True to form being cooped up due to injuries did not suit Dean Winchester whatsoever. After no more than two days he was already begging Remus and Sirius to let him out of the flat to stretch his legs. Predictably, they adamantly refused and insisted that he give himself at least a week to heal. So they compromised and Dean escaped when they were both asleep, nearly shouting with joy when he felt the cool night air on his face.

Diagon Alley wasn't very active so late in the night, but the Leaky Cauldron was an entirely different story. The second that Dean stepped through the doors all conversation ceased at once as the patrons of the establishment turned to face the newcomer. At first their faces were drawn up in suspicion but that melted away instantly and was replaced by fond recognition. "Ah, look here lads its Dean Winchester!" the bartender exclaimed. "Our local hero of the world cup."

"Wha' are you doin' up mate?" one of the drinkers asked, pulling a chair up to the bar and motioning for Dean to sit down. "I heard you went a few rounds with a group of Death Eaters."

"Couldn't sit still," Dean answered honestly. "I'm fine, just a little banged up. Nothing a little whiskey can't fix."

"Truer words were never spoken," the bartender agreed, sliding a glass of amber liquid towards Dean. "So go on then lad, tell us what happened there. The Prophet hasn't got a damn clue, everyone has a different story it seems."

"I'd like to know that too," another agreed.

"I really don't know all the details to be honest," Dean shrugged and a short laugh. "Everything just sort of happened all at once. One minute I was drinking with the Ireland team and the next I'm dueling with a group of Death Eaters. I didn't know why they attacked or who they were. I still don't, I just knew that I had to do something."

The bartender listened and nodded once Dean had finished speaking. He reached beneath the bar and produced a bottle that had a considerable amount of dust on the glass. He poured Dean a glass and slid it across the bar to him.

Nodding in thanks, Dean took a sip of the red liquor and then paused as he admired the taste. "That's damn good," he admitted.

"Aged over one hundred years," the bartender nodded. "I save it for special occasions, and damned if this isn't one."

"What's the Ministry doing about all this I wonder?" one man spoke up.

His drinking companion snorted and shook her head. "As if they know what to do. As if any of us know what to do."

"Especially with the Triwizard Tournament this year at Hogwarts," another added.

Dean, who had been informed that the Tournament's existence was a highly kept secret, glanced over sharply. "How did you hear about that?"

"I work for the International office at the Ministry," he explained, noting Dean's intense frown. "Don't worry, the Prophet sniffed out the Tournament a few days ago. There will be an article on it tomorrow."

Nodding, the Winchester took another drink and lost himself in thought. Recognizing this, the bartender waved the others away and left Dean to his thoughts. The bar returned to its normal late night volume, which was like music to Dean's ears. It was familiar and, after everything at the cup, familiarity was in very scarce quantities. He continually drifted back to his duel with Crouch Jr. the thought of his loss eating away at him. "I need to learn a few more spells," Dean muttered, already looking to the future where he would face Crouch again. Call it a sense of destiny but Dean couldn't shake the feeling that he would meet the Death Eater in battle again. But the next time would be different. He would be ready for him.

"Well look what the Death Eaters dragged in," came a familiar drawling voice over his shoulder. Dean looked up and, simultaneously, had his glass of aged liquor plucked from his hands by Crowley.

"Hey!" Dean said indignantly.

"Hey yourself," Crowley answered without a shred of remorse. "Trust me Squirrel, I need this far more than you do today. St. Mungo's has been a proper madhouse for the past few days, and not even in the fun way."

"I don't even want to know how a madhouse can be fun," Dean muttered.

"You should have been there in the 1940's," Crowley told him. "Shock therapy really gets you going, if you use it right."

"I'm not drunk enough to listen to that," Dean said, reaching for his glass back.

Crowley, obligingly, drained the glass and then handed the now empty vessel back to its former owner. "Good, that." He said, nodding.

Dean, unable to muster the energy to be angry or even annoyed, sighed in response. "Still dealing with the World Cup?"

"That is a terrible understatement." Crowley said. "The more severe cases are still presenting a thorn in our collective sides. Nasty things some of those curses were. Even by my, admittedly, very high standards."

"How's Lynch?" Dean asked, shifting in his seat.

"He won't be running any marathons, or flying them for that matter, for a few months but he should recover." Crowley said, staring down at his glass. "Have you seen the reports of those who were killed?"

"Not yet," Dean answered. He had been dreading that particular list. He didn't want to see any names he knew. Their time in this universe had been rather short, all things considered, but each of them had formed many new bonds. "Guess that you couldn't avoid it, could you?"

"Do you recall that young Ravenclaw I sat with at the Sorting Ceremony?" the healer asked, taking another drink. "Her name was Genevieve Fox."

"Don't tell me that she-."

"I watched her die, Dean." Crowley said, cutting him off. His eyes were distant, but they lacked any tears. In fact, they possessed a laser-like focus that Dean had scarcely seen before in Crowley. "They brought her in with Lynch."

"Was she cursed then?" Dean asked heavily. "You can't beat yourself up."

"No, Dean, she wasn't cursed." Crowley finished the glass and turned it upside down, signaling that he was done drinking. "She was mauled. You probably didn't notice, but the night of the World Cup festivities was a full moon. I heard one of the other healers mention a man named Fenrir Greyback. Apparently he was a supporter of Voldemort(he ignored the intake of breath that came from the bartender at the mention of the name) during his power."

"I haven't heard of him." Dean answered, noting the change in Crowley's tone. "Why?"

"Don't worry about it," the demon answered, rising from his seat. "If what Moose said was true, and based on recent events I am inclined to believe that they are, I'll be crossing paths with him before long."

"Don't worry, if I get to him first-." Dean began.

Crowley cut him off with a look. "No, Dean." He said curtly, adjusting his coat and sleeves. "I do believe that those Death Eaters are unaware of what it means to cause true fear. When I come across Greyback, I fully intend to send a message."

"What message is that?"

Crowley, who had been walking to the door, turned back to face Dean. "Don't fuck with the king."