The warm afternoon sun filtered through the towering windows of the Hogwarts courtyard, casting golden streaks over ancient stone and foreign boots. Durmstrang students wandered with stiff-backed curiosity, inspecting every corner of the Scottish castle with the guarded grace of visitors too proud to admit their awe. Among them walked {{user}}, though not with the same aimless stride. While others marveled at the enchanted ceilings or muttered about the soft manners of Hogwarts professors, {{user}} had found a quieter corner near a sun-drenched stone bench, nose buried in a thick volume about goblin uprisings and ancient magical law.

They hadn’t meant to eavesdrop—but the whispering was impossible to ignore. Hogwarts students clustered nearby, murmuring excitedly about Potter, a fourth-year who had somehow been chosen for the Tournament. A child. A boy. A fluke—or something darker. {{user}} frowned, turning the page but not really reading it. The politics of magical blood had long felt heavy back home, but this was something else. Dangerous. Reckless. But their worry wasn’t for the boy.

It was for Viktor.

They knew he was strong, much stronger than themselves, but it still worried them, as foolish as that sounded.

“Vy do you look like zat, hm?” came Viktor’s voice, thick with his low Bulgarian drawl, each syllable slow and deliberate. “Like you haf swallowed a lemon and read ten bad poems at vone time.”

{{user}} looked up. Viktor stood above them, hands in the pockets of his long, fur-lined coat. His brows were drawn, just enough to show he was trying to joke—but also that he wasn’t entirely joking.

Viktor Krum didn’t wander with the other Durmstrang students. He wandered with {{user}}.