Night fell.
An augury burst through the curtain of rain.
A large boot splashed into a puddle formed by the downpour.
Muddy water sprayed across the man's robe, but he didn't care.
His thin chin and wet goatee clung to his neck, dripping.
Panicked and disoriented, he ran blindly into the wild forest.
Figures flitted past the tree trunks one after another, sending waves of terror through him.
"N-no, please—" A flash of lightning split the sky, revealing his face.
Tall and gaunt, his head covered in white hair.
His robe was filthy, and his trembling hand clutched a wand tightly. His face was a picture of pure fear.
"Please… I beg you, let me go."
Igor Karkaroff.
Headmaster of Durmstrang.
Once a Death Eater—Now he was nothing more than a hunted dog, chased through the open wilds.
Rain poured down on him, soaking him to the bone and leaving him utterly disheveled.
"Karkaroff. Oh, Karkaroff."
The voice was smooth and delicate, like an old friend's greeting.
Another bolt of lightning tore through the sky.
The night exploded in blinding white.
Karkaroff froze in terror—three figures stood about ten meters ahead.
They wore long black coats that blended seamlessly with the darkness, like reapers come to harvest his soul.
Their hats shielded their faces from the falling rain.
When the light faded, Karkaroff raised his wand toward them in panic.
A flash of spellfire streaked across the night, striking a tree and blowing a jagged hole through its trunk.
But the figures were gone.
"Who are you people?! What do you want? I.. I can give you a—" Karkaroff shouted, his voice cracking with hysteria.
"Ssh~ We serve only the strong."
Boom—!
A bolt of lightning struck a tall tree in the distance, the crack of thunder landing far too close for comfort.
Before Karkaroff could react, they were there—less than two meters away.
Face to face, he stared in disbelief.
The lightning's glow vanished, plunging them back into darkness.
In its place, three flashes of green light lit up the night.
Then—"Reanimatio Ossium."
"Morsmordre." A Dark Mark unfurled across the sky.
When Karkaroff was found, his limbs were cold and his body lifeless.
On the tree he had died against, a single line had been carved:
"This is the price of betrayal. Those who stand against me—tremble."
A rough, aged hand brushed against the bark. An old man with a sweeping silver beard frowned deeply.
"It's him," the old man murmured, disbelief clouding his eyes. "Voldemort—he was here."
The Aurors around him wore grim expressions as they searched the area for clues.
The old man turned to the man standing just behind them. "Mr. Edgar, your family knows the Dark Arts better than anyone."
The prejudiced tone didn't disturb Ludvesi's calm. He stepped forward, crouched, and examined Karkaroff's body.
"The Killing Curse," Ludvesi said, giving voice to the conclusion that made the old man's heart sink. "Yeluvan, there are signs of a chase—he wasn't alone."
Yeluvan—that was the old man's name.
Frustrated, Yeluvan yanked at his own beard. "Impossible. He was supposed to be alone—completely cut off."
"He had that madwoman with him," Ludvesi replied, his tone steady. "We all saw Karkaroff's fear a while back."
"Yes… I know."
Even if he wanted to deny it, the truth was undeniable.
No matter how much Yeluvan resisted, he had to face one reality—
The Dark Lord might still be nearby.
A moment later, an owl swooped down from the dark sky. Ludvesi reached to take the letter it carried, but Yeluvan snatched it from his hands.
"Headmaster of Durmstrang?" Yeluvan's eyes widened as he read. "When did this happen?"
"The Headmaster of Durmstrang abandoned the school and fled," Ludvesi explained patiently. "The school board has extended an invitation to me."
"They actually asked you?" Yeluvan's beard bristled as he glared, his eyes widening like bronze bells. "That's completely irresponsible! The wicked Edgar should never sit in that position!"
"You're free to discuss that with the board," Ludvesi replied, his tone cooling. "Now, it's time you returned what's mine."
Yeluvan huffed angrily, but after a moment, handed the letter back.
"I'll be having words with them," he muttered, leaving behind a threat before departing with the Aurors and Karkaroff's body.
Ludvesi looked down at the letter in his hand, murmuring to himself, "Resourceful, aren't you?"
He cast one last deep glance at the words carved into the tree, then turned and walked away.
…
"Former Durmstrang Headmaster Found Dead — He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Strikes Again."
The headline soared through the wizarding world, delivered to countless homes by owl.
As one owl flew over Privet Drive, ready to drop off the morning paper—Twack!
A snowy owl swooped down from above, kicking it aside and snatching the paper away.
John watched as Basil flew toward him with the newspaper, her domineering behavior no longer surprising in the slightest.
John was sipping a cup of Mrs. Wick's freshly ground coffee as he read the newspaper.
Watson stood before the mirror, adjusting his tie and asking the king piece from his wizard's chess set, "How's this?"
"Very handsome," the chess king said flatteringly, giving him a thumbs-up. "Let's hope the girls on the street don't faint at the sight of you."
Fastening his red checkered tie, Watson sat down at the table for breakfast.
He held a copy of the Daily Prophet in his hand. If it weren't for the inconvenience, he would've bought an owl of his own by now—these magical newspapers were far more entertaining than the Muggle ones.
"Who's this Igor Karkaroff?" Watson asked curiously. "And what's a Death Eater?"
John took a bite of his sandwich and explained in terms Watson could understand. "A school headmaster. Used to be part of a terrorist organization. Later betrayed their leader—and got killed in revenge."
"There are terrorists in the wizarding world too?" Watson's eyes widened in amazement.
He'd recently seen how popular 'Swinging My Greatsword at Hogwarts'by Lockhart had become, and when John went to buy textbooks, Watson had him pick up a copy for himself too.
John responded absently, the easy banter between father and son drawing a smile from Mrs. Wick.
Watching the two of them, she glanced at the wall clock and said with a gentle reminder, "Time's almost up."
Watson looked over—only ten minutes left. He hurriedly stuffed food into his mouth, chased it down with a gulp of milk, and stood up.
"Sorry, things at the hotel have been a mess lately. I can't come with you to shop today."
He leaned in to steal a quick moment of affection with his wife, then hurried out the door.
John looked at his mother, Mrs. Wick, her face flushed with that unmistakable, girlish warmth of affection. He quietly lifted the newspaper higher, using it to hide the faintly pained expression that crossed his own face.
Watson had wanted to join his son for the textbook shopping on a whim.
But, at the last moment, problems had arisen at the hotel—ones that needed his personal attention. He could only promise he'd definitely take John to Hogwarts when term began.
After breakfast, John climbed into the car that Mrs. Wick was driving.
He could have simply teleported there, of course, but he decided to go along—it was a good chance to keep her company.
As he gazed out the window at the light drizzle, a hint of reflection flickered in his eyes.
"John," Mrs. Wick's voice pulled him from his thoughts. She kept her eyes on the road as she spoke. "Your father has been trying very hard."
"He didn't believe in magic at first. He didn't even like wizards."
"When he found out you were one—and that you'd be going to a school for wizards—he was actually terrified."
"He used to think of witches and dark spells, the kind you hear about in storybooks. Just the thought of it made him uneasy."
John's thoughts were interrupted; he turned to look at his mother.
"But he's been trying," she continued softly. "Trying not to let that worry show, trying not to make you feel different. He's been doing his best to act like an eager, silly child who's fascinated by everything connected to magic. He is.. sigh.."
They stopped at an intersection, waiting for the cars to pass.
"He managed it," she said, her tone gentle but tinged with something wistful. "But even now, he can't stop wanting to understand the dangers of that world."
"All these years, he's learned from you that your world is just like ours—filled with good people and bad, with dangers and crimes alike."
"He's been suppressing that worry, hiding it so well that even I almost believed he'd gotten over it."
"But if you ever went missing, if you were ever in danger… he'd fall apart. He'd lose his mind."
Mrs. Wick turned to her beloved son, smiling warmly. "You're our pride, Johnnykins. We love you."
"No matter who you are or what kind of person you become, we'll always stand by you."
"So do I," John said, looking at her with a sincere smile. "I love you both—always have."
Mrs. Wick reached over and gently ran her fingers through his hair.
Their tender moment was interrupted by a loud honk from behind. Mrs. Wick's smile faltered.
Rolling down the window, she leaned out and offered a very universal gesture of goodwill. (The middle finger)
Starting the car again, John could only shake his head helplessly. He was all too familiar with his mother's temper behind the wheel.
Through the rearview mirror, he saw the furious driver of the pickup truck behind them.
Expressionless, John snapped his fingers.
The driver's tires burst instantly, sending the truck veering into a fire hydrant on the curb.
As long as the other driver suffered enough, Mrs. Wick's road rage would vanish.
John thought to himself that he truly was a good son.
________
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