! Well, Argo’s certainly in no position to complain. “Go for it,” Argo says, genuinely meaning it. “Have loads of fun for me.”

“Promise. As long as you have fun at home.”

Argo laughs. “Yeah, alright. I promise.”

(In another part of the castle, in a slightly different time, Cedric catches Harry alone. His insides feel like knots, but he just screws up the same part of him that faces down a dragon and says, “Do you, maybe, want to go to the ball with me?”

Harry is so shocked that he doesn’t even realize he agrees until after Cedric is walking away, beaming.

What did he- why did he? But… he likes Cho… doesn’t he?

That night, Harry has a long, long, long conversation with Hermione, but goes to sleep with a gentle excitement in his chest. It’s certainly not what he expects, but… it might be a good thing. Harry wants to give it a chance to find out.)

Argo,

I know my sister is the gossipmonger between us, but you have to hear this. Remember when you were joking about Potter’s whole trio going with champions? Well, their Weasley actually asked Fleur.

It was hilarious. I think she was particularly mean because she knows how he treats you, but let me tell you, it was vicious. I almost wanted to ask her myself after that. I think she’s everything I aspire to be.

Anyway, I can talk about everyone’s dates to the Yule Ball all day. (Speaking of which, I’ve managed to coerce Anthony into going. Promise you’ll help me jinx him if he doesn’t dance with me?) Are you doing alright? I have to admit, it’s strange not going home. Even though I’m excited for the ball, missing Christmas at home feels like a lot to sacrifice.

It’s just one year, though, and my sister is still here with me. I definitely understand why you chose to go home, though. How’s Rolf doing? I don’t suppose Ilvermorny has some grand event going on this year, too, so I imagine he’s at home as well? Say hi from Anthony and me. I still can’t wait to meet him!

I’ve given the owl your Christmas present, as well. So don’t open that until Christmas! Or do it now. It’s not like I’ll know. I’ll just assume you were a good boy and obeyed Christmas tradition regardless.

Happy Christmas, Argo.

Love,

Padma

“Argo?” Grandpa Theseus says quietly, knocking on Argo’s door. He immediately looks up from his book on linguistics (he’s so close to figuring out that golden egg – there’s something just on the edge of his memory…) to greet him. “Your grandmother and I want to talk to you for a moment. Are you at a stopping point?”

“Sure.” He slips his bookmark into the pages and sets the book aside.

He follows his granduncle to the living room, where only his grandmother waits. It’s a little strange that his parents, Rolf, and Grandpa Newt aren’t around, but not enough to set off warning bells. The look on his granny’s face, though… that’s a big red flag.

Argo is immediately wary, glancing between her and Grandpa Theseus.

“We have two things we want to talk about,” Theseus says. “One is just to check in, but the other…”

“I still disagree with this,” Argo’s granny says sharply. “We shouldn’t put Argo-”

“He should at least know what we’re dealing with,” Theseus says, appeasing. “We’re not going to ask him to do anything he doesn’t want to. We’ve talked about this.”

Tina grits her teeth but gives hin. “Argo,” she says softly. “First thing’s first… how are you holding up? We saw what that reporter has been saying about you.”

Argo’s eyes flicker down. “Ah, well… You know I talked to Rolf and Filgrat when everything between me and Potter came out. I planned for this a long time ago. We always knew it’d happen.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s easy,” Theseus says gently. “I’m sorry there’s not more we can do to help.”

Argo shakes his head. “It’s not your problem. At least… not yet. I’m sure at some point the press will turn on the Scamander family. I’m… I’m sorry.”

“Argo,” Tina takes his shoulders firmly, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “You are not responsible for this.”

Argo drops his gaze. “I… might be.”

Tina and Theseus pause, looking between each other. “What do you mean?” Tina asks.

Argo bites his lip, then slowly, guiltily, admits, “I… might have provoked Skeeter. She found me on the grounds one day. I… might have incinerated her Quik-Quotes Quill. Sort of.”

Another shared look. “Well,” Theseus says with a shrug. “I hardly blame you. Skeeter’s horrible.”

“Sort of?” Tina repeats. “Argo… what are you planning?”

“I… might have copied it and incinerated the copy to make her think I destroyed it,” Argo admits. “I… might, still have the original, which may or may not be infused with her magic to notate for her. I might still have it for… purposes.”

“Are you doing anything illegal?” Theseus asks.

“I don’t think so?”

Theseus shrugs. “Good enough for me. Make her feel it.”

Tina sighs. “No wonder Newt turned out how he did.”

Theseus chuckles. “You’ve been saying that since we met.”

With a shake of her head, Tina says, “Well… as long as you’re careful. We trust you to know what you’re doing, Argo. And to come to us if you need help.”

Argo smiles. “I know.” He dives in to hug her. “Thanks, Granny.”

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Theseus asks. “It’s a lot to deal with…”

“Not really,” Argo admits. “It sucks. A lot. But I’ll survive. I’ve still got friends who don’t let the rumors get between us. I’m not alone.”

“Good.” Tina ruffles his hair. “Rely on them.”

“I will.” Argo cuddles into her for a moment, then pulls away just a little. “What was the other thing you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Ah,” Theseus says. “Right. Remember that diary from the Chamber of Secrets? The thing that possessed the Weasley girl?”

Argo nods. “I remember. Grandpa said it’s a very dark artifact made by Voldemort – Tom Riddle, his name was? He asked me to trust you guys to handle it.”

“He was right to,” Tina says stiffly.

“We’ve been talking with the basilisk from the Chamber,” Theseus explains, “and looking into that diary. And… Argo… we’re going to have to ask for your help.”

“Me?” Argo asks. “Sure. Anything. What can I do?”

“The diary,” Theseus explains, “is an artifact known as a horcrux. Do you have any idea what that is?”

Argo shakes his head.

“I’d be surprised, and a little concerned, if you did,” Tina says. “A horcrux is like… a vessel for a piece of soul.”

“A piece of soul?” Argo repeats. “How in the world does that work?”

“It’s highly advanced dark magic, the worst of its kind,” Theseus says. “I don’t know the details, but I do know that the process of splitting one’s soul to make a horcrux involves murder in cold blood.”

Ah. Quite dark, then. “What does it do?” Argo asks.

“Essentially,” Tina explains, “the shard of soul still inside the horcrux anchors a person to this mortal plane. They can’t truly die while the horcrux exists. That’s why someone like Voldemort would make one.”

Argo is quiet for a while. “That’s how he survived, then? When he attacked Harry as an infant?”

“We can assume so, yes,” Tina says.

“But it’s destroyed now? So, Voldemort can be killed for good now?”

“That…” Theseus says reluctantly, “gets more complicated.”

Argo looks between them for a moment. “He made more than one?”

“Yes,” Tina answers.

“How many?”

“The basilisk thinks six, though if he’s still out there, I’m sure he’s planning one more, if he hasn’t made it already.”

“Seven? For magical significance?”

“We think so, yes.”

Argo hums. “Well, one’s destroyed. So, we need to find the other five or six?”

“Yes,” Theseus says. “And that’s, if you’re willing, where you come in.”

It takes no time at all for Argo to catch on. “You think I can find one? Somewhere you can’t go, otherwise you’d do it yourself… Hogwarts?”

Theseus nods solemnly. “We’re going entirely off the basilisk’s word, mind you, but yes. We’ve been trying to track down the other horcruxes in secret, but the only lead we have at the moment is that the basilisk thinks there’s one at Hogwarts.”

“She was close to one of the founders,” Argo says, “I wouldn’t be surprised if she has some ability to feel malicious things within Hogwarts. We should assume she’s right.”

“That’s what we thought, as well,” Tina says. “Which is why we sent Lally to teach there, but she hasn’t gotten anywhere, and… well, now we need you to investigate. All hands on deck, you know.”

“Argo,” Theseus says firmly. “You are to identify and locate the horcrux only. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to retrieve, destroy, or handle it in any way until we have more information. Do you understand? We’ve no idea what kind of protections have been placed on it.”

“I understand,” Argo says dutifully. “I won’t take any risks. And I’ll go straight to Auntie Lally if I find anything conclusive. Do I have anything to go on to start? Anything at all?”

“No,” Theseus admits. “Only the name Tom Riddle. He would have been a student at Hogwarts between 1938 and 1945. The first time the Chamber of Secrets was opened, and he killed that girl Myrtle Warren, would have been his fifth year in 1943.”

Argo worries his lip. They know Tom Riddle is a powerful dark wizard already by 1943, then, which means if Argo wants any lead on him, it’s best to look specifically between 1943 and when he leaves the school in 1945. Who would have been there at the time?

It’s after his grandfathers’ time… McGonagall, perhaps? Dumbledore? But Argo can hardly go to them for this. Maybe someone who’s been at the school far longer? Someone like… a ghost? Maybe even a painting? Myrtle herself seems a sensible option to start, since Argo knows she attended school with Riddle. But most of the other ghosts would have been around through that time period.

He’ll have to figure out how direct to be, but it’s worth a try.

“Okay,” Argo says. “I think I know where to start, at least.” He meets his grandparents’ eyes with determination. “I’ll find it.”

Tina ruffles his hair. “We know you will. But you don’t have to do this at all if you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” Argo says firmly. Tina sighs softly, already knowing that’s what his answer will be.

“And Argo,” Theseus adds. Argo looks to him. Theseus smiles softly. “Take your time. This is important, yes, but you’re still a student first. We expect you to prioritize your studies. Don’t push yourself too hard.”

Argo hesitates only a little before he nods.

“Even if you find it right away,” Tina adds, “we likely won’t be able to do anything about it until we have access to more of them. There’s too much risk of tipping off Voldemort that we’re after him otherwise. So, we mean it, Argo. There’s no rush.”

Oh. That… makes sense. Argo nods again, much surer. If they say so, he trusts them.

“Alright, Scottie,” Argo murmurs, already petting the purring wampus. “I’m going to need your help with this one. Can I count on you?”

Scottie runs his rough tongue along Argo’s cheek.

Argo giggles. Yeah, that’s what he thought.

He spends the next several hours shifting back and forth from his animagus form, communicating with Scottie. He doesn’t think of it until he starts digging into those linguistics textbooks because he’s pretty sure that wailing from the golden egg is a language, but whatever magic lets him communicate with creatures when he’s a bear is still magic.

It’s not quite a language, not like the spoken languages of humans, at least. There’s the auditory component, yes, and also physical and probably olfactory as well, maybe more, but there’s definitely magic involved, because Argo refuses to believe that simply taking the form of an animal allows one to communicate with them. If that were true, then normal human to animal transfigurations would create the same phenomenon. But he can’t find any report of that happening. It’s specifically animagi who gain the ability.

So, some part of the animagus ritual grants the ability, and the ability must be magical. If it’s magical, it can therefore be learned, thus, Argo should be able to achieve the same result while still in his human form.

Possibly, when he figures it out, he can even teach his grandpa and brother – no animagus ritual necessary. (Although Rolf is still planning on it, so it’s not as important for him to learn since he’ll get it anyway.)

Scottie, using his legilimency, helps where he can, but the whole process is a lot of frustrating babbling and meditating on every little thing. And Argo certainly doesn’t get it right away. That day, he leaves Scottie’s enclosure dissatisfied and a bit at a loss, but he’s not going to give up. If parseltongue can be taught, so can-

“Wait.” Argo slaps his forehead. “I’m an idiot. Grandpa! Grandpa Newt!” Argo peels off, searching for his grandfather, who he finds with the graphorns. “Grandpa!” Argo calls. “Can I talk to your parselmouth friend?”

Newt blinks uncertainly, surprised by the sudden question. “Myra? I don’t see why not, but… why do you need to talk to her?”

“She’s going to help me figure out how to teach you how to talk to all creatures,” Argo says confidently. “And also help me talk to the basilisk. You know, ‘cause she’s going to help, too.”

“Did either of them agree to this?”

“No, but they will when I’m through with them.”

Newt sighs heavily. “Take a look in my address book. Myra Biswas.”

“Thanks, Grandpa!” Argo shouts, already taking off.

“Be polite!” Newt calls after him. He sighs again when Argo is long gone. “That boy. He just doesn’t stop.”

Argo writes his letter with the utmost care. Myra Biswas, intrigued by this lesser-known ability of animagi that sounds related to but different than traditional beast-language speakers’ birthright talents, agrees to stop by the very next day.

It’s a unique experience for her. She’s accustomed by now to working with Newt and the basilisk, but Newt’s grandson is a completely different animal.

“When I first discovered the ability,” Argo explains over tea when they’re enjoying a short break from trying to figure out his talent, “Jason told me that I’d always been able to communicate with him. I wasn’t sure of the bounds of the ability at the time and thought something was lost in translation – it’s certainly not as complex as a parselmouth’s understanding of snakes, but I really do think he meant that the ability to hear him like I do when I’m in my animagus form is there, if I can only figure out how to use it. I think it’s a teachable skill, like parseltongue is.”

Myra doesn’t quite know how to respond to that. Animagi are rare, except in unique places around the world where nearly every witch or wizard is an animagus. It’s possible that the only places where anyone would think to study such magic – or even commonly know it exists – are places where teaching it would be redundant at best.

Argo is breaking new ground here. Myra laughs at the thought, and answers all of his questions. By both communicating with the basilisk in their own ways, they can pinpoint similarities and differences, and Argo is sure that he’s piecing together something coherent.

She works with him over the winter holiday at his request, half indulging her boss’ grandkid and half out of real curiosity of her own, and by the time Argo heads back to school, he’s smugly preening and Myra is talking to a niffler.

The strangest thing is that even after all that, Myra hardly has any idea what Argo does to achieve his results. Even managing the same thing herself, to her it boils down to essentially mirroring the magical part of her parseltongue onto another creature.

Argo says that even human speech has a magical component, and that that magical component carries certain things with it, which can be detected much like one might read someone’s tone or posture. It’s not in the words themselves but in how the words are expressed.

Myra has no idea what he’s on about, as even when she successfully communicates, briefly, with his niffler, she still can’t sense anything of the sort when she’s talking to him.

(“You do it instinctually!” Argo says cheerfully. “You wouldn’t notice! It’s just part of everything your brain processes in a moment.”)

That boy… Myra shakes her head in fond exasperation. Newt has a certified genius on his hands. That boy talks circles around her and still figures out life’s greatest mysteries on the way.

Argo,

Happy (late) Christmas! We’re sure feeling your absence here, but I know you’re making the most of your time at home. You’re probably ecstatic to have so many creatures around, aren’t you?

You’ve been told all about the Yule Ball by now, I’m sure, but I wanted to thank you again for encouraging me to ask Harry. I probably wouldn’t have been brave enough if you hadn’t talked to me. We had a great time! Everyone was so shocked to see us at the ball together, but I think Ron nearly died on the spot! Of course, seeing Hermione with Viktor certainly didn’t help that.

By the way, I know he’s a fan and all, but I honestly cannot tell if Ron is crushing on Viktor or not. Or maybe on Hermione? The whole situation is weird.

Speaking of weird, I saw George and Niklas dancing. I thought for sure they were rivals for your affections, but they seem to get along. I’m pretty sure they only went as friends, but with the twins… you never know what to expect with them. I guess it’s about time that proves true in their love lives, as well, isn’t it?

Merlin, I remember when they were first years. I was also a first year at the time, but still. Makes me feel old.

Of course, now that the Yule Ball and Christmas are over with, everyone is turning their eyes back to the tournament. I’ve got this great big golden egg sitting here just mocking me. How’s it going with that, by the way? I’m doing everything I can think of on my end, but all I’m getting is a little deaf. Fleur, Viktor, and Harry haven’t gotten anywhere with it either, so I’m just hoping you’ll come back to Hogwarts with a solution.

Cedric

P.S. I’ve noticed the Circle moving about lately. Do you know if something is happening? I know Reynard is due to be back soon, but this doesn’t feel like just a homecoming. Ignore me if I’m just being paranoid, but if someone does mention something, pass it along, will you? I doubt I’ll be able to help much while I’m in this tournament, but I’d like to stay updated all the same.

Argo walks into a densely forested enclosure, looking around cautiously. After a moment, he releases a long, high whistle, eyes roaming the canopy above.

A butterfly-like creature, hanging upside down from a branch like a bat, but with a distinctly wolfish head, suddenly drops from the canopy, sailing down to land on Argo’s arm.

Argo grins. “Hey there, Delilah.” He carefully strokes her spiked, green back and whispers, “I’m going to need you to work with me. Is that alright?”

It’s the first real challenge of his theory on communicating with creatures. Jason and Scottie are both extremely close to Argo. Delilah, however, Argo talks to often, she’s used to him, but they don’t have the kind of bond that he has with the other two.

She nips playfully at his fingers, and Argo gets the general feeling of curiosity.

“Just some plans I’m setting up,” Argo murmurs. “But… depending on how I approach this, it may get dangerous.”

Protectiveness. Less for him as her own kid like Scottie usually feels for him, but as Newt’s family.

“Nothing like that. Not yet,” he says. He reaches into his pocket to pull out a special, empty vial. “Although… it may become necessary. Can I count on you if it does?”

Protect. Safe home.

Argo smiles, soft and gentle. “But for now, if you’re willing…” he holds up the vial to her. She examines it critically, then in a flash strikes it, clamping down on the membrane stretched over the opening with her teeth. As she holds there, her venom drips slowly inside.

They stay there until there’s a serviceable amount of venom in the vial, then Delilah unlatches herself all on her own and tilts her head at Argo. Curiosity.

“Just a precaution,” Argo assures her. “If something goes wrong… I might need it.”

Safe. Stay safe.

“Thanks, Del.” Argo pulls out a treat for her to reward her then scratches at her head and says, “I’ve got to go before I’m missed. I’ll visit again when I come back from school. Maybe sooner if I need you.”

Good. Protect. Safe. Others.

“I know, Del. I’ve talked to Scottie, too. But only if necessary. I don’t want to put you in danger for something foolish.”

Delilah spreads her wings and drops from Argo’s arm, quickly flying all the way back up into the canopy above. Back soon. Help.

Argo laughs. “As soon as I need you. Promise. Bye for now, Del. Thanks again for this.” He carefully pockets the venom, then exits the enclosure with one last look at the swooping evil still staring at him from above.

Delilah’s venom follows a strange course over the following days. It first follows Argo across the ocean to Scotland, where it arrives at Hogwarts. There it is properly diluted into five usable portions, mixed with special potions, and dispersed. One stays in Argo’s pocket, the rest are carefully packaged and passed off discreetly to one Beatrice Haywood.

Beatrice has no idea what Argo slips into her bag, but it comes with a note with directions which combusts after she reads them. She makes the decision to trust Argo and, without even opening the box the vials are stored in, uses the next Hogsmeade visit to quickly apparate (she just got her license!) home and leave it for her sister.

Penny Haywood finds the box among her things and cautiously opens it but finds only a note and some vials she cannot identify. The note is in Argo’s most careful handwriting and signed with the symbol of the Circle of Khanna, so Penny doesn’t question her instructions and passes the vials along to Reynard as soon as they have a moment alone after he returns.

He takes one look, starts laughing at the note left for him, and distributes the vials accordingly. He keeps one, personally palms one each into the hands of Barnaby Lee and Diego Caplan, then hands the last one off to Bill.

Perhaps most curiously, that very last vial is passed, with no small measure of doubt from Bill, to another Weasley. One who isn’t a member of their Circle, and who would never be caught dead with something like swooping evil venom.

So it is with some surprise that Bill delivers the final note and vial to Percy, who scowls at it, and at Bill, but discretely pockets the vial anyway and incinerates the note with nary a “by your leave.”

Unknown to everyone but Argo and Percy himself, that last vial is by far the most important. It’s still very much a precaution, as he tells Delilah, but if it becomes necessary…

Percy sighs to himself. If anyone at all except Argo asks of this of him… But what can he do? When things start connecting the way Argo lays out for him, he must trust that the plan laid for him is the best one.

Even if he doesn’t necessarily agree with every aspect of it.

When Argo returns to Hogwarts, he’s secreted away almost immediately by the unlikely pair of George and Niklas.

Argo is so thrown by just who is standing in front of him, or more accurately, who isn’t that he immediately blurts, “Where’s Fred?”

George has a sour look on his face but shakes his head. “I haven’t told him, yet. We needed to talk to you, first.”

Oh. If it’s something George doesn’t even tell Fred… He lowers his voice as well and glances around the secret passageway they hide in just in case. “What happened?”

“We were at the ball,” Niklas starts. “People seemed… okay with us, mostly, but it’s obvious people associate us with you.”

“To be fair,” George says, “they may have just been waiting for me or Fred to pull some prank.”

Niklas hums, neither agreeing or disagreeing. “Whatever the case, we thought it’d be nice to go for a walk where there would be… fewer people.”

Argo blinks. His concern slowly turns to confusion. “What, did you kiss or something? Because, like… I don’t care. It’s not like-”

George turns furiously red and shakes his head. “What? No! That’s not what this is about.”

“It’s much more serious than that, Argo,” Niklas says. “Headmaster Karkaroff… He’s a Death Eater.”

Argo purses his lips. “I know,” he admits. At both boys’ bewildered looks, he adds, “I mean- Granger told me that Sirius Black, he’s Potter’s guardian, warned them to be careful around Karkaroff. They think he’s the one that put Potter’s name in the Goblet to get him killed in this tournament.”

Niklas pales. “The headmaster- Do you think-?”

“No,” Argo says quickly. “I didn’t tell Granger because I figure them going after Karkaroff will make the real culprit think they’re in the clear, maybe get sloppy, but the Goblet was jinxed before it ever got to Hogwarts. Karkaroff never had the opportunity.”

“You’re sure?”

“Completely. How’d you find out about this, anyway?”

Niklas frowns. “I told you we went for a walk. We found Headmaster Karkaroff talking to Professor Snape.”

“Snape?”

“We think he’s a Death Eater, too,” George says quietly. “But we didn’t see the Dark Mark. We clearly saw Karkaroff’s, though.”

“How’d you manage that?” Argo asks.

“We hid when we noticed them talking,” George answers. “Or, I hid and dragged this one with me.”

Snape? Hm… if he’s a Death Eater… something about that doesn’t add up. Snape is an ass, yes, but is he really a follower of Voldemort?

“It’s strange, though,” Niklas said. “Headmaster Karkaroff seemed… afraid. He said the mark is getting clearer – I can only assume that means You-Know-Who is out there somewhere, and getting stronger.”

The Dark Mark, huh? Interesting. And Karkaroff is afraid of Voldemort? “It makes sense,” Argo says. “Anyone who isn’t arrested after the first war likely had to either deny any involvement with Voldemort or seriously betray him and out all his closest allies. I’m sure we could find record of a trial if Karkaroff was investigated. That’d probably tell us why he might be afraid of Voldemort’s return.” Argo fully intends to find that trial, and look for one for Snape, as well.

Well… Just make it all the Death Eater trials, to be safe. He’d ask Percy for the information, but… he doesn’t want to push that connection too far, and he’s already asking a lot of Percy. He’ll just go straight to Susan and Madame Bones instead. They’ll surely understand the curiosity, considering. It shouldn’t raise any red flags.

“Good idea,” says George. “I’ll see if I can dig up some evidence on Snape, too. I don’t really think it was him who put Harry’s name in, but if he is a Death Eater and Voldemort is still out there, getting stronger…”

“Do that, then.”

“Do you think I should tell Fred?”

Argo nods without hesitation. “Absolutely. You two work best together. But don’t spread it. We don’t want to cause a panic over nothing. If Niklas is right, then Karkaroff at least is more likely to be on the run from Voldemort than a supporter of whatever he’s plotting. We need all of the information before we can decide how to act.”

Both George and Niklas nod resolutely, and their discreet meeting parts quietly. All of them have a lot to think about.

“Thanks for coming, everyone,” Argo says to the three gathered champions.

“Thanks for arranging this,” Cedric says. “I think I know what you’re going to tell us.” He grins, hoisting his golden egg and nodding towards the pool-like bath they’re gathered around.

Viktor and Fleur both look to Cedric. “You ‘ave figured it out?” Fleur asks.

“Just a few days ago,” says Cedric. “I was trying to find a chance to get you two alone to tell you about it, but it’s a lot harder for me to get those chances than Argo.”

They both nod understandingly.

“Wish Harry could be here,” Cedric sighs quietly.

Argo lowers his eyes to the faucets filling the tub. “Sorry.”

“No,” Cedric says. “It’s not just you. You were right before. He’s safer if he doesn’t know we’re all working together. It’d raise too many questions. He’d panic. I’ll just tell him alone later what we figure out.”

“Right.” Argo clears his throat. “Speaking of which, you’ve figured it out on your own, Cedric. Excellent work. Care to do the honors?”

Cedric straightens again, his smile returning as he looks to Fleur and Viktor. “It’s Mermish,” he says. “The merpeople’s language. It can’t be understood outside of water.”

“So,” Viktor says, “we only need to listen to it underwater?”

“That’s right,” Cedric says proudly.

“’Ow did you figure zat out?” asks Fleur.

Cedric blushes. “I, uh… dropped it by accident when I was in here trying to figure it out. I should have realized it a lot earlier, though. My dad works for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. I’ve heard Mermish before. I assume that’s why Argo recognized it as well.” Argo nods. “We just couldn’t place it.”

“Come on, then,” Argo says, stripping to his pants. “Let’s hear the clue. See if they’re all the same, too.”

With only some hesitation on Fleur’s end, and quite a bit of blushing on Cedric’s, the champions all strip as well. Not completely naked, of course, but for most of them it’s still an odd group to be seeing in their underwear.

When all the people and eggs are in the water, they all dive under and, one by one, open each egg. The chorus of eerie voices singing to them are identical for each egg:

“Come seek us where our voices sound, We cannot sing above the ground, And while you’re searching ponder this: We’ve taken what you’ll sorely miss, An hour long you’ll have to look, And to recover what we took, But past an hour – the prospect’s black, Too late, it’s gone, it won’t come back.”

They break the surface.

“That… doesn’t sound as bad as the first task,” Viktor says.

“Which we should definitely be suspicious of,” says Argo. “Fleur, your impressions?”

“We must search underwater for an ‘our?” she says. “We will need to prepare ways to breathe.”

“There are merpeople in the lake,” Cedric says. “I assume that’s where the task will be held.”

“What else lives in there?” asks Viktor.

“Grindylows – not very dangerous alone, but they’ll swarm you,” Argo answers. “The giant squid. He’s friendly, though.”

“Actually friendly,” asks Fleur, “or, to a Scamander friendly?”

Is it bad that that’s a completely reasonable question? Cedric laughs. “Actually friendly.” Both Fleur and Viktor deflate in relief.

“Plimpies,” Argo continues, “they’re harmless pests. The merpeople keep hippocampi and lobalugs.” Argo hums, thinking. “Uh… Mackled malaclaws, dugbogs, and the kelpie from the Hippogriff Club finds its way into the lake sometimes.”

“How many of those are dangerous?” Viktor asks.

“Kelpie are known to drown people,” Cedric says, “and dugbogs will nip your ankles. Not dangerous exactly, but it’ll hurt like hell. Ah… if you get bit by a malaclaw, you get bad luck for a week, so try to avoid that in the middle of the task.”

“Zat sounds like a superstition,” Fleur says with a frown.

“No, it’s just a magical phenomenon,” Argo says. “They really do give you bad luck.”

“But really,” Cedric says, “it’s right next to the school. Even if they tell us not to, students go in there all the time, at least the shallows. There’s nothing in there that’ll really hurt you unless you get swarmed by grindylows.”

“So, either the task is more about the searching, or the merpeople will be trying to stop us,” Viktor concludes.

“I think swimming underwater for an hour in February is enough of a task,” Argo says. “But even if they introduce something dangerous, I’m more concerned about what they’re going to take from you all.”

Cedric scowls. “I’ve been trying to figure that out, but I can’t think of anything that important. I figured it probably doesn’t matter, since the task must be to retrieve whatever it is even if we don’t care about it.”

“No.” Argo shakes his head. “Don’t you get it? We’ve taken what you’ll sorely miss? The threat at the end that you won’t get it back? They’re trying to put you under pressure. Make you panic. What could they take that would make you react like that? Bad enough that even a solid plan might be thrown when you find out what it is.”

Viktor’s frown deepens. “Certainly nothing I have brought with me.”

“And remember, the tournament is rigged,” Argo says. “What could they take that would ruin Potter? Don’t think about what’s reasonable – we know they’re not reasonable. We don’t know how real the threat that what they take won’t be given back is, but we should assume they’re willing to take anything necessary to push you all to your limits.”

“You can’t mean-” Fleur starts.

“They wouldn’t!” Cedric protests. “That’d never be allowed! We entered this tournament. We signed up ourselves. They can’t bring in hostages!”

Viktor glowers darkly. “We should not assume any decency. Argo is right. We must be prepared for the possibility that they will take people. Who would they take? One for each of us, I assume.”

“We just had a ball,” Fleur murmurs. “Perhaps our dates?”

“Can’t be for me,” Cedric says. “Harry has to participate. Thank goodness.”

“Possible,” Viktor admits. “Should I warn Hermione?”

“Potter will tell her for sure,” Argo says. “So, it’s probably not necessary, but if you feel like you should, I don’t see any reason not to. Who’d you take, Fleur?”

“Roger Davies,” she says, not looking that concerned about him ending up at the bottom of the lake.

Roger is an older Ravenclaw, so Argo is familiar with him. He’s a good guy, but… “Would you really ‘sorely miss’ him, though?”

Fleur makes a face. A clear enough no.

“So, we have one possibility,” Cedric says. “As for me, since it can’t be Harry… maybe… maybe you?”

Argo freezes. “Me?”

Cedric shrugs. “I’ve got a lot of friends, but… when I think about the ones I’m closest to… It’s either you or Bea. Fred and George are somewhere there, too, but we don’t usually hang out like I do with you two.”

Ah, the Circle. Yes, it does inspire closeness. Argo would probably be pushed to his limits if a member of their Circle were held hostage like that, even one he hasn’t yet met personally. And Argo cuddles with Cedric all the time, talking about all sorts of things. They are pretty close.

(That’s just… kind of how Argo does friendship, though, so it doesn’t occur to him that he’s one of Cedric’s closer friends.)

Argo bites his lip. “If it’s me or Beatrice, let’s make it me.”

Cedric recoils. “Make it you? How do you intend to do that?”

“We’ll hang out between now and the task. As much time as possible. Make sure people see us. Convince whoever is in charge of picking that I’m definitely the one.”

“You want to be held hostage?”

Argo snorts. “I wish them luck trying to take me hostage. But also… I trust you. All of you. I know you’ll rescue me, and I’d rather not put Beatrice through something like that. I mean… remember what she told us about her first year?”

“The painting curse?” Cedric makes a pained face. “Right. Being trapped… Let’s make it you.”

Tactfully, Viktor and Fleur refrain from asking what in the world they’re talking about. They understand enough from the context to know it’s none of their business.

“Can you handle that with Potter?” Argo asks Cedric. “I mean, considering… if people think I’m the person you’ll miss most…”

“I’ll explain the plan to Harry,” Cedric says. “He’ll understand. I refuse to do that to Bea.”

“Good. Then that just leaves Potter’s and Fleur’s hostages.”

“Harry’s will be Ron,” Cedric says confidently. “There’s a chance it could be Hermione, but if she’s Viktor’s, then there’s no question.”

All eyes turn to Fleur. She shakes her head helplessly. “I ‘onestly do not know. Per’aps Léo? We are friends…”

Argo hums. “Well, it’s just one possibility of many, anyway. For now, you should all focus on figuring out how you’re going to breathe underwater for an hour. Practice magic underwater, as well. And don’t forget to find a way to keep warm.”

“Breath, warmth, offensive and defensive spells,” Viktor says. “We will do this.”

“Let me know when you want to practice,” Cedric says. “This bathroom is the only place I know of big enough to do underwater spellcasting.”

“Except the Hippogriff Club,” Argo says. “But the kelpie might get distracting if you’re trying to practice.”

Cedric shakes his head fondly. “Anyway, you two know the password, but you also have to make sure no one else comes in. I can let the other prefects know it’s occupied.”

Everyone agrees gratefully. They part not long later, to get started on their research.

“Hello, Helena.” Argo smiles as he glances up from his notes. “How are you today?”

Helena Ravenclaw, the Grey Lady, the ghost of Ravenclaw Tower, is a tall, beautiful ghost with waist-length hair and a floor-length cloak. She is haughty and proud. Most in the castle see her and assume that’s all she is. They think she doesn’t speak, often they assume she does not deign to speak to them, like they are lower than her.

The truth is not quite so simple. Any Ravenclaw can tell them, though they often won’t, that Helena speaks to students often. She’s not social by any means, not like the Gryffindor or Hufflepuff house ghosts, but she’s kind and helpful. She’s particularly useful if one is lost, or if they’ve mislaid something.

Simply from the number of times she helps Luna recover things that the others steal from her and hide around the castle, Helena counts as kind and worth knowing in Argo’s book. The many times she sits with him and allows him to talk through ideas with her, and even often has ideas of her own to further Argo’s studies, makes her an invaluable friend.

That said, it’s very rare for her to leave Ravenclaw Tower. It’s strange to have her visit his study room.

Helena smiles weakly at him. She always seems at least a little sad. “I’m just the same as usual,” she says carefully. “I’ve noticed you do not return to the tower very often.”

Argo turns his eyes back to his papers. “Ah… yeah, well… the other students don’t like having me around anymore.”

“Because you’re a dark wizard?”

Argo can’t help but snicker. Hearing Helena of all people joke about it makes it sound even more ridiculous than it already is. “Yeah,” he says. “Because I’m the foulest, evilest dark wizard in the world.” Jason jumps onto his head, forcing Argo to reach up to steady him.

And Helena actually laughs. “I cannot imagine a more wicked thing,” she says, smirking at him under his niffler. Then she sighs, humor gone, and shakes her head sadly. “Our house is supposed to be wise…” she murmurs. “It is a wonder that something like this can happen. I am sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Argo says. “This is the path I chose for myself, so… I’ll walk it.”

Helena looks at him somberly. “You are a very strong young man,” she whispers. “My mother would have been proud to have you in her house.”

That… Argo suddenly fights off unbidden tears. That… It just strikes him, all at once like a sword through the heart. All of it. Everything. The names, the jinxes in the hall, the newspapers. Everyone in the world who does not already know him, and most that do, believing he’s some foul, loathsome creature. The hate, the isolation…

Rowena Ravenclaw would be proud. It’s the same as telling him… Telling him that, even when everyone else spurns him, that he really does belong here.

He can’t even name exactly what does it, but that sentiment, that thought… it breaks everything down. In seconds, he’s bawling into his knees, clutching Jason like a lifeline.

Helena sits with him, quiet through his sobbing, just there. She looks upon him with understanding, and not a shred of disdain or disappointment at this shattering of every wall he builds.

Argo is only trying to help. All he’s ever wanted to do was study, improve himself, and enjoy his time with his friends. Now he’s doing everything he can to keep everyone alive, Voldemort is threatening to return and he’s expected to find one of the horcruxes which will allow them to actually beat him, all on top of his studies and being perceived as the worst thing since Voldemort himself.

He never asks for any of this. He’s trying. He’s trying so hard to help. And everyone hates him. He can’t even act as a tutor in the DA anymore because no one is willing to learn from him. All he can do at this point is help behind the scenes in lesson planning and organizing the club room.

All these plans, all these contingencies, all to keep people alive. Why is it Argo who has to do all this? Why is it that no one else is willing to help?

“Thank you,” Argo sputters when he finds himself able to speak again. “You’ve no idea…”

He has no idea how long he cries, but when he finally stops, he feels lighter than he has in ages, and Helena is still there, sitting like a statue with him.

“Do you feel at all better?” Helena asks kindly.

Argo nods shakily, still sniffling, and smiles at her.

She returns it for a moment, then slowly drifts away through the wall.

It takes Argo an embarrassing amount of time to realize that Hagrid isn’t around lately. It only occurs to him belatedly, after not only hearing Hermione complain about it, but also coming across that article from the paper just after school starts back up.

Rita Skeeter outs Hagrid as a half-giant. Which, really, shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone. The way people whisper about it, it’s like Hagrid isn’t twice as tall as an average man and three times as thick.

The reason it takes Argo so long to realize Hagrid isn’t around isn’t because he doesn’t notice the whispers, or read the article, but because it genuinely does not register to Argo that this is newsworthy and worth hiding over.

Honestly. Saying “Hagrid is a half-giant” is like saying “Jason’s a niffler.”

Sure, giants don’t have the best reputation, but it’s well known that half-giants nearly always have a more human temperament. If they’re raised among witches and wizards, which they usually are because giants generally tend to spurn them, they’re basically just people like anyone else, but bigger.

Which is why when Argo is nearby preparing pails of food for the hippogriffs and he spies a Ministry official marching down to Hagrid’s Hut with Dumbledore, he pauses what he’s doing to watch.

To his extreme irritation, Dumbledore catches his gaze, looking at him with knowing, twinkling eyes.

He’s going to have to step in here, isn’t he? Damn it, what does Dumbledore expect him to solve for him this time?

Argo clicks his tongue and stands, already heading over. May as well get it done with so he can go back to the hippogriffs.

“Excuse me,” he calls, waving to the Ministry official. “Can I help you? Not much reason to come this far out from the castle unless you’re visiting the creatures.”

The Ministry official turns up his nose at Argo, holding an expression that says that is precisely what he’s doing. In the worst way possible.

Dumbledore smiles. “Good morning, Mister Scamander.” The official shifts, attention clearly grabbed by the name. “Preparing the food for the creatures?”

Argo nods. He glances to Hagrid’s Hut, their obvious destination. “You’re looking for Hagrid, I suppose?”

“We are,” says the official. “And we really don’t have time to entertain-”

“Is he home, do you know?” Dumbledore asks.

Argo picks up what Dumbledore is putting down. He doesn’t like it, but he is. “Why?” Argo asks, unwilling to play while he’s still in the dark. “What do you need him for?”

Dumbledore looks over his half-moon spectacles, eyes twinkling. “It seems that, now that Hagrid’s parentage has been outed, the Ministry is taking the case against him much more seriously.”

“Oh?” Argo says. “Good. He violated the Ban on Experimental Breeding. He should be punished.”

Dumbledore frowns. The official huffs impatiently. “Exactly. Now, if you would kindly direct us to Mr. Hagrid so I can escort him to Azkaban-”

“What?” Argo blurts. “Azkaban?”

“Hagrid broke the law,” the official explains like he’s speaking to a five-year old. “And so, he must go to prison.”

“The Ban on Experimental Breeding is enforced with a fine,” Argo says, still bewildered. “No court in their right mind would send someone to Azkaban for letting some creatures breed.”

The official apparently takes great offense to this. “Are you implying that the Wizengamot-”

“No one in their right mind would call the Wizengamot for a simple breach of a relatively niche and minor law,” Argo says.

“The Ministry-”

“Is full of hair-brained dunderheads if that’s how you operate!” Argo snaps. “Who the hell do you think you’re fooling? In case you missed it, I’m Argo Scamander. My grandfather wrote the law you’re trying to arrest Hagrid for. I’m the one that informed the Ministry of the breach in the first place. I know how that law works, and how it is enforced.”

The official scoffs. “You’re a child. The Ministry knows far better than you how to maintain law and order, thank you.”

“Evidently not,” Argo growls. “You’re telling me that you spent over four months deliberating on how much Hagrid should have to pay for his crime, but all of a sudden, just after the Daily Prophet reports that he’s a half-giant, you’ve decided he should go to prison? Those things have nothing to do with each other?”

“Of course, not. The Ministry would never-”

“You do realize that giants are classified as beings, don’t you?” Argo asks, copying the official’s tone, speaking as if to a young child. “Therefore giants, and half-giants, are subject to the same rights as that classification grants wizards. They are to be held to the same standard and punished to the same extent.”

“Are you accusing the Ministry of discrimination based on-”

“Can you name for me a single instance of a breach of the Ban on Experimental Breeding being punishable by time in Azkaban? Just one? Any precedent for this decision? Any at all?”

The official flounders. “I- well, I personally canno-”

“Then kindly remove yourself from Hogwarts grounds and come back with a reasonable punishment before I report you and everyone else involved in this to Amelia Bones for gross misconduct.”

Now dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief, the official stammers, “Well I never- I… Is this how you teach your students to behave, Headmaster Dumbledore?”

“I do indeed encourage my students to speak out when they see injustice,” Dumbledore says evenly. “And in this case, I do believe he is right. I don’t recall a breach of this law ever being brought to the Wizengamot before, nor such a harsh punishment. Perhaps we ought to bring it back to review before any hasty decisions.” With that, Dumbledore turns on his heel and, with one last twinkling wink at Argo, walks gleefully back to the castle, leaving the official no choice but to follow.

Argo just shakes his head. “Absolute idiots. Both of them,” he mutters.

There’s a sudden sound which might be bawling from inside Hagrid’s Hut, so Argo makes a beeline back to his feed pail and books it to the forest. He is so not dealing with Hagrid right now.

That evening at dinner, he receives a note, dropped by a school owl, in Dumbledore’s handwriting. It thanks Argo for his assistance in protecting their groundskeeper and praises his strong moral fiber. Under that is a barely legible scribble of what Argo assumes is thanks from Hagrid.

Argo deliberately makes eye contact with the headmaster at the staff table, and just when Dumbledore winks at him despite Argo’s glare, he holds up the letter and wandlessly burns it to ash.

That, at least, wipes the smirk off the man’s face.

Leading up to the second task, Argo spends most of his free time with Cedric. By Valentine’s Day, most of the school is convinced Argo is some sort of homewrecker hell bent on stealing Cedric from Harry, and despite ostensibly being filled in on the plan, the glares he gets from Harry sort of make him feel like that’s precisely what he’s doing.

Good lord, if Cedric weren’t such a good bloke… It would not be worth it.

But as it is, Argo and Cedric are quite close friends already, and so spending so much time together is no pain at all to do, and in fact they both quite enjoy it, even when they simply sit and study together. To convince the powers that be that Argo should be the hostage, they do much of this hanging out together in public, of course, but the glares and whispers and (much more occasional now that Cedric is attached to his hip) jinxes sent his way still wear on Argo, so they spend nearly as much time hiding in Argo’s study room.

Which… definitely contributes to the rumors. Being seen together is bad enough, but disappearing together? The things people come up with are wild.

They spend their time cuddling as they read, and Argo even introduces him to Helena when she visits one day. It’s… nice to be so close to someone again. He’s basically surviving off of Cedric, Niklas, Fred, and George at this point (because Anthony still isn’t a cuddler).

On Valentine’s Day itself, however, Argo doesn’t even try to find Cedric. No matter what plan they have going on, they’re not pretending to be a couple, only close friends (and that’s not pretend, either!) so on that day, Cedric is happily Harry’s.

Argo spends the morning with Niklas and much of the afternoon with George – one of the few times Argo sees George without Fred. He honestly can’t tell if they’re competing or planning on both dating him at once nor if they’re planning on dating each other as well.

Argo is clear enough that there’s some sorts of feelings involved there between the three of them, but honestly, the whole situation is confusing to the point of Argo not really wanting to put the energy into sorting it out. So long as there continue to be no signs of bad blood between those two, Argo is going to keep focusing on much more important things.

(Both of them crash in Argo’s stall in the stables that night as Argo makes the rounds ensuring the horses and other creatures are properly stabled. He just sighs when he discovers this and crawls between them.)

Harry is in a much better mood after Valentine’s Day, which in this case means isn’t glaring at Argo in class, and Argo and Cedric start to feel the time ticking away. During this lead up, the only times Argo purposefully separates himself from Cedric are to go to bed and to conduct his investigation for his grandparents.

He starts with the trophy room, examining everything that has Tom Riddle’s name emblazoned on it. All records he can find of Riddle’s surprisingly storied career at the school. In a lot of ways, Riddle makes Argo think of Reynard. Event after event, accomplishment after accomplishment. The kind of person beloved by the school for the prestige they bring or despised by those jealous of their skill.

Importantly: the kind of person everyone knows about. The person whose name it is impossible not to hear if you attend at the same time as him.

Even if they can’t give him an answer, anyone should be able to give him leads.

Well, anyone who isn’t Moaning Myrtle, apparently, who is so aggrieved by him rubbing in her face how unpopular she is (somehow?) that, with a howling wail, she immediately breaks a toilet and starts another flood.

So, Argo is shelving that idea. Forever. Maybe another, saner, ghost can help him.

The evening before the second task, Argo is ready. He’s in the owlery, sending off a very important letter, when Anthony finds him, telling him that Flitwick wants to see him.

Swallowing thickly over the lump in his throat, Argo begins what feels an awful lot like a funeral march. It’s a slow, agonizing drag to Flitwick’s office, and he hesitates before knocking, but in the end, he does.

As expected, inside he sees not just Flitwick, but Dumbledore as well.

“Ah,” Dumbledore says. “Welcome. Please, sit.”

Argo does not sit. He stands behind the chair indicated to him, lifting his chin proudly, defiantly. He refuses to address Dumbledore, instead looking directly at Flitwick. “You wanted to see me, Professor?”

Flitwick clears his throat. He knows from the moment Dumbledore tells him who needs to be put into the lake that this is going to be a disaster. He insists at first upon choosing someone else, but Dumbledore insists. When it’s clear he can’t convince Dumbledore to change his mind, Flitwick at first refuses to have any part in it. “If you want to try to convince that boy to do this, then on your head be it,” Flitwick tells him. “He doesn’t trust us. This is perhaps the most foolish thing you can do to him!”

But Dumbledore insists. He seems to think this will help, somehow. Flitwick thinks Dumbledore must finally be losing it, and he really needs to take the time to get to know Argo before trying to gain his trust back.

(Flitwick hopes he’s making some progress, but sincerely doubts it. The simple fact is that Argo does not come to him. With no chance to be relied upon, he has no chance to prove to Argo that he can be trusted. Dumbledore maybe has the right idea to be more proactive, but… This is certainly only going to make things worse.)

“Mr. Scamander,” Flitwick says squeakily, his nerves showing. “I’ll get right to the point. Your assistance is needed in preparing for the second task.”

“I’m not a champion,” Argo says flatly. “And I’m certainly not Ministry or staff. I will not help in a tournament I disagree with.” With a shallow, almost mocking bow, he adds, “If that’s all, I need to return to my studies.”

Flitwick isn’t the type to say “I told you so,” but…

“Disagree with?” Dumbledore asks as if Argo is not already halfway to the door. “Do you find the tournament objectionable? I understand you’ve made some very good friends as a result of it, haven’t you?”

Argo pauses, still facing away, then resolutely turns to face Dumbledore. “I have made friends, that’s true,” Argo says. His eyes are made of winter. “Friends you all lied to. Friends whose lives are in danger because you lied about the safety of the tasks.”

“The Ministry is taking every precaution-”

“Nesting mother dragons,” Argo hisses lowly. “Please, tell me what precautions stop untrained, single, student wizards from being bitten clean in half.” Dumbledore falls silent. “Please,” Argo repeats. “I’m waiting. The entire dragonologist community will love you forever for these amazing precautions you apparently have.”

He crosses his arms. Taps his foot. No answer comes.

“Even the most veteran dragonologists don’t approach a nesting mother of any species unless she’s asleep and they have backup. You made students attack her eggs. Don’t you dare tell me you’ve done a thing to make this tournament safer.”

Nothing.

“If you didn’t lie about it…” Argo shakes his head. “If you didn’t pretend this tournament wasn’t going to try to kill everyone, then it’d just be their fault for signing up for it. But you did. You made them think precautions would be taken. That’s what I can’t forgive about this. I will not have any part in perpetuating this tragedy.”

He turns away.

“Wait,” Dumbledore says.

Argo pauses.

“At least hear us out.”

Us? Argo notices Flitwick isn’t saying a damn thing. If anything, he seems to be on Argo’s side in this.

Argo turns, crosses his arms, and leans against the door. He raises his brow, waiting.

Dumbledore sighs wearily. “Argo, my boy, I am trying.”

“Not. Enough,” Argo growls.

“Please.”

Argo still glares, but he pretends to consider. “What do you want?”

Dumbledore takes a deep breath, knowing now that Flitwick is right about what will be coming. “In the second task, the champions are to retrieve something precious to them from the bottom of the lake. As Harry is a champion and cannot be Cedric Diggory’s objective, you are the next closest.”

Argo stares. Flitwick and Dumbledore both feel the magic in the room lashing wildly despite Argo’s cool exterior. Flitwick will consider himself lucky if Argo’s magic just trashes his office and doesn’t lash out at him or Dumbledore by the end of this.

After a long, moment that seems to stretch to eternity, Argo closes his eyes.

Then, he laughs. A bitter, manic thing. When Argo opens his eyes and fixes Dumbledore in his glare, Dumbledore suddenly finds himself unable to move. The papers on Flitwick’s desk lift and flutter in an unseen gale.

“You know,” Argo says softly, nearly unheard over the rustling papers throughout the room, “I heard the clue.”

Neither teacher can move so much as to gasp. Or bring themselves to be surprised.

“You know what we said when we were discussing what you might take from them?” Neither teacher would move even if they could shake their heads. “We know they’re not reasonable. We should not assume they have any decency. We all suspected you’d do this. We could tell from the first task how reckless and shameless you are.”

Suddenly, Dumbledore can breathe again.

“Tell me,” Argo says. “What if I say no?”

Dumbledore leans on the desk for support, out of breath. “Then,” he says, “we would be forced to find the next best candidate for Cedric’s objective.”

Argo narrows his eyes. His voice comes out as nothing more than a sharp hiss. “You’d put Bea through that. After what you failed to protect her from in her first year?”

Dumbledore cannot possibly feel more remorse for that. “I would have no choice.”

Argo scoffs. “So, we were right after all. Well, fuck you, too, Professor. Get out.”

“Argo-”

“Get. Out,” Argo barks. “I’ll be your hostage. Only so that Bea doesn’t have to. But not you. Professor Flitwick will do whatever is necessary to prepare me. You can go drown in your own precautions.”

Flitwick awkwardly says, “I will need to put you into an enchanted sleep. You’ll awake the moment you breach the surface of the lake, so… be prepared to swim.”

Argo, despite knowing well ahead of time exactly what is going to happen, meets Flitwick’s eyes and says, “But past an hour – the prospect’s black. Too late, it’s gone, it won’t come back.”

“Of course, we would never just leave you down there,” Dumbledore says coolly.

Argo’s eyes immediately meet Dumbledore’s. “Of course,” Argo repeats mockingly. “That might mean something if I could trust a word you say.”

Dumbledore leaves.

While Argo is in a magical sleep at the bottom of the Black Lake, the plans he sets in motion begin to unfurl.

While Mr. Bartemius Crouch Sr. is indisposed at the tournament, a young, apprentice auror appears with a crack just outside Crouch’s home. He pulls from his pocket a small vial of potion laced with venom and looks uncertainly between it and the home.

Percy Weasley is a very proper sort of wizard. The kind who likes clear and precise rules and despises criminals and petty disregard for decorum. Frankly, he doesn’t even know how he makes it this far with a vial of venom and a carefully brewed counteragent already in his stomach, just in case, outside the home of the head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation.

He shakes fiercely as he takes the first step towards the house, and then another. Is he doing this? Why is he doing this? The simple truth… it’s because Argo asks him to.

Argo’s note certainly does not tell him everything, but it tells him enough. It gives him, by all rights, probable cause. It’s not technically illegal to raid a home if he has evidence to support a belief that something may be found there. He’s not technically breaking any laws.

Madam Bones will be furious with him if she finds out about this, though. Oh, dear.

Steeling himself, Percy grips his vial tightly with one hand and his wand with the other and approaches the home.

He has to unlock the door and dismantle some standard security wards, but he’s inside in moments. As Argo fears in his note, Percy is almost immediately accosted by a house elf.

More out of surprise and fear of being caught than anything else, Percy hurls the vial in the direction the elf appears in. It smashes into the ground and explodes.

Terrifying, roiling, curiously tinted mist fills the entire home, pouring forth with explosive intensity from the vial. As he’s shielding his face from the unexpected mist, Percy sees the elf collapse on the spot, completely unconscious.

Percy stands there in the mist, trembling, wondering if this is really something he is willing to do. But he has a job to do. He needs to investigate. Investigation is what he does now. Argo asks him because he can do it. Because he is the only one who can. And… and it is… technically… legal, to defend oneself if accosted while performing a raid.

Percy is very much hating how many times he must repeat the word, “technically,” to himself.

But he trusts Argo. Argo saves the lives every one of Percy’s younger siblings. He formulates and executes the plan which not just catches Sirius Black, but also catches and correctly identifies Peter Pettigrew as the real Death Eater and clears Black’s name.

Percy trusts him. He has to, by now. So… so he needs to investigate.

What Percy discovers while canvassing the house changes the course of everything, because the mist, which renders a victim unconscious and, thanks to the swooping evil venom, prevents them from remembering what happens – they will think they merely fall asleep – does not just drop the house elf in the entranceway, but every house elf in the home.

Every house elf and every human.

Just a few rooms away, Bartemius Crouch Jr. sleeps peacefully, unaware of the intruder in the home. Percy discovers him in complete shock and horror, but ever the consummate professional, continues to do his job.

Percy discovers everything.

He sends to Argo a letter. In that letter is a plan and a location.

Argo, once he’s rescued from the lake and has a moment to ponder this new information, sends a reply.

A plan and a reason.

The four champions, unanimously pissed at the tournament management and worried sick for their loved ones at the bottom of the lake, abandon all pretext of competition the moment they enter the water.

They blatantly, shamelessly work together to the bafflement of the crowd above. Reporters write about this task as the ultimate show of the goodness of human nature, about how even bitter rivals come together to help each other when outside parties are endangered, how it is simply a mark of the quality of person these champions are that they put aside their burning hatred for each other and help the others reach their hostages, even when they have someone waiting for them themselves.

Grindylow swarms may be dangerous to one wizard, but not to four protecting each other. The lake may be a large place to search, but not to the champions who have already been told precisely where the merfolk village is by Argo more than a month in advance.

They make it to the hostages at precisely the same time, because they never separate in the first place. They rescue all four at once, and the merpeople have no reason to object, because no one takes more than one. All four breach the surface of the water simultaneously, well within the hour limit.

It’s a four-way tie, but the champions don’t pay that a passing glance. Champions and victims alike, even Ron, instead focus entirely on the one person involved that comes as a surprise.

Gabrielle Delacour. Argo swiftly takes hold of her as soon as he wakes and registers the situation. Fleur, tired from the search for them and knowing that Argo is probably the only one at all trained to deal with water rescues, allows him to help Gabrielle to shore.

“She’s eight!” Viktor roars at the judging table. “How dare you drag a child into this!”

Fleur oscillates wildly between fussing over her sister and giving the judging table such a glare that Argo is sure she’d be uttering nothing but a stream of French curses if there wasn’t an eight-year old around to hear her.

Seeing the champions reactions, the crowd begins to turn as well, booing raucously and even starting to throw things at the judges. The whole thing devolves into a tempest of screaming and rage, which the reporters also delight in writing about, and Argo, after ensuring Gabrielle will be okay, leaves feeling very satisfied.

The letter he gets from Percy feels even better. (Also worse, because the contents are horrible to consider, but…)

It’s wonderful when plans come together, isn’t it? He can’t predict Gabrielle being involved, and he regrets that she is, but… it turns out just perfectly.

Honestly, what do they expect holding an eight-year-old hostage? They’re all getting what they deserve.

Just about now… Argo lays out a clean sheet of parchment on his desk in his study room and pulls out a long, acid green quill. Carefully undoing the stasis charm he puts on it, he grins widely when it starts frantically writing on the parchment entirely of its own accord.

Oh, Argo can dispense of Rita Skeeter whenever he damn well pleases. He’s considering it before the second task, when she goes after Hagrid, then Hermione for some reason, but given how the task turns out, he’s glad he waits. Skeeter’s sensationalism is exactly what he needs to make the tournament organizers rue every decision they make here.

And the best part? He doesn’t have to do a thing. He just keeps tabs on her, keeping this quill under a stasis charm specialized for magical creatures (to not interfere with the creature’s own magic, or in this case, Skeeter’s magic) to maintain the charm animating it, only undoing it when he wants to know what she’s writing about.

He still misses things, this way. He can’t just let the quill go wild because the charm connecting it to Skeeter is a temporary one that usually has to be redone at every interview. There’s a very distinct time limit with it, and so it has to be kept in stasis for opportune moments. That’s why he doesn’t know about her going after Hagrid – he has no reason to suspect she will, and so no reason to check.

But staying ahead of the news, even a little bit, is a boon Argo does not take for granted.

So long as Skeeter remains useful, she can continue skittering around like the pitiful insect she is.

Satisfied, Argo redoes the stasis charm and hides the quill away.

“Was that…?”

Argo jumps, whipping around to see who enters his room. When he sees her, he relaxes, sighing heavily. “Oh, Helena. You startled me.” He looks back to the paper still brimming with Skeeter’s thoughts. “Yeah. You know Rita Skeeter?”

Helena serenely tilts her head. “The staff talk about her from time to time. A reporter who delights in causing harm.”

Argo nods. “It’s hers.”

Helena examines the paper for a moment, ponders what she witnesses with the quill, and smiles. “Clever boy.”

Argo grins.

“You have a way to silence her, if necessary, I assume?”

“She’s an unregistered animagus,” Argo whispers conspiratorially. “That’s punishable by time in Azkaban. I can blackmail her, or just get rid of her, whenever I like.”

Helena nods. “Good. It would not do to get reckless.”

Argo nods quietly, mind working fast. He’s looking for another ghost, isn’t he? One who would be around to see Tom Riddle while he was in school. Helena is often overlooked because of how quiet she is. Something she uses to her advantage to gain wisdom and information.

“Hey, Helena,” Argo says, “I tried to talk to Myrtle about something, but…”

Helena just shakes her head. “Tell me what you seek.”

“Information,” Argo says. “On a boy who attended this school around 1943 to 1945. His name was Tom Riddle.”

Helena freezes, floating there like stone. “…What exactly do you want to know about him?”

“Do you know him?” Argo asks. “He was a Slytherin.”

She closes her eyes slowly. “Yes, I know of the boy you speak.”

“He…” Argo hesitates. “Helena… can you keep a secret? Even from the staff? Even from Dumbledore? I need to trust you.”

Her eyes open, something odd lingering in them as she examines him. “There are many things,” she says, “of which I have told no one.”

Argo swallows thickly. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t be so direct, but Helena Ravenclaw is someone he’s sure can keep a secret. Plus, she is wise. Even in her death, she never stops her pursuit of more knowledge and wisdom. If anyone can help him…

“Do you remember when the Chamber of Secrets was opened two years ago? I brought in my grandparents to help deal with the basilisk inside.”

“I remember.”

“Well, we found out that the one that opened the Chamber was Tom Riddle. He left a diary – I don’t know how Ginny found it, but she did. It possessed her and, through her, Riddle opened the Chamber again.”

Helena’s brow furrows. “To do such a thing… that would require dark magic.”

Argo nods. “A horcrux.” Helena sucks in a sharp breath, which is really just a sudden, small expansion of her chest since she can’t breathe. “The diary was a horcrux. The basilisk, she’s still at my family’s reserve. We’ve been communicating with her. She thinks there’s another one in the castle. My grandparents asked me to identify and locate it so we can destroy it and make Riddle, Voldemort, mortal again.”

“A horcrux…” Helena mutters, no longer really seeing Argo. “So that is what…”

“Helena, can you help me?” Argo asks. “I’m looking for anything on Riddle. Anything that might point to what he would make into a horcrux, or where he would hide it.”

“If…” Helena whispers, “if it is a horcrux… then it must be destroyed.”

“Helena?”

She startles, like she forgets he’s there. “I…” she says, pained. “I am sorry. I cannot help you.”

In a flash, Helena disappears through the wall. “Hey,” he calls, “wait!” But she’s already gone.

What…? She clearly has some idea, of that Argo is sure. But he’s more worried about her personally than he is about what she knows. That kind of reaction… Will she be okay?

The next time Argo runs into Madame Maxime while he’s tending to the abraxans and she tries to invite him to Beauxbatons (an offer which, if he’s honest, is quite tempting up until this point, when everything falls into place and he knows he can’t just abandon Hogwarts and the things he has to do here), Argo takes great pleasure in lambasting her for allowing an eight-year-old, a child so young she hasn’t even started wizarding school yet, to be endangered in this tournament.

“Hogwarts is horrible, yes,” Argo says, “and I despise Dumbledore, but from where I’m standing, I don’t see how you and Beauxbatons are any better.”

Madame Maxime tries to recover from it, but doesn’t manage very well, too thrown by the media cascade and the turn of public opinion on all of them to turn it around effectively.

After she stomps away, thoroughly offended (is it bad that Argo really doesn’t care if he’s making enemies, anymore?), a dark-skinned boy in Beauxbatons silks under a heavy Hogwarts cloak approaches him.

“I’ve never seen anyone talk to the headmistress like that,” he murmurs.

“I talk to people how they deserve,” Argo mutters darkly. He shakes his head, clearing it of all thoughts of the people in charge of this whole disaster. “Nice to meet you, by the way. We’ve been around each other for a while but I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Argo Scamander.”

The boy flashes him a brilliant smile. “Léo Boudreaux. Fleur talks about you all the time. If I can be honest… I’ve been trying to work up the courage to talk to you.”

Argo chuckles. “Courage? To talk to me?”

Léo laughs. “Uh, yeah! I’ve seen you here with the horses from time to time. You always seemed so… what’s the word…? Competent? As if any help I offer would only get in your way. Like you know exactly what you’re doing, and that makes you sort of… impenetrable.”

“Huh.” Argo hums. “I’d never considered myself to be anything like that.”

Léo shrugs. “Well, either way, you’re a very brave man.” He grins. “I wanted to ask you about something, though.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re one of the leaders of Hogwarts’ Defense club, right? I talked to a… Beatrice Haywood not long ago and she directed me to you.”

Oh. “Yeah, I’m part of it. What do you need?”

Léo glances around and leans in playfully. “I’ve been hearing whispers of a… gauntlet, they called it? Is that like a tournament? Is that happening soon?”

“Ah,” Argo chuckles. “That. That’s more Susan’s project than mine, but it should be happening soon. We’re planning to put up sign-up sheets in the next week or two, we just have a few more things to finalize for the preparations because it’s not really a tournament, so much as a survival challenge.”

Léo’s eyes gleam. “Tell me about it.”

“Well, the idea of the Defense Association is to train for real self-defense situations. The gauntlet won’t be a tournament like you’re used to, and it won’t follow the standard rules of dueling. We have to take a lot of care to keep everyone safe with the relaxed rules – that’s what’s taking so long. So, it’s freestyle, anything goes, street dueling, and you’ll be facing waves of opponents. It’s meant to be a sort of simulation of a combat zone.”

“That’s hardcore,” Léo says. “I’m sold.”

Argo giggles. “Again, it’s Susan’s project. She can give you all the details. But you’d be either alone or in a group of up to three, facing a varying number of opponents. We’ll start with even odds, then stack against you as time progresses until you lose or you beat ten opponents at once. When your turn to run the gauntlet is over, or while you’re waiting, you’re welcome to help us out as one of the aggressors. From what Fleur told me, I assume you have enough control to let younger students enjoy the challenge.”

“That sounds great,” says Léo. “I love working with the younger students. You said Susan can give me all the information?”

“Susan Bones,” Argo says with a nod. “She’s in Hufflepuff, so you can usually find her at the Hufflepuff table during meals.”

“Got it. I’ll look for her. Thanks, Argo.” He stops just before he takes off and adds, “You know… it’s not like I didn’t believe Fleur, but… You’re a good guy. I know what you said to Madame Maxime, but if you did consider coming to Beauxbatons, Fleur and I would make sure what’s happening here doesn’t happen again. You don’t deserve what everyone’s saying about you.”

Argo… doesn’t know what to say to that. But he doesn’t need to respond. Léo just gives him a firm pat on the shoulder and leaves quietly.

The horse next to Argo nickers, pulling him from his thoughts back to the task at hand.

The next few weeks are busy for Argo. Most of his other plans have to be put on hold to keep up with preparing for the biggest event the DA has ever tried to put on. Susan does most of the heavy lifting in organizing the thing, but everyone contributes.

The day of the gauntlet, they have an arena set up just on the edge of the forest, so that participants can use forest cover, or come out into the open grass. Part of that open field is set up with cover – enormous hay bales, an empty, ramshackle hut, slat fencing, and more all strewn about to make a more cluttered environment for a duel.

Off to the side, outside several shimmering wards doming the entire arena, stands are erected for students to watch from, as well as a table much like the judging table for the Triwizard tasks, where Flitwick, the club’s sponsor, and Professor Hicks, the Defense teacher, sit with Dumbledore, who insists on coming to support the event personally.

Argo himself makes arrangements with Madam Pomfrey to set up a hospital tent nearby, just in case, and stands a bit to the back and off to the side with the rest of the DA Circle as Susan explains the rules to the surrounding students.

Argo spends most of his time during the event not as an aggressor (because he and Susan both are worried that putting him in a dueling situation with so many people who despise him is just asking for trouble, no matter his skill and control) but as a safety manager. One of the precautions that their Circle insists on is that there are people inside the arena ready to intervene if anything goes sideways. Argo shares that duty with Professor McGonagall for the first part of the day, and he thankfully very rarely has to do anything but watch.

Léo and Niklas both help out as aggressors for much of the morning, during which most of the younger students have their turns in the gauntlet. Later in the day, they each take their own turns. Argo joins as an aggressor for these bouts, and both survive for nearly ten minutes of increasing numbers of aggressors before they finally slip enough for someone to capitalize on it and take them down.

It’s not a competition in theory, but they are recording the time and number of aggressors defeated for each student. Niklas sits in first place after his bout, with Léo behind by just a hair.

When the DA Circle actually take on the gauntlet themselves, they agree to join in pairs. Harry partners with Susan, and handily takes first place for pairs, then all three of the older champions decide to enter together and take such an insurmountable lead in teams by conquering the whole gauntlet so startlingly quickly that no one even pretends to believe they can do better.

Then Argo steps into the arena with Daphne. They share a look. They smile.

Two older students emerge from the forest, and the clock starts.

Daphne, well used to Argo’s dueling style by now, strikes fast and hard, at nearly the same time as Argo, and they eliminate both aggressors in one swift stroke.

Three now. Argo hangs one by his ankles while Daphne blasts another with a curse. A shield to deflect the incoming attack from the third, and they both finish off their opponent together.

Four. Daphne and Argo together are still enough to overwhelm them with sheer force.

Five.

Six.

Seven. Now they hide, using the cover of the hay and fences. Argo uses an oppugno jinx on a nearby tree, sending all the leaves from a lower branch to buffet their opponents. It’s enough distraction to overcome them.

Eight. They have to play clever, as outnumbered as they are. They draw the enemy into the woods, fighting guerilla style. Using every bit of cover and ground that they can.

Nine. With twin wicked grins, Argo and Daphne use disillusionment charms the moment they’re out of sight. It’s slower, but so much fun to trick their opponents from the shadows into jinxing each other.

Ten. Léo and Niklas join the fight. Argo and Daphne take out everyone else, but just aren’t quick enough for the two older students. They end up locked in a standoff, each side behind cover, firing spells, until a surprise jinx flips Daphne head over heels and the two team up to overwhelm Argo before he can fight back.

Niklas is laughing when Argo grabs his offered hand and pulls him to his feet. “Good job,” he says, cheeks flush and smile stretching ear to ear. Before Argo can catch his breath, Niklas dips in to kisses his dirty cheek. “That was a great match.”

Léo, unable to contain his giggling, whistles at them. Daphne smacks his arm with a roll of her eyes.

“Fifty-two, by my count,” Susan says, running up to them. “Almost twenty minutes. Harry and I still got you beat.”

Daphne scoffs playfully. “By time alone. The only reason it took us that long is because we were just having fun.”

“Yeah, you and Potter were amazing,” Argo says, grinning. “I’m not surprised it was close. Good job on pulling it out, though.”

“Argo,” Daphne groans, “your utter lack of competitive spirit is painful sometimes. Can’t you even pretend for a moment? Just… throw some well-meaning smack talk? Just once?”

“I think it’s cute,” Léo says, hooking an arm around Argo’s neck. “How are you so vicious yet so easygoing at the same time?”

“I’m not vicious!” Argo protests, forgetting for the moment his multiple plans to ruin Skeeter, kill Voldemort, and destroy the reputations of every adult involved in setting up the Triwizard Tournament.

Daphne snorts. “A little bit, Argo.”

“Hey,” says Léo, gesturing to the next in the arena, “those are Harry’s friends, right?”

Just as he says, Ron and Hermione are entering as a pair. Argo sees this, looks back to Léo and Niklas, and says, “Never mind. I’m vicious. Granger’s alright, but don’t give Weasley any mercy.”

Léo bursts out laughing. Niklas, who is there when Ron interferes in a duel and gets Argo injured, just makes a face that seems to say, “as if you needed to ask.”

Léo winks before he takes off to his station. Niklas chuckles and follows.

The match ahead proves observations Argo makes since second year when he starts teaching those two defensive magic. Hermione is much cleverer and more versatile, while Ron is more direct. That’s not to his detriment, though, especially when he has Hermione to watch his back. Ron is still a capable duelist alone, he just requires a different approach than Hermione does.

Also to Ron’s benefit is just how naturally he moves with a wand. Hermione can be a bit stiff, aiming and shooting like a muggle gun, while Ron benefits from being more able to cast in motion, and certainly changes direction, both physically and with his spellcraft, much more smoothly and efficiently. His reaction time is impressive.

Niklas and Léo, both deemed too skilled to be allowed in the early rounds, only enter the arena in round eight, with six others. By then, Ron and Hermione are both flagging. They handle the gauntlet competently until then, and make it much further than most, but so much fighting against such worsening odds wears them down.

Niklas and Léo are only just gentle enough that no one can accuse them of targeting this pair.

Ron and Hermione both know, though. Hermione sends Argo an exasperated roll of her eyes, and Ron glares fiercely until she smacks him.

Argo doesn’t know what his problem is. Niklas and Léo shut down Argo, too. It’s not like there’s actually any favoritism involved. They’re a tiny bit meaner about it, but they would beat the pair regardless.

Argo decides to ignore it for now. Today is a good day. Not one to linger on grudges like that. He pats Susan on the back. “Good job, Susan,” he says, looking out over the cheering students laughing and smiling. “This is yours.”

Susan sucks in a huge breath and turns to hug Argo tightly. “Thanks,” she murmurs. “I’m so glad it’s turning out okay.”

“And it’s bringing the students from the different schools together more than ever, too,” Daphne adds. “Look.”

Indeed, as they scan the crowd, the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students are not clumped among themselves, separated from the Hogwarts students, but evenly dispersed, talking to anyone from any school without reserve. Even among the Hogwarts students, the separation of houses is broken somewhat today.

They both congratulate Susan one more time, then Daphne catches Argo’s eye and tilts her head, gesturing to talk away from the business of the event.

He follows her some distance away, where they won’t be heard, and just to be sure Daphne sets up a muffling charm so no one can listen in.

“What’s going on?” Argo asks.

Daphne sighs, leaning back against the wall now that her protections are in place. “I…” she says carefully, “need to ask you for a favor.”

“Okay,” Argo says. Daphne is his friend, who stands by him despite much of the school turning on him. Of course, he’ll help however he can. “What do you need?”

Daphne blinks. “Just… just like that? Just what do you need?”

Argo shrugs. “You’re my friend,” he says simply. “If I can help, I will.”

Daphne chuckles, shaking her head. “Should remember I’m not dealing with a Slytherin…” A huff. “Okay, so… you can’t tell anyone about this. Not a soul, you understand? Can I trust you?”

Argo nods seriously. “Completely. Lay it on me.”

She nods. “I meant to bring this up earlier. To be honest, I’ve been waiting until it seemed like you liked me enough to consider helping. It’s… sort of been my plan all along.” Argo chuckles, shaking his head. Slytherins. “What do you know about blood maledictions?”

Maledictions? Oof. Argo, completely surprised by the question, takes a moment to sort his thoughts. “Horrible curses. They can do all manner of things in all manner of ways. The common thread is that they persist through generations and can resurface in a victim’s descendants. I’m most familiar with the kind that forces its victim to turn into an animal – my grandfather knew a woman with just that curse. Are you…?”

Daphne shakes her head. “My little sister, Astoria,” she says. “I was lucky. It didn’t surface in me. But Astoria…”

Ah. Shit. “Daphne… I’ve never heard of a malediction being cured entirely.”

“I know,” she says sharply. “I’ve done the research, Argo. But… I’m not going to give up. I’ll… I’ll treat the symptoms if I can’t cure it. I’ll make her as comfortable as possible if I can’t do that. But I’m going to help her. Will… will you help me?”

“Of course, I will,” Argo says without hesitation. “I only brought that up because I don’t want to give you false hope. But I’m with you regardless. We’ll do everything we can for your sister.”

Daphne lets out a long breath. “Thanks, Argo. The odds for her… feel a lot better with you on our side.” She raises her eyes, determinedly meeting his. “And so long as you’re on our side, the Greengrasses are on yours. Remember, we’re one the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Don’t hesitate to call on my family if you ever need us.”

Oh, hell no. Argo scowls at the parchment under the scribbling, long, acid green quill. With the third task, and everything coming up so soon, Argo cannot let Skeeter go after Harry.

If she messes up his reputation, even just around the last task, that could throw things all out of sorts. Harry needs to be the good guy. Accusing him of being deranged and using dark magic to win the tournament cannot pass. Those sheep will believe it, at least some of them, and all the dynamics will twist.

(All this about a nightmare and Harry’s scar hurting is news, though. Argo is in Arithmancy when it supposedly happens, which he does not share with Harry, so he isn’t present to witness it. He supposes it must mean something is happening with Voldemort, but that’s not unexpected given the timing.)

But how should he stop her? A counter-campaign will take too long. Just getting her arrested… tempting, but another option rears its head when Argo runs into Hermione in the library.

Hermione has been on the warpath against Skeeter since Skeeter accuses her of playing with Harry and Viktor’s feelings and she starts getting cursed hate mail.

Hermione certainly won’t allow Skeeter to publish anything against Harry. All she needs is the leverage to stop her. Yes… this can work. And it’s better than removing Skeeter from play entirely, or worsening the grudge the woman has against him personally.

Because now, Argo is just someone she writes about who is unhappy with her because of it. She has tons of people who fit that description. If he blackmails her, he’ll be enemy number one, whether she finds a way around the blackmail or not.

Now, if Hermione is willing to do such a thing, with no prompting from Argo, well… that’s hardly his fault, is it? He picks a book, sits with her, and asks her about her attempts to figure out how Skeeter is listening in on people at Hogwarts.

Hermione immediately has to stamp down her fury to stay quiet in the library, but then she catches sight of the title of Argo’s book, which is all about animagi, and when he says that he wishes her luck finding “that insect”, derisive of her but…

It all clicks in Hermione’s head. All at once. She takes off immediately, intent on borrowing Harry’s map and tracking down the witch. She’ll catch her before she can do any more damage or so help her…

When Hermione leaves the library in a whirlwind, Argo just smiles to himself, puts his book away, and returns to his study room. He’ll have to keep an eye on it, make sure Hermione gets to Skeeter before she can publish this trash, but… Hermione is an efficient girl. He’s not worried.

Hermione does indeed track down and trap a small beetle in the castle before any defamatory article can be published. She’ll go on to keep Skeeter trapped for a while, and then blackmail her into a temporary leave from work for the Prophet with the information that Skeeter is an unregistered animagus.

Hermione quietly fills Argo in on what happens one day in the library. As the days pass and no further article from Skeeter appears, Argo sits back, fully satisfied.

It truly is always wonderful when plans come together.

The day of the third task. The day of everything. Argo feels a little guilty, not letting Harry, or any of the other champions, know what’s going to happen, but…

But there is more at stake here than just the champions’ lives. Argo has to do this, and he has to do it right.

That said, ever since the champions find out about the task, a maze filled with curses, magical barriers, and beasts, Argo works closely with them all, as they all work with each other, to ensure they are prepared. They fully intend to work together as much as possible, sticking together rather than splitting apart unless they’re forced to.

Argo expects that they’ll arrive at the cup all together. Argo knows from their discussions that, if they do, they plan to all take the Triwizard Cup at the same time. Ostensibly this means that Harry and Viktor, who are tied for first place in points, will be the tied winners, but not a single one of them considers that to be of importance.

After the evening feast, Dumbledore announces that they will be heading down to the quidditch pitch for the third task. Argo stands with his classmates, moves with them out of the Great Hall, but vanishes from the crowd when they exit the castle.

He’s just turning away, ready to head to his true destination, when he comes face to face with Headmaster Dumbledore.

Dumbledore looks at him over his half-moon spectacles, brow furrowed, with worry etched across every one of the many lines in his old face. “Mister Scamander,” Dumbledore says quietly. “I believe the quidditch pitch is in the other direction.”

Argo lifts his chin. “I’m not going,” he says simply. “I told you before; I’m not supporting this tournament.”

“And where will you go, then?” Dumbledore asks.

Argo shrugs lackadaisically. “To study? We are in the middle of exams. I’ll probably spend some time with the creatures as well. Make sure they’re all settled in for the night. If it goes on too long, I suppose I’ll go to sleep.”

As Argo moves to slip past him, Dumbledore speaks again. “Argo… I admire your grandfather a great deal. Perhaps more than any other man I know. Do you know why?”

Argo stops, looks back over his shoulder at Dumbledore. He does not respond, but he listens.

Dumbledore seems to plead with his eyes. “He does not seek power, or popularity. He simply asks, ‘is a thing right?’ and if it is he does it no matter the cost.”

Do what is right, not what is easy. Oh, yes, Argo hears this before. He takes a deep breath and says, “I admire him, too.” Argo then fixes his eyes ahead of him and walks. He does not look back.

As the rest of the castle gathers in the stands of the quidditch stadium, Argo trudges to the very edge of Hogwarts grounds, where a small terrier sits fidgeting impatiently.

A broad grin breaks out on Argo’s face despite what he is approaching. He kneels to pet the dog, as anyone in their right mind should, and he murmurs, “Hello, Reynard. We meet at last.”

One moment he’s fondling the terrier’s ear, the next, a grown man, still shorter than Argo, is hugging him tightly. “Finally!” Reynard exclaims, quickly letting Argo go. “And it has to be when something huge is happening, doesn’t it? I thought I left these kinds of adventures behind when I left Hogwarts.”

“Didn’t you become a curse-breaker?”

“That’s irrelevant. You know what I mean.” Reynard pauses suddenly, stilling and holding Argo’s shoulders as he looks him dead in the eyes. “This is your last chance to turn back, Argo. Are you sure you want to do this?”

Argo looks away, to the grass, then up at the just-appearing stars, and asks, “Can I trust you?”

“You’re part of my Circle.”

And that’s all the answer he needs. They lock eyes. Argo nods. Reynard takes his arm, and the two of them disappear from Hogwarts with a sharp crack.

In the maze, Harry and Viktor, being tied for first place, enter first. The towering hedges cast black shadows across the path, and, whether because they are so tall and thick or because they have been enchanted, the sound of the surrounding crowd is silenced the moment they enter. They feel almost as if they are underwater again.

Together, they pull out their wands and light the ends. After about fifty yards, they reach a fork. They look at each other.

They wait.

Bagman’s whistle sounds for a second time, and Cedric enters the maze. He find them both there at the very first fork and nods to them. A third whistle. All of the champions are now inside.

Just as no gauntlet stops these champions, no maze or beast does, either. Working together, they by default spoil one Barty Crouch Junior’s plan to separate them, pit them against each other, and eliminate all competition so that only Harry remains capable of claiming the cup.

Barty Crouch Senior, sitting serenely at the judges table under the influence of the Imperius Curse as his son was for so long, watches blankly as the four champions conquer each and every obstacle in their path. His fellow judges murmur amongst themselves, for they assume that the camaraderie they see in the second task is a fluke brought about by a poor choice and these children’s strong moral character. None but Dumbledore for even a moment considers that the champions will continue their teamwork into the third task. Not when it is the deciding factor of who will win the tournament.

It's anyone’s game, after all. The points are close enough that anyone who gets to the Cup first will be the winner of the whole thing. So what are they doing working together like this?

They cannot fathom that what is simply a game to them is nothing of the sort to the champions. They do not understand what it means to face death, to face a fatal threat to their most beloved people and help each other through it.

They do not realize that they are responsible for the ruination of their own sport.

(And none but Dumbledore realize who pulls the strings that ensures their greatest embarrassment, and later their greatest shame.)

Every one of them living through the first war with Voldemort, they all are ashamed, when they realize. Nearly as ashamed as Dumbledore is proud, that these kids already understand perfectly what is most important.

Nearly as ashamed as Dumbledore is guilty, that these kids are taught through this tournament lessons that the rest of them only discover through war.

When the champions reach the center of the maze, the crowd holds their breath. Now is the moment, they and the judges think. Karkaroff and Madame Maxime watch on the edge of their seats, waiting for their champions to take the Cup before the others can grab it. All they need to do is touch it first. Just a touch.

But the champions do no such thing. They stop there, surrounding the cup on four sides. They talk to each other, time it very carefully, and all together grab the Cup at once.

Instantly, they feel a jerk somewhere behind their navels. Their feet leave the ground. They cannot unclench the hands holding the Triwizard Cup; it pulls them onward in a howl of wind and swirling color, side by side.

It is in that moment that every piece finally falls into place. Argo, apparating with Reynard, unites with Barnaby Lee, who retrieves for him both Scottie and Delilah, the wampus and swooping evil, and Diego Caplan, now a renowned dueling champion. They go to the appointed location, in the shadow of an old church, and lie in wait, merely observing unseen for the time being.

The champions slam into the ground, stumbling, and the Triwizard Cup tumbles from their grasps.

“Where are we?” Harry asks.

Cedric shakes his head. He gets up, pulls Harry to his feet as Viktor does the same for Fleur, and they look around.

They stand in a dark, overgrown graveyard, far from Hogwarts grounds. The black outline of a church is visible beyond a large yew tree to their right. A hill rises above them to their left. They can just make out the outline of a fine old house on the hillside.

Cedric looks down at the Triwizard Cup and then up at the other champions. “Did anyone tell you the cup was a portkey?” he asks.

Viktor shakes his head. “This must be the final attempt,” he murmurs. “Wands out.”

They pull out their wands. Harry keeps looking around him. He has the strange feeling that they are being watched.

“Someone’s coming,” he says suddenly.

Squinting tensely through the darkness, they watch a figure drawing nearer, walking steadily towards them between the graves. They can’t make out a face, but from the way it’s walking and holding its arms, they can tell that it is carrying something. Several paces nearer, the gap between them closing all the time, they see that the thing in the person’s arms looks like a baby… or is it merely a bundle of robes?

The champions exchange quizzical looks.

The figure stops beside a towering marble headstone, only six feet from them. The hooded cloak they wear obscures their face. For a second, they simply look at each other.

And then, without warning, Harry’s scar explodes with pain. It’s agony such as he never feels in all his life; his wand slips from his fingers as he puts his hands over his face; his knees buckle; he’s on the ground and can see nothing at all; his head is about to split open.

From far away, above his head, he hears a high, cold voice say, “Kill the spares.”

A swishing noise and a second voice, which screech the words to the night: “Avada Kedavra!”

For a second that contains an eternity, a blast of green light blazes through the graveyard. And then the champions are all at once thrown aside as if hit by a bus.

The best duelists of the Circle of Khanna, a fierce wampus faster than arrows, and swooping evil descends. Cracks of apparition disorient the champions, strange, terrifying, oddly-colored roiling smoke fills the graveyard. The champions all duck together, huddling against an unknown they do not expect or understand. Flashes of spellfire streak through the pulsing mist.

Fleur screams as her wand is wrenched from her hand. Viktor is thrown once more aside and drops his wand as well. Cedric’s is blasted from him with a clear, deep, “Relashio!” through the fog. Harry scrambles for his, as much as he can through the pain of his head splitting open, but his wand is missing entirely.

Something grabs them. They kick and struggle, but it’s hopeless. Each champion, one by one, blind and disarmed, is tied firmly against the headstones, helpless but, strangely to their minds, alive.

Silence, save for their breaths in the sticky heat of the night.

The dark, undulating smoke disperses just enough for the champions to see figures begin to emerge.

“Somebody deal with the snake!” a familiar voice shouts.

“It’s impervious to normal spells!” an unfamiliar voice shouts back.

A gentle gasp. “Try this!” The figure closest to them moves as if to throw something, but the champions cannot see any more than that. “And be careful! Don’t touch it yourself!”

Viciously loud hissing, a roar of some kind of wildcat?

A strange, wailing scream, which Harry recognizes, the same as when the basilisk bites into Ginny’s diary in the Chamber of Secrets. A high, cold wail. “Nagini! No!”

“That did it!” shouts the unfamiliar voice.

“It that all of them?” another unfamiliar voice.

“I think so,” says a third. “Hominem Revelio. Appare Vestigium… I don’t see anything. You didn’t see anyone else arrive, did you?”

“No, just the two and the snake,” says the familiar voice closest to the champions. “Be on guard anyway.”

“I’ll secure the perimeter,” says the first unfamiliar voice. “Where’s his wand?”

“I’ve got it,” says the third voice. “Here.”

A rather short figure appears in the fog, handing off the wand to the owner of the familiar voice who is closest to the champions.

It’s only then that the mist fades enough for the champions to gape at the image in front of them. Dressed in plain robes, not brandishing his Hogwarts house, Argo Scamander stands tall, looking imperiously down his nose at the bundle with the baby inside. Next to the bundle, tied up to another gravestone out of reach of it, a man that only Harry recognizes from his brief foray in Dumbledore’s memories when he finds the pensieve after going to Dumbledore when he has that dream. Barty Crouch Junior, glaring balefully at Argo.

But he’s supposed to be dead!

Three more figures stand with Argo, though, all dressed in plain robes with nothing to distinguish them. The first, who is rounding the graveyard, searching their location for anything out of sorts, a roguishly handsome man who moves with strange grace. The second, a huge man who looks somewhat like Harry imagines Crabbe and Goyle will look as adults, but with a less hideous face, even with the scarring on it. The last, a short man who is constantly moving, bouncing on his toes and swiveling his head, on the lookout. The only part of him that is not in constant motion is the tip of his wand, held at the ready.

Of the three, now that he can see their faces, Harry recognizes two of them. The first man, Diego Caplan, who he learns about through research for the Defense Association. He’s currently one of the very top duelists in Britain. Harry sees his photograph from his wins in international dueling tournaments.

And the third man, the short one. That’s Reynard Gage. He’s just before Harry’s time at Hogwarts, but he’s still renowned there for opening and solving the Cursed Vaults and bringing his house, Slytherin, the House Cup in every single year of his attendance. He has so many achievements that even now, years after his graduation, Hogwarts can’t stop talking about the renown he brings the school. It’s impossible not to know of him.

“Argo?” Cedric gasps. “Reynard, Barnaby, Diego…? What- what’s going on? What are you doing here?”

“You recognize them?” Viktor growls.

“Yeah,” Cedric says weakly when the others don’t respond to him. “They’re- They’re my friends…”

Argo tears his eyes from that writhing bundle in the dirt. “Prepare yourselves,” he says coldly. Even the beast prowling around, a six-legged mountain lion whose gaze pierces into each of the champions, tenses, ready.

Then Argo grabs Barty Crouch Junior by his left forearm, turning it just so that the champions can see something upon the skin there, something like a vivid red tattoo – a skull with a snake protruding from its mouth – the Dark Mark. Argo examines it carefully, ignoring Barty’s attempts to struggle and spit.

“Well,” Argo says, drawing an unfamiliar wand, one which can only be Voldemort’s. “I don’t suppose it would be something as simple as…” Slowly, he presses the wand to the Dark Mark.

The scar on Harry’s forehead sears with a sharp pain again, and Barty Crouch lets out a howl of similar pain; when Argo removes the wand from the mark, the champions can see that it has turned jet black.

Argo laughs. “Brilliant wizard… using the simplest party tricks. Removing this will be a pain and a half, but I didn’t expect you to make using it so easy.”

“Who dares…” hisses the cold, high voice. “My Death Eaters will-”

“Cower and watch like the wild dogs they are as the strongest takes his place at the head of the pack,” Argo says softly. “Now… who is foolish enough to answer the Dark Lord’s summons, and who is cowardly enough to stay away?”

He paces, the wampus dutifully at his heel, before the champions and the Death Eater, eyes sweeping the graveyard all the while. After a minute or so, Argo’s eyes finally flicker to the champions, and to Harry. “That gravestone, Potter,” Argo says lightly, like he’s conversing about the weather. “Can you see the name?”

Harry can’t say quite why he so obediently cranes his neck to look, but he can, only just. Tom Riddle.

“Voldemort’s father,” Argo explains. “That house, there?” He gestures with his head to the house upon the hill. “The old Riddle home. That’s where his father lived. I don’t know the full story… I don’t need to. Just a curiosity to pass the time.”

Argo freezes suddenly, head popping up and turning his eyes back to the home, struck by a sudden idea. He mutters. “I wonder…”

Before any of the champions can question Argo, the air is suddenly full of the swishing of cloaks. Between graves, behind the yew tree, in every shadowy space, wizards are apparating. All of them are hooded and masked. And one by one they move forward… slowly, curiously, as though they can hardly believe their eyes.

Argo smoothly dismisses whatever is on his mind and stands in silence, waiting for them.

One of the figures raises their wand. Something dark and fast swoops down from the yew tree, knocking the wand away and taking the Death Eater down to the earth.

“Welcome, Death Eaters,” Argo says quietly. “As you can probably tell, I am not Lord Voldemort.”

“You dare utter his-”

The enormous cat at Argo’s side hisses, silencing the Death Eater in a moment. Silently, Argo holds up Voldemort’s wand. There’s a collective gasp and a shudder that runs through the Death Eaters, each frozen in place.

Then Argo grasps the other end with his other hand and snaps the wand in two.

“Tonight,” Argo says, “Lord Voldemort – Tom Riddle – planned to resurrect himself. Tonight would have been the day that your lord returned to his full power.” He throws the wand to the dirt, then draws his own and disintegrates it utterly. “He would have had you witness his return. He would have punished you for betraying him, for daring not to search for him, for not returning him to a body…”

Argo turns his back on the Death Eaters, now facing the struggling bundle that the champions all realize with paralyzing clarity is Voldemort himself. With a flick of his wand, the bundle lifts into the air. It roars, furious and hateful, but Argo’s expression remains cold and flat. The bundled robes fall away, revealing Voldemort’s form.

The thing has the shape of a crouched human child, except that nothing has ever looked less like a child. It is hairless and scaly-looking, a dark, raw, reddish black. Its arms and legs are thin and feeble, and its face – no child alive has ever had a face like that – flat and snakelike, with gleaming red eyes.

It writhes helplessly in the air, a hideous sight the champions can’t look away from.

“Behold, your lord,” Argo says. “Tonight, if his plan were successful, he would have a real body. Not this pathetic abomination. Tell me, Tom. What you truly desire is a body, is it?”

The horrible figure glares and shouts, “Kill him! My Death Eaters – kill him now!”

But no Death Eater moves. They watch and wait, uncertain and confused.

“I can give you one,” Argo says temptingly. “A body of your own. Stronger than you dared dream.”

“Kill him! I said, kill him!”

Argo clicks his tongue, making a show of disappointment. “That’s a no, then? I thought it was a generous offer.” He sighs. “Oh, well. Never let it be said that I am not as generous as you, Tom. I’ll give you one anyway. How about that?”

Then Voldemort is lowered gently to the ground. Argo fixes his wand upon him. “Mutatio Monstrum.”

The champions all wince at the immediate cracking of snapping bones, the tearing of flesh, of Voldemort’s wailing agony. The form writhing on the ground as if under the cruciatus curse expands and contracts. Its limbs grow, snap, shrink, move across its body. Fur sprouts, then bloody horns burst from its head, then they shed and its neck twists and cracks unnaturally.

It takes several long, horrible moments for Harry to figure out what Argo is even doing to the thing, but when he realizes, he fights the urge to vomit. That’s transfiguration. He’s transfiguring Voldemort’s body, over and over again, in all the most painful ways he can imagine.

“Perhaps,” a brave Death Eater says with a hesitant start, taking just one step forward, “explanations are in order?”

Argo stops the transfiguration, leaving Voldemort, for the time being, a grotesquely ill-proportioned lump with horns sprouting from his ribs and fur all over his face and bulging hump, but leaving his new crooked tail hairless. He turns to the Death Eater who speaks.

“Ah,” Argo says softly. “Malfoy.”

The Death Eater visibly hesitates, then bows low. “Argo Scamander,” says Lucius Malfoy. “I would not have thought you capable of the Transmogrifian Torture curse.”

“Come now, Malfoy,” Argo says. “Surely your son has informed you that I’m quite gifted with transfigurations. And did you not order him to befriend me for just this chance? You should be leaping for joy. Your gamble paid off, didn’t it?”

Malfoy stands rock-still. “It would seem so.”

The champions exchange silent looks. Malfoy befriends Argo on his father’s orders? For this?

“Once,” Argo says, louder, for everyone present, “you all followed Tom Riddle, the half-blood espousing pure-blood supremacy.”

Shocked whispers erupt within the ranks of Death Eaters.

“And then, he was defeated. By that boy.” He suddenly turns, and all eyes are on Harry. Argo slowly walks towards Harry, looking down at him expressionlessly. “You who turned your backs on Tom to save yourselves… you still whispered. You saw in this boy, not only the defeat of your great leader, but an opportunity anew. Depending on how he turns out… he could very well be the next Voldemort. More powerful even, than the previous.”

Harry goes stark cold. Him? The Death Eaters considered… Didn’t the Sorting Hat want to put him in Slytherin? Dumbledore tells him it’s his choices which determine who he is. If he hadn’t pleaded not to be put in Slytherin, if he were introduced to the wizarding world alongside the likes of Malfoy…

Would he be the next Dark Lord? Does he have that evil nature within him?

“Death Eaters,” Argo says, turning back to them. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Argo Scamander. I was abandoned as a baby by the very same family that died to protect the Boy-Who-Lived.” He smiles, looking coldly out at the Death Eaters. “That’s right. What you saw in the newspaper is correct. I am Thomas Potter. I am Harry’s long-lost brother. And I’m here to tell you that, in your desperation for the next Dark Lord to cling to… you chose the wrong brother.”

Harry can’t breathe. All at once everything crashes down upon him. Argo… the rumors abound all throughout the year, but Harry knows that they are never true. Argo isn’t a dark wizard, he never wants for Harry’s death. Even when it sort of seems like it, Argo never openly holds any hatred towards Harry.

But… But here he is, declaring himself the newest Dark Lord.

Argo laughs, cold and flat. “I am not like Tom, I assure you. I will not deceive you and subjugate you with pain and fear. Not because I am not strong enough to do so,” he makes a sweeping motion, gesturing to Voldemort’s prone, grotesque body lying limp on the ground, “but because I do not believe it necessary. I am not so crude as to turn my wand in such a way on my allies. How many of your pureblooded lines have ended because of your lord who espoused your dominance? Anyone?”

He waits for a reply, but the Death Eaters only stir, whispering, rather than answer outright. Still, Argo seems satisfied with this result. “No. I will not cause the deaths of families. I will not see you torn asunder and separated. I will not see your children grieve for parents in Azkaban or worse. I intend to maintain your allegiance in the way that leaders are meant to – through service. You will follow me because I will help you achieve your goals.

“There will be concessions. I tell you this now because I will not lie to you. You will need to compromise with me. I do not and will not pretend to believe in the pure-blooded supremacy that your order is gathered around. Likewise, I do not and will not abide violent riots without purpose, like the pointless demonstration at the Quidditch World Cup.

“I come to you with this express intent. This is my promise – what I will accomplish, with or without your help. I will hunt down and destroy each and every one of Tom’s horcruxes. I will strip from him every safeguard of this pitiful half-life he calls immortality. He will run and hide like the coward he is, and I will show him the face of the thing he fears the most. Only then will I see him dead for good.”

“W-why…?” asks another Death Eater. “Why would we wish to see our lord dead?”

Argo smiles indulgently. “Because he lied to you,” he says gently. “From the very start, he lied to you.” Argo sweeps back, a grand, dramatic gesture to address the Death Eaters as a whole. “I ask you this – you need not answer, just consider in your own minds… Have more purebloods been elevated by Tom’s mad work? By your tireless, thankless efforts on his behalf? Or have more pureblood families been destroyed by it? Consider the fate of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Lestrange. Rosier. Black.” He turns his eyes to specific cloaked Death Eaters. “Nott?” To another. “Avery?” To the centermost one. “Malfoy? Even those who are not facing elimination in Britain, how many of them are better off now than they were before? How many were better off at the height of Tom’s power than they were before? How many of you truly wish for your children to face Tom’s cruciatus curse? To fear his killing curse for the slightest misstep? Have any of you ever known a child never to make a mistake? Never to make one that Tom would kill or torture them for?

“I ask you, Death Eaters. Why wouldn’t you want to see your lord dead? After all he’s put you through to accomplish nothing? Why would you believe that this return of his, already stopped once by a student, will end differently?”

Argo stops to let that sink in, then calmly says, “I know that when I tell you I do not believe in your supremacy, you have every reason not to trust me. But let me elaborate. I do not believe in pureblood supremacy, that is true. I do not believe in the senseless slaughter of muggles and muggleborn, that’s true. That is because I believe in the preservation of your families, of your ways and your lives, rather than the elimination of others. I believe you will rise to the top by uplifting your esteemed families rather than by simply lowering all others.

“My priority,” Argo says, “is not to raze those beneath you to the ground, but to raise you so high you need not fear the flames. And so, I ask you, Death Eaters: would you rather wrestle in the mud so far beneath you, or would you rather your families safe and whole, proving to the world with deed rather than words and violence that you are all you claim?

“The choice is yours. I will not pursue you if you leave. You will not pay the price your lord will, so long as you do not defend him. But know this: if you do defend him, if you follow once more loyally in his service, you will be hunted down alongside him. Make your choice.”

Malfoy takes a step forward. “Even if you are capable of all you claim,” he says carefully, “the Mark…”

“Ah,” Argo shakes his head slowly. “The Dark Mark. His Mark? Hold out your arm.”

Cautiously, Malfoy does just that, slowly raising his arm, holding it out to Argo. Argo lifts the sleeve gently, examining the mark marring him. “Yes,” Argo mutters. “Dark magic, as expected. I don’t have a solution at the moment, I admit, but if one of you is willing to work with me, allow me to study the Mark, I’m quite sure it will be removed in no time.” He smirks. “Certainly, before Tom gathers strength enough again to do anything about it.”

“Can you swear it?”

Argo tilts his head. “I’ve already told you that I won’t lie to you. I don’t have the research at the present moment to give you a one-hundred percent accurate estimate on the time it will take, nor do I have a completely reliable way to estimate how quickly Tom will gather power.” Argo meets Lucius’ eyes behind the mask. “But I can tell you this: I have one of the most gifted spellcrafters of our age ready and waiting for you. Look at my companions.”

The Death Eaters do, gasping aloud as if only just now recognizing the faces of his allies. Transfixed as they are by Argo himself, they very well may only just be noticing them at all.

“I believe completely that there is no one more capable of freeing you from this curse in the time you have than my current allies,” Argo says. “That, I can swear.”

Malfoy holds his gaze for a long, tense moment, and then, agonizingly slowly, he drops to his knees. He dips his head. “My Lord…” Lucius murmurs.

One by one, the other Death Eaters make their decisions. They kneel.

The champions only gawk. Their friend. Their trusted friend who guides them through the tasks, who gives so much to keep them all alive in this tournament rigged against them… is the new leader of the Death Eaters. The new Dark Lord.

Such myriad confusing, conflicting emotions war within them until, eventually, they just feel numb.

Argo looks down to the wampus at his side, communicating silently with it, then looks back to the Death Eaters. “Rise,” he says.

“My Lord,” Malfoy says, eyes flickering to the grotesque blob that is Voldemort. “Are you going to…”

“Kill him?” Argo asks, following Lucius’ gaze. “What purpose would it serve? You know of his horcruxes, I assume. Destroying this vessel of his would accomplish nothing at the moment. Not until the horcruxes are gone.”

“But surely, without a body…”

“Now, Malfoy,” Argo says with a wicked grin as he looms over Voldemort. “We mustn’t get hasty. These things should be approached with… wisdom, don’t you think? He’s weaker this way.”

“Weaker? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Argo hums. “Perhaps not the best choice of words. He’s easier to kill this way. He’s an easier target this way. He may, technically, be slightly stronger as he is than as a wraith, but think, Malfoy. As a wraith, he could possess people. He already infiltrated Hogwarts castle once using just that method. He could be anywhere, as anyone. Like this, however… when the time comes, when all the horcruxes are destroyed… then he’s just a sitting duck.”

Malfoy freezes in his spot, realizing just how calculating this boy truly is. Approach with wisdom indeed. This is the kind of lord who will allow his enemies a perceived strength solely for the purpose of using it against them.

He is a terrifying kind of person. When Malfoy remembers that he is the same age as his son, he becomes just a terrifying person in general. Just as wicked and clever as Voldemort, but in the way that appears as kindness or weakness. He is the kneazle who exposes his belly, only to catch your hand with his claws.

Argo pulls a vial from his pocket, examining it in the low moonlight. He uncorks it carefully, then dribbles a small stream into Voldemort’s malfigured maw. He rises, then, and does the same to Barty Crouch Junior, who is still glaring at him, though silenced by Reynard’s spell.

“Take him,” Argo says softly to Barty. “Take him and run. Flee as far as you can. And know that your desperate struggle to hold on to your past glories… is futile. There is not a place in this world that I cannot hunt you. I will rob you of everything.”

Then Argo unbinds Barty, who with so many wands on him, has no choice at all but to dive desperately for Voldemort’s mangled body and disapparate away.

“Should we not have held them, my lord?” Malfoy asks nervously. “Surely someone has a suitable prison.”

“No,” Argo says calmly. “They still have a part to play.”

Just as Lucius suspects of Argo’s character. Voldemort’s freedom is just another piece in his coming downfall.

Argo looks sideways to Reynard and Barnaby. “Go ahead and give our champions their medicine, will you? I’ve just got one last thing to say.”

The two older wizards nod and approach the restrained champions. Terror grips them as their heads are forcefully tipped back and half a vial each of strange potion is poured down their throats. As they face this, they hear, “I’ll let you all return to your families, but before you go, remember that it will be inconvenient for us all if my name becomes associated with this. I am, after all, still a student at Hogwarts.”

“What should we call you, my lord?” A Death Eater asks.

“Laelaps,” says Argo. The champions’ heads are swimming now, everything becoming less and less distinct. “The hound fated to always catch his prey.”

The champions, all together, slam into the ground, somehow miraculously staying on their feet. They are, each and every one, taken aback by the portkey no one bothers to tell them about and filled with a dull sort of dread that can only be paranoia in the face of the torrent of sound that deafens and confuses them. There are voices everywhere, footsteps, screams… all so suddenly from the oppressive silence within the maze.

Knowing the tournament is meant to kill at least one of them, the champions all fear they are under attack. But then the scene flickers oddly before their eyes, and slowly comes into clarity.

They stand at the entrance to the maze. For a brief, terrifying moment, they believe they have yet to enter, that everything is simply a dream – or premonition – but then they register the Triwizard Cup clutched in each of their four hands.

They’ve won. Won in this case meaning, of course, that they’ve survived.

“I don’t believe it!” Bagman’s voice pierces the mad cacophony. “All four champions have grabbed the cup at the same time! It’s a tie! Everyone receives full points for the task! That means the victors of the Triwizard Tournament are Viktor Krum and Harry Potter!”

But the champions barely hear him. They look at each other, take in the situation, take in that they are out, that the tournament is over, and they dive at each other for a tight, desperate group hug.

(“What did you give them?” asks Lucius Malfoy in the graveyard after the champions are sent on their way.

“Just a special potion,” says Laelaps, a gentle smile at his lips, “laced with swooping evil venom. The betrayal of a friend… what a horrible thing for them to witness. How lucky for them, then, that they won’t remember any of it.”

“I see. And… Him?”

“The same, but different. He will play his part; that’s what matters.” Laelaps stops just before the remains of a large snake, true sorrow obvious in his eyes as he looks down at it. “Malfoy… Tom Riddle, he called her Nagini. Is that her name?”

Malfoy, confused how such a detail can possibly matter, stammers, “I am afraid I do not know, my lord. He must have found it while he was in hiding. It was not present at the last war.”

Laelaps nods slowly. “…I know. She couldn’t have been.” Then he falls to his knees, carefully takes the snake’s enormous head into his arms, and hugs it close to his breast. “Nagini… I am so sorry. I hope that, in death, you’ve found freedom at last.”)

Dumbledore sees the champions appear holding the Triwizard Cup and nearly collapses with relief. Just like the champions themselves, Dumbledore, who knows only that someone enters Harry into the tournament for a reason, is happy just to see all of them emerge safe and whole.

And yet… nothing at all is answered.

Dumbledore checks in with the champions, congratulating them then, in the hospital wing, subtly questioning them, but it appears as if nothing is amiss. They do not discover who enters Harry’s name into the Goblet of Fire. No grand attempt to kill them or use them for some other nefarious purpose rears its head in the last task. They simply work together through the maze, grab the cup all at once, and, not long later, appear at the entrance as the victors.

Something happens tonight. Snape comes to him, showing him the Dark Mark upon his arm. Voldemort’s summons. And yet, for the champions, it appears as if nothing happens at all.

The fact that nothing at all seems to happen, however, is what Dumbledore finds most suspicious. The tasks are all dangerous, yes – too dangerous, in his opinion, but the Ministry overrules him – but there does not appear to be any rigging, any cheating, any subterfuge or shenanigans. The only odd thing about the tournament at all is the fact that Harry is entered.

Are Harry’s involvement in the tournament and Voldemort’s summons unrelated? So… can it be that Harry truly does enter himself? No, Dumbledore does not believe Harry would do that. The only student who possibly can is Argo, but as Argo correctly points out, he has no motivation.

Yet Argo is the only piece that does not fit. Why does he insist on making enemies? Why does he continue to spurn Harry, even when the entire school – the entire Wizarding World, it seems – is against him? Why maintain such distance from Harry, despite going out of his way to help the champions in the tournament, even Harry himself?

If there is any connection between the tournament and Voldemort… Argo is the only possible place for that connection to be made. Is what Dumbledore fears already coming to pass? Are the Death Eaters already advancing on Argo?

Snape promises that he’s looking after the boy. Argo is friends with Draco Malfoy, but Draco is no more a Death Eater than Harry is, at least so far. But Durmstrang, perhaps? Karkaroff, in hopes of gaining mercy from Voldemort?

Troubled, Dumbledore takes a walk, wanders the grounds, ambles upon one of Hogwarts’ stables. He enters, and there in one of the stalls, sleeps Argo, curled up in the hay, still in his school robes.

What can drive a boy so far as to sleep outside in the stables to protect himself from the other students, yet still refuse to so much as consider trying with Harry? Does he really hate Harry that much? It cannot be so. For all that Dumbledore senses a great loathing for himself, he never once gets the impression that Argo dislikes Harry.

This boy… this little boy curled up in hay… he carries such a great weight upon his shoulders. Dumbledore knows he does not ask for it, but it is there regardless. If he would only allow one concession, one tiny modicum of trust, Dumbledore would relieve him of that weight as much as he is able.

But how is he to help when he is kept so very far away?

Dumbledore sighs. He meanders back to the castle at a leisurely pace, troubled thoughts slowing him down.

(Inside the stable, a boy’s white-knuckled grip on his wand, hidden under his robes, slowly relaxes.)

All the way up in his office, Dumbledore looms over his pensieve. Thoughts swirl within and without as he watches, over and over again, memories.

“We should tell Argo,” Cedric says, sitting in his hospital bed. The other champions are in beds just next to him, all together.

“Argo?” Harry echoes. “I’m sure he doesn’t care.”

“Are you kidding? He’s the one that pointed out how we were lied to about the safety of the tournament. He’s the only reason we worked together.”

This revelation is devastating to Harry, who realizes only then that the boy who has all this time been denigrated and bullied for standing opposed to Harry is actually the one most singularly responsible for his survival through this whole year.

Harry’s expression dissolves away. A new scene forms, just outside the castle walls.

“I admire him, too.” Argo doesn’t quite look at Dumbledore, just back over his shoulder in Dumbledore’s direction. Down at the grass. He does not at all look the part of someone who has chosen what is easy. Dumbledore watches him walk away a second time, watches the even, unfaltering steps, and wonders if he truly is doing what is right.

The stone walls evanesce and the grass swirls into nothing. Dumbledore’s office now. He watches another version of himself, weary and old.

“I won’t have it, Dumbledore!” tiny Professor Flitwick barks with a fury beyond his size. “I will not stand for it! He will never trust us again!”

“He is already coordinating with the champions,” Dumbledore says calmly. “You see that this is the outcome he is hoping for, do you not?”

“That’s not the point. He’s only taking the place so that Miss Haywood does not have to! That he has to attempt such manipulations in the first place is only going to worsen-”

“Filius, please. I do not want to put any of our students down there, but what other choice do we have?”

“He hates us, Dumbledore!” Flitwick snaps. “I don’t care what you have to do. Do not let this happen. I beg you.” Flitwick seems to run out of steam completely, slumping where he stands. Water builds in his eyes. “That boy… He sleeps in the stables. Do you understand that, Dumbledore? His housemates cursed his bed.” Flitwick shakes his head. “He used to believe in people. He had faith in us as teachers and adults. Now, he won’t tell me when he can’t even safely go to his common room. I’m telling you; it is decisions just like this that are the reason his belief in us has completely shattered.”

“He will understand,” Dumbledore says softly. The Dumbledore watching can’t tell or remember if it is a plea to Flitwick, or to himself.

“He won’t,” Flitwick says with finality. “No, that’s not right. He will understand. He will understand perfectly. And he will despise us more than ever for just that very reason.”

The room dissolves, reforms anew. The same office, the same people, but this time the window is dark.

Flitwick is sitting this time, nearly hidden by Dumbledore’s desk. He frowns morosely at his hands in his lap.

“I understand,” Dumbledore says. “If you believe it best, I have no objections. They are excellent choices.” A pause. “May I ask? You brought these names to me, yet you seem dissatisfied.”

Flitwick breathes deeply but gives no reply.

“Are you, perhaps, considering Mister Scamander instead?”

Flitwick’s eyes rise to meet Dumbledore’s. “I’ve had Argo slated for prefect since his first year,” Flitwick says dully.

“Then why put Mister Goldstein’s name in front of me?”

“You know perfectly well why,” Flitwick mutters darkly. “It is because I, at least, want to repair his trust in me. Not push him even further away.”

Dumbledore raises a quizzical brow. “Would it not help to show to him that we trust him with the responsibility?”

Flitwick sighs. “How many times must I beg, Dumbledore? You must understand Argo before you take action with him. He is not Mister Potter. He will not respond to trust with trust in turn. He does not trust us enough to see a prefect appointment as a reward.”

Dumbledore leans back. “You believe he will see it as a shackle?”

“I believe he will see it as a leash,” Flitwick says. “One you will use to tug him away from what matters to him, towards something he does not wish for.” There’s a long, tense moment before Flitwick adds defiantly, “And I believe he would be right.”

It dissolves again. Now Dumbledore stands in a girl’s bathroom.

“The basilisk is alive?” Dumbledore asks, sounding surprised.

“Well, we weren’t going to kill her,” hisses Argo, with far more venom than anyone present, even his grandparents, have heard the boy use towards an adult. “Why? Did you want us to?”

Dumbledore blinks at the little boy with hair so much like Lily’s, and a temperament to match, it seems, and carefully smiles. “My boy, all I wish is for the students of this school to be safe.”

“That’s why you didn’t ask my grandpa for help from the start, is it? Because you wanted us to be safe?”

Swirling darkness, the Defense teacher’s office.

“I’m sorry, Headmaster, but on this I will not budge,” Lupin groans. “Argo has made himself clear. I will not impose upon him anymore.”

“You and Harry are his only connection to his family,” Dumbledore says.

Lupin stills, takes a long, deep, shaky breath, and sighs. After a moment of silence, he nods as if reaffirming something to himself. “If you still believe that,” he says, “then you are as blind to Argo as I was.” Lupin finishes packing his bag, latching the clasps with a final click. “Well… this is my parting advice, I suppose, so you can learn from my mistakes this year. Blood is a circumstance. It is not a bond.”

Lupin shuffles past him, towards the door. “Good day, Dumbledore. Watch out for him. Please.”

“…I will,” Dumbledore replies.

The Great Hall.

“Argo, my boy-”

“And why do I have to do this?” Argo growls, stepping through the runes to get in Dumbledore’s face – there is no remaining trace of trust or fondness in his eyes. Only hard resentment and pain lingers there. “Because you lied to me. Now I’m a suspect because you just couldn’t help yourself, so I have to do this to clear my name, because you set me up.”

“Argo,” Dumbledore says. “You must know that I had no idea something like this could happen.”

Argo stomps back to the cup, fuming, and spits. “I’m two for three on solving your messes, Headmaster. Get. Out. Let me solve this one for you, too.”

The Entrance Hall.

Dumbledore chuckles. “That is my own work – the formula for the age line you see before you. I suspect it will take you more than one day to unravel all its mysteries and doubtlessly find a way past it, so I feel confident that this line’s security will not be breached before the choosing.”

Argo grins, glancing up to Dumbledore from the formula. His eyes are delighted, playful even, but even now there’s something in them that Dumbledore can’t quite name. When Argo speaks it sounds just a little different to the Dumbledore watching and the Dumbledore who is spoken to.

“Is that a challenge, Headmaster?”

Dumbledore stands over his pensieve, searching desperately. Searching for anything.

He has to understand, finally, where he goes so wrong. He has to understand Argo before he makes any more brash and foolish mistakes.

(“Going somewhere?”

Karkaroff freezes on the spot. His breath catches in fear. Ever since he feels the burning, the summoning… if he does not escape, he will be punished. He will be punished far beyond his worst imagining.

With no other recourse, Karkaroff slowly holds his hands up and turns to look at the one holding a wand to his back.

The wizard in front of him, however, is completely disguised. A long, featureless black cloak, hood far over his head, it’s impossible to identify him. Even the wand, Karkaroff does not recognize. Another Death Eater, Karkaroff thinks. How can the Dark Lord already know he plans to leave? Surely the others do not answer the summons so quickly! Surely his resurrection takes time! Time Karkaroff should have to flee!

“If you’re worried about Tom Riddle,” the figure says, his wand still trained mercilessly on Karkaroff’s heart, “he won’t be bothering you anytime soon.”

The sheer wonderment of the statement provokes Karkaroff to speak. “What- what do you mean? Who are you talking about?”

The figure lifts his head, and just enough of the shadows cast by the hood recede to see the nose of a stylized mask. A dog. “Your master’s true name. Tom Riddle. He has not returned, as you fear. The summons came from… my master.”

“…Your master? You lie. The Dark Lord cannot be-”

“It’s the height of foolishness to betray someone who cannot be defeated, isn’t it?”)

“I’m going to miss you,” Argo whimpers against Niklas’ chest.

“We’ll see each other again,” Niklas murmurs, the low rumble calming to Argo’s ear. “I’m starting an apprenticeship, you know,” he says teasingly. “One of the best duelists in Britain apparently took interest in my performance at the gauntlet. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Argo snorts. “You don’t have to take it,” he says.

“Are you joking?”

“Only mostly,” Argo snickers. “Diego’s great. You’ll like him.”

“And it means I’ll at least be in the country.”

“That’s not why I told him about you.”

Niklas leans in close. “Isn’t it? I have to be honest, Argo… I don’t know if I should be disappointed by that.”

Argo just chuckles, shaking his head indulgently.

“Hey,” Niklas whispers, arms pulling Argo just a little tighter. “I… Be honest with me. Please. I know there’s… something between us.” He ducks his head, murmuring even quieter, “I know there’s something between you and George, too.” Clearer. “But… I don’t want to… I mean- I know you’re still fourteen. I don’t want to push at all in any way that might be inappropriate, but… I’d really like to know whether-”

Argo cups Niklas’ cheek in one hand and boldly presses his lips softly to the other. When Niklas is completely silent, Argo whispers, “Thanks. For everything. I… desperately needed you this year, and there you were.”

(“Who is your master?” Karkaroff asks. “How can they use the Dark Lord’s Mark? What do they intend with us?”

The dog-masked stranger hums quietly. “You can call him Laelaps. He will hunt down Riddle’s horcruxes and ensure this world is rid of him forever. You’re missing the demonstration, but… suffice it to say, he’s giving you a chance to help him. Do so, and in return he will help you.”

Karkaroff narrows his eyes. “Why would he trust me? Why should I believe this Laelaps will not punish me as the Dark Lord will?”

The stranger laughs. “Oh, only a fool would trust you, and Laelaps is no fool. But punish? No. So long as you remain useful, you need not fear his hounds.”

“Hounds…” Karkaroff echoes, taking in the curious dog mask. “Is that you? A Hound of Laelaps? Is that what he calls his Death Eaters?”

Again the stranger laughs, a little harder this time. “In this case, you’re going to need to think a little more literal.”)

Niklas takes Argo’s hand, presses a kiss to his knuckles. “Whenever you need me. Just don’t forget about me when you’re here with George next year, will you?”

“Never,” says Argo. “I’m pretty sure your dad is still planning on using you to seduce me into being his apprentice, anyway, so I’m sure I’ll get some reminders in the mail.”

Niklas drops his head into his hands. “Please tell me he didn’t.”

“Oh, he did. I thought it was just because he was drunk the first time, but I have letters.”

Laughing helplessly, Niklas asks, “Well, is it working?”

“I don’t know… you said you’re going to be here with Diego, didn’t you? I’m not sure why you seducing me would make me want to go to Berlin.”

(“What do you want?” Karkaroff hisses.

“The same thing my master wants,” the stranger says. “To ensure that Riddle never rises again. To hunt him to the ends of the Earth and destroy him utterly before he brings another age of senseless chaos.”

“And how do I play into this?”

“You don’t,” says the stranger. “But your position puts you in a convenient place to help us get information on someone who does.”

Karkaroff, sensing finally that he can be useful, can be spared, pounces immediately. “Who?”

The stranger’s head tips back just slightly, so that in the dim light it appears as if his dog-like mask is smiling. “Gellert Grindelwald, of course.”

There is no one in the world, possibly including Voldemort, that Karkaroff wants to be less involved with, but… if it keeps Laelap’s hounds off of him… if it ensures his freedom… “I will cooperate,” he promises. “Just tell me what you need.”

“In time,” says the stranger, the Hound. “You will hear from us when we need you.”)

“I meant the seducing you part,” Niklas says teasingly, still beet-red in the cheeks.

“Didn’t I answer that already?” says Argo. His smile wavers a little after a pause. “Niklas… I think you already know. It’s why we haven’t actually talked about it until now. Why we always left it as it was.”

Niklas nods slowly. “It’s not the time, I know. But I also am serious. Don’t forget about me, okay? Who knows where our lives will take us, but… when we’re both there… let’s see what happens?”

Argo grins. “Deal.”

“Deal,” Niklas echoes. “Good.” He coughs awkwardly. “Uh… good. I’ll… see you later, then? You’ll write?”

“Yeah,” Argo says easily. “You can write to me anytime, too, although… I do sometimes drop off the map. And I mean that somewhat literally.”

“Expeditions into the wilderness?”

“…Yeah,” Argo admits. “I’ll write back whenever I can, though. Oh, and I plan on seeing Diego over the summer, too, so maybe we’ll run into each other?”

Niklas smile stretches into a grin. “That’d be great! See you then?”

“See you then.”

Argo makes his rounds with his teachers, preparing his summer work, updating on his extra or advanced lessons, as he does every year.

Currently, he sits in the office of the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Eulalie Hicks.

Professor Hicks sighs. “I wish I could go back to your grandparents with better news. Do you have any updates since our last chat?”

Argo privately thinks of Helena, who certainly knows something, but as Argo has no idea just how much she knows or why she’s so reluctant to share, he deems sharing that information at the moment too risky. He doesn’t want to upset her more and lose any chance of learning what she has.

But he can’t lie to his auntie Lally, so he says, “I have a lead on something, but… it’s nothing worth getting into, yet.”

“And here we were hoping I could get the horcrux out of this school without raising any alarms… if you find it next year, you’ll likely have to find a way to get it to us yourself. That requires more handling of it than we want you to have to worry about.”

Argo smiles softly. His chest floats, it always does with the proof that someone actually does care about him. “Don’t worry about me, Auntie. You know I’ll find a way.”

Lally frowns. “I know you’re a very clever boy, Argo, but… whatever you do, do not take the threat these items pose lightly. Even without extra enchantments, they could do any number of horrible things, and I sincerely doubt Voldemort would have left their own protections as the only things guarding them. That’s why we didn’t want you to have to handle this thing at all.”

Her concern makes Argo take a moment to collect himself and respond with the appropriate seriousness. “I’m not being flippant, I promise. I’ll be more careful than I’ve ever been before. But I am still confident that I can do this. Trust me. I’ll ask for help if I need it.”

Auntie Lally smiles fondly at him for a moment, then reaches out to ruffle his hair. “I know you will. And you know we’re not going to stop worrying.” Her smile falls. “Argo… I am so sorry about this year. I was right here in the school and still I couldn’t do anything to help you when everyone was against you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Auntie. Tea with you every week was a highlight of the year. And I wasn’t alone. I still have friends here, and I even made some from the other schools.”

“Right,” Lally says. “You got pretty close to that Durmstrang boy. Mister Vogel, was it?”

Argo groans. “Auntie Lally…”

“But seriously,” Lally says. “I spent so much time looking in vain for that damn horcrux that I wasn’t here for you when you needed me.”

“You were. I couldn’t have made it through this year without you.” Argo sighs heavily. “I don’t know what I’m going to do next year. My friends are going to get sick of me since I can’t hang off of you or Niklas.”

“You are one of the strongest people I know, Argo,” Lally says slowly. “Just like always, I know you’ll find a way.”

“Your performance in these extracurricular lessons has been… acceptable,” drawls Professor Snape. “Return to me next year and we will discuss how to continue as you approach your O.W.L.s. Remember you will need an Outstanding if you wish to take N.E.W.T. level classes.”

Argo lifts his chin, knowing just as well as Snape does that he’s already well into N.E.W.T. level potions and that if he gets any less than an Outstanding on his O.W.L., even if he takes it now, it will be a massive shock. He doesn’t expect Snape to acknowledge that, though, and he isn’t going to bring it up. That’s not a great way to deal with Snape’s general demeanor. Instead, Argo says simply, “Of course, sir.”

Argo is about to turn and leave when Snape speaks again. Snape, who has all year been trying to figure out this boy and, much to his chagrin, still comes up short, is ordered by Dumbledore to infiltrate the Death Eaters again. Dumbledore fears Voldemort somehow reaches Argo, that Argo may have something to do with the summons.

Snape is not so sure. Aside from Argo’s friendship with Draco and acquaintanceship with some other more questionable Slytherins, there’s no indication that he at all allies with the Dark Lord. Argo makes and maintains connections with people of all kinds. He defends everyone equally. He does not in any way exhibit the values the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord have.

But then, if there is one thing Snape knows for sure about Argo, it is that he is clever. If the role were not such a horrible thing, Snape would recommend he turn spy. He’d be good at it. After all, his whole attitude in Potions class is a quickly constructed façade. He figures out what Snape responds to and makes himself that by the second week of his first year. Now, he’s Snape’s best student. That’s not just the way he is, no. Snape distinctly remembers his very first class with Argo, where Argo responds to Snape like a submissive animal, whimpering and rolling over, even when he proves more talented than the rest. What he is now in Snape’s presence is the way he’s makes himself to be.

If there is anyone who can work for the Dark Lord right under both Dumbledore and Snape’s nose, Argo is a very good candidate. Snape has to be sure.

So, just before Argo turns to leave, Snape says, “It never ceases to amaze how different you are from Potter.”

Argo stills, looks back skeptically. Suspicious. Good. Snape would be equally surprised and disappointed if Argo receives that statement from Snape with no suspicion.

Argo levelly replies, “I can’t imagine why, sir. The places we come from can’t be more different. It only makes sense that we would be.”

“One should think, then, that you would be in Slytherin – against Potter’s Gryffindor. No?”

Argo laughs a sigh, shaking his head as he smiles. “Sir, I would think you, of all people, would know that Gryffindor and Slytherin are hardly opposites. Personally, I think your houses hate each other so much precisely because you’re so alike.”

“Be careful who you say that to,” Snape warns. “Most Slytherins would not take kindly to the sentiment.”

Argo openly snorts. “Nor would most Gryffindors, sir. One could say they would react nearly exactly the same way.”

Ah. Touché.

“No, sir, I belong in Ravenclaw. Of that, I’m sure,” Argo says. “And because it’s obvious the headmaster put you up to this, I’ll go ahead and tell you the same thing I’ve said a hundred times before: I have nothing against Potter. I don’t want a fabricated family – that’s all. I’m perfectly willing and happy to be friends with him, just not more than that. If Potter finds it in himself to stomach that, then I’ll gladly pick right up where we left off before he ever knew about it.”

“Do you think that will ever happen?”

The smile Argo gives him is definitely not a happy one, but neither is it regretful. It’s almost… mocking. And he answers, “No.”

#write #fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #wizarding world

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