The night was silent when Kakashi Hatake returned to Konoha.
He moved through the village rooftops like a shadow, the familiar rhythm of home beneath his feet—lanterns flickering in windows, a few distant voices fading into the hum of crickets. His mission had been long, messy, and far too political for his taste. He was tired in a way that ran bone-deep.

When he reached his apartment, he paused on the threshold, a subtle twinge in his senses making his fingers twitch toward a kunai. Nothing seemed out of place. The window was locked. The door unsealed. Still, years of experience whispered: something’s wrong.

He slid the door open.

Inside, the air felt… heavy. Like the air before a storm.
Kakashi took two careful steps inside before the first attack came.

A serpent struck from the shadows—real, massive, its scales glinting in the moonlight. Kakashi’s kunai slashed through it, but the body dissolved into smoke. A clone. He barely had time to react before a wave of killing intent flooded the room.

“Still as sharp as ever, Kakashi-kun,” a voice hissed, smooth and cold.

Orochimaru stepped from the shadows, pale as death, his golden eyes gleaming with amusement.

Kakashi’s visible eye narrowed. “You’ve got some nerve coming here.”

“I only wanted to visit,” the Sannin purred. “After all, it’s rare to meet someone so… gifted. White chakra. The Sharingan. And now—” His gaze lingered on Kakashi’s covered left eye. “—the faintest trace of something else. Magic, perhaps? What a fascinating little experiment you’ve become.”

Kakashi moved first.
Lightning burst from his hand, Chidori sparking to life as he lunged. Orochimaru evaded effortlessly, his body bending in ways that should have been impossible, snakes coiling from his sleeves.

The clash tore through the small apartment. Furniture splintered, walls cracked. Kakashi’s blade of lightning met a summoned sword—Orochimaru’s Kusanagi—and the shockwave shattered the window.

Kakashi gritted his teeth, dodging another strike. He knew he couldn’t win—not here, not like this. Orochimaru wasn’t fighting to kill. He was testing.

The Sannin smiled, fangs glinting. “Such control… such potential. You’d make a perfect vessel.”

The words sent a chill down Kakashi’s spine. He barely had time to react before Orochimaru’s snake lashed around his wrist, another around his leg, yanking him off balance. The Chidori fizzled out as poison-laced fangs sank into his arm.

Kakashi gasped, tearing free, slicing through the serpents with a flash of chakra. But the poison was already burning through his veins—cold and sharp, crawling under his skin.

He staggered, one knee hitting the floor.
Orochimaru stepped closer, voice low. “I could take you now. But where’s the fun in that? You’ll come to me soon enough, little Copy Ninja. When your body starts to fail you.”

A kunai flew—fast, precise. It nicked Orochimaru’s cheek, drawing a line of blood. The Sannin only smiled wider.

“Next time, Kakashi-kun,” he whispered, and vanished into a swirl of snakes.

The room fell silent again. The only sound was Kakashi’s ragged breathing.
He pressed a trembling hand to the bite on his arm, chakra flaring weakly in an attempt to purge the toxin. His vision blurred—the walls tilting.

He made it as far as the window before his legs gave out.
Moonlight fell over him as he collapsed to the floor, breath shallow, Sharingan fading to darkness.

---

The night wind whistled through the empty streets of Konoha.

Might Gai strode along the path with his usual energy, humming to himself about the "power of youthful reunion." His eternal rival had just returned from another mission, and Gai—ever the devoted friend—was determined to welcome him back properly.

But when he turned onto Kakashi’s street, he stopped dead.

The windows of Kakashi’s apartment were shattered, the air thick with the sharp scent of ozone and blood. Curtains fluttered in the breeze, and the chakra in the air was wrong—dark, venomous, lingering like smoke after fire.

Gai’s grin fell away.
“Kakashi…” he murmured, his voice low, serious.

He vaulted up to the window in a blur of (youth) green. The sight that met him froze his blood.

Kakashi lay on the floor amidst the shards of glass, half-buried under splintered wood and debris. His mask was torn, his breathing shallow, his left arm blackened with spreading veins that pulsed faintly with a sickly purple hue. The faint trace of poison.

Gai knelt instantly, pressing two fingers to Kakashi’s neck. A pulse—weak, but there.
The relief lasted only a heartbeat. The wound was getting worse.

“Hang on, my rival,” Gai whispered, lifting Kakashi carefully. “You will not fall tonight. I will not let the fire of your youth be extinguished here!”

He hoisted Kakashi into his arms, the youth frighteningly light against his chest, and leapt from the window. The village blurred beneath his feet as he sprinted through the streets, chakra pouring into his legs.

People called after him as he passed, but Gai didn’t stop. Not until he crashed through the hospital doors.

“MEDIC!” his voice thundered through the hall. “Hatake Kakashi—he’s been poisoned!”

Nurses rushed forward immediately, shouting orders, taking Kakashi from Gai’s arms and wheeling him away toward the emergency ward. For a long moment, Gai stood there, panting, glass still clinging to his sleeves. His hands trembled—not from exhaustion, but from fear.

He had never seen Kakashi look so… fragile.

The medics disappeared down the hall, and Gai pressed a hand over his chest, his usual bluster stripped away.
“Whoever did this,” he muttered, voice low and burning with conviction, “they’ll regret hurting my Eternal Rival.”

---

The soft beeping of the monitor was the only sound in the hospital room.

Minato sat by Kakashi’s bedside, elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together so tightly that his knuckles were white. The golden light of early morning slipped through the blinds, washing over the sterile white walls and the motionless form of his student.

Even with the mask removed, Kakashi looked pale—almost translucent. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. An IV line snaked from his arm to a cluster of tubes filled with a faintly glowing fluid, designed to filter the venom seeping through his bloodstream. But it wasn’t working fast enough.

Minato’s eyes drifted to the boy’s left hand. The skin there was an ugly, mottled purple, the veins stark and raised beneath the flesh, creeping up his forearm in dark, branching lines. The discoloration looked alive—shifting faintly, as though the poison itself was breathing.

He had seen Orochimaru’s work before. This was his handiwork—insidious, patient, and merciless.

Minato sighed quietly, brushing a stray silver hair from Kakashi’s forehead. The boy didn’t stir.
“If only Tsunade were here,” he murmured. “She’d know how to stop this.”

But the Slug Princess had vanished years ago, and every lead they’d followed had gone cold. Even Jiraiya’s network had found nothing.

Minato leaned back in his chair, exhaustion pulling at his shoulders. He’d spent the night pacing between the Hokage’s office and this room, between duty and desperation. Now, watching Kakashi—his brightest, most gifted, most lonely student—lying so still, something twisted in his chest.

Kakashi was too young for this. Too young to have already seen so much death. Too young to look so small in a hospital bed surrounded by machines.

Minato reached out, his hand hovering for a moment before resting gently on Kakashi’s wrist, above the blackened veins. “You’ll pull through,” he whispered. “You always do. But I can’t lose you, Kakashi… not like this.”

The faint hum of chakra flickered beneath his touch—a fragile pulse of resistance, Kakashi’s own chakra fighting the poison inch by inch. Minato’s throat tightened.

This attack wasn’t random. Orochimaru had chosen Kakashi for a reason.

And now, as Hokage, Minato had to decide how to protect him.

Even if that meant sending him far away from Konoha.

---

Kakashi’s consciousness returned slowly—like surfacing through heavy water. The scent of antiseptic and paper flowers hit first, then the rhythmic beep of the monitor. His body felt distant, as if it belonged to someone else.

He blinked against the sterile light and winced. Every muscle screamed in protest. His arm in particular throbbed so violently he half expected it to burst into flame. It wasn’t the clean ache of battle wounds—this was something alive and burning under his skin.

Poison.

His stomach sank. He could feel it moving through his chakra network, slick and invasive, threading itself into every vein it could reach.

“Don’t move too much.”

The calm, familiar voice drew his gaze to the chair beside the bed. Minato sat there, still in his Hokage robes, the edge of his cloak stained with blood Kakashi dimly realized was his own.

“Sensei…” Kakashi’s voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. “I take it… I lost that fight.”

Minato smiled faintly, but his eyes were heavy with something else—grief, guilt, the weight of command. “You’re alive. That’s enough of a victory for me.”

Kakashi let his head fall back against the pillow. “Feels like I got chewed up and spit out by a pack of ninken.”

“You were attacked in your own home,” Minato said quietly. “By Orochimaru.”

Kakashi’s visible eye widened. He’d suspected it, of course, but hearing it aloud made the air feel heavier.

“He wanted you,” Minato continued, his tone clipped, as if the words themselves burned to say. “Your chakra, your eye… and something else. Our medics said the poison he used was a living agent—one of his creations. We’ve managed to slow it, but not stop it. He’ll come for you again.”

Kakashi closed his eye, exhaling through gritted teeth. “So what now? I sit here until it kills me?”

“No,” Minato said, and there was a strange regretful warmth in his voice. “You’re being sent away—for your own protection.”

Kakashi turned his head sharply, ignoring the pain that followed. “What?”

Minato held his gaze, steady but mournful. “To a place where Orochimaru won’t find you. A sanctuary that can keep you safe until we find a cure—and a way to stop him. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

For a long moment, Kakashi just stared at him. His breathing slowed, his expression unreadable behind the bandages and exhaustion. Then, quietly—

“You’re exiling me.”

“No,” Minato said quickly. “I’m protecting you.”

Kakashi laughed softly, a dry, humorless sound. “Feels the same from where I’m lying.”

Minato’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. “You’re not being punished, Kakashi. You’re being given time. To heal, and to live. You’ve given enough to this village already.”

Kakashi’s eye turned toward the window. The late afternoon light painted the room gold, but it felt cold to him. He’d been ready for pain, for scars, even for death. But not this.

Hogwarts.
Of all places.

He thought briefly of a certain messy-haired boy and sighed. “Figures,” he muttered. “I just got rid of those robes, too.”

Minato chuckled softly, though the sadness didn’t leave his eyes.

---

Far across the sea, rain pattered gently against the tall windows of Dumbledore’s circular office. The scent of parchment and lemon drops filled the air as Fawkes dozed lightly upon his perch, feathers gleaming in the candlelight.

Albus Dumbledore sat behind his cluttered desk, quill in hand, as an unfamiliar messenger bird—a hawk, not an owl—landed neatly before him. Its leg bore a scroll sealed in crimson wax, stamped with a symbol he hadn’t seen in many years.

He smiled faintly, eyes glimmering behind his half-moon spectacles. “So,” he murmured, “it’s finally happened.”

Breaking the seal, he unfurled the letter. The script was clean and precise, the strokes deliberate yet warm. It carried the weight of command but the voice of a man he had once taught.

> To Headmaster Albus Dumbledore,

It has been some time since we last corresponded. I wish I were writing under better circumstances.

Hatake Kakashi, was recently attacked by the rogue Sannin, Orochimaru. The strike was not random. He seeks to claim my student’s body as his next vessel — a vessel made more dangerous by the unique chakra and magic that run through him.

Kakashi has survived, though only just. But as long as he remains within our borders, he remains in danger. Thus, I ask a favor of you — not as Hokage to Headmaster, but as one teacher to another.

Grant him sanctuary within your halls. Allow him to recover and, if he must, to learn. He will chafe at the order — I know my student well — but this exile is the safest course for him. And perhaps… productive. He remains a skilled guardian, and I believe his presence may be of some benefit to you. In particular, to the boy you and I have both watched closely last year.

May his second stay serve both our worlds.

With respect and gratitude,
Minato Namikaze
Fourth Hokage of Konohagakure

Dumbledore read the letter twice, then set it gently atop the desk, a slow, knowing smile forming on his face.

“So… the Fourth, is it?” he murmured softly. “I had wondered whom Hiruzen would entrust his Legacy to.”

He leaned back in his chair, tapping the parchment thoughtfully. “And Kakashi Hatake returns to Hogwarts. Exile, he calls it. But I suspect he’ll find more purpose than punishment waiting for him here.”

Outside, lightning flickered across the Scottish sky, and for a moment, Dumbledore’s eyes caught the flash—reflecting something equal parts sorrow and hope.

“Welcome back, Kakashi,” he said quietly, as if the young man could already hear him. “It seems our paths cross again… and not a moment too soon.”

---