Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The stars above Privet Drive did not twinkle.

They hung cold and distant in the night sky, faint pinpricks of light in an otherwise empty black canvas. Below them, in the smallest bedroom of Number Four, a boy no older than six sat curled beneath a thin blanket, his knees pulled to his chest. His glasses, taped at the bridge, sat askew on his nose. The light from the streetlamp outside cut through the blinds in thin slashes, carving lines of shadow across his face.

Harry Potter did not cry. Not anymore.

There was a time when he did—when he still believed someone might hear, might care. But time had stripped him of that hope. The cupboard had been traded for this room, the bars on the windows installed when he grew “troublesome,” and the locked door now kept him inside instead of something out. He had learned that silence was safer. Silence didn’t earn him bruises.

Downstairs, a bottle shattered. Vernon Dursley’s voice roared, slurring through something about freaks, demons, curses. Petunia’s shrill whisper followed. Dudley snored in the next room, blissfully unaware.

Harry flinched at the noise but didn’t move. His thoughts floated far from the house. Sometimes, he imagined running away. Sometimes, he imagined wings. Sometimes, he just imagined being someone else.

But tonight was different.

Tonight, the cold in his bones felt final. The air felt strange. Heavy. A tension in the fabric of things, as if the world had drawn a breath and was holding it.

Then came the sound of footsteps. Slow. Measured. Upstairs.

That couldn’t be right.

Harry looked toward the door just as the lock clicked open from the outside.

It wasn’t Vernon. It wasn’t Petunia.

The door creaked inward on its own.

For a moment, no one stood there. Nothing. Just shadow and air.

Then a figure stepped into the light.

It was faceless. Robed. Not human—but not monstrous either. It felt... cold. Inevitable. Like a memory long forgotten or a truth long denied.

Harry couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

The figure extended a hand—not threatening, not gentle either.

“Your time here is done,” it said. The voice was not heard but known. A whisper inside the soul. “This place was not meant for you.”

Harry’s lips parted, but no words came. He didn’t understand. He wanted to ask why, wanted to know who—

—but the world was already fading.

No pain. No warmth. Just the slow, drifting sensation of falling backward into a sea of nothing.

And then...

Silence.

He did not remember the passage.

He did not remember the soul being reborn, screaming and slick in the arms of a weary midwife beneath the shattered sigil of a cursed church.

He did not remember the name Harry.

But the soul persisted.

Its scars did not vanish—they became instincts. Deep-rooted reflexes. A tendency toward battle, a fire that refused to be extinguished.

The child grew.

Raised not in safety but survival. In a house of ruins. Among books written in blood and weapons blessed in fire. The last of a lineage buried by fear and flame.

He was taught to fight before he could read. Taught to endure before he could speak.

He bore the name Trevor.

Trevor Belmont.

The last son of a cursed house, trained to slay monsters, raised to hunt shadows, and born from a soul that once belonged to a boy with a lightning-shaped scar and too much love in his heart.

The world would never know the name Harry Potter again.

But something still lingered.

In dreams. In darkness. In the quiet moments after battle, when Trevor looked at the stars and felt like they should mean something more.

He never knew why they made him feel sad.

Years passed like the turning of pages in a blood-soaked book.

Trevor Belmont became legend by necessity, not choice. He walked from one ruined village to another, his name spoken in equal parts fear and awe. He drank too much, laughed too little, and killed monsters with a brutal grace that was almost poetic. If there was poetry in violence, Trevor had mastered it.

He didn’t remember where he came from. But he knew what he was.

A weapon. A hunter. The last of a line made for one purpose: to fight back against the dark.

But even weapons break.

He would have died in a nameless alleyway, alone and bleeding beneath the shattered ribs of a vampire he barely killed in time—if not for the mage who walked into his life with fire in her hands and fury in her heart.

Sypha Belnades.

A Speaker. A scholar. A storm wrapped in silk and flame. She found him in his lowest moment and told him to stand up. And, for reasons he couldn’t explain, he did.

Then came the third: the son of the enemy.

Adrian Tepes.

They called him Alucard—the mirror of Dracula. Pale, beautiful, deadly. Born of a vampire king and a human woman, he carried tragedy in his bones like Trevor carried iron in his fists.

They should have hated each other. But instead, they stood side by side.

Three souls, so different. A hunter, a scholar, a prince of night. Bound by blood, battle, and loss.

They killed Dracula together.

They survived Hell together.

And somewhere, between swords and spells and silence, they became something more.

Not friends.

Not lovers.

Something deeper.

Three stars pulled into the same orbit, bound by something older than fate.

---

The world moved on.

Evil never truly died, only changed faces. So they kept fighting. Kept traveling. Kept choosing each other.

The bond that formed in war settled into something warm, if not peaceful. Trevor still drank too much. Sypha still scolded him. Adrian still vanished at dusk and returned at dawn like a ghost pretending not to care.

But they did care.

They cared enough to refuse death. Not out of fear—but out of love.

Years after the last great battle, when time should have worn them thin, they made a choice.

They stood in a forgotten chapel beneath the ruins of Dracula’s final stronghold. A place where magic clung to stone like ivy. They carved runes in blood and silver, whispered truths into the bones of the earth, and made a pact with something ancient and watching.

Not vampires.

Not mortals.

Something in between.

Half-dead, half-living. Timeless.

They would walk together forever.

Trevor’s hand, calloused and scarred, closed around Sypha’s. Adrian’s fingers, cold and sure, brushed Trevor’s wrist. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

The ritual sealed them.

The world changed, but they didn’t. Not anymore.

They became myth.

A trio at the top of the vampire hierarchy—respected by some, feared by most. They didn’t seek thrones or titles. They wanted nothing but each other, and the occasional reason to kill something evil.

Peace came in strange forms: a borrowed library, a castle garden, the way Sypha fell asleep over books and Adrian carried her without waking her, the way Trevor stared at them like he couldn’t believe they were real.

And then...

One night, Trevor woke with a whisper in his chest.

Not a voice. Not a word.

A pull.

Old magic, older than the land they stood on. Something calling to the soul beneath the skin.

He sat up slowly. Sypha stirred beside him. Adrian was already watching.

“You feel it too?” Trevor asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Adrian nodded. “It knows you.”

Sypha frowned. “What is it?”

Trevor stood. He looked at his hands. His reflection. The stars.

“I think...” he said slowly, “...someone just summoned us.”

He smiled.

It was not a happy smile.

It was a Trevor smile. Dry, amused, and half-expecting a fight.

“Pack your things,” he said over his shoulder as he reached for his whip. “Looks like we’re going on vacation.”

Chapter Text

The Goblet of Fire burned steadily, its flame an unnatural blue that hissed and danced without fuel.

It sat atop its pedestal like a king’s crown, casting strange shadows across the Great Hall. Students watched with bated breath, some leaning so far forward over the tables that their elbows slipped from the polished wood.

All eyes were on the fire.

The tension was almost reverent.

Then the flames pulsed—softly at first. A flicker, like a heartbeat.

A single sheet of parchment spat from its depths, scorched at the edges but clearly legible.

“Viktor Krum!”

Cheers exploded from the Durmstrang table. The heavy-set young man stood, nodding stiffly, his cloak flaring slightly as he moved with controlled confidence. His presence filled the space. Even those who didn’t know him personally could feel the weight of his reputation.

He disappeared through the side chamber door.

The flames settled, then flared again.

“Fleur Delacour.”

She stood like a queen, gliding down the aisle without a word. Her hair shimmered under the floating candles, and her beauty drew several stares. Some students murmured, others simply watched in awe.

Then, a beat later—

“Cedric Diggory!”

Hogwarts roared. The Hufflepuff table surged with excitement, and Cedric looked momentarily startled, then proud. His smile was sheepish as he made his way to the front, brushing back his hair with one hand.

Three names. Three champions.

The fire dimmed.

Dumbledore stepped forward. His expression was warm, expectant. “And that concludes the—”

The Goblet screamed.

There was no other word for it. The flames didn’t flicker—they howled. A sharp, splitting noise echoed through the hall, like a wind tearing through stone.

The light shifted from blue to blistering white, flaring so bright that students flinched and shielded their eyes.

The flame burst upward in a twisting column of fire.

Gasps. Panic. The very air in the Great Hall seemed to convulse.

A fourth piece of parchment flew out. Unlike the others, it burned on the edges as it fell, turning end over end before drifting into Dumbledore’s waiting hand.

He caught it slowly, like the parchment was hot.

Silence spread like smoke.

Dumbledore read the name. His brows furrowed. Then his expression collapsed into something unreadable—shock, pain, disbelief.

His mouth opened, but it took him a second to speak.

“Harry Potter.”

Time froze.

For a moment, no one moved. Not a single whisper disturbed the air.

Then came the murmurs.

“But that’s impossible—”

“He died—”

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

A girl from Ravenclaw stared at the staff table in disbelief. “He was just a kid... he died years ago.”

Others nodded slowly, the name heavy in their minds like a ghost pulled from a grave.

Snape stood sharply. His robes flared around him like a shadow given form. His face was unreadable, but his hand twitched slightly at his side—as if it expected a wand without his permission.

McGonagall sat rigid, one hand clenching the back of her chair.

Even Hagrid, seated quietly at the far end, looked as if he’d seen a ghost. His massive shoulders hunched forward, eyes locked on the parchment as if he could will it to change.

The Goblet was quiet again. Still. But the energy in the room hadn’t left.

Something hung in the air.

Wrong.

Dumbledore looked at the name again. His voice was quieter now, no longer addressing the room—just himself.

“This cannot be...”

Then, the world shattered again.

The space beside the Goblet split open.

Not physically—not with a door or portal—but with a sound. A low, thunderous crack, as if reality itself had been torn at the seams. A vertical tear of white light appeared, suspended a few feet above the floor.

The temperature dropped.

The tear in the air widened, stretching with a sound like cracking ice under pressure. It pulsed with a kind of hunger—magic that didn’t belong here, magic that felt like it had teeth.

Then someone stepped through.

The first figure emerged with the easy gait of someone used to trouble. His boots hit the stone floor with solid weight, his long coat shifting around his legs. He looked up at the hall, unimpressed. His hair was a little too messy, his stubble more “hasn’t shaved in days” than intentional style, and a coiled whip hung from his belt.

Trevor Belmont squinted under the floating candles and muttered, “Huh. Definitely not a vampire castle.”

Behind him, Sypha Belnades stepped through the rift, her arms folded as she scanned the room with sharp, curious eyes. She took in the students, the floating candles, the stunned silence.

“Well,” she said lightly, “this is quaint.”

The last to appear was Adrian Tepes, moving with the slow grace of something not entirely human. His boots didn’t echo. His cloak didn’t rustle. His golden eyes swept the room, and though he said nothing, several students flinched under the weight of his gaze.

Sypha leaned toward Trevor and whispered, “Tell me this isn’t some kind of magically gifted boarding school.”

Trevor rolled his eyes. “I was hoping for a battlefield. Maybe a vampire uprising. Not…” He gestured vaguely to the startled crowd. “…children in robes.”

“I like the ceiling,” Adrian murmured. His voice was soft, but it carried. “They’ve enchanted it to mimic the sky. Clever.”

“Creepy,” Trevor replied. “Feels like the place is watching us.”

“It is,” Adrian said simply.

By now, the silence in the hall had broken into confused murmurs. Students were whispering behind hands, some wide-eyed, others leaning away as if proximity might make them part of whatever was happening.

Fred Weasley grinned. “This is either a dream or the start of a very interesting year.”

George muttered, “Please let them be our new Defense professors.”

Ron’s eyes were glued to Trevor. “That guy looks like Charlie if Charlie had seen some things. And drank. A lot.”

Up at the staff table, Dumbledore looked like someone had yanked the rug out from under a carefully planned show. He stepped forward, parchment still in hand, eyes fixed on the newcomers.

“You… were summoned?” he asked gently.

Trevor shrugged. “Something started tugging at my soul. Next thing I know, we’re walking through a hole in the air. So, yeah. Looks like it.”

Sypha tilted her head at Dumbledore. “You’re the head of this place?”

“I am,” he replied cautiously. “Albus Dumbledore. And you are?”

“Not your problem,” Trevor said, casually cracking his neck. “Unless this is about a fight. Then maybe.”

“Trevor,” Sypha scolded, elbowing him. “He’s being polite.”

“I’m being efficient,” Trevor muttered. “Look, the magic called us. We came. I don’t know what you people were expecting, but we’re not leaving. So if this is about some magical contest or whatever…” He looked around at the stunned crowd. “…we’ll do it.”

“You’ll what?” Dumbledore asked, voice sharp now.

Trevor jerked a thumb toward the Goblet. “You summoned us. Probably meant to get someone else. Tough luck. We’re here now.”

Adrian finally spoke, his voice calm and cool like drifting snow. “The spell recognized his soul,” he said, nodding toward Trevor. “It doesn’t matter what body it wears.”

That statement landed like thunder. Students froze again, the words echoing in their heads.

His soul?

Whispers surged anew.

“Did he say soul?”

“What does that mean—”

“Is he possessed—?”

“Wait—he’s Harry Potter?”

Trevor turned to Adrian with a frown. “You could’ve worded that less dramatically.”

Adrian’s lips quirked in a rare, dry smirk. “I like watching them panic.”

Sypha let out a sigh and turned back to Dumbledore. “If you want us to compete, fine. We’ll take turns. It’ll be more interesting that way.”

Dumbledore blinked. “That’s not how the Tournament works—”

“Not our problem,” Trevor said again.

Then he turned on his heel and started toward the doors.

“We’ll figure out the rest later. Come on. I need a drink.”

Sypha followed, muttering, “Do not start a fight with any more political bodies, Trevor. We agreed on one month without sword-related problems.”

Adrian lingered a second longer, eyes sweeping the crowd again. They all looked so young. Soft, by his standards.

His gaze paused briefly on a boy in Hufflepuff robes with dirt on his sleeves—Neville Longbottom, though he didn’t know that name yet. Something in that quiet boy intrigued him.

Then Adrian turned and followed the others out, the doors closing behind them without a sound.

The Great Hall erupted.

The castle breathed around them.

Not literally, but it felt like it. The halls of Hogwarts were ancient, aware in a way most buildings weren’t. The stone had seen centuries pass through its bones, and now it watched again—quiet and waiting.

The trio walked without speaking at first, their footsteps echoing against the stone floor. Torchlight flickered in the sconces, casting shadows that twisted behind them. Still too many whispers lingered in the air from the Great Hall. Still too many eyes trying to make sense of what had happened.

Trevor grunted as they turned a corner. “So. This is what the magical soul-summoning ritual dragged us into. A school.”

He let out another sound as he pushed open a door that looked like it belonged on a dungeon, not a school corridor. “This place has way too many hallways.”

Sypha spun slowly in the middle of a long stone corridor, arms crossed. “I think the building is enchanted. It’s... shifting. Like it’s responding to us.”

“That’s comforting,” Trevor muttered, eyeing a suit of armor that looked a little too sentient for his liking. “Why is that one breathing?”

Adrian gave the armor a flat look. “It’s enchanted. But harmless.”

“Define ‘harmless,’” Trevor muttered. “Because last time I trusted a suit of armor, it tried to stab me in the kidney.”

Sypha smirked. “You were trying to rob the crypt it was guarding.”

Trevor spread his hands. “That’s what crypts are for, Sypha.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet here we are.”

Adrian remained quiet. He studied the shifting portraits as they passed. One of them—a former headmistress—crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow at him. He raised one back. She looked away first.

“I don’t like how the walls look at us,” he said softly.

“That’s because you look like you’ve killed three headmasters just by blinking,” Sypha said sweetly.

“Only one,” Adrian replied, not missing a beat.

Sypha rolled her eyes. Trevor chuckled.

They stepped into a courtyard bathed in moonlight. The sky above was clear and endless, framed by ivy-covered archways. Somewhere to the left, the quiet trickle of a fountain echoed against the stone.

A few students scattered the moment they entered, skittering away like startled deer.

“Well, that’s promising,” Trevor said, watching a small group of Hufflepuffs vanish into a side corridor. “Nice to know we’re already the local cryptids.”

“They’re young,” Adrian said. “And afraid.”

Sypha gave a little twirl in place, lifting her arms toward the stars. “We are walking myths to them. Honestly, I’m impressed they didn’t scream.”

“They screamed internally,” Adrian replied.

"That’s not helping,” Trevor muttered.

“Do you care?” Sypha asked, amused.

Trevor shrugged. “Not really. Just... observing.”

Trevor rubbed at his jaw. “Alright, so what’s the plan here? Do we... I don’t know. Check in somewhere? Talk to a headmaster? Fill out a form?”

Sypha gave him a look. “When have we ever filled out a form?”

“Okay, but what are we supposed to do?”

“We were summoned,” Adrian said, folding his arms. “Not briefed.”

Trevor frowned. “So we’re just... wandering?”

“We’ve done worse.”

“Fair.”

They stood there for a moment longer, letting the night air settle over them like a cloak. Then Adrian stepped back from the others and turned toward the lower halls.

“I’m going to explore the foundations,” he said. “The air down there smells of old blood and secrets. I want to know what this place is hiding.”

“Can’t just wait until morning like a normal person?” Trevor asked.

“No.”

“Figures.”

Trevor huffed. “Fine. But if this place tries to kill you, don’t come crawling back.”

“I never crawl.”

Adrian vanished into the shadows with the elegance of a vanishing curse.

Sypha exhaled dramatically. “Well, I want to see their library.”

Trevor raised a brow. “Already?”

“Obviously. If we’re stuck here, I want to know how these people do magic. Their uniforms look like someone tried to hex a curtain.”

“You just want to compare notes and feel superior.”

“Is that not the point of visiting foreign schools?”

Trevor snorted. “Fine. I’m going to find booze and a place to sit.”

Sypha grinned. “As always, your priorities are inspirational.”

Trevor stayed a moment longer in the courtyard, breathing in the night. He didn’t trust the silence of this place. Didn’t like the way the walls listened.

“Place gives me the creeps,” he muttered—and wandered off in search of a drink.

The Gryffindor common room was a mess of theories, shock, and at least two unauthorized betting pools.

“I’m telling you,” Seamus declared, half-standing on the couch, “the one with the whip is definitely the leader. He had the ‘I’ve killed six gods and I’m bored’ look.”

Dean shook his head. “Nah, the vampire one. Way too calm. He’s got the power-silence thing going.”

“But the woman lit her hand on fire without a wand,” said Parvati. “Who does that?”

Hermione didn’t look up from the thick tome she was currently speed-flipping through. “People with elemental affinity and extensive training. This is advanced. Ancient. It’s not wandless magic—it’s willed magic.”

“But the Goblet only spits out champions, right?” Dean said. “And it said Harry Potter. Harry Potter.”

“Except Harry’s dead,” Lavender added in a hushed voice, glancing around like she expected his ghost to materialize.

“He said the Goblet called to his soul,” Seamus said dramatically, hands gesturing wildly. “That means reincarnation, right?”

“Or possession,” Parvati whispered.

“Or some kind of curse—”

Hermione, seated in the corner with a book open on her lap, didn’t look up. “It means none of those things. The Goblet doesn’t make mistakes. It responds to intent and identity. If it called out the name Harry Potter, it meant Harry Potter.”

“But he died,” Lavender Brown said again, wide-eyed.

Hermione finally looked up. “Souls don’t always stay gone.”

Ron, who had been quiet until then, leaned forward. “The tall one. With the whip. He reminds me of my brother Charlie. But, like… if Charlie hunted demons and drank a lot more.”

“Don’t insult Charlie,” said Ginny.

“Not an insult,” Ron replied. “Just... a vibe.”

Fred and George, occupying the rug with a handful of chocolate frog cards and a quill, were busy drawing up odds.

Fred grinned. “I’d follow him into a war.”

George nodded. “Or a bar fight.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “You two would follow anyone into a bar fight.”

“True,” they said in unison.

Fred leaned forward. "Ten galleons says he takes a swing at one of the Ministry officials before the week’s out.”

George grinned. “Five says it’s before breakfast tomorrow.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “You two are unhinged.”

“And you’re jealous you didn’t think of a betting pool first,” Fred said smugly.

Hermione exhaled, frustrated. “We need to understand who they are. Or what. This isn’t normal.”

“Neither is this school,” Ron said. “Remember the time Lockhart erased his own memory with a backfired spell?”

“Fair point.”

Adrian descended into the dungeon corridors like a ghost. He didn’t need a guide. Magic called to him—soft threads woven through the floor, whispering histories into his bones.

He passed through rows of potion storage, along chilled halls lined with metal doors, and paused only when something small and alive pulled at his attention.

A greenhouse.

He stepped inside silently.

Inside, a boy in dirt-stained robes was crouched near a cluster of wilting plants, speaking softly to one of them. His hands were gentle. His brow furrowed in focus.

Adrian watched for a moment, unnoticed.

Then the plant twitched. The boy—Neville—flinched slightly and turned his head, startled.

Neville startled, nearly falling backward. “I—I didn’t hear you come in—!”

“I tend to have that effect.”

Adrian stepped forward, slow and unthreatening. The plant visibly twitched as he approached.

Neville blinked up at him, a little pale. “You’re, uh… one of them, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not gonna… bite me or anything?”

Adrian raised a brow. “Should I?”

Neville went red. “N-no. I mean. I just. You have that... look.”

“I am half-vampire,” Adrian said honestly. “But I don’t feed on students. That would be rude.”

To his surprise, the boy gave a nervous chuckle.

Adrian tilted his head. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to stop this mimbulus from shriveling. It’s sick. No one else seems to notice.” He hesitated, then added, “Plants… make more sense than people sometimes.”

Adrian stepped closer. “Is it difficult?”

Neville hesitated. “Y-yeah. It’s a bit finicky. Doesn’t like changes in humidity. Or being stared at. Or... loud breathing.”

Adrian knelt beside him without being asked. “Then it must hate you.”

Neville blinked. Then smiled. “Probably.”

Adrian reached out and placed a hand near the plant—just close enough for the roots to sense the energy. He let a touch of ancient, quiet magic slip through his fingertips. The plant quivered, then stilled.

Neville stared. “What did you do?”

“Asked it to stop being dramatic,” Adrian said blandly.

Neville laughed, then immediately looked horrified at himself. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s alright,” Adrian said. “It’s the first real laugh I’ve heard since arriving.”

Neville blinked. “...How do you know to do that?”

“I’ve spent time in older forests. And I listen.”

Neville hesitated, then smiled. “You want to help? There are still some others that aren't looking to good.”

“I already am.”

They knelt together in companionable quiet.

Sypha strolled into a hallway lined with floating candles and enchanted tapestries. She hadn’t been walking long when she was joined by two girls walking at very different speeds.

Hermione matched her stride with intensity. Luna simply floated alongside like she was carried by a breeze.

“Your control over flame was extraordinary,” Hermione said. “Is it rune-based? Elemental theory? Internal focus? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Practice,” Sypha answered with a smile.

Luna blinked at her. “Do you think your magic would upset the thestrals? They’re very sensitive.”

“...I hope not?”

“They’d like you,” Luna said seriously. “You smell like wild storms.”

Sypha blinked. “You’re odd.”

Luna nodded proudly. “Thank you.”

Hermione sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “We’re just… curious. You’re not like any witches we’ve met.”

“I should hope not,” Sypha said dryly. “No offense, but your robes are absurd, and your magic smells like overboiled cabbage.”

Hermione stared. “It… what?”

“I said what I said.”

Luna clapped softly. “I like her.”

Sypha smiled.

She was already warming to them.

Trevor, meanwhile, had wandered outside of the castle. The whole building felt weird. He preferred the outside better anyway. 

In his wandering he came across a hut near the edge of the forest.

Trevor pushed open a heavy oak door and stepped into what looked like a large, warm den. A fireplace crackled at one end, and an enormous kettle sat beside a low table. The air smelled like damp earth and cooked meat.

Which meant only one thing.

On the table were several mismatched mugs on a crooked table, and a very large half-giant pouring something thick and frothy into a tankard.

“Mind if I join?” Trevor asked.

Hagrid looked up, then grinned.

“Knew yeh’d come ‘round. Got some firewhisky, if yeh fancy.”

Trevor dropped into a chair. “You had me at whisky.”

Trevor grunted, closing the door behind him. “The castle’s weird. Your vibe? Less weird.”

A tankard was shoved into his hands. He took a long sip and hissed through his teeth. “This is either alcohol or industrial varnish.”

“Bit of both,” Hagrid said cheerfully.

They sat in silence for a moment.

Beside him, Hagrid passed him a refill without asking.

“They’re all talkin’ about you three, yeh know,” the half-giant rumbled. “Whole castle buzzin’.”

Trevor took a long sip. “That a problem?”

“Not for me,” Hagrid said with a chuckle and sipped from his own mug. “You remind me of a hippogriff I knew once. Mean as hell, wouldn’t let anyone near him. But give him time, and he’d fly with yeh.”

Trevor considered that. “I like that hippogriff.”

“Died bitein’ a Death Eater in half,” Hagrid added fondly.

Trevor grinned.

“Even better.”

They drank.

Somewhere far above, the castle continued to watch.

Chapter Text

There was a long-standing belief among the Hogwarts faculty that nothing could truly surprise them anymore.

They had, after all, survived decades of magical disasters, cursed objects, incompetent Defense teachers, and one very memorable year involving a basilisk, a ghost bathroom, and at least three counts of unauthorized dueling clubs.

But this was different.

This was new.

This was… Trevor Belmont slouched across three chairs in Dumbledore’s office, drinking from a flask he absolutely hadn’t been given, while Sypha absentmindedly rearranged magical books by elemental affinity and Adrian sat perfectly still in the corner like a painting that judged everyone else for breathing.

Dumbledore, ever unbothered, poured tea.

“I thought it might be best,” he said gently, “if we all sat down and discussed the expectations of the Triwizard Tournament.”

Trevor took a swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Is one of those expectations: ‘don’t die’?”

McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose. “It used to be.”

Sypha tilted her head. “Why hold a tournament that frequently results in fatalities?”

“Tradition,” McGonagall muttered, deeply unamused.

Adrian raised a brow. “You people are fascinating.”

Snape, standing with arms folded near the hearth, gave a slow, icy look in Adrian’s direction. “Not half as fascinating as creatures who answer magical contracts meant for the living.”

Adrian turned his head slightly. “I am living. Just... more elegantly.”

Trevor smirked and leaned forward. “You know he sleeps in a silk-lined coffin, right?”

“I do not,” Adrian said, affronted.

Dumbledore chuckled softly. “Perhaps we might begin?”

Snape didn’t look away from Adrian. “Some of us have concerns about your presence.”

“Some of you also own a single outfit and three jars of spite,” Sypha said, not bothering to look up from the shelf she’d just alphabetized by fire resistance.

Snape’s nostrils flared. “I see you’ve found your place among the Gryffindors.”

Trevor looked between them, amused. “You’re not even subtle about it, are you?”

Dumbledore raised his hand with the patience of someone used to wrangling egos with spoons. “Let us focus, please. The tasks are dangerous. Normally, only one champion is chosen. You three... are something of an anomaly.”

Trevor raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying that like it’s our fault.”

“It is,” McGonagall said sharply. “You weren’t even in this dimension when the Goblet chose you.”

“Is that what you call it?” Sypha asked. “Dimensions?”

“We call it madness,” Snape said.

“I call it Tuesday,” Trevor said, taking another sip.

McGonagall cleared her throat pointedly. “We’d like to know how you plan to proceed. The Tournament is structured. There are rules.”

Sypha turned to face her properly for the first time, her expression suddenly all sharp intellect and mild challenge. “Rules we never agreed to.”

“The Goblet agreed for you,” Snape snapped.

“Then the Goblet can deal with it,” Trevor said. “We’re not exactly here for the glory.”

“Then why are you here?” McGonagall asked.

Trevor gave her an honest look. “We don’t know. Magic dragged us in, so we figured we’d ride it out.”

Dumbledore folded his hands. “And if we were to ask you to leave?”

Sypha smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You could try.”

Silence stretched.

Dumbledore, unbothered as ever, took a sip of tea. “Well, then. I suppose we are agreed.”

Snape looked like he’d swallowed something bitter.

McGonagall sighed. “How are you planning to divide the tasks?”

“We’re not,” Trevor said. “We’ll improvise.”

“You’ll what—”

“Flip a coin. Or argue. Depends on the mood.”

McGonagall muttered something into her sleeve that sounded a lot like “merlin help us all.”

The meeting ended—as it always did when the trio was involved—with half the staff rethinking their life choices and Trevor pocketing a teacup out of spite.

Dumbledore, ever the picture of serenity, merely smiled as he stood. “Now, on to more practical matters. Lodging. I assumed you wouldn’t be joining the student dormitories.”

Trevor actually choked on his last sip. “Dormitories? With teenagers?”

Sypha looked mildly horrified. “Absolutely not.”

Adrian raised a brow. “We don’t sleep near prey.”

Snape twitched.

McGonagall’s lips thinned. “As expected.”

“Good,” Sypha said crisply. “Because we also expect a bed large enough to accommodate three people. Comfortably.”

Snape inhaled sharply.

Adrian sipped his tea, unbothered. “We are very close.”

McGonagall looked like she was calculating how many ethics violations were now seared into her soul.

Dumbledore, mercifully unfazed, simply nodded. “We’ve prepared something suitable. Come. I believe you’ll find it... private.”

The route was one rarely walked. Past the moving staircases, through an arched passage hidden behind a tapestry of an enormous cat eating a map of France, and down a long corridor that didn’t seem to exist until you were meant to find it.

At the end stood a tall, oakwood door framed by smooth dark stone. No house crests. No markings.

Dumbledore stopped in front of it and placed one hand on the wood. It shimmered faintly, as if recognizing something old.

“This wing hasn’t been used in decades,” he said. “Originally designed for diplomatic guests, but I’ve made a few... modifications.”

He stepped aside.

The door opened with a sound like a breath being drawn in after too long underwater.

Trevor stepped inside first—and stopped.

“Okay,” he said slowly, “this doesn’t suck.”

The room beyond was—massive.

The space opened into a multi-level suite, lit by warm floating orbs tucked along dark wood beams. Deep red and amber tones lined the walls, with velvet drapes and bookcases carved directly into the stone. At the far end, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the lake, where moonlight shimmered silver on the water.

A sunken lounge dipped near a fireplace, complete with overstuffed leather chairs and a fur-lined rug that looked like it once belonged to a bear with anger issues. The hearth already crackled with blue-gold fire, scenting the air with cedar and clove.

A staircase curved upward into a lofted sleeping area, where a single, massive bed sat draped in midnight silk. It was, by all visible accounts, large enough to comfortably fit a family of centaurs.

Sypha whistled, impressed. “I’ve seen royal war rooms with less space.”

“There’s even a balcony,” Adrian noted, peering through one of the side alcoves. “With a view. And defensive enchantments. Charming.”

Trevor wandered over to a cabinet and pulled open a drawer. It was stocked with aged liquor bottles.

“Oh, now we’re talking.”

Dumbledore, still standing in the doorway, smiled. “There’s an enchanted wardrobe with clothing adjusted to your preferences. A private bath through the right hall. I trust you’ll find everything acceptable?”

Adrian nodded politely. “More than.”

Trevor raised his flask in toast. “You may live another day, old man.”

Sypha looked back at the doorway as Dumbledore turned to leave. “No students will come here, right?”

“Only if invited,” he assured. “And the room itself will not appear on any maps.”

“Perfect,” she said brightly, and closed the door behind him.

The lock clicked with a satisfying magical hum.

As soon as they were alone, Trevor let himself fall backward into one of the velvet-cushioned armchairs. “Okay. That went better than expected.”

“You insulted two professors,” Adrian reminded him, wandering toward the bookcase.

“They insulted us first.”

“You stole a spoon.”

“I liked the weight.”

Sypha flopped onto the rug, stretching out with a pleased sigh. “I’m never sleeping on anything less than magically-heated stone floors again.”

Adrian, who had just discovered that the liquor cabinet refilled itself nightly, looked dangerously pleased. “We might actually survive this school.”

Trevor kicked his boots off and grinned. “And we don’t even have to pretend to be celibate.”

Sypha raised a brow. “Was that ever on the table?”

“Not for long.”

From above, the bed shimmered softly under the moonlight. Adrian glanced up at it.

“I call window side.”

“Too late,” Sypha said.

“You didn’t even look.”

“I know.”

Trevor groaned as he got to his feet. “You two argue over pillow placement, I’ll be at the bath checking if they enchanted the tub to fit three people.”

Adrian smirked. “If they haven’t, we’ll fix it.”

The door sealed behind them with a quiet click.

And Hogwarts, ever watchful, seemed to exhale around them.

Hogwarts moved on like it always did.

Classes resumed. Homework piled up. First-years got lost on moving staircases, Filch yelled about muddy footprints, and someone let a jar of shrinking powder explode in the Transfiguration corridor, leaving three students and one extremely confused cat the size of salt shakers.

But something had shifted.

The presence of the trio rippled through the castle like a stone dropped into a still pond—quiet, but impossible to ignore.

Trevor sat on the edge of the Astronomy Tower one morning, one leg dangling over the ledge as he chewed on an apple with little interest.

Below, students crossed the courtyard in lazy streams, heads bent over books and breakfast muffins. A girl chased her owl in circles. Someone was floating a stack of parchment by hand, clearly too tired to carry it the normal way.

“They’re soft,” he said aloud.

Sypha leaned back against the tower wall, legs crossed. “They’re children.”

Trevor gestured vaguely downward with the apple. “No, not just soft like inexperienced. Soft. Like they’ve never had to fight for air.”

“Most of them haven’t,” Adrian said, perched like a gargoyle on the stone railing. He wasn’t even looking at the students—his gaze was fixed on the horizon, on the quiet morning mist curling over the lake. “This world hasn’t tasted war like ours. Not in centuries.”

Sypha tilted her head. “It’s not a bad thing.”

Trevor made a noncommittal sound.

“They’re too comfortable,” he muttered. “It makes them careless. You can see it in how they walk. No one’s watching their corners. No one’s armed.”

“That’s because they don’t need to be,” Sypha said gently.

“Yet,” Adrian added quietly.

They were silent for a moment.

Below them, a small group of Slytherins passed through the far courtyard. One of them was clearly in the middle of a dramatic retelling of something that involved large hand gestures and a suspicious number of pauses for effect. Another tripped on the hem of her robes. Laughter followed, easy and real.

Sypha smiled faintly. “I like them.”

Trevor glanced at her. “You hated them twenty minutes ago.”

“I said their robes were ugly.”

“And that they were coddled, bratty, and ill-prepared.”

“I’m capable of holding multiple truths.”

Adrian finally looked away from the horizon. “They live like they’ll never bleed.”

Sypha hummed. “Maybe that’s the point of this place.”

Trevor stared at the apple in his hand. “If they don’t learn to fight, they’re going to die when something does come.”

“They’re children,” Sypha said again. “They’re supposed to believe they’re safe.”

Trevor tossed the apple core over the edge. “Safe’s a lie.”

Adrian’s voice was very soft when he spoke next. “It’s one I wish we’d been allowed.”

Later that day, they passed through one of the upper hallways near the Charms classroom, drawing stares like they always did.

Trevor ignored them. Sypha nodded at a few students like she was grading their posture. Adrian glided behind them like a mobile painting someone enchanted by accident.

A Ravenclaw girl dropped her books when Trevor looked her way. He bent to hand them back and she bolted without saying a word.

Sypha blinked. “Was that because of you or your reputation?”

Trevor glanced at his reflection in a nearby window. “Could be the scar. Or the fact that I look like I murdered her uncle in a tavern.”

“You probably did.”

Adrian stopped beside a notice board and read a flyer advertising “Pumpkin Pasties: Now With Extra Nutmeg!”

He blinked. “This is what they consider news?”

Sypha shrugged. “I saw a first-year cry because someone took her frog-shaped backpack.”

Trevor sighed. “There’s a boy in Hufflepuff who tried to offer me a hug yesterday. Said I looked tragic.”

Sypha clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle a laugh.

“He meant well,” Adrian said mildly.

“He called me sir.”

“Oh, definitely meant well.”

That evening, they wandered onto the grounds.

The sun dipped low, painting the lake gold and pink. The giant squid lazily waved a tentacle above the surface before retreating again. From the distance, the warm sounds of laughter drifted across the grass—students playing wizard chess, throwing enchanted paper planes, arguing over some kind of exploding snack.

Trevor sat down in the grass with a quiet grunt. Sypha followed, leaning her head against his shoulder. Adrian didn’t sit—he stood behind them, arms folded, cloak fluttering in the breeze.

“Do you miss it?” Sypha asked after a long silence.

Trevor frowned. “Miss what?”

“A world where people live like this.”

Trevor didn’t answer immediately.

Eventually, he said, “I miss the idea of it.”

Adrian’s voice was low. “I miss the noise of peace. The way it’s loud, but harmless.”

Sypha looked up. “Do you think we could ever have this? Ourselves?”

Trevor reached up and tugged lightly at a strand of her hair. “We’ve got something better.”

Adrian tilted his head. “We’re terrifying.”

“Exactly.”

Sypha sighed. “Romantic, as always.”

Trevor grinned. “You knew what you signed up for.”

And from far away, the Goblet of Fire pulsed softly in its chamber—watching.

Waiting.

From the journal of Neville Longbottom

 

I don’t really keep a journal. Not like Hermione, anyway. But Professor Sprout always says it helps to write things down when your head gets too full of roots and leaves and thoughts that don’t want to stay still.

 

So, here I am.

 

Writing about three strangers who walked out of fire.

 

When I first heard the Goblet spit out Harry Potter’s name, I thought it was a mistake. We all did. Everyone knows Harry died when he was six. Some say it was a curse, others say he just vanished, but we’ve all grown up with stories about him—the Boy Who Lived, the one who was supposed to save us.

 

But then the sky cracked open. Literally. And instead of Harry, we got them.

 

They looked like they’d walked out of a painting someone forgot to hang on the right wall. One of them had a whip. A literal whip. The woman with him made fire curl around her fingers like it loved her. And the last—he looked like poetry if poetry drank blood and judged you for your outfit.

 

Everyone was terrified.

Everyone except Fred and George, who started taking bets within five minutes.

 

At first, I didn’t know what to think.

 

They didn’t explain who they were, or why the Goblet called them. They just sort of... existed.

 

Loudly. Sharply. Like they belonged to a world that wasn’t ours, but ours had borrowed them anyway.

 

And then one of them showed up in Greenhouse Three.

 

That was the moment it changed for me.

 

Adrian Tepes—he didn’t say much. He just watched while I tried to coax a stubborn mimbulus back to life. I thought he’d laugh, or leave, or maybe give me some comment about how plants were weak and pointless.

 

Instead, he helped.

 

Not in a flashy, look-at-me way. Just... placed his hand near the soil. Whispered something I didn’t understand. And the plant stilled. Like it had stopped being afraid.

 

We didn’t talk much, but I’ve seen him since then. Sometimes in the gardens. Sometimes just walking the halls like a ghost who forgot he’s allowed to be curious.

 

People are scared of them. I get it. They’re dangerous. They don’t follow rules. They treat the Triwizard Tournament like it’s a joke.

 

But they watch us—not like predators. Like people who don’t quite believe we’re real.

 

Sometimes I think they envy us. Sometimes I think they pity us.

 

I don’t know what they are. Not really.

 

But I don’t think they’re here to hurt us.

 

I think they’ve already done enough of that somewhere else.

 

And now they’re just trying to exist.

 

Together.