"What is that?"
Harry stared up at the Dark Mark. He knew it was bad. His scar burned.
"The Dark Lord's mark," Sirius said, his voice quiet. "His symbol." His face had gone grim, that particular shade of grim that came from knowing exactly what something meant.
Death Eaters appearing without warning. The Mark in the sky. What did it add up to?
Mr. Weasley didn't want to find out standing in a scorched field. He hustled everyone away from the site before anyone could debate it.
The camp had emptied during the attack — tents abandoned, people scattered in every direction. Kevin packed their tent with a few efficient wand movements, not a mark on it, and they made for the Portkey point.
They grabbed the old Weasley boot together and touched down on a dark hill. Charlie and Bill were already there, the twins pacing, all of them looking relieved the moment they saw Ron and Ginny.
"They're back — everyone's okay!"
Fred and George yelled in unison, grinning with that manic energy they carried everywhere.
Mr. Weasley didn't stop for long conversations. One look at his face and everyone started walking.
The Burrow came into view after a long hike. Mrs. Weasley had fallen asleep waiting but woke the moment she heard them, running down the path in a panic until she saw Ron and Ginny, at which point she pulled them both into a grip that allowed no escape and showed no signs of releasing.
Mr. Weasley filled her in. When she heard how close the Death Eaters had come to Ginny's tent, the colour left her face entirely.
All she'd ever wanted was her family safe. The thought of losing one of them — she couldn't finish the sentence even in her own head.
Ron and Ginny stayed the night at the Burrow. Sirius took Harry, Kevin, and Hermione through the Floo to Diagon Alley, and they slipped out through the Leaky Cauldron to the Muggle street beyond.
Their bags were already at the Grangers'. Kevin said he'd collect Ron and Ginny's things later — no trouble.
An owl was waiting for them before they'd even sat down.
"Letter from Draco." Kevin tore it open, scanned it. "He heard about the Death Eaters. Wants to know if we're all right."
Hermione looked at Kevin sideways. "Do you think Lucius had anything to do with it?"
"Draco says his parents were with him the whole evening. Didn't go anywhere."
Kevin wasn't certain either way. Did Lucius know about Voldemort's revival plan this year? Probably not. The Death Eaters who'd avoided Azkaban didn't want the Dark Lord back — they'd been quietly rebuilding their lives and had no interest in disrupting that. Only the desperate ones, the broken ones like Pettigrew or Bartemius Crouch Junior, would roll those dice.
"Whatever the case — school talk later." He was exhausted. Everyone was. They hit their rooms without further ceremony.
Kevin, naturally, drifted after Hermione toward the girls' room. Ginny was at the Burrow. Just her.
Harry stared. Then he kept walking.
Hermione went red and put both hands flat on Kevin's chest. "This isn't our house, Kevin. Behave."
He retreated, laughing quietly.
The next few days passed in a kind of holding pattern. The wizarding radio stayed mostly silent. The Ministry had turned up a dozen charred bodies and no useful leads — no trace of who had cast the Dark Mark, no clear origin point for the attack itself.
Then term arrived, and with it the Hogwarts Express.
They found Ron at the station and piled into a compartment. The Quidditch World Cup disaster was a dead topic — no new information, nothing to say. The real buzz was the Triwizard Tournament. Rumours had been circulating all summer, and Dumbledore would make the official announcement once they arrived.
Mid-journey, Draco appeared in their compartment doorway.
"Draco — perfect timing. We were going to ask you about the Death Eaters."
Kevin waved him in. Harry and the others went quiet.
"Kevin, I genuinely don't know anything about them." Draco shook his head. "I asked my parents. They swear they had no involvement."
Kevin nodded. That might be true. It might not. Either way, Draco clearly knew nothing, and Draco was probably being kept out of it deliberately.
Back at Hogwarts, they dumped their bags and went straight to the front gates. A massive crowd had already gathered — word of the Triwizard Tournament had everyone buzzing. Two foreign schools were arriving today.
Winged horses wheeled overhead. Seven pure-white specimens descended in formation, pulling an enormous carriage through the clouds.
Across the Black Lake, a ship emerged from the mist — sails marked with a red double-headed eagle crest.
Professor McGonagall shooed everyone into the Great Hall before they could properly gawp. The feast that evening was extraordinary — specialities from everywhere, clearly prepared for the visitors.
Kevin was about to help himself when Dumbledore rose from the staff table.
"Before we eat, a few words." He laid out the Triwizard Tournament in brief — a legendary competition between three schools, held every five years, one champion per school, three tasks, no backing out once chosen. Past tournaments had left a trail of casualties. This was not a game. Lives had been lost.
Then his tone shifted. "Now — welcome our guests from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, and their headmistress, Madame Maxime."
The doors swung open.
A column of girls in silky powder-blue uniforms swept in with the kind of effortless choreography that suggested they'd practised. Blue butterflies drifted around them. Fleur Delacour led the pack, noticeably ahead of the others in every sense — grace, bearing, the particular quality of attention she drew without seeming to seek it. Behind her all came Madame Maxime herself, a giantess of a woman who made Hagrid look merely large.
Applause detonated. Boys whooped. The noise was borderline embarrassing.
Hermione glanced at Kevin. He was in the middle of swiping the last two chicken legs off Ron's plate.
Gone in under three seconds. Then he put his hands together and applauded with the enthusiasm of someone who had attended every performance.
Hermione pressed her lips together, pushed her own chicken legs toward him without a word.
Ron finished cheering and turned back to his plate.
"My chicken legs. Where—"
He stared across the table. Kevin sat straight, arms folded, the very picture of innocence.
"Kevin! Don't even try it! You're the only one who'd touch my plate!"
"What plate? I don't know what you're talking about."
"There are crumbs on your lips, mate. Crumbs."
"Hermione gave me hers."
Kevin looked away. Not budging.
Ron seethed.
Dumbledore continued. "And from the far north — Durmstrang Institute, and their headmaster, Professor Karkaroff."
The doors opened again. Young men in dark red robes marched in with yellow staffs, banging the shafts against the floor in sharp percussion, twirling them in complex patterns. Viktor Krum walked last — real, unmistakable, Quidditch legend in the flesh.
The hall lost its composure. Karkaroff might as well not have existed.
Kevin glanced at Hermione. She had just sliced into her steak. She slid the plate toward him without looking up.
"Still hungry?"
"Was full. Now? Absolutely starving."
He grinned and started eating. It was excellent.