The office of the Hokage was dim, lit only by the gray morning light filtering through the shoji screens. Outside, the village stirred awake—merchants setting up stalls, children running to the academy—but inside, the air was heavy, still.

Kakashi sat in silence across from Minato’s desk, his masked face unreadable as ever. The faint smell of medicine clung to him; bandages wound tight around his ribs, a faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his temple.

Minato studied him for a long moment, blue eyes filled with something between guilt and determination. “You’re not well enough to argue, Kakashi.”

“I can still fight,” Kakashi replied, voice low and hoarse. “You need me here, sensei. I can help track Orochimaru down, or—”

Minato’s hand lifted, gentle but firm. “Enough. You nearly died last time. You know as well as I do that what’s in your blood now—what Orochimaru tried to extract—makes you a target neither of us can protect forever.”

Kakashi looked away. His left arm throbbed, the veins beneath the skin faintly darkened from the remnants of the poison. His chakra felt unstable, heavy. Every breath took effort. But none of that compared to the heaviness in his chest.

“I won’t abandon the village,” he murmured.

“You’re not,” Minato said softly. “You’re protecting it in your own way. If Orochimaru gets what he wants—if he manages to control the chakra and energy inside you—Konoha will fall before we can even raise an alarm.”

Silence stretched. Faintly, Kakashi could hear the sound of ANBU passing outside the window, the distant chatter of life continuing without him.

Minato reached into his desk, pulling out a small scroll tied in blue silk. “Dumbledore has agreed to take you in. You’ll be safe there—hidden in plain sight. He and his healers will try western magic to slow the poison’s progression. If we’re lucky, perhaps they can remove it entirely.”

Kakashi’s visible eye flickered toward the scroll, then to Minato. “So that’s it, then? You’re sending me away.”

Minato hesitated, the weight of Hokage and teacher clashing in his chest. “I’m sending you home, Kakashi. For a time. Until you’re strong enough to come back.”

Kakashi’s breath caught faintly. “That isn’t home.”

Minato smiled faintly—sadly. “Maybe not. But it’s a place that once healed a war-torn boy I knew. Perhaps it can do the same again.”

He rose, crossing the room until he stood before his student. Without the desk between them, Kakashi suddenly looked very young again—tired, pale, and far too burdened for his age.

Minato placed a hand on his uninjured shoulder. “You’ve done enough for this village. Let me protect you, for once.”

Kakashi didn’t answer. His throat was too tight for words.

Minato then reached into the drawer of his desk and pulled out a small, faded object. Kakashi blinked when he saw it.

“…Is that the same sock from last year?”

The Hokage smiled faintly, holding up the worn pink thing between two fingers. “It served its purpose well before. Dumbledore-sama thought it might again.”

Kakashi eyed the offending garment warily. “Please tell me you washed it first.”

“I might’ve,” Minato said, far too casually.

Kakashi let out a tired sigh, half-amused, half-exasperated. “yuck, couldn't the Headmaster or an entire wizarding school at least use something less… unhygienic.”

Minato chuckled, then grew serious again as he pulled a second item from his robes — a tightly sealed scroll marked with the crest of the Hokage. “Here. This will keep us connected. Anything you write within will appear in the twin I’ll keep here. You’ll receive orders, updates, and… if you feel like it, reports on how you’re doing.”

Kakashi raised an eyebrow. “So… like correspondence, but with more surveillance.”

“Let’s call it concern,” Minato replied, smiling softly.

For a long moment, the two simply looked at each other — the teacher who had become Hokage, and the student who had become something like family.

Kakashi took the scroll, tucking it into his flak vest with a quiet nod. “…I’ll keep in touch.”

Minato pressed the sock — the ridiculous, charm-laden sock — into his student’s hand. “Good. And Kakashi…” His voice softened. “Stay alive. That’s an order.”

Kakashi hesitated, glancing toward the window, where the early dawn light touched the rooftops of Konoha. His home.

He looked back, one gray eye unreadable but heavy with something close to gratitude. “Don’t let the place fall apart while I’m gone.”

Minato’s answering laugh was light, but his eyes glistened. “I’ll do my best.”

The next moment, the portkey activated — color and light exploding around them. Kakashi felt the world twist and spin, the familiar pull at his navel dragging him through space.

When the light faded, Minato was alone again in his office, the air still tinged faintly with ozone. He stared down at his empty hand for a long while, where moments ago his student’s fingers had brushed his own.

Then, quietly, he murmured to the silence:

“Be safe, Kakashi.”

---

Kakashi landed far less gracefully than he would’ve liked.

His boots hit the pavement hard, the world spinning for half a second before he dropped to one knee, breath hissing through his mask. The ground beneath him wasn’t dirt or stone, but smooth black asphalt — a street. A civilian street.

He grimaced. “Definitely not the Leaky Cauldron this time.”

Every muscle ached, and his left arm — the poisoned one — burned like a forge. His chakra felt sluggish, thick. Even focusing his Sharingan was harder than it should have been. The moonlight glinted off the cracked glass of a nearby streetlamp, the only sound the faint hum of magic still clinging to the air from the portkey.

He was standing in the middle of a narrow lane lined with identical houses, each dark and sleeping. Neat little fences, trimmed hedges, and polished mailboxes — all in perfect, eerie uniformity. The place was quiet. Too quiet.

Kakashi adjusted his headband, glancing around with a soldier’s caution. He wasn’t sure where he was supposed to go this time. No Hagrid waiting at the entrance of a pub. No bustling crowd. Just the still night air and the faint ache of poison crawling beneath his skin.

He exhaled slowly, then reached into his vest and unrolled the communication scroll Minato had given him.

The parchment shimmered faintly before glowing with a familiar golden light.

One neat line of handwriting appeared across the surface — elegant and unmistakably Minato’s.

“Wait.”

Kakashi blinked at it. Then, under his breath, muttered, “Seriously?”

The ink rippled. A moment later, the message shifted.

“Wait patiently.”

He sighed, the sound half a growl. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Tucking the scroll back into his vest, Kakashi leaned against a low brick wall, feeling the chill of the night seep through his flak jacket. His vision pulsed at the edges, the poison’s effects making it hard to stay upright.

“Wait patiently,” he repeated flatly. “Easy for you to say, Hokage-sama.”

He tilted his head back, looking up at the strange, star-streaked sky. It was foreign — quieter than Konoha’s, emptier somehow.

And beneath the fatigue and the pain, one thought lingered:
I really hate this place already.

---

Kakashi had been waiting for what felt like an eternity. The night air was crisp, his breath faintly fogging behind his mask. His legs were starting to ache from standing still, and the burn in his left arm pulsed with steady, nauseating rhythm.

He heard it before he saw it — the soft pop of someone Apparating.

Kakashi straightened instantly, chakra flickering instinctively to his fingertips. His visible eye narrowed, scanning the shadows.

Out of the darkness stepped a man in a long, worn coat. His movements were deliberate, cautious, and though his hands were empty, Kakashi knew better than to drop his guard.

“Hatake Kakashi?” the stranger asked, his voice low, kind, but measured.

Kakashi didn’t answer. His stance stayed loose, ready — the faintest tilt of his head showing wariness.

The man smiled faintly, as though he’d expected that. Then he spoke again, quietly:
“Balderdash.”

Kakashi blinked. The tension in his shoulders eased a fraction. The word meant nothing to him personally — but he recognized it. The password to Gryffindor Tower. Harry’s old dormitory.

So this man was from Hogwarts.

The stranger’s expression softened, relief flickering across his face. “Professor Dumbledore sent me. I’m Remus Lupin.”

The name tugged at something Harry had mentioned before — one of his father’s friends, the werewolf. That explained the faint, animal scent Kakashi had caught on the breeze: old earth, fur, and something wild hidden beneath civility.

Lupin stepped closer, pulling a folded scrap of parchment from his coat pocket. “You’ll need this to find the safe house. Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.”

Kakashi hesitated for only a second before taking it. The paper was warm from Lupin’s hand. Written on it, in flowing ink, was a single address:

Number 12, Grimmauld Place, London.

Kakashi raised an eyebrow beneath his mask. “Seems… discreet.”

Lupin gave a quiet chuckle. “You’ll find it’s more than that. Read the address — aloud — and you’ll see.”

Kakashi studied him for a moment longer, weighing his chakra reserves, the ache in his arm, and the honesty in the man’s tired eyes. Finally, he nodded.

He unfolded the parchment again and read the words softly into the empty street.

The houses before him shifted. An entire building seemed to push its way into existence, wedged between two others like it had always been there.

Kakashi exhaled through his mask. “Magic still gives me headaches.”

Lupin smiled faintly, stepping toward the now-visible front door. “You’ll get used to it, Mr. Hatake. Welcome back to England.”

---

Kakashi followed Lupin into the narrow townhouse, the door shutting behind them with a heavy thud.

The air inside was thick — old wood, dust, and something that smelled faintly of decay and age. Shadows pooled in every corner. Even the wallpaper seemed to sag with exhaustion.

The hall was narrow, lined with crooked portraits and ancient umbrellas. It was a house that looked like it hated to be awake.

Lupin moved ahead with practiced ease, his steps careful as he gestured for Kakashi to follow. “Mind the frames,” he murmured under his breath. “Some of them have opinions.”

Before Kakashi could ask what that meant, a shriek cut through the air — high and furious.

“FILTH! HALF-BREEDS AND BLOOD TRAITORS! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!”

Kakashi froze. Lupin swore softly and darted to a tall, curtained portrait along the wall. He tried to tug the drapery closed, but the shrieking only grew louder, echoing through the house like an alarm.

Kakashi, despite knowing better, tilted his head curiously. The voice was coming from behind the curtain, and it sounded... strangely alive.

When he stepped closer and drew the fabric back just enough to peek, a painted woman stared back at him — severe features framed by gray curls, dressed in the regal attire of a long-dead noble.

For a heartbeat, she looked ready to unleash another tirade.

Then she froze.

Her eyes widened, and her whole painted posture straightened. “Oh,” she breathed, her tone shifting from venom to delight. “Oh my.”

Kakashi blinked, half-expecting her to start screaming again.

Instead, her expression softened into a smile — disturbingly sweet after the previous fury. “You,” she said reverently, “are no ordinary intruder. A most honorable guest graces my halls this night.”

Lupin froze halfway through pulling the curtain shut, brow furrowing in disbelief.

The portrait continued, almost purring, “Such restraint, such discipline in your gaze... a warrior’s spirit, untouched by the filth that stains these corridors.”

Kakashi blinked once, then twice. “…I think she likes me,” he muttered.

Lupin gave a helpless sigh. “She’s never liked anyone. Merlin’s beard…” He tugged the curtain fully closed, muffling the woman’s now-lovingly murmured praises about “proper decorum” and “a gentleman’s presence.”

Kakashi tilted his head, one brow raised. “Friendly house.”

“Wait until you meet the house-elf,” Lupin replied dryly, leading him further down the dark corridor. “He’s even worse.”

---

Upstairs, the air inside Number 12 Grimmauld Place felt thick with secrecy. Dust motes drifted lazily through the dim light, and every so often, a muffled voice carried up from the floor below — too quiet to make out, but enough to make everyone pause.

Harry sat cross-legged on the worn carpet beside Ron, staring at the closed door. He could hear people gathering downstairs — familiar voices, serious and urgent. The Order was meeting again.

Fred and George were crouched near a loose floorboard, fiddling with something that looked suspiciously like a long, fleshy string.

“Extendable Ears,” Fred whispered proudly, holding up the invention. “Latest prototype. Guaranteed to catch every whispered secret of the great and mysterious Order of the Phoenix.”

Hermione sighed, crossing her arms. “That’s completely unethical. You can’t just—spy on them like that!”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Come on, Hermione, they’re always saying it’s too dangerous for us to know anything. Don’t you want to find out what’s actually going on?”

Ginny perked up from where she sat on the edge of Harry’s bed. “Besides, we’re practically in danger already, just living here.”

Hermione pursed her lips but didn’t argue further — which, in itself, was a small miracle.

Fred grinned, unrolling the ear toward the door. “Once we hook this beauty up, we’ll hear every word.”

Harry leaned back against the wall, running a hand through his messy hair. The curiosity tugged at him — especially after the strange way everyone had been acting since Lupin returned earlier that night.

He’d seen it: the look Mrs. Weasley and Sirius shared when Remus walked in. The quiet, tense way they’d hurried into the drawing room and closed the door behind them.

Someone new had arrived. Someone important.

Ron nudged Harry. “What do you think they’re talking about?”

Harry shrugged, trying to sound casual even as his stomach twisted with anticipation. “No idea. But I’ve got a feeling it's concerns us more than them.”

Fred was just about to lower the Extendable Ear toward the crack in the floor when the sound of footsteps echoed from below.

Everyone froze.

The boards creaked once—twice—then fell silent. The faint murmur of voices from the kitchen quieted all at once.

Ron leaned closer to the floor. “They’re starting,” he whispered.

“Maybe,” Hermione said, folding her arms. “Or maybe someone new arrived.”

That thought hung in the air like static. Because even the Order didn’t go that still unless something serious was happening.

Fred reached again for the Extendable Ear.

But before it could touch the ground, Mrs. Weasley’s voice rang up the stairs, sharp and motherly in equal measure.
“Fred, George, if either of you even think about eavesdropping tonight, I’ll turn your tongues into toads!”

The twins groaned in unison, and Harry sighed, frustration twisting in his chest. Whoever had shown up tonight—whoever made Lupin come back looking as though he’d seen a ghost—was down there right now.

And Harry had a feeling this meeting wasn’t just about the war anymore.

---

Downstairs, the air of Number 12 Grimmauld Place was heavy — candlelight flickering over tired faces, parchment maps spread across the long table.

Kakashi Hatake followed Remus Lupin into the room, steps steady despite the way his body protested each movement. Orochimaru’s poison still clung to his system like smoke; even after days of treatment from the medics, his chakra pathways burned when he pushed too far.

He wasn’t here to fight. Not this time.
He was here to survive.

Still, the instinct to assess the room came naturally.

Severus Snape sat nearest the far wall, pale fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes sharp and calculating. Kakashi gave the faintest nod — a gesture returned only with a flat stare.

Molly Weasley busied herself refilling teacups that had long gone cold, her husband offering a polite smile when their eyes met. Their warmth was genuine, if wary; most here didn’t quite know what to make of a shinobi from another world. He felt bad for having lied last year. They had assumed he'd been a foreign exchange student there for the Tournament. Not an in house spy and bodyguard.

And then there was Moody — the real one this time. His electric-blue eye whirred and focused, then stilled, pinning Kakashi in place.

“Didn’t think we’d see you again,” he rasped. “Last I heard, you were half-dead from snake venom.”

Kakashi’s lone visible eye curved faintly. “Better half-dead than bored.”

A few quiet chuckles broke the tension, Sirius Black’s among them. He was lounging near the corner of the table, one arm draped over the chair, studying Kakashi with open curiosity.

“So this is the one Dumbledore vouched for,” Sirius said. “Looks more like he should be teaching Defence at Hogwarts than hiding out here.”

Moody gave a mild look of reproach. “He’s here because he needs protection. Orochimaru’s poison isn’t just physical — it’s… changing, from the reports Dumbledore sent.”

Arthur Weasley’s brow furrowed. “Changing? How?”

“Intelligent,” Moody said simply. “Almost like it’s learning. The healers in his world couldn’t stabilize it for long. Dumbledore thought… well, thought perhaps he’d be safer under the Order’s eye while they try to find someone who can help.”

Snape’s eyes flickered briefly — interest, maybe even recognition. “You’re saying it’s alive?”

“Alive enough,” Kakashi murmured, tone even, though he felt the heat in his veins just talking about it.

Sirius leaned forward, smirking. “So the great shinobi’s on house arrest. Welcome to the club.”

That earned a short exhale of amusement from Kakashi. “Do I at least get kitchen privileges?”

Molly looked scandalized. “Absolutely not! I've already spent too much time making the kitchen even usable. I'm not about to let anyone make it worse than before.”

That got another small ripple of laughter, the tension easing by a thread.

Moody, however, didn’t laugh. His magic eye whirled once more. “You said you were attacked at home. Why you, specifically?”

Kakashi hesitated. “Because Orochimaru wants what’s in my blood,” he said finally. “My abilities — my chakra in particular. He thinks it’ll make him immortal.”

That quieted the room completely.

Moody’s magical eye stopped spinning. For once, the old Auror looked… unsettled.

Kakashi’s voice was low, steady — too calm for the weight of what he said. “In my world, most shinobi master one chakra nature — fire, water, earth, wind, or lightning. Some can handle two. But very few can use all five.”

Arthur Weasley leaned forward, fascinated despite himself. “You mean… elements? Magical affinities?”

Kakashi inclined his head. “Similar, yes. But my chakra—” He paused, flexing his hand absently. A faint, silvery glow shimmered beneath the wrappings before fading. “—my chakra is different. It’s white. It can change to match any form. Fire one moment, water the next. It’s fluid, alive. It’s never bound to one shape.”

Molly’s brow furrowed. “That sounds terribly dangerous.”

“It is,” Kakashi said quietly. “Especially in the wrong hands. Orochimaru knows that. He wants my chakra for himself — to use its adaptability to stabilize his body-switching technique. With it, he could perfect his immortality.”

The table went silent. Even the candles seemed to waver.

Snape’s voice cut through the quiet. “You’re saying this snake man means to… absorb you? Steal what’s in your blood?”

Kakashi gave a humorless chuckle. “Not immediately. Orochimaru’s smart — he doesn’t need to take it by force."

Remus’s head snapped up. “The poison.”

Kakashi nodded once. “It wasn’t normal. It’s… alive. It doesn’t kill me outright. It weakens me slowly — day by day. The more I fight it, the more it adapts to me. The doctors in Konoha said it learns my chakra patterns. It’s waiting. Waiting for the moment I’m desperate enough to seek the only person who claims to have a cure.”

“Orochimaru,” Moody growled.

Kakashi’s visible eye curved in agreement. “He’s trying to make me come to him. Not out of fear — but because I won’t have a choice.”

The words settled over the group like a stormcloud.

Arthur sat back heavily. “That’s—bloody hell, that’s monstrous.”

“Exactly his style,” Kakashi murmured. “He never takes what he can manipulate first.”

Snape’s expression twisted with professional revulsion. “A living toxin, bonded to the host… intelligent enough to evolve against its own antidotes. If that’s true, then conventional magic can’t cure it. You will need a countering anti-venom.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. Leave it to the nerdy potions master.

Remus looked toward him, then back to Kakashi. “That’s why Dumbledore wanted you brought here. He thinks Western healing magic — and Hogwarts’ protections — might keep it contained. Maybe even weaken it.”

Kakashi’s voice softened. “That’s the plan. But until then, I’m a risk. To myself, and to anyone who tries to help me.”

Molly’s face folded in sympathy. “You poor thing. You shouldn’t have to face that alone.”

Kakashi’s lips curved faintly beneath his mask. “I’m used to it.”

Sirius leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking over the shinobi appraisingly. “Well, mate, you’re in the right house for people hiding from madmen.”

Moody grunted. “And we’ll keep watch. If this snake bastard crosses over again, he won’t get within a mile of Grimmauld Place.”

Kakashi nodded once, silently grateful. Still, he could feel it — the faint burn under his skin, the crawling heat that wasn’t quite pain but wasn’t life either.

It was a reminder.
Orochimaru didn’t need to chain him.
He’d already planted the leash.

And now, surrounded by strange allies in a foreign world, Kakashi could only hope the wizards’ magic would hold out longer than the poison’s patience.

---

Kakashi leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely, expression unreadable beneath the mask. The Order’s meeting had stretched well past midnight, and what had started as strategy and reports had dissolved into the familiar argument that seemed to circle around a single name.

Harry Potter.

Every few sentences, someone said it again — sharper, louder, more exasperated than before.

“He’s just a boy!” Molly was saying, her voice tight with anger. “He shouldn’t be involved in any of this!”

Sirius shot back instantly, “He’s not a boy, he’s James’ son — and James was fighting Voldemort before he even finished school!”

“Which is exactly why he died!” Molly snapped.

Kakashi’s visible eye half-closed. They’d been at this for twenty-three minutes — he’d counted.

Remus tried to interject, calm and measured, “Both of you have points, but arguing won’t change that Harry is a target. What matters is how we prepare him.”

Snape snorted. “Prepare him? Potter barely prepares for his classes, let alone a war.”

That earned him a low growl from Sirius, and the two began their usual glare contest across the table.

Kakashi let the noise fade into the background. He knew his mission parameters: protect Harry Potter, keep him alive, minimize collateral damage. It wasn’t exactly the first time he’d been assigned to guard the reckless prodigy with a death wish.

His eye flicked toward the flickering candle on the table, watching the wax run in thin streams. Trouble magnet, he thought dryly. Seems to be a universal constant, no matter the world.

He could already tell what kind of school year it was going to be — sleepless nights, impulsive decisions, and a boy who would dive headfirst into danger because it was the right thing to do.

Kakashi sighed quietly and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “How much longer is this going to take…” he muttered under his breath.

Molly and Sirius were still at it, Moody was growling about security measures, Arthur was trying to mediate, and Remus was rubbing his temples.

Kakashi counted the seconds.
Sixty… fifty-nine… fifty-eight…

He slouched a little deeper into his chair, half listening as the Order continued debating Harry’s fate — and half wondering if it would be too rude to fall asleep right there in the middle of their meeting.

---

Kakashi was woken by a firm nudge to his shoulder — not the rough jolt of an attack, but enough to pull him from the uneasy half-sleep he’d drifted into.

He blinked once, vision adjusting to the dim candlelight. Standing over him was Professor Snape.

The man’s expression was… strange. Not disdainful, not sharp with the usual edge of superiority. Concern, of all things, flickered briefly across his features.

“You’ve gone paler since the meeting,” Snape muttered, crouching down slightly. His dark eyes studied Kakashi’s face, then his hand — the faint tremor there, the sluggish pulse beneath his skin. “It’s progressing faster than expected.”

Kakashi didn’t bother pretending he didn’t know what he meant. The poison. It had started as a mild numbness hours ago, a subtle heaviness in his limbs. Now it was curling deeper, whispering cold through his veins.

Snape reached into his robes and produced a narrow glass vial filled with something silvery-green. “Drink this.”

Kakashi regarded him quietly, one eye narrowing. “You’re not trying to kill me, are you?”

Snape’s lips twitched — the closest thing to a smirk he ever gave. “If I were, you wouldn’t be awake to ask.”

Kakashi accepted that logic. Without further hesitation, he tipped the vial back. The liquid burned faintly going down, sharp as lightning before cooling into a strange stillness that spread through him like frost.

Almost instantly, he felt the sluggish ache fade. His head cleared. The crawling sensation beneath his skin stopped moving.

He exhaled slowly. “You made this?”

“It’s not a cure,” Snape said curtly, standing again. “But it will stall the poison’s spread until we find one. You’ll need another dose by morning.”

“Efficient,” Kakashi murmured, adjusting his hitai-ate. “You’d make an excellent field medic.”

Snape gave him a look that clearly said don’t push it.

Before Kakashi could say more, Molly Weasley’s voice carried from the kitchen doorway. “That’s enough for tonight! Everyone’s tired, and we all need food and rest. Especially you,” she added pointedly, eyes narrowing at Kakashi.

He raised both hands in faint surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of arguing.”

---

They gathered at the long wooden table, the scent of stew filling the air. Harry followed quietly, his heart still thudding a little too fast.
He couldn’t stop staring.

Kakashi.

He was really here — sitting at Grimmauld Place, in the flickering candlelight, looking as out of place as a shinobi could in a wizard’s home.

Harry’s chest ached at the sight. He’d spent months wondering if he’d ever see him again after the Quasiwizard Tournament — after the way Kakashi had smiled and told him to “keep his guard up, even when the fight’s over.”

But this wasn’t the same Kakashi.

The silver-haired teen looked like a shadow of himself — paler, thinner, his usual lazy ease replaced by something taut and weary. He kept his left arm close to his side, gloved hand resting protectively over it as if shielding it from sight.

At one point, as Molly set a plate down, the cuff of his sleeve slipped.

Harry caught a glimpse — just for a second — of blackened veins crawling up Kakashi’s forearm, twisting beneath his skin like something alive.

It was enough to make his stomach drop.

He looked away quickly, pretending to focus on his food, but his pulse roared in his ears.
Whatever had happened to Kakashi… it was bad.

The adults kept their talk light, almost forced — discussing logistics, dinner, the next meeting — anything but the truth. And Kakashi went along with it, his single visible eye curved faintly in polite amusement.

But Harry saw the truth in the tremor of his fingers when he reached for his spoon, in the way he sat just a little too still, conserving every ounce of strength.

When Kakashi finally looked up, his gaze met Harry’s across the table.

Just one look — steady, calm, reassuring in a way that made Harry want to believe it.

Later, that look said. I’ll explain later.

Harry nodded faintly, saying nothing.

Because if he spoke, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to hide the worry tightening his throat.

He’d thought the sight of Kakashi again would bring him comfort.
But now, all it brought was fear — and the sinking realization that his friend was fighting something he couldn’t see.

---

Molly sent them all upstairs with a tone that even Fred and George wouldn’t have dared to challenge.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione made their way up the narrow staircase, the floorboards creaking beneath their feet.

At the landing, Harry glanced back over the railing just in time to see Kakashi moving toward the stairs.
Even from that distance, Harry could tell something was wrong. The older boy’s steps were slow, deliberate — his balance off in a way that set alarm bells ringing.
Ron noticed too, exchanging a worried look with him, but said nothing.

When Kakashi finally reached the room, the other three were already sitting on their beds, waiting.
He gave them a small nod, then sank down onto the extra mattress on the floor that Lupin had brought in earlier. His movements were careful, like every part of him ached.

“Sorry,” Kakashi murmured, his voice low, rough. “Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

“You didn’t,” Hermione said softly. “We're just... concerned.”

He hummed faintly, lying back on the pillow, one arm draped over his eyes. For a moment, he looked like he might drift off immediately.

Harry couldn’t help staring. He’d thought—after the tournament, after everything—that he’d never see Kakashi again. Yet here he was. Taller somehow. Paler. Thinner. His silver hair looked dull in the lamplight, and though his mask still covered half his face, his visible eye was shadowed, tired.

When Kakashi shifted slightly, the edge of his sleeve slid down his arm — just enough for Harry to catch a glimpse of dark, branching lines snaking up his wrist again. They looked wrong, like veins filled with ink.
He didn’t say anything, but unease coiled in his chest.

Hermione spoke first, her tone cautious. “You don’t look well. Are you hurt?”

Kakashi gave a quiet laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “I’ll be fine. Just… recovering.”

Ron frowned. “From what?”

Kakashi hesitated — and that pause said more than words. “It’s complicated,” he said finally. “Let’s just say someone took an interest in me that I’d rather they hadn’t.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Someone from… back home?”

Kakashi didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked to the ceiling, and his voice softened. “Yeah. Back home.”

He sounded so far away that Harry didn’t push further.

Hermione, ever thoughtful, offered gently, “You’re safe here, though. Dumbledore made sure of that.”

That drew a faint smile from Kakashi — tired, but real. “So I’ve been told.”

For a while, no one spoke. The quiet between them wasn’t awkward, though — it felt heavy, shared. Like all of them understood what it meant to carry things you couldn’t talk about.

Harry lay back on his bed, still watching Kakashi from across the room.
Even half-asleep, the older boy looked alert somehow.

He wanted to ask a thousand things. How's Minato Sensei. What happened. If he was going to be alright.
But looking at him now, wrapped in shadow and exhaustion, Harry couldn’t bring himself to disturb the fragile peace that had settled over the room.

So instead, he whispered quietly into the dark, more to himself than anyone else,
“I’m really glad you’re here.”

Kakashi didn’t open his eye, but Harry could’ve sworn he heard him murmur,
“Me too.”

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